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“The
buck lifts his four point antlers. His nostrils flare. His ears
become stiff. Concern fills his large, almond eyes. It’s a look
that bites into my chest.
“Aim for his
heart,” my father whispers.
A heart or
lung shot is clean and brings a deer right down. No
suffering, no running off wounded. No dying of infection
days later.
Picture
the deer as a soup can, I tell myself as I lift the
gun. I’ve nailed plenty of those. Lifting the rifle, I
push the gun butt into my right shoulder. I position my
eye to peer along the sites. I lift the muzzle, aim. My
finger curls around the cold trigger.
“Steady,”
Dad whispers. “Squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it.”
My heart
pounds like an out of control jackhammer. Soup cans
don’t have eyes that show innocence and fear. Soup cans
don’t exhale in fog-grey puffs or have thick necks that
hold up crowns of antlers. Soup cans are not beautiful,
young animals full of life.
“You’re
taking too long,” Dad snaps, straining to keeps his
voice low. “Shoot!”
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