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                                                                                                                                                                                                    *Yawn* Oh hello there. We really must stop meeting like this doncha think? I truly appreciate the company, but oh, my head is hurtin’ today.

It’s election day. You remember? Good. Get out there and vote early and vote often. Don’t I wish. I’m just way too skittish to attempt a crime. Conscious and all that. Good cause or no, I’m not ready to spend my life (or any part of it) on a hard narrow bed, afraid to sleep for fear of a shiv in the ribs.

Perhaps, on second thought, I watched too many episodes of OZ. Ever notice how many of the actors on that show pop up regularly on other shows? No? Well, I noticed, so I felt obligated to tell you.

I lied today. I don’t do it frequently, but I figured admitting to you was a public thing, and makes my repentance even stronger. Let me explain.

I was making out my super-duper grocery list for tomorrow, when the girlie dog started to bark. Now the Contrarian was still asleep, so I was hot to shut her up. Nothing works by the way, so don’t bother trying if you stop by and she begins. Anyway, I ultimately discovered someone at the door. This is earth shattering most of the time, since getting back here takes the will and courage of a gladiator or the stupidity and dullness of a mentally defective sloth.

Anyway, it was Bill. Bill is our hunter. I say our, since Bill has been huntin’ our land for many a year, and gifting us with the proceeds. I am not sure how we met up with Bill, but anyway, it’s been a fruitful relationship. He gets to hunt on land that is otherwise sans hunters, and we get mucho meat.

Bill was at the door, standing with arrow broken and bloody. This signified even to my non-hunting eyes, that either I had to call the sheriff because Bill had shot another hunter, or the hunt had been successful. It was, thankfully, the latter.

He beamed, “Got a huge deer, do you want the meat?” “Sure, we do,” I nodded.

“I need a license.”

“We’ll get ya one today. We are going up by Troy to go vote, and we’ll pick one up.”

I could see almost immediately that this was not good enough. “I really need it before I go to work. . . second shift remember?”

“Yep, I sure do. I”ll go talk to Parker” (who was still abed but no doubt awake from all the ruckus).

The upshot of which that about ten minutes late MOI was heading up the hill in the bronco. How that came to be, is well the usual husband ploy: “Would you go?” This said with whiny, plaintive, moany, kinda whimpering voice.

So I was going. With his billfold ’cause he had the dough, and I arrived at the Troy Store. “I need a hunting license, bow license,” I announced. “Okay,” she responded and moved to the computer.

Even in the outback here of Iowa, we now get our license issued via a computer and printer set up. It takes the baby a bit to warm up and load itself. Then we swipe the Contrarian’s license and off we go.

So I now lie twice. First I’m not Parker, and second, the deer is dead, and shot by someone not the licensee. I’m a violator of the law. I’m subject to fines and perhaps even some time in the slammer. I do not like the slammer as I’ve indicated. Not just because of OZ, mind ya. Remember I’m a retired attorney and have spent total about two years and four months in various jails and prisons, so I know the life.

But, the lie is now off my conscience. The deer didn’t really care who shot him. He’s dead, and no doubt romping through fields of daisies in a universe far far away with dozens of doe-eyed (literally) damsels of succulent shape.

Bill will be back for more hunting–there is muzzle-loading and shotgun still to come. Usually we get one deer, but I think there has been a time or two that we got two. In any case, he gets the “fun” of killing and we get the savings of a hundred bucks or more (bucks as in dollars, not deer–this is getting complicated) in meat expenses saved.

The buck, for he was one, was an old guy. Very large. He, by the size of his neck, had probably fought off a lot of young studs. Time to let the gene pool expand. So it’s probably a good thing. Better to die old before you suffer through a bad winter and die a lingering death and freeze to death. Least that’s how I ease my conscience.

Oh, and when we go vote? We are going to town to eat! Wow, now that is some elegant meal! You go to the Troy Store, walk to the back along the corridor and into a small room with a few tables. We always sit at the window, overlooking the bird feeder and bean field. It’s a mighty fine skyline I tell ya. You should be so lucky.

***

There is a new post over at Walking in the Shadows, should you care.

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