The Deer Hunters

Autumn has cast its crisp winds upon the northeast, leaving the once-lush and green woods with a thick carpet of dry leaves; a plentiful reminder of the short-comings of a deciduous lifestyle. The evergreens are a hardier bunch, unintimidated by the 50 less degrees and the soon to be 100 less degrees once Autumn freezes into the Winter months, they stand proud and unchanged. This morning, as I fumbled for the door knob to let into the wild those wide-eyed savages we feed, bath, clothe, and shelter, I took special notice of how naked those woods looked after a windy night. I could see nearly twice as far into the suburban wilderness and it didn't take long for my un-glassed eyes, nor the eyes of those wolf-cousins, to see two massive bucks enjoying an early morning graze in the forest. They could have been caribou for all I could tell through my blurry eyes, they were glorious specimens of the northern woods! Tall necks and proud chests, alert tails and full racks of pointed horns. They must have been some freak survivors of the prehistoric ages, somehow moseying on down to Maine through the nearly unknown Arctic wild, unseen, undocumented. The dogs spent little time reviling in the beauty of the bucks, before they ran at full canter towards the trespassers (prowlers beware), eyes wild and barking like mad sea lions. That sudden THUD of the bucks huge chests realizing the situation and heavy hoofs taking them away from it, brought me into full consciousness and I yelled to the dogs to call off their offensive flank. It was a true moment of nature; a man and his wolves standing at the cave entrance, fending off mother natures fearsome goons from the homefront. I have never been prouder of those dogs... those wolves... those masters of the wilderness.