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| What do you call a female deer who can’t cook? No-doe. |
Bob and Frank had been talking about this hunting trip for months. They weren't exactly seasoned outdoorsmen, Bob worked at the auto parts store and spent most weekends arguing with his lawnmower, while Frank sold insurance and collected those little bobblehead figures of famous quarterbacks. But one slow Tuesday they decided it was time to "reconnect with nature" and maybe bring home something impressive to brag about at the local diner.
They loaded up Frank's old pickup with enough gear to survive a small apocalypse: two rifles that looked older than both of them combined, a cooler full of sandwiches that were mostly mayo and regret, a tent that smelled faintly of mothballs, and a map that Frank swore was "perfectly accurate" even though half the roads on it had been paved over in the 1990s. They drove three hours to this patch of state forest that Bob's cousin once described as "real peaceful, lots of deer, hardly any people."
The first day was mostly hiking and complaining. Frank kept stopping to adjust his boots because "these things were supposed to be waterproof but my socks feel like they went swimming." Bob kept pointing out every twig that looked vaguely like an animal track and declaring it "definitely a buck, probably a twelve-pointer." They saw exactly zero deer, but they did spot three squirrels having what looked like a very serious argument over an acorn, a turtle that moved slower than their conversation, and one very confused raccoon that stared at them like they were the intruders.
They set up camp as the sun went down, which involved twenty minutes of arguing over which way the tent poles went and another fifteen trying to start a fire with damp wood and a lighter that kept clicking uselessly. Eventually they gave up and ate cold sandwiches while telling the same stories they'd told each other a hundred times: the time Bob accidentally locked his keys in the car at the grocery store, the time Frank sold a life insurance policy to a guy who then lived to be 102, and that one fishing trip where they caught nothing but old boots. The woods were quiet except for the occasional owl that sounded like it was laughing at them.
The next morning they decided to actually hunt. They hiked deeper into the trees, whispering dramatically like they were in a spy movie even though the only things around were trees and more trees. Bob kept adjusting his bright orange vest because "safety first, but also it makes me look official." Frank kept checking his phone even though there was no signal, muttering about how modern hunting apps would probably tell them exactly where the deer were hiding.
They walked for hours. Frank told a long, pointless story about the time his uncle tried to hunt with a bow and arrow and ended up shooting his own truck tire. Bob countered with an even longer tale about the time he tried to grill venison he bought from a guy at work and it tasted like old socks. They stopped for lunch, more mayo sandwiches, and debated whether it was better to hunt in the morning or the evening, even though neither of them had any real opinion on the matter.
While continuing hiking Bob collapses.
Frank immediately calls 911. “My friend isn’t breathing,” he shouts into the phone. “What should I do?”
“Relax,” the operator tells him. “I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.”
There’s silence and then a gunshot.
The guy gets back on the phone and says, “OK, now what?”
Image © A.E. Firestone | Text © Storyteller
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