I really don't know why I remember going hunting with my father in DeFuniak Springs, Florida. It was in 2005, late October when we left. He would wrench me out of bed and say, "Come on boy, we're going hunting." Afterwards, he would jam his rifle into the 2009 Dodge Ram, and then toss me in like luggage into the truck.
It was around 6 a.m. when we reached the woods. Dad would pull his truck up by the woods, but not in it. "Why not go down the trail, make our trip shorter?" I would persistantly ask, and like always, he would reply with, "because, if we get too close, then some deer might hear us and scurry." Every time he would win, and we would park outside the forest then walk all the way in.
When we would finally see a dear, he would hunker down and pluck out his rifle with simplicity. Then came the disheartening portion. He would put the scope to his eye, aim it at the deer's head, and fire.
When we'd finally leave, I felt relief soar through my body. I truly despise hunting and killing as I never liked it. But even though I loathe killiing, I appreciate having something on the table to eat that day.
© Copyright 2016 Matthew Brazwell. All rights reserved.
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