We Buckeyes embrace the deer, deeming it to be our state animal. We feed the deer, eat the deer and freeze their parceled parts. We count the deer, curse the deer, and nail them to our walls.
These wondrous creatures are everywhere, and yet, we just can't get enough.
Lots of folks are prone to celebrating the deer by placing deer statuary in their front yards. It fascinates me anyone would feel a need to add more deer to the landscape, especially concrete deer frozen in time.
Stock-still deer dolled up in Santa outfits to boot. Bless their hearts, it takes a special kind of mindset to dress a solidified lump of gravel.
These lawn ornaments usually come in sets of two or three. We have "grazing doe with laying down fawn," and "laying buck and doe with fawns." Fake deer in fake groupings.
I'd wager you'd be more likely to see two fawns playing hopscotch before you'd see a laying buck hanging out with the little missus and the twins.
I'd like to see the molds for "massive stag eludes hunter," and "bloated doe in median strip."
That's something I could relate to.
On the other side of the fence, we have the die-hard deer hunters. Their idea of accenting the scenery is to hang a deer carcass off the nearest tree.
My husband will be among those set for action this opening day. We need to wish him luck, lest someone creates a sculpture of "adult male cries in tree stand."
I vividly remember standing across from my groom and swearing to "support him in all his endeavors." My, my, the promise of young love.
Anyhoo, somewhere along that daily grind, deer hunting entered the picture, and it has been with incredible patience that I have awaited his first kill.
The guy seemingly has all the right equipment. He leaves in the early hours, blackened and camouflaged, saturated in synthetic deer urine. He spends the entire day waiting, spooking and whatever else you manly types are doing out there, but comes home empty handed.
Five years, no deer.
OK, I'm exaggerating. There was one deer, but I don't know if road kill counts. And besides, it wasn't even his road kill. An anonymous entitiy struck the poor animal with a car. Our friend Ed picked up the carcass, had it tagged, and offered it to hubby in sympathy of his "streak of bad luck."
We're talking Third Party Road Kill, folks. Does it get any more pathetic?
In supporting hubby's endeavor, I had the meat processed, but we just couldn't get up the gumption to eat it. I couldn't help but equate it with something I'd seen on The Beverly Hillbillies.
Needless to say, there was no head mounting to be done. What kind of man could display another man's prize as his own?
Still, the tread marks would have been a great conversation starter.
Oh, well, maybe this year.
We can only hope.