Sunday, December 4, 2011

Tis the Season part I

So the oven was assembled and operational in time for Thanksgiving, and dinner went off without a hitch, despite the fact that just days before I had moved into this house and everything was in boxes piled in the kitchen. I was quite surprised actually. Usually holidays or events that I am hosting or somehow in charge of typically end up like some kind of Ringling Brothers sideshow. But this Thanksgiving was a success (see turkey at left). I was very thankful that the food was hot and marginally tasty. Actually, for never having cooked a turkey, I was quite pleased with myself.

Disclaimer: If you are squeamish you may want to stop reading at this point and just enjoy my turkey pic. Spoiler Alert: the next section ends in dog vomit.

So living where I live, it is hunting season over the Thanksgiving holiday. And since, as I may have mentioned in my previous post, I live in the heart of nowhere...there is a lot of hunting going on very near us. So very near us, that while preparing thanksgiving dinner there was a knock at the door, and upon opening it I was greeted with Blaze Orange.

"Good Morning. Do you hunt?" was the greeting I received from Johnny Blazeorange. And I looked at him (forgetting where I was) and laughed and said "" He then politely asked if he and his Blazeorange brothers could have permission to shoot a deer (a buck-confirmed later in this story) on our property. I couldn't really think of a good reason to say no (Note: if you are reading this story and are an animal lover/activist...well just hate me quietly and stop reading because I'm guessing next winter there will be a post about slaughtering chickens, and possibly a pig if the price of bacon continues to rise) so in the true spirit of Thanksgiving and a bountiful harvest from land that is not your own, I said "Not at all! Go get your buck!" and off he went.

Unfortunately, what I did not know or consider was that hunters do not take their prize home to gut and dismantle. They do the gutting and dismantling where the deer falls. But Johnny Blazeorange was a considerate hunter and dragged his carcass across the road to someone else's land to gut it. I am sorry to report that this did not stop my black lab/spaniel mix, Milton, from wanting a little Thanksgiving snack of his own. A few hours later while sipping my Chateau St. Michelle, I gazed out my kitchen window and upon the beautiful rolling hills and fields, only to spot a black furry fleck in the distance...eating a deer carcass.

I finished my wine and did what I do best in life, pretended not to see it. Unfortunately... (please feel free to count the number of times you read "unfortunately..." in this post)Milton was determined to make sure we knew what a good hunter he was. Proudly displaying his ability to eat something that someone else has killed, he trotted home with a deer tail in his mouth. A lovely Thanksgiving sight to behold during dinner. My 8-year-old nephew made an astute observation by stating, "If Milton is starting a deer parts collection, he's got a good start." How true that was. A few days later Milton brought home a deer testicle from the same carcass. Thusly confirming that Johnny Blazeorange did in fact get himself a buck.

I wish I could say the deer tail and deer ball was the worst of it. Unfortunately...after our company had gone home and Bryan and I tucked Annabelle in for her Thanksgiving slumber, and I drifted off to sleep dreaming of leftover stuffing, I was awakened at midnight to Bryan springing out of bed shouting "Oh my God! Oh my god!" When I sat up to see what the trouble was, he shoved me back and said "Don't look over here!"

So many possibilities danced in my head! Was there a mouse? Or worse than a mouse, was there a centipede? No, there couldn't be a centipede it was too cold. Had Bryan wet the bed due to sheer exhaustion from one of my family holidays? As I considered the possibilities, I heard the unmistakable sound of dog toenails clicking on our wood floor reluctantly to the corner of the room. Followed almost immediately by Bryan's feet racing down the stairs and back up, and then the soft gentle rustling of paper towels being unrolled.

I started to get out of bed to assist with the cleanup (technically Milton is my dog though Bryan became his foster parent after I got pregnant and felt the pressure of dog-ownership was too much) and Bryan shouted at me "I said do not look over here!" I was surprised at his continued insistence. I have never been too squeamish when it came to doggy throw up. And then I remembered, my dog had been snacking on a deer carcass for most of the day. On top of that, we decided to be loving doggy parents and treated both dogs (Bernie is Bryan's dog and is too smart to eat deer carcass) to dog food drenched in turkey fat drippings for their own Thanksgiving dinner. It was at that point I heard Bryan gagging and dry-heaving.

Did I neglect to mention Milton chose to throw up in our bed? And that Bryan had rolled in it in his sleep and that's what led to the discovery that Milton had thrown up in our bed? Now this is the type of Elizabeth event that I am accustomed to. First turkey EVER comes out perfect? Family has a wonderful time and is proud of the work I have done? Well it is at that point the universe always says, "Take that, Elizabeth! How about we make your dog throw up deer parts in your bed on your brand new sheets and comforter in the middle of the night? Now we're talking!"

It is as a direct result of this evening that we now just store the paper towels and stain remover in our bedroom. Milton, however, has been sentenced to a lifetime of sleeping on the floor.

As a side note, I did ask Bryan the next morning why he yelled at me and wouldn't let me look or help with the cleanup. His response? "Because I knew if you saw what I saw you would have gotten in your car and left and never come back." I am lucky that way. I have found a man who not only knows me very well, but is willing to clean up regurgitated deer parts to preserve our little family unit.

No comments:

Post a Comment