Steve, when he is not out with his little bow and arrow playing Chingachook, loves the woodland creatures. Oh, he loves them all so much. For Christmas he requested a stump feeder (it looks like a tree stump; it feeds deer) and every other day he carries another 50 lbs of corn up the hill to refill the damn thing. Around dusk our back yard looks like Friday night at the Gas n' Sip, only it's whitetail deer hanging around smoking and getting into knife fights. Recently the wild turkey have shown up (they must have seen Steve's flyers) and between them and the deer herds and squirrels the size of terriers we are spending a couple of hundred dollars a week to keep this all-you-can-eat-buffet in business. Not to mention love is in the air, and there is so much flagrant turkey copulation taking place it is like The Opening of Meleagris Beethoven out there. Disgusting, she sniffs, having sex outside like that... I suggested that maybe God's creatures could go and forage for their own food in, you know, the 80 acres of berry-filled woods back yonder. Steve was shocked, and shushed me before I offended the little cornholes. He is like Francis of Assisi, with the major exception that St. Francis was never inclined to thread some internal organs on an arrow, come Autumn.
I cry over roadkill and was so overcome by The Lion King (you know, when the little lion's father, oh god...) that my mom had to take me out of the theater. I was 22. How I wound up with a hunter I have no idea. Steve is a trophy hunter, which means he will only take a shot at something the size of a Mack truck and most years the venerable population remains unscathed by his hand. Still, he has a few heads in his office and it is all I can do not to scream when Patrick points at them and says, "Deer."
"Sort of, baby, but that deer doesn't feel very well. He has an owie where his body used to be."
Actually, and this is why Patrick doesn't talk, what I really say is, "Yes, he used to be a deer but then Daddy decapitated him. Now it's just a deer head on a wall. Want a grape?"
The little quirks one can tolerate in a spouse, like heroin addiction, seem somehow less forgivable in your child's other parent. I think that sentiment goes both ways in this house, as Steve is as baffled by my repugnance as I am by the blood lust. I love him, of course, but why can't he knit? Perfectly respectable hobby, knitting.