This weekend puts us smack dab in the middle of deer season. And since I live in Backroads, that means my dogs have been living off the fat of the land. They feast on limbs and entrails strewn willy-nilly about the compound. That the offal might be found on our contiguous twenty acres bothers me a bit. For we have given nobody permission to hunt upon our land except one neighbor. But the country cur knows no boundaries. Skins and hocks and back-leg-elbows abound along our gravel road and the blacktop county road.
Earlier in the week, we caught Tank the beagle and Ann the black shepherd gnawing away with gusto on a heart-lungs combo. The Pony jumped out of the car to ascertain whether the canine treat was permissible blood-and-guts, or clandestine carnage, such as a chicken carcass. He gave the A-OK, and we left them to enjoy their repulsive repast.
This morning, Hick stated that he'd seen the dogs dragging something deerish through the front yard. And that he'd had to toss a hind leg off the back porch. I filled him in on the heart-lungs entree. Hick was beside himself. "I would have eaten that! They're butchering all over the place, and just leaving it."
"You would have eaten a heart and lungs?"
"Well, the heart. Not the lungs."
"Out of the front yard? Not knowing how old it was?"
"No. Not out of the front yard. But I would have eaten the heart. It's good."
"When and where have you been eating deer heart?"
"That wild man guy on TV eats it. And I used to eat chicken hearts all the time."
"It's tough. You have to slice it really thin. Because it's a muscle."
"The chicken hearts were tender."
"They're a lot smaller. And they're probably slow-cooked."
"Anyway. I'd have eaten a deer heart."
"Sorry I didn't wrestle it away from the dogs for you."