Rude Awakening

This morning I awoke -- rather late thanks to my sleep mask -- not to the roosters, not to my alarm clock, but rather to an echoing BOOM. It's not uncommon to lose power in these parts because a squirrel chomped down on an electrical wire and met a most unfortunate end. Since we still had electricity, I was stumped. But too tired to ponder it much further. I resumed the sleep position.

Some time later, I was awakened by another boom, which was quickly succeeded by three more of the same. I waited. Silence. I felt a bit anxious; something was missing. Suddenly, I realized -- that after years of living in the fringe neighborhoods of Manhattan -- my body subconciously recognized gun fire and was awaiting the inevitable song of the sirens.

It's late November in Dutchess County, so that gunfire is not drug- or gang-related. It's hunting. I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, I worked for Outdoor Life, and I even lived in that Sportsman's Paradise, Louisiana, so I'm no stranger to rifles or hunting. I'm not opposed to it, perse. Quite frankly, if you're keen on sitting around in a funny suit in the cold stalking your next meal, more power to you.

What disturbs me is stacking the deck. Planting specific plants to lure deer into your yard for the purpose of shooting from your kitchen window -- in saggy boxers. Sneaking onto a neighbor's property for the hunt. That's not sporting at all. Mostly, I resent that hunting areas are so close to hiking trails that Joe has eschewed a few walks through the walks because I was wearing too much brown/tan. I'm keen on safety, but I don't know that I'm keen on rushing out to buy one of those flourescent orange safety vests.

But if I did take up hunting, I'd be able to whip up the most spectacular camo outfit with my volumes of green yarn.