Deer diary

by RAF KATIGBAK

Who knew that shooting something in the face would be so hard? But last weekend I found out. I mean, it was easy enough, mechanically speaking: there was the deer lined up in the sights of my rifle scope as it poked out from beyond the set of trees at the edge of the clearing ahead—all I had to do was squeeze the trigger. Seemed simple enough. I took a deep breath and aligned the crosshairs in the vital region just behind its forelegs. I knew I had to be careful; a properly placed shot would pierce its heart and kill it almost instantly, too far left or right and I would hit the lungs which would make for a riskier and longer, less humane death. Just the thought of what I was about to do was making me slightly nauseous. But I knew that I had to do it. I had made the decision a while ago that if I was going to continue to eat meat, I would need to know what it was like to take a life. Besides, if I was able to bag a deer, I could eat for a year and the quality of meat would be exceptional. There were all kinds of political and health reasons to do it. But all of that melts away when you look through a scope and see a face with big cartoon eyes staring peacefully back at you. I exhaled and took another deep breath, this time exhaling only a bit and holding it, trying to keep my body from moving and throwing off the shot. I tried to slow my heart down, which was a difficult task since it felt like it was about to burst out of my chest. I had never fired a rifle before and had no idea what to expect.

The voice of my hunting instructor came into my head, “When you squeeze the trigger, ease it straight back, don’t flinch, and let the shot be a surprise.” I started the motion. When the trigger finally released the firing pin and the gun went off, it was indeed a surprise. It felt like Jean-Claude Van Damme had done a spinning back-kick into my shoulder. The rifle I was using was chambered for a .30-06 Springfield bullet, a cartridge that was introduced into the United States Army in 1906 (hence the “06”) and then popularized because of its power, accuracy over long distances and surplus availability. With the proper bullet weight, it had enough power to take down a moose. The high calibre rifle reared up and the explosion from the discharge was so loud, the sound quickly washed out from my left ear and was replaced by a frigid high-pitched tone.

I looked around at my friend whose hunting land we were currently on. Our faces were blank with shock from the intensity of it all. Of course the countless war films and hours of playing Call of Duty did not prepare either of us for the experience of actually firing a high-powered rifle. For a long moment, we were both silent until the words came trickling out of our mouths: ho-lee-shit. The gravity of the situation sank in. What I had in my hand was not some kind of toy or even a tool. It was a killing machine. And I had to respect it. The force and explosion from the cannon wasn’t easy to handle. It was loud, it kicked back and it was scary. But in a way, I’m glad it was. It shouldn’t be easy. This isn’t a video game where you aim and shoot and your opponent regenerates. I was taking the life of another living thing. I had to respect that.

We were so enveloped in the insanity of the moment, for a minute we completely forgot about the target. Of course the shot was thrown off. I missed the heart completely. The force of the recoil brought the impact point much higher than expected. I looked through the scope and saw that instead of the vital area, I had hit the deer square in the face. Normally, a shot like that would be fatal. A head shot would destroy the nervous system and the deer would collapse instantly. But this one didn’t fall. It just stood there, with the same smiling Bambi face that I had drawn on it that morning in black Magic Marker. And the piece of cardboard I drew it on was left tacked to the tree, flapping in the breeze, mocking my terrible aim and asking me whether or not, when it came down to it, I had the guts.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA