So, we live in the woods. We have hunters. I know this from the orange people walking up and down our roads toting rifles. And the shots cracking the air early in the morning.
And my pet needs that because the deer skins my dog brings home and attempts to gnaw on in the front yard (Ew – thank you so much, hunters, for leaving the remains accessible for the neighborhood pets).
I am thankful the dog has lived through six seasons.
Not so thankful for the way she goes berserk when a four-wheeler drives by.
And, I live in fear that someday a random shot is going to fly through my sliding glass door, take out my football player. Or my daughter.
Or the guy cooking curry chicken at the stove.
BUT, I like venison, and I’m not Theologically Opposed to hunting.
Just the remains. In my front yard.
And…well, this.
Yes, it’s a mailbox. And the mail goes….
Yeah, you get it.
I’m sorry, but this is simply overkill. I drove by it recently, and now I can’t get it out of my brain.
And now it’s lodged in yours.
Sorry.