It is hunting season here, and two younger people I like and trust have asked me for permission to hunt on my property. They are good and ethical people, respectful both of animals and of the land, and I am happy to give them use of my land. They will hunt carefully and safely and if they shoot any deer, will use and eat and share the meat. I am not a hunter, but I have no objections to hunters like these, I am pleased to have them on my property.There are plenty of jerks with guns who are not responsible or ethical, and I am lucky to have two people like this hunting on the farm. I could not shoot a deer, I think, I am just not skilled enough to do it cleanly or swiftly. And I don’t eat much meat.

One of the hunters went out Wednesday afternoon and came back and reported that she saw a 10-point deer just behind the farmhouse pasture. I went out looking for the buck after she left, and I am pretty sure I saw him come out onto the edge of a nearby field, a tall proud thing who gazed right at me, the late sun casting his tall shadow on the meadow. I thought of that wonderful scene in “Elizabeth” where the Queen, a passionate hunter,  goes to see the carcass of a stag a neighbor has killed, her face filled with pain and respect.

I told the Jeremy, the other hunter about him, and he was excited and went out early Thanksgiving morning, just after 5 a.m. He spent hours in the woods, but in accordance with a deal made with his wife, “the old lady,” he had to go home for Thanksgiving Dinner. Jeremy ran into another hunter who did not have permission to be there, flashed his light towards him to let him know he was there,  and the other hunter ran away. He is not like Jeremy, and doesn’t ask permission to hunt.

Jeremy said he saw some deer trails, and one of them might have been the buck, he wasn’t sure, he was coming back Friday with a friend to try and track him. He had a pretty good idea where the buck might be tomorrow morning. I like Jeremy, he is honest and hard-working. Hunting is important to him. He grew up hunting with his father, and I had the sense he knew what he was doing. I had the sense this would be the buck’s last day. And I was excited for Jeremy. I hope he hunts here every year.

The buck is on my mind, perhaps because I saw him, perhaps because I tend to identify with any underdog being hunted, animal or human. I did not grow up in this culture, in my world fathers and sons went to baseball games to bond, and then rarely. Upstate, the hunting ritual can be beautiful and important, to me much more meaningful than sitting in front of a TV watching big men plow into one another while devouring nachos and wings. The real hunters are the most passionate environmentalists I have ever known, and respect Mother Earth. They know what it would mean to lose her.

Still, it is strange to think of the buck being gunned down a few acres from the farmhouse. We kill animals all the time – euthanasia, slaughterhouses – and it is hypocritical to me to pick one or two out for survival because we happen to know or see them. I couldn’t hunt, but my gun is important to me. I would not want to be without it here when the next rabid skunk comes after Lenore.

But it is, for me, one of those gray things in the black-and-white world. The deer here are struggling, starving as early frosts killed off the apples and nuts they feed on. They are on the move, and wildlife experts say many of them will starve when the snows come. The state is issuing extra permits to cut down on the number of deer to save many from that slow and painful death.

The hunters I know are admirable people. They understand guns, they love the land, they respect life and property. Yet I know it would take a piece out of me to kill a healthy animal just as it takes a piece out of my heart to put a dog or pony down.

Tomorrow, I will be listening in bed for the sound of gunshots in the woods beyond our house.

I hope Jeremy gets the buck. I hope the buck runs far and wide.