Let the hunting begin...

Brandon heads off for his highly anticipated elk hunt today. Actually, he was already supposed to be gone, but we all know how that goes on the farm.

I'm sending him off for three to eight days, depending on how soon he finds an elk to kill. The hunt starts Friday, and doesn't end until October 1st. Since I get to be head irrigator and hay salesman while he's gone, I'm hoping it's sooner rather than later.

I'm sending him off with:

• Two roasts
• Two giant pots of beans
• One large pot of black-eye peas
• One pot of chili
• One pot of green chili
• 24 hamburger patties
• A little dirty rice
• Two loaves of banana bread
• Four batches of brownies with butterscotch chips
• ...And roughly five dozen oatmeal toffee cookies

We prepared all this in advance to ease the cooking duties at elk camp, and in attempt to buckle down on the hunting grocery bill. But, since Brandon is still in charge of the grocery shopping and plans to stop on his way to camp today, I'm fairly certain our preparations are not going to make much difference in the bill.

So Brandon secured a coveted bull elk tag this year. Like, he's waited 14 years to get this particular tag. And his hunt is known for providing trophy bulls. As in, the kind you hang on the wall to display.

Which brings up an interesting point in our house. As it stands now, all the dead animals hanging in our house are confined to one room: the office. I've just never really been a fan of displaying dead creatures all over the house. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind killing them a bit. I just don't want them staring at me from every room in the house.

Right before we got married, we sort of made a deal. I say sort of because there's a bit of discrepancy on whether or not the deal was actually made. Brandon says it was. I remember him making the proposal, but I don't recall ever actually agreeing to it.

Anyway, the deal was this: all the dead things would stay in the office, with one exception. A, quote, "monster bull elk." In the event a so-called "monster bull elk" was killed, it must be displayed front and center — showcased for all who enter our home to see.

At the time, I didn't think much of it. He said he had already been waiting 13 years to draw the tag he wanted, and it could easily be several more. Well, 14 was Brandon's lucky year.

The day the draw results came out for elk hunts, Brandon tried calling in all day to check his, but could never get through. So, he set his alarm for 2:30am for the sole purpose of getting up to call in when he thought the line would be available. Seriously. As if we don't have to get up in the middle of the night often enough anyway.

Around 2:45, he ran into our room hollering, and pounced on me to tell me the good news. Apparently my reaction was significantly less than all his craziness at the time, because he sighed, and said, "You're not even excited."

No. I was not. Excited is not an emotion I have before 3am. Especially when my wake-up call is 180 pounds of farmer leaping on top of me.

Around 5am, when I was coherent and could comprehend the morning's events, I had a bit of a doppelganger issue. Part of me was very excited for him. He had waited a long time, and it was something very important to him. But on the other hand, there was now a very real possibility of a giant elk head greeting my guests.

And that's where we stand today.

I do want him to kill a "monster bull elk," and be happy. But I also want the taxidermist to take a really long time.

Maybe we could get a discount if I told him he could spread his work out over, I don't know, ...the next decade?

Happily married. That's us.

My favorite music artist made it back out to Arizona this past weekend, and Brandon pretty much knew not attending was not an option.

Brandon had to judge at the Santa Cruz County Fair Friday and Saturday, so we had to travel down for the Tucson concert on Thursday, instead of catching the show right across town on Friday.
The last time I was headed to an Aaron Watson concert, I was just a little bit excited. But, it was in Texas, a live CD recording, and with my best friends I hadn't seen in six months:


Still, Brandon was giving me a hard time for being so excited. Teasing me, he said, "You know, I should be jealous of Aaron Watson. You would probably run off with him if I gave you half a chance."

I quickly responded, "No, I wouldn't. He's happily married with two, almost three, kids."

Brandon: "I've got a question. Why are you saying the reason that's impossible is he's happily married? Why isn't it because you're happily married?"

Me: "Oh yeah, that too."

I'm rubbing off on Brandon

It's pretty common for me to continue wearing clothing, shoes, etc., well beyond their useful life. I have a pair of Lady Panther gym shorts from my freshman year of high school you can pretty much see through on the back side. Every time I wear them, I tell myself I'm going to throw them away, but somehow I can never get them in the trash can.

Brandon, on the other hand, gets one four-inch gash in a work shirt, and rips it off in pieces that evening. He has been pretty good at wearing work pants full of holes lately, but mainly because he didn't have any other options. As soon as we bought him a few decent pair, he chunked about five old ones with holes in the garbage.

On our way to the Aaron Watson concert last Thursday, we were chatting in the truck — fairly close quarters — so I had a good view of the side of face, since he was watching the road.

Me: "Have you been wearing those sunglasses broken?"

Him: "Yeah. For three weeks. Ever since I told you I needed new ones."

Me: Laughing...

Him: "How could you tell? Is it bad?"

Me: "Um, because the cord curves up over your ear. But I think you would have to look really close to notice." (wink)

The dog days of...Fall

So it's mid-September. There are plenty of places in this country that have already cooled down and welcomed Fall. In fact, some of my Texas clan has even reported a few days of nice weather with Fall in sight.

Our temperatures?

Today: 102

Sunday: 105

September 25: 102

Granted, the mornings and evenings have cooled down, so if you're out before 7:30am, you can enjoy 70 degree weather.

But Brandon sure does think Fall has arrived.

He came in the house well after 9pm a couple days ago and said, "It's already getting cool at night. Fall is here, Baby!"

Me: "How do you figure? It gets hot by 8am."

Him: "Yeah, but it's only like 100."

Me: "Only 100? And that's Fall to you?"

Him: "Yep, sure is."

Wow...I really hope a couple more years of living in the desert doesn't make me think 100 degree days are "Fall."

The elk that stops all pain

Sunday morning, Brandon rolled over to catch the time when I got out of bed. Or that was the plan anyway. Somewhere mid-roll, he says he heard a, quote, "Crack, pop, rip, tear, crack," and he couldn't move afterward.

I returned to the room to find him immobile, other than his eyes darting across the room. He was supposed to drive a tractor that day, but quickly figured out that was not going to happen. He slowly and painfully removed himself from the bed and we put away some jerky we left in the dehydrator overnight.

About every third step he would take in the kitchen, I would hear an, "Aahhhh!" or a "Oouuu!" or an "Arrrggh!" or a whimper. He was in some serious pain. He soon resolved to going back to bed.

After ten minutes of getting him arranged in bed with pillows so his entire body was angled just right and he wouldn't have to move at all for the next four hours, he asked for the laptop.

But our Internet had gone out a day or two before. I then suggested, and I should get big points for this I might add, that he watch an elk DVD or two.

Because, after all, he has this elk hunt coming up, right. Not just any elk hunt. One of Arizona's premier elk hunts. It's pretty much the only thing that's been on his mind since the draw was announced in March.

Yes, it's been a long summer for anyone who knows him. Six months of him walking up to you saying, "So I know this guy who drew a pretty bad elk tag..."

At this suggestion, he lit up and said, "That's an excellent idea! A really good idea. I can't believe I didn't think of that!"

So, I retrieved his Extreme Bulls 2 and Extreme Bulls 4 DVDs for his viewing pleasure. I loaded one in the laptop for him, and we began making all the proper screen and pillow prop adjustments to get his head at the right angle for such serious movies.

This is where I almost collapsed in laughter. In fact, I really don't know how I held it all in. But I knew the last thing my husband, in such pain and agony, would want is me laughing at him.

The previews for Extreme Bulls 4 were playing as we're getting him adjusted. Even the slightest movement made Brandon holler out in pain. But each one of these yells would be interrupted by a comment about a bull on the screen. So this is how the next five minutes played out:

"Aaaahhhh - Look at that elk!"
"Ooowww - That elk is huge!"
"Aaahhh - Do you see that thing!"
"Aaarrrgh - Oh, look how big he is!"
"Ooowww - What does that thing score?!?"
"Aaahhh - That elk is huge!"

Seriously, the entire time. Until I pushed play on the movie and the hunting began. Apparently a massive bull elk can kill all sorts of pain.

The tragic ending

Disclaimer: If you're a big animal lover or don't like semi-gruesome details, you probably don't want to read the end of this.

When I began sharing this story Monday morning, I had no idea how it would end.

One of my very favorite people, Allison, called Tuesday night. She asked how the cat was doing.

"Dead," I replied.

"Oh," she said, "So, did it fry in the rafters like Brandon predicted, or did Dixie and Wilbur get to it? Or, did both of you just get so fed up with it one of you shot it?"

All likely outcomes, I've got to admit.

When we left Monday to do some irrigating, I was a bit nervous about the cat being out with the dogs while we were gone. Brandon just said, "Let nature run her course."

So I didn't watch the house as we were leaving.

I pulled in the driveway mid-day, and found Wilbur carrying the cat around...in his mouth.

Prancing around like he was showing off a trophy or something. A little disturbing.

So I called Brandon, "Hey, Wilbur killed the cat."

"Oh...sorry?" he offered. Like he was asking if that was what I wanted to hear.

"Can you please come dispose of it? I really don't want to watch him eat her or something."

So he came by to retrieve the dead cat. He was headed to our field in Palo Verde, where I would be irrigating for the next few days. I had to go out there later in the day once the water arrived to check the ditch and fix one port Brandon forgot to close.

Well, guess where the cat was?

Right in front of the one port I had to check. I had already seen it dangling from the dog's mouth, now I had to witness it slung on the ditch bank. And I wish that was where it ended.

But the next morning, when I arrived to change the water, there were three vultures on the side of the road. Having breakfast.

I sent Brandon a text: Just had to witness vultures eating the cat.

I sent him another message having to do with the water soon after that. He called to check on it, then started to get off the phone.

"Did you get my other message?" I asked.

"Oh...yeah...I just wasn't gonna bring that one up."

I found out later that day that when the cat died, he sent out a text message to all his buddies telling them something about me being upset with him about the cat dying. Not the case. We had a discussion about that last night.

"Oh, by the way, I found out what you told all the guys when the cat died. You made it sound like I was upset it happened and angry with you about it or something."

"Well, when you first called, I thought you were. When I saw you later and you made a reference to it and kind of laughed about it, I found out otherwise."

"What? That first conversation was a whole five sentences. All I did was tell you it was dead and ask you to haul it off. I was not upset about the cat. Disturbed to see our dog prancing around the yard with it in his mouth? Sure. But not upset. And definitely not blaming you."

"Yeah, I know that now. And I bet you were more disturbed when you found it on the side of the road."

"Yes. But not as disturbed as I was the next day when I had to watch vultures eating it. But thanks anyway for 'disposing' of it."

So, the cat was definitely the worst idea ever. Even more so for her than for us.

Now we get to resume life as normal. Catless and goatless.

Fiddler on the roof

More appropriately, howler on the roof. Or, another good reason why the cat was the worst idea ever.

The first day I got the cat, I had her inside after Wilbur broke down the barricade. But he was on the prowl. He could smell her in there and proceeded to terrorize that whole back room in search of the cat.

Later that day, I was working on the laptop in the living room and heard a pounding above my head. For some reason, this startled me and I called Brandon. Seriously, what was he going to do about it?

"Hey, it sounds like something's running across our roof."

"Ok...well...what do you want me to do? I'm not there so I can't go check it out for you. Maybe you could take a look and see what it is?"

I agreed, but still didn't go outside. A few hours later, it was time for me to make my evening feeding round and put the dogs in the pen. This is what I found:


And what we found every day after that. On day three or so, we had a conversation. I told Brandon, "You know, the first day it was novel and funny, the second day, still a little funny, the third day, annoying."

You see, there are stairs in the cat room that lead up to a little balcony on one end of our house. We've never been up there because most of the boards are questionable in condition. Wilbur made his way up these stairs, and then ran around on the roof of the house and porch all day, looking for the cat we think. But the roof is the last place I would want to be when it's 115 degrees outside.

The first day, he wasn't up there long, but couldn't figure out how to get down. I just pulled my truck parallel to the porch roof, and after much coercing and tugging on his collar, he finally jumped down. He really didn't want to:
On day two, all I had for transportation at the house was a tractor. Wilbur climbed on the roof early in the morning, pretty much right after I let them out for the day. I didn't think it would be good for him to stay up there all day in the heat, so I tried to wrangle him down the stairs.

Apparently he kept forgetting he was afraid of heights until after he was on the roof, because he wouldn't even look down the stairs. He kept his head in the air above the staircase opening so he couldn't see down. Wrestling a giant, scared dog that weighs just thirty pounds less than you down the stairs is not an easy chore. About all I accomplished was getting nasty dog hair all over myself.

At one point, I had all four legs down on the top two steps, but he jumped over my head and back to the roof before I could make more progress. So I just put him a bowl of water up there. Brandon said he wouldn't have.

It had to be 1pm before Brandon came by for lunch that day, and Wilbur was still on the roof. As Brandon pulled in the driveway, I tried to direct him to pull his truck alongside the porch so we could get the dog down. Then, he started pointing behind me. The crazy dog had jumped off the roof. From here:

And after that whole fiasco, guess where he went bright and early the next morning? Brandon was still around that day, so he made a leash out of some baling twine and was able to drag him down the stairs. I left for 20 minutes, and when I returned:


Eventually, on day five or so, he learned how to come down the stairs.

Why the cat was the worst idea ever

The cat alone might not have been so bad, but the cat mixed in with Dixie and Wilbur — both bred to hunt — not so good.

Let me preface this portion of the story with the fact neither of us are fans of having animals in the house. They just belong outside, people on the inside. We do understand this is perfectly acceptable for most people. We both have parents with indoor pets.

So, I had the cat outside where the dryer is (yes, still no washing machine), barricaded with a big piece of barn wood across the door opening and a cooler propped up against it, just for extra support. There's no door back there, so this was a makeshift one to keep the dogs out until we thought the cat could fend for herself.

As soon as Wilbur realized there was something back there, he ran around the outside howling and jumping up to peak in the windows. But This system appeared to work, other than being mildly annoying to me and probably the neighbors.

Later that afternoon, I hear all kinds of racket coming from outside.

All the racket? The dogs had broken through my barricade and had the cat cornered behind the dryer. I couldn't watch them kill her, so there was only one option. I rescued her and brought her inside. Yep, I violated my own house rules.

So every morning when I let the dogs out, I brought the cat inside and couldn't take her out until I put them up in the evening. But Wilbur had already seen her back there, and could smell her, so he still howled all day long.

After a couple days of this, we were both tired of the cat being in our house, even though she spent most of the time locked in the bathroom. We were both leaving, so I suggested Brandon set her up in the rafters outside the office door. I had found her there that morning, so I knew she could even get up and down from there by herself. I thought it was a good plan.

As we were driving off, Brandon said, "That cat's gonna fry," followed by sort of an evil laugh. He thought it would get too hot for her up there during the day, something he failed to mention when I first suggested it.

She was still there when we got back. When you opened the office door, the cat was in a rafter on the left hissing at the dog, and the dog had climbed the stairs on the right, and was just staring at her from the next rafter. It was a little comical.

But, the cat survived that day, so it was our plan for the next day.

I left out the key component of this story. Pretty much the main thing that makes the cat the worst idea ever. Two days after the initial cat and dog chase, I smelled something funny.

I told Brandon, "It smells like something died out there."

He checked it out. He called me back and just told me to open the freezer. I was skeptical. I stood as far away as I could and touched it with my fingertips.

He said, "Nothing is going to jump out at you."

Apparently, that was my fear, because I felt better after that.

I shouldn't have. When I opened the freezer, I had an immediate gag reflex and felt sick. It was a pool of blood, with packages of fish and dead animals floating around, probably already full of maggots. Quite disgusting. Brandon even felt sick.

Apparently in the midst of the dogs trying to get the cat, they unplugged the freezer.

Luckily, I had just cleaned the last of the good meat out of that freezer a week earlier. It was all transferred to the two indoor freezers. (Yes, two. For a total of three freezers. We kill things. We have to put them somewhere.)

All it contained was a little of the yellowtail fish Brandon caught in Mexico a couple years ago, which didn't taste that good anyway, and several dead animals, like the head of the deer I killed last October, and a javelina skull with a broadhead stuck in it from Brandon's archery hunting two winters ago. Had it contained the ground beef from the cows we butchered last year or our Alaskan fish, we would be upset.

But still, it's a mess. For now, we have just refrozen it until Brandon has some time to haul it off and dump the mess out. It's definitely something I never want to witness again.