It’s the first morning of hunting season and I usually wake up to the sound of a gun-shot.
For years Sven and I have loaded up the dog, first it was Leonard, then it was Dakota and now we have Hunter, into the car. We drive a few miles to our cottage, park the car and walk the dog on a leash in a quiet neighborhood with nicely paved streets, mailboxes to piss on every twenty feet and plastic bags in our pockets to pick up the dumps.
This is a real pain in the ass, as our dogs are generally used to about five walks a day. They however love the extra attention of being on a leash and the excitement of dragging us all over the place and pooping in someone’s yard just as the owner is coming out the door.
But this morning Sven said there was no need to take Hunter over to the cottage for his walk. He said I could just throw on something orange and stay on the path that goes down the middle of the field and I should be safe.
Am I reading too much into this? I mean, why was it important in all of the past years not to go out there during hunting season and now suddenly it’s no big deal? Is he still mad about the evidence folder?
Then Sven said we could just open the door and let Hunter out.
I was appalled. “No we can’t do that,” I said, “The hunter is out there.”
Sven said, “Well he’s been kind of an asshole lately.”
I said, “The hunter has been an asshole?”
“No,” he said, “Hunter has.”