Fragments From Floyd

Or, "What I Did (and Wish I Hadn't) on My Christmas Vacation"

Ah yes! My first day since August to be home on a Monday. For the first time since 1987, the phrase "Christmas Break" had such a sweet sound this morning as I laid out my day: write a few personal emails; tinker a while with some images for the March presentation; finish the next piece for the local paper; and ponder a blog post or two.

But no. This is not the way it has gone. It is ten o'clock and the past two hours have been a trial of unspeakable carnage. And not even fresh carnage.

You may remember the tale of the illegally-shot deer the week of Thanksgiving. Only a few days later we discovered to our horror that there was a very dead deer up the valley, wedged under a root along the edge of Nameless Creek. We had to drag the dog off it every time we made the loop, and we tend to walk this path several times a day. Ann noticed (while its deerlike form was still recognizable as such) that it had two empty places on the top of its skull.

Well, that solves the mystery. It was shot by someone not far from where it lay submerged in the creek. Whoever this was, clearly trespassing in the middle of our property within sight of the house, had killed the deer, removed the antlers and shoved its carcass into the creek. It was not his problem any more. He had proof of his manhood and skulked back across our fence at the top of the ridge. We, however, were left with a deteriorating problem of some considerable mass: about 120 pounds of rotting flesh, to be disgustingly precise.

Me, I would have been content to simply ignore it and let nature dismember the thing over the winter. Ann, on the other hand, has had this idea all along that we needed to relocate it so she could take her essential walks without the dog getting in it. The imperatives "should, ought and must" increasingly peppered her pronouncements of how the problem would be dealt with. I managed to divert the conversation, or ignore her, or outright refuse--until today. After 34 years, I've learned when to just do it.

A stern wind bent the trees on the ridges. The wind would make it a misery to be wet, and there was no way we could stay dry in this gruesome task. We set off, grumbling man and twittering wife, with a length of rope, two pine planks, and two pair of rubber gloves.

The stench of decay hung over the creek. Ann slipped the rope around its neck and the truck pulled the thing up into the pasture. But the bloated carcass did not simply pull apart like an overbaked ham, as SHE anticipated. I'll spare you the details. We got the grisly job done.

And now, back at the computer again, I don't seem to have my earlier zeal or inspiration. Can't imagine why.