So long, Bambi.

I am making no future plans. --Julia Child

So, we arrived at the in-laws for Thanksgiving a few hours ago, and were chatting and having Attitude Adjustments, when a sweet little doe innocently grazing in the backyard met its untimely demise. Shot at, from the back porch by my usually reserved, polished, wine-making, un-Rednecklike father-in-law. First shot missed, and she ran a few yards and looked back, as if to say - "What was that bang?" Second shot also missed and she ran closer towards the woods, but looked back again, like "Seriously?" She didn't get to turn around on the third shot. At least it was a good, clean shot (a hundred yards or so away) and a quick death. I think. I didn't stay for the rest of the show.

I actually feel guilty -- I almost saved it. I had just finished calling "hello" out the window to it, when I heard my sister in law yell, "Shoot it!" -- and then some commotion in the kitchen, so I yelled "Run!" But, it either didn't hear me, or it was feeling over confident. (In retrospect, maybe I should have screamed, "Run for your life!") So, here I am, a few minutes later, crying into my Thanksgiving Eve cocktail (a mix of lemnoncello, lemonade, cranberry juice, seltzer, bitters, and a few other whimsies) and it isn't.

It's quite a thing to see a living thing lose its life. Not sure I can stomach it, but I do understand it is a part of life. I eat animals every day that have been killed less humanely than Bambi. But still--it's one thing to see it happen in real life.

Anyway, so long, sweet Bambi. I tried to warn you. Hopefully this saved you from starving and freezing to death this winter.


I guess we're having venison tomorrow: Thanksgiving a la Western New York.