Doe, a deer, a big dead deer

Here in New England, hunting is a fairly big thing. When I was in high school, I knew several kids who went out every deer season with their father to try to bag a buck. I never went myself, but a lot of others did, and they seemed to thoroughly enjoy it. It was an introduction to the fact that meat on your plate came from something that used to be alive — and some of the ways it gets on your plate.

Well, one of the necessities of allowing and regulating hunting is the need for a “check-in station.” The state sets these up so hunters can register their kills. This not only cuts down on hunters killing more than the one deer they are allowed to kill per year, but also helps the state keep tabs on the deer population. For convenience, they are usually set up near places where the deer tend to congregate.

But only in Massachusetts will they set up a check-in station right next to a popular playground.

“So, Margie, I heard you got a new minivan. Is it that one over there?”

“No, Bridget, it’s the one parked next to the pool of deer blood over there.”

“What, the blue one?”

“Wrong pool. The gold one five down from that one.”

“Oh, that’s a nice one. How’s it ride?”

A place for everything, and everything in its place, people.

Forcing the issue
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