Man, so this one time when I was a teen I got picked up off a stand by a relative who shall remain unnamed. We were riding back to the camper on a 4-wheeler, which I don't care for. We were riding down a field edge when a wonky cowhorn traipsed out and stopped. He leveled on him with his 4-wheeler gun, an 870 stoked with 2 3/4 inch #4 Remington buck. He let one fly about where the head meets the neck and the cowhorn went down but something didn't feel right to me. We walked up and I said "Are you sure it's dead?" because the shot could have easily paced past 60 and his eyes weren't fully open, which my grandfather had taught me was usually a sign the deer was still alive (closed eyes). He was sure, and I was younger by 30 years, so I just said Powder River let 'er buck and grabbed a set of legs with him. Swung old boy up on the rear rack and I climbed up there holding the legs braced against me for the ride. We made about 10 feet and the cowhorn decided to drop the act. He went to kicking me with those ginzu knives they call hooves, a thick hunting jacket saving me from much of it. We baled off and I cut his throat (the deer's) and went to remount and by God, he come back for round three (or two, matter of perspective). Well, I yanked that snakey SOB (the deer, again) off of that 4-wheeler and I demanded he be shot again. He was promptly given a high velocity transoccipital lead implant and I'll bet it was another five minutes we spent watching him before we carried on loading him again. I'm not sure what the moral of the story is, but I accepted the whiskey offered by the adults at the camp that night.
