Good! I was afraid the accents wouldn’t translate well, so I’m glad you enjoyed them
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Journal, Diary, & Blogging / When My Dad Brought Home a Deer
When I was about, oh, eight years old, my father brought me home my very own baby deer. The yearling had tried jumping over a barbed wire fence, catching his leg on the sharp hooks. Most likely to scavage, a wild pig began guarding him. It took all of my uncles diversionary tactics to distract the pig while my dad rescued the deer.
I’d been laying in the living room watching one of my grandparents’ two t.v.’s, when I heard my mother screech. “Bee! Get out here, your dad brought home a fawn!”
I jumped up, tripped over my grandparent’s cocker spaniel Jiggs, and ran to the door with the dog howling all throughout the house. I couldn’t get down the steps fast enough.
There, in the double-garage, was bambii. He still had a few spots, and he was terrified. I coo’ed and aww’ed, trying my best to calm him down by rubbing the scruff of his neck with awkwardly gloved hands.
I hear snatches of my dad’s grand explanation being relayed to my grandfather, ”And D’s slinging beer ever’whichaway, and yelling ‘YAH!’, trying to get the damn pig to run off, and I said, ‘Well, hell, D. That ain’t gonna work.’..”
I ignore him and continue assaulting the poor critter with rough, stiff, oil-field gloves, until I hear my father say, “So, we’ll just take him up to the jail. D called Arthur on the way in, and they’re waiting for him…”
I panicked, “No! He’s scared, we can nurse him back to health, and set him free, and he’ll scamper off into the forest and go back to his Mom. I can do it! I’ll take good care of him, I swear.”
My dad, uncle, and grandfather all look at each other, then walk over to me. ”They’ll get ‘im all fixed up at the jail, poot. (Yes, I just admitted my father calls me poot. Must be a Texas thing.) They got all kinds of stuff up ‘er at’ll be good for ‘im. Now, let ya Mom take a picture of ya with ‘im, and then I’ll haul him up ‘er.”
I was heartbroken, but happy that he’d be treated right by the prisoners. I asked if we could visit it the next day, but my dad laughed his head off. I dropped the subject, and never thought much about it til a few years ago when I walk in on my dad telling my husband about it.
”She started crying, wanting to take care of it, so I told her the prisoners would, let her take a picture with it, and took his ass up there. The cook came out sharpening his knives, and-”
”They killed it!” I screeched, dumbfounded the idea hadn’t struck me sooner.
”Yap. Sure did. Wudn’t gonna let something like that go to waste.”
”But…but I’d petted it!” I stammered, as if somehow that could negate him being seen as food.
“Uh huh. They pet it, too.” he said, petting his belly. “After they ate it.”
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DCAllen reviewed Version 1 -
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The arc of this story is pretty good. I enjoyed the snatches of colloquial language. I think this story would be more effective if you gave more thought to characterization. As is, it seems like a simple, but well-told, anecdote; a short story would concentrate more on character motivation and development.
Proofreading notes:
my uncles diversionary tactics = uncle’s
laying in the living room = lying (intransitive)
two t.v.’s = TVs
grandparent’s cocker = grandparents’
bambii = Bambi
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quetita reviewed Version 1 -
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That was wonderful! I couldn’t help but giggle and smile at the end as I read your father’s reply. Well done. You captured my attention and kept it all the way through. I especially liked the way your wrote in their accents.
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