Thank you MSBadger.
I posted this on my weblog a while back:
Headshots-- A shaman's statement of Self-Definition
I had an opportunity this weekend to seriously consider the issue of head shots: bagged two deer in two days. Both presented broadside shots at 100 yards or under. Both got it in the chest. Both got the top of their hearts shot out, and at least one lung. Both died within 5 seconds.
Did I have a choice? Yes.
Did I stop to consider shooting anywhere else? No.
Why? Why would I have taken any other shot?
I took my buck into the processor Saturday and saw a little buck in a guy's truck that had been shot with a .243-- In one ear and out the other at 250 yds. His was as dead as mine. The hunter was as proud of his as I was of mine.
I'm still trying to figure out what my motivations would have been in taking a similar shot. I listened to this guy talk about himself as a head shooter. It seemed important to him. He obviously defined himself, at least in part, by where he chooses to shoot his deer. To him, shooting at heads at 200 yards or more makes it worthwhile for him. I also sensed he felt it gave him greater esteem in the eyes of peers.
Okay here goes:
The shaman's Statement of Self-Definition:
I am a deer hunter, a cervid serial killer. I find self-definition in the fact that I like shooting deer in the chest and blowing out their hearts. I relish shooting my deer at a range of under 100 yards, but the closer the better. I plot and plan all year round and fore go the comforts of the fire so I can find places where deer come close-- real close without knowing I am close by. I like to arm myself with rifles that can kill at 500 yards and shoot them at targets 50 yards or under, just because I am a lazy serial killer and don't want to chase my victims very far. When I shoot them at 100 yards I have fun. When I shoot them at 10 yards and they collapse at the base of my stand I have even more fun. I openly tolerate all hunters who lob whatever at deer at whatever range they choose. Secretly, I think lobbing .30 caliber bullets from high-powered rifles into the chests of deer at 10 yards is the ultimate gas. Some might think that's lazy, or rather imprecise for a cervid serial killer, but it makes me happy. When I find a heart with the top half missing, nestled amongst a pair of shredded lungs, I am filled with an indescribable feeling that I just don't get any other way. Afterwords, I like walking into the feed store, knowing I am the sneakiest, laziest, over-gunned, near-sighted, cervid serial killer to prop his feet up by the stove, and all the other neck shooters, ear shooters, and tail shooters can just move over and let me in.