I'm sitting here at work in my midday lunch slump feeling sadness that it'll be quite some time before I'm able to shoot DRock's bears again.
There was a time that I could count on shooting bears and having DRock claim them. These times were fun. We would go out, he'd spot the bears as we looked over the same clearing. He'd use his little peewee gun and scare the bear (which they inevitably always ran the wrong way for them). He'd claim to have hit it, and then I'd step up with the .375. In the confusion, he'd always claim to have fired the final shot. Really, I think he saw the bear going down and fired another one into the hillside just to ensure his claim had some validity.
We'd walk up to these monsters (usually <125 lbs) and haul them out on a stick because DRock was always going to save the hides. I have to thank him for the extra workout as I know those furs never made it into the house.
The sense of pride you get from being the breadwinner in a relationship, but then deferring to the other so that they can feel a sense of accomplishment is perhaps the most rewarding feeling of all.
Miss you DRock, sorry that you're not going to get any bears this year. I hope to be back for bear season 2019. Have a fun nature walk without me.
