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NOTE: In this, I will be explaining some pretty graphic content in regards to how I processed the pronghorn. As you can imagine, turning an animal into food is pretty gory. I may include some pictures too, just because I've been doing some thinking and discussing with other hunters, who believe and have convinced me, that the best way to honor an animal is to describe and show people exactly how it is treated after death. Believe it or not, most people have no idea what their meat went through to become a steak on a plate, or what their leather went through to become a wallet, or how nature works, or what nature really is. As a hunter, I feel responsible to show people the side of hunting that is hardly ever shown or discussed outside of hunters.
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Note: I'm really bad at names.
I was never very good at school sports. I couldn't compete against my peers most of the time. In school, except for maybe the first few grades of elementary school, I was the runt of the litter thanks to my disease. I was always the last to be picked when a peer was asked to sort out teams. I was often bullied and jeered at during PE, so I quickly learned to hate it.
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Note: The story is all true, but some names have been changed, though I may change the fake names to real ones depending on who's comfortable with their real names being used, which I'll find out sometime. But for now, most of the names are fake except for a few. Also, this topic is very near and dear to my heart, and is very hard to find the right words to explain, so I apologize in advance if it doesn't come out exactly as I meant it, or it sounds repetitive.
A lot of things in life can trigger my lung disease, especially when I walk by perfume stands at the mall or someone lights a cigarette near the outside corner of a store, and the smoke is carried by the wind just as I walk outside. People look at me weird, almost as if I just killed their pet dog, because they think it's contagious. I always reassure them that I'm not contagious, and that I just have a condition called Cystic Fibrosis.
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I’ll always remember that old cornfield, that’s right across the road from a rather new middle school. It’s where the hooves of many horses I’ve known have galloped. From an old red bay called Peter, to a spunky chestnut roan called Smudge, to a patchy red paint called Apache.
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Recently, my dad and I started talking about my past. My dad is an agnostic at best, so it really surprised me when he brought up miracles. I'm the only person in the world to have been cured of Pulmonary Atresia, and it wasn't because of doctors.
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