A Deer Killed My First Husband...So I Married a Deer Hunter
A Deer Killed My Husband
My husband hunts deer.
And my first husband was killed by one.
If my adult life has had some strange recurring theme, apparently it’s deer.
For those who don’t know my story, in 1998 my first husband was involved in a tragic accident with an eight-point buck. He died instantly, leaving me with our two precious boys.
You might think after something like that I would never want to see another deer again.
Instead, I became the lady constantly posting pictures and videos of them. I even host a page on Facebook, Tracy's Backyardigans.
I’m blessed to live where my backyard is regularly visited by does, bucks and the occasional fawn. Sometimes there are so many out there it looks like somebody forgot to tell them this is my property and not a wildlife preserve.
When I remarried, having a husband who killed deer rather than being killed by them wasn’t exactly on my list of desired characteristics.
But I suppose it was an added bonus.
When we settled into our first home, my new husband proudly displayed a mounted eight-point buck.
Yes, more than one person asked me:
“Is that the deer?”
Now THAT would have been a great ideal!
No. It wasn’t.
Unfortunately, the story of the actual deer carcass gets even stranger.
Apparently, someone had been feeding that killer buck near Highway 43 North outside Picayune, Mississippi. After the accident, according to the rather large Mississippi Highway Patrolman at the scene, an argument broke out because the people who had been feeding the deer wanted to take possession of it.
My husband—a good man, a father and a volunteer firefighter—was lying there dead, and people were arguing over the buck.
The emergency responders were appalled and refused to let them take it.
Apparently, the argument became heated enough that the patrolman threatened to arrest their “bottoms.”
His actual vocabulary was a little more colorful.
So yes, in the middle of one of the worst nights of my life, there was also an argument over a dead deer.
Life can be painfully strange.
And while my story may sound unusual, deer and other wildlife cause a staggering number of accidents. Federal estimates put wildlife-vehicle collisions at more than one million every year in the United States, resulting in roughly 26,000 injuries, 200 deaths and more than $10 billion in economic costs annually.
More recent insurance data estimates that deer alone were involved in more than 1.1 million animal-collision claims in a single year.
Suddenly, my strange story doesn’t seem quite so rare.
There was no dollar amount that could measure what that accident cost our family.
Maybe that’s partly why I joke that my husband of 27 years is doing his civic duty by thinning the herd.
Granted, the deer aren’t actually out there gunning for us.
They’re beautiful, majestic creatures simply trying to get from one side of the road to the other.
They’re just remarkably bad at checking for traffic.
Oddly enough, deer weren’t finished weaving themselves through my life.
My first husband and I had very close friends, Cindi and Kent. Several years after my husband died, Kent was traveling on another dark Mississippi road one night.
He didn’t hit a deer.
He hit a horse.
I’m pretty sure when Cindi eventually remarried, she did not specifically look for a horse hunter.
But like me, she did remarry.
And, to borrow from Titanic, our hearts went on.
Back to the deer.
Our backyard here in south Huntsville has no shortage of them. We’ve counted as many as 30 at one time. Our yard rises into the mountain behind us, making it a little deer paradise.
And they do not remind me of bad memories, I find them peaceful.
Whether I’m sitting on the porch or in my backyard swing, watching them wander through the woods fills me with gratitude.
For several years, we even had a regular visitor: an eleven-point buck we named Beechnut.
Beechnut had something unusual going on with his mouth. His tongue sort of hung sideways when he ate, which made for some pretty entertaining YouTube videos.
He became incredibly comfortable around us. He would come close enough to eat from our hands, and he was often waiting in the front yard when I got home from work.
One day, I discovered Beechnut didn’t mind if I touched his nose.
So naturally, I decided to touch one of his enormous antlers.
Beechnut minded.
Very much.
He jerked around, gave me what I can only describe as an indignant look, and marched angrily up the mountainside.
My husband witnessed the whole thing.
In his I-know-everything-there-is-to-know-about-deer voice, he yelled:
“YOU NEVER TOUCH A MAN’S HORN!”
Then he laughed at me.
Fine.
Lesson learned.
I did not touch the man’s horn again.
My strangely deer-themed life also taught me that deer can be dangerous somewhere besides the highway. They have been known to attack.
Rut season arrived.
My deer-hunter husband issued instructions: no more hand-feeding Beechnut. No touching him. No getting close.
Apparently, Beechnut had other things on his mind.
But then he showed up with those big, pitiful eyes.
Just one more little snack wouldn’t hurt, right?
So I fed him.
Thankfully, nothing happened.
When my husband found out, however, I received another piece of deer wisdom:
“Tracy, he will either want to date you or hate you. And you don’t want either one of those to happen!”
Message received.
This time, permanently.
Every year after rut and hunting season, Beechnut would eventually return. He’d be thinner, worn out and usually looking like he’d had a very rough time with the ladies and the other gentlemen.
Then one year, he didn’t come back.
I still wonder what happened to him.
I prefer to believe Beechnut is somewhere in deer heaven, munching pumpkins and still telling everybody about the crazy woman who touched his horn.
Today, I can look out my window and see deer wandering through my backyard.
Then I can turn around, look at my living room wall, and see several of my husband’s trophy bucks staring back at me.
I mostly ignore those.
I prefer the live ones begging for snacks.
Life is strange.
Sometimes the very thing connected to one of the darkest chapters of your life can somehow become part of the beauty in later chapters.
I lost someone I loved because of a deer on a dark Mississippi highway. I would never pretend there was anything good about that night or the loss that followed.
But tragedy didn’t get to make me afraid of every deer for the rest of my life.
Years later, God has given me a mountain behind my home, a porch to sit on, a husband I love, and deer wandering peacefully through my backyard.
That feels a little like grace to me.
So when you’re driving on those dark winter roads—especially when the bucks are chasing the girls and paying absolutely no attention to your headlights—slow down and watch carefully.
As for me?
I am a deer lover.
And I am a deer-hunter lover.
Apparently, there’s room in my life for both.
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