I grew up hunting. I hunted woodchucks, rabbits, squirrels, quail, pheasant, and duck. And when I turned 16, I became old enough to hunt deer.It was 1969, and, one day, sitting in a tree in the frozen silence of a late autumn dawn, my senses ready for a flash of brown or the snap of a twig, all I could think of was the letter that had just arrived from my cousin in Vietnam. He talked about bodies floating down rivers and boys a couple of years older than me cutting off swollen fingers in order to get at rings.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A doe and a yearling worked their way through a laurel thicket about 100 yards out. I raised my gun, squinting into the rising sun and hoping for a buck to be on their trail. There was a flash of rack and I clicked off the safety. A nice six-pointer was coming right for me. I fidgeted the trigger and held the sights on his chest. He stopped about 40 yards in front of me and turned to the side, offering me a perfect shot. I took a deep breath and held it.
Then I exhaled and lowered the gun, clicking the safety back on.
I had no idea I would refuse to shoot until it happened.
