Since the start of the main deer-hunting season, I make the dogs wear orange vests any time they step foot outside our home pastures.

Cass doesn’t give a shit about hunting safety — she just wants me to throw a stick into the frigid water so she can swim out to get it.

I was working under the assumption that I didn’t need to worry about the dogs (or me) getting shot while on the farm; I had a naive belief that anyone hunting on my property would introduce himself and let me know that he’d be around.  But a bit after 6 this morning, while we were outside for first pee of the day, Cass started giving her “Danger Will Robinson!  Danger!” alert bark, pointing over the edge of the driveway.  I saw a pickup truck backing into the lower field and a man in camouflage (but for the orange hat…  Are deer unable to see above the neck?) carrying a rifle.  I tried to suppress my visceral reaction and called down to the fellow.  I’m not sure which of us was more taken aback — Cass can make quite an impression when she’s alarmed — but we had a civil conversation about my concerns and his hunting plans.  I’m not sure if he got his deer today or not.

Now that we’re in the thick of hunting season, with armed men and gunfire ubiquitous around the area, I’ve been forced to think some more about the local religion. Mark called once to see if I wanted him to drop off a rifle again so I could be ready to go out; I pulled the farmer card and told him I was too busy right now to give it proper attention.  When I lived in Boston, there was something transgressive about the thought of hunting and shooting a deer, but here in the center of it all, it feels more like conformity than transgression, and my contrarian nature pulls me away from the mean.  And the small-but-constant concern that my animals or I might get shot while walking on our own property takes some luster off the season.  And I can’t shake the feeling of being invaded, both specifically and more generally.