By David DiBenedetto
In the midlands of South Carolina, deer season began September 1. And on opening day I sat in a stand in 89-degree weather while a small 6-point, a 4-point, and a spike ever so gently sparred in a field (the 4-point was still in velvet), and four does went about eating. I was sitting on a harvested cornfield. I didn’t pull the trigger, but it was a spectacular evening.
Still one of the more entertaining moments of the day happened before the hunt when I came down the stairs in my camo, and Pritch went bonkers. First she ran up and sniffed my legs like I was fire hydrant at a dog park. Then after a good whiff she started hopping around the living room as if the carpet had turned to hot coals, turning in tight circles with stubby tail working like mad. As I packed the truck she followed my every step. When it was time to leave she sat by the front gate whimpering as I pulled away. My wife tells me she positioned herself by the front door until I came home later that night.