After ending another school week, there wasn’t the usual pep in Sprue’s step. Instead, the teenager headed into the upcoming weekend glum. All she could think about while trudging along was dreading the first-time father-daughter hunting trip her dad had planned for the following morning.
While taking a long-way-home route, Sprue spotted the lone resident of a seldom used dirt road. A scruffy old woman Sprue had briefly seen, but never met, was approaching from the other direction on foot.
Carrying bags of food, the elder was close to her cottage when three mischievous boys came out from behind a group of trees. The youngsters began using spray paint to deface the homemade animal crossing signs the woman had placed on both sides of the road.
Not deterred by the sight of the woman, the vandals calmly finished painting the word kooky on the signs, while an anxious Sprue watched motionless about 50 feet away.
“Hey, Kooky. I’m gonna run over a chipmunk the first chance I get!” threatened one boy.
“I’m lookin’ to squash a rabbit, Kooky girl!” taunted another.
Soon after the woman scurried into her home, the boys climbed on their bikes and scooted.
Sprue, meanwhile, resumed plodding home. “How can anyone get pleasure from killing animals?” she asked out loud—a question that prompted her to recall watching her parents eagerly clean rifles and pack gear on Friday nights during the hunting season.
Given Sprue had never expressed her strong feelings about hunting, it was reasonable for her dad to assume she wanted to follow in her parents’ footsteps. To him, their hunt would ensure a family tradition had been continued. Provided it resulted in a drop—the term he used to describe a life-ending shoot, Sprue would, as he saw it, achieve something to celebrate.
There was, however, something else that made the upcoming trial important. It was the sad fact that the father’s longtime hunting companion—his wife—had passed away a little less than a year ago. Sprue’s dad had lost the comrade with whom he had long shared his love of hunting.
That evening Sprue tried, but failed, to find the courage needed to decline becoming her dad’s new sidekick. Able only to peek into the scrapbook of pictures showing her parents proudly hoisting dead animals—a book her father kept on a coffee table, she leaned back with drooping shoulders. You’re a wimp, she thought, badly wanting to reveal the gnawing she felt when she thought of taking an innocent animal’s life.
While leaving the living room to head for bed, Sprue saw her dad polishing his favorite rifle at the kitchen table. Complaining of queasiness won’t put off the ordeal, she told herself.
“I got our permits today. We’re lucky to live in a town that has a seasonal hunting forest, but I wish we had a firing range nearby. Come over here so you can show me you remember the lesson in getting off a shot I gave you last week,” requested the dad.
Sprue took the rifle from her dad, then halfheartedly brought the weapon shoulder-high and horizontal while wishing the next day would be a no-shot-fired hunting dud—no more than an uneventful stroll through the woods.
“Slide your right foot back more and bring your left hand closer to the trigger guard so that you can press your left elbow against your chest,” corrected her as he stood to turn Sprue’s shoulders.
Sprue tried to please her dad so that she could put the rifle down.
“Your mother would be proud of you,” claimed the father before finally taking the rifle from Sprue. “I’m sure she’ll be looking down from up above when you make your first drop.”
Again baffled by the regard her dad had for taking a life, Sprue managed a weak smile.
After waking to a sunny Saturday, Sprue soon found herself trudging through nearby woods dressed in the tan pants and green top her dad had laid out—an outfit that complemented his camouflage getup. Lugging a backpack with provisions a few steps behind her dad, who had a folding deer-hauler dolly harnessed to his back, she pretended they were roving the woods in search of wildflowers.
Despite telling herself she wouldn’t be touching her dad’s rifle—the only gun he’d brought, she found skulking about in search of good places to ambush an animal unsettling. Each time her dad spoke eagerly about seeing a deer drop, she softly hummed to try to block out his words.
The day dragged on slowly but surely. Having spent several hours creeping behind thick bushes and bulky tree trunks while munching on treats, Sprue’s dad was discouraged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky on the way back,” he announced while checking his watch.
Realizing they were running out of daylight left Sprue hopeful. I’ve been spared, at least for today, she told herself with a subtle sigh.
Then, when about to call it a day, Sprue’s dad dropped to one knee while briskly waving for Sprue to do the same. He had spotted prey. “Our patience has paid off!” he noted in a lowered voice. “Stay quiet!” he then instructed while pointing at a buck 50 or so yards away.
Sprue held back a cringe. For her dad, the joyous chance to conquer an adversary was at hand. For her, the horror of seeing an unsuspecting timid creature murdered was nearing.
With the sun hanging over a treetop horizon, Sprue’s dad nudged her closer to the thicket concealing them. Remaining crouched, he then gingerly tunneled an opening in the bushes. After resting the barrel of his rifle on a branch, he pressed his cheek against the stock. Bracing his right elbow on his thigh, he brought an eye to the lens of the rifle’s telescope and aimed at the deer as it sat in a clearing with legs tucked close to its body.
Believing a conquest would soon be experienced, the father softly described what he saw. “It’s a beautiful bold buck, resting in the shade.”
With heart thumping and throat drying, Sprue took a deep breath.
“He has no idea we’re here,” cunningly sized up the dad.
Sprue gazed at the light-brown deer through a small opening in the bushes. “He is beautiful,” she agreed, more puzzled than ever why anyone would want to take its life.
“I’ve got him in the crosshairs,” assured the dad.
Sprue knew mercy wasn’t an option. “I’m feeling sick,” she moaned while placing a hand on her tummy.
The father was matter-of-fact. “First hunt skittishness is usual. Just remember what I told you: Deer don’t charge. They choose flight over fight,” he reassured.
Feeling frantic, Sprue tried to warn the animal by speaking loudly. “I’m really feeling sick.”
Too far away to hear her, the deer didn’t budge.
“Darn, Sprue, talk softly. The whole point is to out smart the animal,” explained the dad in a muffled voice.
“He looks gentle. Sneaking up on him doesn’t seem fair,” said Sprue.
The father responded with a command Sprue didn’t expect. “Hurry up and take my place!”
“Huh!” replied Sprue, taken aback.
“Take the rifle!” demanded her dad.
“I’m not ready,” fretted Sprue.
“You are ready; slip in front of me!” ordered the father with a don’t-dare-refuse tone.
Swallowing hard, Sprue again tried to decline. “I’m too afraid!”
“You can do this!” insisted her dad as he grabbed her arm, then tugged her into position. “You’ve got a beautiful white-tailed buck, sitting for the taking. We’re gonna blow up the picture we take of you holding those antlers.”
With her head soon sandwiched between her father’s bicep and the butt of the rifle, Sprue peered into the weapon’s telescope. It’s wrong! she privately declared.
“Swing your arm over the rifle so that you can place your finger on the trigger,” instructed the father.
Noticing her anxiety was causing the crosshairs of the scope to shake, Sprue came up with a way to miss the deer. Just jerk the rifle a bit when you fire, she told herself.
Bumping Sprue’s head out of the way with his own, her dad again peered into the scope. After taking aim a second time, he steadied the barrel with his left hand, then leaned back. “Get into position again Sprue, and make sure you aim between its eyes.”
With her cheek now nestled against the rifle’s stock, Sprue readied herself to deliver the twitch she hoped would cause the bullet she’d fire to go astray—a shot, she hoped, that would scare off the buck.
The father wanted his daughter to savor the joy of the kill. “This is your moment to shine, Sprue. Take a second to slide your finger along the smooth curve of the trigger. Then, after you slowly squeeze, keep looking through the scope so that you can see his head snaps back. A fast, hard drop is what you want.” Ready for what he believed to be a moment of triumph, the dad tightened his grip of the barrel, then uttered two forceful, chilling words: “Drop him!”
Though doing her best to flinch downward when she pulled the trigger, Sprue discovered she was no match for her dad’s rigid hold of the rifle. While the nudge she managed caused her to miss the buck’s head, it left the deer wounded.
Unsure where the deer had been struck, Sprue and her dad heard the terrified animal moan in pain while rocking backward. With eyes fixed on the injured buck, they watched with surprise as he valiantly lurched to his feet, then staggered toward a hill.
Sprue’s dad was upset. “You jerked the rifle!” he complained while yanking it from her. He then leaped upright to fire a miss at the escaping animal.
“I panicked,” explained Sprue as she watched the buck struggle to scamper from sight.
“I told you he wouldn’t charge us,” angrily reminded the dad.
Shaken, Sprue stepped backward.
Seeing the sun about to set, the dad grunted, then glanced Sprue’s way. She’s looking pathetic, he thought, willing to consider he hadn’t prepared his daughter well enough. “Your mother would have made sure your mind was right before taking you on your first hunt,” he conceded.
“What’s wrong with my mind?” timidly asked Sprue.
“It’s nothing we can’t fix. It’s just immaturity I failed to appreciate,” stated the father as he led the way back to the pickup in a huff.
With eyes watering, Sprue asked about the fate of the animal. “The deer was stumbling when he escaped. Will he be OK?”
“No way to know when or where he’ll give out,” answered the dad.
“You mean he’ll die?” asked Sprue as she began to sob.
“Lying to you isn’t going to help you grow up. All hunters occasionally wound an animal that gets away and takes time to die. It’s routine for the bow people. A buck can go on for days with an arrow in him,” explained her dad.
Guilt-ridden, Sprue pleaded with her dad. “Can we find him and bring him to an animal doctor?”
The father was again stern. “That’s another example of your mind not being right. We’ve gotta get out of the woods before it gets dark.”
“But I’m willing to find a way to pay for a doctor,” offered Sprue.
“The deer will soon be contributing to the food chain. Scavengers gotta live, too,” coldly stated the father.
“You mean other animals will eat him?” whimpered Sprue.
“It’s the way God set things up. Without the fight for survival, there’d be more starvation. That’s the reality the animal-rights crybabies fail to understand,” pointed out her dad as he hurried toward the pickup.
Hearing about scavengers left Sprue shattered.
The dad continued. “God decides a lot of things people just have to accept, including the illness that left you without a mother and me without a wife!” Deciding he was in over his head when it came to explaining God’s intent, her dad came up with an idea. “Maybe Father Wyem can explain things. Maybe he’ll help you get your mind right. I’ll call him when we get home.”
The following afternoon, Sprue walked to the counseling session her dad had arranged. Greeted by Father Wyem, she followed him down a narrow hallway. After entering his small, drab office, the young stout priest sat behind a large mahogany desk as he gestured for Sprue to sit in the chair in front of him.
With a large crucifix on the wall behind him, Father Wyem folded hands as he rested arms on the desktop. More comfortable dealing with adults than kids, he twitched a bit, then awkwardly expressed a desire to be useful. “Your dad told me your first hunt wasn’t what he hoped it would be. I’ll need to know your version. That is, if I’m to be helpful.”
Feeling put on the spot, Sprue squirmed as she looked out the window. “Dad must have told you I didn’t do what he told me to do. . . . He must have told you I jerked the rifle. . . . I wanted to miss the deer. . . . But instead of a missing him, I wounded him.”
“Your dad told me of your concern for the animal,” shared the priest.
“The deer could be still suffering, or maybe the scavengers are doing something to him too horrible to say,” agonized Sprue.
Father Wyem was ready with an answer. “God gave mankind dominion over the animals, Sprue.”
“Dominion?” she repeated while nervously rubbing her thighs.
“It’s our destiny to rule over other creatures,” explained Father Wyem.
Sprue wanted to better understand what she was being told. “Do you mean God wants people to decide what happens to animals?” she asked.
“Yes. Of course, our decisions should reflect good intentions. That is, we should look out for the animals,” clarified the priest.
“How is killing them a way to look out for them?” asked Sprue, finally giving Father Wyem eye contact.
“For one thing, the frail are a sacrificial lot in nature. The purpose of predators is to weed out the weak,” answered the priest.
“But hunters often kill strong and healthy animals. The deer I shot wasn’t weak. My dad called him a ‘beautiful bold buck’.” noted Sprue.
“Hunters help ensure the deer herds don’t get too large. There isn’t enough food for them,” countered the priest.
“Why not give them more land for grazing?” wondered Sprue.
“It’s back to having dominion again, Sprue. Humans—those made in God’s image—takes precedence,” he explained.
“Precedence?” repeated Sprue, looking for a definition.
Father Wyem again responded confidently. “God means for humans to come first. That we multiply is foremost. You can check on that by reading Genesis—the first book of the bible.”
Aware of the certainty Father Wyem appeared to enjoy each time he noted God’s wishes, Sprue had a simple question. “Do you hunt?” she asked.
“I do. I hunt with family and friends. Doing so is a chance for me to appreciate nature,” he shared.
Hearing him claim to appreciate what he and other hunters sought to destroy confused Sprue. “When you say appreciate nature, you mean feel you’re the boss over other animals, right?” she questioned.
“Again, it’s natural for people to hunt. Remember, God wants people to have dominion,” stressed Father Wyem.
“When it comes to hunting, what God wants me to do too hard,” solemnly replied Sprue.
“You just need time to mature,” spryly stated Father Wyem.
“So, like my dad, you think I’m immature,” said Sprue.
“What do you think, Sprue?” asked Father Wyem.
Sprue slumped forward, then spoke meekly. “I think if being mature means being OK with hunting, I may stay immature.”
Father Wyem tried to be reassuring. “You need time to consider what we’ve discussed.”
“I feel sick inside when I think about touching a rifle again. . . . Maybe a penance will help me,” suggested a trembling Sprue.
Feeling flustered, Father Wyem stood up. “As I understand what happened, you fired in a way that disobeyed your dad. I suppose we can consider that a sin. Say two Hail Marys and one Our Father.”
Aware that the priest was abruptly ending their meeting, Sprue pleaded for a more meaningful way to atone. “I did worse than disobey Dad. I caused one of God’s creatures to suffer and die! That’s gotta be a mortal sin that deserves a whopping penance?”
Anxious to move on to his next appointment, Father Wyem repeated the penance he’d given. “For disobeying your dad, and only for that, say two Hail Marys and one Our Father at the altar. I want you to take a few weeks to think about what we’ve discussed. If you’re self-reproach persists, come back for a follow-up talk,” he wrapped up before motioning for Sprue to follow him to the door.
Disobeying Dad isn’t the problem, thought Sprue as she was rushed from the office. Disappointed, she glanced at the church upon exiting the rectory, then quickly decided the penance she’d been given was pointless. A thousand Hail Marys and Our Fathers wouldn’t be enough, she told herself.
Taking the dirt road that extended the walk home, Sprue stewed in self-blame with eyes downward. As a result, she didn’t see, just up ahead, the woman living in the secluded cottage cleaning one of the animal crossing signs that had been defaced by the boys.
Hearing an approaching sluggish shuffle, the woman turned and found Sprue was unaware they would soon collide. “Are you having one of those bumpity-bump days?” she asked with a smile.
Looking up and suddenly seeing the woman, Sprue let an unkind surge of resentment erupt. “You’re pretending you’re saving animals!” she angrily blurted, trying to dump her own shame onto the unsuspecting woman.
Bewildered by the abrupt attack, the scapegoated woman grabbed her cleaning bucket and hurried through her front door.
As she watched the woman scurry into her sanctuary, Sprue stood, drenched in disgrace. She knew she’d impulsively released a burst of bitterness. “You were hurtful on purpose. You’re the one who’s the pretender,” she muttered.
Mortified by what she’d done, Sprue took a long deep breath, then started for the cottage. After several knocks failed to bring about a reply, she called out. “My name is Sprue. Please give me a chance to apologize.”
The woman answered from behind the closed door. “I heard you. No need to say more.”
“Will you let me help you clean the signs?” sincerely asked Sprue.
“No need for that,” assured the woman.
“Please know that I’m very sorry I was unkind. That you want to keep animals safe should be praised, not criticized,” declared Sprue before turning and starting to leave.
“Do you like tea and muffins?” hesitantly asked the woman with the door still shut.
Sprue turned around. “Yes, I do,” she quickly answered.
After opening the door, the woman introduced herself in a way unexpected by Sprue. “Come in. Though I object to name-calling, I’ve come to find the name Kooky a source of humility rather than humiliation. So, please feel free to consider it to be my name.”
“OK,” answered Sprue.
After directing Sprue to a comfort chair in the living room of the cluttered, but cozy, cottage, Kooky went to her kitchen to prepare their snack.
Fascinated by the huge clump of clay on the coffee table in front of her, Sprue called out. “The things you make are interested.”
“Let’s sit out back by the pond,” suggested Kooky as she returned, then handed Sprue a mug of tea and an oatmeal muffin. “As you’re about to see, I’m trying to start a small wildlife refuge by attracting actual animals with life-size ceramic ones. Unfortunately, my fake creations aren’t fooling many of my furry or feathered passersby,” she explained as she led the way through the rear door, then to a bench overlooking the backyard.
“I admire people who care for animals,” said Sprue while sitting and gazing at a small pond surrounded by fruit trees—a location that allowed her to see crudely shaped ceramic rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks and ducks scattered about.
“Unfortunately, there was a time I didn’t care enough,” confessed Kooky.
Kooky’s honesty prompted Sprue to also express regret. “I bet you haven’t shot a harmless animal.”
Slouching while somberly staring at the still pond, Kooky’s eyes moistened. “Guns aren’t the only weapons,” she shared.
Unsure what Kooky was suggesting, Sprue waited for the elder to say more.
Kooky spoke with sadness. “Many years ago, I sold homes. One day, while rushing in the rain to show a house I badly wanted to sell, I came upon a flock of geese beginning to saunter across the road. After coming to a stop, I watched them start across, then retreat as if unable to make up their minds. When they retreated a third time, I glanced at the dash clock. Upset that I was running late, I told myself something selfish and idiotic—something horribly reckless,” she shared, pausing to close eyes and fight back tears.
Clutching knees, Sprue wasn’t sure she wanted to hear more.
Kooky continued. “I told myself I didn’t have to wait for the wavering waddlers to pass. All that mattered was a big payday. Having convinced myself I could and should whiz by the flock, I thumped the accelerator, causing the wheels to spin on the wet surface—long enough for the flock to enter my lane. Soon after my car lurched forward, I pounced on the brake. But rather than come to a stop, I skidded toward the startled geese, plowing over and killing five of them,” she revealed, shuddering while letting tears flow.
Moved by Kooky’s memory, Sprue dropped shoulders and head.
Kooky, meanwhile, wiped tears with a hanky. “I never again got behind the wheel of a car. I even gave up being a passenger,” she noted.
“There’s no way to make up for some of the things we do, is there?” asked Sprue.
“I suppose not, but I believe we can become a better person,” answered Kooky.
“I’ve been too afraid to be a better person,” shared Sprue.
Sensing Sprue had more she needed to say, Kooky was encouraging. “Though becoming a better person may not result in forgiveness, it can, I’ve discovered, be a way to put us on a path of niceness.”
Sprue put her half-eaten muffin in her lap and her mug on the seat, then shared her own heartbreak. “I was too weak to refuse to go hunting, too weak to refuse to hold a rifle, and too weak to refuse to pull a trigger. I had plenty of chances to make sure I didn’t murder a magnificent, innocent animal that had no idea what I was about to do. Instead, I let being afraid of having my dad be upset with me matter most.”
“Not being what a parent badly wishes us to be is no easy task,” understood Kooky.
“My priest made it sound as thought hunters do animals a favor. What animal wants to be stalked and murdered? To me, talking about having dominion seems like a big excuse—a way to make something horrible seem wonderful. . . . Dad and Father Wyem say I’m immature,” said Sprue with a sniffle.
“As best as I can tell, your dad, Father Wyem and lots of other well-meaning folks somehow go down a path different than you and me when it comes to being a nice person,” offered Kooky.
“I don’t see how anyone can come to think killing gentle animals isn’t awful,” wondered Sprue.
“As you’ve seen, some are taught doing so is a God-given necessity of sorts,” said Kooky.
“That’ll never make sense to me. I’ve gotta find a way to change Dad’s mind about needing me to become a hunter,” noted Sprue.
Kooky grinned. “Hmmm. I had an uncle who was convinced the woes of the world were due to something he called The Theory of Wooziness. You might find hearing about him helpful.”
“Like my mom, who died last year, liked to say, I’m all years,” answered Sprue.
“Sorry you lost your mom. . . . Briefly summed up, Uncle Boe steadfastly made known that, because we’re on a planet that rotates about 1000 miles per hour and revolves about 67,000 miles per hour, everyone was too woozy to sidestep mistakes and misery,” noted Kooky.
“Does that make sense to you?” asked Sprue.
“No, but it made perfect sense to him. He repeated those miles per hour numbers over and over. Anytime someone suggested his theory was flawed, he became ornery,” recalled Kooky.
Sprue shook her head. “You’re saying I shouldn’t try to change Dad’s mind about hunting. . . . But I can’t take Mom’s place. She loved hunting as much as Dad.”
“That he’s going to continue to be who he is doesn’t mean you shouldn’t strive to be who you are,” suggested Kooky.
Sprue looked toward the sky as she clutched herself with folded arms. “I’ve heard some adults say people who’ve died can check on us from heaven. What do you think?” she asked.
“I find the idea of the departed checking on what I’m up to unsettling. . . . It’s just a guess, but I suspect those who’ve moved on are busy dealing with a new bunch of hurdles to hop over. . . . Anyway, it isn’t your mother’s approval you need, right?” posed Kooky.
Sprue paused, then straightened. “It’s my approval I need,” she realized.
“Only when I see myself as kind and fair do I come by the serenity I seek,” shared Kooky. Then, after a brief silence, she made a surprising offer. “I’ve been wanting for some time to team up with someone who’ll help me turn my property into the Willer Road Wildlife Refuge. Will you be that someone? I can’t pay much, but I think you’ll learn a lot.”
Sprue didn’t hesitate. “I will!”
“Because my few acres have a thick row of fir trees separating them from the government land used for hunting, we’ll be giving animals a place to hide out. See that flat piece of grassy land on the far side of the pond?” asked Kooky.
“Yes,” said Sprue.
“It’s a good place to grow food for the animals. We can’t plant until next spring, but we could build and fill feeders right away. We could also get ready for planting by repairing the tractor in the shed.”
“When can we start?” asked Sprue, finding the offer very appealing.
“How about this weekend,” suggested Kooky.
Immediately realizing she’d need her dad’s approval, Sprue slouched. “My dad hunts on Saturdays,” she muttered.
“Whenever he’ll let you come will be find with me,” said Kooky.
Sprue dropped hands into lap, then gazed at a butterfly fluttering over a wildflower as if unsure where to land.
As soon as Sprue came home, her dad corralled her in their living room. “So, was Father Wyem helpful,” he asked.
“He’s on your side,” answered Sprue as she plopped on the couch.
“What exactly did he say?” pressed her dad, sitting on a nearby chair.
“He agreed with you about what God wants,” answered Sprue. . . . “I also talked with the lady who lives on Willer Road.”
“Are you talking about the oddball with the quirky animal-crossing signs in front of her cottage?” asked her dad.
“Yes. The kids call her Kooky—a name she’s OK with. She’s actually very smart,” pointed out Sprue.
Sprue’s dad wasn’t interested in her chat with Kooky. “Chatting with her was nice of you, but tell me more about what Father Wyem had to say.”
“He said the Church is OK with hunting, because God said people have dominion over animals,” summed up Sprue.
Her dad was pleased. “Given how well the meeting with Father Wyem went, I’d say Saturday can’t come too soon.”
Sprue’s heart started racing.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” announced her dad as he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a shiny red and silver gadget made mostly of steel. “It’s sharp; so, like a gun, it’s to be handled carefully,” he warned as he handed the item to Sprue.
“Thanks,” reluctantly said Sprue.
“It’s your own folding knife,” said her dad. “You and I are gonna gut next Saturday’s drop for freezing. Once we get the meat home, we’ll cut out chunks for steaks and jerky. Knowing your helping to feed us will be rewarding. It’ll help you better appreciate what Father Wyem and I have been telling you,” he explained.
Upset by what had been described, Sprue placed the knife on the coffee table. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to gut an animal.”
“Like dropping a deer, carving one up gets easier with practice. Besides, you’re gonna find that knife does all the work. You just have to use it the way I show you,” noted her dad.
“I’m, I’m thinking, thinking about something important you and Father Wyem pointed out,” quivered Sprue.
“What’s that?” asked the dad.
Sprue hoped owning her anxiety would help prepare her dad to hear about her desire to work at the Kooky’s refuge. “I’m too scared to appreciate hunting.”
Her dad wasn’t dissuaded. “Gutting is a great growing-up booster. Unlike those who don’t understand what it takes to put meat on their plates, you’ll have your mind right,” he assured.
“I’ve, I’ve been wanting, wanting to become a vegetarian,” sputtered Sprue, again groping her way to telling her dad about the refuge.
“Remember what you’ve been told by Father Wyem,” emphasized her dad, slightly irritated at having to remind Sprue of God’s role in the matter.
“But animals don’t choose to be killed, and people don’t have to eat meat,” contended Sprue.
The dad folded arms. “Darn it, Sprue! This isn’t just about whether or not you hunt and eat meat. You gotta start watching the news. The barbarians are everywhere! After we get you comfortable with a rifle, we’re gonna move on to a handgun. You gotta learn to protect yourself.”
Sprue offered what she thought to be simple logic. “No matter how bad things seem, isn’t it good that there are some people who strive for a world without guns?” she proposed.
“Pompous pacifists only get to shun weapons because others are willing to fend off savagery for them! There’s rage and cruelty everywhere, Sprue!” insisted her dad.
“But isn’t it important for people to know some of them are able to get along without weapons?” pressed Sprue.
“God’s will is what it is. It’s time to grow up!” insisted her dad.
Feeling desperate, Sprue brought up Kooky’s refuge. “I’d like to help out at the Willer Road Wildlife Refuge.”
“Is it something the school started?” skeptically asked the father.
“The woman I told you about runs it. She has a large backyard with a pond. I’ll start by learning how to build feeders and how to fix a tractor,” explained Sprue, pausing before revealing when she’d be participating. . . . “Though I can do things after school, I’ll learn a lot on weekends.”
The father spoke gruffly while rising. “No Saturday’s until hunting season is over, understand?”
“I know, I know I’m letting you down, but I, but I want to start this Saturday,” stammered Sprue.
After pacing to the other side of the room, the father turned with a snarl. “You’re not letting me down, because you’ll be dropping your first deer this Saturday! You can attend Kooky’s goofy refuge after school until six and on Sunday’s after church. We’re done discussing the matter!” he declared before marching off.
Sprue shriveled, then headed for her bedroom.
The following Friday, Sprue’s dad drove to Kooky’s cottage after leaving work. His intention was to check out his daughter’s wildlife teacher and, of greater concern, to affirm his authority. After knocking on the front door wearing a suit and tie, he stood rigid as he waited.
Though she kept the door shut, Kooky was courteous. “How can I help you, Sir?”
“I’m Mr. Decon, Sprue’s father.”
“I’m Kooky. Please come in,” invited Kooky as she opened the door. “I just finished baking a batch of oatmeal muffins. Will you have one with tea?”
“No thanks,” said the father, sure he wanted to remain business-like.
“Sprue’s working in the shed out back. Do you want me to get her?” asked Kooky.
“No, I came here to see you. As you likely know, Sprue and I locked horns over when she’s permitted to come to your refuge. I’m here to make sure we’re all on the same page when it comes to her being a no-show on Saturdays. I’m doing what I believe to be best for Sprue,” he stated.
“I don’t doubt your intentions are fatherly,” noted Kooky.
“It’s essential that Sprue has a chance to rebound from the unfortunate outcome of her first hunt,” elaborated the father.
“I understand,” assured Kooky. “You’re doing all you can to make sure Sprue reaps the benefits you know to come from hunting,” she respectfully noted.
“So, you appreciate that I’m trying to ensure Sprue acquires the confidence and competence hunting provides,” said the father, looking for confirmation.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Decon. I, too, very much want to see her acquire confidence and competence. Unlike you, however, I’ve been given a considerable advantage,” replied Kooky.
The father was caught off guard by Kooky’s reply. “What’s your advantage?” he asked.
“Sprue has a natural aptitude for and comfort with safeguarding wildlife. With very little effort on my part, I get to watch her readily bloom. Whereas you, through no fault of your own, are stuck in a slow-motion relentless tug of war. In fairness to a good dad, like yourself, I think I should warn you that a momentous event is underway. If you’ll follow me to the back door, you’ll see for yourself what I’m talking about,” enticed Kooky as she handed Mr. Decon the pair of binoculars she’s taken off a shelf.
“Too curious to refuse, the father followed Kooky.
Soon pushing open the backdoor, Kooky pointed to the far end of her property. “Use the binoculars to view the far side of the pond, where, amongst my clay mutants, there’s two real deer.”
Mr. Decon brought a buck and a fawn into focus. Both were eating out of a feeder.
“Soon after we finished making and filling our first feeder, the buck you see squeezed through two fir trees,” informed Kooky. “Though timid at first, his hunger made a handy meal too tempting.”
Sprue’s dad glanced Kooky’s way, then resumed viewing the deer.
“After spotting a gash on his neck with the binoculars, we guessed it was a flesh wound,” noted Kooky before slowly and softly sharing what she suspected would be hard for Mr. Decon to hear. “Sprue feels sure it’s the deer she shot. As she sees it, her hurtfulness has become healable. Watching her and the buck help each other convalesce has been an uplifting spiritual windfall for me. . . . Seeing the buck trust enough to bring the fawn with him today has been especially heartwarming and inspirational.”
Sprue’s father’s eyes moistened.
“You deserve a pat on the back, Mr. Decon. . . . Please know that I wouldn’t do anything to tamper with the day in and day out splendid caregiving you’re providing Sprue,” praised Kooky.
With tears streaming down cheeks, Sprue’s father lowered the binoculars as he watched the buck and fawn saunter to the pond, where they drank side-by-side. “Sprue will be here tomorrow and the Saturdays that follow,” he assured as he handed Kooky the binoculars, then turned to leave.
After getting the tractor ready for plowing in the spring, Kooky and Sprue planted a successful wildlife garden that year and for many years thereafter. Both drew great delight from watching the animals enjoy the safety they were provided at the small refuge. When Sprue eventually moved away to become a wildlife refuge manager at a large reserve, Kooky farmed her garden until old age left her able to do little more than fill the feeders.
On what started out as a usual autumn afternoon, Kooky slipped on a moth-eaten flannel shirt, then exited her back door. Spotting a doe, a squirrel and two rabbits having lunch, she plunked on the bench from which she had long cherished her backyard visitors. Falling limp as she looked toward the treetops that bordered the rear of her property, she noticed a lone small cloud drift into sight above the pond. She then sat amazed as several faint objects emerged from the cloud.
Soon recognizing the flapping movement headed her way, Kooky counted five shimmering geese. A few seconds later, braking wings fluttered and landing-gear feet dropped. Descending in unison, the small flock delicately touched down in the middle of the pond. In awe of their arrival, Kooky stood, then stepped forward as all five came ashore and waddled toward her. Kneeling to gently stroke her newfound friends, she let the serene surge of humble healing freely flow from her.
1. Why didn’t Sprue do the penance she was given by Father Wyem?
2. Why did or didn’t Kooky have a good reason for being OK with being called Kooky.
3. What do you think of the way Kooky treated Sprue’s father?
4. Why did Sprue’s father let her attend Kooky’s refuge on Saturdays?
5. What do people lose when they do things they believe to be unkind or unfair?
6. How can people know when they’re being asked to do something they’ll regret?
7. How might a person refuse to do something she or he believes to be unkind, unfair or hurtful?