Our house was the second one on the block we lived on. It was on the corner lot. So there was our house and the one to the right of it. The street we lived on led up into the mountains. You'd drive up and then immediately make a right. The farmer across the street owned a buffalo ranch, where my brothers, the neighbors two sons Matt and I don't remember the other kid's name; Cody I think, and I used to go ride the bison. Deer would live near the ranch as well because it was safe there. So every time my father came back we'd get in his Toyota Pickup truck and I'd have a cooler by my feet full of apples and carrots. We would drive up to the mountain and make that right turn where we were greeted by Buck and Doe (I think those are the plural forms). We would feed them until we ran out of apples. This is how we paid the farmer back for allowing us kids to ride his bison.
One trip in particular, it was a cold, snowy Saturday morning and we drove up to the farm house and I opened the cooler, rolled the window down, and bent down to grab an apple. The next thing I hear is the loud crunch of truck metal being crunched and my dad screaming. I froze for a split second, until my dad begain laughing. I looked up at the window my head had just been next to and there were two massive antlers impaled through the roof and a Buck's head in the window trying to get an apple from me. It was a 16-point deer, which is hunting jargon for FUCKING HUGE.