My husband is in a temporary depression. His head is hanging hound dog low, and his normally positive attitude is fast going south. Deer season is well underway, and his success rate this year has been somewhat lacking, downright unsettling, bordering on a big fat “O” on a scale of 1-10. This is hard for a man who I call “The Great White Hunter” and tease that deer can smell him coming a mile away, shaking in dread and fear.

This man is a dedicated and obsessed deer pursuer who takes his sport seriously. Once the season begins, he is all in – morning, noon and beyond. I feign myself a “deer widow” for the endurance of the season.

He has done all the necessary ‘deer’ things this year including spending untold hours in the deer stand, wearing his best camo, putting out corn, and holding his mouth right (as the old saying goes). The deer have totally disregarded and ignored his feverish attempts. They just patiently hide beyond the wood line chewing on whatever they can find, watching him from afar – until the end of shooting hours when the sun hides behind the evening sky, and he drives away forlorn and deerless in his old pickup truck. Then they throw a party at his stand showing up in masses.

To make matters worse, he has one of those newfangled cell cameras that sends out a signal every time a deer gets within a few feet of his stand. I don’t have to tell you that once he gets home, kicks his feet up in his recliner and starts to relax, the alarm frantically starts sounding and his indigestion kicks in. I feel sorry for the poor old fellow.

“Deborah,” he’ll say with disgust. “Come look at this. I’ve been gone 7 minutes and 53 seconds and there’s a six point under my stand. Can you believe this? Look, here’s another one. They’re everywhere. Look at this one… and this one.”

And so, it begins. I feign interest offering my deepest condolences as he pops anti-acid tablets. I tell him that whoever designed the technology to allow a deer hunter to have 24-hour surveillance of his deer stand should be locked up and the key tied to the neck of an ever-elusive big trophy whitetail buck.

I calm him down like only an experienced spouse of an obsessed deer hunter can do. All is well… for a few minutes, until the cell cam starts sending its frantic little messages again, and his finger becomes worn out from scrolling through the 592 successive pictures. (I think we may have to splint it – his finger, that is.)

The deer? They just look up into the camera and grin, turning their heads and striking their best deer poses – until morning dawns, and just like that – they’re gone. Oh, deer! The game continues.