Cure All

My friend Chandler called on a lazy August afternoon.  

We had hunted together after I drew a pronghorn antelope tag through Oklahoma’s Controlled Hunt Program. That tag allowed me to chase an antelope with a centerfire rifle in hand in my home state, the only time I’d ever have the opportunity to do so. In Oklahoma, unless you’re a landowner or have the scratch to talk one out of a tag, you’ll only ever hunt pronghorn with a rifle one time, assuming you’re lucky enough to draw the tag.

Chandler put me on a heavy horned goat, and we’d been exchanging text messages and trail camera pictures ever since. So it didn’t surprise me that he was calling. The reason he was calling, though, was sure enough a surprise.

“Hey Kyle, one of my neighbors offered me a landowner tag for an antelope buck.”

“Congrats, man! That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, and I’d like your dad to come up here and fill it.”

I sat down. Hard.

My brother had drawn Oklahoma’s rifle tag a year or two before I had and killed an antelope with Chandler. Dad was riding shotgun on that hunt. He had been there on my hunt, too. Now Chandler was offering him the chance to trade out his spotting scope for a rifle.

One problem. Dad was in a bad way. He’d somehow wrenched his shoulder loading limbs into the bed of his pickup and was dealing with what he described as the worst pain of his life. I told Chandler that I’d call my dad and relay the offer but I mentioned that there was at least a chance he’d politely decline due to the pain in his shoulder.

Dad was hopped up on painkillers and muscle relaxers when I called. He told me that he wasn’t feeling a bit better and that he intended to make another visit to the doctor as soon as the office opened Monday morning. I tried to ease into talk of Chandler’s offered antelope tag. I desperately wanted dad to be excited about the opportunity and I was afraid if I caught him at the wrong time he’d pass. As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. In fact, the second he understood what he was being offered can only be described as a miraculous healing. Our conversation quickly shifted from which pill to take to which bullet to shoot.

Six hours in the truck didn’t do his shoulder any favors, but we made it to the Oklahoma panhandle in time to do a little scouting before dark. Dad grabbed his rifle just in case, but none of us gave much thought to him shooting an antelope on the first day.

We’d seen half a dozen decent bucks when Chandler spotted a nice goat grazing just a couple of hundred yards from the road. We glassed the antelope from the truck, fully expecting him to race away at any minute, strategizing as to how we could get on him in the morning. When the antelope didn’t spook, we started talking about where we might intercept him before the sun set. The longer we talked, the better the buck looked. Finally, dad asked for his rifle. He stepped out of the truck, crossed over onto the private land we had permission to hunt, and braced up on a fencepost.

The first shot buckled the old goat. Both of them. The second shot put the pronghorn down for keeps, and the high fiving began.

“Did I hit him good on that first shot?”

“What are you talking about? Did you not see him practically drop to his knees?”

“No, I pulled off him as soon as I shot.”


“Cause that danged fence is hot!”

Yep, you read that right, folks. My old man, bum shoulder and all, braced up on the post of an electrified fence and made a 250 yard kill shot on a pronghorn antelope. For a moment at least, that shoulder didn’t hurt a bit.

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