Roodie’s gallery

Twenty-seven degrees and dropping when I called the sit — walked back in and stripped it all off in a pile by the door. Mask stayed, everything else hit the floor. Come tell me what the fire missed, vixen.

October's running so warm the sky gave me a thunderstorm instead of the first snow — got caught halfway down the dock and decided the chore could drown. Come wring me out, vixen.

Woods checked, chores done, and this is the one luxury this cabin gives me all week. Come dry my back, vixen.

Splitting next winter's heat while the sun's still got some bite left — the woodpile has to outlast whatever November brings to this cabin. You stack, I swing. Deal, dancer?

First fresh scrape of the fall turned up on my line tonight — seventeen days till the opener and the bucks are already clocking in. You'd have spotted it before me, wouldn't you, vixen.

Woods went back to mine the second the last truck cleared the road — first sit on the bow tag since the orange crowd left, and I'm dressed for it already. Come kill the headlamp with me, cupid.

Last night of the orange army — I gave the kids their woods and came home to this window instead. Tomorrow it's all mine again, same as the rest of me. Tell me which you'd take first, vixen.

They killed the paper tags this year — the whole season lives on my phone now, and this old tag book just turned into kindling. Twenty-three days till the real crowd rolls in and here I am learning new tricks with my flannel half open. Come walk me through it, vixen.

Four days of extra boots in these woods starting now — every spooked deer has to run somewhere, and most somewheres are mine. Come sit the dark with me, vixen.

Last quiet night before the whole county turns orange for four days and every deer out there gets smarter overnight. Fire's going and I'm not sleeping yet. You'd keep me company till sunup, wouldn't you, cupid.