Oh deer...feeling bambivalent about Brad's wall mount

 I count myself as fortunate to have made it thirty years without an animal mount in my house. Brad and I both love and appreciate animals. I am a hunter's wife who has a pragmatic understanding about the benefits of culling the deer population. My husband's past-time fills our freezer and has fed our family for three decades. Brad is married to a woman who bursts into tears when she accidentally hits a rabbit with the car. Who hasn't been able to stomach veal since learning what "veal" is. Who can't eat freshly-caught fish until it's been frozen overnight. We walk a fine balance in our household. Who knew that it would take a twelve pound dachshund to tip the scale?

I've been in denial since November. Brad had shot a magnificent buck and it would be joining our little family in March. March? Why...that's MONTHS away. Then I got the call...yesterday. But it's only February. I still have time. Who gets orders done AHEAD of schedule? No pun intended, by the way.

Brad knew exactly where he wanted to display our new friend. The dining room. I began mapping out alternate routes in my house so I would never have to set foot in that room again. Unfortunately, Brad didn't factor in the close proximity to the stairs and our little dog, Chloe's, willingness to launch herself at her target despite the six foot drop. She would not be deterred or distracted.  Whining. Whimpering. Snarling. Growling. She was ready to take this deer down a second time. I just wanted to take the deer DOWN. "We're going to have to move it somewhere else," Brad said sadly. My heart soared with hope. Garage? Basement? Attic? Alaska? "Maybe the living room?" Brad suggested. My spirits sagged.

I was so pleased when he decided to wait until I got home so I could help with the hanging process.

"For pete's sake, Amy. All I asked you to do was mark the wall with a pen," Brad remarked scornfully.

I concentrated ALL my energies into keeping Prancer OUT of my living room. The dining room, it turns out, was my best option of the ground floor rooms. "If it were placed by the pellet stove, it would look sort of log cabin-y," I pointed out. The pellet stove it was! Except now, when I go to toast my buns, I will have a velvety nose peering over my shoulder. Chlo climbed up onto the chair with her daddy as he positioned the mount. I rescued her as she attempted to use the pellet stove as a ladder to get closer to her quarry.

It's like we've hung a painting on our wall. A masterpiece. Chlo is riveted. She stares at it for hours until driven to her food and water bowls for sustenance. Each time she enters the room, her little neck immediately tilts toward the trophy. Her relentless scrutiny and adamant refusal to release her prey is impressive. Maybe I still have hope. Stranger things have happened. I wouldn't doubt for an instant that my dachshund could parkour the living daylights out of this little problem. "Go ahead, Chlo," I coaxed, "I deer ya."

Kicking the clip-art craving: One woman's sad story of an animated gif addiction

Almost everyone has at least some small component of OCD traits in their life. That people remain so passionate about the direction of toilet paper placement should be proof of that. Instead of "road rage," we could call it "rear rage." You know, because some people hate when, instead of unrolling from the front, it unrolls from the rear. Why? What did you think I meant there? Potty mind.

My so-far un-diagnosed and therefore, untreated and free to run wild, OCD behaviors tend to present as unending hours of clip art and animated gif exploration. A German Shepherd, inexplicably adorned with human hands, enthusiastically eating corn-on-the-cob. Used it. In a relevant application. A slowly clapping former-president Obama. Yup. Used it. Changed lives. A hamster playing the trumpet. Um-hmm. Learning soared as a result of that little baby.

It's wonderful...the joy that I've managed to bring to others with my little gift. But I CAN'T STOP. My friend Shanna walked into my classroom the other day as I was just logging in a 45-minute-search for the perfect animated gif of a rat to help teach my 4th graders how to spell "separate."

With one eye on my monitor and the other eye warily monitoring me, she spoke gently and calmly as though I were seated on a ledge rather than in my fun wheelie chair. "How many rats have you looked at so far?" she asked. "Hundreds," I replied resolutely, gritting my teeth. "What, exactly, are you looking for...in a rat?" she ventured again, hoping to be able to narrow my search and help extricate me from this endless loop of lunacy. I paused, staring at her with what I'm sure was a crazed expression. I didn't have the words. Only my heart knew.

And...an hour after Shanna had left, giving me up as a lost cause...my heart found it. A rat...not too scary so as to emotionally scar my 9-year-olds, thus negating the whole purpose of the rat...teaching them how to spell "separate"... but also not so cute and adorable as to distract them from that same purpose. I sighed when I found it. Nirvana.


Sometimes, though, my OCD wanders away from my fun wheelie chair. Into the public. Hanging out for ALL to see. I fight it...trying to contain the crazy to my classroom but, unfortunately, I'm not always successful.

The entire elementary population had been encouraged to write goal sheets and post them in the hallway. From my open doorway, I could see them, hung helter-skelter...with no rhyme or reason...will-nilly (A much better nonsense word than helter-skelter that brings to mind a senseless, murderous rampage)...not even in a straight line! I tried to ignore the walls but they were all around me. I'd read The Yellow Wallpaper and, even as I itched and flinched my way down willy-nilly hallways, I fought to repress the murderous rage welling within me.

I stayed extra-late on a Friday night. Was it on purpose? I couldn't say. But the mostly abandoned building seemed to hold its breath as I rose from my fun wheelie chair and entered the darkened corridor. I yanked the first paper off the wall like I was snapping the first air-ingested-igloo on a roll of bubble wrap. I sighed. Nirvana. It was too late now.  That putrid pink, (or was it salmon-colored?) cheaply constructed card-stock was my crack cocaine. I picked at that scab-covered wall, popping over eighty pimpled goal sheets. Remove. Realign. Shape. Shift. Repeat. An hour later...I sighed. Nirvana.

The next day, a 4th grader exited the classroom, pausing to take in the re-positioned papers. "Why is there a 9 on the wall?" she wondered. Her friend immediately answered, unknowingly rescuing her from my murderous rage, "It's a 4, duh. 4th grade?" he said dryly. I sighed. Nirvana.