The Deer Hunter

On a cold winter’s morning in the Wicklow mountains a lone man stalks the land; his hound shadows him. He moves silently, swiftly, approaching a clearing where the pine forest gives way to heather-covered hills. Alert to movement, he steps carefully into position. His dog stands stock still, waiting; its nose quivers in the icy air. He slips the rifle from his shoulder moving to a tree bare of branches. Carefully he pulls the trigger, the dog darts forward. Dragging the carcass of a Sika he walks through a forest stripped of bark. Trunks ooze with infection; the reason for the cull. He hears gunfire ahead. ‘Could be poachers.’ He investigates. Poachers are the true vermin in this environment. They kill for money, no respect for the species. Stags beheaded, bodies remain, inexperienced hunters, the wounded animals suffer. An animal lover, he lives a solitary life at his isolated cottage. Keeper of the deer deep within the mountains.