Chester was a happy caribou living in the northern reaches of Alaska until the mighty hunter Captain Daddy shot him dead seven years ago. Now he is merely a shadow of his former self—or, more specifically, a head and shoulders of his former self.
For the past three years, Chester hung proudly (if rather morbidly) at Joe’s Sporting Goods, where interior design was more appropriate and resident population more amenable to his presence than my home.
But Joe’s, alas, is bankrupt. Last week, Chester came home to roost. Literally.
Unfortunately, our 1970s-era home does not boast the lodge-like ceilings necessary to display such a magnificent specimen of dead mounted beast. Chester now hangs rather unceremoniously in a narrow stairwell, where the full range of his impact is to make us look like meat-eating white trash and occasionally scare the bejesus out of the chickens. Or maybe just me.
In any case, as loving daughters and wife to Captain Daddy, we will do our best to welcome Chester as one of our family forever, or at least until we find another willing sporting goods dealer to take him in. Actually, anyone will do. Takers?