When I was 15 or 16 and killed my first deer, I ran up to it and cut it's throat. (Seen too much TV) Stooped down, picked up the deer and threw it over my shoulder, (young strapping football player type) and started back to camp. This deer in now bleeding all over my back, down my shoulders, and the back side of pants are covered with blood. By the time I get back to camp I fall down out of exhaustion. My buddy's Dad runs over, WTF? Figures I shot myself. (Self inflicted broadhead wound?) He soon discovers that for no reason, I have cut the deers throat, and have yet to field dress the deer. He then directs me to field dress the deer about 300 yards from camp. My buddy was laughing his a$$ off! I was dead tired, been chewed up and spit out by his Dad but was happy! I'd gotten my first deer! Learned a few new cuss words too.[]

The rest of the trip, his Dad would look at me, shake his head, and mumble something. Seems I've had that effect on him ever since.