Once upon a time, I lived on a very large piece of property in the country. Now, it’s not uncommon during rutting season for male stags to get overly exited and exert themselves too much and literally keel over from a heart attack and die. It happens.
So my wife, who gets up before me, wakes me up and let’s me know there’s a dead stag about twenty yards from our home. She’s also smart enough to know that the DOT (Department of Transportation) will only pick up the carcass of it is on public property, not private land. So here it is 6am, I’ve had no coffee, and I have to throw on a pair of jeans, grab a rope from the garage, tie this son-of-a-bitch stag up that weighs several hundred pounds and drag it up an incline for about 200 yards to get it off our property and onto the main road, making sure I don't get spotted by any of our neighbors, so we could call the authorities to come get it. I was not happah......