It's called "deer fever" — an affliction that affects millions of hunters all over the country, as we awaken from soggy, lazy, waders-clad summers spent obsessing over fly hatches and remember with feverish anticipation that deer season is upon us. The hunting catalogues arrive, the sportsmen's magazine covers are graced by Jurassic-looking 12-point bucks instead of agile, pursed-lipped rainbow trout, and mornings are spent poring over last night's trail camera footage with the desperate hope of glimpsing the monster deer you plan to stalk for all of fall.
For most urban New Yorkers, of course, the above probably reads a lot like gibberish, or, worse, the frightening, foreign language of a bloodthirsty tribe of those who don't frequent Whole Foods.
But this columnist, for one, is proof that we walk among you.
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