Just to prove I am not the only windbag in this world, here is an excerpt from a novel “American Gods” by Neil Gaiman
An old man talking, says
“ — Things freeze harder and faster up here in northern Wisconsin than they do most anyplace else there is. I was out hunting once – hunting for deer, and this was oh, 30 or 40 years back, and I shot at a buck, missed him and sent him running off through the woods, this was over acrost the north end of the lake. —
Now he was the finest buck I ever did see, 20 points, big as a small horse, no lie. Now I’m younger and feistier back then than I am now — there was clean snow on the ground, fresh as anything, and I could see the buck’s footprints. It looked to me like the big fellow was heading for the lake in a panic.
Well, only a damn fool tries to run down a buck, but there am I, a damn fool, running after him, and there he is, standing in the lake in oh, eight or nine inches of water, and he’s just looking at me. That very moment, the sun goes behind a cloud, and the freeze comes – temperature must have fallen 30 degrees in ten minutes not a word of a lie. And that old stag, he gets ready to run, and he can’t move. He’s frozen into the ice. Me, I just walk over to him slowly. You can see he wants to run, but he’s iced in and it just isn’t going to happen. But there’s no way I can bring myself to shoot a defenceless critter when he can’t get away – what kind of man would I be if I done that, heh? So I take my shotgun and I fire off one shell. Straight up into the air.
Well, the noise and the shock is enough to make that buck just about jump out of his skin, and seein’ that his legs are iced in, that’s just what he proceeds to do. He leaves his hide and antlers stuck to the ice while he charges back into the woods, pink as a new-born mouse and shivering fit to bust.
I felt bad enough for that old buck that I talked the Lakeside Ladies Knitting Circle into making him something warm to wear all the winter, and they knitted him an all-over one-piece woolen suit so he wouldn’t freeze to death. Course the joke was on us (hunters) because they knitted him a suit of bright orange wool so no hunter ever shot at it. Hunters in those parts wear orange at hunting season.
And if you think there is a word of a lie in that, I can prove it to you. I’ve got the antlers up on my rec room wall to this day!”
There, let’s see you top that!!