1) Mr. mbd is not Mr. Romance. He's not noted for sweet nothings for no reason.
2) Some idiot (that would be me) busted up one of my feet right before moose season. So one less potential scouter, shooter, packer, butcher. This did not endear me to Mr. mbd. (see #1 above) or to a girlfriend I'd promised to help hunt. In a cast, all I'm good for is camp cook and bear bait -- you know, you don't have to outrun the bear, you just have to outrun me.
Mid-morning last day of moose season, my phone bings with a text. "I miss you, honey." Umm, what? And, more importantly, why? This is probably not good, since I know he's out with the plane hunting. My reply "and why?" Phone rings.
Me: Are you alright?
Him: Yep, but I miss you.
Me (really puzzled now): What the *** is up?
Him: I dropped a moose.
Me (light dawning): Aha, you need help!