For more than a decade, there is one thing Doug has coveted more than anything on the planet. And if I knew it before I married him, it’s debatable that we’d have sealed the deal in the first place.

The object of his desire? A trophy buck. Year after year, he’s wanted a big, stuffed, glass-eyed carcass head hanging over our mantle, and the more points on his antlers, the better.

Being the animal-lover that I am, the very thought of this makes me wince. I’ve seen enough documentaries to understand the horrors behind slaughterhouses and the meat industry, but the thought of sniping a majestic creature from a hundred yards away while it innocently grazes on a clover patch is enough to make me swear off barbecues for life.

The problem is, there’s nothing I can do about it. You see, for the span of nearly two decades, I’ve been tormenting Doug with animals of my own–to the tune of three cats, a dog, three Russian tortoises, two ferrets, and a house full of fish. Given the amount of live animals running rampant in our house, when it comes to displaying a deer mount, I lost my right to complain.

One crisp autumn morning on November 6, 2012, Doug’s critter cam snapped a picture of an eighteen-point buck in all its glory in our backyard woods. After that, there was no turning back. He became obsessed. He got up at 4 a.m. each day of the rut–the mating season when bucks are coursed with adrenaline and are boldly out looking for does–covered himself with de-scented camouflage, grabbed his bow and arrow, climbed in his tree stand, and waited.

After the third season with no buck in sight, he lost hope. Since then, his only deer shot, compliments of the critter cam, had been hanging over our fireplace.

Last year, a fellow officer from HPD referred him to “Hometown Heroes Alliance,” which is a volunteer-run organization that provides aid to the first responded wounded or injured in the line of duty. Each year, they select an injured emergency worker to participate in a fully-funded hunting trip in Georgia. Those of you who know the story about Doug’s harrowing experience as a Hartford police officer will be glad to hear he was selected.

I was, too, until he took down his first buck.

It took a full year for the taxidermist to complete Doug’s deer. During this time, Doug had been pacing and counting the days to its homecoming. He cleared a spot for it on our living room wall, making sure that it had a window view.

Here is a sample of our conversation:

“It’s been nine eight months. What’s taking my buck so long?”

“You’re not hanging it in our living room.”

“Actually, I am. He’s going to go right over here. And he’s going to make you think about what you just said.”

“It’s going to give the children nightmares.” (In actuality, it was my own night terrors that concerned me, but I didn’t tell him that.)

“At least my buck won’t smell like your ferrets.”

“They’re not my ferrets. They’re Anna’s ferrets. And at least they’re alive.”

“My buck doesn’t need a litter box on every floor of the house.”

“At least you can cuddle with a cat. You can’t cuddle with polyurethane.”

“My buck doesn’t need a special delivery from Chewy.com every month. In fact, we don’t need to feed him, walk him, take him to the vet, or pay pet-sitters when we go on vacation. And you know what? After he gets here, I’m going to go out and get two more. One of them will go this way, one will go the other way, and my buck will be saying, ‘Whadda ya want from me?’” (If you’re not a fan of Goodfellas, you are as lost as I usually am.)

For a solid year, we went back and forth. And yesterday, Doug’s buck finally made its way home.