In David Michael Kaplan's " Doe Season ," nine-year-old tomboy Andy joins her father and his friend on her first hunting trip, eager to prove herself in a masculine world. She experiences a profound loss of innocence and confronts the harsh reality of death after shooting a doe, which shatters her desire to be "one of the guys." The story concludes with Andy symbolically rejecting her tomboy identity and embracing the transition into womanhood.
Hunting stories are traditionally masculine: the boy becomes a man by killing. Kaplan inverts this. Andy can shoot. She’s a good shot. But when she finally faces a doe—not the buck the men are tracking—something shifts. The doe is pregnant. It doesn’t run. It looks at her.
In one of the most quietly devastating scenes in modern short fiction, Andy fires. The doe doesn’t die immediately. It cries—a sound “like a baby.” And Andy’s father, who has taught her to be strong, tells her to finish it. To cut its throat.
She cannot.
| Symbol | Meaning | |--------|---------| | The rifle | Phallic power, the burden of male violence, the expectation to kill. | | The doe | Andy’s female double. To shoot the doe would be self-annihilation. | | The gutting | The brutal demystification of death. Andy sees that killing is not heroic—it is bloody, smelly, and mechanical. | | The ocean | The unconscious, the feminine, the boundless, the pre-symbolic mother-child bond. | | Andy’s name | The central symbol of identity. “Andy” is a performance; “Andrea” is truth. |
If you are a student, you may have been assigned this story in a freshman composition or women’s literature course. Here is why professors love it:
On its surface, the story is simple: a nine-year-old girl named Andrea (called “Andy” by her father) goes on a hunting trip in the Pennsylvania woods with her father, family friend Charlie, and Charlie’s son, Mac. It’s deer season. Andy desperately wants to please her father, to be tough, to earn a place in the male world of guns, cold mornings, and blood. Doe Season By David Michael Kaplan Full Text
But Kaplan’s genius lies in what simmers beneath. Andy is caught between two selves—the girl her mother wants her to be (soft, indoors, “proper”) and the “one of the boys” her father encourages. She has chosen the name “Andy” and insists on it. Yet the woods, the hunt, and a wounded doe force her to confront something far more complicated than whether she can shoot straight.
“Doe Season” follows Andrea (Andy) , a nine-year-old girl who joins her father, her father’s friend Charlie, and a neighbor named Mac on a deer hunt in the Pennsylvania woods. The central conflict is both external (will they shoot a deer?) and internal (will Andy accept the violent, masculine rite of passage?).
Throughout the story, Andy navigates two worlds. Her mother represents domestic safety—staying home, baking, and rejecting the hunt as “silly and cruel.” Her father represents the wild—the cold, the guns, the masculine code of silence. Andy, whose nickname blurs gender lines, struggles to prove she belongs in the male domain. In David Michael Kaplan's " Doe Season ,"
The climax occurs when Andy wounds a doe. The animal is not killed instantly; it cries out “like a baby,” and Andy is horrified. When the men order her to finish the kill, she cannot. In a moment of devastating clarity, she flees, screaming “No, no, no,” and metaphorically abandons her childhood as she runs toward her mother’s voice calling from the cabin.
From the opening paragraphs, Kaplan signals the central conflict. Andy thinks of herself as Andy, but her mother calls her Andrea. This duality—public identity versus domestic expectation—haunts every scene. When Andy hesitates to gut a deer, her father’s disappointment feels like a door closing. When Mac taunts her, the cruelty of boys becomes a test of belonging.
Kaplan writes with spare, precise prose. The winter woods are “cold as a metal spoon,” the doe’s eye “large and dark and wet.” He doesn’t over-explain Andy’s emotions; instead, he renders them through physical sensation—the ache of cold feet, the smell of gun oil, the sudden, shocking warmth of blood on bare hands. Literary Journals – The New Yorker praised the
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Now, assuming you either have the text in front of you or plan to acquire it, let’s explore why this story has remained so vital for nearly 40 years.