Shipping an elk head is something the vast majority of our readers will probably never do.

But, we’re here to help.  Because, you know, should you ever have occasion to ship an elk head cross country, I’m sure the first thought in your mind will be, “Aha!  I bet those beekeepers I’m friends with on the internets will know how to help!  I shall proceed immediately to their blog for assistance!”

Um, yeah.

But, if the stars should so align, this is what you will expect to happen:

First, you will happen to be godmother to the  most precious godson in the world.  His mother, who will happen to be your Oldest Friend, will off handedly mention that she’d like to put an elk head in his room.  This conversation will occur after at least one glass bottle of wine, though you won’t really remember the details.  What you will remember: a chance to lock down your self-appointed title of Favorite Godmother.  Not that you’re competitive or anything.

Second, you will tell your darling husband to go kill an elk.  Because, you know, killing elk is just something he often does on any given Tuesday.  As you knew would happen, your husband will be successful.  After he butchers said elk and deposits the delicious fruits of his labors into your deep freezer, you will tell your darling husband of your conversation with Oldest Friend.  You will attempt to convince darling husband that he doesn’t need the evidence of another elk head hanging on the lofty walls of your warehome to prove his worth and virility.  Truly, a not-yet-three-years-old-little-boy needs an elk head much more than darling husband.  You will try not to laugh when darling husband points out that hanging a large skull on the wall of precious godson’s room is likely to give him nightmares.  Because you will have a sneaking suspicion that darling husband may be right, and that such reaction from precious godson might endanger your self-appointed title of Favorite Godmother.  Regardless, you will press on.

Third, darling husband will acquiesce, and you will celebrate your accomplishment with more wine, preferably in person with Oldest Friend when neither of you are knocked up.

Fourth, you will have darling husband boil the elk head in a cauldron-esque apparatus in order to remove all traces of hair, membranes, and other objectionable organic material.  While said boiling is occurring, you will say your prayers that your overtly religious neighbors don’t stop by for a chat during this … ghoulish ritual.  At its conclusion, you will vocally admire the finished, hair-and-membrane-free elk skull.  You will kiss your darling husband and praise him: your self-appointed title of Favorite Godmother shall remain intact!  You will discuss with darling husband how precious godson is, and how much godson will love said hair-and-membrane-free skull.  You will get the warm fuzzies because darling husband agrees with you, and it’s not for show – he loves your precious godson, too.

Fifth, despite all this work, you will procrastinate shipping said elk skull for several months.  What was meant to be a Christmas present will somehow still be leaning against a wall in the Warehome in January.  You will wring your hands.  What to do?  Elk skull is, after all, much larger than even the cardboard box your own child’s crib arrived in.  It is also covered in sharp points from the tines in said skull’s antlers.  Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all.  Your husband will be gone to California, and you will be seven months pregnant and having difficulties tying your shoes, much less wrangling enormous packages.  Despair will set in.  You will ask yourself, how does one ship an elk head cross country?

Sixth, you will continue procrastinating.  Late February will arrive.  Thankfully, so will your darling husband, home for a quick visit from California.  He will laugh when he sees the elk head, still languishing near the wood stove.  You will disappear into the kitchen to work on dinner, and he will join you and start hunting through your empty yogurt containers.  Before you can ask him what in the world he is doing, the chicken will begin to smoke under the broiler, and you will be distracted.  He will slip out into your shipping room and retrieve the enormous box that said crib did arrive in, along with several other oversized boxes.  When you stick your head out of the kitchen to ask him if he’d like a drink to ease the taste of charbroiled chicken, you will discover that he has created the tallest, deepest cardboard box you have ever seen, except, perhaps, for the one your refrigerator came in.

Come here, he will say.  Hold the tape.

And you will post this blog, and let your Oldest Friend know via the internets that the elk head, long discussed, is finally on its way, and to clear off her porch for the UPS man.  And maybe to leave a bottle of whiskey on the porch, for the UPS man’s medicinal purposes.

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