The flowers in my yard are tired.
Tired of blooming over and over,
tired of the heat,
desperate for buzzing pollinators to notice them and produce future generations of geraniums.
Young and vigorous in the youth of April, now you can tell by the petunias countenance that the convalescence of early October is on their mind.
Still, they SHOULD look like this:
and instead, most of them look like THIS:
because of DEER. Why are deer treating my yard like a free all you can eat salad bar?
because we live in the country.
and we no longer have a dog.
and our fence is only five feet tall.
and the anti-deer products we try, never work for long.
and my husband has declared I am not to carry a pistol.
I used to LOVE deer, years ago. I watched Bambi as a child (ok, and again as an adult) and both times I sobbed, ashamed to be a part of the human race that was so arrogant and cruel. The mean hunters! To shoot that Mama doe, and orphan swet Bambi, and then set the whole forest on fire from their stupidity and carelessness?! For shame!
If I watched it today? I would rub my hands together with glee at the hunting scene, muttering “go get ’em, boys” and when the deer were scrambling in fear with flames licking at their hooves?! I would be all “muwahahaha!”
You see this photo? It is my PROOF that the big brown eyes and flicking tail and nutmeg fur is a masquerade to trick cityfolk. A lot of you don’t live in the sticks, and might be under false impressions. Someone has to blow the whistle on this, and this blog ought to be used, at least ONCE, to do some authentic good in this world!
Here’s the scene:
I am in my pajamas. It is early morning.
(I clarify that for you, since me being in pajamas doesn’t necesarily mean that it isn’t 2:30 in the afternoon. Ask our local UPS man.)
I am making my precious SINGLE cup of coffee.
I look out the window and gasp.
A giant doe is eating my $18 hosta.
She looks up at me through the glass and calmly keeps chewing, never breaking eye contact. My brown eyes glower at her placid ones. She is not intimidated in the least, and this infuriates me. I pound on the glass and holler. She leans in and tears off another leaf. Cursing John, once again, that I don’t have a pearl handled Derringer permanently tucked into my foundation garments, I grab the first thing I see. It’s a stained, green dishtowel but I swing it around my head like it’s a bola, as I rush out the sliding glass door shouting
“WE EAT VENISON!”
and she finally startles and leaps over the fence. An hour later, what do I see?
Her CHILDREN. I know.
She just abandoned them to save her OWN SKIN.
Infant fawns, a set of little twins…so vulnerable and sweet, with their little white spotted backs.
Do I grab the vicious towel? Do I shake my fist and yell things that my innocent christian, homeschooled children shouldn’t hear?
Sheesh. No. The dogma of Disney comes sliding into my cerebral cortex, pushing out six years of experienced garden frustration, and wasted plantings.
I suddenly don’t care that they nibbling on my pink cosmos flowers. I worry that they are scared, and looking for their Mommy.
They are so blasted cute that I only shoot them with the camera.
and as you can see, I even missed.
John might be right in limiting my weapons choice to
whatever is laying on the kitchen counter.