Oh, Deer!

In current parlance, one is exhorted to own one's issues (formerly known as personal problems or shortcomings) and, by extension, deal with them in a constructive manner especially if they impair relationships. So, here it is, friends: I own a big-make that huge-Bambi complex that threatens my relationship with tulips, hostas, daylilies, roses...

I stare into the limpid brown eyes of the creature returning my gaze from her position astride the salad bar I'd previously regarded as a hosta glade, and I want to shriek "Vandal! Thief! Glutton!" All that escapes my lips, however, is a whispered, "Awww, pretty thing!" I am so abysmally non-threatening that the little doe listens attentively, twitching her ears in my direction while I try to reason with her. "Have you noticed all the succulent grasses in the meadow?" I venture. "And if you really have a thing for thorns, we have plenty of wild roses, you know. By the way, I'm sick and tired of the raspberry brambles. They're all yours, Deerie." The only response she offers is an impatient stomp of a dainty hoof. "If you don't mind," she glowers, "I'm due at Bob's for daylilies with the girls as soon as I finish lunch here." Conflicted as I am, I can still manage a sharp clap when she resumes grazing, but I'm stung by the peevishness of her parting snort.

My husband, the quintessential electrical engineer, is nearly as tenderhearted as I am, but he's inspired when it comes to dreaming up inhospitable devices. Starting with motion sensors at key points around the property, he has tried, over the years, a variety of contrivances involving noise, light, water, and combinations of the three. His best work wouldn't have been half bad as, say, a Headwaters sound and light program. His worst sent each of us bolt-upright in the middle of the night when flashing lights and a series of bing-bongs indoors told us the deer were ba-ack. Now they have become so accustomed to my husband's midnight interventions that he practically has to slap the ringleader on the rump to send the gang clattering up the driveway where they reassemble behind the compost bins and fix him with a collective "Do-you-mind?" glare. He bought the mother-of-all flashlights which impressed them when he shined it on them the first few times. One night when inclement weather discouraged him from rushing outdoors, he stood in our glass room and trained the beam on his own face. That sent them packing. Once.

And then there were the years of the attack Shelty. Useless with human trespassers (a puddle on the front porch told us she'd seen the enemy and bolted for cover), she was first-rate with quadrupeds. On sentry duty beneath our bedroom window, she'd launch herself into the fray like a yapping furry rocket. We were saved (several times a night) from voles, mice, rabbits, foxes, skunks, the occasional bear, and -- worth the noisy price of admission -- deer. For these services Shwaya exacted her due: the most succulent asparagus spears, snap peas and green beans, the lower tier of red raspberries. We bartered produce for flowers back then and felt we'd negotiated a bargain.

Since Shwaya departed for The Great Kennel, we've considered the fortress approach: an eleven-foot mesh fence, but the financial and esthetic costs seem prohibitive. We've tried all the kindly deer-dissuaders: clumps of human hair, mothballs, soap-on-a-rope, electric fencing, and noxious sprays both homemade and commercial. We imagine the herd (now eight members strong) gathering at dusk to swap one-liners about our naivete. Our best hope, frankly, is that some morning we'll find them all rolling on their backs, hooves flailing, tears streaming down their cheeks, utterly immobilized with laughter.

Copyright © 1999, Julie B. Scouten
Originally published in Northern Gardener Magazine, June/July 1999