To the animal who ate my plants when I was on vacation last week,
With respect, I ask that you refrain from eating any more of my flowers and herbs. I am not known to have a green thumb, but by some miracle I have been able to keep things alive in my planters this year, and even in the flower beds near my driveway. So it was with extreme dismay that I pulled up to my house after spending a week at the shore, to see that the tops of most of my plants had been chomped off. Did my cilantro taste good? I'll never know. My beautiful phlox, set to bloom any minute and perhaps greet me upon my return, were but sad disfigurations of what they could have been. The healthy, bushy stalks and lustrous leaves led up to…nothing on top. Beheaded. Devoured.
Let’s not mess around. I know it’s you. You skinny-legged, innocent-eyed deer. Of course it is. I’ve seen you roaming about, a whole herd of you, sleeping in the field down the street, ambling across the road when I’m sleepily driving home from writing group. Yes, it has to be you. The planters on my patio are waist high and you ate the top of the growth from there. Your poop pellet piles are everywhere. By the way, my dog thanks you for the welcome home treat. (Don’t even get me started.)
But no, you didn’t let me have my little plot of domination. After the wonderful tulip feast, couldn’t you move on? To say, anywhere else?
I sprayed Repellent, which made my skin reek of putrescent eggs for days. I put Irish Spring soap and Dial soap around my yard. I read mixed reviews about which brand worked so I hedged my bets and bought and strategically placed both. I only succeeded in making the ground froth whenever it rained. I tried spraying cayenne pepper and dish soap mixed with water on the plant leaves. After this application, people walking by would have sneezing fits and I would have to run inside to hide my guilty, inappropriate, hysterical laughing.
All this effort to dissuade you from nibbling my yard.
Didn’t I do my part? But the minute I leave town, you stroll in with those graceful colt like legs and have a complete pig out. Oh, the gluttony. I was a whole state away but I’m surprised I didn’t hear you smacking your deer lips. You probably came back every night to the ‘around the house buffet’, enjoying the freedom of no dog, no belligerent woman, and no kid toys to step over as you indulged in your gluttony.
And now I am left with a violated landscape. Oh, the horror. I’ve got odd clusters of decapitated greenery as constant reminders. This is akin to me devouring a whole box of my kids’ favorite candy and then leaving all the wrappers for them to stare at for weeks. If only I knew where your deer yard was, I could return the favor.
Here’s an idea. Take your mind off the cravings. Listen to music. I suggest Iggy Azalea’s “Fancy” (ie. Steer toward rich people’s yummy, fancy flowers.) Or pick something older like, “What the Fox Says.” (He says: don’t eat my flowers.)
Have you considered meditation? Think of how lean and lithe you could be. Or rather, how much more lean and lithe you could be.
Man Eating Pastrami on Rye: Gotta love those deer, took care of a nasty squirrel problem I had.
Another Man Eating Italian Sub: Oh, I know. You’d never guess how many pesky robins they devoured from my yard. It was positively a slaughter. So convenient.
My final suggestion is relocation. Aren’t these Pennsylvania winters pretty rough for you? Is it painful to see your territory dwindling? I hear southern climates are positively delightful, and very good for the pelts. Say, what about the Carolinas? I read that they have plenty of delicious pansies.