Come at me, bro.
It was a bold challenge issued right here on this very gregorific blog. And it happened. Boldly.
The deer lurked, leapt, and finally found their revenge.
How they knew when and where to hit...one will never know. Perhaps their intelligence is underrated. Perhaps they called in a cross species consult for this level of project.
It was a bold challenge issued right here on this very gregorific blog. And it happened. Boldly.
The deer lurked, leapt, and finally found their revenge.
How they knew when and where to hit...one will never know. Perhaps their intelligence is underrated. Perhaps they called in a cross species consult for this level of project.
All I know is this: I woke up last week and let my dog out. A bright color on the lawn caught my eye. I focused my vision and barely recognized the view before me. I bit my lip to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t dreaming. And now I had a sore lip.
What I saw was carnage. A feeding frenzy crime scene. The deer’s patiently planned and perfectly timed vengence.
What I saw was carnage. A feeding frenzy crime scene. The deer’s patiently planned and perfectly timed vengence.
Our pumpkins. A month and a half out from Halloween, they were still gracing our front stoop. Okay, *gracing* is a wee bit too nostalgic. The pumpkins were sitting neglected on our front stoop. That’s reality.
But no longer. The deer had struck. Our pumpkins were slaughtered. But the assault was not random. They left my daughters' pumpkins alone. As if to say: No harm, no foul. They targeted Mr. Gregorific’s pumpkin and my own, chomping and tearing and desecrating the defenseless vegetables.
To understand that the deer had found the ideal target you must know the history of Mr. Gregorific’s pumpkin preferences. That sounds just about as weird as it is. He goes with us to the patch and we pick ours off the vine. But he can’t find his pumpkin in the field on a vine. No. He wants a short, fat, odd-colored pumpkin, usually found in the bottom of a bin at Walmart or sitting next to a dumpster behind a store amongst the cast-offs.
In 2013, he found a short, yellowish, bumpy one. It looked like a giant plantar wart that had sprouted hundreds of baby plantar warts. In 2014, he managed to find a deformed green one with some kind of growth on its top, like a tumor. He doesn’t decorate his, just sets it there and lets it speak for itself. Maybe a social commentary, maybe an act of kindness, maybe a nonsensical display of eccentricity. We don’t know. We don’t ask.
This year he found a green short one but it was the absolute perfect shape. If Cinderella was going to the ball, this one would be transformed into the coach. No doubt. It was the first year people commented positively on his pumpkin.
But no longer. The deer had struck. Our pumpkins were slaughtered. But the assault was not random. They left my daughters' pumpkins alone. As if to say: No harm, no foul. They targeted Mr. Gregorific’s pumpkin and my own, chomping and tearing and desecrating the defenseless vegetables.
To understand that the deer had found the ideal target you must know the history of Mr. Gregorific’s pumpkin preferences. That sounds just about as weird as it is. He goes with us to the patch and we pick ours off the vine. But he can’t find his pumpkin in the field on a vine. No. He wants a short, fat, odd-colored pumpkin, usually found in the bottom of a bin at Walmart or sitting next to a dumpster behind a store amongst the cast-offs.
In 2013, he found a short, yellowish, bumpy one. It looked like a giant plantar wart that had sprouted hundreds of baby plantar warts. In 2014, he managed to find a deformed green one with some kind of growth on its top, like a tumor. He doesn’t decorate his, just sets it there and lets it speak for itself. Maybe a social commentary, maybe an act of kindness, maybe a nonsensical display of eccentricity. We don’t know. We don’t ask.
This year he found a green short one but it was the absolute perfect shape. If Cinderella was going to the ball, this one would be transformed into the coach. No doubt. It was the first year people commented positively on his pumpkin.
Some people have stated that it was this appetizing lure that drew the deer to within four feet of our front door. I mean, that is close. And then…
Carnage. The deer enjoyed an all night buffet serving pumpkin, pumpkin, and pumpkin.
See how they tore into it? My pumpkin, less beloved but mine all the same, was strewn about, tossed around, devoured, demolished. This was their version of a horse head in my bed.
See how they tore into it? My pumpkin, less beloved but mine all the same, was strewn about, tossed around, devoured, demolished. This was their version of a horse head in my bed.
I wanted to put my two detectives on this case. After a quick Google, I found out we were not the only ones who had taken a hit like this. I wanted to believe that maybe a bear, a raccoon, any animal without a personal vendetta against me, had done this.
But alas. I discovered their calling card. Shield your children’s eyes here…
But alas. I discovered their calling card. Shield your children’s eyes here…
Oh, it was them all right.
But I have one last ace up my sleeve. It’s a real sucker punch. I’m sure the deer have already discovered it without even going online. Those pumpkins? They were rotten.
But I have one last ace up my sleeve. It’s a real sucker punch. I’m sure the deer have already discovered it without even going online. Those pumpkins? They were rotten.
It’s December, you fools! Look at the black mold inside. Check out my one daughter’s pumpkin, the one not chosen for brunch. She liked how it was getting scarier and scarier as each day passed. Well, jokes on you deer, your next calling card is going to be none too pleasant.
Nice try,
~gregorific
Nice try,
~gregorific
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