Don't look innocent with me.
The phone woke me this morning from a sound slumber. It was my husband, his very early commute into the city already underway. From my incoherent mumblings, he quickly gathered that I had not sprung out of bed upon his departure (a myth I strive to perpetuate), and instead had chosen a few more minutes of care-free sleep.
“Sorry to wake you up,” said he, voice dripping with sarcasm, “but I saw three deer behind the fence as I was driving away – they’re young and liable to figure out that your veggies are on the other side. You might want to…”
I was downstairs before the phone hit the ground.
Yes, yes. I can hear you all sniggering into your cornflakes. Three deer, big deal – your personal herd numbers in the tens, with extended family arriving every day on tourism visas to feed in the promised lands of plenty (i.e. your rose garden). You know well the hard sting of sorrow – the devastation of…well…devastation. Hear me out, ye veterans of hoof and horn. In seven-and-a-half years of living in our house I have battled groundhog and rabbit, gone head to head with marigold-munching squirrels and the occasional hungry raccoon – but deer have always been Somebody Else’s Problem. I had no intention of making them mine.
I grabbed my aging Labrador by the collar and dragged him outside where the less pampered members of his species earn their keep and spend their nights dreaming of soft beds and gently warmed kibble. There is a woods behind our house, albeit a small one (and sadly getting smaller every day), and there, peering through the branches of my cedar screen was a small Odocoileus virginianus a.k.a. a White-Tailed Deer, ears pricked, tail flicking, and nose drinking in the scent of peony, green bean, sweet pea and leafy green chard.
This wandering gourmet had stumbled, along with his two girlfriends, into the deer equivalent of a farmer’s market in late June. You could see his beady little eyes widening in excitement, his hindquarters ready to best the four foot jump we call a fence to fill his belly with the finer things in life.
Luckily, my Labrador somehow sensed that future installments of kibble were integrally linked to his actions in the next few critical seconds. With the energy of a younger dog, Jake sucked in his pendulous midsection and took off to meet the enemy on the field of green. And I did something I never do – I let him bark himself hoarse.
One could cry for hours over this...
Although I have personally never battled a deer problem, I know of countless people who have. Many of these pitiable creatures could not be interviewed for this column due to nervous exhaustion, but a few strong souls agreed to talk to me after their therapists agreed it would be beneficial to their long term treatment plans.
“Deer…(gasp)….evil…(gasp)…” one poor fellow panted before asking me to leave so he could urinate along the borders of his rose garden. Another, eyes wildly scanning the perimeter of her fence line, assured me that “they were everywhere and nowhere at the same time” – spots of froth still visible at the corners of her trembling lips. Still another pointed to a freezer overflowing with venison roasts and remarked with cool satisfaction that in the end he ate all the vegetables that were rightfully his – they were just in a slightly different form. I took a long hard look at his carefully controlled demeanor and twitching left eyelid and my blood ran cold.
Oh, yes. I have seen enough empty, staring eyes to understand the madness that this four-legged mowing machine can inspire in the sanest of gardeners. A night’s browsing by a small herd will wipe out a treasured season’s produce and inspire homicidal thoughts in the docile vegan, much less the hardened horticulturist who knows her way around the back end of a twelve gauge. There is a reason these clever creatures haven’t evolved much in four million years….they haven’t needed to.
I admit that I have been lucky over the years. Suburbia has sprawled so far into the countryside that it is not unusual to have a local herd within the boundaries of one’s carefully monitored subdivision, complete with French manicured hooves and soccer decals on their rear ends. Why should established older neighborhoods be any different? Bambi is an equal opportunity grazer – prize dahlias are no more appealing than humble marigolds, and no amount of housing association by-laws will convince him otherwise.
So what is the answer? There are more deer repellent products out there than wrinkle creams, and from the sounds of things, they are just as effective. That is to say, not at all. Even deer resistant plants will suffer nibbling in periods of drought and dearth. A dog makes a good guard, but I have lived long enough with the pointless barking of neighboring dogs to never underestimate the murderous feelings that this too, can inspire. From what I can make out, the only true answer besides a twenty-four hour armed watch and a sack full of deer tags, is a very tall, very obvious, and very expensive fence. If this wasn’t true, the professional gardens I visit regularly wouldn’t rival San Quentin in their efforts at fortification.
The Ultimate Answer
I’m sorry. I wish I had better news for you. I wish there was a silver bullet (in more ways than one). I also wish I hadn’t seen those deer this morning and could go on believing that my little part of the world is somehow exempt from these sweet-faced home wreckers. Now the issue is a little closer at hand for me. I have eight beds worth of produce to think about and naiveté is not going to get them through their adolescence safely.
Somebody Else’s Problem just became mine.
