|Bambi is simply deer propaganda|
Now that election time is done and finished in my small community, the hubbub settled down. I don’t have to worry about opening up a local newspaper to read incendiary letters to the editor about myself. M Butterfly lost as Mayor and had a spectacular party at his restaurant to celebrate as he calls, "a stunning defeat."
I saw his campaign manager and yelled, “You did a great job driving Butterfly into the ground. You’re the most inefficient campaign manager known to humankind. You should be shot.”
He sneered. Incidentally, he’s the one who wrote those incendiary letters to the editor compromising my good standing. Then, he had the audacity to sit next to me in the local cafe. If it weren’t for my self-discipline, his hands would still be impaled with forks where he’d be stuck to the table today.
As life slows down once more, excitement bubbles to the top for it’s hunting season. First, bow and arrow since October 1. But the bonanza arrived this weekend: it’s rifle and gun season, meaning no one’s safe! I overheard one woman ask a hunter, “Do people still shoot bow and arrows during rifle season?”
“Only purists,” he stated.
Conversation abounds about hunting. Everyone wears bright orange in some form. Just in case 'cause you never know when someone might mistake you for a deer, especially exiting your car at the Shoprite parking lot.
I openly ask for venison from the hunters. Gratefully, I’ve been the recipient of last year’s left over frozen venison - the hunters clear out their freezers in anticipation of fresh new meat. Dare I complain?
With pounds of defrosting deer meat in packages, I visited my friend and volunteered her services to cook. She’s a good sport and made wonderful stew that we all enjoyed. To thank her, I shared the wealth from another hunter - venison sausage. You ain’t tasted nothing until you take a bite of venison sausage. AMAZING.
All this talk of venison, it hit me once again that I crossed a boundary of no return from my former City days.
The other day, my friend said, “I saw a 6-pointer cross the street and head to your house.”
To those of you not in the know, male deer have antlers. Each antler, known as a “tine” is counted. A 6-pointer is three tines on each antler.
The deer up here aren’t stupid: they know that during hunting season they have to hang out in residential areas. Or rather where there are houses. There are laws here where hunters can’t shoot near any residence. My neck of the woods is inhabited only in summer so the deer hang out on my lawn, smoking, and playing cards. Most of them cheat.
Later that day, several hunters approached me. “There’s a 6-pointer on your lawn.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked. “Should I lasso it and drag it to the road so you can shoot it?”
They exchanged glances. “Can you?”
“I’d love to, but I don’t have a good relationship with the deer. It could’ve been all the screaming during summer.”
My lawn and former flower beds look like Edward Scissorhands ran amok. In the middle of the night, I left my bed and ran outside yelling at the deer to scatter them. Since they’re territorial and accustomed to my voice, they stood their ground. Pelting them with eggs doesn’t move them as well; they tend to ignore me. Which is why the deer community hide out on my property, using it also as a latrine.
I noticed, though, for the past two days the deer have kept their distance. After years of pouring coyote urine, batches of soap, red pepper, garlic and raw eggs on top of my lawn and flower beds to no avail, something happened for they suddenly disappeared.
Perhaps it’s because I smell of venison from all those stews and sausage. I should’ve done this years ago.
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