Deer family,

"Please, can you stop stripping the shrubs, and leave your "deposits" in the woods  instead of our back patio? Thanks!"

A family of deer roams the neighborhood at will, their home as much as ours.  Five of them, presumably parents and children, who’ve been patrolling lawns, gardens and bushes for a few years now.  In the summer, they are less apparent, keeping more to the shady woods where food is plentiful.  In the cold weather, their footprints in the snow are all over the yard, front to back, as they casually help themselves to tasty greens.  I love nature; the deer are picturesque, and yet, they have ruined a fine row of tall, healthy arborvitaes – now naked from 4 ½ feet down, and leave their piles of pellets everywhere.  Worse, they seem to have lost any fear of us as property owners, and our efforts to discourage them have come to naught: Irish Spring soap, chili pepper, and garlic: I imagine they laugh, if they have some deer like sound for laughter, and I bet they do.  Where once upon a time in my youth, the lone, lovely deer was a magical figure in the forest, bounding away before we even got near, our deer family has a very relaxed alarm system.  I flash my lights and honk the car horn, and they look with interest.  I have yelled at them “Get away from my bushes” and thrown tennis balls; they stepped aside and went back to grazing, until I ran at them, flapping my arms. The youngest bolted, and then the others followed, none too quickly.

 In this contest between human and animal neighbors, we’re losing ground on our supposed evolutionary advantage.  Sure, we’re developing land right and left, but they are adapting, adjusting, and in many cases thriving.  It’s a strange development, borne of familiarity, the kind that may lead to contempt. Some recent encounters ended awkwardly. I once shooed a full grown wild turkey out of a Kinkos' parking lot on a busy street, only to have him return almost immediately after I walked away: he was headed back to the shiny glass door where he was either hoping to kiss or admire his handsome reflection. (My husband and sons, on their way to pick me up from another errand, drove past, not wanting to be associated with the "turkey lady.")  Another time, on a walk around a cranberry bog, first one, then a second head poked out of the adjacent woods, watching me. "Go home! I said, shaking my finger as I always do when confronted with strange dogs. That didn't work, but I continued past them unmolested. Closer up, I saw their triangular shaped heads, and no collars or tags. Then it dawned: "Coyotes."  Silly me, they were already at home! A third head appeared and I remembered that the eastern coyotes were known to hunt in packs. It was everything I could do not to run, but I also remembered that nothing inspires chase like scurrying prey.

On my sojourns through the Great Meadows, I’ve had standoffs with geese on the dyke trail.  If they’re herding goslings, they’re not like likely to give way.  There’s a hiss, followed by a kind of head and neck feinting motion.  My mother and I were trapped one day by a family brood. After some minutes, I began the “shuffle”, scraping my feet across the gravel in the direction of the clueless babies, who eventually began to head off the path, followed at last by Mama.  In a confrontation with Great Blue Heron, I turned around and went all the way back the way I’d come. She was in the middle of the path which runs between two ponds, and stood over four feet, mostly leg, not doing much of anything. She saw me, but didn’t move, not an inch.  I came closer; she stood her ground. I tried reasoning: “What are you doing here? No fish; no frogs; get back in the water. What are those awesome wings for, anyway?” Didn’t work.  I had a foot of height on her, and about 34-40 pounds. I had my cell phone and car keys, which I jangled threateningly.  She had that “bill”, like a dagger.  I’d seen her use it to spear fish, and didn’t care for what it might be like to get stabbed by such a weapon. After all, in a hypothetical court of law between humans and animals, she would plead “self-defense”.  I gave up and walked away, still giving her a piece of my mind.

 The absolute worst case of animal nonchalance was the two muskrats making passionate love in the marsh, right under my nose.  Of course, I’d stopped when I heard the fuss, thinking it might be mortal battle between some wild creatures.  But it was love, and even though I shouted loudly, “Muskrat love!” they didn’t stop for a moment. So, actually, I should be thankful to our neighborhood deer that although they make themselves right at home all over our yard; they do at least have the decency to keep some things private.  For now. Makes me wonder what I might see someday out the back window…