Deer: Spawn of Satan or just Satan's Fuzzy Little Minions?

It's questions such as these that have troubled theologians for centuries. Let the big thinkers puzzle it out--me, I'll just continue to hate deer with the unbridled rage of a gardener who has lived in the woods with these babes of Beelzebub for over 25 years.

Their latest crime against humanity?

THEY ATE THE FREAKING LILACS I BOUGHT LAST YEAR! Oh yes, the plants which were well over a meter tall are now less than half their original height.

HALF THEIR ORIGINAL HEIGHT!

There are no words for the pain. There are no words for the grief.

Picture this: a middle-aged woman cavorting about her property, savouring the joy that is spring. My daffodil meadow, which looked like this just a few days ago:

Now looks like this:

Oh yes. And it will only get better with mid and late season daffodil and narcissus making a show that will run several weeks at least.

It goes beyond being eye candy. Have I mentioned the perfume? Ah, the perfume. There is nothing quite like celebrating the end of a long, interminable Canuckistani winter by standing in the middle of a daffodil meadow on a warm, still spring night, letting the scent wash over you like a blessing.

Oh, and let's not forget the final touch. As a bonus, the meadow soundtrack comes courtesy of the frogs in my nearby pond doing a stirring rendition of the Hip-Hop anthem "Sex Me Up, Momma" (this would be the unforgettable Snoop Frogg Club Re-Mix, of course.)

So yeah, I was pretty much blissed out.

Then. (*Insert ominous dum-dum-DUM sound here*)

Then I made the mistake of wandering over to a corner of the area below our house I use as a nursery, a kind of holding bed for things I haven't quite decided to plant permanently. In that nursery were my lilacs.

The lilacs I bought last spring.

The lilacs which were once chest high on me. Those lilacs. The ones that look like this now, with all their major stems nipped down in half:

(*Insert sputters of outrage here. Visualize a middle-aged woman hopping up and down, waving her arms, pointing, making inarticulate sounds of anger, wailing.*)

There are no words for the pain. There are no words for the grief.

Forget that Bambi business--that's pure Hollywood horse merde.

Wanna know the truth about deer? Do ya? Huh? HUH?

Here it is: deer are Nature's Weapons of Mass Destruction.

Pass it on.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 229.78 miles (369.7 kilometers)
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers