Beat It, Bambi

Alas, this was not meant to be at my house. 

As a serious animal lover, I cry in a movie when an animal is hurt or killed, even when it says at the end that, "No animals were harmed in the making of this film." I still worry that maybe they were traumatized by the bright lights and the chaos of a movie set. I can't watch those TV commercials about starving dogs or rescue cats; I have to cover my eyes or change the channel. And that scene in The Godfather with the horse's head still haunts me. 

So it's surprising that lately I have considered buying a rifle and staking out my garden and shooting every last deer that dares set hoof on my property. 

For example, take the Hydrangea bush that I planted in my side yard about five years ago. I have nurtured it through harsh droughts and harsher winters, through bleak seasons of no blooms and then finally one or two, until this year when eight glorious white snowballs appeared. I reveled in their beauty, imaging how many there would be next year. One morning I went out to revel some more, only to find them gone. (I realize it's odd to find something gone, but that's what happened.)

I know it was deer because I recognized the bitten-off stems from the Hostas in my front yard every year. Despite sprinkling shavings of Irish Spring soap on them, the deer have somehow feasted heartily on what amounts to my shared hobby with God. Now I hate all the deer, including that little brat Bambi, and although I have never even held a gun I fantasize about blowing their heads off. Is that wrong?