The Deer Wars
by Hank Morgan, Progressive Charlestown guest columnist
Recent news of a deer attacking a 75-year old Ohio woman in her home and inflicting enough damage to hospitalize her was alarming, what with tensions between deer and humans reaching a boiling point on Block Island, where the illegal practice of deer baiting is now being tolerated. In several Rhode Island communities, the deer "wars" have been going on for years.
To stave off a similar attack locally, I infiltrated enemy ranks via a
state-of-the-art cell phone that converts high frequency animal communications
into the English language and consequently back into bovine scatological
refuse. Punching in the appropriate
numbers, which also afforded me a tiny screen image of a deer war council in
session, I received the following intelligence:
Gathered in a small clearing under soft moonlight that reflected a ghostly glow off a forest of antlers, a half dozen or so deer were huddled in what was obviously a passionate discussion. A few intermittently stomped at the fern and skunk cabbage underfoot and others occasionally reared back on their hind feet as if fending off a pack of bloodhounds. Inaudible grunts punctuated indecipherable screeches, but calmer utterances were discernible.
“We’ve reached a vital time in our
history. Our very existence is at stake. It’s either punish or perish,” the largest
buck exhorted. “The townsfolk are blaming us for bio-terrorism, using our ticks
to breed and spread Lyme Disease, accusing us of suicide bombing on-rushing
automobiles and raiding the vegetable gardens on which their very sustenance
depends. They have worked up a hatred
for us, and now they have expanded their hunting grounds to encroach on what
little land we have left. It won’t be
long before they want to eradicate us all.”
“I don’t get it,” a comrade said. “They used to cherish and adore us. On rare occasions when we were seen, they
would stop and admire us, take pictures and make such a fuss that you’d think
we were Tom and Gisele en-route to Foxboro.”
“That was when this was the land of hops and
barley. Now it is the land of milk and honey.
There was a real estate boon, and this became the Promised Land.”
“True, but the dogs on Main Street howl…”
“No matter, Boss. I know they understand, but when man gets
fixated on an ideal, nothing can change his mind. You could contaminate his drinking water, and
he’d still want to stay. Now we’re the
scourge Rhode Islanders want to eliminate.
War is imminent.”
“Here, here,” cried out a younger buck. “I
can’t even forage in an apple orchard without staring down the business end of
a double-barrel. I’m for war. Let’s attack, now.”
“Who are you kidding, Rambo? You can’t even lick pond scum,” retorted a
peer. “You turn white tail and run from
horseflies as if they were the Vermin Luftwaffe.”
“They’re disease infested. Besides, we were here first. This is about principle and righteousness.”
“What’s being first got to do with it? If being first mattered, the amphibians that
crawled out of the sea would rule. The frog would finally become prince, and
Viracocha would remain the Lizard King.
Mr. Mojo Risin’ didn’t just get into town an hour ago, you know. You’ve either been skipping Owl’s history
lessons or raiding the happy mallard’s cannabis crop again.”
“Enough bickering gentle…err, young bucks,”
their leader said. “Let’s stop fighting among ourselves and stay focused on the
real enemy. I say we follow that Ohio
doe’s lead and attack them in their homes before they have time to take up arms
and massacre us all.”
“That’s risky,” a previously silent doe observed. “It might just stir up more resentment
against us. Then we’d be facing endless
battalions of orange-clad deer slayer wannabes.
We’d never get any peace.”
“All the more reason to attack. Would you rather fight them there or here?’
“What’s wrong with the home-field
advantage? We know the terrain. We can survive off the land, use other
animals as scouts and spies, and wage guerilla warfare that they cannot win.
They may win some battles, but ultimately we’ll win the war. They cannot kill us all. We’ll get reinforcements to swim across the
bay or traverse the bridges at night.
Time is on our side. Let’s be
patient, and let them come to us.”
“They’ll come alright, and they’ll be toting
thirty ought sixes.”
A silence ensued, as if they all contemplated
the grisly image of a punctured carcass, possibly his or her own, lying in a
pool of blood, waiting to be devoured by either man or beast.
“You can call me Rambo, or call me crazy, but
just don’t call me venison,” the gung-ho young buck suddenly exclaimed. “I’m
for starting warfare right here and now.”
And with that, he bolted from the
congregation. Envisioning a sneak attack
on a cigar puffing, bathrobe clad resident who would insouciantly answer the
doorbell in expectation of a friendly neighbor or relative, he hurdled a fallen
oak and dashed through some bracken toward the nearest road. A moment later, the sound of screeching
automobile tires was followed by a dull thud and the crackle of breaking metal
and glass.
“Fools rush in…” muttered a comrade before
bowing his head mournfully. The others
followed suit.
In the background, a man’s voice could be
heard screaming about his bleeping brand new paint job and his bleeping
insurance rates, and the fact that he was going to buy a shotgun and kill all
the bleeping deer in the state by his own bleeping self.
“Why, oh why, oh why does it have to come to
this?” the distressed doe called out.
“Ours is not to question why…”
“Can it,” the doe retorted. “I’m going to deal with this in my own way. I say make love, not war. Anybody with me?”
She had no shortage of volunteers.
This intelligence report concludes that, while
war is temporarily averted, a future overpopulation crisis looms, leading one
to wonder if there is nothing to fear but the deer itself.
Alas, only time will tell.