Deer, Deer

So there I was, holed up in my den, staring into space as I fought the thesaurus to a standstill in a forlorn effort to find just the right word to conclude a chapter.

And then the doorbell rang.

I tried to ignore it, but I had completely lost my train of thought. I stomped my way downstairs, noting in passing that the cats, as is their wont, had vanished into the depths of the closet at the sound of the bell.

I threw open the door. “What do you want?” I snapped at the youngster on the front stair.

“I’m very sorry for interrupting you,” he said. “I was just wondering, on behalf of my family–especially my little sister, it would mean so much to her–if you would… if you could, take a short break from blathering on about cats–nasty little creatures, begging your pardon–and remind your readers that there are other wild creatures in the neighborhood, some of whom lived here for centuries before the cats arrived.” He took a deep breath. “That’s all. Thank you, much obliged, greatly appreciated.”

And with that, he turned and trotted away, down the street.

After such an impressive request–sixty-five words, and spoken on a single breath–how could I possibly do anything other than accede?

So yes, we do have deer in the neighborhood. They generally hang out in the green belt behind the house, but sometimes stroll up the hill past the backyard bowl, cross the street, and browse on the shrubbery to the east.
It has apparently been a good year for them. The herd consists of at least five; prior to this year, we’ve never seen more than four at once.

We’ve signed a treaty. They don’t come into the yard and rummage through the garden. In return, we don’t import cougars.

Oh, and unlike Coleridge’s experience with an unwelcome visitor, I did eventually come up with just the word I needed: earlobe.

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