Watching for Deer

The dog stopped and looked off into the dark.

It was early evening, and I had him out for his regular walk around the neighborhood. He’d been busy dragging me up the street, same as always, pausing to water the lampposts and sniff every holly, hibiscus, and hydrangea. (To be clear, the dog was doing the watering and sniffing. I was just doing the standing and waiting.) Now he had me holding the slack end of the leash while he studied something ahead.

Then I saw it—a deer by the side of the street, munching on something in the shrubs. I tightened the leash and braced myself for the dog to go into his tough-guy routine and launch forward, taking my arm off as he chased the deer out of the neighborhood, onto the interstate, and into the next county.

We moved ahead, slowly, until we got 15 feet from the deer. It didn’t move. I thought it was scared, but it just looked annoyed by this man and this dog who dared to interrupt deer dinnertime.

“What’s up, dude?” he said.

“Don’t what’s-up-dude me,” the dog said. “You’re on my street.”

“I don’t see your name on the sign,” the deer said.

“It’s Baxter Boulevard,” the dog said. “I’m Baxter. I own this place. Everybody knows that. I’ve marked every inch of this territory.”

I saw now that the deer wasn’t eating something in the shrubs. He was eating the shrubs themselves. He took another bite.

“Looks more like Antler Avenue to me,” he said.

OK, the deer and the dog weren’t actually talking. Or maybe they were, but I couldn’t decipher it. Still, the message was clear: This dog wasn’t happy. But the deer wasn’t impressed, wasn’t intimidated, and wasn’t going anywhere.

In my neighborhood, we have deer all over—on the shoulders of the streets, in the middle of the streets, in the front yards, in the back yards. The other day, I saw one sunning by a pond and reading National Wildlife. Some of them have joined the pickleball league. Every Friday night, a bunch of them take over the community clubhouse for an acorn roast and karaoke. (All night long, it’s “Dear Prudence” and “Dear John” and “Dear Mr. Fantasy.” They think it’s hilarious. At Christmas, they can’t get enough of that grandma song.)

The old saying is that surprised people look like a deer in the headlights. But in my neighborhood, the deer just put on their Ray-Bans and keep eating the garden.

“Watch for deer!”

That’s my mother talking. When I’m leaving her house to drive home, she tells me to watch for deer. I’ve heard it a thousand times.

I know cars hit deer. It’s tragic and heartbreaking. And it happens often, especially late in the year, when daylight is short and the animals are on the move because of mating and hunting. We all see the roadside warning signs with the buck leaping like an Olympic figure skater. But my mother seems to believe the deer are on the attack, crouching by the roadside and ready to jump when I cruise by, not watching for deer.

I’ve never hit a deer. My mother takes the credit.

“Move along,” the dog said.

“In due time, little buddy,” the deer said. “I’m not finished with this wax myrtle.”

“You’re asking for trouble.”

“What I’d like to ask for is a little ranch dressing,” the deer said.

A million white-tailed deer live in North Carolina, about one for every 11 human residents. I didn’t know this: Deer have two toes on the front and one, the dew claw, about three inches up the back leg. They must have a terrible time finding boots that fit.

Deer are herbivores, feeding on everything from wild fruits to farm crops. They love home gardens and landscaping. Plant some pansies, tulips, carrots, and lettuce, and they gather for a buffet.

Some people in my community—most, I’d say—despise the deer. They consider the animals nuisances—freeloaders, unrepentant trespassers who mangle the hedges as their main course and the flowers as dessert before rudely performing their bathroom business on the manicured lawns, then hoofing it next door to do the whole thing again, night after night. The homeowners try shooing the deer away, but that doesn’t work. They drench the yard with a spray that smells like rotten eggs, but that doesn’t work, either. I once bought a house from a man who’d twist-tied plastic bags of fluid to the trees throughout the yard. “Coyote urine,” he told me. “It scares off the deer.” (No, it didn’t.)

I understand the exasperation. Nobody likes seeing their petunias munched like salad or their azaleas nipped in the bud. Gardeners don’t like finding toothmarks in their home-grown tomatoes.

But how outraged should we be? Deer make their homes in wooded or grassy areas. They want to be near water sources. They live where they feel safe. We’re the same. The deer haven’t invaded our neighborhoods to eat everything but the patio furniture. We’ve built houses, with patios, where the deer were already living. If it’s a matter of who was here first, well, they were. Now we have to live with them. Or, rather, they have to live with us. When they eat our daylilies and roses, they’re collecting HOA dues.

On the dark roadside, my dog inched closer and gave a low growl, but the buck didn’t budge.

“Well,” the dog said, “my work here is done. I’m headed home for kibble and a nap. But I’ll be watching for you.”

“I’ll be eating your tulips later,” the deer said. “Look for a little gift near the driveway.”

I guided the dog to the other side of the street. The deer gave us the stink eye as we moved past, up and away from Antler Avene. (Don’t tell my dog I called it that.)

Tim Bass is a retired creative writing teacher and journalist. He lives in Wilmington. Mark Weber is a Wilmington-based artist and illustrates WILMA’s monthly Direct Male essay. weberillustration.com

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