The Deer and I

Way back in 1945, a book came out that was called “The Egg and I.”  It was a humorous memoir of a young wife’s experience at having been transported from an urban existence to life on a Washington state chicken farm.

The recollection of this put me in mine of my own situation living in Cherokee county.  I am a transplanted city boy.  My formative years were spent in the wilds of Brooklyn, New York and my young adult years found me residing in Manhattan.

When I first moved out of New York City to upstate New York, I fell in love with the suburban neighborhood in which I bought a house.  It felt like living in a park, as opposed to a concrete jungle.  The greenery was both beautiful and comforting.

Now I reside in Cherokee county in a home that is even less urban.  Surrounded on three sides by woodlands, everyday when I look out a window I see trees.  I also see squirrels and rabbits and flowers.  But it is the deer that command my attention.

You must understand that the only deer found in Brooklyn were confined to the zoo.  To have real live creatures—that are bigger than a breadbasket—just outside my door was a first thrilling.  I could almost touch them without some zookeeper objecting.

Not only were the deer close by, but they sometimes bedded down in my side yard.  It was also fun to watch them munching on the wild raspberries that grew there in profusion.  That this thicket could provide them with nourishment seemed almost miraculous.

Then something unexpected happened.  My wife and I had long taken note of the deer tracks in our vegetable garden.  They indicated that the deer were there even when we were not.  This was perfectly okay with us.

But eventually the deer started chomping on our tomatoes.  For years, they had left our vegetables alone.  Now they apparently grew so comfortable in our presence that they had no qualms about approaching our house or vandalizing our plants.

At first only a few leaves and tomatoes appeared to be missing.  But then entire bushes were reduced to bare stalks.  There was no hope for these plants to grown back because there was not enough left to regenerate.  This hurt.  It felt like a betrayal.

My wife and I wondered what to do.  The best we could come up with was to install some fencing.  Yet this proved inadequate.  Although we contemplated more robust measures, in the end we decided that we would share some of our bounty.

Nonetheless, the worst blow was yet to come.  My wife especially loves flowers.  She has been experimenting with different varieties and resolved to try tulips.  We consequently purchased a bag full of bulbs, which she planted in the fall.  Came the spring and we eagerly awaited signs of their emergence.

It was therefore with some pleasure that we witnessed the first shoots breaking through the soil.  It was with even greater delight that we welcomed the first flowers.  Alas, then disaster struck.  The deer ate every one of the tulips down to the nub.

Our despair was beyond measure.  Still there was a ray of hope.  The tulips might revive.  After all, the bulbs remained in the ground.  And sure enough, there were new shoots—and even a few flowers.

Except that those predatory deer were ever on the alert.  They had merely been biding their time.  As soon as there was enough to furnish another meal, they had their way with our poor tulips.  They even came back for a third helping.

Who knew that deer love tulips?  This had not happened in Brooklyn. Fortunately, they apparently do not like daffodils, so these survived.  The lesson learned?  Forget tulips and stick with daffodils.  If we cannot beat the deer, perhaps we can learn to co-exist.

Melvyn L. Fein, Ph.D.

Professor of Sociology

Kennesaw State University Melvyn L. Fein, Ph.D.

Professor of Sociology

Kennesaw State University