Antlered Devils (creative non-fiction)
I was not there the day my nemesis was born but I imagine it was a wet spring. The silver lupines were just starting to bloom. Their misaligned petals were reaching for the few strips of sunlight that seeped through the canopy of ponderosa pines. Upon hitting the ground, the shock of the fall compressed her lungs. Her body reached out for air. The first breath of life was sweet and crisp.
As I was not there, this is all speculation. It might also seem weird that my foe resides in a forest. As a rule of thumb, my nemesis can live about anywhere; not limited to just the forest. Her preferred habitat is "steep and rugged topography that provides brush-like vegetation." (Rick Olson, University of Wyoming). This will make sense in a moment. Also, my nemesis is more than just one. and probably closer to 500,000 in Wyoming alone. I have an army of adversaries. For the last fifteen years I have been plagued by Odocoileus hemionus, also known as the common mule deer. So, how can one loathe Bambi so much? I assure you it’s quite easy. (On a ironic note hemionus translates roughly to "half-ass", how appropriate!)
It all started with my first encounter with these hooved devils. I was young, excited, arrogant, 15 and just learning how to drive. My mother and I were returning from a shopping excursion out of town. I remember she kept repeating herself (as mothers often do) "Be extra careful because the deer are out” and "Are you sure you want to drive? There will be animals on the road". I brushed her off, ignoring her wisdom (as teenagers often do) only to be greeted by the first of many "deer dartings". My enemy jumped up onto the road directly in front of me, ran across the road, and disappeared into the brush on the other side. I braked hard, my knuckles completely drained of color, the death grip on the steering wheel refusing to release. It was as if the deer had waited for someone to light the path, so that she could cross the illuminated black river. The arrhythmia of my heart was almost palpable. The encounter had successfully kicked the knees out from my ego. The rest of the drive home was done at a safe 30 mph with frequent panic attacks and stops due to the dancing shadows on both sides of the highway. This was the first of many deer-darting episodes in what would later become known as the Indy 500 of Wyoming highways.
The fear of hitting a deer created a life-long paranoia that I take with me whenever I drive anywhere. I can spot them at almost any range, alive or dead. Radar had nothing on my deer-dar. I refused to drive at night unless absolutely forced, and those drives could be guaranteed to be slow, with me strangling the wheel until all the color had flushed from my hands, my breaths were short with frequent panicked inhales.
Regardless of my special preparations, the day still came when a deer kamakazied itself into my vehicle. The image plays in slow motion in my mind whenever I recall it. It was a warm summer afternoon at a time and location that was not favorable to deer (they prefer to be out at dawn and dusk). Nonetheless, my rival struck a deadly blow to my truck that day. She ran across the highway directly into my driver’s side fender, her body contorting in unnatural ways as it flipped back around and smashed into the radiator. The next image I remember witnessing is the deer floating away, like a kite, in the rear view mirror. It looked oddly like a banana peel. I pulled over to inspect the damage. I was unable to open my door; partly because of the damage, but the major cause of the jam was deer intestines. The deer had gutted herself on and in the door. Those bodily organs hung from it dripping ooze and smelling worse than anything I could ever remember. If my nose could have vomited it would have. My poor mother had been my companion on this noteworthy day. I vividly remember her elderly frame bent over on the side of the road, holding a piece of broken blinker, digging deer guts out of my door. What a champ. (You see, I was in shock and useless at this time.) Now, however, I take solace in knowing that after the first battle, I was the victor, and my opponents were down one soldier.
Wyoming is in the top 10 states in the nation for deer related accidents. According to a report done by State Farm insurance; deer were responsible for more than 3,796 claims in 2011. The chances of hitting a deer on a Wyoming highway is a nerve wracking 1:114. Even with recent construction of deer friendly tunnels by the Wyoming Department of Transportation, deer collisions are still one of the top annually reported accidents in Wyoming. There is some speculation by Game and Fish officials that thinks the recent development of oil and gas has pushed deer closer to the roads, but there is no substantial research at this time to prove the claim.
The frequency with which the deer followed me began to grow. No longer was their presence limited to the highways and roads. Soon, they began to infiltrate my everyday life. The first apartment my husband and I got together was on the outskirts of town, street on one side, cactus and sage on the other. It was not uncommon to see Pronghorn grazing in the distance. If I squinted hard enough I could make out the mulling motion of their lips as they consumed their sagebrush dinner. Almost as if they were sharing inaudible secrets. I bore no grudge against these pronged creatures. When I adopted my first Corgi, I would take her for an evening walk in the desolate area next to our house (the Pronghorn posed no threat). My being out in the open, deer must have smelled me and they started to arrive.
If you know anything of Corgi’s, you know they are stubborn short-legged little dogs with big attitudes. This brave yet ignorant canine’s first encounter with deer involved running head first into a herd of them. The deer treated her like they would any other predator, pawed at the ground, threatened to trample the short-legged beast underneath them. The dust from their footwork created dust devils that hindered my vision. The less I could see, the more I panicked. I held my breath as I ran toward her and them while praying to the God I don’t know if I believe in to save her from what I imagined to be her fate (trampled Corgi alamode). Bless that little dog’s soul, dodging and jumping, this was the best game next to tug-a-rope. Her happy nub of a tail kept wagging long after I was able to catch up and scare away the mangy herbivores. Proud of herself and the adventure she had just had, this Corgi child of mine insisted on repeating it as often as she could duck past my legs when I opened the front door.
I can't say that all my encounters with deer have been unfavorable. I was fortunate enough to be visited by the albino deer that lived in Natrona County until recent years. It was one of the few moments in our "war" that I took time to truly appreciate the other side. This doe was so distinctly different and yet very much the same. I was captivated by her garnet colored eyes. She knew she was special, an ungulate Hester Prynne among the masses with her brown child. An odd feeling, to respect a deer. Nonetheless, a momentary ceasefire would not bring about a peace for this war of ours.
People think I exaggerate when I talk about how the deer stalk me. The doubters don’t doubt for long. The deer arrive at night and eat the plants outside my bedroom window. They stir from their hiding places when I walk to work to make sure their presence is known. They jump in front of my vehicle for the annual deer-darting panic attacks. The war continues to wage on between them and me, but I am hopeful for the future; hopeful that they will get bored and move on to another victim and give them a lifelong complex. Hopeful that I will be able to overcome my own fears. Hopeful that humans will invent a deer repellent that will actually work. Alas, I will continue my days sleeping with one eye open for the deer are lurking in the dark.