No, this piece is not about the gal you may remember named Bambi found hiding out in Thunder Bay some years ago, or a vengeful hooker of my acquaintance. My life is not that colorful. I get no more exciting than an ongoing tiff with the four-legged members of the Cervidae, Odocoileus virginianus. It’s a lot easier to call them Bambi, so let’s do that.
As readers might remember, I borrowed the Stonewall Jackson lines he used on Yankees when he graciously said, “Kill them. Kill them all.” I don’t mean any harm or injury to Bambi beyond their death, though if some suffering were involved, I’d find that out of my hands as I’m not calling for it. Dead deer are all I’m after, and I do not apologize for my sentiment. It is heartfelt and sincere, based on members of the blasted Bambi group going about munching to oblivion anything I put in the ground that might look better than a dandelion (which they seem to leave alone, likely from spite) and going on the deck to get the choicer flowering morsels I thought were safe.
I’ve expressed my displeasure with cervids by wishing their destruction. Is that so bad? I’m not saying gut-shoot them, though I’d not report a neighbor for doing so because I know the frustration behind such an act. Deer are intractably stubborn. To me the “they were here first” argument holds no liquid. Mosquitoes and ticks were here, too. It gains them no mercy. That’s my position. In any case, I felt secure criticizing Bambi and calling for deer immolation in general because judging by their performance regarding deer crossing signs, they are poor readers. Why be sympathetic to creatures that will not cross the highway where they are supposed to?
Yet somehow they got word (though in their case I suppose wind is more appropriate) of my sentiments, perhaps because one of you went and blabbed on me. If I find out it’s an easy matter to add sapiens as a whole to my list based on their overall performance, it will be due to the good people of half the world’s religions being responsible for ninety percent of our current conflicts. Otherwise we’re doing fine. But before I get too lumbered in wishful thought, I’d best return to something less desirable, such as wiping out the Bambi clan.
The Bambis really know how to hurt a guy. Last week, for no reason, and in any case clearly outside the designated crossing areas, a lone deer bounded across in front of me. It’s got to be deliberate—suicide deer getting revenge for my criticism and scornful remarks. But the real attack on me is a stealth affair. Check the photo.
I didn’t know what those strange marks were on the tailgate of my latest vehicle, far newer than the results of my usual economic necessity. When it came to vehicle choice, mine were three-quarter and occasional one-ton full-size trucks able to mount a plow. The Bambi hasn’t been made that could resist that force. They respected it. How could they not back away in shock and awe from “the Bambi killer,” “Bambi masher,” “deer annihilator,” or “old flatten them”? My new vehicle is a pipsqueak compared to its earlier kin, and now, finally able to show their feelings for me and mine, the Bambi brood is nightly putting deer slobber on my transportation. Yes, that’s what the picture shows. Those are deer tongue marks, kisses I suppose, and they make me mad.
The logical explanation is that the deer are after salt, though it is not salt the MHD puts on roads any more. It might taste like salt to a cervid, just as antifreeze tastes sweet to dogs, but it’s not salt. I have every hope their licking “salt” from the new vehicle (which they never did from its lethal predecessors) will prove some way interesting to their constitutions in a Love Canal sort of way. I was not prepared to think of Bambi as so perfidious, but at least I have company and now acknowledge a more even contest between us. That’s something.
The nightly tongue assaults on my vehicle got me thinking about earlier cars. My first owned was a ’52 M38A military Jeep, followed by a year-old Land Rover bought in Hibbing when there was a dealer there (bet not too many knew that). Neither the Jeep nor the Rover was made for people with skinny rumps or hemorrhoids. The ride was what you’d call firm, and in a way resembled travel in a four-wheel vibrator, as everything in and on the vehicle was in constant flutter. As I recall from a few occasions, these vehicles were not made for dating, either. The most you’d get was one, which for many was one too much.
Overall I liked pickups best. I got used to regularly cursing the Detroit designers who insisted on putting the heat and defroster intake on top, where it sucked in every bit of snow and spit it out inside. People who live in snow country knew not to put it there, but we were never asked, as it was assumed the market lived in sunny climes requiring AC. They did away with the foot switch for high beams, I suppose because it was so easy to stomp wearing Sorel boots and they thought it would be more fun for us to fumble with another switch while wearing chopper mitts. I didn’t think much of the standard thermostat either. The 192-degree version was far nicer in February and not all that problematic the few days of the year we might break a sweat.
Having escaped Mayan death and with the New Year creeping up, I’m going to try some reforms. First, I’ll be kinder and gentler to Bambi even though they don’t deserve it. I’ll try to be nicer to people, too, but the first time I catch anyone licking my car, all bets stop and I’m putting the entire race on notice.
Otherwise—Half Hay Harpy Gnu Share!!!