by cheri block
I drove home yesterday (carefully with a modified boot on my injured foot) from a birthday lunch with my sister and her husband. Still warm with the pot roast and mashed potatoes inside, I gingerly stepped out of the car with my left foot, balancing myself like a pro.
I gimped out of the garage, my eyes sensing movement on the upper lawn. My brain registered “turkey” but my eyes saw “stag.”
With an eight-point set of antlers, a charcoal dark nose, and taupe muscular body, he and I spied each other simultaneously.
Four thoughts registered:
- What a magnificent animal!
- How did you gain entry?
- Please don’t go up the road any farther or those there at the end will shoot you!!
- Have you been in our olive orchard, weeks before our harvest is to take place?
He trotted up the lawn at the sight of a human with a large black foot and an old yellow dog. As usual, the dog could have cared less although she did perk up, sensing available deer poop to add to her daily special–a smorgasbord of turkey poop and acorns.
We have a deer fence to prevent this type of stealth entry but somewhere a flaw exists in our design.
I managed to hobble to the telephone and electronically open our gate.
Then, gimp gimp gimp back to the buck, who stood frozen like a bronze statue on a lawn destroyed by prairie dogs.
I put up my arms and waved them, coaxing him softly, “Go on boy, out the gate, up the driveway, out the driveway, up to the park district land, avoid the end of the road, Bambi’s father.”
Unlike the frenetic tour jeté of does and fawns, the stag listened to reason, high-stepping out to freedom.
How many olives did he eat?, I wondered.
Why didn’t I have my camera with me, I lamented.