Oh, Deer.

A few kind people have insisted that the deer I hit last week at the lake did not die. (There are also mean, hateful people who have taken to calling me "Deerslayer" and "Murderess" but, alas, I cannot argue) The kind people chuck me under the chin and tell me that deer are remarkably resilient. They say deer are known for rising from what appears to be death and trotting off into the forest with their big brown eyes spilling tears at the misfortune of having to share the planet with human beings and their big cars.

Well, the kind people are wrong. And I'll tell you how I know.

Yesterday afternoon, R, V, and L were outside doing what they have repeatedly been told not to do: sitting atop the driveway gate, releasing the latch with their feet, and swinging free until they hit the hedge. Then they scamper down and do it all over again. I was ignoring this criminal behavior because sometimes I am a piss-poor (who invented this horrible word?) excuse for a mother. And also because I was writing this...this...this...thing that has to be turned in on Friday.

Just as I was about to birth a most excellent sentence, a sentence that would make everything fall into place, all three children stampeded the house yelling gibberish, gesturing wildly, and working in unison to drag me out of my chair. When I got outside, what extremely rare-for-my-neighborhood sight do you think I beheld? Horror to end all horrors, I beheld this (well, not this exactly, because I didn't have a camera) standing right in the middle of the street in front of our house:



Clearly, this was the father of the deer I killed, and he'd come to exact his revenge. Imagine, if you will, my sharp intake of breath, my shaking hands, my flushed cheeks, and the road-runner speed at which I herded my children back into the house.

I inform you of all this so that if I disappear under mysterious circumstances, you will know what to tell the authorities. Thank you.