Some summers I knock myself out spraying to keep the deer away and glorying in my success even though my flower beds perpetually smell like a slaughter house or a vomitorium. What is a bit of smell when I can look out at all the lush hosta growth.
And some years when it gets to about the first of August I just look around at the carnage caused by the
deer Odocoileus virginianus and say,
Oh forget it. There is always next year.
Care to take a guess as to which kind of year it has been this year?
They have become so bold that I will look out my office window at mid-day to see them grazing on the leaves that are left.
You know Brunhilda this is the BEST buffet in the entire neighborhood. Can we dine here again tomorrow?
And with a pure twist of evil, the deer have left me one hosta blossom sticking out amongst the carnage of ripped and torn leaves and stalks. One lone flower reaching faintly towards the sky in a vain attempt to bloom before the
marauders from the woods deer have it for dinner.
I am sure that it will be gone tomorrow. They just haven’t had time to harvest it yet.
Curse you Odocoileus virginianus and your nibbling lips!