We had a windstorm yesterday that blew out a small section of our fence and during the brief period before I noticed the breach, deer entered our yard. Our young pear and apricot trees have both been denuded of their leaves, and the apricot lost its single fruit. The gooseberries were partially stripped. Deer are very sweet and graceful when grazing on remote hillsides, but when they break into our garden I hate them with such vitriol I would have no trouble running Bambi through the new sausage machine. Ok, maybe not Bambi, but Bambi's childless uncle. It would be payback for countless past crimes against the loquat tree (R.I.P.), the grape vines, the ceanothus (which they supposedly do not even like), the roses.
Mark is turning over soil as I type. I had to leave the scene to escape the resentment vibrating from his body in squiggly lines, like in a comic strip. The only thing he would enjoy less is to pay someone.