#deer attack

Jodi Proger, 64, a beloved Ohio grandmother who rehabilitated whitetail deer for 12 years, was fatally mauled November 15 inside an enclosure on her Stewartsville property. Family members called 911 after finding her trapped with an aggressive buck. Belmont County deputies shot and killed one charging male deer to reach her, but Proger died at the scene from severe injuries. Ohio Deer…

Deer killed Paul McDonald Bio, Wiki, Age, Wife, Children, Biography

Paul McDonald Bio

Paul McDonald (Age 46) was feeding the deer at his property in Moyhu, near Wangaratta, about 8.20am on Wednesday when the animal attacked.

His son Ethan, 17, and wife, Mandi, 45, heard the commotion and went outside.

Victoria Police Acting Senior Sergeant Paul Pursell said the son went to seek help, during which time Mandi entered the enclosure and was also attacked.

https://w…

It was a beautiful summer night. I’d just gotten home from completing an unsuccessful 15-year pursuit of stand-up comedy, and for the first time in 20 years was living with my parents.

Believe it or not I wasn’t terribly depressed. The joy of being no longer in Los Angeles and back home in the greatest city in the world actually outweighed the heartbreak of my dreams’ flushing down the shitter, and the humility of that shitter being the same one I sat on as a 4-year old.

I’d spent the evening with one of my oldest, closest friends, “Biz,” aka. “Riz,” aka. “Do-Riz,” aka. “Adam Rochman” – what a treat. One of the sweetest, funniest human beings you could ever meet, as a kid he was known for smelling all present parties’ butts in immediate investigation of any fart odor. As an adult he’d grown to be one of my idols: a happily married, financially successful man who didn’t live with his parents. Suddenly, I had many idols.  

Riz treated me to the Mets game (his team), whom I felt I could appreciate that much more, having now personally experienced adult failure and disappointment on a such a grand scale. We had a blast.

I don’t recall whether the Mets won or lost, partially because I didn’t care, but also the only person I know who talks more than me is Riz. In fairness we had infinity to catch up on, not the least of which being he was newly pregnant, and supposedly I got the very first reveal. After the game we’d part ways on the 7-train, Riz to his beautiful midtown apartment, I to Mom’s house, via a transfer to the A-train, and another to a brief bus ride on good ol’ Rockland Coaches, the criminally unreliable, dog shit of an undoubtedly going-to-hell bus company that ironically holds a special place in my heart as my medium between home and the city through my juvenile delinquency.

My hometown is just 14 miles from the Bronx, but its suburban landscape makes the Bronx look like Manhattan. From the bus stop were two options… really three:

1.     A two mile walk through the pitch black, deadly silent beyond chirping crickets, a half mile of which is up a huge hill fit only for those just embarking on their first career in life.

2.     A half-mile walk along part of the same route culminating with a 20-yard trek through the miniature forest that set the backdrop for my backyard for all of childhood (MOST POPULAR OPTION).

3.     Get Mom or Dad to pick me up from the bus stop. On the ride home I spoke to my (Jewish) mother who insisted on coming to get me from the bus.

“No, no, are you crazy?” I responded, in an obvious adoption of the martyr role, desperately grasping at any opportunity to feel like a man with some semblance of integrity. I may live with Mom and Dad and have to use their car daily to seek employment, but I’ll be damned if I need a ride home from the bus stop.

We argued for a few minutes like George Costanza and his mother, until finally she gave in. Mom had to wake up early the next morning to go to work for her customary 12-hour day, which helped yield resistance. I would walk home.

It was a beautiful late, summer walk. New York’s weather compares to Los Angeles’ about as closely as Los Angeles’ personality does to New York’s, but the humidity doesn’t much bother me. I looked forward to a before bed shower to wash off the Mets; otherwise I felt great. I listened to Eric B. and Rakim in my headphones, feeling like I could be Rakim, “the Rakim of acupuncture:” my second lifes’ passion (actually third if you include professional skateboarder, which never could have happened).

The final road before the aforementioned forest was always dark, even relative to the suburbs: One of those barely lit suburban back roads where you could streak naked in the middle of the night and it wouldn’t even really count. No one would see you. How do I know? I’ve done it.

As I approached the final bend I came suddenly face to face with her. She was beautiful. My three years in L.A. had been the least successful romantically (and “romantically”) of my life, and I’d so looked forward to dating human beings again on planet Earth once I returned. Of course that was completely irrelevant in the moment, as “she” was a deer. Not even in my weakest California moments would I have done a deer.

While growing up in Rockland County seeing deer was a rare and special treat, not terribly unusual, nor terribly common, as they had plenty of wood area separate from society to have their own society. Magically, we co-existed. Sadly, in the past ten years I’ve noticed deer sightings to be much more common. I see them every day that I visit my folks, and usually not one at a time, not even always on the periphery of the woods. I see them on the block, often standing in groups on the street corner, as if they’re the ones gentrifying our hood, not vice versa, and instead of trendy restaurants they’re selling drugs. “Anti-gentrification?”

I don’t dislike white people. As a matter of fact I consider the expression, “white privilege” to be a form of prejudice, and neo-Liberals as racist as Republicans, just via a different mechanism. My belief is that all cultures are prone to their own unique flaws, and one of white peoples’, in general, is a short sighted tunnel vision of devaluing culture, nature and community in exchange for commerce and material gain. “We” are doing to the deer exactly what we’ve done to Brooklyn in recent years and the Native Americans 500 years ago. 

I digress.

As I looked into the eyes of the lovely beast we both froze, and I realized we both were afraid. The deer wasn’t moving and if I wanted to complete the short cut home I had no choice but to walk in her direction.

“Afraid of a deer?!” said every single fucking person I’ve told this story to.

Yes, afraid of the deer. Why?

Well, for one, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT DEER. THAT GOOD ENOUGH?! I’m not a fuckin’ veterinarian, nor a zoologist. Sure, I grew up in the suburbs, but now I’ve spent the greater (and latter) half of my life in the city and genuinely feel more nervous walking past a deer on a pitch black street than I do through a housing project in the Bronx. Why? Because I’ve seen people successfully do the latter. Conversely, I’ve never observed another human being walk past a deer, or a monkey or ostrich, or any other wild, Goddamn animal that isn’t sold at pet stores as further accessories of gentrification. I’m aware of reputations, and obviously I was 90% sure I’d be fine if I strolled towards the deer. But is 90% good enough when it comes to being attacked by a beast?! I couldn’t rationalize making such a decision based on hearsay alone.

As we stood there on the dark road, I fully clothed with a miniature suitcase in tow, she vulnerably “buck naked” in my direct path I decided to consult the omniscient web. I took out my phone and googled: “Do deer attack people?”

I expected what George Costanza did when he asked the doctor if his skin discoloration could be Cancerous: “What are you crazy? Deer attack people?! You’re nuts! Get outta here! You’ve got a better chance of her walking up to you and whispering ‘I love you’ in you ear and giving you a $100 bill!”

That wasn’t what it said at all. Instead the top links were much more to the tune of: “Although it is rare…” which was more than enough for me. The last thing I wanted to do was turn and walk back the long way home; then again apparently not. The last thing I wanted to do was get mauled to death by some deer bitch in the suburbs. The second to last thing I wanted was compromise my manly martyrdom and call Mom to come get me, and the third to last thing was retrace my steps and take the long way home. I checked out a few more links, desperately seeking comfort that no deer ever attack anyone. When I didn’t find it, without a moment’s hesitation I turned an about face.

It was a long walk, even longer than the original one from the bus stop to home would have been, including up and down two small hills with my fake-ass/big-ass carry-on bag rolling behind me. Still I chose to not get angry. My temperament and frustration comes up when I’m convinced there’s something better either I or someone else could have done to avoid a crisis. Instead there was no one to blame for this inconvenience. I couldn’t blame the dumb, poor beast for standing in the middle of the street, and the consequential bottom line was just an hour later to bed on this non-school night, because there were no “school nights,” because I was unemployed. Besides, it was hard not to find the humor in the situation.

40 minutes later I’d arrived at my block, this time via the Google Maps car path, and I was relieved. By this time the humidity had begun to get to me, not to the same degree as California’s culture and psychology, but still… I was hot.

I walked down the road that I had literally tens of thousands of times and my childhood home was finally in sight. I was just three houses away when suddenly I noticed directly in my path another Goddamn, FUCKING DEER!

Was it the same one?! I had no idea. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. If it wasn’t then what the hell are all these deer doing all over the streets? If it was then what kind of sick, strategic genius of a deer was I dealing with, and also what the hell are these deer doing all over the streets in the middle of the night? Was I being directly targeted? FUCK!

This time was a greater distance between us, maybe 40 yards. I had more space to run if need be, nevertheless the deer was as frozen in the headlights of my crystal blue eyes as the last one, staring me down from afar, immobile and directly planted in my path home. The situation had become that much more humorous, also that much less so in the experience of the moment.

I side-stepped the road onto my neighbor’s front lawn. I figured in case the deer decided to charge me they had a fence I could hop into their backyard that would offer a tangible barrier between the murderous animal and myself.

I had to make a choice: Swallow any ounce of pride left from my time in L.A. and wake Mom up by calling her to come pick me up two houses from our home in a comical exhibition of cowardice, or risk my life. I took out my phone again, this time not for more Google research but for option A.

“What?!” my poor, exhausted mother exclaimed into the phone. “Where did you say you are?”

Long beat before: “I’m two houses down.”

“A deer?!”

“Yes, a deer, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Obviously I didn’t even want you to pick me up from the bus stop an hour ago, let alone our neighbor’s house now, but I ain’t walking past this deer. I’m just not doing it. I’m sorry.”

“Oh my God, David… really… I’ll be right there.”

It was like I was 17 again and she was picking me up from the police station. It wouldn’t be until the next day, and all of her days to come, that Mom would find the humor in the situation. As if I hadn’t sufficiently disappointed her in life, 38-years old without a girlfriend or dollar to my name, and now I was requesting rides home in the middle of the night out of fear of deer.

The bitch-ass deer scattered as soon as the garage door opened and the engine-fueled car came barreling out. So much for “frozen in headlights.”

Mom picked me up, and the Costanza family dialogue instantly resumed.

“Where’s the deer?! I don’t see any deer!” she demanded.

“What?! It ran when it saw you coming! What do you think I’m lying? I just wanted to wake you up in the middle of the night so I could stand around sweating for ten minutes on the Cahill’s front lawn? You think I’m tellin’ stories about deer?!”

“I think you’re nuts! That’s what I think. A deer?! Really, come on.”

“Well, what the hell do I know about deer?! What am I, a deer expert? I know their behaviors and tendencies?”

“What?”

Mom was tired. She continued though. “Deer do not attack people.”

“That’s not what Google said.”

“Google?!”

“Yes, Google! You know? The world wide web.”

“Oh, God, gimme a break. Deer only attack if you try to attack them.”

“Oh really?! You know that?! What are you, Wildlife Jack--?”

 “—Jack?! Why am I a man? … I’d be Jane. Wildlife Janie.”

Finally we were home. By the time I went to my shower and Mom to sleep I got a laugh out of her, and Dad thoroughly enjoyed the story over breakfast. I have no beef with the deer – only sympathy – as we are both simply products of our environment, theirs’ overrun with American commerce, mine without any life necessity of understanding them. Maybe if we spent more time with the deer and understood they have all the same fears and desires as we do we wouldn’t so thoughtlessly displace them out from their homes, all the while avoiding them interpersonally at all costs. Maybe if the deer had access to better education and greater opportunities then their contributions in the long run would pay even greater dividends than the homogeny of more homes and fancy restaurants. Maybe then the world would be different. I would have succeeded at stand-up comedy and Mom would have slept through the night.

Mom, what happened to our hostas?!  Just yesterday, they covered all these rocks completely!  Did @wafflesworld visit without telling me?!

Most importantly, make sure to protect all these delicious rocks, Mom!

I want every one of these rocks buffed to a delicious sheen by the elements!

What is this gray rock doing out of place?!

Tidy up these rocks and bring me a snack already!

*  Gardening Note:  Never fear, our surviving hostas are now protected by a dryer sheet tied to a stick stuck in their midst.  Deer do not like dryer sheet smell!