Dear Mrs. Deer,
Last night you visited my garden. I welcome well-behaved tourists but eating every bud on seven rose bushes is piggish. Shame on you!
The lady of the house, usually delighted to see one of your kin, is not a happy camper. Her mandate to me is, “Terminate with extreme prejudice.” We have been watching the buds on the Mr. Lincoln rose, waiting for the stunning display of a full bloom.
The man at the big box store sold me a deer repellent product that smells like a mix between dog pooh freshly smashed into tennis shoe treads, warm rotten eggs, and 3-day old vomit. I nearly did.
The expected result, should you return for additional snacking, is a gastronomic disturbance of such degree you will wade into hopelessness, dive into despair, and end it all with a 5 p.m. westbound run in an eastbound lane of I-40.
I hope the roses were tasty.