Contrary to a theory held by my mother and myself—that all the deers must have died off this terrible snowy winter—at least a handful of them have clearly survived, as proved by the fact that they showed up on our lawn this evening (note that we now actually have a lawn again, rather than an arctic wasteland, so things are looking up vis-a-vis the progression of seasons). We were eating dinner at the time, but were alerted to their presence by Rascal's very distinct there-is-a-large-unfamiliar-animal-on-my-property barks and ran to see. It was all delight and admiration for a moment or two—it's been a while since we saw any of the noble princes of the forest, not like a couple years ago when they were more common than squirrels. But when I saw the biggest one dip its head to start nibbling—nay, chomping—on the delicate shoots of a day-lily, I was all "sorry, family, but it's time for me to run these varmints off!"
Harvey was very impressed by my display of deer-discouragement (not that it takes much to scare off deers...). So much so that, once we were settled back at the dinner table, he reprised the scene as is his wont these days. You know, like whenever one of his parents stubs a toe or something and lets slip a mild ejaculation, he can't let it go and spends the next ten minutes gleefully chanting "Dada: Ow! Dada say, Ow!" "No Rascal eat the compost!" still makes an occasional appearance, even though it was a couple days ago that he heard it from Mama. This time, though, he wasn't so sure about the nature of the creatures that were receiving the reproach:
"No camels eat the plants!"
See, Harvey, that's the problem with getting all your learning from books.