. . . with deer carcasses complete.

It seemed like every story I heard on the CBC today was about animals. The plight of dogs in India. Urban deer wounded or dead by crossbows in Victoria. Cats across the country targeted by songbird-fanciers with slingshots and murderous determination. Puffin chicks in peril and one guy’s plan to help them survive. And cats again, colour-coded and organised in a matchmaker program designed to get them into homes that fit their personalities: party animal green, lapcat companion orange, shy and independent purple–and all that in an effort to (very, very, very nicely) point out that y’all should not go trying to match the four-leggeds with your furnitures and then wonder what went wrong. Idiot.

The first story I turned off because I didn’t want to think about being caught by iron tongs and dumped outside city limits to starve to death click. Busy driving my heated leather cushioned car to morning yoga, picking the right windshield wiper speed to keep the rain off, going over how to handle the family today.

So the local urban deer are getting shot with crossbows and apparently a head was found, and some severed hooves, and a skinned carcass; this, that, the other. Reminds me of the Pickton evidence, a bucket of blood here, a dildo gun there, love and care and skin and hair, that’s what little boys are made of. The story pops up every so often, because, you know, the deer are a real nuisance here in paradise. So it would be a good idea to take them out before they take over our hard-won land and eat up all the good stuff! Hell we can take the opportunity to give our boys a lesson or two in hunting. Never mind those dumb animals running off back into the bush with arrows through their necks and heads. It was a good shot, son, and you’ll do even better next time when we leave the practice arrows at home.

The best response to the Deer Problem was the caller about a year ago calling from somewhere up in the Kootenays I believe pointing out that all that swivel-eared venison trotting around heartily getting used to things is no doubt attracting quite a few large predators, and it’s actually a race now to see who gets them first. YUP, that caller just ran over a cougar with his truck just the other day, in fact, which goes to show you. Are we really going to let that sort of riffraff into our towns now, too?

. . .

So when is the revolution?

Here, deer, this is for you. And you, dear ones: dear son, dear man. When you fall down, pick yourself up please and try again.

Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’d
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, bright
Toward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute;
Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel,
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damaetas lov’d to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
Now thou art gon, and never must return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When first the White thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.

from “Lycidas,”
by John Milton

. . . there is always more to say, but for now:

Paradise now 18
Peter Bialobrzeski