Run, Bambi, Run

While we’re on the topic of Man vs. Wild, I would like to talk about my man vs. the wild.

And not that I’m keeping score, but the battle board currently reads:

Mother Nature = 6.  Husband = 1.

Do we live in Siberia?  Or Alaska?  Or a small Welsh island?

No.  We live 15 miles from a major metropolitan city with a population of about a million people.

In my husband’s defense, we do live in a forest.  A forest with every creature known to man, for whom our house is the designated Noah’s Ark.

And over the course of this biblical boarding process, I have watched my husband transform into a true military leader.

Someone who creates tactical combat plans over breakfast.

Someone who can stare deeply into a mound of deer shit and tell which way the wind is blowing.

Someone who will protect his family from the fiery encroachment of nature.

At all costs.

BATTLE OF THE BULGE: THE GOPHERS

We have two small grassy areas which we dare to call “lawns.”

It ain’t much, but by god, it’s why we left the city.  Like astronauts on a suburban moon, we staked that soccer net in the ground and proclaimed, “Life!  Liberty!  Lawn!”

But you know who loves our lawn the most?  The gophers.

The goddamn rat bastard gophers who merrily dig tunnels and leave holes.  Over every.  square.  inch.  of.  grass.

Which is when my husband turned into Carl Spackler and went Caddyshack on me.  It was all he could talk about and it was the only battle he won.

No.  It wasn’t through the use of high-powered explosives.

It was noise-makers.  These little solar-powered sticks in the ground that make a horrendous high-pitched noise every time something moves.  They do a great job.

And make eating and playing outdoors really enjoyable.

BATTLE OF MIDWAY INTO THE GARBAGE CAN

The gophers were under control!  Let’s go on the new patio and toast to my husband’s keen analytical mastery of the wild!

And just as we were raising our glasses, we were joined by the cutest family.

Of raccoons.

Who calmly marched their way up to our porch and over to the garbage shed.  Where they were soon joined by the resident skunk.

The General was livid.  But he hadn’t earned this rank for nothing.  Even if it was in the field of Five-Star City Living.

Armed with factoids about the most recent raccoon attacks (did you hear about that lady in Florida!), he surrounded the perimeter of our house with barbed-wire outrage.

Which actually seemed to be working.

Until we came home from dinner one night and found Papa Raccoon sitting on the garbage shed all fat and happy.

The two proceeded to have a staring contest, which my husband lost due to “the lack of a good-sized rock.”

BATTLE OF THE ANTLERS

It was all a school-yard brawl until Bambi came to town and stripped our suburban glory of every last piece of vegetation. Which happened to coincide nicely with the extraction of a deer tick from the Chalupa’s neck.

It was then that my husband started saying things like, “It’s not a crime to trap a deer and turn it over to the authorities.”

“If our kid gets lyme disease, I’m killing it.”

“I’m out hunting.”

As any good military strategist would do, he examined all possible points of entry.  He planted trees along the fence, discussed the artistic fortification of hedges and the possibility of trellising vines.

One Saturday, I awoke at 5am to discover him missing from bed.

He was out casing the property for intruders. With a hockey stick.

For hilarity’s sake, I almost wished that we owned binoculars and a BB gun.  You know.  Something that says, “You with the doe-eyes!  We mean business!”

Because every couple of weeks, our four-legged friend comes on over and helps herself to a big helping of Home Depot’s finest.

And in spite of the raccoons, the skunks, the moles, the scorpion, the possible termite infestation, and the ants that invade our home when it rains, nothing gets the General’s dander up more than this one rogue deer.

Because he’s sure it’s just one.

One lone dick of a deer claiming squatter’s rights.

And during this whole military campaign, I have been the MODEL of wifely support of my husband’s territorial endeavors:

• I made him a WWBGD bracelet.  What Would Bear Grylls Do.
• In preparation for the holidays, we will sing about venison roasting on an open fire.  Not chestnuts.
• I’ve practiced the Genuine & Sincerely Interested Look.
• I’ve perfected the Sympathetic Murmur.
• I’ve participated in his “If Only We Lived In a World Without Deer” dream.

Yes, Mother Nature is in the winner’s circle at the moment, but she better watch her back.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the nine years that I’ve known my husband, it’s that defeat is a term that’s only acceptable when discussing the fate of the Boston Red Sox.

We will triumph.

We might be living in a steel-reinforced bunker 200 feet below ground.

But we will triumph.