There's a Hair in My Dirt

or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate the Deer

The other day, I was at the pottery wheel in the early morning, and paused while more than a dozen deer moved across my back lawn. It was peaceful and majestic. Fawns linger close—males with full antlers, the velvet newly worn off. The does stay close to the little ones, eye out for predators. Then, almost in unison, they all unceremoniously went to the bathroom.

You know how I’ve joked before that the deer use my yard as their toilet? Ends up it wasn’t a joke. Apparently, if someone feeds the deer (my neighbor), the herd will use an adjacent property (apparently, my yard) as its latrine.

There is no native grass to speak of in this neighborhood because the deer have infiltrated and gobbled it all up. Without the lush green weeds of spring (which were in full masquerade bloom when we moved in), my yard is a complete and total dust bowl from the insatiable appetite of the deer.

A dust bowl dotted with hundreds of piles of deer poop that my dog loves to roll in, leaving a cloud of brown haze in his wake.

A partial gallon of coyote pee later, and we’ll see if that keeps the perpetual poopers at bay. I’m not that upset about the grass because nobody in Texas wants a big, lush lawn to water, and there are (seemingly) some native options that are deer-resistant. But as much as I love seeing deer everywhere, the piles of poop, however, are a problem.

Now I know people love to feed wild animals. The romance of it can’t be denied. We all want to be Cinderella with the animals flying towards us as we sing, dance, and make fairytale merry, so the urge to feed is instinctive. I understand, too (on some level), the want of hunters to feed the deer near where they hunt. However, people should not really be feeding wild animals. (Writes the woman who feeds the birds and has basically built a smorgasbord for the neighborhood cats out her front door.) All hypocrisy aside, the deer that weeks ago brought me joy have now turned into an irritant that views my view as nothing more than a puppy pad.

Gary Larson, the artist behind the cartoon The Far Side, wrote a fabulous children’s book more than 25 years ago called There’s a Hair in My Dirt. It’s a totally twisted take on how humans idealize nature and not always in the best way. I won’t give away the punch line that’s tied to the title, but it’s the story of one woman’s simplified misunderstanding of the ecosystem (snakes bad, mice good), and one young worm’s life lesson about all things organic. I know we all love the notion of Bambi, but the truth is that little tear soaked orphan brings poop and ticks, and when too many of them are concentrated, they deplete the landscape at an alarming rate. Plus, my current garden is a teeny tiny space locked behind chain link to keep the bastards out. (And I am, if fact, playing the tiniest violin right now.)

With so many unknowns floating around in the ether, this hill seems one worth dying on, if for no other reason than deer-shaped distractions are good. Many moments of my day are spent not watching TV news or doom scrolling on my phone, but looking out the window, contemplating my existence in a deer-torn world. Their tyranny is a topic that—even if I can’t control—I can shake a fist at and toss coyote pee toward. (And write about it online without fear of getting fired from my job.)

The deer are my diversion from this moment in history. My own little Punch and Judy show to make light of the deeper issue at hand. If the coyote wee wee works, I’ll be happily viewing the deer taking a leak in someone else’s yard while I admire them from afar.

Here’s hoping the allegory takes.