Living in a Small Community

As I have said before, my primary purpose in writing this blog is to record my experiences moving to rural Fannin County in the Southern Appalachian Mountains of North Georgia after working for 37 years as a busy trial lawyer in crowded and hectic Pinellas County, Florida. While this blog is a personal narrative my life in retirement, it is primarily the narrative of a being a stranger in a strange land—not quite Green Acres or The Innocents Abroad but close.

There was little in my background to prepare me for life in a county in North Georgia with a population of 24,000 where the largest city boasts about 1,300 residents. I grew up as an Army brat moving from place to place every two or three years and thus had no exposure to small town life. Following college and law school I lived and worked in Pinellas County, Florida, which ranks 54 on the list of the 100 most densely populated counties in the United States. Hillsborough County, across Tampa Bay from Pinellas County, is number 30 on the list. Aside from the difference in population, it is fair to say that the climate and geography of Florida’s Gulf Coast is vastly different than the climate and geography of the Southern Appalachians.

I have lived in Fannin County for a little over two years now. In that time I have experienced and written about many of the differences I have encountered.

Over the past couple of weeks I have been trying to put my finger on the one big difference between where I used to live and where I live now, and I have concluded that it’s not the weather, the roads, the terrain, the wildlife, the distance to the nearest movie theater or the lack of Greek, Thai or Cuban restaurants. Rather, the big difference—the one that has taken the most to get used to—is the size of the community.

Well over 4 million people live in the Tampa Bay area. Over 900,000 of them live in Pinellas County. There are 25 cities and towns in Pinellas County ranging in size from St. Petersburg with a population of over 250,000 to Belleair Shore with just over 100 inhabitants. By contrast, the population of all of Fannin County is only slightly larger than the population of Tarpon Springs, Florida, the sixth largest city in Pinellas County. The population of Blue Ridge, Fannin County’s largest city, is smaller than 24 of Pinellas County’s 25 cities and towns.

In my opinion, it is the small size of the Fannin County community that accounts for the fundamental difference between living here and living in Pinellas County. I suspect it is the universal difference between life in urban and suburban America and life in small town America.

In Pinellas County, except for a small circle of friends, everyone was a stranger. If you didn’t seek out your friends your chances of accidentally bumping into them as you went about your daily activities was minimal. In Fannin County the odds of running into someone you know on a daily basis are pretty good. After all, there are only five primary shopping destinations in Fannin County: Walmart, Home Depot, and three grocery stores.

One ramification of living in a place where there is a good chance of meeting someone you know every time you venture out is that you feel some compulsion to be on good behavior all the time. In Pinellas County you can safely pick your nose or scratch your butt walking across a parking lot with the reasonable assurance that no one you know will see you doing it. Here, you need to be discrete about such things.

In Pinellas County you can make a quick run to the store looking like a slob knowing that there was little likelihood you will meet someone you know. Here, you feel compelled to make sure you look halfway decent or, at the very least, not ridiculous when you go out. I have said this before: you do not see weirdly dressed people in a country Walmart. That is an urban phenomenon.

The last example is tempered by two facts. First, looking decent in Fannin County is not that tough—bib overalls and work boots will do just fine. If your jeans are dirty you can always say that you were working in the garden or cutting fire wood. Second, unless you are one of the few people who actually live in town, there is no such thing as a quick run to the store. We live about ten miles from Blue Ridge and have to travel over hill and dale to get there.

Make an ass out of yourself in a public place in Fannin County, there is a fair possibility that the entire county is going to know about it in a few days. Make an ass out of yourself in Pinellas County and you fit right in—everyone thinks you’re just another tourist from up north.

Another thing that’s different about living in a small community is that strangers tend to show up again. If you’re rude to a stranger in Pinellas County you’re probably never going to encounter that person again. If you’re rude to someone you don’t know in Fannin County there is a fair chance that you will run into that person again and, just possibly, that person could be a clerk at the motor vehicle department or a sheriff’s deputy or someone else whose cooperation you need. The saying is that what goes around comes around. In Fannin County it has a tendency to come around quicker and more often.

The other thing that’s different about living in small community is that the degrees of separation are fewer. They say that every person in the world is separated from every other person in the world by only six degrees of separation. In Fannin County that number is probably three. Everyone seems to be related to or at least know everyone else. It’s a tight knit community and that means that word gets around. You need to remember that.

So, what does all of this mean? It means that it’s pretty hard to feel like an anonymous, isolated, unconnected speck of humanity in a small community because you are constantly reminded of your connection with others. It means that when you live in a small community (unless you really don’t give a damn) you feel some pressure to conform to the mores and folkways of the community. It means that you need to be sociable to at least some minimal degree if you are to have any hope of fitting in. If you’re a crabby ass son-of-a-bitch who constantly treats people like crap you probably should not move to small town America.

Living in a small community is not for everyone. Some may find it too close and confining. Others may prefer the anonymity and diversity of an urban environment. I’ll be honest—it took me a little while to adapt and shed some of the attitude that I brought with me. The good news is that if I can do it anyone can.

Welcome to 2016

I’m afraid I missed last week’s post. I was too busy with the holidays to find time to write one.

We certainly had a great time over the holidays at the Yacavone household. It may have been the best Christmas ever. Jake and Mike were able to be here for a long time, and that’s about all it takes to make it a wonderful Christmas for Meredith and me.

I wish the two boys could be here longer but I’m thankful the holidays are over. I’ve reached the point where I’m looking forward to returning to a normal weekly routine. I’ve imbibed too much holiday cheer, eaten too much rich food, nibbled on too many sweets and spent too much time on the couch watching too many football games. I feel like giant three-toed sloth. A return to normal eating and sleeping and a regular routine will be good for me.

This is my third Christmas in the country. There is something different about spending Christmas in the country. The most obvious difference is that you cannot hop into your car and conveniently do last minute shopping at a nearby mall. The nearest mall to us is over an hour away on the outskirts of Atlanta. This means that you have to plan ahead to do your holiday shopping. You also spend a lot of time waiting for the UPS or FedEx truck to come down the gravel lane.

The great thing about living in the country is that you can give gifts that might not be useful or appropriate in the city or the suburbs—things like rifles and handguns, ammunition, survival gear, work gloves, more ammo, large knives, hand warmers, thick socks, camouflage clothing and more ammo. Imagine Ted Kaczynski sitting in front of a fireplace playing an album of Christmas songs sung by the Branch Davidian Boys’ Choir entitled “A Ruby Ridge Christmas”, and you’ll have the general idea. 

But for me the real difference between spending the holidays in the country versus the city or the suburbs is the weather. I am more aware of the weather here than I ever was when I lived in a suburban Pinellas County. One obvious reason that’s true is because I spend a lot more time outdoors now, and thus the weather has a greater effect on my daily activities.

But another reason I am more aware of the weather now is because I can actually see more of it. When I look out my front window I’m not looking at the front of my neighbor’s house across the street. I’m looking across a wide field at mountains that are miles way. That means that I have an unobstructed view of weather conditions. When it snows I see acres of white stuff. When it’s windy I’m watching an entire hillside of tall trees bending and weaving in the wind. When it rains I can hear it beating in the woods and see the sheets of rain blow across the fields. If the saying “out of sight, out of mind” is true, so is the converse.

Whatever the reason, Christmas in the country feels less commercial and superficial and more genuine.

Speaking of the weather, it was not that good this holiday season. Like most everywhere else in the southeastern United States we’ve received an excessive amount of rain in the last month. The ground around here is soaked. It squishes under your feet. There have been a number of mudslides off steep road banks. The creeks, streams and rivers have been running full and dirty, and some of them have overtopped their banks. I spoke to one old boy who has lived here all his life, and he told me this this is the most rain over the longest period of time he has ever seen. I’m just thankful we have not had a big wind storm. When the ground is this soaked it doesn’t take a lot of wind to topple large trees.

It has  been an unusually warm winter so far. No one is complaining about that but we’re all worried that the temperature will plummet in January and turn the county into one giant ice ball from until spring. The rain is miserable but ice storms are horrible. Maybe I’ll get to ride out a blizzard this winter. I haven’t done that since my college days in Pennsylvania.

Thanks to one of my Christmas presents I don’t think I will be having a deer problem in the garden anymore. I received an electric fence charger that’s rated for 50 miles of wire. There’s a little over one mile of wire around my garden so it should have enough juice to make a deer think twice about entering the forbidden garden zone. I was apprehensive when Jake and I hooked the new charger up and turned on the power. I was half expecting a giant bolt of electricity to spark out from the wire and fry me on the spot. If this doesn’t keep the deer away then it’s time to throw in the towel.

I also received a trail camera. I can mount it wherever I want, and it will take photos of creatures that come within its range. I think I’m going to mount it in the garden first to see if the new electric fence charger is effective. If I don’t get any photos of deer or find charred deer carcasses on the fence perimeter then I’ll know the deer problem is solved. After that I’m going to mount it somewhere near the house to discover once and for all what sort of critter comes creeping around in the night.

That’s all there is to report this first week of 2016 so I’ll sign off for this week.

I'm Going to College

The Christmas season is upon us here in the North Georgia mountains, and things are pretty quiet. This is the Bible Belt, and the local population is predominantly Christian and very traditional. They take Christmas seriously. It is time for family and friends, good cheer, holiday greetings, carols, crèches with the little baby Jesus and the three wise men, Christmas morning church services, and Santa Claus. Things slow down around here this time of year. As a consequence, there is not much to report.

I’ve been feeling a little restless lately so I decided I needed new activity. I am going back to college. That’s a slight exaggeration but I have signed up to take a college level course at the University of North Georgia (UNG).

UNG recently opened a branch campus here in Fannin County. Campus may be an overstatement. The campus is actually a small office suite with one classroom. The winter semester consists of five freshman level courses and one sophomore level course, and I have signed up for the sophomore level political science course entitled Global Issues.

I majored in political science with an emphasis on international relations in college so I figure a course in global issues is right up my alley. I realize my prior studies may be a little dated (not to mention foggy) since I went to college back at the end of the Viet Nam era when international relations focused on the Cold War and relations between the U.S., Russia and China. Still, I expect that I have paid way more attention to world affairs over the course of my lifetime than your average 19-year-old.

I also suspect I have other advantages over a typical college student. I actually learned to read and write in an era before twitter and instant text messaging. I spent most of my life in a career that required critical analysis, the capacity to think logically and marshal arguments and the ability to communicate effectively. Most importantly, I believe I have reached the point in life where I know my ass from a hole in the ground. I thought I did when I was college-aged (as did we all) but now know I was sadly mistaken.

My biggest concern is that the professor will be a frappuccino-sipping, Birkenstock-wearing, liberal commie pinko intent on promoting a progressive new world order who believes in gun control, the United Nations, open borders and Al Gore and who opposes the idea of American exceptionalism, nation-states and carpet bombing. And if that son-of-a-bitch bad mouths the American military, we’re going to get it on. Oh, I forgot to tell you that I intend to be open-minded and non-judgmental when I take the course.

The class starts the second week of January. I’m looking forward to showing up in my newly purchased University of North Georgia t-shirt (Go Nighthawks!) and getting educated. I’ll let you know how it goes.

This is my last post before Christmas. I hope all of you have a Merry Christmas.

“Christmas in Dixie” by Alabama

By now in New York City, there's snow on the ground

And out in California, the sunshine's falling down.

And, maybe down in Memphis, Graceland's all in lights

And in Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight.

Christmas in Dixie, it's snowin' in the pines.

Merry Christmas from Dixie, to everyone tonight.

It's windy in Chicago, the kids are out of school.

There's magic in Motown, the city's on the move.

In Jackson, Mississippi, to Charlotte, Caroline

And all across the nation, it's the peaceful Christmas time.

Christmas in Dixie, it's snowin' in the pines

Merry Christmas from Dixie, to everyone tonight

And from Fort Payne, Alabama

God bless y'all, we love ya.

Happy New Year, good night,

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas tonight

To which I would add:

And from Mineral Bluff, Georgia 

God bless y'all, we love ya.

Happy New Year, good night,

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas tonight.

It's a Bear Dear

The mystery of the dead possum and the dead deer has been explained but a small question remains in my mind. In a prior post I recounted how I found a dead possum with bloody teeth marks on its neck beside my house next to a heavy wooden pallet that had been dragged out from under the outdoor shower. A few weeks later I described finding a dead deer with bloody teeth marks on its neck hanging from a wire fence at the border of my property.

A man who has lived in this area for some time told Meredith the culprit was a bear. He said that bites on the neck of a dead animal are characteristic of a bear, and he pointed out where the bear’s claws or teeth had left marks on the wooden pallet. His theory on the possum is that the bear chased the possum under the pallet and then pulled the pallet out to get at the possum. His theory about the deer is that the bear bit it on the neck after it got hung up on the fence.

In the absence of any other reasonable explanation (which rules out aliens, chupacabras and other-worldly spirits) I am accepting this explanation for these curious incidents though I have a lingering question why the bear bit the deer but didn’t eat part of it. Bears are omnivores, and I would think a young, dead deer hanging from a fence would be a tempting midnight snack for a bear.

All of this prompted me to do a little internet research to find out more about bears in this area. According to the Wildlife Resources Division of the Georgia Department of Natural Resources we have black bears around here. Their scientific name is Ursus Americanus which is a whole lot better than Ursus Syrian Terrorist or Ursus Bernie Sanders. The black bear population in Georgia is estimated to be more 5,100. This seems too few to me given the number of bear stories I’ve heard since moving here.

The typical life span of a bear is about 8 to 15 years. Adult bears are generally up to six feet in length and about three feet high at the shoulder. Presumably that’s when they are on all fours. If not, then they’re short little fuckers, and it’s no wonder I haven’t seen one. Female adult bears can weigh up to 300 pounds and adult males can weigh over 500 pounds. Bears have poor eyesight but an excellent sense of smell. They are good tree climbers, can swim well and are able to run at speeds of up to 30 miles per hour. I imagine a 500 pound beer with poor eyesight running at 30 miles an hour is a menace to himself as well as others. Think of Mr. Magoo with the bulk of a Sumo wrestler and the speed of Usain Bolt.

As for bears’ eating habits: “Bears are considered omnivorous meaning their diet consists of whatever is readily available at that time of year. (Sounds a lot like Rosie O’Donnell.) Diets vary according to what part of the state the bear calls home. However, the majority of their natural diet consists of berries, fruits, acorns, grasses and animal matter, including insects or mammals-even deer.”

Finally, the website assured me that there are no recorded bear attacks on humans in Georgia, and no fatalities (which would seem to follow from the fact there were no attacks), while in the entire Southeastern United States there have only been two documented fatal black bear attacks. According to another website there have been only 52 recorded fatal black bear attacks in North America in the last 100 years. I could not find data on non-fatal bear attacks.

So it seems to me that your odds of getting killed by a black bear are way lower than your odds of being killed by an Islamic terrorist. That’s not a very comforting conclusion when you think about it. Click here for a list of all known fatal black bear attacks so you can check whether anyone you know is on the list.

Just for the hell of it, I researched what other animals accounted for human fatalities in the U.S. The annual average of deaths from bees, wasps and hornets is 58, from dogs is 28 and from cows is 20 people according to one website.

I was a little surprised at the figure for cows. They seem so non-lethal. Yet, another website informed me that “herds of cows on British farms have killed 74 people in the past 15 years.” For some perverse reason I find that humorous. Maybe it’s the fact that English cows kill in herds. I guess they have a lot cow stampedes on British farms. If I ever visit England I’ll be sure not to sign up for the visit to a working English dairy farm. These statistics give me a whole new perspective on Ol’ Bessie. 

It turns out that deer are the real people killer in the U.S. The U.S. Department of Transportation estimates that white-tailed deer kill around 130 Americans each year by causing car accidents. In 1994 there were 211 human deaths in car wrecks caused by deer. This only confirms my view of deer (which I acquired since moving here). Far from the cute animals that Walt Disney would have us believe, they are obnoxious rat-faced pests who will destroy your garden, eat your shrubbery and, if given a chance, take your life by jumping in front of your car.

So, to get back on topic, it appears I have a bear or two in the neighborhood. We were told as much by people in the area. I thought, however, that bears stayed away from our property due to the number of barking farm dogs in the neighborhood. Obviously that’s not the case so I’m going to be more cautious when I let the dogs go out to pee at night.

Having bears roaming your property at night is not the type of problem one generally encounters in cities and modern suburbia. I guess you can chalk that up as another reason living in the country is a different experience. I’ll tell you this: I’d rather worry about a bear or two visiting the property than random drive-by shootings, home intrusions, kids hawking magazine subscriptions and religious fanatics distributing tracts.

Country Dogs and Creek Indians

We suffered a deluge last week—five inches of rain in two days as recorded by the rain gage attached to the flagpole in my front yard (from which proudly wave Old Glory and the Marine Corps Flag). This is a mountainous country, and there are many streams, creeks and rivers. To get from our cabin to Blue Ridge we have to cross a couple of creeks and one river, and they were running full, fast and muddy because of the rain. I understand why many people think the phrase “God willing and the creeks don’t rise” refers to flood waters. I certainly did.

However, I was told recently that the correct phrase is “God willing and the Creek don’t rise.” The Creek in this case refers to a Southeastern Indian tribe that battled with the early settlers. Davy Crockett and Andrews Jackson fought the Creek Indians in the Red Stick War. You’d know that if you are old enough and watched Davy Crockett on the Walt Disney Show in the early 1960s.

There is some controversy among etymologists over the origin of the phrase. If it’s true that the phrase actually refers to the Creek Indians that makes it even cooler in my estimation. While I consider myself a seeker of the unvarnished truth, in the case I’m going to make an exception. I like the Indian tribe derivation of the phrase so much that I’m going to believe it is true no matter what.

Now on to a totally untreated subject—country dogs. If you have dreams of living in the country, then you need to know about country dogs.

Real country men like their dogs. When I say real country men, I’m talking about men who were born and raised in the country—men with rusting cars and broke down washing machines and riding lawnmowers in their yards; men who hunt and make deer sausage, have Skoal rings on the back pockets of their jeans and wear work boots; men who watch NASCAR, drive four-wheel drive pickup trucks with NRA stickers in the window, wear faded baseball caps that are frayed from use and hate cats.

You won’t catch real country men with dogs like Shiatzus, Pugs or Chihuahuas. Real country men only own dogs that are large, scary and loud. I don’t know much about dog breeds, but I’m told some of the dogs owned by real country men are recognizable breeds. If I had to guess, I would think they can be found in dog books in the sections devoted to mean, vicious and dangerous dogs. Others seem to be a cross between the Canine genus and other creatures like wolves, hyenas and the hounds of hell. It’s the long, yellow, dripping canine incisors that give them away.

I know this because I have worked the annual Fannin County rabies clinic for the last two years. This is an event where dog owners can get a low cost rabies shot for their dogs. It brings out the dog owners who live in lonely rural homesteads and down isolated gravel roads.

Some of the dogs that you encounter at the rabies clinic are absolutely frightening. When you see a dog in a cage built from reinforced half-inch rebar you know it’s not to be messed with. If you try to pet one of these dogs the odds are that you're going to be missing a few finger or your arm. When these dogs look at you it’s obvious they are calculating how much food value you represent. They’re dogs that use two by fours as chew toys and are capable of opening cans of dog food without help.

It seems that real country men are not content to own one or two of these dogs. From what I can tell they’re not happy unless they own a pack of them. They’re not house dogs. They’re yard dogs which at a minimum means they are tethered with a thick anchor chain connected a thick iron stake pounded into the ground. They’re outside all night keeping the property safe.

The common characteristic of these dogs is that they bark and howl with voices that carry over three mountain ridges. If you move to the country be prepared for the fact that on any given night, often multiple times a night, all the dogs in a several mile radius will start barking and howling. It begins with one set of dogs and then the whole choir starts in. I figure that some nighttime critter like a bear, deer or bobcat sets them off.

It’s something you just going to have to get used to when you live in the country. There’s nothing you can do about it. If you call the local sheriff’s department and complain about the noise you’ll be placed on the suspected pinko communist watch list. If you say something to your neighbor about the barking he’ll look at you like you’re some citified sissy and never talk to you again.

The good thing is that when you live in the country your neighbors are not right next door so the barking dogs are usually some distance from you. After a while you get used to the noise. Over time you feel comforted by the thought that the nighttime howling is scaring away animals that are even scarier than the dogs doing the howling.

I think the reason that real country men like country dogs is because they are tough, macho companions instead of prissy pampered pets. They can stay outdoors in the rain and the snow. They forage for themselves when bored or hungry by catching varmits like moles and field mice and perhaps the occasional small child. They don’t mind laying down in the dirt or drinking water from a creek. They stay at your side all day when you’re working outside except for occasional forays to chase a squirrel or follow up on some smell that trails off into the wood line.

So this is my homage to country dogs and my caution to those who aspire to live in the country.

I'm No Edward R. Murrow

Well, it’s that time of year here in the North Georgia Mountains. Last week I lit a fire in the wood stove for the first time since the end of last winter. The following morning the temperature was 21 degrees at 6:30 am—the first hard frost. The day before yesterday it was 55 degrees at the same hour of the morning, and the daytime temperature rose to almost 70. Yesterday it rained two inches.

This is the season where you can start out the day with ice on your windshield and by noon you’re driving around with your windows open. You don’t know whether to put on shorts or jeans when you get up. I believe the Indians had a descriptive phrase for this time of year. If I’m not mistaken they called it the Moon of the Cold and Flu Season. I think I saw that on TV.

Fortunately, this type of weather won’t last long. Unfortunately, it will be replaced by even worse weather. One day it will get cold and stay there. That occurs during what the Indians called the Moon of this Really Sucks. That’s followed by the Moon of this Really Sucks More, followed by the Moon of Time to Take a Long Florida Vacation.

I mentioned in a prior post that shortly after I got here I was told that the county was run by good old boys who liked things just the way they are and did not take kindly to criticism or new ideas, particularly from newcomers. I’ve also told you about some of my contacts with local officials and about letters to the editor and opinion pieces I’ve authored concerning governmental issues.

More recently I’ve started writing a biweekly guest column for one of the local weekly papers. I’ve had four columns published so far. Three of them dealt with local government affairs. Those of you who live in a metropolitan area and read the newspaper would consider these columns as nothing more than mild commentary on the doings of local officials. I know that I put up with much more pointed criticism as a city attorney in Pinellas County, Florida. Being criticized is just part of the territory when you’re associated with local government. No big deal.

But recently I’ve been told that the game is played differently around here. After the first two columns I wrote were published, I was warned by people friendly to me and familiar with this area that I should exercise more caution in what I say because bad things may start happening to me like harassing traffic stops by the cops and even unexplained house fires.

A warning like that is enough to get your attention, and it certainly got mine. I’ve had a few days to think about it and, frankly, I’m not sure how to take it. I find it hard to believe that in this day and age local politicians or their supporters would use such crude tactics to stifle fair criticism. Things like that may have happened in the past, but anyone resorting to such tactics nowadays could be looking at a criminal or civil rights investigation by statewide agencies or even federal agencies.

By the same token, I have no doubt there are some good old boys in these mountains who still look at the world with 1950 spectacles. Remember that this area was settled by Scotch-Irish and Germans who were a proud, clannish and fiercely independent people. They had a history of clinging to their traditions and resenting outsiders telling them what to do. Many of their descendants have the same independent mindset. Thus, it is not out of the question that a couple of locals could take umbrage at my columns and resort to self-help remedies to me straight.

If there is even a smidgen of truth to these warnings then I have a dilemma—do I keep writing these columns or not?

I won’t lie to you. I enjoy having a public forum for my opinions and observations, and I like the idea of being a backwoods George Will. Furthermore, I don’t mind doing my small part to help make Fannin County a better place. By the same token, common sense and caution tell me that it’s not worth it to be a two-bit crusader for truth, justice and the American way of life in this small, out of the way part of Georgia if it means I’m going to be hassled. Life’s too short and, frankly, this county is not worth it.

On the other hand, I really don’t like the idea of being told what to say, and I’m having fun doing what I’m doing. Maybe I’m being naive, but I really doubt that dire things will happen to me if I keep poking sticks at the local political establishment. I may not be voted Fannin County Man of the Year, but that wasn’t going to happen anyway. So for the time being I intend to keep on doing what I’m doing. Hell, I may even write a column about being warned that bad things may happen.

And that’s all I got to say about that.

The Weirdness Continues

Okay, things are really starting to get weird in Yacavone Land.

I wrote last year about finding the severed foreleg of a deer sticking out of the soil in my garden. Recently I told you about finding a dead possum with puncture wounds in its neck alongside a heavy pallet that had been pulled out from our outdoor shower. There has been another strange incident.

A couple of days ago I was taking our new puppy for a walk to wear his ass out so he wouldn’t be so hyperactive in the evening, and I came across a freshly dead deer hanging from a wire fence at the edge of my property. One of its hind feet was entangled in the wire and—are you ready for this—there were puncture wounds in its neck.

Our dog shied away from the carcass like it was radioactive. I jumped back, said three Hail Marys which is impressive since I’m not Catholic. I’m not ashamed to admit that if I had holy water, a silver bullet, a crucifix and garlic I’d have tried to do a little magic with them also. Hell, I’d have sung Ave Maria if I knew the words. You can’t be too careful. I never let a calm and rational response get in the way of a scream-like-a-wussy, primal fear-laden, superstitious overreaction.

The obvious question is what happened to the deer? The most obvious answer is that the deer caught its leg in the wire fence, fell and broke its neck and something came up afterward and bit its neck. The deer was young so that’s clearly within the realm of possibility. However, this fence is only four feet high. I’ve seen an adult deer clear a six foot fence from a standing start with room to spare. Even my six foot electric fence is not enough to keep the occasional deer out of my garden. Moreover, the fence has been there ever since we bought the property over 20 years ago. I have to assume that deer know about the fence and jump it regularly. Maybe this deer was particularly klutzy but it makes you think.

Moreover, this is not a barbed wire fence. It’s not like the deer was caught in a gill net or anything. The deer’s hind foot was stuck between two strands of plain wire. There’s no way of really knowing but looked to me like a live deer could have pulled its foot out with a few frantic tugs. It’s almost like (and I’m not prepared to say this happened) someone or something hung the deer from the fence.

It’s possible the deer died because of a broken neck as the result of the fall. Obviously, I didn’t do an autopsy so for all I know this deer could have had a heart attack in mid-jump or suffered one of those bad side effects from medication that they warn you about in drug commercials. You know, the ones that rarely happen but sound horrible if they do like anal leakage or man boobs. 

The chances of a deer breaking its neck as the result of falling over a fence seem rather slim to me. I would think that deer are fairly tough. I doubt that they have chicken necks that snap at the slightest trauma. If they did it seems to me that you would have dead deer strewn all over the landscape from running into branches and trees. All I’m saying is that it seems odd to me that a deer would die simply because it fell down after getting its foot caught.

It seems more likely that the deer survived the fall. So then the question becomes how did it die, and I have no clue what the answer is. The puncture wounds in the neck may account for its death. However, even though I’m pretty ignorant of the ways of wildlife, it seems to me that if some animal came along and dispatched the deer by biting it on the neck it would probably be the type of animal that would try to eat the deer. I can understand why such an animal would bite but not eat a possum. Possum probably tastes like bad Korean food. But I would think that deer meat would be high on the food preference chart for any animal with sharp teeth and the cojones to bite a downed deer in the neck.

It’s conceivable that the puncture wounds came from some critter gnawing on the neck after the deer died but that gets us back to questions like what killed the deer and why there was no eating, chewing or flesh tearing involved. While we’re talking about possibilities, another one is that the deer died or the puncture wounds occurred or both things happened before the deer got to the fence. That leads us to the question of what type of animal could kill a deer by biting its neck and then hang it on a fence?

The bottom line is that I’m as clueless about how this happened as John Kerry following a terrorist attack.

One of the reasons I moved here is to be closer to the country and nature. I was thinking more of stuff like butterflies and birds than really weird things like Bigfoots, Chupacabras, Vampires, or bizarre ritualistic animal sacrifice. I  hope we didn’t build our cabin on an old Indian graveyard. I saw that movie.

The next problem I faced was what to do with a dead deer hanging from my fence. There is nothing in my mostly suburban background to prepare me for this. I suppose I could have left it hanging from the fence like some form of Neolithic graffiti but that seemed rather macabre so I decided it would be better to take it down. My oldest son, Jake, and I managed to get the deer off the fence, sever its head and drag the body to a distant part of the property for the vultures to dispose of. We put the severed head on top of a red ant hill in hopes of eventually salvaging the skull.

So there you have it—the latest strange occurrence from the Yacavone homestead. Who said that retirement in the country was going to be boring?