Don't you worry, I won't let them shoot you. You can eat my roses. I don't care. I have plenty more behind an eight-foot tall fence.
I saw you when you were a little fawn. I know your mom. I call her "Split Ear" because she has a damaged ear she got fighting with another doe. I saw the wound when it was fresh and bloody. That was before you were born.
I don't know who your sire was, but that autumn I heard antlers clashing in the field behind the deodor cedars and the Afghan pines that were planted in 2001. But I think I know your offspring. I'm not sure.
As long as you stay around here and as long as I am in charge, you will be safe. I'd like to pet you, but I know you wouldn't allow it. You have your dignity, and you are not tame and do not want to be. You are a wild stag, free and proud. In charge of your own fate.
That's as it should be.
