Walking with Deer

I should be in Northern California right now.  No really, I should.  I have the e-ticket to prove it.  Instead I am in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains just minutes away from Shenandoah National Park.  It’s gorgeous here.  I highly recommend that you stop by if you have an opportunity, but no offense to the great Commonwealth of Virginia, this isn’t where I planned to be.

However, circumstances were such that the trip to California couldn’t happen, and I needed to go somewhere by car and somewhere quiet where I could work on my next book.  The Shenandoah Valley fit the bill.

I’m staying on the top of a mountain, and as soon as I was settled in, I made some friends: two juvenile white-tailed deer, Domino and Dixie. Yes, I named them.  And for the record, their mother’s name is Mrs. D. (for Mrs. Deer—I was tired when that name came to mind.)

I’m not such a city slicker that I don’t see deer on a fairly regular basis.  However, most of my encounters have been near death experiences as the animal jumps in front of my car on the highway.

Trust me; these deer are different—more like dogs with hooves than everyday deer.  Each day between writing and revising, I go for a walk and Domino, Dixie, or both walk, if not with me, at least in the same general direction.  When I walk, they walk.  When I stop, they stop.  I’m completely charmed by them and wished I could bring them home.  Not sure, what the cats would think about that one.

I never seriously considered adopting them, of course.  They are much happier and safer here than they’d be in the Ohio suburbs with me.  I’m just glad to have met them, and I never would have had I’d gone to California.

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