Deer-hunting season has started. I know, because of the complete and total absence of deer. The herd of seven that have been snacking on my saplings, my garden and my lawn every morning and evening for the last 11 months have disappeared to who knows where.

For every tree and bush I cage, there are three that go missing. I don’t care what people say – there is nothing that deer won’t eat.

“Rhododendrons! The leaves are poisonous, and the deer won’t touch them.” They touched mine right down to the ground. It also seemed to increase their fertility.

“Human hair. Ask your barber for all the hair he clips and hang it in nylon bags around your property.” The deer ate the hair and the bags.

“Kitty litter. Spread it around your garden.” I think it attracts them. My herd grew by three.

For 11 months, I yell at deer from my back porch. No more than 30 feet away, they ignore me. “Oh, it’s him again. Just keep eating,” they tell one another.

Now they are gone, not to be seen again until hunting season ends. Then they will make up for lost time, stripping the bark from my trees and munching every living, expensive thing that is not indoors.

I know it’s hunting season because of the random and uncomfortably close bangs and pops I hear while working in the yard. Some days I feel as if I’m living next door to a Civil War re-enactment – not a skirmish, but a huge battle, a Shiloh, a Gettysburg. I wonder what all the shooting is about, because the only deer still here must be the very few that are deaf. All the others have gone south for the winter.