missing tulips

I bought the bulbs on a whim—the exterior tag promised reddish-purple blooms, which felt like a balm against dreary spring days. We carried them to the back of the house, toward the base of the big tree. Intrigued, my son asked, “Where do they go?” “Anywhere we want,” I replied. 

We decided on two spots neatly spaced across each split of the trunk. Gripping the handle, I jumped on the step of the shovel and used my body weight to lunge the tip into the ground. Slowly, the crumby dirt turned over to reveal rich, black soil. An earthworm wiggled out of the way. We placed the potted roots into the holes, then carefully patted the clumps of dirt back into place. We admired our work, eager to see a dash of color from the kitchen window.

Instead, they disappeared a few days later, their heads neatly snapped away from the sturdy green shoots. “The deer ate your tulips,” said my husband.  

I shouldn’t have been surprised. A small herd often traipses through the yard, usually at dusk, to nibble on foliage from the wooded ravine. Sometimes, a fawn tags along, bumbling and slow, as the doe stands alert, watching and waiting. Once, half-asleep, I opened the front door at four in the morning to let the dog out, and as he stepped into the grass, he yelped. We both froze, startled at the sight of another deer only a few steps away. 

Google tells me to replant with deterrents in mind: a bar of soap hung nearby, cayenne pepper sprinkled, a gleaming windmill to distract. Without them, it’s completely pointless—they will be snatched up every time.

Later, we refill the bird feeder with seed. The next day, she stands again, white tail flapping, nose casually nudging the container until it empties in full. 

This was mine, her cool eyes seem to say. You’re just a guest here.