In the fall, deer freely graze on roses at our front door; mother turkey protectively hovers over her tiny poults in our bushes, and our local mountain lion stealthily roams our neighborhood. It was not long ago that I ran into him, almost literally, and this time of year, running reminds me.
On a cloudless autumn day, the hills were a deep indigo, so I decided to run to the top of the hill, near our water tower. The grade is steep—over 10% at least—so running is a term I use loosely. Mostly, I employ a bounce with a slight forward motion, barely detectable at times, especially up hill. At this point, I was a few miles into my jog and near the tower when I heard rustling in the bushes off my left. Some days, especially at dusk, I run free—without ear buds and my iPod—to enjoy the birdsongs and wind. Thankfully, this was one of those days.
I paused to listen further because chaparral on a quiet afternoon is nearly soundless, and just as I stopped, out bounded a herd of six deer. The deer gave me a fleeting glance as they sprang down the path and up the hill. I thought this was a bit unusual; in fact, in that split second of realization that deer generally run away from humans and not towards them, it was nearly too late. I saw him—all 6 feet, 250 pounds of blonde feathery fur, with golden eyes and gigantic paws, and a gaping mouth full of long, shiny teeth. He stared at me. I stared at him. Not sure how long this stare-down lasted, but long enough for me to comprehend he was close enough to pet and I was close enough to devour.
My response, according to the Fish and Game, saved me, i.e. the baring of my teeth. My family often tease me about the largish size of my canines and incisors and of their whiteness, but this time, my teeth paid off. I should say I did not intentionally bare my teeth, rather, I was laughing. “Oh, you’re the reason; that’s why the deer are sprinting,” I think I even muttered this aloud. Normally, I do not laugh in the face of danger.
On his second glance, I understood I needed to exit first, so slowly and steadily I backed down the hill, studying him as I went. Had I turned to run, I would not be writing this. This magnificent cat was merely a larger version of our domesticated kitty, the one who purrs on my lap at night or who attacks my leg as I walk past. Our local mountain lion was after the big chase, and gratefully I am not a swift runner, so I was not enough of a challenge.
Love is Complicated 