So, back to town I went.
An hour later I finally had everything and, as the sun was setting, I headed back home for real.
Only problem: I was driving on a stretch of the back road home where I've met suicidal deer. That stretch of road make me nervous. Especially since over nine months after cataract surgeries, my eyes are even more light sensitive than before the surgeries. I now see tendrals off every light. And a lot of high-contrast, light-colored objects. The tendrils remind me of that dancing pose John Travolta made famous on the "Saturday Night Fever" movie poster back in the '70s.
Because of the light sensitivity and TravoltaTendrils, I slow down and I'm super aware of my surroundings when night driving.
I'm also as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.
Sure enough, just about the same spot in the road (I refer to it as the "Deer Xing"), I saw a huge, majestic deer. I say "he" because his antlers seemed to span the width of the road.
He looked as if he was contemplating the meaning of life, and his place in the world--or at least I got the feeling he wanted to be somewhere else.
Like accross the road.
Hoping to avoid an unplanned meeting, I slammed on my brakes.
Luckily I was not speeding. And no one was close enough for my brake-slamming quick stop to cause an accident.
Amazingly, the deer stayed planted where he was.
In fact, nary a muscle, nor antler twitched. Multiple deer whistles on the grille of my SUV must have effectively warned him of my approach.
Of course, as I passed him, I realized the deer whistles had absolutely nothing to do with his immobility.
He was not only not moving--he was not living.
And he did not have antlers.
In fact, I would be surprised if he had ever identified as a he/him/his.
An hour later I finally had everything and, as the sun was setting, I headed back home for real.
Only problem: I was driving on a stretch of the back road home where I've met suicidal deer. That stretch of road make me nervous. Especially since over nine months after cataract surgeries, my eyes are even more light sensitive than before the surgeries. I now see tendrals off every light. And a lot of high-contrast, light-colored objects. The tendrils remind me of that dancing pose John Travolta made famous on the "Saturday Night Fever" movie poster back in the '70s.
Because of the light sensitivity and TravoltaTendrils, I slow down and I'm super aware of my surroundings when night driving.
I'm also as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.
Sure enough, just about the same spot in the road (I refer to it as the "Deer Xing"), I saw a huge, majestic deer. I say "he" because his antlers seemed to span the width of the road.
He looked as if he was contemplating the meaning of life, and his place in the world--or at least I got the feeling he wanted to be somewhere else.
Like accross the road.
Hoping to avoid an unplanned meeting, I slammed on my brakes.
Luckily I was not speeding. And no one was close enough for my brake-slamming quick stop to cause an accident.
Amazingly, the deer stayed planted where he was.
In fact, nary a muscle, nor antler twitched. Multiple deer whistles on the grille of my SUV must have effectively warned him of my approach.
Of course, as I passed him, I realized the deer whistles had absolutely nothing to do with his immobility.
He was not only not moving--he was not living.
And he did not have antlers.
In fact, I would be surprised if he had ever identified as a he/him/his.
And I am confident he never will.
Because he was not breathing.
And never had been.
He was, in reality, a caged tree with the Travolta Tendrils shooting off the now headlight-lit cage reflectors.
My appointment with the retinal expert next month can not arrive soon enough.
Because he was not breathing.
And never had been.
He was, in reality, a caged tree with the Travolta Tendrils shooting off the now headlight-lit cage reflectors.
My appointment with the retinal expert next month can not arrive soon enough.
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