Every Tuesday night, as we drive home from our classes, my husband sees a deer on the lawn of a particular house. He gets so excited, talking about the incredible coincidence of timing, that puts a deer in the same spot on this lawn, every single Tuesday night. As we round the curve, in the pitch blackness of night, coming towards this house, he will say, “Just wait, there will be a deer on the lawn of this house!” And we round the curve, and sure enough, there’s a deer on the lawn of this house.

“It’s not a real deer, dear; it’s a statue.” I tell him every Tuesday night.

“No, no, its head is moving; it’s a real deer!” he replies every Tuesday night. “There must be something in that lawn that it likes. A salt block or something. That deer likes that lawn for some reason. Something is keeping that deer on that lawn.”

And then I change the subject, and we keep on driving. And he is smiling at the thought of the deer with predictable habits. And because of the deer, and its predictable habits, and the smile, he will reach out and scratch my head. It’s the best part of the drive home, every Tuesday night.

I love having my head scratched. It feels wonderful. No wonder the cats love it.

In a way, he’s right. You know, about something keeping that deer on that lawn. I know what it is, too.

Spikes.

It’s a bobble-head deer statue. The kind hunters use for target practice. I drive that road in the daylight and I see it daily. It’s a bobble-head deer statue.

I hope he never finds out.