Who will win in the war of gardeners vs. deer?

The opening salvo has been fired. Let the games begin. It was a dark and stormy night. OK, that’s the beginning of a novel I am working on. Actually it was a bright, sunny day in mid-September, and I had just planted enough spring bulbs to make people break into the theme from The Sound of Music. Once they bloomed, the hills would be alive with that sound of music. One look at my luscious, colorful floral garden and people would weep for wooden shoes, windmills and a large plate of Karfluckinluk.

I throw my head back now and laugh like a drug dealer high on meth; laughter resounds at my naivety. For alas, I have one lone tulip that has made it through the winter. It poked its head up through the rough soil last week, wearing an orange-red sweater and yellow-tinted mittens.

Where have all the flowers gone? Did I plant the bulbs in some neighbor’s garden by mistake? Or is there evil lurking behind what some species would consider a salad bar? I notice a few scraps of tulip petals leading away from the house. Hey, I watch a lot of “CSI” and “Law and Order.” Deer, anyone?

I panic, though, for next to my precious tulip, the beginning sprouts of my prize-winning hostas are emerging, and a few other varieties of a classic English garden. OK, that is also part of my novel. There is no English garden, but there could be if vile, back-stabbing, back-eating animals weren’t staking out my property.

OK, it’s time to take action. Fight fire with fire as they say and I have no idea what that means. So I set out for the mother of all forensic laboratories, the home garden center. Here I will be able to purchase supplies to trap, set out, spray, and anything else that would protect my Second Amendment rights, those being the right to plant and grow flowers.

I jump in my car and head out on a dark and stormy night. I think they are open until the wee hours of 6 p.m. I’m not denying it’s a struggle. OK, mainly because my jeans are so tight, I feel like the very life blood is being strangled from my bloated body. The stress of saving my future plants from the deer has taken its toll. Well, that and the chocolate Bobpka I just happen to shove down my throat before I left.

This is a thick chocolate cake-like unidentifiable form I bought at the Friday Food Truck stop. Whatever! I am on a mission. So I cut through the back of the outlets to avoid the 72-car pileup on Route 1. Then I cross over to the back roads to avoid the flashing blue lights on Route 24 at a 12-car and one burro pileup. Finally I careen into the parking lot of the home center.

It was another struggle since the drive took a little longer than it takes for a trip to the planet Mars. OK, now my jeans are really tight, after I stopped for one of those super-sized pretzels. They are so tight, I am forced into a military maneuver of tuck and roll to get out of the car.

But it is well worth it. For I have found the latest solution to the problem of animals eating my flowers. This has been scientifically studied and been in development by some of the leading experts both here and in Europe. It is called coyote urine.

There are rows and rows of boxes containing this stuff. There is a picture of a deer on the outside of the box dressed in a political movement T-shirt. You can fill in the blanks. I’m cautious because I do love deer, so I just buy a vat, knowing no one will come near me in the next month.

I race home to start the madness. You know what; it is a dark and stormy night. Maybe this is best left for another day.