After many unsuccessful attempts to reach you by mail, courier, personal messenger, and even with a bait box of apples delivered by FedEx, it’s my sad duty to inform you and the herds you hang around with that I have no choice but to tell Ed your general whereabouts. The timing is most unfortunate as it’s right in the middle of “the season” when many hunters will try to knock you off, but I just can’t wait any longer to settle my insurance claim.

After dusting for hoof prints and comparing antler scratches, there is no doubt you are 100 percent responsible for the damage to my car, both the front and rear ends. Please do not deny your involvement or tuck tail and run any longer, as the insurance adjuster says there is only one deer accountable, and that’s you. Hiding among your friends and associates will not work, as your front right hoof can be tracked for miles. I saw the prints in the dirt myself and have come to the conclusion there was a little hanky-panky going on with one of your parents and a Shetland pony, as that front right of yours is perfectly round with no split.

While I’m at it, you can relay the message to your twice-removed second cousin, “Mr. Mule Deer,” that his shenanigans around Uncle Curt’s lake cabin must come to an immediate halt. The flower planters hung with care around the deck were not placed there for a fast-food deer stop. Believe me, if Uncle Curt wanted to feed your cousin, it would have been with a load of buckshot, not his prize geraniums.

Aunt Ida would also like to have a close-up word with your relative concerning her ripped-up quilt on the clothesline. The damage can probably be stitched back together, but she’s beside herself that all the holes in the forestry patchwork quilt were concentrated on the bear and wolves while the deer patches remained intact.

I’m not prejudiced – just wondering if some of your past family members may have been responsible for the little incident years back that left me afraid to walk in the woods alone, forever and ever. What on earth would lead a nice mother doe to bypass her own child in distress to stomp the crap out of me, a nice human, just trying to help the little critter out of a fence entanglement? You guys must have a real mean streak going on in your family history!

Dad only wanted to place a couple of your generations past in a nice roomy enclosure to be fed well and kept safe from the elements and hunters. I helped him build it; so did our entire family and most of the neighbors. It took months to construct the beautiful facility with a 10-foot-high fence, and almost that much longer to dig the nice little pond in the middle for frolicking and bathing. It didn’t matter that no one in the area had telephone service for almost a year – only that the tall poles used for construction were perfectly straight and held up to the harshest weather for your fine, in-coming relatives.

On the day of delivery, I bet it was someone on your side of the family that crept up to the side of the trailer and whispered, “Jump out, dig in, and run for all you’re worth to the other side, and then leap over like you’ve never done before!” Dad was never the same after that.

Again, no discrimination, but I think your ancestors were responsible for the piles and piles of ammunition stored in the basement, along with signs posted every ten feet on our farm that read: “Hunt here.”

So, Mr. Deer, you with the three split hoofs and the front right shaped like a pony: Look out this weekend. Ed knows where you’re hiding…