Deer, Booze, and Robert Burns

By now you're all sick of 2025 being as bad as 2024, and maybe you're thinking of just cancelling the rest of the 2020s. Low ratings, right? They cancelled Firefly.

But my wife and I are of defiant stock, and we accepted an invitation to go out for a fun-filled Robert Burns Night. I don't generally like driving at night, because that's when the depressed deer come out to throw themselves in front of cars, with the final cry of "I can't take another winter outdoors!"

Still, Robert Burns Night is like Christmas in Scotland, and according to the DNA test I'm 29% Scottish. (And 2% Cameroon, which is in Africa but sounds Scottish.) Burns is Scotland's National Poet, and I'm all for celebrating writers.

You've probably heard, at least once every year, one song Burns had a hand in: Auld Lang Syne. My personal favorite of his is his poem, "To a Louse".

So we made toasts, piped in the haggis, and of course ate neeps and tatties, which I hope aren't related to haggis. It wasn't completely Scottish, because we didn't drink alcohol, and the haggis was meatloaf. Haggis is illegal in the United States due to its sheep lungs, which is actually the least objectionable ingredient.

We celebrated late into the night (okay, for two hours), got to see our old doggie friend Watson and visit with his Scottish humans, and on the way home hit a deer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Q13iEaHkqc

If you look carefully, you can see her little white tail bounding away to the right, without a care in the world outside of a sore rump.

 Stupid deer.

And that's why I'm in so much pain as I write this. Not because of a lack of haggis, but because by the point of impact I'd slowed from 60 mph to 30, from standing on the brake while simultaneously pulling back on the steering wheel as hard as I could with both hands, while two of my most important body openings slammed shut and Emily yelled "Ghdeiirreee!"

 Well, that's what it sounded like to me.

It's basically the same reaction I have whenever the dentist fires up that little drill, and all my stressed muscles hurt after that, too. 

I've always loved the acceleration on our Ford Escape, and now I also admire its brakes. 

The steering wheel is no longer perfectly round, and there are some marks in the dash that resemble Emily's fingers, but otherwise we came out okay. The only impact damage to the car was a cracked piece of plastic on the front grill, and some deer hair left behind.

 

We didn't even have to clean the seats, thanks to the aforementioned puckering effect.

This is only the second deer I've ever hit, despite some extremely close calls, so it could have been worse. Emily wanted to track the deer down and bring it home as steaks, but I talked her out of it. It was probably just some teenage deer on a dare, anyway.

I'm fairly sure Robert Burns was in no way involved, unless the deer were also having a Burns Night and went all in with the whiskey (and haggis).

"Now, Bambi, I think you've had enough."

"No, seriously, hold my whiskey and watch me scare this driver!"

Anyway, I'm now composing a poem about how great our car is, based on one of Burns' poems:

"My love is like a ruby red rose."

Because the Escape is ruby red, you see. Okay, I'll workshop it. Maybe it can come out in 2030.

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Remember: Deer can’t read, and have to live outside. Coincidence?

That Winter Driving Thing Again

(It's possible I was a little irate when I wrote this. Also, I'm hopeful the snowy weather is over for the season, but not convinced.)

 

I contend that DWS (Driving While Stupid) should be a death penalty offense.

Of course, DWS isn't illegal to begin with, but we have to start somewhere.

Look, I’ve done foolish things while driving. I once backed an ambulance into a mailbox--and yeah, it was snowing, but it wasn't the snow's fault. I slid over a stop sign with a police office standing ten feet away. Snow was an accomplice in that case. I took a 1976 Pontiac Ventura off-road four wheeling – and no, Venturas were not FWD.

My youth may have been a reason, but not an excuse. I’ve slowed down, but others haven’t. Worse, the people who cause the mayhem often walk away uninjured, whining about how traumatized they are from the experience.

“It was horrible, all the kids in the back of my pickup flying through the air, and the nun’s body knocked out my tire alignment -- *sob* -- I almost lost my grip on my beer. Luckily I had my cell phone in my other hand, so I was able to call 911.”

"What? It looks fine."

 Sometimes–not always – drivers of big vehicles are most reckless. Why? Well, drivers of small cars are scared stiff. You think I’m going to tailgate a truck that has a spring loaded bumper aimed at my nose, and a “Honk if You Love Guns” bumper sticker? I don’t think so.

Second, many drivers of large vehicles thumb their noses at Mother Nature. “What’s a little freezing rain? I’ve got four wheel drive!” It’s fun to play the game where you’re passed by an SUV, then get to point and laugh at him when he lands in the ditch two miles on.

It’s the definition of False Sense of Security. Yes, maybe you and your truck will get through your 65 mph trip in blinding snow without incident. Angels watch over the foolish. Or maybe the next time will be the one when you’ll end up parked in somebody’s living room, with a Toyota under you that can now qualify as a throw rug.

Here’s a wild idea: Slow your ass down. A five thousand pound block of metal, at a speed that would terrify an Indy 500 racer of 75 years ago, is not under your control, even in the best weather conditions. Add to that rain, deer, and other idiot drivers, and you’ve got a recipe for bloody mayhem.

“That won’t happen to me,” you say. You’re a moron. Nobody’s last words were, “I have a feeling I’m going to get into a bad accident today.”

 

"Did you see that idiot?"

 

Let’s break it down.

There are excellent drivers capable of maintaining control at warp 5, but they don’t live around here. If they did, they’d have died with a deer in their laps a long time ago. If you’re running late during a snowstorm and get behind a silver haired lady driving 35 mph, you have nobody to blame but yourself for not leaving on time.

Seat belts. They keep you from getting your head run over when you’re thrown out of your rolling SUV because you tried to pass that silver haired lady in a snow storm. Living is cool.

Carry a set of scales, and weigh yourself before getting into the car. If you’re not on the edge of starvation, wait until you get home to eat.

A lot of people try to excuse their accidents by saying they were “blinded by –“ fill in the blank. The sun, oncoming headlights, a brilliant idea, whatever.

We don’t let blind people drive. It’s what used to be called common sense, before attorneys had it banned. So if you’re behind the wheel and something blinds you – STOP DRIVING. Are you worried somebody behind you will be mad because you hit the brakes and pulled over? Fine – let them be mad at your very alive self.

They’re probably driving a four wheel drive, anyway.

Why do I take so many pictures from my porch? Because then I don't have to be in a car.

 

 

(Remember, whenever you buy one of our books I can get gloves, and keep my fingers warm enough to write another one.)

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Don’t Wait: Check the Date

In my three (or so) decades in the emergency services, I never heard anyone complain that their smoke detectors worked properly. Well, okay, once—but that guy was an arsonist.

Fire Prevention Week this year is October 9-15, mostly because nothing else goes on in mid-October. No, actually it was because the Great Chicago Fire happened on October 9, 1871. That fire destroyed more than 17,400 structures and killed at least 250 people, and might have been prevented if Mrs. O’Leary had installed a smoke detector in her barn. Have you ever seen a cow remove a smoke detector battery? Me neither.

Nobody really knows what started the Great Chicago Fire, so the dairy industry has a real beef with blaming the cow, which legend says knocked over a lamp. Does the lamp industry ever get the blame? Noooo....

We do know that at about the same time the Peshtigo Fire burned across Wisconsin, killing 1,152 people and burning 16 entire towns. In fact, several fires burned across Michigan and Wisconsin at the time, causing some to speculate that a meteor shower might have caused the conflagration. There may have been shooting stars elsewhere, but Chicago got all the press.

This year’s Fire Prevention Week theme is “Don’t wait, check the date!” So ask your date: Does she have a working smoke detector? If not, you’d better go back to your place.

Just as you should change your smoke detector batteries every fall and spring, you should replace your smoke alarm every ten years. I’d add that doing the same to your carbon monoxide detector is a great idea, so it can make a sound to warn about the gas that never makes a sound.

This is great advice, and as I hadn’t given much thought to the age of my own smoke detectors, I took it. The one in the basement stairway said: “Manufactured 1888 by the Tesla Fire Alarm Co.”

Not a good sign.

The one in the kitchen hallway said simply: “Smoke alarm. Patent pending.”

Oh boy.

So don’t wait—check the date. Do it right now, because otherwise you’d be waiting. I know it doesn’t have quite the pizzazz of the 1942 Fire Prevention Week theme: “Today Every Fire Helps Hitler”.

But hey … you can’t blame the Nazis for everything.