Messing with the balance:
 
The casualties mount--100% of the tiger lilies, a decimation of the hasta. Those yellow watchamacallits from Terry's friend didn't last the night. And the morning glories will never see the light of day. Call them the "merry deer," the "red, rare, deer," "two tall stags at a green mountain"--I know what they really are--"Goats by Gucci." It's my own fault; uprooting all that bamboo just gave them easy access to the yard, and a taste for a more exotic diet. You can't even budge them from the chowline now with thrown dirt clods and hysterical arm-flapping. I'd try to restore the balance by offering my land as a four-acre wolf sanctuary, but the nasty tattooed gang of raccoons would probably rub them out in no time. Maybe punji pits.