My son just burst in form outdoors, calling to me.

“Mom, mom, come here quick.” He is standing in the laundry room with his hands clenched around something small. “Open your hands,” he says.

Okay, normally I would question this, but it is winter, so snakes are not an option. I hold my hands out to receive whatever it is that he is clutching. In the kind of slow motion moment that you usually only experience in car crashes, I see a bunch of small brown pellets tumble from his hands to mine. Acorns, I think. Seeds of some sort. No. Deer poop. Yes, I think, examining the treasure, definitely deer pellets. I tell Oscar what they are.

“Uck,” he says. “I’m going to need new gloves.”

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