They nipped off the tops, including the blossoms, of several of my tomato plants -- even the ones I have up against my house.
I'm feeling very Elmer Fudd right now. Braised venison tenderloin -- it's a good thing. Too bad I never picked up the family talent for hunting.
I used to know people -- sweetly naive back-to-the-landers -- who, when the whitetails ravaged their garden for the umpteenth time, walked out into the woods and had a chat with the deer. I'm not making this up. They'd read about kything, or communing with the animals, in a book. They formally addressed their hooved neighbors, something to the effect of, "We know you need to eat, but so do we. We depend on our garden. We know you have a lot of other food growing around here. So can you please leave our garden alone?" The deer's collective response was, "Love that salad bar! All you can eat! Whoo-hoo!" So my gentle acquaintances wound up buying an electric fence.
Annie Dillard, in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, wrote about the chewed quality of the world around us -- how, if you take a good look around you in a field or forest, it seems that everything has bites taken out of it. This is most certainly true. Ask my tomatoes.