To quote my deer friend, Tina: "You know you live in a small town when a deer dies in your backyard and someone from the paper calls you to talk about it."
Bend likes to think it's a city, and maybe it is, except I don't think you can be a city without having an escalator. Anyway, the bigger this town gets, the smaller it can feel. That's from living here 15 years: over half this town moved here in the last ten years. That makes for an interesting old/nouveau dichotomy. I'm now part of the old guard. Not the OLD old guard, but the middle old guard. But really, this post is about the deer story and the reporter for the local paper.
Don't get me started on the local paper. Please. I work with them, I have a subscription, it's our only choice for daily newsprint. So just don't get me started. Like most small-town (excuse me, small city) papers, they're big on happy news and local court cases, with a Western angle that includes articles on "berserk llama syndrome" and rodeo coverage.
But I do have to say that it's a little weird that they're cruising my blog for news stories.
To the sweet reporter who called me to get the lead on the deceased deer disposal story, I absolutely appreciate your readership. I'm serious. I'll try to make it worth your while by posting reportable tidbits. I came through on the noxious weed story, didn't I? Even provided a pithy quote that was duly published. (I've also provided quite a few "mother of a black child" comments for various stories over the years, but that's another post.)
I just have a little advice: don't touch the chicken-sweater story. You don't need the constant hassle from British battery-hen jumper knitters. Believe me on this one.
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