One of these mornings, I’m going to hit a deer. Or the deer will hit me.

At that point, it really won’t matter who hits whom.

To be clear, I’m not talking about hitting a deer with my car. I’ve done that. Not on purpose.

I was one of the 1.5 million drivers the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety estimates gets into vehicle-deer collisions each year in the United States, causing more than 150 fatalities and $1.1 billion in property damage.

This time of year, these collisions are more frequent because of deer migration and mating. Obviously not at the same time.

Add to that a growing deer population and a deer habitat displaced by urban sprawl, even in our rural communities, and you’ve got a deadly combination for both deer and motorists. A danger not on the radar of the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, but another ingredient in this territorial battle between man and deer.

Revenge.

I know what the deer did to the front end of my car that foggy night some 40 years ago. I can only imagine what I did to that unfortunate deer.

Now I live in some bizarre Stephen King movie. I worry that the relatives of that long-departed deer are out to get me. With each generation, the need for vengeance grows. I can imagine them sharing tales while destroying my wife’s hostas.

“Tell me again about the guy in the red Toyota who killed our Great-Great Uncle Buck.”

You think I’m paranoid? Am I?

Or am I just the first willing to speak up?

Talk to any runner or walker in the area. Ask them, “Did you ever hit a deer?” Then ask if, when they exercise, they ever feel like they’re being watched? Stalked by a doe-eyed doe?

I’ve had my close encounters. So close that I could see my reflection in its eyes. The two of us in a staring contest to see which one blinks first. I walk, and the deer walks. I stop, and the deer stops. Then we both go in different directions, sure to meet again.

They travel in packs. Like a gang. Taunting me to come closer. So pretty. So Innocent. So deadly.

The experts say no such collision is likely.

A State Department of Environmental Conservation officer told me years ago that deer can smell our odor. He said that lights from a car going 60 mph confuse them. Not someone walking. They can see you and hear you.

Which I say makes it easier to pick us off.

Without so much as a rustling leaf or a snapping twig, I imagine a baby Bambi or majestic, six-point buck will suddenly leap out of the woods and land right on top of me, leaving me to be ground beef Barry.

The only saving grace is that I would be around to see the expression on people’s faces when they read the obituary:

Former newspaper editor and all-around swell guy Barry Lewis was out taking his usual early morning walk yesterday when, apparently without warning, he was trampled to death by a stampeding herd of sexually aggressive deer during mating season. Neighbors said they thought they heard the deer giggling as they fled into the woods. 

That’s what you’ll read.

If 1.5 million deer are so confused that they’re unable to get out of the way of big, noisy vehicles, then it’s only a matter of time before some really confused deer are unable to stop themselves from colliding with a person.

It’s what the deer will want you to believe.

Barry Lewis is a longtime journalist and author who lives with his wife Bonnie in the Town of Neversink. He can be reached at      barrylewisscdemocrat@gmail.com.