Mr. Deer

"One thousand and seven, one thousand and eight."

Mr. Deer atop the mountain gave a yawn and went on counting the two-legged beasts he'd seen that day. Though he wasn't counting heads, but legs—lifting his head was such a bother.

The newly arrived two-legged beast before him showed no sign of producing a deer cracker.

He chewed on his grass as usual, gazing down at Nara Park at the foot of the mountain. There too was a herd of his own kind, every one of them fat and sleek, sprawled lazily by the roadside—hardly deer-like at all anymore. "Not a shred of ambition," thought Mr. Deer. "If I had endless deer crackers to eat every day, I'd surely have the strength to go see what lies beyond the mountain, instead of just basking in the sun like that pack of fools."

At this thought he yawned again. It had rained a little today, and fewer two-legged beasts had come up the mountain.

Fewer deer crackers too.

"Might as well go down the mountain myself," he said, spitting out the leaf he'd been bitterly chewing. "Grandfather was right—you can't eat pride for a deer cracker." The breeze atop the mountain was pleasant enough, but a pity it still carried that same rank smell of mud when it entered his mouth. Deer-forsaken nuisance. He clicked his tongue. "Ah, forget it. The way down is quite far—can't have my knees worn raw."

Besides, it was still raining today.

"Tomorrow, then. I'll go down tomorrow."

Mr. Deer glanced up at the crow circling overhead, gave a third yawn, and lay down.

The newly arrived two-legged beast before him still showed no sign of producing a deer cracker.