Until we moved here to the New York countryside, no one had ever bid us goodbye with that particular warning. But then, until we moved here, we had never mingled so closely with our zoological cousins.

Skunks, groundhogs, chipmunks, raccoons, foxes, rabbits, turkeys ... I can't begin to name all the subjects of the animal kingdom whom I might encounter on any given afternoon. I had never even seen a chipmunk until we moved here. And I could almost swear I saw an otter crossing the street the other day.

I watch out for all of them.

Especially deer. And especially now.

We've seen plenty of deer in the last six months. In the winter, they gathered in our apple orchard and probably wondered why, with all those apple trees, there were never any apples to be found.

Six months of coming and going on our stretch of highway has taught me where the deer like to cross, where they like to sidle and where they like to assemble on the dark hillside, alert to passing cars like so many soldiers in night vision goggles.

Watch out for deer.

My sister-in-law told me one night as we were driving into town together from Boston, that she's always nervous until she sees her first deer. After that, she calms down, but until she sees that first deer, she knows they're there, she's just not seeing them.

Everyone has given us a bit of deer advice.

There is never just one deer. If you see one cross the street, know that another is coming.

In the winter, don't drive too close to the shoulder, because they come close to the pavement for salt.

Given the awful choice, it's more dangerous to slam the brakes and swerve than it is to hit one.

Watch out for deer.

We watch. And we see them all the time. We see them crossing and eating and sidling.

Last week, we saw one lying in the road, already dead.

From the bottom of the hill, it didn't read as a deer at all. There was something sort of light in color in the road. As I drove closer, I thought it might be a dog. No. Too big.

Then I saw its head - a deer. A doe.

The only other deer I've seen on the roadside have been viewed while cruising at 60 mph on the Interstate. I've never seen one up close on my own street.

My husband and I looked at each other.

What do we do? It's not safe for an animal of that size to stay in the roadway. We didn't want to touch it. Is there someone to call? What does one do when something large has died in the street?

Watch out for deer.

I watch and watch. I drive slowly enough through certain stretches that I could stop the car without having to make that decision between swerving and hitting.

I've developed and honed my deer radar - my deerdar - so that I can better distinguish between a deer about to step onto the asphalt and a mailbox post that will never move, no matter how quickly I zoom past.

In the past, passengers in the car had to tell me when they saw a deer or three frolicking in a roadside meadow. Now I see them first.

I suspect, though, that it is never the deer you see that causes a problem. You don't hit the deer you see. You don't swerve in surprise and fishtail.

And sometimes, when you're watching for deer, a fat groundhog sneaks up on you. Or you list too far onto the shoulder because, "My God - was that an OTTER? Do they even HAVE otters here?"

Or you drive past the spot where you saw the dead doe, and you might be tempted to craft a metaphor out of its remains. Something about innocence. Something about unexpected disaster. Something about continuing to move forward at a reasonable speed in spite of the knowledge that there are deer out there. Deer you don't see.

And that's what it's all about when people who love you wave goodbye and call after you, "Watch out for deer."

And maybe, as you're driving along thinking in metaphorical terms, a literal deer will leap into the road ahead. Not too close, but close enough to make you slow down.

And you'll remember that there is never just one deer.

You'll slow a little more.

And there, just as you slow almost to a stop, a wobbly little doe will appear on the shoulder and toddle across to its mother waiting on the other side.

Watch out for deer.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger is a freelance writer who has probably annoyed you with her cautious night driving. She can be reached at VillageWordsmith@hughes.net.