I have always been more your running with the stags than your stunning with the rags sort of a gal. That is not to say, as a female, that I avoid the rutting season: I am as fond of a good rut as the next man (or woman!) – but much of the traditional doe gene seems to have passed me by.
But I can see the inner logic behind this behaviour: I would rather be the lone female in a group of bucks, than risk the competition (and its concomitant fear of coming last!) involved in any kind of herding situation with my fellow hinds!
From Bambi-hood upwards, I have shied away from the hordes of sister red deer preening and adorning themselves to snag the King Stag – and have, instead, befriended the powerful beast and played happily with him and his gang, vouchsafed a wild freedom denied to me had I stayed with the melting-eyed does.
Of course, the down-side to this is that many a splendidly-antlered male beast would far prefer to mate with the beautiful, soft and do(e!)cile members of the clan – and we untamed, over-excitable hybrids have a tendency to be over-looked when teams for the rut are being picked (as it were), regularly having the Fat One and The Weird One whisked away to cervine ecstasy before we get so much as a deep bellow!
But, as I daresay my perceptive human readers will by now have realised, Spoonerisms oft come thick and fast when the time is right – and, if I may be so bold, if a tad vulgar (No change there, then), a lively fight with a buck could well segue into – an equally lively bite with a f*** and twins six months later!