The doe’s breakfast

One of our young deer, Bucky’s sister, is badly injured. At first I thought perhaps she’d gotten tangled up in a barbed wire fence, as we’ve been working on the fence line. Or maybe she had been attacked by a mountain lion or a coyote—we chased off one opportunistic coyote yearling who came snuffling down the trail from the tank after her. There is transfer blood on the doe’s good hind leg, and she can’t put any weight on her right hind leg. The wound almost looks like her leg is broken, her hock is badly swollen. Because she can’t put weight on her hindquarters, she also can’t feed herself by rearing up on her hind legs for the meager winter fare of low hanging leaves of the fruit trees in the garden. We watch her limp across the field, debating what to do, no longer knowing anyone with a gun to put her out of her misery. We debated whether to call Fish and Game, or the Humane Society, a certain death sentence, but we aren’t willing to watch her die of sepsis, or let nature, long in tooth and claw, take its course. I come from that old rural school where you do not let injured animals suffer. You see, when I was young, I wanted to be a vet. I learned rudimentary feline and equine triage from Point Reyes’ Doc. Daniels, DMV. We wondered how the deer got injured. Then we realized the model was at hand, as a handyman jackknifed his truck up our narrow road as if he were a contender for the Indie 500. Perhaps he, a neighbor, or a visiting friend, hit that poor deer and then kept on going, never stopping to report the hit. Criminal, to leave her to suffer like that. We keep an eye on her, noting her minute progress each day, as she limps down to the creek for her daily drink. There is still not very much for the deer to eat after the prolonged drought cycle. And it is still too soon for nourishing winter grasses. They have taken to nibbling the jackets off the buckeyes and eating ivy leaves, both of which are toxic. So they can only eat a small amount without damage to their livers. I suspect she has already eaten her quota. Today is a black frost day. The pipes were almost frozen solid, I had trouble gathering enough water for morning tea. The frost has been thick every morning, leaving the tent painted in a mirage of crystals. I have been feeding the doe for days since it seems she may survive this trauma after all. Her hock is surely blown, but I think it is not broken. I know they can survive these onslaughts. (Another gimpy doe, hit by a tourist in Nicasio a few years ago, lives out a full life by my cousin’s old water tower. Each year she presents him with spotted twins.) At dawn I prepare a breakfast of Bob’s Red Mill organic oats garnished with yellow apple leaves, red plum leaves, rose petals and leaves, which at first, she viewed with suspicion, and then she discovered they were actually quite good. She still eyes the pumpkin with horror (Bucky and gang won’t touch them, so much for all those Facebook memes) but I have noticed that she has eaten some of the strands and the seeds. Progress. Sometimes I talk to her and she cocks her ears toward me as she listens to my murmuring. Sometimes Bucky stands on the other side of the garden fence keeping vigil as she eats her breakfast. This is our morning ritual.