Missy the Deer (photos)

Missy the deer I caretook last year munching on chicken feed & rolled oats in the garden.

Last year I clandestinely took care of a young deer who was hit by a car. She was one of our deer, born and bred in my grandmother’s garden. Well, the other evening I had an interesting interlude with her. I haven’t seen her in nearly a year, and she came right up to me, almost expectantly, as I was getting out of my car—like she knew me. I was so shocked I just stood there. I rolled some lemon cukes her way, and slowly walked away. We tend to talk to all animals, she was no exception.

So later, she came to the back door and peered in expectantly. Her enormous ears swiveling like semaphores. It was as if she were saying, I know you. C’mon! She had also brought her twins. I thought, oh, great, she was somebody’s pet. She’s so tame someone’s been hand-feeding her. A practice I condemn. They’re gone and interfered with the boundary between keeping wild animals wild and leery of us. I also thought, there was no way it was last year’s deer I had taken care of. I looked for a limp. She seemed to favor her hind leg, but I couldn’t be sure. It was clean.  Deer movements are sporadic, at best.

Then, the day before yesterday, she came up right to me again when I was in the garden. There was no mistaking it. She was wanted a connection with me. I stood stock-still. There was only an old Adirondak chair between us. She kept watching me and edging closer, so of course I talked to her. She pricked those marvelous ears at me, never taking her eyes off me. 

This time I saw the big scar on her hind leg where the bone had broken through, and realized it was the same deer that I had secretly fed last year. I suppose I could anthropomorphize a bit here and say she was thanking me, but I think it was hunger talking. But most animals tend to like me and will often approach me. Do I stink, or smell like the forest? We had just returned from huckleberrying so we were manky. Maybe I should bathe more often.

She hardly limps at all now. And there is no doubt that she definitely remembers me. It’s uncanny. Apparently my cover has been blown. She has no fear of me, but her fawns are afraid of us—and that is good. Despite my best intentions not to interfere with her wildness, I’ve gone and named her Missy. But her guardian, Bucky the mascot is missing, so I fear the worst.

It was Alex Call who told me to get her some high energy corn to help her survive. I couldn’t find any cracked corn, so I got a sack of chicken scratch with corn in it. I think she found it an odd choice, so I added some rolled oats too, which she gobbled right up. She loved rose petals and leaves. I tried to stay within her food range but spinach, bok choy and squash were a no-go.

Since I still had some chicken feed left over from last year, I sprinkled in the dry grass for the birds, I gave some to her. She ate it, plus the apples we left in the grass. I put out some other greens too as she’s pretty thin. She still won’t eat spinach. So I sprinkled more oats and chicken feed in the grass. We shall soon see if she will lay eggs, or begin to crow like a rooster at dawn.

You can see the wounds on her hind leg, she figured out how to walk, but it must’ve hurt.

For the most part, last year, I kept out of her line of sight, only putting food out when she wasn’t around. I was hoping she wouldn’t make the general fatal connection between humans and food—but still she figured out who and what I was—the feeder. So, my scent was probably the main clue. It was either that, or let her die. I think Bucky’s trust in us put her at ease. But she was still very leery of us. I never approached her. I didn’t want her to become accustomed to us. 

Some a-hole hit her with a car or truck, probably one of the day workers up the hill, and he left her to die. Didn’t even call the humane society. Coyotes smelling blood and opportunity, were trailing her, mama and cubs were waiting in the wings for an easy meal. Over my dead body. We drove them off yelling like banshees. Sean permanently scared them off with an air gun. Talk about a chain reaction set in motion. We sure didn’t want them hanging about or snatching one of the cats either. 

Bucky was a gentleman, he stood guard when she ate & chased off predators, but not us.

But this was also during the tail end of the drought, and the young deer was having trouble finding food, Bucky, who quickly figured out that I was a friend, not a foe who was feeding the doe, was reduced to eating lichen, toxic cotoneaster and ivy—which she couldn’t reach. She couldn’t even walk down to the creek, not with that blown hock, so I put out a bucket of water as well as assorted lettuce greens and grain. 

After all, generations of her deer people have drunk out of my old horse trough, and eaten my horses’ hay. These deer were born in the upper garden where Missy was currently sleeping, so it is as much their natal stomping grounds as it is mine. Besides, during the summer, I often sleep outside in the tent when I come visiting. So they know me. I am merely part of the garden furniture.

I am so not into feeding opportunistic wild animals, thus altering their behavior, but I don’t mind cohabiting with them. So this is a bit of a hybrid event, keeping her alive. Luckily, her fawns are afraid of us. May it continue to be so.

• The doe’s breakfast
• Morning aubade