(This is the third part of a series, the first of which you can find here.)
I had no idea what wonder our deer guests would reveal in the weeks to come, but each day brought a greater sense of awe and appreciation for nature in the wild. Having a front (well, backyard) seat made it all that more special. And we were repeatedly reminded there’s much to learn if we just take the time to listen and observe.
Watching the two fawns frolicking in the yard always brought a smile, although momma deer at times seemed impatient at their unbridled energy. Calling attention to themselves out in the open was apparently not on the list of approved activities. Momma would turn and step toward them, signaling an intent to corral them in, grunting under her breath as she did.
The three would eventually settle into feeding time, which was followed by a motherly washing. We quickly came to learn that deer are obsessive about keeping their babies clean and fragrance free, head to rear, to keep predators from picking up their scent.
When nap and bedtime came, momma would often rest herself, but mostly from afar. Rarely would we find her sleeping in the yard. When not out foraging for food, she was curled up in one of the neighbors’ yards, keeping an ever-vigilant eye and ear out for any presence threatening harm to her young. Occasionally a deer-language directive or warning would remind me that while we were all sharing the same yard, there was much we still didn’t know about their private world.
Early on, I decided that since momma was busy taking care of her babies, the least we could do is be a better host and help take care of her. My husband picked up some corn feed at the local feed store, and the car-washing bucket in the garage was given a new purpose. Nightly I would put out a scoop of corn for momma, making sure the bucket had plenty of water. Once (days or weeks later) a neighbor caught me red handed, declaring, “You’re not supposed to feed the deer.” My reply was defiantly direct: “I’m not feeding the deer, I’m feeding a deer.”
Momma seemed to understand that, at least here, she and her little family were welcome. She even showed signs of increasing trust. By this point, I was able to slowly approach to within a six-foot distance before she’d get anxious and stomp her foot. (As skittish as deer are, I’ve always found this apparently idle threat amusing, as their next step is often to promptly turn and run.)
While one fawn changed up its sleeping spot with some regularity, the other frequently curled up under the magnolia tree at the middle of the retaining wall. Just two days in and with momma half a yard away, I decided to see if and how close she would allow me to get. With eyes frozen on me, she surprisingly just watched me approach the resting fawn. As I kneeled, the fawn cautiously rose on its dainty legs, seeming to look for a hint from its momma as to what it should do. Momma gave neither of us a cue as to what came next, presumably because this was all new to her as well.
I rocked back on my heels to create some distance, and soon the baby came to settle back down. Its big eyes drew me in, while its long lashes tickled my heart. With phone camera in hand I captured its sweetness. And still, momma just observed.
In awe, I sat and watched. I was near mesmerized as I studied the fawn’s innocent face and moist nose, its nostrils anxiously experiencing each and every breath. I stretched out my hand hoping to feel the warmth of its breath. One breath, two breaths, three breaths. And then it licked my hand. I silently sucked in my own breath as my heart leapt in delight. The reasoning side of my brain dismissed it as just the appeal of my body salts, but in that moment I nonetheless felt loved by the wild.
That was just the beginning of my mystical relationship with Magnolia. (Momma and Baby came to know, without objection, their more generic names.) In the days that followed, I routinely watched and visited, making contact with Magnolia whenever I could. I offered my hand to smell and lick, and stroked Magnolia’s spotted curvature at rest, petting forehead and ears along the way. And still, Baby remained timid, while Momma showed trust.
Like our then-unmowed lawn, the fawns quickly grew in height, strength, and spirit. When they weren’t at rest or eating, they frequently turned our backyard into a fawn racing track. The two were getting impressively steady and sure on their deer feet. I knew the day was fast approaching when our guests would be checking out. I savored every moment I could, pushing tomorrow’s sadness and worry aside.
Then as dusk fell the day we entered week three, so did my heart when one fawn climbed the rocks around the magnolia tree, up onto the retaining wall. By the time darkness arrived, they both were gone.
I don’t recall whether I cried that night or simply worried like a mother, but I do recall both my yard and my heart seemed empty with them now gone. The next morning, my first thought was whether I might catch a glimpse of the duo or trio somewhere safe in the neighborhood. When I stepped out into the backyard, luck treated me even better. Nestled up against the far fence and close together, there they were, sweet as could be. Apparently they too felt this was their home away from the wild, offering a sense of safety, security, and support, compliments of their unconventional human family.
Oh, the blessing and the honor. My heart was again full.
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