It Started with a Dead Deer

A killer parasite, an unexpected cure, and my dilemma as an accidental wildlife caretaker

A Behind the Scenes post on the new stalker(s) on the land. Far less terrifying. A delightful herd with single-minded focus. Plus a prompt about your own story of death that leads to life

Welcome:

I’m surrounded by deer. Six of them take cautious steps, closer and closer to me, pause, sniff, stare, stutter step back, then ease closer again. Two does, a buck, three fawns. All with those big ears perked, those quivering muscles, those stick thin legs. With their huge black eyes they ask: Grain? You…feed us…grain?

No more stalker on the land trying to break into the buildings at all hours and claiming to still live here. She’s in jail and has been for months. Probation violation. I’m now stalked by the deer who seem to vaporize the moment I walk out the door, or drive up the hill, or go out to the garden to harvest arugula and chard.

This all started with a dead deer—a fawn—back in the chill of early March.

“Hair loss,” my neighbors told me, having come to dispatch the corpse. With brilliant-blue rubber gloves snapped onto their hands, this husband and wife duo showed up moments after I reported finding the poor dead thing.

He, hunter, fisherman, all-around-manly-man-of-the-land took hold of the hoofs of the creature and, with his equally land-knowledgeable wife, hauled the bundle of bones and fur to the river. With a heave ho, it dropped into the rushing water. Splash.

Crab food now.

The cycle of life.

I paid my deepest thanks to both with a six-pack of pFriem that they tried to wave away. (Out here neighbors help neighbors without such gestures, but I forced the sixer on them anyway). I am so very grateful to them for such insight and help. I have no idea about dead animal protocols. I’m still new to all this.

They drove off and I hiked back to where the animal died the night prior. A slight impression of its form in the loose dirt. This outbuilding was a place to store garden supplies and old concrete blocks. The wind off the sea blew directly into it.

The little fawn succumbed to an invasive Eurasian lice. In essence, it froze to death.

I fall asleep thinking about that fawn, wake up with it on my mind. Deep sadness over the loss.

A few weeks later, I spot another fawn with serious hair loss and mention the situation to the guy who mows my acres of grass.

“Get some grain at the feed store,” he tells me. “Stir in about this much,” (about an inch worth) “of the Ivermectin they sell in the tube. Treat ‘em a few times. That’ll fix ‘em up.”

He’s yet another local (recommended after my short lived relationship with an outfit called “Bro’s and Hoe’s” went sour. Go figure) with his own herd of deer “who are healthy and strong” thanks to this remedy.

Equipped with a shopping list, I head to the feed store while thinking about the essay Cherish this Ecstasy by David James Duncan. That story detailed how the Peregrine Falcon was nearly wiped out by DDT until one well intended ornithologist saved the species by careful observation. I’m not sure I’ll be saving a species, that’s a stretch, but I’ll be doing something.

“Aren’t you worried about fleas? Ticks? Aren’t the deer like…you know…invasive?” my city friends ask, surprised, even disgusted by such willing eagerness.

Mixing up a batch of the grain and the Ivermectin paste, I’m troubled by such questions in a way that’s hard to articulate.

In my two-plus years of living out here with these deer (even as their numbers now increase) they are the best of companions. Gentle and quiet. Beautiful and mysterious.

Three total treatments and the sick fawn lives. Her hair grows back. She fills out. The danger past. For now.

I reduce my grain distribution to zero and the extra deer who’ve showed up for the handouts have moved on.

I’m down to the mama, her fawn again. Now and again, I’ll see a pair of younger bucks, but they aren’t regulars.

Interesting to note, the mama is the one who approaches now. She stands before the cabin in the mornings, looks in the window, and if we see each other, she lifts her head slightly. If I’m out walking to the garden, she doesn’t skitter away but holds her ground and will bow her her head.

Perhaps I’m deluding myself, but mother to mother, I sense a kinship between us now. I’m honored by her, by this new found trust. Come fall, I’ll treat her and her baby again, just like I’ve been instructed. Then again over the winter.

The fates willing, next spring there will be no dead deer on my watch but we’ll see.

Your Turn:

We’ve all faced something dead, or dying. Sadly. That’s the nature of life. We’re all on our way to that final destination. Here is your prompt: Write a story that starts with the line: “It started with a dead________ (fill in the blank).

Post your share in the comments.

~ 🐦‍⬛, Jennifer