Touching the Wild

by Joe Hutto

  Peep was bred that fourth season, but she failed to produce a fawn the next summer, and we never knew whether she was infertile, whether she had aborted, or whether she had lost her fawn shortly after birth. Her udder showed no evidence that she had ever nursed a fawn, and I worried that infertility might be a consequence of her poor physical condition as a fawn herself. I also wondered whether her early orphan status may have robbed her of her own maternal instincts. In spite of our affections and attention, Peep was still a wild deer and showed every natural need and desire to be a member of a herd. But it seemed that perhaps this was not meant to be, and, sadly, she was always viewed as an unwelcome loner—one relegated to a peripheral and subordinate status. Occasionally, she would receive a cruel and unwarranted hoof to the head or backside when she would come too near, or, as if to remind her of her unfortunate position, she would be once again chased away from the group.

  We observed Peep being bred again her third autumn and wished her success as it became increasingly clear that she would never know the pleasures of mule deer social life without producing her own family. That spring and summer, Peep did not attempt to migrate but remained in the vicinity, and we were excited when she finally disappeared, as all mule deer do when they bear fawns. But, after two long weeks, we began to worry that something terrible may have happened to this sad little deer and her prospective family. However, after three weeks we looked at a doe and two fawns browsing in the tall grass of the lower meadow, and the binoculars revealed that it was in fact Peep with two beautiful, healthy-looking fawns. At last Peep had a family, and, judging by the lavish attention that she bestowed on the small, fragile creatures, she was a perfect and skillful mother. In their third week, Peep finally brought the two into the yard for their first introduction.

  Of the two fawns, one was slightly larger with a paler face, but the extravagant tuft on the end of his tail unavoidably gave him the name PomPom. The other was shy, and while Peep ate some birdseed at our feet on the front porch with PomPom by her side, this other little one would alternately peer around the corner of the house but, then, when we caught his eye, would quickly disappear. After repeating this several times, the little spotted fawn was stuck with a perhaps even more unfortunate name, Boo. The fawns proved to be bucks with widely differing personalities, but even as their first year came to a conclusion, the three, Peep, Boo, and PomPom, remained inseparable—in every way attached and devoted to one another. Well into June of her fourth year, and even as Peep gestated and grew gravid to the point of appearing uncomfortable, her two young buck fawns, with healthy-looking antlers developing in velvet, refused to leave her side.

  Peep with Boo and PomPom at 16 weeks old. Note emerging dark winter coat.

  Peep embraced motherhood with complete devotion, and she has been a doting and exemplary mother from day one. It is tempting to wonder whether her grueling experience as an orphan, rather than impairing her motherly instincts, predisposed her to be more fiercely dedicated. A few does and fawns seem to lose their close connection after five or six months, but others seem to remain closely affiliated. It’s impossible to know whether Peep and her fawns remained completely attached because of a personality characteristic of the mother or of the fawns. It has been a delight to observe Peep—this somewhat heroic little deer—who at last has a real family, although, unfortunately, two buck fawns do not a maternal herd make. And, of course, because they are bucks, the chances of their surviving more than a year or two are remote. Each time I look into those bright, optimistic, and eager eyes, it makes my heart ache. But these unlikely relationships have been entirely of my own choosing, and I am constantly reminded that if you fall in love with a legal Wyoming big game animal, you are going to get your heart broken. Although at times it appears dubious, these deer and I have in fact struck a bargain, and the sadness that is built into our relationship is an unfortunate but at least, for now, necessary aspect of a special gift for which I will always be grateful.

  PomPom, although casually familiar and comfortable with my proximity, is aloof and satisfied that I am of absolutely no interest. He is pale overall, with dark eyebrow markings, and we are almost certain that his sire must be the large and beautiful buck that we have known for many years named Boar—an immense buck with a twin brother, Bubba—but, nevertheless, subservient to Babe, the magnificent, dominant buck. Boar chooses to leave the area during the rut rather than stand on the sidelines while Babe gets all the attention. As soon as the rut subsides, Boar mysteriously returns and resumes his position in the herd, and he and Babe seem to remain the best of friends. Boar must have somehow found an opportunity for a tryst with Peep, however, as the facial similarities between PomPom and this big buck are unmistakable.

  Peep getting her needs met.

  Boo, on the other hand, overcame his coy shyness in a day, and in a week became an “in-your-pocket, in-your-face” little deer who comes running with raised tail every time he sees me and pokes around in my pockets until I produce a cookie. And, unlike PomPom, who is rather reserved, Boo overflows with enthusiasm and personality, to the point of distraction for all of us. In midwinter, Boo’s left rear cannon bone became exposed on both sides near the foot, with similar tears in the skin three inches up the leg and an inch wide—obviously from an attack by some large predator. The wounds were so open and bare that the bone bleached out dry and white. Mercifully, the tendons were not involved on the front or rear of the leg, so Boo never became lame, and no infection ever set in. After six months, the skin finally began to cover the bone.

  PomPom (left) in awe of a master buck, Boar, probably his father.

  Peep remained totally devoted to her fawns after almost a year, but she had to remind the highly energized Boo of his manners by gently laying a motherly hoof across his back now and then. Still, Boo was not always adherent to the rules of proper mule deer etiquette, and, judging by his cavalier attitude and a certain obliviousness to stern discipline dished out by some other adults, he is tough as nails, like his mother. Boo is smaller than his brother, but stocky, compact, and with facial markings like Peep’s—so his father is anyone’s guess. However, we know for a fact that Peep had a twenty-four hour fascination with Babe the previous unsuccessful year, so perhaps with this prior history, he might be a suspect for parenting buck fawn number two. Mule deer are not monogamous; in fact, a mule deer doe tends to be quite the trollop for a day or so, entertaining multiple bucks on occasion. Given Peep’s overt and varied flirtatious fancies, we have no idea who the real father could be.

  Significantly, motherhood—or perhaps age and persistence—elevated Peep’s status within the local herd, and she became accepted by all the other deer, and her fawns are treated with all the respect that would be afforded any legitimate herd member. However, because of my obsessive attentions that defined Peep’s more formative years, she continues to anticipate my complete availability for the whims of her well-being. She has quite a sense of entitlement. Peep can be willful and manipulative and, with chin raised and ears down, gives me that sad, pitiful, “I’m not getting my needs met” look, which more or less has always defined our relationship. But I am gladly at her beck and call. Although Peep gets lavish attention through frequent grooming sessions from both her fawns, she still expects affectionate attention from me on a regular basis. When I ignore her, I continue to get the brisk, imaginary antler prodding on my arm, and if that fails to produce the desired result, she lays a gentle hoof on my backside.

  Peep requesting her grooming session.

  On the mountain with the deer—as good as life can get.

  C H A P T E R S E V E N

  And Then There Was Possum

  Raggedy Anne had a granddaughter named Possum— Charm’s first fawn, who received her name when she was young because of her resemblance to a baby possum. She was by no means unhealthy, just unusually small, slender, and distinctly grayish, with a somewhat narrow and pointed face, jet-black eyes, and a small, black nose. For those readers
who have not had the pleasure of knowing baby possums, they are irresistibly cute little creatures. Possum was born precocious and playful, and even though Charm and Raggedy Anne had always been a bit reserved in their interaction with us, this little fawn was born fearless and overwhelmed with curiosity about her adopted human family. Charm first introduced Possum to us toward the end of September, between twelve and sixteen weeks of age, when fawns are already fully alert and in tune with their environment. By this age, a fawn has already developed rather strong opinions about things, and even when following a previously habituated mother’s example, it may take a month or so for the fawn to feel fully comfortable with my proximity. The younger the fawn at the time of introduction, naturally, the quicker it tends to become comfortable with my presence. When Leslye and I are introduced to a ten-day-old fawn by a familiar doe, often within minutes we are treated with complete familiarity, which may even include curious sniffs of the hand or face on first encounter. I have had ten-day-old fawns initiate an introduction, approaching and allowing physical contact within five minutes. But at the late date of sixteen weeks, a fawn like Possum would probably not achieve this same level of comfort for two months or more. It must be somehow significant that no doe has ever displayed the slightest protective anxiety because of our immediate and occasionally hands-on proximity to even the youngest fawns. Of course we would never attempt anything that might be interpreted as restraint by either the mother or the fawn. I would guess that a desperate cry from a restrained and frightened fawn would invite some profound unpleasantness from an angry, defensive mule deer doe. Take heed, for they are all in this way predisposed.

  But Possum was extraordinary, and even at the ripe old age of three months, she recognized us as family members and never hesitated to have close physical contact. Perhaps our direct association with Charm late in her pregnancy was a contributor to Possum’s familiarity. Possum could be described as a bit of a rodeo fawn. All mule deer fawns are playful creatures and are constantly finding excuses to run and buck, stot (the characteristic mule deer motion of jumping straight up, with all four feet leaving the ground at once), and kick—but not necessarily at three months of age and while in the company of humans. But Possum put on a show every time we approached her. She would easily have become an indoor deer had we encouraged such a relationship. I had a bad habit of entering the back door to retrieve a cookie for a needy deer and then thoughtlessly leaving the door wide open while walking to the feed bin ten feet away. On a couple of occasions, I turned around after filling a pocket and collided with Possum, who had followed me directly into the house with no misgivings. Possum seemed perfectly comfortable with the odd circumstances. The first time she found our tabby cat Nathan, she merely eyed him with a quiet suspicion. Domestic cats, I am quite certain, view fully grown mule deer simply as oversized bunnies, so even a little cat’s rather admiring gaze instinctively gives the biggest deer cause for concern. I’ve witnessed mule deer viciously attacking feral cats in the area. However, Possum always greeted Nathan with open-eyed curiosity as they would stare and sniff nose to nose through the screen door. Nathan always responded to Possum with a soft, inquisitive yowl.

  At one year, we were relieved to learn that Possum, like her mother, was not a migratory deer, and she chose to become a permanent fixture and perhaps an undesignated family member on the Slingshot. She would radiate out around the ranch during the day but never seemed to venture far away—then join us in the yard every morning and every afternoon, almost without fail.

  Special time with Possum.

  Possum: a face and personality impossible not to love.

  Distinct milestones are achieved in acquiring familiarity and acceptance among the deer, and none are more significant than those that involve the various barriers that define their sense of space. Maintaining a deer’s trust and confidence at a distance of one hundred feet is a definite milestone, and with time, patience, and a little luck, that barrier of safety may be gradually reduced to a nervous thirty feet. Eventually a deer may move into the final flight-option distance of perhaps ten or fifteen. Then, at some point, many mule deer make the apparently conscious decision that their lives will be safe with this person, and they may then choose to come into direct proximity. From an ethologist’s perspective, you have arrived. However, from this position, ever greater levels of trust can be established and even closer proximity may be allowed when patiently encouraged by the passage of time and perhaps by the provocation of an occasional treat offered quietly from the hand. At first, and in most cases, this level of hands-on interaction is merely tolerated or indulged, until eventually it occurs to a particular deer that physical contact can actually be quite nice. And, treats or no treats, eventually you may become such a persistent fixture in this deer’s life that it cannot imagine a world without you. Significantly, when a wild deer actually desires the touch of a particular human, you know that, without question, you have entered a space that is reserved only for the closest of affiliates and immediate family members. Then, perhaps, one fine day some deer may become comfortable enough to lie down and rest in your immediate proximity, which constitutes another important milestone—as of course deer are their most vulnerable to predation or even aggression from another deer while lying down. A resting deer will often feel so uncomfortable by the approach of another deer that it will spring to its feet and move away rather than expose itself to some potential hostility. It would seem that all ungulates are so well designed for their particular efficient and fleet form of locomotion that the need to ever lie down or to stand up was included only as an awkward evolutionary afterthought, merely addressing some unfortunate necessity that had been overlooked. It could be safely said that ungulates appear disadvantaged—the outcome of poor design—when in the act of lying down or rising up. In fact, no matter how much finesse and care is applied by these creatures in an effort to become recumbent, every bed always involves an inevitable surrender, whereby the hapless creature at last and ungracefully plops to the ground with a jarring thud.

  Mule deer are aware of their vulnerability, always feeling precarious when resting, and they rarely allow themselves the pleasure of putting their heads down and curling up like a cat or laying their head across their back and going sound asleep. It is only in the still hours of midday and normally only in the company of other resting, but hopefully more vigilant, deer that they enjoy such a respite. When a wild deer remains “bedded down” as you calmly approach and enter its immediate space, you can know with certainty that both deer and human have come far in their relationship, and this may be one of the clearest demonstrations of a complete and unconditional trust. To have a wild mule deer go sound asleep while lying eighteen inches from your side is an even greater achievement—a true complement. Then, for that same pregnant doe to allow you to place your hands on her abdomen, and feel fawns kicking inside her swollen belly only days before birth, is a privilege beyond anything I could have imagined. (However, mule deer are wild animals and should never be encouraged to become domesticated and “pet-like.” Ultimately no good can come of it for deer or human. Our relationship comes with a price—a controversial price—I have chosen to pay in an effort to uncover what could be vital information about the true and intimate nature of this animal.) I have managed to establish this level of trust with only a few deer in seven years.

  Possum was such a deer. Although Possum was from a family clan that was characteristically nervous in our company and slow to become accustomed to my immediate presence, her trust seemed almost boundless, and I was afforded privileges that have been granted only by a few others. I would commonly lie with Possum in the shade on warm spring afternoons and alternately stroke her neck and observe the rather precocious and vigorous kicking going on in her swollen abdomen. As Possum would pant incessantly in the insufferable, seventy-five-degree heat with eyes closed, the rise and fall of her full belly was punctuated with the perpetual prodding of tiny hooves and noses, as two very small mule dee
r became increasingly dissatisfied with their confinement. Mule deer live in somewhat of a vocally oriented society, and, unlike my interaction with other species, speaking in a human voice has always seemed somehow useful and even appropriate in my dealings with these deer. The strange and unique grumblings of a known human voice can be comforting to a deer, but if they hear two or more voices, they become disturbed. Interestingly, they readily discriminate between a stranger’s voice and a familiar person’s. But this should be expected, as mule deer clearly know the difference between each other’s voices, even at great distances. A doe can differentiate perfectly well between the voice of her fawn and another. And when a mother calls into a group of ten fawns, only her fawn comes running.

  Quite naturally I offered some periodic dialogue to Possum while in her presence, knowing that ears other than Possum’s were paying close attention to the sound of my voice. Interacting with an unborn fawn in this way may be the only possible imprinting opportunity I have had in this study. Deer fawns are precocial—born fully ambulatory—and their senses of smell, vision, and hearing are acute and active at the time of birth, suggesting that for many days prior they are also alert—taking advantage of the opportunity to learn from the activity that surrounds them.