by Joe Hutto
Dialogue with pregnant Possum.
Predictably, Possum wandered off one morning and did not return in the afternoon. We were correct in our assumption that she was in need of some solitude so that she might attend to the delicate and private business of bringing new mule deer into the world. She took up inconspicuous residence in a general area down below the house on the far side of the front meadow along the creek in the draw, and we respectfully pretended not to notice. Here the creek bottom becomes wide and flat, dotted with occasional cattail marsh, with various species of small willows rising above abundant thick, billowing grasses and sedges that thrive on the seepage areas discharged from the slopes above. There Possum strove to achieve invisibility as she browsed for a day or two in a most unobtrusive and circuitous manner. We maintained an almost constant vigil, and occasionally we would look below and see the silhouette of her luxurious ears as she hid in the cover of the cool, shady, riparian vegetation. We were particularly hopeful for Possum’s good fortune, as she had lost an adorable fawn, Marcie, the previous December to a mountain lion attack just below the house. During that winter after losing her first fawn after five months of dedication and perseverance, Possum seemed to enter a state of resignation, as the playful joy that we had always known was displaced by disappointment. Now a possibility for some consolation was at hand.
Late one afternoon during the last week of June, Leslye noticed Possum standing among the tall, grassy vegetation close to the creek in a posture that looked odd. Just as we retrieved our binoculars and focused, it appeared that something fell from Possum’s backside and disappeared below. Possum immediately turned and began to attend to things on the ground, and as we watched anxiously for several minutes it became clear that Possum was greeting and grooming a new arrival. A few minutes later, we watched a new, wet, and wobbly spotted fawn first stagger to its feet but then fall down struggling with repeated awkward attempts to regain its footing. After several failed efforts, the little thing stood with legs sprawled out like some sort of quadra-pod, with head down, but already sporting those large, conspicuous, drooping ears that seemed to imply some level of disappointment with the new accommodations. Possum spent the next thirty minutes grooming the fawn as it gradually became more skilled at remaining upright and then even managed to take a few tentative steps. As we watched, Possum started moving downstream, away from the fawn, and immediately the little creature attempted to stay close to its mother by following along with choppy, halting steps, droopy ears, and a distinct upward arch to the back.
Here in summer, as water begins to become less abundant, the run of the creek in this rather flat stretch is gradually confined to a widely meandering but narrow grassy channel one foot or more deep and only one foot or eighteen inches wide. Without considering the dire possibilities, the proud new mother stepped effortlessly across the creek, but as the tiny fawn tried to cross, we were horrified to see it immediately disappear in the narrow, ditch-like channel of the stream. Without a word, Leslye dropped her binoculars and ran out of the house, and the screen door slammed behind her with a bang. Across the yard, under the barbed wire fence, and down the lower meadow she sprinted like a mother on a mission. Knowing that Leslye could handle things, and not wanting to create more confusion for Possum and her fawn, I watched closely with the binoculars. Leslye was two hundred yards across the meadow and under the far fence in seconds. As she neared the approximate spot where the fawn had vanished, Possum ran back and observed with wide eyes and canted ears as Leslye dropped to her knees and reached down into the creek. I could clearly see Leslye set the fawn out on the far side of the creek bank in a standing position, then immediately turn around and start walking away. But then, having second thoughts about the fawn’s proximity to the water, she walked back across the creek, once again picked up the little wet fawn, and set it back down a few more yards beyond the hazardous water. All the while, Possum stared anxiously from fifty feet down stream, cautiously observing the drama. Again, without looking back, Leslye turned to walk away and I was amazed when the fawn actually began to follow her. In an instant, Leslye was far enough away that the fawn stopped following and stood motionless while Possum began approaching. As Leslye walked back through the meadow, Possum and her wet, trembling little fawn were reunited and, after a little grooming session, continued on down the creek and disappeared through the dense willows. We were never sure which fawn Leslye had handled, because Possum had twins; either she’d already had her first fawn, or there was still one more on the way. Leslye reported that the fawn had been in the water, clearly trapped in the bottom of a narrow and steep portion of the creek with its tiny legs folded underneath and, without her help, probably would never have managed to get out. Seeing how Possum obviously treasured her new fawn and, of course, loving Possum like one of our own family, it was very difficult to watch the fragile little creature wander down the creek with its mother into the brutal wilds of Wyoming, where life is predictably more often unkind to a new fawn.
The following afternoon, Possum appeared in the same general location with two fine-looking little spotted fawns at her side. The new family stayed in the general area of the lower creek for days, and each afternoon we would watch Possum retrieve her fawns for nursing and grooming. After nursing, she would entice the little ones to follow her to a new secure and tidy location for hiding. In this way Possum remained near her fawns but never exposed their exact location until she was ready to nurse, and then, of course, she would find yet a new location in which they could remain safely hidden. Having had experience with her first fawn, Marcie, she was a perfect mother, knowing exactly how to protect and care for her new charges.
Mule deer does constantly communicate with their fawns, who respond in turn with obvious behaviors to specific instructions. Commands to “lie down and stay put” are expressed, and the fawn instantly lies down. Several times a day the mother voices, “You may come to me now and nurse,” at which time the fawn stands and, with tail straight up, runs to its mother’s side and begins roughly punching the udder before suckling.
Each day, young fawns gain more strength and agility, and within a week they are beginning to go on little excursions with mom as she spends increasingly more time with the little ones in tow. In seven days, fawns start to venture a few tentative feet away from their mother during their periodic reunions, and, at last, they begin actively exploring their new world. Within days, young mule deer become exuberant—bucking and playing. In two weeks they can run like the wind. As mule deer fawns gradually become bored with their mother’s more deliberate and dignified demeanor, they become increasingly willful. Twins are a bad influence on one another.
Late one afternoon when the fawns were about ten days old, we watched from the porch as Possum browsed in the willows near the creek below. We could alternately see the tops of the fawns’ ears as they milled around with their mother in the lush green grass. Gradually the two worked their way under the lower meadow fence and began a game of tag in the bromegrass, which was already thirty inches tall and a month from the start of haying season. Soon, a simple grab-ass game of tag became an all-out romp, and the fawns went storming, at breakneck speed, across the meadow in a wide sweep, eventually running uphill onto the shallow irrigation ditch hundreds of yards away from Possum. We were a bit outraged at their dangerous behavior and stunned to see this level of carelessness on the part of these poorly behaved babies. We found ourselves further disapproving of an apparently irresponsible mother. I commented, “Willful little sprites, aren’t they!” Finally, the fawns plopped down and disappeared next to the ditch, two hundred yards from mom. Possum continued to browse casually, apparently unconcerned with this ten-day-old mule deer behavior. Later, she reunited with the fawns, knowing exactly where they were all along, and they wandered back down the creek before dark.
Two nights later, we assumed our positions on the front porch an hour before dark and immediately saw Possum and her fawns entering the front yard under th
e meadow fence. Possum swaggered into the yard with the fawns in tow, and, without so much as a glance in our direction, she walked over to the platform bird feeder and started to clear away any remaining seeds. She had been in the yard on several occasions on various days after the fawns were born, but this was their first introduction to Leslye and me. As we spoke softly to Possum, who focused her attention more in the direction of any remaining bird seed, the fawns stared intently but fearlessly at the two of us seated on the porch. I slowly rose out of my seat and went to the front steps and sat down. We always keep a couple of iron rings from old wooden wagon hubs on the edge of the porch filled with mixed seeds for the least chipmunks, and, after clearing the platform, Possum slowly meandered over to check out the seed rings. The fawns followed at her side, and as I sat quietly on the steps, one of the fawns casually walked over and, with apparent interest, sniffed me all over. After this brief introduction, he walked over to the seed ring with Possum, and the three briefly nosed around in the seeds.
Possum and the fawns spent considerable time with us that afternoon before dark, and, interestingly, we had the occasion to watch each fawn urinate and established that one fawn was a buck and the other was a doe. The buck fawn was more robust, with a stunningly beautiful face—even for a fawn. His enormous, dark, glimmering eyes seemed to reflect everything that is good in the world, like receiving a transfusion of light directly into the human spirit. The doe fawn had a more gracile face, with distinct little wrinkles on the sides of her upper front lips while eating. Because of their exuberant behavior two nights before, they became known as Will and Sprite. Each evening thereafter, Possum would bring Will and Sprite into the front yard for treats and visits, and in days they viewed us as family members, as both seemed to display complete trust while in our company. Perhaps the most touching thing about our relationship, besides unavoidably falling in love with these two completely irresistible little creatures, was also observing Possum’s absolute trust—her unwavering faith in our good intentions toward her fawns. And so I ask, where in a mule deer’s experience and understanding of the world does that capacity reside? How vast is that place within the instinctive and conscious experience of this mortally protective mother? How significant is that place that might allow these confusingly dangerous and alien creatures—these humans—a status of absolute trust with her most precious and treasured possessions? Where in the evolutionary history of the mule deer did that capacity become a possibility, and what were those circumstances? And, yet, remarkably, upon seeing another human walking nearly one half-mile away, this same doe and fawns observe attentively for a brief moment, then cautiously trot away to some safer haven.
When living this close to a relatively large herd of familiar mule deer, and, in this case, so close to a small family of individuals such as Possum and her fawns, each night as the sun sets and your deer family members wander cautiously into the darkness, you find your heart becoming heavy. Most misfortune—and the possibilities are endless—befall a deer in the dark of night. Invariably, when I see any familiar deer wandering away in the evening, I always say a silent goodbye, knowing the possibility of death is, on a given night, not just a possibility but more of an inevitability. Watching two impossibly fragile little fawns wander into the troubled night is an almost sickening experience. A mother doe can expect to lose her new fawn more than 50 percent of the time within the first twelve weeks. So it is better not to give your heart to a newborn fawn, for the odds are stacked against you all. At morning’s first light and throughout the day into the evening, we nervously watch the creek bottom and surrounding meadows, hoping that a new pair of fawns survived yet another brutal dark night. Perhaps, then, at last, you see a fawn appear in the tall grass with its mother, nursing, and if sheer luck has prevailed, another spotted fawn may appear at its mother’s side, and you briefly acknowledge that all have had at least one more reprieve from tragedy. But, inevitably, as the sun slides low into the evening sky and disappears behind the mountain, the loaded dice of mule deer survival are once again tossed.
Possum with Will and Sprite.
The vision of a mother doe trotting through a herd of does and fawns, frantically sniffing each little one, then pursuing further futility as she wanders alone onto the slopes, pleading in desperation—the clear voice of hopeless expectation—calling for a fawn that has been killed and carried away in the night—is for any human still in possession of a beating heart crushing. I have seen grieving does become so exhausted in the quest to locate a fawn—a fawn whose death she probably witnessed—that clearing the top of yet one more barbed wire fence becomes a physical impossibility. As she becomes entangled in the top strand, she is slammed to the ground, and life’s cruelty and injustice seems to pervade the world. You stand helplessly and watch her overwhelming and inconsolable grief, and it is only after several days—perhaps a week—that the agony leaves her eyes and becomes displaced by something else. Invariably, in every young doe, the eager, optimistic experience of life’s joy is finally overcome by a more permanent state of apparent disappointment. I have watched this almost inevitable metamorphosis on so many occasions that it has become a perpetual dread in my life. Mule deer are born spunky, hopeful, affectionate, and fun-loving, but also so profoundly sensitive that it could even be suggested that they are emotionally vulnerable. Sooner or later, tragedy always replaces the joy in a young deer’s eyes.
I always dread the inevitable appearance of disappointment and the scars and anguish that overtake the excited little deer I once knew. I always take note of this phenomenon with the fascinated detachment of an impartial observer, until I am eventually overcome with a heartache that obviously is in no way peculiar to the human experience, and, like the exhausted doe with a foot caught in the wire, I too am slammed to the ground.
In a lifetime of involvement with the lives of so many varied species, and those many particular individuals who represented members of those species, there has been no greater revelation than the recognition that sorrow is a common thread that weaves the lives of all thoughtful creatures into a complex fabric of shared experience. Although perhaps threatening to some, and emotionally inconvenient to our otherwise cold, imperial sense of authority and human dominion over other living things, sorrow—like fear—is clearly a shared trait representing one of our most profound organic commonalities. It is one of the defining provisions of consciousness.
And so it was with Possum and her two fawns night after night, as the entire world seemed to hold its breath waiting for the forthcoming safety of the rising sun. Again each day we exhaled the breath of apprehension and inhaled the light that projects the almost miraculous sight of two spotted, willful little deer romping through the deep, wet meadow grass with their noticeably weary mother trailing behind. Their unbound enthusiasm is pregnant with the joyful possibilities of life, suggesting that all is not cruel and vicious, and that perhaps this life should not be indicted and at once convicted for all its apparent and unforgivable cruelty. And so, in my particular version of quiet desperation, I defer to these creatures and their ancient bravery and inherent wisdom—a wisdom that I concede to be infinitely greater than my own.
Over the next few days, our relationship with Possum and her family grew steadily more routine, and each day we could breathe a little easier with the rapid development of the fawns as they began to achieve a strength that decreased their vulnerability incrementally. By three weeks, mule deer fawns are of course still extremely vulnerable, but they have developed enough vigor to avoid some of the minor threats that might overtake a more helpless newborn. On two occasions I encountered the individual fawns as I set about the business of irrigating hay meadows throughout the day. Both times the fawns remained motionless with heads down on the ground and merely eyed me with a quiet suspicion that was only partially relieved by my familiar voice.
That spring, Rodenta had also produced two new fawns, and they were visiting us in the evenings for treats as well. Characteristic of
all of Rodenta’s offspring, Tom and Jerry were always suspicious like their mother; we have achieved close physical contact only with a couple of Rodenta’s fawns in the seven years we have known her. Most afternoons, the four fawns would interact briefly with curious sniffs of the nose, but young mule deer tend to stay close to their mother’s side, and it is only several weeks later that they begin to interact socially with others. Rodenta and Possum were close herd affiliates but, typical of new mothers, showed no inclination to join together with young fawns. Rodenta was also hiding her fawns in the immediate area, and I encountered her fawns on a couple of occasions as they lay concealed on the margins of the hay meadows, often near the overgrown shallow irrigation ditches. Fawns, like adult mule deer, have distinctive and individual appearances and are easily identified after only a few introductory encounters. The face of a two-week-old fawn is still entirely recognizable in that same adult deer three years later.
One evening, when the fawns were about ten weeks old, we assumed our positions on the front porch, expecting Will and Sprite to appear with their mother, but by dark, no one appeared. Not wanting to entertain the worst, we merely concluded that Possum was simply being a predictably unpredictable mule deer and appropriately varying her schedule. Possum and the fawns had failed to appear on a couple of other occasions, so that evening was a bit worrisome but not extraordinary. However, the next evening, we had still seen no sign of the family. Then, thirty minutes before dark, we were relieved to hear the fawn’s voices calling to their mother as they arrived in the backyard. But as we watched for Possum to wander in behind, she failed to appear. Confused, we watched the fawns as they wandered around the yard, calling with increasing desperation in their voices. Again and again they cried out with one of the most pitiful and plaintiff calls in all of nature, and we began to realize that Possum was definitely not in the immediate area. Perhaps Possum had simply been late in coming to gather up her fawns as they patiently waited for her return. Perhaps the fawns had become hungry and anxious and had set out to find her instead. But as darkness approached, our words of encouragement offered no consolation. The fawns would come in close to the porch but then wander to the edge of the yard and stare out across the meadows, mewing loudly. The inconsolable pleas were heart-wrenching as we sat helpless, waiting and hoping for Possum’s appearance. Perhaps she had run far from some disturbance, such as a coyote, stray dog, or mountain lion, and had wisely led the danger away from her helpless fawns. As complete darkness fell, the desperate, mewing voices could be heard as they disappeared down through the lower meadow, and we could only hope that Possum would come charging back to retrieve these lost fawns. We knew that Possum’s devotion to these twins was as unrelenting as the preservation of her own life, and she would be making every effort to reunite with them throughout the night. However, the prospects were dire, and this was a scenario that we had never contemplated. Would they know to hide until their mother’s return, or would they continue searching and calling until every predator in the area had been fully alerted by their unmistakable cries? Throughout the early night I stood in the driveway listening for the fawns, but by midnight I had heard only the disturbing sound of two distant coyotes as they warned the world of their nefarious intent. Around midnight I entered the house with only faith and confidence in Possum’s wisdom that must somehow be at play in this disturbing turn of events. Her fawns could now rely only on her extraordinary integrity and competence. Surely, that would rule the day, for Possum had seen it all in her rigorous life. You don’t become a four-year-old mule deer without acquiring the razor-sharp intelligence that comes from the guidance of infallible judgment and one thousand life-saving acts of courage and heroism.