Touching the Wild

by Joe Hutto

  As evening approached, ten mule deer wandered into the backyard briefly milling around, browsing on a few desirable plants peculiar to the yard, and generally ignored both me and Shadow. Eventually, however, several deer wandered by, and, without alarm, they observed with a peculiar disturbed curiosity and concern that distinctly indicated the recognition of a fellow deer in distress. Then, to my surprise, perhaps because he had gone days without mule deer company, Shadow stood up, staggering briefly, as in some desperate attempt to join once again with some familiar herd members. But he could only stand trembling and could only manage a few halting steps that led him from the plum thicket. He stood momentarily on a patch of grassy lawn with his mouth partially open. The look in his eyes was one of helplessness and pain, and the sight of it made me grab the pail of water and walk directly to him. Shadow was standing at death’s door. There I dropped down on my knees at his feet and began scooping up water and holding it to his mouth. He barely acknowledged my presence, refused any attempt to actually drink, and only made a feeble effort to moisten his dry mouth and tongue. My heart sank as I stared directly into his pain, his desperation, and something that was clearly akin to an overwhelming disappointment.

  Shadow’s eyes were tired and bleary, but as I looked into his great black orbs I saw two extraordinary objects suspended on the inside corners of his eyes. There, poised on the edge of each eye, were identical, perfect, liquid, crystal spheres—like small, transparent pearls. They were tears, for lack of better language—but not the cloudy discharge—the sagging milky exudates that I have seen leaking from the eyes of a hundred sick, injured, or dying mule deer. These were two perfectly limpid orbicular objects of absolute and uncanny clarity. Like unfaceted diamonds, they gathered the evening light in four seemingly geometric balanced source points that as physical phenomena were unlike anything that I have observed in the natural world. For a single moment I was absolutely transfixed—perhaps like the unexpected vision—a momentary glimpse of an unexpected but nearby universe. Shadow then took one last awkward step and collapsed in a heap on the ground by my side as both of these remarkable, tear-like pearls fell from his eyes.

  Shadow lay on his right side with legs outstretched and head oriented slightly downhill, as I sat helpless with legs crossed just behind his neck and shoulders. As evening approached and the sun slipped behind the mountain, I watched the rise and fall of Shadow’s breath as he slowly inhaled and exhaled in a predictable rhythm that was not shallow and halting but rather slow, relaxed, and steady. There was the occasional light groan—a gentle moaning exhale of air, but then again the slow, steady rise of his breath. Besides his gentle breath, the only other movement was from his left front leg, which he would lift slightly every few minutes, extending the foot forward, as if reaching out. I sat at his side for an hour as darkness approached, not knowing whether this could go on for many hours or even days, but I knew I could never leave him as long as he had breath. Then Shadow moved. He stretched his neck back and lay his head at my crossed feet and, to my astonishment, looked me dead in the eyes. The tired, bleary look had left these remarkable eyes, and they once again appeared translucent, knowing, and black, like large, liquid globes of obsidian. Again I was transfixed—I was captured by his gaze and could not look away. I soon found myself lost in Shadow’s eyes. Then, as recognizable as if it were my own brother, his mouth opened slightly, and he called to me in the familiar voice that I had heard so many times throughout our years together. This was the all-too-familiar call that he would make when he wanted my attention, my assistance—my acknowledgment. I felt a helpless agony in that moment, not knowing what this particular voice was expressing. Was it a desperate plea for a help I could not render? Was it a cry for me to somehow relieve his suffering? The sound only served to draw me deeper into the apparent eternity of those eyes. Uncharacteristically, I even prayed at one point for something good and just in the universe to take this innocent being from his suffering—from a life from which there was no more to be gained. Again he called to me, and some deeply interior part of me ran to him, some part of me dove into his eyes, and I was there for him with all that I had. Shadow then briefly began moving his legs. Like an old dog dreaming, it was as if he was running, as all four feet gently moved in a steady but abbreviated motion. Shadow had spent his entire life eluding death every day, but as it approached, was this an attempt to elude this inevitability one last time? Or, had Shadow finally recognized that death was now his only refuge, and, thus, was he in fact at last running to meet death in final desperation? Then, in a moment, he stopped and became motionless—his chest rose weakly one last time, and as a gentle sigh left him, he went silent and still. I watched for minutes for yet another breath, but there was none. Yet Shadow’s eyes remained transfixed on my own, and it appeared that the life would not go out of them. I waited for all sign of life and spirit to pass away, but Shadow seemed as if he would not leave me—as if he would not leave my world or his. I reached forward to hold his head, to feel the last warmth that might be preserved—a glow and warmth that I had known and enjoyed for so many years. At last I attempted to close Shadow’s eyes and break his gaze with mine, but they would not close—his eyelids simply would not close, and my irresistible attachment to him became disturbing—as if his death would not deliver him from all this meanness and tragedy that had been the stage on which he had played out his life. With bitterness and resentment I wondered if Shadow ever knew even one perfect mule deer day that filled him with satisfaction or even joy—a single day that could have seemed to make a difficult life all worthwhile. At last, half a day and perhaps a light year beyond tears, I forced myself to look away and lay Shadow’s head gently on the ground. An hour may have passed, but I was shocked that his ears had already begun to grow cold and that the life could be so thoroughly and quickly gone from him. How could something so great and powerful—so otherwise enduring—pass away in these few moments? As nightfall finally surrounded us, and not wanting his remains to be disturbed in the night, I retrieved a tarp and carefully covered my old friend—the bright light of his eyes now enveloped by the penetrating darkness.

  The following day I examined Shadow closely, and there on his shoulder were the telltale bruising and cuts that indicated that it was he who in fact had become ensnared in the fence. Always lame on his left front hoof, creating difficulties negotiating fences, his right humerus (the large bone of the upper forelimb) had been completely broken in half in the mishap. He must have suffered horribly in those weeks, and recovery would have been a complete impossibility. That he could walk at all was extraordinary.

  Something remarkable occurred during these intimate moments sharing in Shadow’s life, his final hours, and his death. After some months, I find with a certain detached curiosity that I am somehow not the same, and I will always suspect that Shadow took some part of me with him—or perhaps it was a willing departure, and I was entirely complicit, for I may have found the moment and the company irresistible. But clearly something of me that was vital appears to have either died or went with him. I suspect that perhaps it may have been the best part of me, and if this is true I give of it willingly, for I would gladly share an eternity in oblivion with that fine creature and certainly be the better for it. Only now do I fully understand that Shadow was without question a most noble creature, an embodiment and realization of a perfection on this Earth that I will likely never know again.

  Shadow in better days.

  Peep’s Update

  In the fall of 2012, many of the does returned from their summer grounds completely emaciated. The summer had been one of severe drought and plagued by grasshoppers. By October, many of these deer and their fawns succumbed in an unprecedented prewinter die-off.

  That summer, we had not seen Peep. Although Peep had migrated in her first year, she had not migrated the following year, giving birth to PomPom and Boo in her winter home range in our proximity. The powerful and seemingly inseparable connection of Peep and her tw
o older buck fawns was an interesting phenomenon, but I worried, as she became increasingly gravid with her rapidly developing new fawn, how and when was she to rid herself of this overwhelming attachment. But again this year, she finally disappeared with her older fawns, so I have no idea how she finally resolved this dilemma. Throughout the month of July, I hoped that she would soon reappear with a new fawn or two and spend the summer with us, but she chose to remain far away in some unknown location for the entire summer.

  By September, as other familiar deer began to show up from their summer ranges, Peep did not arrive early, and I began to fear for the little deer who had known such a tough life. Early one morning long before first light, I was out in the dark interacting with a few deer, when an odd but somehow familiar shape approached. Although I knew with complete certainty that it was Peep, I also recognized in the inky darkness that something was terribly wrong. She seemed to be almost luminescent—almost as if she was glowing in the dark. Peep had left for her summer migration in absolute perfect condition, but even in darkness I could tell that she was a pale, walking skeleton—nothing but skin and bones and scantly covered in this strange, bleached-out summer coat. As we exchanged greetings, I ran my hand across her back, and my anxiety swelled as I could feel every bone in her body. I had never observed a living deer that was this wasted.

  As light began to reveal the extent of Peep’s condition, I was shocked to see that not only had she failed to shed her summer coat; there was no trace of her emerging fall and winter pelage. Nights were becoming cold, and now Peep was without any protective undercoat. I could clearly see her bare skin that, although dry, showed no sign of dermatitis or infestation by ticks or lice. There were no signs of ocular or nasal discharge but only some crust deep within her ears, which she seemed happy for me to remove. As I immediately started her on a mixture of nutritious feed and examined her body carefully, it became perfectly clear that although she could be suffering from a high internal parasite load, she was not suffering from some common viral or bacterial infection. This was not an infected “sick” deer, but rather a deer who was obviously starved close to death. I wondered where she could have been—in what mule deer hell had the environmental conditions been so destitute? Despite a summer drought and a severe grasshopper infestation, this seemed like an ecological impossibility. Peep looked more like a concentration camp victim than the spunky, healthy little mother that I remembered from only three months before.

  Then, to my complete disbelief, I realized that there were two small, frightened fawns in the yard and that they belonged to Peep. The fawns were unmistakably hers, and their appearance was a glance back in time, recalling Peep’s distinctive and adorable appearance, but also appearing emaciated and wearing the dry, brittle hair of that once all-too-familiar starving fawn. I examined Peep’s udder and quickly noted that she was completely dry and had not lactated for many weeks. Healthy does are still nursing in September and will often continue lactating into November and occasionally into December. Peep was starved, had stopped lactating early on, and her fawns were now underdeveloped and in terribly poor condition. Of course they were confused and frightened by these strange new circumstances and failed to immediately recognize the food that I was attempting to offer. The fawns seemed perky and alert, but it was difficult to know whether this was because of some meager sense of physical well-being or just the result of fear and adrenaline. It seemed physically impossible that a perfectly healthy deer could slip into such a decline so quickly. Peep and her new fawns were not just in poor condition but clearly on the brink of death.

  Of course I could not handle the fawns and closely monitor their condition, but at least their fall coat was in much better shape than their mother’s. I began ensuring that the desperate family had access to a variety of nutritious feed at all times, although it was hard to tell how much the fawns were eating. Peep seemed unenthusiastic about the food, as if she had almost lost the will to eat. Within a few days of around-the-clock availability and encouragement, she began to eat with more interest. However, I saw no way that Peep could survive such an overwhelming insult to her body.

  In a week, one of Peep’s fawns lay down, and in twenty-four hours she was dead. Peep never left her side, and I was certain that this was the blow that would end her life as well. She maintained her intermittent vigil over the dead fawn for several days, with her surviving fawn, Puck, always remaining close by her side. A week later, Puck found a spot below the front meadow, lay down fifty feet from Rosebud’s skeleton, and died within hours. Peep was not to be consoled as she hovered around the remains of her last fawn for several more days. For two days I brought feed to her in containers. This was the second pair of fawns Peep had lost in a row. Although I could neither share nor console her apparent anguish, I too slipped into a state of despair and resignation. That this diligent and gentle creature could endure so much agony—both physical and emotional—seemed like a complete impossibility. Now my only concern and objective was to try and save this sad little deer’s life one more time.

  Peep managed to survive the next few weeks, by some means that I do not fully understand, as she gradually began to eat, and in a month Leslye and I debated that she may have actually gained some weight. A downy winter undercoat of charcoal grey hair began to appear like a shadowy undergarment as it contrasted with the exhausted, pale hair of summer that was falling out in handfuls. The emergence of her winter coat coincided with the first winter plunge into the frigid abyss of subzero temperatures. For a month, Peep was one freezing rain away from certain death.

  Now, it is spring, and although I am not certain, I believe that Peep is again pregnant, although I wish she were not. She has seemingly made at least a tentative recovery and is once again reminiscent of the stocky little doe from the previous year. However, this last year has taken a heavy toll on this tough mother mule deer, and as Peep enters her sixth year, she now bears the look of a tired, old, and distinctly disappointed deer. Once again it appears I am her only family, as PomPom and Boo either left their home range or were killed in their first hunting season. I fear that Peep will never have a true family and experience that valuable opportunity to pass on her many contributions as the wise matriarch of her own maternal clan. Peep might represent the ultimate survivor, and, like most surviving mule deer, she is possessed of some undeniable brilliance. There can be no question that she is very good at what she does, but, surely, if Peep chooses to migrate again, she will die. Now I spend as much time as possible with her, and she seeks my company at least twice a day. Offering her every spare minute, I recognize that she is a rare wonder that is momentarily sure to pass from my life.

  Peep in the bloom of perfection: A healthy young mule deer doe.

  Peep. The price of motherhood in an unhealthy ecology.

  Depending on a perspective that changes daily—whether I am looking up the mountain or down the mountain through the eyes of a deer—I have begun to observe my own life with either less—or perhaps more—objectivity. I’m no longer certain.

  C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N

  Provisions of Consciousness

  Look in your computer’s spell checker for ethology. Your spell checker will probably not recognize this particular “ology,” and only by consulting a more comprehensive dictionary will you locate the word. The word has become familiar in the academic lexicon only in more recent years as the direct study of true animal behavior has gradually been recognized as a legitimate area of scientific inquiry. In my rather protracted academic experience involving much of the 1960s and early 1970s, biology barely acknowledged that animals actually had a true life experience, as they were viewed more as organic phenomena with little conscious or even behavioral significance. If you wanted to explore the nature of animal minds, their society, or their awareness, you were sent with your tail between your legs to the halls of behavioral psychology to study animal “intelligence,” exploring primitive and rudimentary Pavlovian concepts, or those of Skinne
r, involving stimulus and response and habituation. To suggest that animals could be thoughtful, rational creatures—or, God forbid, to suggest that creatures could be sentient or even conscious—was tantamount to scientific heresy. Ring a bell, flash a light, and feed the dog enough times, and he eventually salivates upon hearing the bell or seeing the light. There was no suggestion that the dog had actually “learned” a preposterously simple corollary—that he could actually have mental images of a warm, moist bowl of kibble! In spite of the fact that every dog owner has clearly observed the phenomenon of dogs having dreams—cohesive, mentally fabricated images—these most simple deductions never seemed to be introduced into the apparent thoughtlessness of the day.

  I know all about peer review, and as a scientist, I highly approve of its usefulness and necessity in the academic process. However, the brutality of this process has often prevented the introduction of common sense into the rigorous scientific equation of empiricism and strict objectivity. During those years, there was no suggestion that the dog had simply put two and two together, but had rather become only habituated to the stimulus and exhibited a predictable response. And, of course, there was never a suggestion that the dog’s experience was identical to the human experience of driving by the billowing wood smoke of the barbeque restaurant and thinking you might like to have a sandwich—as your mouth starts to salivate profusely at the “thought” of spicy sauce ladled over pulled pork!