Sleepy Hollow, Northern California. “What a perfect place for a writer to live,” I thought, when I moved here almost five years ago. And I did get a lot of writing done, when I wasn’t in my garden, that is.

Our house is surrounded by woods and high hills, with a seasonal creek dancing along the right edge of our property, lined by a sentinel of three giant rocks. “We’re butt up against nature here,” is what my husband likes to say.

When I saw it, apart from thinking about the quaint name of the area and of its street names, like “Van Winkle Drive,” and “Ichabod Lane,” I also imagined that I could, at long last, have a garden. Having lived all my life in small flats in a city or by the sea, I’d made do with potted flowers on my windowsills and balconies. Now I had almost a full acre of dirt to plant and I couldn’t wait to get started.

Testing the soil, mapping the sunny and shady areas of the ground, I bought containers and containers of colourful blooms and planted them with enthusiasm and care. I toiled in that garden daily, my nails turning jagged and brown as I dug in eggshells and coffee grinds to fertilize the earth, picked off caterpillars and crinkled dead stems from each plant, watered and weeded carefully and methodically. Week after week, month after month I worked, until my garden was rich and full and I could revel in the vibrancy of it.

Then the deer came. Dozens of them, grown and small, with antlers and without; they came down from the rise of trees behind our house. To someone who’d never seen them up close before, they looked splendid, graceful and gentle. A gift from nature, a blessing, even.

Until I woke up one morning and wandered out into my garden to discover it no longer existed. I could see only the remnants of it left by a savage marauder who thought every blossom, every leaf I’d lovingly attended, was nothing more than dinner salad. The deer had eaten their way through bougainvillea, geraniums, lobelia, impatiens, petunias, pansies, azalea bushes, rose bushes, and when nothing else was left, even ivy vines. I stood in horrified dismay looking down at the concrete and the grass where scattered specks of green, blue, red, pink, purple, and yellow, which had once been my beloved, beautiful flowers, lay strewn and still, as though they’d tried to run and escape from a terrible siege, but had perished in their efforts, anyway.

The deer became my enemy then, and my war with them was on. Armed with powdered blood meal, deer netting, and a foul smelling spray made of garlic and eggs, I attacked. They retreated for a while. Then I woke up one morning again to discover that during the night, the hungry deer had somehow managed to nibbled under the netting. They’d also concluded that both powdered blood meal and rotten egg/garlic spray made delightful salad dressings. My flowers were murdered a second time. Not only did this make me cry, it made me furious.

My husband could not understand my perspective. Growing up on a farm and living in rural areas all his life, he’d shared space with various wild animals since he’d been born. To him, the presence of deer in our garden had the same feeling about it you get when you shrug on an old coat. It wasn’t necessarily attractive, but it felt familiar and comfortable. But in just the way I splashed delightedly into the sea in Greece while he stood there shivering and thinking of sharks; or slid easily between passengers on a New York City subway while he thought of pickpockets, the deer were as alien to me as those experiences were to him. Somehow, he’d missed that.

“Why not just plant things they won’t eat?” he asked pragmatically, not even trying to hide his impatience with me.

“What, you mean lavender?” I replied, sardonically, not even trying to hide my annoyance with him.

To me, just having purple buds in the garden looked dull. Judging by the preponderance of lavender and oleander in the area, everyone else had surrendered to the deer. But I wouldn’t. I didn’t even like oleander, although the fact that it was poisonous and that the deer just might get hungry enough to eat it, was an entertaining thought by that time.

My focus on the deer and their activities in our garden became a bone of contention between my husband and me. Now I’d graduated to running outdoors whenever I saw one, to clap my hands at it and “shoo” it away, spraying them with the hose when I was out watering in my garden, hovering by the windows whenever I heard any suspicious rustling outside, and even throwing small pebbles at their feet so they’d flee. But though they’d scramble away, they’d only come back again when they knew I wasn’t looking. Those devils.

And when I’d complain that they’d managed to foil me again, my husband would say, “It’s not personal, dammit. Stop planting deer food and they won’t come.”

I despised the deer for not being discouraged by my efforts to thwart them, and I was hurt and irritated with my husband for not knowing what was at stake for me.

Then, two years ago, on Father’s Day, I was out in my garden and heard a strange bleating sound, just up the hill behind the house on the other side of the creek. As I began to walk across our lawn towards the creek to investigate, a doe stepped out from behind a tree on the hill where she’d been hiding, and looked down at me in a way I’d never seen a deer look. Her ears and head were actually bent foward in an aggressive position and she was staring directly at me. A head-on stare was an unusual pose for a deer, as they ordinarily looked out at me from the sides of their eyes. Not only that, but she was making a peculiar, snorting sound I’d never heard a deer make, either. It was as though she were growling a warning. I stopped still and looked up at her as the bleating continued, much closer this time. That’s when I realised: She was guarding her fawn. The cry I was hearing was the sound of her newborn. I stepped back and nodded. A mother looking out for her baby. Fair enough. I wasn’t about to chase them, that was for sure.

But as I stepped back, the doe did an odd thing. She began to sway on her feet. Then, in the most ungraceful way I’d ever seen a deer move, she seemed to stagger across the hill, directly across from where I stood on the lawn, and away from her baby. She stumbled dizzily, and then —God help me— her knees gave way and she collapsed. I gasped in shock as she began sliding down the hill towards me, unable to stop her fall. I knew any moment she would come tumbling over the retaining wall and onto the lawn where I stood.

It was a pile of logs gathered at the base of the fence that prevented her complete tumble over the wall. Now, as I watched in horror, she was lying on her side, thrashing, her legs tangled up in logs, desperately trying, but unable to get her footing back on the hill. After a few moments, she sank down and gave up. Laying her head back on the dirt she twisted around, and from her lying position, feebly but determinedly, she lifted her back head up and looked at me.

She wore that startled look one always sees on a deer. The look of prey that knows they are prey. You might think she was fearing for herself in her look, afraid of me, because she knew I’d always chased her kind away.

No. … There was something else… I felt something else in that look. It was the look of one mother to another. It went straight through my heart as surely as if she’d spoken to me. And, as though I were reading that mother’s look from my spirit instead of my brain, I looked back at her, too, directly into her eyes, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll find your baby. I promise. And I promise she won’t be harmed.”

She held my look as though she were listening and understanding my words, my English words, which I’d said out loud to an animal, a wild creature that couldn’t speak. Then with one weak nod, she lay her head back one final time, looked up at the sky and… I saw her die. Hoping I was wrong in everything I was witnessing, I stayed to see if she might move. But as I stayed and watched her, those brown doe eyes slowly filmed over white. For sure, she was gone.

I turned and ran into the house, calling for my husband. He was on the phone with Tim, one of our sons, who’d called to wish him a “Happy Father’s Day.” He asked Tim to hold on a moment as he listened to my agitated words. Then he said into the phone, “Tim, I’ll have to let you go. We’ve got another deer emergency.”

And with that smart aleck remark, my husband followed me as I pointed out to where the doe lay, and then to where I knew I’d heard her fawn.

That remark to our son about ‘another’ deer emergency hadn’t done it, but what he said next did. “She’s not dead. She’s probably just resting. And I’m fairly certain there is no fawn.”

I turned on him. “I may not have been raised on a farm, but I’m not an idiot, “I snapped. “That deer is as dead as you can get, and her fawn is over there, on the other side of our creek.”

He could tell I meant business then, so with sigh, he climbed up over the retaining wall and gingerly approached that poor doe. Peering at her, he confirmed what I knew. “Yeah. She’s gone, alright.” Then standing he turned to me and asked, “Where did you hear the fawn?” When I pointed in the direction again, he said, “We’ll have to approach very quietly, or we might scare it.”

I followed him across the creek. I couldn’t see anything, but a moment later, he lifted his arm and whispered, “there.”

Sure enough, sitting comfortably in a bed of leaves, her front legs crossed, looking directly at us, with curiosity and no fear whatsoever, was the tiniest fawn I’d ever seen.

My husband’s tone was very different now. “Listen, if that doe died after giving birth, she probably was too old or too sick to survive it. That might mean she wasn’t able to feed this little thing, either. And that’s not good. If Animal Services can’t get any milk into her, she won’t make it.”

I was beside myself at those words. I’d made a promise and I was already trying to figure out, if my husband’s verdict were true, how I, a woman who’d spent the last three years chasing deer from her garden, was going to save this one.

Animal Services estimation was not so bleak, however. It took two of their vans to our home — one for the live animal and one for the dead — but they determined that the fawn would survive. She’d been fed one last time by her mother, and in fact still had a belly full of milk. She’d be cared for, then released when she was able to survive on her own. She’d probably live to eat my flowers another day.

As for her mother, I watched the man from Animal Services gently close her eyes. Then he and my husband wrapped her in a sheet and carried her down the hill into the back of the second waiting transport van. I watched as it drove away.

I am not a Hindu. But, the Anahata is the fourth primary chakra according to Hindi Yogic and Tantric traditions. It symbolises the consciousness of love, empathy, selflessness and devotion. On the psychic level, this centre of force inspires the human being to love, be compassionate, altruistic, devoted and to accept the things that happen in a divine way.

And wouldn’t you know it? The animal it is represented by is the deer.

I am not a Hindu, I’ll say again. But I know what I felt and I know what I experienced. That mother doe and I communicated that day. And by our bond of motherhood, we became more than two different species on opposites sides of an issue. We became more than predator and prey. With her dying breath, she looked at me, her enemy, and saw something in me that was like her. She knew she could ask me for help with the one thing left for her here to take care of, her one last, most precious thing.

I didn’t let her down.

My garden is very different now. I keep one giant pot of red geraniums up high on a porch where no animals can reach, as a reminder that beauty can never excuse arrogance. Now my yard is flooded with lavender.

And you know, it smells wonderful. What’s even more wonderful is seeing the deer there. We’re at peace with each other now.

I wish it were that easy to make peace within our species.

Note: This essay was published in Marin Magazine’s November 2010 issue

 

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