He's not Bambi
It happened early one Spring morning just as the sun was beginning to spread a golden haze on the horizon and the late frost twinkled on the leaves before melting. The doe was leaving the field where she had enjoyed her meal and heading to the forest where she would spend the day resting in a copse of brush. Perhaps she looked back at her fawn who was following.
Perhaps she was distracted for a moment by the distant sound of a barking dog. Whatever the cause, she stepped out onto the
shoulder of the road just as a fast moving pick-up truck rounded the bend. The fender barely hit her-just a glancing blow to her skull, but it was enough. The truck never slowed.
The doe fell where she stood. One ear twitched a bit, then she was gone.
Not much later another vehicle came along the quiet country road. Seeing the deer on the side of the road, the driver pulled over and stopped. He approached the still animal slowly, not sure of her condition and being aware that the razor-sharp hooves of an injured deer can be dangerous. Flies had begun to buzz around the doe's open eyes. They did not blink. The man saw no rise and fall of the rib cage. Dead, he thought. So he returned to his truck and proceeded to the nearest house and asked if they would notify the sheriff. He assured the lady who answered the door that he had not hit the animal, but found her
lying there. He left his name and phone number, but did not wait for the sheriff to arrive and hastened on to work.
After examining the body, the sheriff notified the highway department to come and remove it. While he waited, he stood outside his car, finishing the last dregs of his cup of coffee.
The morning was filled with bird song. Then to his ears came a strange little sound issuing from the deep grass a short distance back from the road. He listened more intently, watching the area from which the sound came. There was a spot-a tiny wiggle of the grass. He walked up to the place, slowly. There, sheltered deep within the damp circle of protecting foliage, lay a fawn. He was a very young fawn, large white spots on his soft brown coat. The baby quickly gathered his long spindly legs beneath himself, stood spread-eagle for a moment, and with a frightened cry, began to trot towards the road where he had last seen his mother go. The sheriff removed his jacket and threw it over the youngster, causing the wobbly fawn to fall to the ground. Gently he picked up the wee chap and carried him to his car.
The local veterinarian referred him to me--the nearest rehabber.
On my farm I had one large fenced area in which I placed none of the domestic animals. It contained a three-sided shed with dirt floor. I kept this strictly for any large wild animal which might be placed in my care. It was set far back from the barn and not close to any pasture. There was one tall tree in the center, just beginning to develop this year's leaves. The sheriff
unwrapped the fawn from the jacket, placing him beneath the tree. The two of us watched for a minute, then left the baby to settle down.
Little fawns are so adorable with their velvety muzzles and soft brown eyes. You just want to hug them. If you truly want to save the life of a deer, that is one thing you do not do. While providing for their recovery, you handle them as little as possible, especially a young buck. There are so many tales of hand-raised and eventually released bucks that almost walk up to the hunter, since human scent is not something they fear.
So here I was, entrusted with a small life who needed no medical
attention, but did need feeding. I went to the feed store and purchased milk replacer for lambs and a lamb feeding bottle.
I hoped he had gotten his mother's first milk which he needed and felt pretty sure, since he was following her about, that he had. I waited until dusk, then approached him slowly with the warmed bottle of milk. Trying to get him to sniff the bottle and realize it was food without touching him proved to be impossible. He just stumbled back away from me when I extended the bottle towards him. So I moved more quickly, stood behind him and bent over his tiny frame trying to put the nipple to his lips. He cried out and fell to his knees. This went on for an hour until my back hurt and he appeared exhausted.
Bottle feeding was not going to be an option.
In my barn there were three dairy goats. Hope was an older doe who had recently delivered a doe kid. When my kids were born I only allowed them to nurse for one day to get that first colostrum. After that they must learn to drink from a pail, though I still give them their own mother's milk. Little goats can be the most aggravating, stubborn creatures on earth to
teach to drink from the pail. I would hold my fingers just beneath the surface of the milk and guide their tiny heads to the fingers. There were the rare few that got the idea right away and Hope's new daughter was one of those. She did not need her
mother, but I knew who did. I led Hope to the pen where the tiny fawn lay shivering. Hope sniffed the little fellow from head to tail, while he lay perfectly still. Then she began to lick him. He scrambled to his feet and she nudged him towards her udder- good old experienced mother that she was! The fawn at first found her teats too large for his small mouth, yet after a few moments of trying to figure it all out, he took only part of her big teat into his mouth and began to suck strongly. Down poured the live-saving liquid into the little tummy. Hope stood placidly chewing her cud.
Hope and the baby stayed together all summer. The fawn mimicked Hope's behavior, learning to chew grass and to drink water from the pan. (I used a large, flat pan rather than a pail as it more closely resembled the puddle or brook where the deer find water.) Late Fall arrived bringing heavy frost and even a few flurries to our upstate New York farm. Hope moved back to the barn. I spread hay which was comprised of as much native
grass as possible around the fawn's pen. I raked up orange and yellow Maple leaves which he thought were the best. Otherwise I gave him no grain or any nourishment prepared for domestic animals. He did spend many hours during stormy weather beneath the shelter of the shed.
When Spring came and the little buck was a yearling, the time seemed right for him to return to his natural habitat. I had never petted him, though he had to be more acclimated to humans than I would have wished. I had not named him.
Everyone who saw him from a distance (I did not allow visitors to his area) called him Bambi. Such a temptation to love him!
REally loving a wild animal is letting them be wild. If they need help for a time, do it with as little contact as possible, then let them go.
The little buck was released into a field far from my farm where
a group of deer was known to congregate. The owner of that land kept watch for a couple of days and reported that he was accepted into the herd. I hope he lived a long, free life.
He was not Bambi.
Perhaps she was distracted for a moment by the distant sound of a barking dog. Whatever the cause, she stepped out onto the
shoulder of the road just as a fast moving pick-up truck rounded the bend. The fender barely hit her-just a glancing blow to her skull, but it was enough. The truck never slowed.
The doe fell where she stood. One ear twitched a bit, then she was gone.
Not much later another vehicle came along the quiet country road. Seeing the deer on the side of the road, the driver pulled over and stopped. He approached the still animal slowly, not sure of her condition and being aware that the razor-sharp hooves of an injured deer can be dangerous. Flies had begun to buzz around the doe's open eyes. They did not blink. The man saw no rise and fall of the rib cage. Dead, he thought. So he returned to his truck and proceeded to the nearest house and asked if they would notify the sheriff. He assured the lady who answered the door that he had not hit the animal, but found her
lying there. He left his name and phone number, but did not wait for the sheriff to arrive and hastened on to work.
After examining the body, the sheriff notified the highway department to come and remove it. While he waited, he stood outside his car, finishing the last dregs of his cup of coffee.
The morning was filled with bird song. Then to his ears came a strange little sound issuing from the deep grass a short distance back from the road. He listened more intently, watching the area from which the sound came. There was a spot-a tiny wiggle of the grass. He walked up to the place, slowly. There, sheltered deep within the damp circle of protecting foliage, lay a fawn. He was a very young fawn, large white spots on his soft brown coat. The baby quickly gathered his long spindly legs beneath himself, stood spread-eagle for a moment, and with a frightened cry, began to trot towards the road where he had last seen his mother go. The sheriff removed his jacket and threw it over the youngster, causing the wobbly fawn to fall to the ground. Gently he picked up the wee chap and carried him to his car.
The local veterinarian referred him to me--the nearest rehabber.
On my farm I had one large fenced area in which I placed none of the domestic animals. It contained a three-sided shed with dirt floor. I kept this strictly for any large wild animal which might be placed in my care. It was set far back from the barn and not close to any pasture. There was one tall tree in the center, just beginning to develop this year's leaves. The sheriff
unwrapped the fawn from the jacket, placing him beneath the tree. The two of us watched for a minute, then left the baby to settle down.
Little fawns are so adorable with their velvety muzzles and soft brown eyes. You just want to hug them. If you truly want to save the life of a deer, that is one thing you do not do. While providing for their recovery, you handle them as little as possible, especially a young buck. There are so many tales of hand-raised and eventually released bucks that almost walk up to the hunter, since human scent is not something they fear.
So here I was, entrusted with a small life who needed no medical
attention, but did need feeding. I went to the feed store and purchased milk replacer for lambs and a lamb feeding bottle.
I hoped he had gotten his mother's first milk which he needed and felt pretty sure, since he was following her about, that he had. I waited until dusk, then approached him slowly with the warmed bottle of milk. Trying to get him to sniff the bottle and realize it was food without touching him proved to be impossible. He just stumbled back away from me when I extended the bottle towards him. So I moved more quickly, stood behind him and bent over his tiny frame trying to put the nipple to his lips. He cried out and fell to his knees. This went on for an hour until my back hurt and he appeared exhausted.
Bottle feeding was not going to be an option.
In my barn there were three dairy goats. Hope was an older doe who had recently delivered a doe kid. When my kids were born I only allowed them to nurse for one day to get that first colostrum. After that they must learn to drink from a pail, though I still give them their own mother's milk. Little goats can be the most aggravating, stubborn creatures on earth to
teach to drink from the pail. I would hold my fingers just beneath the surface of the milk and guide their tiny heads to the fingers. There were the rare few that got the idea right away and Hope's new daughter was one of those. She did not need her
mother, but I knew who did. I led Hope to the pen where the tiny fawn lay shivering. Hope sniffed the little fellow from head to tail, while he lay perfectly still. Then she began to lick him. He scrambled to his feet and she nudged him towards her udder- good old experienced mother that she was! The fawn at first found her teats too large for his small mouth, yet after a few moments of trying to figure it all out, he took only part of her big teat into his mouth and began to suck strongly. Down poured the live-saving liquid into the little tummy. Hope stood placidly chewing her cud.
Hope and the baby stayed together all summer. The fawn mimicked Hope's behavior, learning to chew grass and to drink water from the pan. (I used a large, flat pan rather than a pail as it more closely resembled the puddle or brook where the deer find water.) Late Fall arrived bringing heavy frost and even a few flurries to our upstate New York farm. Hope moved back to the barn. I spread hay which was comprised of as much native
grass as possible around the fawn's pen. I raked up orange and yellow Maple leaves which he thought were the best. Otherwise I gave him no grain or any nourishment prepared for domestic animals. He did spend many hours during stormy weather beneath the shelter of the shed.
When Spring came and the little buck was a yearling, the time seemed right for him to return to his natural habitat. I had never petted him, though he had to be more acclimated to humans than I would have wished. I had not named him.
Everyone who saw him from a distance (I did not allow visitors to his area) called him Bambi. Such a temptation to love him!
REally loving a wild animal is letting them be wild. If they need help for a time, do it with as little contact as possible, then let them go.
The little buck was released into a field far from my farm where
a group of deer was known to congregate. The owner of that land kept watch for a couple of days and reported that he was accepted into the herd. I hope he lived a long, free life.
He was not Bambi.
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