Bittersweet

A few nights ago I lay back in the lounge on the front porch, wrapped tightly against the cold, and listened to the sounds of the creatures of the wood. Warmed by a glass of wine and the enjoyment of being able to spend some time outdoors on a cold winter’s night, the smells were crisp and clean and I caught an overtone of someone’s fireplace smoke. The night air was still and there was no other sound; no planes, no traffic, no gunfire and no insects – blissfully quiet. I watched the stars gather overhead, offering but scant light to the landscape and little-to-none beneath the canopy. There was movement beneath the Catalpa tree and sounds of drinking from the birdbath. The birdbath lay in such shadow that I was having a difficult time discerning which of the wood folk was there; perhaps a fox, but the sounds were sloppier than their petite, polite drinking. Then there was a familiar scrape/click sound that told me it was Tiny Tim before I saw the little deer cross the drive to browse the leavings under the bird feeder in the front garden. Scrape/click … Tiny Tim was by himself again and once again I felt sad for the fawn – sad for his aloneness and sad for his struggle. I also felt glad that he had appeared once again. I was barely breathing and stayed stock still, hoping that he would ignore my presence on the porch and continue his browse.

Tiny Tim and his mother showed up one Saturday morning a little over a month ago. They could have been any number of fairly nondescript doe/fawn pairs that have graced our feed, but this morning they stood out in a very disheartening and grotesque way – both were limping terribly. I grabbed the binoculars and discovered that they both had a problem with their left front leg. The doe was missing the lower part of her leg, just below the knee and Tiny Tim looked like his leg was broken. Though stunned, I managed to get the shot above. I called the wildlife rescue group and they were very sympathetic and very pragmatic about the realities of intervention. They were most emphatic that the deer, like dogs and cats, learn quickly and adapt to just the use of three legs. They went on to say that tranquilizing and movement usually created such trauma that the deer usually expired. It was hard to hear, but I felt better for making the call. It’s not ours to know what happened to this pair of ruminants; it could have been a catastrophic stumble following a startle, perhaps dogs or coyotes or an intersecting vector incident with a vehicle. On that Saturday the doe looked pretty scrawny, but over the next couple of weeks she was filling in the spaces between her ribs and overall Tiny Tim looked healthy except for his ruined leg. Much to the delight of the other ruminants we increased the ration of corn and feed so that Tiny Tim and mom would be well provisioned. It was always bittersweet to see them appear in the following weeks.

I sat listening to Tiny Tim munch on the fallen bird seed, pushing his snout beneath the landscape cloth that had a seam that passed beneath the feeder and collected pockets of seed. My eyes had adjusted to the scant light of the night and I watched with amazement at his capacity to support himself with his one good leg. I worried that he would spook if he noticed my presence; however, he did not. I cannot imagine any deer not noticing a human presence a mere ten feet away. Perhaps this night it didn’t matter.

My thoughts drifted away to my dad who is recovering from a fall and broken hip that resulted in a replacement surgery a few weeks ago. I’ve listened to him verbalize his struggles trying to stand and sit following surgery and I began to weave a symbiotic pattern around my observation of Tiny Tim. It was woven mostly of threads spun from the will to survive and the fortitude it takes to do so. When I walked into dad’s hospital room he was napping and the first thing I noticed was the sign above his bed that read “BLIND & HOH”. The blind part registered but the “HOH” took a few minutes before I realized that it meant hard of hearing. Almost immediately I wished that it said “92 YEARS OLD” as well. What a lot to deal with, but he seems to have a good attitude when he’s not being goofy from the pain meds and such. I thought about Tiny Tim and actually marveled at nature’s mechanism (whatever it may be) for dealing with pain and infirmity. Dad’s in a sub-acute rehab facility after his release from the hospital. Tiny Tim is browsing for food and water. Dad’s range is 4 feet from the bed to the chair. Tiny Tim’s range is far beyond our vision.

Again, in the darkness, I hear scrape/click, scrape/click as Tiny Tim, dragging his left hoof and catching himself with his right, moves off to parts unknown and other morsels. We haven’t seen his mom in a couple of weeks. It’s probably a safe bet that she didn’t make it. Thankfully he’s old enough to know where and how to browse for food. My thought returns to dad, wondering if there aren’t volunteer’s who will read to him since he falls asleep during a book-on-tape. Thankfully he still knows his way around the dinner plate.