Death on Deer Hill

I rarely hear of events that can compete in the complexity or hilarity of James Thurber’s short story, “The Night the Bed Fell,” an account of how a series of misunderstandings feeds deep seated fears to create a carnival of consequences. Occasionally, something does happen that sets my wildest fears and imagination to the task of creating a great drama in which I might play a part. On the day of the tragicomedy of "Death on Deer Hill," I criss-crossed my property in rubber boots and a dressing gown with the grim duty of burying the victims only to find that the one thing keeping me from being the neighbor lady who has fits of insanity was that I had not accessorized with a handbag full of cat food.

I should start at the beginning...

Usually on weekend mornings, we sleep in past sunrise, but the dogs do not.  The morning of the incident on Deer Hill was no different, and I was awakened by a sixty-pound dog circling the bed and whining desperately to go out. Soon Griffin joined in by deciding to clean my arm, urging action. Sleep is hopeless against the shaking bed and the relentless grooming, so I slid my feet to the floor and led the way to the front door. When I returned to the bedroom, Salt had shut himself in the bathroom. I would have to be the one to let them in, so I grabbed my smart phone and returned to the kitchen.

Just then the screeching began. At first I thought perhaps little Griffin had been hurt, but it was definitely more of a screech than his shrill yelp. A mountain lion? A bird? Whatever it was, I needed to get outside fast. I bounded to the bedroom to put on my robe and boots.

This was when the flapping sound began. Screeching and flapping? It had to be a bird. The screeching stopped as I was struggling into my boots.  “Poor bird. How could Calicocoa have gotten a bird?”  Then the screeching resumed followed by more flapping. “Oh my, that must be a big bird. Why is Salt taking so long in the bathroom? Can’t he hear that?”

Finally, I was out the door, clomping down the stairs and dashing around the garage.  As I cleared the garage, I saw a doe about 50 yards away atop the hill. She didn’t take long to decide to clear out of the yard. Over the fence she went. 

With still no sign of the dogs behind the garage, I headed to their most likely location behind the barn.  There I saw Calicocoa standing alone, studying a fawn that was laying a few feet away in the grass. The fawn still had white spots on its motionless body. It wasn’t even as big as Calicocoa. I was horrified. There was nothing I could do for it, but keep Calicocoa off of it. I ordered Calicocoa away and she trotted off to the other end of the pasture as calmly as though she kills deer on her way to her water dish every morning.

Calicocoa's behavior was odd, but even more odd was that Griffin was not in the pasture. Dogs get trampled by deer all of the time, and I couldn’t imagine that Griffin would have let Calicocoa go after a deer by herself. He’s the one who always wants to lead the charge, even though he is always lagging behind. He’s the flighty one, without any life experience that would prepare him to take on a deer. He doesn’t have the good sense to be afraid of cornering a wild animal. A sense of dread washed over me.

Avoiding the idea that Griffin was lying dead or fatally injured somewhere in the tall grass, I began circling the property calling for him. With my rubber boots catching on my dressing gown I was forced to trot my way across the yard and back again calling for Griffin. I searched the front yard, checked the front porch, and called to him in the back. Silence answered. 

The sense of dread prodded my thoughts more insistently. I began to feel pathetic and defeated. The thought of telling Salt about what happened to deer and canine alike on the hill sickened me as I returned to the pasture, resigned to searching for Griffin's small remains. Finding him was my responsibility; and then I'd have to do something about the fawn too.

I looked out on the empty pasture toward the hill where the doe had disappeared and began trekking up with a heavy heart. As I neared the fawn its lifeless body suddenly enervated. It sprang to its feet, screeching. It ran for the fence line and made a bad jump. Its back hips hung up on the wire fence, which flapped and clacked as the animal tried to free itself. After a momentary struggle it slid its legs through the gap and trotted off through the neighbor’s yard without so much as a limp.

I stood there dumb with shock until it finally sank in that the fawn was alive. Hmmm. . . country lesson of the day: deer play dead.

I shook it off quickly as I remembered I still had to retrieve poor Griffin. With a sigh I turned and there was Griffin. The little flibbertigibbet himself was scurrying around the corner of the barn with happy eyes looking for praise.

I was relieved and exasperated all at once. Griffin wasn't dead. The fawn wasn't dead. I'd spent five minutes running around pastures thinking everyone was dead and no one was dead. Thank Goodness.

I took the dogs back inside, gave them their breakfast, and returned to bed where Salt was slumbering peacefully. When he awoke, I asked him if he had heard any of the racket earlier. The screeching? The flapping? He had not. “What happened?” he asked.

“Calicocoa killed a fawn and Griffin was trampled to death and then I thought there might be cat food in my purse,” I explained.

His eyes widened. Salt, who deeply dislikes unnecessary killing of insects or animals,  looked from Griffin to me. “What do you mean?’

“It's a long story, but everyone got better in the end."