Today I went hiking with two friends in Fremont. We were hoping to see hares, but when we arrived at the park, we found a deer who had been hit by a car.
The driver had stopped, and people had been trying to find help for about half an hour. My friends immediately began making calls. I went to the deer.
I sat beside her and offered what comfort I could. Eventually, I cradled her upper body in my lap, and she relaxed into me. Every so often she tried to stand, but she couldn’t. As time passed, her breathing grew harder. I could tell she was dying.
She was nursing. Knowing she had babies made it even harder to sit there with her.
It was an honor to hold and comfort her. It was heartbreaking, too.
I told her she was a good mama and that she had taught her babies well. I told her her community would look after them. I told her it was okay to rest and go to sleep. I told her she would get to watch over her babies from heaven. I don’t know what she understood, but I hope she felt that she wasn’t alone.
While I stayed with her, my friends kept trying to find someone who could help. We were passed from one phone number to another. Nobody seemed able to tell us clearly what to do or whom to call. We could do better. Eventually, police officers arrived.
I asked what would happen to her. When I learned that an officer would have to shoot her to end her suffering, I hated it. I understood why, in that moment, they felt it was the humane thing to do. But I still hated it. We could do better.
I kissed her goodbye and gently laid her head on the ground. Then my friends and I ran to the car, covered our ears, and made noise so we wouldn’t hear the shot. We didn’t.
We went on our hike afterward. It was lovely, though none of us could stop thinking about her or worrying about her babies.
At one point, we came across a buck. We stood watching him graze, and every so often he looked up and watched us back. He seemed so peaceful, walking through his home, looking majestic.
I wondered if he had been her partner. Probably not, but I’m sure they knew each other. The three of us stood there without saying much and cried. Seeing him alive and at ease felt meaningful to me, like a little head nod from spirit.
On our way out, we passed the corner again. The deer was still lying there, uncovered, with a bedsheet nearby. I got out of the car, covered her, and said goodbye one more time.
The ride home held a lot of silence, a lot of tears, and a lot of questions.
Why was it so difficult to find help? Why couldn’t anyone tell us the protocol? Could cities and counties make it easier for people to reach a trained responder when an animal is suffering? Could responders have a more peaceful way to help an animal die when recovery isn’t possible? And when an animal has died beside a public path or road, shouldn’t someone cover her? We could do better.
I thought about the officer, too. She had to do something painful, and I wonder what she’ll carry home tonight. I thought about anyone who might have driven by and witnessed it. There are so many people affected by a moment like this.
When I finally got home, I went straight into the shower. The deer had left me with fleas and two ticks in a very unfortunate location. Bingo! For a moment, I could almost laugh. Then the sadness came back.
I know death is part of life. I know people sometimes look away because they don’t know what to do, or because seeing suffering is hard. But I keep coming back to the same thought: we can do better.
Tonight I’m thinking about that mama and the babies she was nursing. I’m thinking about the buck, grazing quietly while we stood together and cried. I don’t know what will happen to her babies, and I won’t pretend that I do. I can only hope they are safe—and remember what it felt like to hold their beautiful mama while she rested.
We can do better.
