Deer country at night; photo by Bing Bingham
It’s a lonely feeling standing alongside the highway watching a wounded deer thrash his life out at your feet.
The holiday preparations hadn’t been bad that year, just long. My wife and I were worn out and neither of us felt like cooking dinner.
For us, the closest restaurant is twenty-five miles away. It probably says something about our state of mind when a fifty-mile round trip is easier than doing something simple in the kitchen. Nevertheless, that’s where we were.
To this day, I don’t know what happened. I’d settled comfortably into default late night desert driving—scanning the road at about 60 mph on an open highway with little or no traffic.
I didn’t see the young buck until it was about three feet in front my small car. A millisecond later—WHAMMMM!!!!—the animal’s antlers smashed into the windshield in front of my wife.
I controlled the car and the deer slid off the hood. Closing on midnight, there was no traffic in either direction.
My wife was unhurt—a little stunned by the suddenness of the accident—but remarkably calm. She busied herself by brushing the dusting of powdered glass off her coat. It looked like she’d dumped a bottle of glitter down her front.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, I could see the deer thrashing in the middle of the highway. I hopped out, grabbed it by a leg and pulled the struggling animal to the side of the road.
I’m a livestock man. I’ve seen animals in all conditions, from living to dying—I know what they look like. This deer would never walk again. Being out of his misery would be the kindest thing anyone could do for the animal.
Flailing legs which no longer worked, the deer watched me. He had no reason to understand who or what I was—or that I had caused his injuries. His eyes spoke volumes, rotating through shock, screaming pain and pleading for release.
High stress thoughts were rattling around my head like a covey of surprised quail.
At the moment, I wished the injured deer were anyone else’s problem. I indulged in self-pity about missing a late-night truck stop dinner or tasks I’d left undone at home. Then, I considered driving off and leaving the problem for some Good Samaritan.
They say a person’s moral boundaries are what they do when no one else is looking. High ground sliding out from under me, I looked again and the deer’s eyes registered unending and shattering pain. I asked myself, what sort of person would walk away from a wounded animal and pretend it didn’t exist? The answer left me squirming.
I knew what needed to be done. In my head, I inventoried my options and found myself wishing for a gun—any gun—in that holiday season. Mine were all safe at home.
I breathed deeply to calm my running adrenaline, then reached into my pocket and pulled out my trusty rancher’s pocketknife.
Slowly, carefully, like a snake charmer watching a Cobra, I looked for an opening past the animal’s weaving antlers. Then, I timed my leap and did the deed. I didn’t like it very much.
The buck deer relaxed underneath me and lay still. Hands shaking, I sat for a moment and simply breathed the night air.
My wife and I limped back home in our car. We had granola for dinner that night.
I didn’t get my holiday wish of a gun that year. But, I did get a gift of understanding about the rights and responsibilites of being human.
After putting away my granola bowl, I slipped into a deep and profound sleep. I don’t think I had any dreams that night—I’m not sure.
Bing Bingham is a writer, rancher and storyteller. He learned a lesson in the season’s reasons. For further stories, check www.bingbingham.com/blog
