All the deer's legs were broken above the knee joints. She was a healthy doe with clear eyes and black nose, and her brown belly was wide with pregnancy. Her legs had been swept by a pickup truck, and the bones were broken and they jutted out above the knee joints, bloody and white, with the ligaments and muscles hanging out loosely. She struggled across the road, her body jerking and writhing, pushing herself along with the four stubs from which her dead legs dragged. Another deer, last year's fawn, still smaller than her mother, watched from the opposite side of the road. The mother was trying to return to her baby.
The green pickup that struck the deer had pulled off the road fifty feet ahead. The owner, a blonde man wearing a red University of Utah cap, a camouflage hunting jacket, blue jeans and work boots, was examining his bumper and the broken headlight. He picked little shards of glass out of the empty light socket and threw them angrily into the dirt along the roadside, cursing the deer all the while.
A minivan driving east on the little two-lane highway stopped on the road, and a mother and two children watched with wide eyes as the deer struggled in front of the vehicle. The mother reached for her phone. A white Ford truck with fresh mud caked on the tires, pulled off to the right.
Soon, the doe had crossed painfully into the dirt and rocks, and she lay on her stomach with her head raised high and her ears alert. The yearling sniffed her mother's face, and she sniffed between her mother's ears, and then they touched their moist black noses together.
The man inside the white pickup stepped out of the truck and bent down to retrieve something from under the seat. His jeans were blue and fresh, and his brown round-toed leather work boots had specks of dried mud and manure on them. When he stood upright and pushed the truck's door shut, he held a holstered pistol in his hand. The pistol had a wood grip the color of dark honey, and the black metal was nestled in a leather holster, brown and worn, embossed with the name John Christensen. The man wore no hat, and his gray hair was cut short and was parted to one side.
"You okay?" he shouted to the man with the damaged truck.
The blonde man, aware he was being observed by a respected member of the community, stopped cursing the deer. He removed the red cap with one hand, ran his fingers through his hair with the other hand, then put the cap back on. "Hey, John," he said. "Yeah, I think I'm okay. Just another expensive repair is all -- Second deer I hit this spring."
"Sorry to hear that," said John. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Yeah, well --." The younger man didn't finish his thought. He popped the truck's hood and inspected the engine, whispering his curses.
"You okay?" he shouted to the man with the damaged truck.
The blonde man, aware he was being observed by a respected member of the community, stopped cursing the deer. He removed the red cap with one hand, ran his fingers through his hair with the other hand, then put the cap back on. "Hey, John," he said. "Yeah, I think I'm okay. Just another expensive repair is all -- Second deer I hit this spring."
"Sorry to hear that," said John. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Yeah, well --." The younger man didn't finish his thought. He popped the truck's hood and inspected the engine, whispering his curses.
The woman in the minivan pulled her car off the road and onto the dirt. She turned to her children and said, "Stay in the car, okay?" She left the door open, and walked to where the gray-haired man stood watching the doe.
"John!" she said, "I called the Highway Patrol. They should be here in fifteen or twenty minutes."
"Hi, Emma," said John.
"You know what to do, right?" Emma said.
A small car passed slowly by, its driver gawking at the broken animal, and then it sped away.
"She's in bad shape," said John.
"You know what to do, right?" Emma said.
A small car passed slowly by, its driver gawking at the broken animal, and then it sped away.
"She's in bad shape," said John.
Emma stood so close that John, who stood a few heads taller than Emma, had to bow his head to talk to her. His eyes were the blue gray of a storm-tossed sea, and the wrinkles of his crow's feet were deep. He winced with his eyes, but he held the pleasant half-smile that Emma had known since childhood. His arms hung at his side, and in his left hand, the pistol.
"What can we do to help her?" asked Emma.
John put a hand on her shoulder. "It'll be okay. I'll take care of her."
Emma looked at the pistol, then grimaced. "Don't you know how to help her? You've had cows with broken legs, haven't you?" she asked.
"I know how to help stop her pain," John said. "That's about all we can do."
"But," Emma paused, then she said slowly, "she's pregnant."
"I know," said John.
"I know how to help stop her pain," John said. "That's about all we can do."
"But," Emma paused, then she said slowly, "she's pregnant."
"I know," said John.
Emma let out a short groan. "Shouldn't we wait for the police? Isn't it illegal to kill an injured deer like that?"
"It's gonna be okay," said John. "It'll be quick." Then he added, "You probably don't want your kids to see."
"But, John," Emma said. And she looked across the street where the doe still lay with her head and ears alert. The yearling was still standing beside her. Without another word Emma returned to her vehicle, and soon the minivan rounded the bend and was out of sight.
The man who hit the deer got back into his truck, slammed the door shut, pumped the gas to make the engine sound angry, then returned to the road behind the minivan, and soon disappeared behind the hills.
"But, John," Emma said. And she looked across the street where the doe still lay with her head and ears alert. The yearling was still standing beside her. Without another word Emma returned to her vehicle, and soon the minivan rounded the bend and was out of sight.
The man who hit the deer got back into his truck, slammed the door shut, pumped the gas to make the engine sound angry, then returned to the road behind the minivan, and soon disappeared behind the hills.
John waited for a westbound car to pass before he crossed the road. His boots clomped on the asphalt, across the white line, across the yellow double line, and across a final white line, and back into the dirt on the other side of the road. As he walked he gripped the holster in his left hand and he pulled the pistol's handle with his right hand. The yearling ran up the hill, and out of sight as John approached.
The doe held her head high with her eyes open, breathing rapidly. Blood trickled out of her nose and gurgled as the air passed in and out of her lungs. Her body tensed when John approached and her ears twitched.
John knelt beside her. With his left hand he touched the doe's ear and stroked her nose and head, and he ran his palm down the doe's neck to her belly, resting his hand lightly on the brown fur. He looked into the doe's large dark eye with it's dilated pupil. "It'll be all right, sweetie," he said. "I'm sorry it ended this way for you." Meanwhile, he pulled back the pistol's hammer with his right thumb.
John knelt beside her. With his left hand he touched the doe's ear and stroked her nose and head, and he ran his palm down the doe's neck to her belly, resting his hand lightly on the brown fur. He looked into the doe's large dark eye with it's dilated pupil. "It'll be all right, sweetie," he said. "I'm sorry it ended this way for you." Meanwhile, he pulled back the pistol's hammer with his right thumb.
He stood up and took a few steps back, raised the pistol and fired a single shot. The deer's head landed with a dull thump, and the tensed body became limp. John looked down at the eye that stared up at him, the open mouth, the tongue, the motionless belly that seconds before had risen and fallen with each breath.
Bowing his head he exhaled a deep sigh. Looking down at the pistol he rubbed his thumb across the Smith and Wesson symbol, then he slid the pistol back into the holster. He scanned the hillside for the fawn, but saw no sign of her.
John walked back across the road, got into his truck, tucked the pistol back under the seat, and drove away.
***Although based on a number of personal experiences and observations, this story is fiction.
***Although based on a number of personal experiences and observations, this story is fiction.