I had a 30-minute window of sunlight near the end of a rare, 76-degree day in late June, and I didn’t want to miss it. So I grabbed Mac’s harness and asked if he wanted to go for a walk. He did.
We could’ve headed for a nearby walking trail, but instead I walked our neighborhood and then a nearby circular drive nestled into a small pocket of domesticated woodlands.
Mac and I had walked and sniffed three, maybe four loops around the circle when I saw something move in the corner of my eye. When I turned, I saw two eyes staring back at me. A young deer had stepped into the grassy field bordered by the road, and we’d spotted each other at the same moment. We both froze, shocked to see the other.
I pulled Mac close and prayed he wouldn’t start barking or pulling at the leash, but he was as stunned as I was. Mac and the deer stood perfectly still, their noses twitching in the gentle breeze blowing between us. Maybe Mac thought the deer was a freakishly tall dog, but thankfully he wasn’t inclined to start trouble. So I marveled at the deer’s light brown coat and long, graceful legs. I felt grateful for how close we were — just two local girls out for a walk on a cool summer evening.
I assumed the deer would head for the woods after she saw me. But then I realized she’d have to run past me to reach the edge of the tree line. Likewise, I’d have to pass her to get to the road leading out of the secluded neighborhood. We’d accidentally blocked ourselves in without realizing it.
After a few more moments of silent observation, I walked left, hoping the deer would see a wider, safe path back to the woods. But instead, she walked the same direction at the same speed. So I stopped, paused, and reversed direction. If she wanted to zig, then I’d happily zag so we could both get to where we wanted to go.
But the deer reversed direction a moment after I did, as if she were mirroring me across 40 yards of grass and wildflowers. I stopped and waited, hoping a better idea would occur to me.
Then without warning, the deer began to sprint straight at me. Our eyes locked, and I didn’t know what to do. I’d never known a deer to be aggressive, but what’s the protocol for this situation? Do I raise my arms, yell, and try to make myself look scary? Does that only work on certain kinds of bears? Do I lie down and play dead?
The deer was picking up speed, quickly closing the distance. My fear spiked as I realized, absurd as it sounds, that I was about to be hit by a deer. And judging by her size and speed, it was definitely going to hurt.
As she closed in, I could see her eyes so clearly, and she could see mine. With only a few feet left between us, she jerked toward the tree line. As she ran away, so did we. As we neared the path leading out of the neighborhood, Mac and I looked back toward the woods. There, just steps from the tree line, the deer had stopped and was looking back at us.
I tugged Mac’s leash, and we scrambled up the road that would lead us home. We’d both had enough adventure. Perhaps the deer felt the same way because, with one graceful leap, she disappeared into the trees.
When I got home, I recounted this unusual story to my people. And I’d like to think she did the same with hers. I’ll never forget it.
Maybe she, too, will remember the day she went for a walk and saw a weird, mostly hairless deer standing on two feet that was tied by a string to a smaller, curly-haired deer with floppy ears. Just three odd creatures meeting on the blurry border of the places we call home.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist and novelist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her books are available on Amazon.