FEEDING THE DEER

Dad had fallen in with a group of local deer hunters, friends of Big Al and Don. One afternoon, he said, “Kay, some fellas invited me up to Tamarac Lake. Big Al’s got a cabin there. Last year, they all got their bucks.”

“Go, my dear,” Mom said. “You need a break from the creamery. And you love venison. So do I. I just hope the kids will, too.”

I admired how Mom always supported Dad in doing what he loved. Some of the church ladies whispered nervously about their husbands hunting with guns, there were always stories of accidents, but Mom trusted Dad. He’d grown up with firearms and understood safety. Still, she added, “Just wear your red vest so folks know you’re a human.”

At the time, I didn’t have strong feelings about deer hunting. I just knew I could never shoot something as beautiful as a deer, no matter how good it tasted. But I was part of a culture rooted in ancient hunters who fed their families from the land. Venison was normal fare. And besides, deer seemed to live comfortably right alongside people, where food supplies were plentiful. Perhaps the rewards were worth the risks.

The morning Dad left for his trip, King and I took a long walk to Nanna’s resort. It was one of those glorious fall days when the sunshine feels like a warm hug. I hadn’t eaten much, just Cheerios and toast, so I was secretly hoping Nanna might have something sweet.

She was in a jolly mood, standing beside a basket of freshly picked apples from one of the old trees near the cabins. “Look at these beauties,” she said, holding up a handful that glowed red and crisp in the morning light.

Then, with a wink, “I made apple strudel. Want a taste?”

I’d never even heard of apple strudel, but one bite and I was hooked for life, flaky crust, warm apples, cinnamon, sugar, and magic. I asked for seconds. “That’s my boy!” she said. “Always my best customer.”

She decided to walk home with me to visit Mom and Cathie. She packed a bag of apples for us and another with the leftover strudel.

When we got home, Nanna went inside while King and I stayed on the front steps, soaking up the sun. The warmth lulled us into a nap.

I don’t know how long we were out, but King woke me with a low growl. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked up.

A herd of whitetail deer had gathered on the hill, quietly grazing.

I hushed King and reached for an apple. Moving slowly, heart pounding, I held it out toward a young doe, the smallest in the group, with faint white spots along her sides. She stepped forward and took the apple right from my hand.

“Hi, Bambi,” I whispered.

More deer approached, drawn by curiosity, or maybe the scent of apples. Their dark, glassy eyes locked on mine. I turned, grabbed another apple, and offered it to the next one.

Soon, I was surrounded.

For a moment, I panicked. Do I have enough apples for all of them?

There were six near me now, their velvet eyes framed by lashes as long as a girl’s in church. I looked deeper into those eyes and felt something, like our thoughts were touching.

Then I counted more. Ten. Twelve. Sixteen in all, including a majestic buck at the back. He stayed apart, watching with quiet authority, like a chaperone ready to call curfew.

After a moment, he turned toward the woods, and the herd followed.

King hadn’t moved a muscle. He lay across the steps like a loyal guard, eyes alert, body still. When Mom tried to open the door, he blocked her path.

“King, move!” she said.

But he stayed put until the last deer vanished into the trees. Only then did he rise, stretch, and wag his tail.

Mom stepped out, hands on hips. “What have you been up to, Little Man? Nanna says you brought apples.”

“I was feeding deer,” I said. “Some of them ate from my hand!”

She squinted at me. “You sure?”

“Look, tracks in the grass. Deer droppings. And only six apples left!”

Nanna came outside, took one look, and nodded. “I gave him a dozen,” she said. “He didn’t eat them all, Kay.”

Mom raised her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay,” she said, smiling faintly. Whether she believed me or not, I couldn’t tell. But I knew that look, time to drop it.

Still, I knew the truth.

Nanna knew. King knew.

And that was enough.

Dad didn’t get his deer that year. But he sure got tired of hearing about mine, the proud buck who stood on our hill and watched over us like a king of his own.

That evening, long after the deer had melted into the woods, I sat on the porch steps and thought about them, so calm, so trusting, so alive. I realized then that loving the wild meant more than hunting or fishing or even feeding it. It meant understanding the balance between life and loss, between taking and giving back.

Some people found that lesson in a church pew. I found it in a front yard full of deer, and a dog who knew enough to keep still.