Babies in Our Backyard, Part 2
- At July 22, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
Wednesday evening, my next-door neighbour Sherri came to our door in a panic.
“Is your husband home?” she asked. “There’s a fawn at the bottom of our road. We think it’s been hit by a car.”
People had already called the SPCA, the police, animal control, anyone they could think of, and nobody could help. Since my husband’s a veterinarian, and we’re kind of known as the local “animal people” – our three dogs and four cats might be a tip-off – Sherri thought of us.
As it happened, Ray wasn’t home yet, which meant he was still at the clinic, but that’s only about 5 minutes away. I told Sherri I could put the fawn in the back of my car and bring it to him.
If nothing else, I thought, we could at least provide humane euthanasia.
But when I got there, I found that the fawn had not been hit by a car. However, she had been wandering in circles on the road, where she probably would have been hit, so a couple of guys tried to shoo her into the woods, when they noticed a wound on her rump. They couldn’t get her off the road, but they managed to get her restrained on the sidewalk, where she lay, kicking and bawling.
For anyone who hasn’t heard a fawn cry, ooooh, shudder. It’s heart-wrenching.
A small crowd had gathered by the time I got there, and we noticed Mama-deer hovering nearby. I saw the wound, but since Baby was so feisty – really, those hooves are a lot sharper than you’d imagine – I suggested we let her up so she could get back to Mama.
But when we stood back, Baby just lay there. She was in shock, no doubt stressed from our inept handling, as much as anything.
While she was still, I took a closer look. Other than the laceration on her leg, she didn’t look injured, but it was a nasty cut, infected, oozing pus and serum. Plus, she’d scraped her face up on the concrete, struggling against her would-be rescuers.
By this time, a conservation officer had shown up. His mandate was also humane euthanasia, which he was prepared to do pretty much right then. And for a critical injury, it would be absolutely the right thing.
Now, this fawn wasn’t critically injured, but there’s a good chance she’d succumb to her infection, or be coyote or cougar bait. We couldn’t see Mama around anymore and the fawn certainly wouldn’t survive alone. We’d already intervened; now we were committed. Euthanasia or treatment, we had to do something.
“If you want her,” said the conservation officer, clearly relieved to be relieved of his duty, “this is your chance.”
Ray and I feel pretty protective of our mountain creatures, and Ray always plays Good Samaritan when he happens onto a dog or cat in distress. But deer are a little out of his area of expertise. So he called our friend Kenny Mac, a wildlife veterinarian, who thankfully, knows how to restrain a fawn without hurting it, and without getting clocked by those hooves.
Between him, Ray and me, we got Baby safely to the clinic, cleaned her wound, gave her antibiotics and fluids and a safe place to rest for the night. By morning, she was on her feet, bawling for breakfast, looking 100% better.
She’s now being cared for by Critter Care, a local wildlife rescue and rehabilitation center, and will be released back to the wild as soon as possible.
Maybe one day Baby will make her way back home. I hope so.
Alive with Possibility
- At July 07, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
I stood at my kitchen window this morning, waiting for my coffee, and was treated to an airshow. Swallows swooped between my rescued spruce tree and that darn cottonwood that will not be killed, sparrows fed on aurinia now gone to seed, hummingbirds dipped in and out of my hanging baskets, chattering and squabbling. Occasionally one perched on the supports against which clematis vines send their delicate tendrils. The scent of roses, planted and tended by my own hands, hung lightly in the morning air.
Butterflies drifted in and out of a patch of pink yarrow. Now and then, a robin flew in to break up a gathering, and deep within my heavily-laden currant bush, a pair of roufus-sided towhees scratched and pecked. As my coffee and toast got cold, I watched a group of little red-headed finches perch along my espaliered apple tree, six or seven amongst the four horizontal branches, each budding with a different variety of apple.
My yard might not be magazine-worthy; there’s whole patches that I haven’t dealt with properly yet. I plant things, only to realize that they would look better or be happier in a different spot. I build a terrace, only to decide a month later that it’s not quite deep enough, or needs more rock. Wild bunnies make lunch dates in my flowerbeds, and the deer sample pretty much everything, but I figure they were here first, the least I can do is be gracious.
So I move plants, redo hardscaping, dig, replace, adjust. Slowly but surely, I’m making headway against the invasive thorny weeds, but it’s a never-ending task, and I use Polysporin as hand lotion every night. I suspect the apocalypse will end with fleas, cockroaches, thistle and blackberry standing triumphant.
For me, gardening is – like so much of life – an ongoing project. Ideas sprout in me like scarlet runner beans, and I’m never happier than when I’m working on some new possibility, be it a book, a painting, a recipe or a new twist on an old relationship. But bringing ideas to maturity takes patience, thought, observation, more patience, and the willingness to try out something, even if it turns out to be wrong.
Or even if – especially if – someone tells me it was a bad idea.
More creative minds than mine insist that there are no bad ideas. I cling to this. Some ideas are better than others; some ideas are simply jumping-off points. But none are bad. The fifth try might be perfect, but you can’t get to five without going through four. Writers refer to this as the “shitty first draft” concept, which makes sense. Manure is fertilizer, after all.
So I shore up my shaky courage in times of creative drought and seek out warm shelter and support. I’ve found that gardens usually come back, when the season is right; life, it seems, is forgiving to those who keep trying.
So I’ve got flowers, animals, birds, insects, and even food. I’ve got stories, friendship, love, beauty, purpose. It’s summer, finally. My little bit of Earth is thriving …and nurturing my soul along with it.
Day 125, Yup 125 Bikram Yoga classes in 2011
That’s all I’m going to say about yoga right now. Next topic:
Can I be honest?
This isn’t an opening gambit, ala Joan Rivers or Oprah. Nor is it a request for permission. It’s not even a rhetorical question. It’s an actual question, one I’ve been asking myself for, I don’t know, about four decades.
Not sure I’ve ever asked it out in the open, though.
Pretense has always been a burr under my saddle. Maybe because I grew up Mennonite, which like most upbringings is a mixed bag of blessing and challenge. But the “Praise the Lord, we love the Emperor’s new clothes,” aspect of enforced happiness always made my jaw hurt. Of course, maybe it’s not the Mennonites’ fault; maybe it’s chronic low serotonin levels. Maybe it’s because my Sun sign is Scorpio. (And Moon, Mercury and Neptune. Which would explain the brooding.) Maybe it’s my Introvert-Intuitive-Feeling-Judging personality. A first-born, a mesomorph body type, a middle-aged menopausal woman working through the throes of an identity crisis.
Who knows? (And who cares, right?)
Well, here’s the thing: I don’t think I’m alone in my existential questioning. I suspect there are a lot of women in the grocery store, clinging to their sanity like it’s the last can of beans in the bomb shelter, but smiling, smiling, smiling, wondering what on earth they’re doing wrong and how come they’re the only ones not in on the secret to lasting happiness and personal fulfillment?
Okay, I’m a little idealistic. Scorpio, remember?
So I try to ride that fine line between healthy honesty, and being the weird close-talking neighbor who tells you all about her recent hemorrhoid surgery within your first ten minutes of meeting.
Here’s where it connects to yoga: honesty is related to stamina. Endurance. Steadfastness. Stick-to-it-iveness. Hangin-in-there. Doing what you say you’re going to do, when you say you’re going to do it. No excuses, no “oops”, no “sorry, I meant to” or “I was going to next Thursday,” or when it wasn’t raining, or the dollar picked up, or the yen went down, or your mood stabilized. And no “I didn’t think it would be this hard” or “but I got tired” or “I forgot.”
That all sounds pretty judgmental, doesn’t it? When it comes to interpersonal relationships, honesty is a key player. The closer the relationship, the more important trust is. And the bigger the betrayal when it is broken. “Forgive and forget” is a nice idea and has its place but “forgive and file it away for future use” is human reality, and sometimes the only way to check repeat-offenders.
Personally, when it comes to conflict I’m a natural-born fan of avoidance, denial and the Armani-clad Emperor.
But I’m facing it.
Can I be honest? It might be my biggest challenge.
Even bigger than Standing-Head-to-Knee.