Peggy Dover

The familiar campfire on steroids odor woke me at 4:30 this morning. I even beat the cats out of bed. It’s cool outside, if I could only see it.

I keep a jug of Visine and a box of tissues handy these days. I see brown things with long legs walking around my yard. I hope they’re deer. I see black, hulking things, too. They’re either turkeys or bears. Poor things. Then I see (and hear) the workers chip-sealing the road in front of my house. They’re not wearing masks, and I feel for their lungs. And what about all those firefighters? It’s impossible to appreciate them enough.

Another cancelation tonight. This time it came from the Britt hill. With so many weather anomalies, it’s become impossible to accurately predict a good time and place for any outdoor event, no matter where you live. Smoke from Canada choking out New York, California getting slammed with flooding from a tropical storm, fire on Maui. But, we plan and hope for the best because there’s something beautiful about playing outside and we are optimists who yearn for beauty.

I’m supposed to attend the Pink Martini concert Thursday night and see my girl who works for them. I hope I will.

Meanwhile, I enjoy wildlife while looking out my back door, and it’s free, except for the worry — like a mother’s worry. The deer families have become regular residents here in Aunt Sophie’s small woodland surrounds. They feel safe. I have no dogs or power tools. I do not feed them, intentionally, that is. But they’re welcome to crop the weeds and trim bushes. I leave out a pan of water during these hot times, which the fawns have discovered.

There is a doe with twin fawns and a doe with one fawn — likely a first-time mother. Can you believe I have not named them? The other day I watched as one of the fawns decided that idleness was the devil’s workshop. He raced around the yard, tearing up one way and zooming back. His exuberance was contagious, and soon his sibling was springing and sproinging around. What a delight to watch their joy. I wished I could join in and wondered what mama deer thought as she lie there chewing her cud. White-tailed deer have ruminant, four-chambered stomachs.

But there’s the busy street out front, and all the deer inevitably cross over to get to the creek and other pasture. It’s agonizing for me to watch them get spooked and nearly hit. The babies follow mom but are often stragglers, and some people drive like fools, so I invested in a sign. I figured it was the least I could do. It has a picture of an adorable fawn with the words, “It’s fawn season, please drive slowly.” I feel better having tried.

I realize the deer, like turkeys, have pretty much integrated into most neighborhoods because of urban growth, dry water holes, desiccated vegetation where they usually roam, and being able to watch TV through our windows. Some see them as pesky nuisances. They have ticks and draw flies. But when I enter into their daily routine by watching their comings and goings, recognizing individuals, and realizing they’re just trying to make it like I am, it’s easy to care. Maybe too much.

The other day, there were four decent sized bucks, two does, three fawns, and a partridge in a pear tree in my backyard. I live in town, for Pete’s sake. I liken the bucks to a gang of restless teenagers. The fawns still have their spots and nurse sometimes until mom loses patience and walks away. Come on, there’s hardly anything cuter than a fawn. They just seem so darn vulnerable, and it makes me nervous, but they’re paying the price of freedom. Soon they’ll have their winter coats.

What a difference a day makes. The air has improved this morning, but smoke plays on the whims of the wind, and we are at its mercy. Come on, fall. Come, rain.