The herd places its collective lips on cold, wet grass shoots, rolls their eyes upward, and navigates across my artesian spring’s runoff channel. One little buck, about five months old, stares up at the cottage’s blue steel roof, searching for something besides old grass. I wonder if he’ll get enough to eat. While his sloppily assembled herd shifts past my outbuilding, he and one adult doe linger behind. I watch through the glass door.
A sizeable gap separates the little buck and adult doe from their herd. Staring at me, he dawdles too long for the impatient doe. She gives up waiting and pushes on to catch up with the others, now across the creek. He continues staring at me from five meters off. Now and then, the doe stops, turns her head 180 degrees, and looks behind at the little gray buck. He still has not eaten, but his stocky well-proportioned body alleviates my concern; he is finding food somewhere. For now, while I stand behind the glass storm door, he only wants to watch me. I wave my right hand in front of my face to signal that I am watching him, too. Then I open the storm door, step outside, raise my arms over my head, and clap, curious whether sudden movement will spook him. It doesn’t.
His little horns have not begun to sprout, but his brow line has darkened. Without moving his legs, he bends his neck to nose a Townsend’s solitaire off a sagebrush, but the bird, holding fast, flicks a wing into the buck’s cheek. Jerking his head up, the little deer looks straight at me, wondering if I have witnessed the insult. Doe and herd are half a mile away, white tails flashing as they line out across the alfalfa field. I wait. He won’t stop staring. Fifteen minutes later, when the solitaire flies away, I tell him, “Goodnight,” go inside, and drop the violet shade over the glass.
acknowledgments
I am happy to acknowledge specific individuals and organizations for their contributions to the manuscript. I am indebted to: my friend Jack, who followed Fox’s story from the beginning and made sure I didn’t give up; Verna Macpherson for wisdom and countless days in Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons; Mary Carparelli for friendship and refining my ideas about Fox and myself; Martha Sloan for prodding me toward a deeper understanding of myself; the Museum of Wildlife Art for welcoming me over the years; Nick Flynn, Steve Almond, and Deirdre McNamer for offering creative advice; Amanda Fortini, Tim Cahill, and Tessa Fontaine for inspiration and commentary; Barrett Briske for copyediting; everyone at Spiegel & Grau for working hard on and believing in the story. Dawn Hill read and critiqued the entire manuscript. Without the generosity and kindness of the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society, Rosemary James, Joseph DeSalvo, and Andrei Codrescu, I would not have met Celina Spiegel. To Celina, I am indebted beyond words; she alone is the sine qua non for Fox and I.
about the author
Catherine Raven earned a PhD in biology from Montana State University and degrees in zoology and botany from the University of Montana. She is a former national park ranger at Glacier, Mount Rainier, North Cascades, Voyageurs, and Yellowstone national parks, and her natural history essays have appeared in American Scientist, Journal of American Mensa, and Montana Magazine. A member of American Mensa and Sigma Xi, she is the author of a middle-grade textbook, Forestry: The Green World, published by Chelsea House. You can find her in Fox’s valley tugging tumbleweeds from the sloughs.
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