The biggest act of rebellion ... is remaining defiantly hopeful. —Rupert Dreyfus
Ginny Neil
This summer when I returned from a dawn walk with friends, my sheep guard dog, Zenya, was in the front yard staring at something curled in front of her. I moved closer to see what she had dragged in, and a little head popped up.
It was a newborn fawn. My stomach clenched. Zenya makes the rounds of the pastures and fields each night to keep coyotes out of our flock, and occasionally she returns with the half-eaten remains of various small animals. Was I going to have to put a mangled fawn out of its misery?
Then, My Own Farmer stepped out on the front porch. “I’ve been watching her for a while,” he said. “I think she’s trying to adopt it.” Zenya, who was recently spayed, went through a false pregnancy complete with milk. Was she hormonal? Maybe she had stolen this fawn from its mama.
Ginny Neil
The fawn rose on shaky legs and Zenya stood, too. She licked it vigorously in the same way I have seen ewes lick their newborns. Then she nudged it with her nose. When she took a step, the fawn followed. What was I supposed to do with this tiny thing?
I had several choices. I could leave everything alone and Zenya, who was still leaking a little milk, would find a way to nurse this fawn and raise it, or not. I could choose to bottle feed the fawn, but keeping wildlife is illegal in Virginia and I’m a Master Naturalist. I know better. I could choose to take the fawn to the wildlife center, but it’s an hour and a half away from me. As I was thinking about what to do, I noticed a deer standing in the middle of the front field looking down at the ground. Was this her fawn?
I consulted the wildlife center website which suggested that, if possible, I should take the baby back where it came from. Zenya must have carried the fawn out of the front field which has been full of deer lately. So, I decided to take it out there and leave it for its mama to find. After sneaking the fawn away from my dog, I loaded it into the car so she wouldn’t follow me and drove out to the gate.
As I waded through the waist-high grass in the meadow, a doe jumped up and ran off. Two more leapt away behind her.
I tucked that beautiful spotted baby into the tall grass, turned toward the car, and was consumed by guilt. Had I made the right choice? I looked back, and the doe raised her head to peer at me from a safe distance away. I hoped she was looking for a fawn.
About 25 years ago, I opened a bluebird box at the edge of this same field and a mama mouse jumped out and fled. Her babies tumbled to the ground behind her. I gathered those little pink nubbins up, took them into the house, and called my vet to ask him what to feed them. My Own Farmer, who was watching from the sidelines, shook his head in disbelief. “You hate finding mouse droppings in the house. Why in the world would you bring these babies in and try to raise them?”
Ginny Neil
He had a point, but they were so cute and helpless. They died despite my best efforts, but I was still glad that I had at least tried to make a difference. The experience with the fawn reminded me of those babies. Trying to reconnect the fawn with her mama felt like the right thing to do. I would probably never know if I made the right decision.
That afternoon, as I looked out my office window, I spotted a doe standing near the bush where I left the fawn. Her posture reminded me of the way a mama ewe stands when her lamb is nursing. I grabbed my binoculars for a closer look. There was a spotted baby with its head buried deep below the doe’s belly. It was nursing.
Life on a farm is full of uncertainty. If we waited for a 100% chance of sun before cutting hay, we’d almost never get any baled. If we waited until the soil was exactly the right temperature and moisture for planting, then the seeds might never make it into the ground. Like many of the choices we make on the farm or in the garden, leaving the fawn in the meadow was a rebellious act of hope. Sometimes choosing to do something despite the circumstances is the best we can do.
The story above first appeared in our September / October 2025 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!