We have deer around our house all year. The autumn before the pandemic our five red oaks had a bumper crop of acorns. Two bosc, one sugar pear and an apple tree in our backyard were loaded.
When I opened my curtains at dawn, I almost always saw deer. I witnessed two young bucks licking each other’s faces outside my desk window. Another time a big buck was standing on his hind legs reaching for sugar pears. The morning sunlight touched his antlers in the branches.
I watched a doe eating acorns while her spring fawn still nursed. By November fawns have shed their white spots, and turned a gray that blends in.
Deer seem to belong to the area. In their eyes our home has always been here and is part of the meadow.
Across Stone Circle Drive north of our house there’s a row of 18 apple trees my late father-in-law planted. Their limbs were still drooping with fruit, and I’d already filled a 20-bushel box full.
There was a buck scrape on the ground under the bosc tree farthest from our house, and buck rubs were all around the pond to the east.
Buck rubs are made by antlers on small trees to leave their scent and mark out traveling habits or territory. They’re also a way of releasing pent up testosterone aggression.
Any mark on a sapling four inches in diameter or larger is a sign of a mature buck. The big guys are also known to thrash young fruit trees, which drives orchard farmers nuts.
Scrapes are made by bucks pawing the ground under an overhanging branch. They lick and rub their scent glands against the tender wood. Then they urinate on the bare earth showing off for the does who are constantly checking these places out.
I’ve watched does relieve themselves on these scrapes. It’s a primitive way of serious flirting, and a few million years old.
My wife sees our property as sanctuary. I hunt beside Torch Lake back in the woods. Opening morning I bagged a small 8-point; got him home, hung him up to cool, and took a shower. My wife wasn’t home.
Standing in my birthday suit in the middle of my writing room toweling off, I spotted a big 10-point buck strolling past my desk window. He passed the bare lilac bush and turned east toward the pear trees, or buck scrape.
My rifle and shells were still handy. I was tempted, but I already had a buck. I wasn’t wearing any blaze orange. My wife would be disappointed.
Just then our dog walked around the corner of the garage, and the big guy ran off. Sigh.
The doe in this month’s poem appeared last year in late November. This spring she had a new fawn.
The fruit trees including red oaks were loaded again. The doe is back with this spring and last year’s fawns. She still walks with a limp, but puts weight on her left hoof now. You wouldn’t know she’s crippled when she runs.