It’s lunchtime and I’ve brought lunch out into the garden here in Virginia. As we walk down to the lawn there’s a startled deer. It looks at us and then walks off away into the shade of the trees. We’re so busy watching it that we don’t notice that its bandy-legged fawn in still sitting on the lawn.
“Oh no,” I say, reflexively.
It struggles to its feet, all strange articulated joints like a shopping bag on stilts:
Then it starts wobbling towards us, swaying as if it’s going to collapse at any moment:
Stretching its legs it gets confidence and momentum. It’s heading straight for The Puffin Whisperer:
I’m having problems knowing how many legs it has. Logic tells me there are four, but this little fawn is making me doubt my own senses:
It stops as it gets closer. It is sniffing the air, full of trepidation:
It is so close to us now, The Puffin Whisperer could touch it. It has a huge underbite and such a delicate poise:
Its mother is still in the shade. We leave and watch from above as it is reunited with its mother. It can’t be very old – they are born in May or June.
We talk about it for ages afterwards.