Killing for fun may not seem like a social norm, but it is in Minnesota. Recently a nationally syndicated comic strip, “Zippy the Pinhead,” recognized this. One of Zippy’s friends, who was considering a run for the presidency, remarked, “I eat meat occasionally. But I can’t see hunting and killing as a pastime.”

Zippy replied, “Well, we just lost Minnesota.”

Similar conditions obtain in Wisconsin and New Mexico, where my stories take place. I have heard gunshots on opening day and discussions of this activity at church.

Thomas Lee Boles cares for Marena, a fawn residing at the Alameda Park Zoo in Alamogordo, N.M.

Marena

When I lived in Alamogordo, New Mexico, I had the very special joy of hand raising a fawn. I named her Marena, after a doe in the novel “Bambi” who prophesied peace between humans and animals. Though I was unemployed, nearly broke, recovering from a nearly fatal illness, and still facing difficult surgery, I wouldn’t have traded that experience for anything.

Marena was a mule deer (the species is named for their large ears) brought to the Alameda Park Zoo by someone who found her wandering along a highway alone. I had already made friends with the zoo’s two adult mule deer, whom I named Bambi and Faline, and, through them, with the zookeepers and director, Steve Diehl. Bambi had given the first warning that my appendix was about to burst, so we all knew something very special was going on.

Marena was the happiest baby I have ever known, always full of life, love, and joy.  When I came to visit, I called out, “Marena! Where is my little sweetheart?”

There came the sound of tiny galloping feet (all four of them could have fit on the palm of my hand, with room to spare) and an eager voice calling, “Meh! Meh! Me-eh-eh!” To say that her tail wagged would be a gross understatement.

Like a dog greeting her dearest long lost friend, the whole animal wagged, from head to toe. She fizzed, like champagne.

Once I suggested to Steve that Marena wanted me to come in at night.

”At night!” he exclaimed. “Why ever at night?”

”She nibbles my ears,” I explained. “You know what that
means.”

As another friend said, in a deep, throaty voice, “Hey, baby, whaddaya doin’ tonight?”

One day, as I was feeding Marena, a family stopped to watch, and began asking questions. Soon the conversation was like one of those scenes in Family Circus when the word balloons float free, not attached to anyone in particular.

Meanwhile Marena finished her bottle and began to run and play, returning occasionally to be petted and bestow kisses upon me lavishly. A pattern emerged in the conversation. The man kept repeating, “She’s so docile! She’s so docile!”

As they left I heard him say, “I don’t think I’ll ever eat venison again.”

Thomas Lee Boles and a doe, Sugar, share a close moment at Fawn-Doe-Rosa in St.  Croix Falls, Wisconsin.

Sugar

When I moved to Minnesota in December 2000, I mentioned my experiences of deer to several people at church.

One person said, “You’d like Fawn-Doe-Rosa. You can go into the yard with the deer; they eat from your hand.”

”Where’s that?” I asked.

”Near Taylors Falls.”

In the middle of the worst winter in about 10 years (even the natives were impressed), I went looking. I drove all the Minnesota approaches to Taylors Falls, and found no Fawn-Doe-Rosa.

That was because it isn’t in Minnesota. It’s across the Saint Croix River, in Wisconsin.

It was closed until May 15.

I awaited that date as eagerly as the Christmas when I got my Lionel train. Presenting myself at the entrance, I bought my admission and some feed, and began getting acquainted with white-tailed deer. I did this every day off, all spring, summer, and fall, until the place closed for winter.  As in Alamogordo, I watched for sick or injured animals and humans doing things that they should know better.  (Deer are not riding animals, like horses.)

One day I found that my money was no longer any good. Admission and all the feed I could give away were free. Not only that, there was a party for my birthday.

In my second summer, a fawn appeared with an odd malformation of the left ear. The tip was bent over and welded, as it were, to the inner lining. I called her Lop Ear, but soon had good reason to change that to Sugar, and look eagerly for that peculiar ear.

My mom once said my dog loved me because “You were the one who got down on the floor with her.” So I began sitting on the ground among the deer. I saw that they groomed each other, and even their babies. Seeing the fawns return the favor, I realized this is more than sanitation: it’s love.

One day in June there presence appeared behind me, and felt the same touch on my hair. In the most profound delight I have ever known, I grew very still. Suddenly, there were two more waiting in line — and one was Sugar.

She began doing that every day, and washed my hair better than I ever did. She was very thorough, sometimes working half an hour at a time, yet incredibly gentle. But if she sees another deer do that, she flies into a jealous rage and beats him up. Even the queen of the herd, who started all this, isn’t safe.

One day someone asked, “Do you have a name for this animal?”

I answered, “I call her Sugar, because she’s my sweetheart.”

A picture of a bottle-feeding session with Marena adorns the cover of my book, Deer Diary.  A picture of Sugar’s ablutions is at BookCather.com, and will be on the cover of my next book, Deer Companions.

Anyone who thinks all this doesn’t challenge a Minnesota norm should consider what happened to our former Governor, Jesse Ventura, when he spoke up for Bambi.

In The Fray Contributor