This is as true a version of the events as I can possibly tell.
I hit a deer with my Jeep on Monday. She had darted out of the brush and bounded directly in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, but not in time. I saw her disappear beneath the hood and I felt the thunk of the impact. When I came to a stop, I fumbled for my phone to dial 911. I looked out my si
de view mirror and she was laying in the center of road. I suspected she was dead, but when I looked back, she was moving, attempting to stand. I put the four-way flashers on and got out of the Jeep. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I slowly walked toward her. She was panting hard and visibly scared. I told her I was sorry. I told her I tried to stop.
She looked around and attempted to stand. I was certain that one or more of her legs was broken, so it was painful just watching her stumble around. She grunted and swayed and panted. Her breath was visible. There was a scent of game in the air, damp fur, maybe blood—although I didn’t see any blood. Traffic was stopped in both directions; everyone watching me watching the deer. I prayed that someone would come help.
A guy approached and said, “We need to get her off the road.” I wanted to say, “Thank you for the obvious,” but I bit my tongue and took solace that I had assistance. He started to shoo her and even used his foot to push her along. She did not like him. I did not like him. He seemed more concerned about the traffic than of the injured deer that was likely suffering with tremendous pain. The genius walked away in search of rope. He actually said, “We need some rope,” and walked away. I suppose he intended to lasso her and pull her off the road. That would have comical I suppose. I envisioned her dragging him down the road. I felt better for a moment.
No sooner had the genius left than another car door opened and a lady, maybe 35 years old, climbed out with a crossbow. Yes, a crossbow. She was dressed head to toe in camo. What are the odds that I would hit a deer and that Rambo’s sister would be in the traffic jam? She tells me she had been hunting all day. She had another tag, but she really just wanted to put the deer out of its misery. I liked Rambo’s sister, but I was not looking forward to watching her kill this deer.
Then a tow truck driver pulled along the side of the all the traffic and turned on its yellow lights. I have no idea what the hell he was doing. All he accomplished was spooking the deer. She darted off the road into the brush. We could hear her thrashing around, trying to get away. The guy in the wrecker left without a word—I guess his goal was achieved. Rambo’s sister said she would call her brother. He lived just down the road and would bring a search light. Rambo’s sister had time to tell me how she was hunting this year to feed her kids. She hated killing, but she needed to feed her family. I really liked Rambo’s sister. Aside from the camo and the crossbow, she looked like a kindergarten teacher. Honest and kind. She was very concerned about the wounded deer. I shared her empathy.
About three minutes later, Rambo showed up and climbed out of his truck with a machete. Yes, a machete. He asked a lot of questions about which direction the deer went. He said, “I’m going to get this deer.” He disappeared into the brush with his machete. His sister stood guard with the crossbow. Occasionally Rambo would yell out, “I see some tracks here. I see a spot of blood. I see another track.” As much as I didn’t want to see his sister shoot this deer with a crossbow, I really didn’t want to see Rambo slice its throat with a machete. I wanted the police to come. And finally they did; well, at least one did. He assessed the situation and told Rambo and his sister they could have the deer. He didn’t care about tags or anything. “It would save me shooting it and calling state to come get it.” Rambo disappeared into the brush again. His sister stood poised with the crossbow. I scanned with the flashlight on my phone. It was not very bright. I kept thinking “Please run away deer. Please be OK. Please go back and find your family.”
Twenty minutes passed before Rambo gave up. He stated that he had tracked her to a fence line about 20 yards in. He suspected she ran along the fence until she found an opening. “She could be long gone by now,” he said, “Damn, I really wanted that deer.” I could tell he really just wanted to kill a deer with a machete. He seemed disappointed. I imagined his sister would still get the deer to feed her family, but nonetheless, I was pleased Rambo didn’t get to cut any throats, at least in front of me.
The cop left. Rambo left. Rambo’s sister shook my hand and I thanked her for helping. “I hope that deer’s alright,” she said. “I hate to think she is suffering.”
In the coffee-world, there’s been quiet rumblings of a shortage brewing for awhile now. And yet, despite the threat, it hasn’t hit quite yet—but that doesn’t mean it’s gone away.
