Even in the direst of circumstances, the instinct toward survival is not so easily suppressed. A young, probably first year buck that appeared in our backyard on Monday night served as a stark reminder of this truism. This picture, which Ella snapped as the fall sun dropped behind our neighbor’s oak trees, doesn’t quite convey the reality of the situation; one of the whitetail’s hind legs dangles uselessly, a smashed and bloody mess. Ella surmised the animal had been struck by a car on the main road down the hill. The unfortunate deer had struggled through multiple backyards, somehow making its way over our fence–a three-legged jump over a three-foot barrier, a monumental leap, at least for this creature.
I got the play-by-play via text during the bus ride home. “Animal Control is on the way.” A few minutes later: “And we are waiting for the cops.”
Time passed, and the stricken deer lay down next to our woodpile. Was he resigned to his fate? Ella visited our neighbors and implored them to keep their small children and pets inside until the ordeal was resolved. Our college-age sons watched intently from the kitchen, while they and Ella carried on a text conversation with friends, “Can we butcher it once it’s down? Anyone up for some venison?” Our middle son settled on a name for our visitor–Franklin.
The animal control officer, a tattooed, no-nonsense woman, probably in her forties, arrived well-equipped with the tools of her trade, in this case a long pole with a noose at the end. “If I’m able to get this around the deer, I’ll put him down and then drag it out to the curb for VDOT to pick up. But if he bolts, I’m not going to be able to shoot him. It’s too risky to take a shot if he’s moving. We’ll just have to let him go.” She adjusted her body armor, then carefully approached, leading with the pole firmly out in front.
Still alert despite the pain, Franklin’s eyes captured her as she approached. He assessed the threat, then drawing from deep within, he raised himself slowly, then suddenly bolted. Our officer watched him go, then said, “Well, I can’t shoot him now, he will probably lose the leg somewhere. We might get another call, but he’ll probably just find a quiet place in someone’s yard to lie down and die.”
The officer’s matter-of-fact demeanor reflected the grim reality of her job; she is frequently required to “put down” injured animals, for mercy’s sake. Those times over the past years that we’ve witnessed or heard firearms discharged in our suburban neighborhood, it has been animal control officer dealing with our local fauna. Foxes, coyotes, raccoons, deer–it’s actually quite the menagerie in Northern Virginia. There’s no small irony that the law enforcement officer who fires his or her weapon most … is Animal Control.
Upon reflection, I am confronted by the ethical undertones of our backyard drama. What is clearly a merciful act in “putting down” a wounded animal does not convey to our fellow humans. Why? This is a much longer discussion for another time, but I assure you, dear readers and fellow image-bearers (imago dei), these are questions worth asking and answering. Perhaps our animal control officer will make an appearance in another book ….
For now, let us give thanks for our loving father. “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your father. But even the hairs of you head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” Matthew 10:29-31 (ESV)
