I Wish I Could Talk to the Deer

Every year around this time, as the RV travel season slows and life slows a bit, I find myself wishing I could be like Dr. Dolittle and talk to the animals. Not all of them. Just the deer who call our ten acres in Southwest Michigan home.

If I could, I would tell them to stay close. Stay home. Do not wander off the property. Not now. Not this time of year. Because firearm deer season started this morning, and all around our little hunk of land humans in red and orange are tucked into blinds, waiting for the moment they step into view.

Waiting to kill them.

In the three years we have lived here, we have gotten to know these beautiful creatures in a way I never expected. We have watched wobbly fawns take their first steps along the little lakeshore at the back of our land. We have seen them grow into confident adults. There are about fifteen of them now, what Jen and I call our little herd.

My days start the same way every morning. I come into my office, open the blinds in front of my desk, and watch them move at sunrise. They take the same winding route into the woodlot to the north, almost like they are following an invisible trail map. At dusk, they return in the opposite direction, right on schedule.

Look at this guy below. I snapped the photo with my iPhone this week. We've known him since he was a fawn. All the photos here are of our deer.

When I take Bo on his morning walk, we pass the places where they bed down for the night. You can see the grass bent where they lie. If there's snow, their body heat melts it in an oval shape. Every so often, a late sleeper leaps up as we approach, white tail flashing like a little flag as it bounces away toward the swamp at the east end of our property.

How we love these creatures. Bo barks at them. But the tone of his bark is not aggressive. As if he is telling a friend he sees them. I think even Bo knows and respects that they live here. 

I Wish I Could Talk to the Deer

Last year, after returning from an October RV trip, I found the body of an 8-point buck at the edge of the swamp. A partially broken arrow was still in what was left of his body. He had been shot during archery season somewhere else. And came home to die. His home. Our land. 

This morning I heard the first gunshots of the season. Even though they sounded far off, I felt myself tighten up a bit. Our deer do roam. Notice how I said “our” deer. It is surprising how easily you get attached.

It hits harder than I ever expected to think that, somewhere beyond our tree line, someone might be sitting in a blind right now, easing a safety forward and waiting for the moment one of these animals steps into sight. These are not anonymous deer to us. We know their paths and their habits. We recognize their quiet routines, the gentle order they move in, the small quirks that set each one apart as they slip through our woods day after day.

The idea that a single crack of a rifle could end the life of a creature we have watched grow and thrive feels strangely personal, almost like a breach in the peace we share here.

I am not against hunting. Not at all. As long as it is for food, I understand it. I grew up that way. I hunted for years and harvested deer almost every season. That was true right up until my mid-thirties, when I came home from a hunt in northern Michigan with a beautiful 10-point buck tied to the hood of my car.

My daughter Wendy, who was about ten at the time, came running out to greet me. She saw the deer and froze. Her face crumpled. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Daddy, why did you do that?”

I had no real answer. Tradition. Herd management. Preventing overpopulation. All the usual things hunters say. None of it mattered in that moment. Not to her. Not to me either, if I am honest.

I never hunted deer again. 

And now, many decades later, I watch our deer. They really are our deer. And I find myself wishing I could talk to them. Stay safe, I would say. Stay here. Be alert.

These days, that is enough. I do not need antlers on the wall or venison in the freezer. What I treasure now is the quiet rhythm of their lives brushing up against mine.

It is the way they step out of the tree line at dawn, single file, soft hooves barely whispering against the frosted ground. It is the way the morning light catches their breath and turns it into little clouds that rise and vanish. It is the way they pause, every one of them, and look around as if checking to make sure the world is still safe.

At dusk, it is the same ritual in reverse. They appear like shadows that grow legs. A head lifts. Ears swivel. A tail flicks. The smallest doe trots to catch up to the others. And for a moment, everything feels calm and ordered and good.

There is something powerful about watching a creature that lives with constant risk yet still moves with such grace. Something grounding. Something that settles your own heart in ways you did not realize you needed.

When the wind shifts, they all lift their heads at once, as if they share a single breath. I find myself holding mine, too, waiting to see if they relax or tense or bolt. It is strange how much you can worry about something that has never once spoken to you.

But you do. You hope they make it. You root for them. You find yourself silently cheering when all fifteen show up, accounted for, like kids returning home after curfew.

And beneath it all is a quiet truth I did not understand when I was younger. There is a kind of respect in simply watching an animal live its life. In letting it be. In giving thanks that it exists at all.

That, these days, is more than enough.

And being grateful for the simple privilege of sharing this place with them.

Missed a few of our recent posts? No worries – here you go.

• 10 Weird Noises RVs Make and What They Are Actually Trying to Tell You
• How Much Does RVing Really Cost? The Answer Will Surprise You
• How I Accidentally Donate RV Gear Across America
• Cowboy Hat Etiquette: A Yankee's Hard Lesson in Texas

This new post was originally shared in our RV Community. If you are not part of the Community yet, ​now is a perfect time to jump in.​ Come read the post, share your own life experiences, and join a place where real RV stories are told straight from the road.