The wildlife in the Woodlands

We live in a suburban condo development known as The Woodlands. You might think that we’re as far away from mother nature as, say, a Manhattan apartment building, all pavement, parking problems, and pedestrians. That is not the case at all.

The wildlife came first, many many years ago. Probably thousands or more. Our 130 units, as they are called, were built much later, only about 35 years ago. Although our neighbors and we have legal documents attesting to our ownership, which the animals do not, they are definitely neither ignored nor forgotten. They prove to be secondary occupants, but occupants no less. And even though we feel like we should be in control, often they have the final say.

But not always.

Thus, for example, we with our little tiny postage-size piece of front lawn have had an unwelcome invasion of adorable nuisances. I say in, not on, because these cute little cousins of rats have built tunnels, huge invisible tunnels powerful enough to raise and create hazards under our front brick walk, twice already. Chipmunks. I never knew how smart, wily, creative, and destructive those critters really are. We are going to have to deal with them.  They won’t like it, and neither will we, but they seem to fall in love quickly and apparently none have fertility problems. There is, as evidence, a growing population of them and we need to evict them.

Our development is occupied by many Jews, not all, but most. We live peacefully with one another, and with the wild animals as well, adhering to the principle of tza’ar baalei chayim, which prohibits cruelty to animals. Luckily for us, we are not wild animals, and the twain rarely meet. The animals are so ubiquitous that they are mostly merely taken for granted and ignored. Mostly. See above!

The species that we see include, but are not limited to, many many deer, a few foxes, aforementioned chipmunks, squirrels, mice, an endless variety of birds, including giant turkeys, and worms, snakes, and of course too many insects. Mostly all of these species, except for the rare coyote, mice, and insects, are peaceful and good neighbors, meaning we don’t bother them and they don’t bother us. We also are home to many pet dogs who display great interest in the wilder animals around us.

But today, I am feeling woefully guilty because I interfered with the natural way of things and I should have read and learned before calling the local police. Should’ve and could’ve but didn’t! And this is not an indictment of our local police. They responded appropriately and promptly.

What happened?

I gazed out at the light rain drizzling by our upstairs windows and saw what I thought was an injured fawn. It seemed to lie motionless by a large, landscaped bush. I called my husband, and he went closer to the dear little deer and confirmed that it was a fawn, and it wasn’t moving.  We, two obviously non-geniuses, city-bred in Newark and Brooklyn, lovers of Bambi, and longtime dog lovers and owners, felt pain and heartache at the sight of the innocent baby lying on the grassy knoll opposite our home, probably, we surmised, suffering and alone.

We confirmed with one another that we should seek help, which we did. We phoned our local police and they dispatched an officer promptly.  She arrived, stepped out of her vehicle, and began walking closer to the little fawn, who promptly arose, entirely uninjured, and dashed off into the woods. That was her last sighting. What had we wrought?

Only then did your correspondent, me,  obviously too late to be useful, read up on the topic, only to discover that nursing fawns are often left by their mothers, safely alone for hours, so that the mother could be unhindered as she  searched for food in order that each of them could survive.

If you sense self-disparagement here, you are totally correct. Plagued by guilt, I returned to my window perch and awaited the remaining chapters of the story, knowing this was not a documentary video on a TV screen but a true-to-life mama, searching for her true-to-life baby. I didn’t wait long at all. The doe returned, and her fawn was not where she had been left. In an amazing feat of anthropomorphism I became the mother, searching for my baby, except that I who could see out the window knew that the mother was not going far enough in the correct direction to find her baby. In my mind I urged her to go left, not right, as she was. I had seen where the baby had gone but the mother had not. She became confused and searched and searched and searched, to no avail. Somewhere her baby, the fawn, did not know how to reach her. What sounds does a deer in distress make? I do not know. I heard none at all.

I watched the scene for a long time, hoping that, as in a made-for-TV moment, there would soon be a joyful swell of sentimental music, mostly violins and a tad of heart-pounding percussion, at the reunion of mother and child. That did not happen.

My thoughts quickly returned to the fear of the baby dying, all because of my own intervention. My Jewish values did nothing to make me feel better. I was not schocheting a chicken to reduce pain and suffering. I had made this happen for no reason, no gain, at all.

I wish I could conclude by telling you that the mama eventually found her babe. Sadly I cannot. The finale is tearful. The guilt is real.  A happy ending is not to be.

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of 12. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com