Death On The Roadside

To the Editor:

Here is an open letter to one of the many people who drive through my neighborhood from time to time…

I only heard about how you hit that fawn and left it. The people who did stop told me you came back only to explain that you couldn’t stop in time. Then you took off again.

Let me tell you what happened next. As you may have noticed, the fawn was still alive. The road was smeared with its bright red blood. At first, it cried out for its mother in a bawling tone. I could see the mother off in the woods. She craned her neck toward the anguished sound of her baby, and the slamming doors and people’s voices. She could not help and eventually left. I saw the fawn’s beautiful, chocolate brown eyes and the shattered leg. Somehow, this young creature with its broken bones entered the fringe of the forest where it crouched under a branch trying to be quiet. But it would not stop twitching its crushed leg, rustling the dry leaves beneath it.

One of the people who stopped made the calls that you didn’t stop to make. A volunteer firefighter came by, but there was nothing he could do. The police were expected to arrive later. The others left and I was alone with the deer. The brief wait was excruciating because I knew what was going to happen.

When the police officer stepped out of his car with his holster, he was solemn. I know deer are considered a nuisance, but I felt protective of this one. I questioned the inevitable. No, there was no available agency that would take in a wounded deer. No, he would not help me get it to a vet, because I might get hurt. This wasn’t a newborn. We watched the animal try to get up. It rocked back and forth, a sleek tan body with Bambi patches and gangly legs. Its eyes were wide and moist. Yes, perhaps it would be best if I went back home.

Two startling shots later, it was over. The officer dragged it out of its hiding place and left it in the grass by the edge of the road. The fawn laid on its side in the sunshine with its dark eyes still open. A passerby stopped to look. From my yard, I heard this person cry out, “Oh, no” and quickly retreat. Death with bullet holes and flies is not a pretty sight. Soon, the highway patrol collected the carcass.

My road is not a highway. It is not a speedway of convenience, just because it connects to other well-traveled roads. Your hurry to get wherever you were going affected a few lives that day in a bad way. I suppose the fawn that suddenly appeared in your path surprised you so much you just couldn’t stop. I hope it wouldn’t surprise you to know children live and play in the neighborhood too. I wonder if you might bear that in mind next time you drive down our street. I wonder if we all could.

Sincerely yours,

Agnes Wieczorek

Meadow Brook Road, Newtown                             September 1, 2005