Pearl and Maude are the new regulars at our woodsy New Jersey home that we call Shama Sanctuary. Pearl has close-set beady eyes and carries with her an air of superiority. She’s a bully, snorting and chasing off the twin orphans, Precious and Petunia, who are yearning for companionship. To show her dominance she’ll strike the two yearlings on their backs with her hoof so hard that I jump when I hear the loud thump. Pearl is working hard to establish herself as the new alpha in the group, but she’s doing it in the frenetic way of an inexperienced young doe, desperate to make her mark on the world.
Old Maude is easier to love. Her personality is quite chill, probably due to her advanced age. She walks slowly and stiff legged—perhaps from arthritis in her hips—and her back sags. One of her ears lies flat against her head, likely due to a prior injury. With her one floppy ear, white spot between her eyes and white tuxedo stripes running the length of her legs, I’ve developed a soft spot for her quirkiness. That said, each time I sit outside with the deer, my heart hurts. Bad. I’m familiar with this feeling. It’s called grief.
October 9, 2019 was the last day I saw her.
Lily had been the matriarch of Shama Sanctuary since I moved here six years ago. She was a nimble doe, with jagged ears and nicks in her fur—a sort of scrappy edge to her beauty that came from years of leaping through the scraggly brush. Lily’s entourage included her daughter Sparkle and all of their many offspring. Carrying with her fearless traits of a born leader, she was assertive and strong, but also loyal to and protective of her tribe. Moreover, she was compassionate, and, unlike pretentious Pearl, even adopted orphaned fawns that she raised as her own.
My connection with Lily was not at all immediate. In fact, it was her spunky one-antlered yearling Magic whom I first felt was my spirit animal. A few years ago, Magic helped me through the grief of losing my dog Yoda. There were times that I would be so overcome with emotion that I would go outside and holler “Magic, I need you!” Moments later he’d trot out of the woods and I would blubber snotty tears as I told him all about Yoda while he snacked on a handful of corn at my feet. Magic, now a majestic 10-point buck, occasionally still visits; often bringing with him a posse of young bucks under the protective cover of darkness.
It wasn’t until late summer of 2016 that Lily let down her guard. It was as if after months of cautiously observing me, she finally made the decision that I was friend and not foe. She never retreated from her choice to befriend me. From then on, the trust between us grew. Relationships in both the human and animal worlds take time to develop, and my friendship with Lily had finally reached that cherished state of comfortable intimacy. She’d visit at least once or twice a day. If I was sitting outside, she’d sometimes lay down in the grass near me and chew her cud. She once did this for an hour, and my sense of contentment was a feeling I will never forget. It was no longer me sitting outside with a wild animal. It was now me simply sitting with Lily.
When it was time to give birth to her fawns each spring, she visited in the mornings as big as a house. She had an expectant mother waddle to accommodate her giant pregnant belly, yet she could still gracefully leap over a fallen log as she disappeared into the woods. She would then come back later in the day, noticeably slimmer after giving birth. I like to think she wanted to share the news with me, but in all likelihood, it was simply that she wanted a snack to replenish her energy.
Lily had the most gorgeous eyes of any creature I’ve ever seen. They were big, brown liquid eyes rimmed with exquisitely long lashes. She’d stare in the window at me at my desk until I noticed and came outside with an apple. She would gaze intensely into my eyes before she took her first bite. She’d take her time, never rushing, seemingly content to spend time together.
Yet last summer I saw something different in her eyes. It was around the time that her new fawn disappeared—likely prey of the coywolf who obliterated the small woodland creatures at Shama Sanctuary over the summertime months. In place of the well of trust, warmth, and wisdom that I always found in her eyes; I now saw sadness. Not only did she lose her fawn, but her two-year-old daughter Sparkle and the other deer that have always been a part of Lily’s family were no longer around either. It was Lily, all alone. And I know she didn’t like it.
A couple months later, surrounded by autumn trees bearing brushstrokes of amber and crimson, I sat outside with Lily and talked to her while she gingerly nibbled at her apple. She was savoring every bite. I told her that I knew about the savage slaughter that had taken place at Shama Sanctuary over the summer, and I said how very sorry I was that she lost her fawn. But I also reassured her that this is the cycle of life, and that one day things will shift back and our wildlife will return. Hang on girl. Please, hang on.
The next day my husband and I left for a business trip to LA. When we returned a week later, Lily was nowhere to be found. This in and of itself wasn’t cause for concern. When we traveled, Lily would go elsewhere to feed on woody vegetation. But within a few days of our return, she had always made her way back to her home range of Shama Sanctuary. Only this time she didn’t.
It’s now been two years since I’ve seen her, and I’ve finally stopped holding my breath with hope that she’ll appear. She’s gone. I miss her. My heart hurts.
These days, instead of talking to Lily, I talk to myself. Hang on girl. Please, hang on.
* * * * * * * *
October 9, 2021 update: An earlier version of this essay was posted a year ago. It has now been two years since I last saw Lily, and I still think of her every day. To work through an unexpected grief surge (probably triggered by the goings on in the world), I decided to honor her memory by rewriting the essay as an expression of love.
Pearl is now the alpha at Shama Sanctuary. Her mother, Maude, died last winter. Petunia also disappeared last winter, but her twin sister, Precious, still visits and is now a beautiful and gentle two-year-old doe. In the spring of 2020, Pearl gave birth to Jeffrey and Jaime, twin male fawns (who are now handsome yearlings sporting their first antlers). This past spring she had another set of twins, Hansel and Gretel. It’s taken a couple of years for Pearl to learn to trust me and let me sit with her, but she is still pretty bristly, both with me and with other deer. We don’t have the same deep connection as Lily and I had. Not even close. Hopefully one day I’ll share a bond with another deer. But even if that happens, there will never be another Lily.
Rest in Peace, Lily. Thank you for the memories.
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