I’m really, really glad that the picture of the doe I took last week showed up. Turns out, I had moved it where I though I had. But I’d labeled it “doe” and not “deer” which was the word I entered in the search program.
But the reason I’m really, really glad I found it, other than the assurance that my brain is not full of more holes than Swiss cheese, is that this picture is my only consolation for missing the deer picture of the summer this morning. For the first time in weeks, I left my camera home because the weather was wet, sprinkling in fact, when I walked – not enough to need an umbrella, but enough to damage a camera.
A little voice told me I’d be sorry, but it stayed quiet during my first lap when, unlike me, the critters and birds had sense enough to stay out of the rain. But the second time I came down the hill toward the bridge, a small doe stood in the road, trembling and still. I stopped and we eyed one another for a small eternity. Eventually, the deer lifted a slender leg, the diameter of it’s ankle smaller than my wrist, and stepped toward me once, twice, then a third time. Quivering, head jerking up and down, tail flitting from side to side, it finally came to a halt, not ten feet away from me.
I reached for my camera, then remembered it was at home. I sighed, the deer watching me, me watching the deer, until I took a tentative step in its direction. Apparently, I came one step too close. The deer hightailed it for the trees. (Please note: “hightailed” is not a cliche here. It is what happened.)
“Should I pick up my camera at the end of this lap?” I asked myself. “Nah, It can’t happen twice.”
That’s when the little voice piped up again. “It can too.”
“Pish, posh,” I sniffed as the rain intensified. I left the camera home.
When I neared the bridge, the deer was there again, munching at the undergrowth. From what I could tell, the little animal, a yearling from the looks of her, considered me her trusted friend. I slowed and approached her. She watched me, then went back to eating while I walked past, about eight feet away. And me without my camera. Again.
I walked one more lap, with the camera in tow, daring the rain to to rain on my camera or my parade. It didn’t, but the doe was a no show. Maybe her mother found her, scolded her for trusting strangers, and grounded her for a month. But maybe not. Maybe tomorrow, my new girlfriend will meet me at the bridge.
If she’s there, I’ll be ready, rain or shine, my camera in a Ziplock bag if need be. It’s the only way to silence the little voice in my head which continues to chant, “I told you so, I told you so,” in rhythm with the raindrops and the sighing wind.
