Ultimately, Buttercup won. Not through mental agility, of which she cannot be accused, but through sheer persistence, stubbornness and singleness of purpose. She wanted the chicken food. She had wanted the chicken food since the chickens moved in next door. She wanted it with unwavering, resolute desire. I didn’t realize any of this until later. Resolute, unwavering focus, of chicken food, is not something one usually associates with a deer.

In any case, she had her life and the chickens had theirs. If she was often found at the fence between their two runs, I attributed it to the relationship between her and Josie Whitehorn the Buffalo Goat, who lived with the chickens.

The fencing kept Buttercup from their food, but not from following me as I brought them their food and treats. Not that she was lacking anything- she got the best, carefully researched mule deer formula specially ordered from halfway across the country, mixed with some goat chow because she had indicated to me that she coveted it, and apples, and carrots, and fresh green beans and snow-peas and lettuce and grapes and sometimes strawberries and raspberries and cherries and blueberries. Her sleek well-rounded form and luxuriant coat made it difficult to believe the desperation she portrayed.

Winter arrived and Fine Buck grew his first antlers. He had been all sweetness up to now. He and Buttercup would lie together, she nibbling on him lovingly. But instinct and testosterone took over. He had only one doe in his herd and he harassed and chased her constantly. I would find her panting in exhaustion after running from him, so I let her into the outer perimeter of her pen that served as the chicken run. She had escaped twice before, pushing her way quickly by me, even before he began harassing her, and promptly headed around the corner to the length of run leading to their food. Not thinking much about it, I left her in the outer perimeter, until I saw her raiding the chicken food. Concerned she wasn’t getting the right nutrition, I moved the feeder inside the coop. The only access from inside the run was an opening about 12 inches from the ground, 13inches wide by 17 inches high. We had made it just big enough for Rudolph, a magnificent coppery wild turkey, to be able to navigate.

The day after I let Buttercup into the chicken run, I entered the coop from the back door with the food and treats for the chickens, but I had been tracked. Inside the run, she was standing just outside the opening, wide legged, long graceful neck down, peering into the coop. The following day as I entered the coop her whole head and neck were inside, big brown round doe eyes looking around. The third day as I entered, she was in position, peering in, head lowered, when she suddenly crouched low to the ground, bunched herself up, and leapt through the small opening 12 inches off the ground, somehow landing on her feet, 200 plus pounds of deer. She was in a state of shock, I was in a state of shock, the chickens were in a state of shock.  She was missing a chunk of fur from her back, but she was in! She looked around, taking in the long withheld promised land, exploring, sniffing, then finally putting her head deep in the feeder. I left to get Jean. Although I had seen her leap with my own eyes, I looked at the opening and couldn’t believe she could get out again. I was thinking of getting a lead and walking her back through the back door and around to the gate at the front of the run. But when I returned she was out, this time with a piece of fur missing from her side. Jean got a piece of wood and screwed it in place, lowering the top of the opening by 4 inches.

The next morning, no Buttercup in the run. Jean’s screwed-on piece was missing, and Buttercup was in the coop. The morning after she was to be found back in her pen with a scrape under her left eye. There was a large hole punched out of the chicken coop wall above the opening. It was the size and shape of a deer. The opening was now enlarged to her specifications.

Acknowledging her superior will, I gave in. I prepared her deer food and goat chow, and sprinkled a large measure of chicken food on top. She walked demurely over to see what I was bringing that day, checked out the contents of her bowl, daintily ate all the chicken food and walked away. Later that day I caught Rudolph and his adoring Esmeralda pecking eagerly at Buttercup’s leftover deer food. Two days later the entire flock was at the site, busily picking and scratching in a great dynamic flurry of chicken activity. She wanted what they had. They wanted what she had. The wolves, no stranger to thinking what the neighbors had was better, watched the whole proceedings, but so far as I could tell, not coveting the chicken food.

To complicate matters, Rosebud and Bluebell the buffalo girls wanted what Josie Whitehorn had, and Josie wanted the chicken food. But that is another tale.

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