Ultimately, Buttercup won. Not through mental agility, of which she cannot be accused, but through sheer persistence, stubbornness, and singleness of purpose. She wanted to eat the food the chickens ate. She had wanted the chicken food ever since the chickens moved in next door to her. She wanted it with an unwavering, resolute desire. I didn’t realize any of this until later. Resolute, unwavering focus is not something one usually associates with a deer. But I was wrong. 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 friendship between her and Josie the Buffalo Goat, who lived with the chickens.
The fencing around the chicken coop kept Buttercup away from their food, but it didn’t prevent her from following me inside as I brought them their food and treats. Not that she lacked anything: she received 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 rather well-rounded form and lustrous coat made it difficult to believe the close-to-starvation extremity she portrayed.
Winter arrived and Fine Buck, with whom she lived, grew his first set of antlers. Until then, he had been all sweetness. 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’d 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” there twice before, pushing her way quickly past me into the chicken run, even before he began harassing her. At those times, she promptly headed around the corner to the length of run leading to their food. Not thinking much about it, I allowed her to stay in the outer perimeter until I saw her raiding the chicken food. Concerned she wasn’t getting the right nutrition, I moved the chicken feeder inside the coop to block her access to it. The only access from inside the run was an opening about twelve inches from the ground, thirteen inches wide by seventeen inches high. We’d made it just big enough for Rudolph—a magnificent coppery wild turkey—to be able to navigate inside.
The day after I let Buttercup into the chicken run, I entered the coop from the back door with food and treats for the chickens. But I had been tracked. Buttercup was standing just outside Rudolph’s opening, wide-legged, long graceful neck bent down, peering into the coop. The following day when I entered the coop, there she was with her whole head and neck inside, big brown round doe eyes looking around. The third day as I entered, she was in position, peering in, head lowered. Suddenly, she crouched low to the ground, bunched herself up, and leapt through the small opening twelve inches off the ground, somehow landing on her feet—two hundred 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 inside the chicken coop!
She looked around, taking in the long withheld promised land, exploring, sniffing, then finally putting her head deep in the feeder. I left to ask Jean to come witness this event. Although I had seen her leap inside with my own eyes, I looked at the opening again and couldn’t believe she could squeeze out again. I thought of getting a lead and walking her out through the back door to return her to her pen. But when I returned, she was back outside the coop, this time with another piece of fur missing from her side. Jean went for a piece of wood and screwed it in place across the hole, lowering the top of the opening by four inches.
The next morning there was no Buttercup in the run. Jean’s screwed-on piece of wood was missing, and Buttercup was inside the coop. The morning after that, 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—the size and shape of a deer. The opening was now enlarged to her exact 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 kind of food I had brought that day, checked out the contents of her bowl, daintily ate all the chicken food and walked away. Later that day I caught Rudolph the turkey and his adoring Esmerelda pecking eagerly at Buttercup’s leftover deer food. Two days later the entire flock was inside Buttercup’s pen attacking the leftovers, 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 that the food their neighbors had was better, watched the whole proceedings, but as far as I could tell it was not the chicken food they coveted.
To complicate matters, Rosebud and Bluebell, the buffalo girls, wanted Josie’s goat food and Josie wanted the chicken food. But that is another tale.
*From Whispers from the Wild, Stories from the Rescued Wild Animals of Earthfire Institute. Also available is Stories from the Sanctuary, an Earthfire Institute Journal. Both can be purchased here.
