Ossian: The Fawn I Saved From Death in My Driveway
It was one of those mornings that started like any other, yet ended in a lesson I’ll never forget. My dog had been playing near the driveway when suddenly, a small, terrified creature bolted past him — a baby fawn, barely able to stand, its body trembling. My dog, curious and instinct-driven, was only moments away from making a meal out of it.
I grabbed the fawn just in time. It was a miracle it was still alive. As I held him in my arms, I noticed the horror of his condition: he was starved, dehydrated, and covered in ticks. His small ears were already damaged from the infestation, and his eyes carried the fear of abandonment. I quickly realized that if I didn’t act, this little life would be over within hours.
I named him Ossian, after the great epic poems of old — perhaps fitting for a creature who had already survived so much.
I knew little about caring for wild deer, but I was lucky. A friend, Alan, whose family owned a deer farm and had experience bottle-feeding fawns, gave me guidance that would prove invaluable. He explained how to feed, hydrate, and care for such a delicate creature. He warned me that handling him improperly could be fatal, but he also reassured me that with patience and care, Ossian could survive.
The first hurdle was the ticks. There were so many that they formed layers across his tiny body, feeding greedily and leaving him weak. Alan recommended DE dusting — food-grade diatomaceous earth — which had been used in his farm to control heavy infestations. Carefully, I worked through the matted fur, dusting the fawn, removing the bloated ticks first. It was grim work. Tens of thousands of potato bugs I had watched die before didn’t compare to the sheer scale of these tiny vampires. The ticks seemed endless, stacked on one another, feeding, waiting. But gradually, through hours of careful work, Ossian’s skin was cleared, and he began to breathe easier.
The fawn was skittish at first. Every sound — a bird, a car, my dog’s steps — made him freeze. I learned to move slowly, to speak softly, and to gain his trust one small gesture at a time. Over days and weeks, Ossian began to recover. He drank, nibbled on soft food, and even ventured short distances on unsteady legs. Every tiny success felt monumental.
Not everyone understood my decision. Some commenters online insisted I should have taken him to a shelter. But most shelters would have euthanized him. Others attacked me for interfering with nature — saying the fawn was doomed anyway or that my intervention went against the natural order. Even some anti-government advocates claimed I was now on the DNR watchlist. Amidst the criticism, a few loyal friends, knowing my heart, nicknamed me
Radagast the Brown — a whimsical reminder that kindness often comes with controversy.
During his time at my farm, Ossian’s presence attracted predators. I wondered if they were already tracking him, drawn by instinct and the smell of a vulnerable prey animal. His survival depended on constant vigilance. Every day was a balance of nurturing and protecting, feeding him, cleaning him, and making sure the dog and other animals stayed at a distance.
The feeding progressed well. Alan had taught me how to introduce solid foods carefully, and Ossian gradually transitioned from bottle feeding to leaves, grass, and fruits. His strength returned, and with it, his personality — timid, curious, and remarkably resilient.
When the day came for him to leave, I knew it would happen. Ossian had regained enough strength and confidence to survive in the wild. He approached the fence of his enclosure, testing it, and then — with a leap that made my heart leap too — he jumped over and disappeared into the forest. He never returned.
I would always remember him by his partially amputated ear, a lasting mark of the ticks that had nearly killed him. Even though he was gone, that ear told the story of survival, care, and second chances.
The experience taught me more than I could have imagined. I learned the scale of tick infestations — how the tiny parasites layered on one another, feeding, persistent, deadly. I discovered the patience required to nurse a wild animal back to health, and the humility needed to recognize how delicate life truly is.
I also learned about compassion and courage. In a world where people rush to judge, where online trolls attack decisions made with care, the act of saving a life — even one as small and vulnerable as Ossian’s — matters. It ripples beyond that moment. It teaches perseverance, respect for life, and the quiet satisfaction that comes from doing what is right, even when no one else understands.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. If faced with the same situation — a baby fawn trapped, injured, and at the mercy of predators — I would act the same way. The chance to save a life, to see it recover, to watch it disappear into freedom — that is worth every challenge, every criticism, every sleepless night.
Ossian will never come back, but the memory of his trembling legs, his tiny heart beating against mine, and the triumph of seeing him take his first steps of independence will stay with me forever.
Some lessons are taught by books; some are taught by life itself. And the lesson Ossian left me is simple yet profound: life is fragile, and when given the chance, even the smallest act of care can change its course entirely.