The Fawn I Couldn’t Walk Away From.
Today, Facebook reminded me of a moment I’ll never forget—the day I saved a baby fawn we called Ossian.
He was small, fragile, and barely clinging to life. My dog had cornered him in the driveway, and without intervention, Ossian wouldn’t have stood a chance. He wasn’t in the woods where “nature could take its course.” He was right in front of me, infested with ticks, abandoned by his mother, starved and dehydrated. I couldn’t walk away.
I carried him into safety, not knowing what to do, but determined to try. His fur was crawling with parasites. The ticks had layered themselves so thickly it was hard to see his skin, and one of his ears was so damaged I knew it would never heal properly. I thought, maybe this will mark him forever—maybe this is how I’ll always know him.
I was fortunate to have a friend, Alan, whose family owned a deer farm. He’d bottle-fed fawns before, and his advice became my lifeline. “Use DE dusting for the ticks,” he said. And it worked. Slowly, the bloated parasites fell away, and Ossian’s skin began to breathe again.
Each day, his fear lessened. Each week, he grew stronger. From trembling legs to cautious steps, from bottle milk to nibbling solid food, I watched his transformation with awe. The skittishness that once filled his eyes began to fade, replaced with trust.
But not everyone saw what I saw.
When I posted Ossian’s story online, criticism came from all directions. Some said I should have taken him to a shelter. Yet when I asked around, most admitted shelters would have put him down immediately. Others insisted I should have “let nature take its course,” claiming my effort was meaningless because he’d die anyway. Pro-hunting voices mocked me, saying it was a waste. Anti-hunting activists accused me of doing harm, even threatening to report me. Bureaucrats warned me of red tape and rules. Free-thinkers said I was already on some government watchlist for daring to help.
But through it all, I held to one simple truth: this fawn was on my farm, in my driveway, about to be killed by my dog. If I hadn’t stepped in, his fate was certain. How could anyone call that “nature”?
And while the critics argued, Ossian lived.
He grew strong enough to leap the enclosure fence one morning, disappearing into the wild where he belonged. I never saw him again, but if I do, I’ll know him instantly by his torn ear—a scar of his early battles, a reminder of the fight he survived.
People ask me if I’d do it again. The answer is yes. Without hesitation, yes. Because saving one life, even when the world tells you it’s pointless, matters.
Ossian taught me something I’ll carry forever: compassion doesn’t always follow rules, and sometimes, the right choice is simply the human one.
He came into my life as a helpless, broken creature. He left as a survivor. And I’ll never forget the little fawn who reminded me that even small lives are worth fighting for.
