The Nursing Fawn

Duneland Beach Road is an old Potawatomi Indian path drenched with asphalt. Crumbly patches mar its surface, caused in part by harsh winter storms and the sandy dune, which is its foundation. The road begins as an exit off Hwy. 20 near Notre Dame School then jigs and jags around 200+ homes, dense thickets and forests of towering oak. It winds past the Duneland Beach Inn and the community park, but never glimpses the Lake Michigan shoreline. In winter, one must pull off into someone’s driveway in order to allow another vehicle to pass cleanly.  If this stretch of road were a piece of furniture you’d call it a chair-and-a-half not a loveseat.

On this muggy July afternoon, the right tires of my youngest daughter’s Ford Escort settle onto the shoulder of Duneland Beach Road.  We are parked a few feet shy of the 4-way stop that protects pedestrians laden with beach gear from the traffic that barrels down from the ridge on Arrowhead.  My daughter’s car is motionless, not to allow another vehicle to pass, nor to genuflect at the stop sign, but to indulge me in the picture I crave.

“Stop, here. I want to get a shot of the fawn with its mother.”

“Oh Mom.  It’s so cute.  Looks at those spots. It’s a baby.”  She coos, much like I imagine her doing when she becomes an aunt for the first time later this summer.

My daughter, a recent college graduate, will board a Southwest flight to Washington DC before the weekend hits a crescendo.  Her past life as a college coed is being supplanted by her new role as an asset manager for a hotel REIT. The last of my four offspring to make her mark on an ever-changing global economy, she and I have soaked up these last few hours together. When I drop her at Midway she officially becomes a young professional managing her own apartment, and ceases to be my last dependent, domiciled on the shores of Lake Michigan.

We watch the spotted fawn scamper to the spot where its mother has planted herself, dead center in our neighbor’s front yard.  The pair is equidistant between our Ford and the black enamel front door of the red brick two-story. The mother stands so still she looks like a yard sculpture, yet her gaze at us is unwavering.  Thick lashed brown eyes scan our vehicle. When the automatic window makes its descent, her donkey like ears telescope around.

The doe isn’t as mature as other females that frequent the forested blocks south of our lake house.  Either she is barely out of puberty or she struggled in the winter months with her pregnancy. The deer population has reached epic amounts in many of the Northwest Indiana beach communities. Their numbers and inadequate food sources have pushed them into every domestic garden, yard, and driveway.  There is talk of culling the herds due to the threat of deer tics and other diseases. That strategy while healthier for the human population would mean that this doe and fawn might not be relocated, but instead drugged, cornered, and hunted with arrows.

Now that the outdoors has entered our vehicle, my daughter’s voice is a whisper. “Look.  The baby is nursing on the mom.” Whether it’s nostalgia over my daughter leaving or this chance display of motherhood, moisture dampens the frames of my sunglasses.  

I drag my iphone from my purse and zoom in. The fawn’s head bobs, tugging for milk at the mother’s underbelly. Undeterred, the doe is locked in a stare down with our windshield.  She allows her famished offspring to take her fill while I click away. The thoughts in my head run the gamut: the doe’s with her baby and I’m with mine; she is taking care of her child as I do mine; that offspring is struggling to survive, while mine is starting a new way of life.

“This is so cool that we got to see this today, right before I leave.  That baby is my new favorite beach house memory.”

“Mine too,” I say. “I’ll send you the picture, so you can post it to your timeline.” In my head, I label it “Moment With Mother and Child,” but the caption I send along with the photo is “Nursing Fawn.”