A Pattern of Instincts

Cats don't rile my dog. He's sociable with other dogs — the last to cease play — but he's no more than politely curious about canines not of his acquaintance. Animals of unknown species are investigated if it is convenient, ignored if not. But something about deer makes him test the leash, and my grip on it. It is as if deer — the scent of them, the flitting motion of their prance — cut through all domestication to the heart of instinct and churn there a deep desire to give chase. And then?

Tonight the deer were everywhere: near the main road, by the water, halfway up the hill, slipping through gaps in fences like neighborhood kids who've crawled out windows and fear being dragged back through doors. When the swoosh of my jacket and the jingle of dog tags sounded too closely for comfort, they paused to sniff the air, leaped, and floated away, tapping down their hooves lightly, as if only for the mark that it would make in the snow. And their tracks were everywhere, too, patterned across the yards and walks of suburban homes, often spaced with speed. Perhaps they hurried in their decorative task because recent experience has taught them how fleeting their cold, damp medium can be.

We had the night to ourselves — me, the deer, and the dog. And I pondered for most of the walk whether to go the long way 'round so as not to disturb them, or to let him loose.