The deer hunted

Shotgun deer hunting season opened Monday in Massachusetts with much louder of a bang than in previous years, largely due to the state’s decision to allow a controlled hunt in the Blue Hills Reservation. It marked the first time in more than a century that deer hunters will be prowling the 7,000 acre reservation that stretches from Quincy to Dedham, Milton to Randolph. 

The hunt is an attempt at reducing the overcrowded population of deer in the reservation, which according to state officials measure as many as 85 per square mile. It is seven times higher than the state recommends, and presents unmanageable risks to animals, to the ecosystem of their habitat and to humans alike.

Animal-rights activists have been picketing at the reservation’s gates and protesting the decision by several state agencies and local communities to control the overpopulating deer. They claim it is cruel, unjust and there are far more humane ways to control the herd. Two protesters have been arrested in the days since the hunt began. 

Proponents claim that reducing the herd is necessary for the overall health of the deer population that risk malnutrition/starvation heading into the winter, and also to manage increasing threats that the overpopulation poses to public safety. 

A total of 41 deer were killed in the first two days of the four-day hunt, which resumes next week. 

I do not hunt, and I oppose the act of hunting as pure sport; however, I have a confession to make. I have killed before. 

My cull wasn’t part of a controlled hunt. In fact, it was about as uncontrolled and unplanned as possible. I didn’t use a gun. My weapon was much heavier artillery -- it was my car. 

It happened while was driving to work on an October morning three years ago. It was the route I had taken just about every weekday morning without incident. I was about to turn into the driveway of the Lottery’s Braintree headquarters, so I was going below the posted speed limit. I had my eyes on the road when out of seemingly out of nowhere a flesh colored object slammed into the driver’s side of my car, toward the bumper. The object then bounced onto the windshield, flew over the roof and then hit the pavement with a loud thump.

While I was wearing a seat belt, I had been tossed around from impact. My face hit the steering wheel and my shoulder was hanging in a very unnatural position. I was completely stunned by what had just happened. There was nothing in the road just seconds before, so what did I hit? Or more fittingly, what had just hit me? I pulled over, afraid to look back.

As my heart raced and pain began to set in, crazy thoughts ran through my head: Was it a person? If so, where on earth did he/she come from? There was no sidewalk and only powerlines to my left, so I ruled that out and came to the only logical solution: It was a small giraffe that fell from a plane (I had hit my head pretty hard). 

Then my reality check (well, sort of) came in the form of a knock on my window. “Lady, everything is going to be ok. I’m from the Braintree House of Pizza,” declared the man on the other side of the glass. I wasn’t sure why he identified himself as such. I wish he delivered me a pizza instead of serving up some of the most disturbing news I’ve ever received: “I think you killed a baby horse.”

As he helped me out of the car, we both sheepishly walked over to the animal that was badly injured, but still breathing. It wasn’t a giraffe, or a baby horse. It was a white-tailed deer fawn. 

The man inspected my car. “You’re not going to like what your car looks like,” he said. I was fixated on the deer. While we both appeared to be in tremendous pain, I was more concerned about it than I was about myself or the car. Hysterically crying, I called my boss to tell him what had happened. “I need help. I’ve been in an accident at the end of the driveway. I think I killed Bambi.”  As I did that, my new friend called 911. 

We worked together to move the small deer out of the street and onto the shoulder. A voice called out to us from across the street: “Don’t move it. You’ll stress out the meat.” The man walked toward us as he yelled: “Do you want that? If not, my friend Joe would love it. I just called him, he’s on his way.”

Want it? Yes, of course I wanted it. I wanted to put it in my backseat and bring it to the animal hospital down the road. But, my face was swelling to massive proportions and my shoulder was still dangling. I certainly wasn’t in any shape to drive and even if I could, my car wasn’t drivable. 

In a matter of seconds, it seemed a large crowd had amassed at the scene. Now on the side of the road with me, my new friend from the Braintree House of Pizza and the guy who was securing the poor animal for his friend Joe, was a police officer, the town’s animal control officer, my boss and several of my coworkers. I was asked, now by the officers, if I wanted to keep the deer. It had turned into a bit of a side show as I pleaded with everyone to let me try and save the deer’s life. 

Then Joe arrived to the scene and it turned into an all-out circus.

Joe walked toward us wearing a pair of wrap-around sunglasses much like the Arnold Schwarzenegger character’s in the Terminator movies. He was also wearing a sweatshirt with a deer head on it and was carrying a rifle. If it hadn’t been witnessed by several of my coworkers, I certainly would have been accused of making it up. 

Both the police and animal control officer immediately ordered Joe to put his gun away. I was sobbing. They all said I could have it. It was my deer and no one was going to shoot it. 

The animal control officer tried to console me while explaining it was the height of mating season and the area was overrun with deer. They were coming out of wooded areas searching for food, posing a danger to themselves and to humans that encountered them. I was only one of many who hit or had nearly hit one in the past several weeks. The officer kept saying I was extremely lucky. If the fawn had been bigger, it would have gone through my windshield and possibly killed me. He also explained that I should not have touched the animal because I could have exposed myself to deer ticks, carriers of Lyme disease. 

As we continued to talk, I could see the deer was clearly suffering. The police officer asked my boss to escort me from the scene so they could put it out of its misery. We headed to the emergency room. I left behind my deer for Joe and my car for the towing company. 

I was in fact lucky. While the damage was substantial, it was nothing that couldn’t be repaired: A dislocated shoulder, torn and strained muscles, and a bloodied and bruised face. Several months of physical therapy and an $11,000 bill from the auto body shop fixed the physical damage, but the psychological impact took a bit longer to heal. I was in fear every time I got behind the wheel for nearly a year. And I still get skittish when an animal on the run, or even a grocery bag drifting in the wind, unexpectedly crosses the path of my vehicle.

My personal experience has certainly shaped my opinion of the efforts to cull the herd in Blue Hills Reservation. While it may not be a popular resolution with everyone, I fully support the state’s decision on the controlled kill. It was made to best protect the safety and well-being of all of the commonwealth’s residents – which include the deer too.