I’m fortunate enough to live in the middle of 42 acres and still be inside the city limits of our little town. And I’m fortunate enough to see things up close and personal that a lot of other “city folks” may never experience—like a ‘possom or a raccoon two inches away from my face, on the other side of our wall of windows, eating the dry cat food out of the bowl on the porch. Or baby foxes (also known as kits for the wildlife illiterate) playing beside the driveway. Or a flock of deer (yes, I know they don’t come in flocks but they’re far too graceful to be termed a herd—that just sounds so clumsy and heavy) grazing in the front yard underneath the kitchen window. We’ve even had a few armadillos in the mix not to mention the occasional stray cat or two or ten that wanders in and decides to stay.

A few Saturdays ago I was standing at the kitchen sink, looking at the deer feeding on the clover in the front yard, when I noticed a set of ears on the other side of the fence. Before I continue, I should probably explain the arrangement of said fence. The front door of our house (that no one ever sees since it faces a 10 acre field and not the driveway) opens onto a massive front porch which one exits by means of a set of steps. Said steps take you to a sidewalk that crosses the rather sizable front yard, leading to a set of brick pillars (which are flanked by low brick walls) and a gate. Chain link fencing runs to either side, encircling the house, allowing the previous owners to have horses without having a front yard full of unwelcome surprises. For us it simply marks where we quit mowing. So basically, with no horses or cattle or other livestock, we have a sidewalk that leads to nowhere—except a gate and a field. And today, on the other side of the brick wall, I see a set of ears.

Eventually, the ears move away from the wall and out into the open, beside the chain link portion of the fence. At that moment I understand why everyone else gets to feed on the clover inside the fence and this poor little thing is left outside to watch. One front leg dangles uselessly from its body, obviously broken and incapable of bearing any weigh—meaning this young deer cannot jump the fence—and the gate is closed so it cannot hobble through.

I wanted so much to go open the gate but I knew just opening the front door would cause a disappearing act faster than even Houdini could have imagined. So I stood and I watched as the deer paced, as best it could, back and forth outside the fence, wanting so desperately to join the others. As it paced I could almost see it thinking, gauging the height of the fence, testing the strength of its remaining three legs and then, much to my absolute horror, it jumped.

I know I let out an audible gasp and my hand flew to my mouth as I watched this very determined creature almost, but not quite, clear the fence. The broken leg caught the top rail and as I watched, the deer flipped over the fence, landing in the front yard on its back, legs flailing as it tried to stand again. In less than a minute it was over, the deer was up, and peacefully grazing with the others. Eventually they wandered across the yard, seven of them moving quite gracefully, the eighth with a slight hop brought about by an incompleteness that it probably did not understand but accepted and moved beyond. And when they had eaten their fill and disappeared into the woods behind the house, I opened the front door, walked down the sidewalk to nowhere, and opened the gate. If they should ever again wish to feast in the front yard, that little one would find an easier path by which to join its family.

A friend of mine constantly tells me that I cannot fix the world. I understand that, but it doesn’t keep me from trying. A magic wand would come in handy, or perhaps a million wishes from a genie in a lamp—or maybe just some good, old-fashioned hard work and a watchful eye that sees the needs of others. He’s right, you know. I can’t fix the world.

But I can open the gate.

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