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blizzard warnings - 13:52 , 03 October 2013

heelerless - 21:32 , 18 August 2013

Red Coat Inn in Fort McLeod - 11:38 , 23 June 2013

rushing into the waters - 09:53 , 21 June 2013

choosing a spot - 17:43 , 27 April 2013

28 June 2008 - 16:47

newborn on the range

It's not often she stutters, at a loss of words. Usually one of the calmest people you know, which is probably one of the reasons she has the job she has. But this afternoon the words wouldn't come out smoothly. Finally, after four or five unconnected words, the dispatcher just threw out a question:

"Did you know [your town] has a golf course?"

Well, yes. Of course I did. But her surprise is understandable. It's not actually in town. I mean, we're 400-some people in maybe five blocks by six blocks.

Where would we put a golf course?

Well, down by the river, of course. In the trees, out of the wind. And with all the wildlife, too. And this was one of those calls.

A gal from the course called, and reported a pronghorn fawn "laying in the cart path".

Ooookay. My first response is, so what? There's over a dozen antelope living full time on the golf course, along with mule deer, whitetail deer, rattlesnakes, and an occasional moose or elk. No reason to expect they don't fawn out on the course, too. But is it hurt?

She doesn't know. That's all she's got. A fawn laying on the cart path. That, and a callback number.

I call several times, and the line is always busy. Heck with it, the course is close, and the heelers need a break.

To the river we go.

The place is busy, for a weekday. I can see several pronghorn bedded on the greens as I pull up to the clubhouse.

I do not even get to announce myself, or my purpose, when a young woman leads me out to her cart, and a racing we go down the driving range.

Two other carts of course staff following.

And there she is:

Laying in the path. At the end of the driving range, bright yellow balls scattered about.

And in the bright sun.

That I find unusual. I used to think fawns laid exactly where mom left them until she returns, but hours spent lying in the hot sun, surrounded by yucca and ants while watching fawns, taught me that they do move. Waiting for their mother to return, I watched two fawns get up and shift to the shade, while I stupidly stayed immobile in the hot sun.

But here this little girl is, totally uncamouflaged in a gravel cart path in the hot sun. Maybe she's not okay.

We've surrounded her on three sides with golf carts, but there's no reaction. I circle her, my face just a foot above, never touching her, and check her out. No injuries. Her long, delicate eyelashes blink as I move, but otherwise she makes no movement at all. Her nose is still wet. I lean down and try to peek at her umbilical, to see how old she might be, but that is tucked out of sight.

But the important thing I see?

The tips of her ears. They are thin and stiff, like a freshly opened flower petal.

She's not dehydrated. Which means she's probably not injured, and more importantly, someone has been nursing her. Recently.

The little pronghorn fawn is fine. We just need to go away so mom can come back.

'Course, there is the little problem of golf cart traffic. But the gal in charge quickly agrees to close this path.

And the driving range, too.

"But what about tomorrow? We've got several hundred people coming for the tournament tomorrow?"

So I offer to come back in the evening, just to make sure the mother has come for her fawn.

And so it goes. As we silently race back to the clubhouse, two other fawns, at least a week old, pop up and race down a green.

And ten minutes before sunset, the heeler sisters and I return to sneak the truck down the golf cart path.

The fawn is gone.

Presumably soon to join the nursery group.

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