The call came around seven.

The wife first told me about her back in May. A pronghorn doe who had moved into the cloverleaf interchange on the interstate. Not the first doe to think that fenced area wasn't a bad place to have her fawns. And with all the rain, plenty of puddles to drink out of.

All she has to do is stay off the highway.

She didn't. Caller reports a dead antelope doe by the exit ramp and an orphaned fawn.

Craaaap.

There have been no emails this spring advising us of any requests from researchers, universities or zoos wanting newborn, orphaned pronghorn fawns.

That means there is no one to bottle feed and care for any orphans that arise.

That means the kindest, humanest, official treatment for truly orphaned fawns is to...

Quickly kill them.

Craaap.

As the wife heads off to work, I soon follow. Rifle on the seat beside me.

The really sad irony? They're going to close this interchange for construction in less than a week. If the doe'd just stayed smart for a few more days, she would have had the entire place all to herself, with no traffic.

The email came at 13:36.

A research project needs two, and only two, pronghorn fawns.

.

.

.

Good thing I didn't find the orphan this morning, huh?

So, before anyone else fills that meager quota, I speed back out to the interstate. And there, standing less than 10 meters from the dead doe with her udder swollen with unused milk, is a fawn.

But we're mid-way through June. Pronghorn fawns can outrun a human by the time they're three days old. This one will be at least two weeks old. I need an advantage.

One of my wardens has an oversized fish net (big enough for a small kid, he said) with an extending handle.

A half hour later I'm back, parking by the dead doe.

The fawn is bedded right beside her dead mother.

And takes off before I can get within 15 meters.

Craaap.

I play tag with the fawn for almost an hour, following it around with this huge butterfly net in my hands, hoping it'll get tired and lay down, or that I can sneak close enough in the tall greasewood to fling my net. But no luck. Eventually I lose sight of her, but not until at least 15 vehicles have slowed to watch the show, and one offers to help.

An offer I barely politely declined.

Next one who stops and asks gets told I'm on a snipe hunt...

Phone rings. It's the boss. I have an immediate errand to run, having to do with a bear poaching case two hundred miles away. Really.

An hour later I'm back.

As is the fawn. There are few sights sadder than a newborn clinging to the body of its dead mother...

I failed again.