Wild Pets

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The year was 1949. I was four years old. We had just moved onto an old farm outside of Broadbent, Oregon.

That is probably a bit of an overstatement, Broadbent was only a bit more than a wide spot in the road. The farm was 160 acres, run down and in need of a lot of work. 

But to my father, I am sure it seemed like an impossible achievement. His childhood had been difficult. His parent separated when he was less than two. He moved with his mother and brothers, first from Bellingham, Washington, to Bandon, Oregon, and then later to Van Nuys, California. His mother left him in an orphanage for three or four years when he was eleven.

When he was sixteen, he hitchhiked back to Oregon and worked in the woods, logging. He returned to high school at twenty-one, and after he married, he attended Oregon State briefly. He made the football team, but those were rough years, and the young couple ran out of money and returned home in Myrtle Point when a pregnancy happened.

This ranch was a dream come true after fifteen years of working for wages and supporting a growing family.

Along with the farm came a tame wild deer. A little buck, tamed by the neighbors, and just sprouting spikes. It was more of a pest than a pet. It followed my older siblings to school, a mile and-a-half walk. He caused a real stir there.

When spring came, and the spikes grew longer, he became a little aggressive. With the bigger kids, that wasn’t too much of a problem. But I was sort of eyeball to eyeball with the guy, and that sort of bothered him.

One sunny weekend, we hosted a family gathering. Aunts, uncles, and cousins came to help with the cleanup chores. After lunch, all the kids headed for the creek. Of course, the deer followed, or led, the group.

We explored the favorite spot on the creek. A six-foot waterfall with a large pool under it. There was a wide rock ledge along one side, making it a great fishing spot. The group spent some time here, and then the larger kids headed down the creek. That left me with the little buck.

It didn’t take long for the little buck to assert his dominance over this little squirt. I think the other kids were still in view. He butted at me first, and when I pushed his head away, he reared up and struck me with his front feet, putting a couple of deep lacerations on my chest and knocking me backwards into the water.

I don’t remember hollering, but I would guess I did. In any case, the older cousins came running and scurried the little buck into the woods. My sister pulled me out of the water, and we went to the house to tend to my wounds.

After that event, the buck fell out of favor. He still tried to hang around the house, but we ran him off as best we could. When fall came, with hunting season and then the rut, he was just gone.

Mom said she didn’t know what happened to him. Knowing now how such critters were thought of in those years, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he ended up in our freezer. Especially, since Dad was ready to do him when I was attacked.

That memory definitely stayed with me through the years and helped cement my professional opinion when making recommendations concerning wild pets.

In Oregon, it is a continual problem to have people ‘rescue’ abandoned fawns. Most of the time, the mother left those fawns to hide in the grass when she stepped away. They seldom need to be rescued. Everyone is better off if they are left alone.

Other animals, raccoons, skunks, squirrels, or whatever, fall into the same recommendation. Leave them for nature to take care of. That is also what the law says.

Photo by Dolores Larsen, my cousin, Bill Davenport, and my oldest brother, Larry Larsen.