In the late fall a deer came into our yard with a badly broken back leg. The bone was piercing through the skin right above its hoof. There was a lot of blood. The deer had to cross a nearby road to access our yard and I supposed it might have been clipped by a car. It dragged the damaged leg behind it and found a soft spot on the grass, away from the other deer, to lay down.

I intended to shoot it, but my wife insisted I not. “It’s not right,” she said. “Not here. Not in front of the kids.”

After a few hours the deer eventually hobbled into the woods where I assumed it would die at the hands of nature.

The winter came soon after. Snow and bitter wind. The animals did not come around as often, but the herd of deer still passed through on occasion to nibble on the grass and the holly when they could. The lame deer did not join them.

In late January I went out on the last day of duck hunting season. It was an unseasonably warm day, with little snow on the ground, and I decided to walk the few miles to the braided spring channels where the ducks came when the river froze over. But it was too warm. The river was flowing and the ducks came nowhere near me. I sat in the blind for three hours and did not take a single shot. Hunting season was over.

On the way home, I took the long way through an island of cottonwoods and aspens. I walked along a dried channel full of debris from a previous year’s flood. Not far from home I spotted a deer sitting among the aspens. I was no more than ten yards from the deer, but it did not move. It appeared dead. The deer was emaciated, its mangy fur pulled tight over the sharp outline of its ribs and spine. When I took my next step, I kicked a rock and the deer slowly turned her head to see me. It was the same deer. I could now see the broken leg. She was too weak to run from me, or any other predator, and against my wife’s wishes, I decided to kill it.

I loaded three rounds into my 12-gauge and raised the gun to my shoulder. The aspens were thick around me and I could not get a clear shot. I could have walked around to face the deer from the other direction, but the truth is, I lacked the courage to go through with it. The deer sensed my hesitation and lowered her head. I emptied the gun and finished my walk home.

It is now mid-April. The snow is mostly melted and the aspens are starting to bud. The first green pin-sized raspberries are sprouting and beginning to poke through the nets around the garden. Today, I saw her near the dogwoods. She is limping badly, but she has put on some weight. The bone is still visible. It juts up and down at the bottom of her leg like a piston rod. The foot is swollen and useless. She is still alone, rejected by the other deer for her deformity. But she is alive.