Table of Contents
Change is Inevitable. Growth is Optional.
In memory of my mother, Cynthiayou always knew
I could do it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my .rst book, though two earlier manuscripts are shivering in the wings like hopeful understudies. It wasnt until my publisher sent back the first edited draft, and I had whined, pouted, resisted the suggested changes, and then finally got over myself and got to work, that I discovered that a books author is nothing more than a bit player in the finished product! It was a vital lesson for my sensitive ego, and will hopefully make me a better writer.
Now I fully grasp why so many books begin with gratitude and nods to everyone who contributed so significantly to their birth. First there is the labored reading of a partial manuscript, delivered by a desperate neophyte to an acquisitions editor, who spies some kernel of promise, and fertilizes and encourages it so that you dont pitch the whole mess in the woodstove. Thank you, Phil Englehardt. There are the characters (real or created) that you must remain faithful to, or risk doing them a severe injustice. My deep appreciation to all of you, and, of course, a big thanks to the cows. Then there is the practiced, critical eye of a gifted editor, who can praise with one hand and slap you silly with the other. Thank you, Jeremy Townsendfor everything! There are the production and marketing folks, who turn words into visions that enhance the story and give it a fighting chance in the big, wide world. Thank you, Carol, Peg, Kieran, and Anna of PublishingWorks. There are others who have no clue that they even made a contribution, but without their support, love, and encouragement, I wouldnt dare to write at all. Heartfelt thanks to Jay, Liz, Kerry, Everett, and Paul.
Finally, there are the unsung Angels who are always there, whether we acknowledge them or not. Thank you, Christopher Dilts at AskAnAngel.org for introducing us.
CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, July 24th
If there is a lesson here, it is simply this: do not drive in the pouring rain. At least not down pleasant, scenic country roads, where you might naturally allow your mind to drift and wander. A fair number of these narrow byways are little more than glorified, paved cart paths and its important to stay focused on the task at hand, which is to remain within the imaginary (unpainted) sidelines of the tarmac. With the addition of pond-size puddles, a variety of complications can arise. You might not see that small mound of fur skittering across the road, or in the blink of a lazy eye you can be sucked into a steep, treacherous ditch.
If the latter is your misfortune, this is how it goes: After repeated failed attempts to remove your wedged vehicle from its tilted parking spot, a handsome and gallant Prince Charming will not gallop to your rescue. Instead, a grumpy fat guy with a stubby cigar clenched between his last five teeth will eventually arrive in a banged-up tow truck. The logo on his baseball cap is obscured by untold layers of sweat and grease. It must be his busy season, because its clear he hasnt bathed in several weeks, and his pants have migrated halfway down his stark white bum. If you have a shred of decency, you are forced to look away when he bends to secure the chains. Still, you will feel very small, inept, and stupid as he swears, scratches his crotch, and drags you out. Its usually expensive, and always mortifying.
On this particular morning thats not what happened. But thats how it all started, by driving in the rain on a Thursday morning in July, not really so unlike any other summer morning in New Hampshire, except that it was pouring buckets. Had been for days, weeks it seemed.
I had just picked up my friend and business partner, Liz, and we were silently bouncing crosscountry towards Dover, always preferring the quiet, less-traveled roads, sipping coffee and making the occasional murmured comment, requiring no response. Nodding once in a while. It should be noted that I am a morning person, one of those irritating people who gets out bed at 5:00 a.m. ready to launch into conversation. Liz is not, and in the twelve years that weve worked together, Ive learned to stifle my impulse to chatter away at her until say, noonprimarily because I love and respect her, and also, its like talking to a wall. So these mostly silence-observed commutes were a pattern that wed established during her two month existence without a functional vehicle. But thats another story altogether. Lets stick to this one
8:25 a.m. I collect Liz at her house and we start offwere due in the office by nine oclock. Having memorized this stretch of lumpy, lonely road, I foolishly allow a wistful daydream of sunnier times. Lizs sudden gasp causes me to slam on the brakes, and I never even see the lone fawn that bolts across the wet road. Almost. I just feel the sickening thud, and his tiny, spotted body skids across the slick black pavement into the aforementioned ditch. Liz and I are transfixed with horror as we kneel beside him. His slender neck is arched back, eyes rolled and fixed, body convulsing in what appears to be the throes of death. There are two pastures on either side of the road, but no sign of a doe.
We cannot leave him to die alone in the rain, to suffer any longer than he must. There is a guilty, grief-laden silence as we begin the transport of the comatose, dying fawn to Broadview Animal Hospital. We glance at one another, but there is nothing to say that will change our part in the vehicular homicide of this innocent creature.
Not far from the hospital, the fawn wakes, screams bloody murder, and morphs into a respectable imitation of Cujo in the back of my Jeep. Liz dives from the front seat, trying to subdue him and prevent further injury, to all of us.
9:05 a.m. Our arrival at the vets office is none too soon. Weve called ahead to explain our dilemma, and a technician meets us in the parking lot with a blanket. We wrap the panicked fawn securely and rush through the waiting room, carrying our wriggling bundle into the nearest exam room. Cujo slips out of the blanket and promptly tries to kill both of us, the veterinarian, and two technicians. His sharp, flailing hooves make lethally effective weapons. During one scrabbling, upside-down moment, the vet discovers that our fawn is a buck. She is kicked in the head as a reward. Were all battered, bruised, and panting for breath in the struggle to restrain him.
Veterinary evaluation: no broken bones, slight head trauma, possible internal injuries, otherwise fine. Fawn is okay, too.
9:20 a.m. I call five wildlife rehabilitation centers. No one can or will take our precious, screaming package. I had no idea that deer could make these high-pitched, blood-curdling sounds. Apparently none of the wide-eyed clients in the waiting room did either. We marched past them as they stared, the fawn wrapped tight in the blanket, his frantic squeals muffled slightly.
10:00 a.m. In the fervent hope that his mother is searching for him, we return the fawn to the pasture where we had our unfortunate interaction. The fawn refuses to leave the roadside and attempts to run back onto the tarmac in front of every passing vehicle. The poor darling is obviously suicidal. We move him further into the pasture, nearer the woods edge, to deter this behavior, inviting new lacerations and bruises. At this point hes beginning to tire, so its more insult than injury.
