Living the wildlife

Officially I’m a Cortez resident, but when I drive 46 miles to Durango, I become a tourist. My favorite attraction? A self-directed sidewalk tour along historic E. 3rd Avenue, admiring the million-dollar mansions. Once while gawking at the architecture, I nearly bumped into a trio of statuesque deer with impressive velvety racks. Two were grazing on the lawn and in the flowerbeds adjacent to a busy College Drive intersection; the third stood nibbling fresh suckers and leaves off a tree beside the sidewalk. At first I didn’t notice them; I was paying attention to traffic as I crossed at the signal. Thankfully, a stranger waved to me to redirect my attention. We both stood motionless and stared at the trio. The deer did the same, staring back at us before resuming their residential salad.

Even as I stood gaping, the experience reminded me of an old Monty Python spoof about aristocrats who sit in the conservatory while the Lord of the Manor says various silly words out loud, sparking an absurd debate about the words, whether they sounded “woody” or “tinny.” This skit appeared on British television more than five decades ago. I doubt if a dozen Telegraph readers remember it, but basically, woody words supposedly have a pleasing, confident sound, like “gorn” or “sausage” while tinny words have a cheap sound, like “newspaper” or “litter bin.” When the Lady of the Manor shouts the word “caribou” everyone’s startled. She apologizes and explains that she just spotted an actual caribou on the lawn, pointing at it and announcing “it’s nibbling the croquet hoops.”

It wasn’t the mansions that prompted my flashback. It surfaced from the shock of seeing three deer so calmly nibbling on landscaped trees, bushes and flowers. I wondered, what’s out of place in the universe that manifests precocious deer at a bustling intersection like this, or were they waiting for me?

Wildlife in the city limits alter the way people think about undomesticated animals. They become “urban wildlife” like geese, coyotes and even bears that defy the sanctity of property lines. All too often they can thrive in an environment within densely populated human settlements. Residents are often pleased to encounter a “wild” animal in their yards. They may try to get close enough for a good picture, even by offering, say, a handful of nibbles – not realizing they are doing what ought not to be done. 

An Instagram video from Rocky Mountain National Park reveals the folly of this behavior. Parents were filmed allowing their child to feed a roadside elk. Instead of saying cheese and smiling, the elk bit the child’s fingers. So much for a few nibbles. 

Recently a headline from the L.A. Times also caught my attention: “Turns out the ‘most dangerous animal in Yosemite National Park’ doesn’t even have claws.” Mule deer cause more injuries at Yosemite than any other animal. 

A personal experience taught me the same lesson decades ago when a friend who managed the Denver Zoo took me on a tour. African lions, Siberian tigers and grizzly bears – oh my – paced within their enclosures. Monkeys, giraffes, elephants and leopards, napped, ate or even contemplated the behavior of sightseers moving past their viewing areas. 

After the tour I thanked my host, and he smiled before asking me, “So which animal in the zoo do you think is the most dangerous?”   

“Not including the visitors?” 

“Nope, just the resident animals.”

“I’d say the pacing panther or possibly the leaping leopard.” 

“Wrong. Follow me and I’ll re-introduce you.”

He led me back the way we’d come, to the deer enclosure.

I said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, just watch that buck with the enormous rack.”

Moving forward, my friend raised his arms above his head, as if he’d grown human antlers, wiggling his fingers to mimic shaking his makeshift rack. The buck instantly snorted, dropped his massive head and began pawing the dirt, as if preparing for battle. It was a believe-it-or-not moment, that such an instinctual reaction could surface with so little provocation or understanding.

The deer I nearly stumbled into on 3rd Avenue seemed more docile, but I don’t think they’d answer to a name like Bambi. After putting a wide circle between us, I turned to see if they’d noticed me as slipped past, or worse, were following me. No, they just continued pruning the vegetation. My thoughtful stranger still standing beside the traffic light signaled me with a thumbs up. I started to wave goodbye but stopped short of raising my arm, stuffed my hand into a pocket and moved on.