Facebook reminded me today of a memory that will stay with me for life: the day I saved a baby fawn we later called Ossian.

That summer, I found the tiny deer cornered by my dog, seconds away from being mauled. The fawn was in terrible shape—covered in ticks, starved, and dehydrated, clearly abandoned by its mother. I had no plan, only instinct: to save it.

At first, the task felt overwhelming. But I was fortunate to have a friend, Alan, whose family owned a deer farm. He had experience bottle-feeding fawns and guided me through the process. His advice was a lifeline.

We began with DE dusting to fight the tick infestation. I’d dealt with pests before, but I had never seen anything like this—ticks layered on top of one another, some so swollen with blood they looked grotesque. One by one, they began to fall away. Slowly, Ossian’s fragile body started to recover.

The fawn’s fear of humans was strong at first. Skittish, trembling, its wide eyes darted with mistrust. But day by day, week by week, as I nursed it with bottles and later introduced solid food, that fear softened. Ossian began to trust, even to bond.

Not everyone approved. Some said I should have taken the fawn to a shelter—though many shelters would have simply put it down. Anti-hunting activists claimed I was doing harm. Pro-hunting voices dismissed my efforts as wasted, insisting the fawn should have been “left to nature.” Bureaucrats threatened that I might be reported to the DNR, while others joked I was surely already on some list.

But my loyal friends understood. They teased me with the nickname Radagast the Brown, and stood by me. For me, it was never about sides. It was about compassion. The fawn wasn’t lost deep in the forest. It was in my driveway, trapped and vulnerable. To walk away would have been to let my dog tear it apart.

In time, Ossian grew stronger. The day came when the wildness within him could no longer be contained. With a sudden leap, he cleared the enclosure fence and vanished into the woods, free at last. I never saw him again. But I know I would recognize him anywhere—because the ticks had left permanent damage to one ear, partially amputated, a mark that would always remind me of his fight to live.

Would I do it all again, even knowing the criticism, the sleepless nights, the doubts? Absolutely. Because in that moment, with that helpless life before me, I chose compassion. And that, I believe, is never the wrong choice.