I had seen them around.
One here.
Another there.
Sometimes early in the morning. Sometimes late in the afternoon. Occasionally at an hour when you’d think any self-respecting deer would have the good sense to stay hidden.
They meander through Northgate as if they own the place.
And, from their perspective, perhaps they do.
They graze on grass, shrubs, flowers, tender shoots and, I suspect, anything a homeowner has recently purchased, carefully planted, fertilized, watered, and become emotionally attached to.
No apparent route.
No posted schedule.
But definitely a strategy.
Eat. Watch. Listen. Avoid trouble. Repeat.
Over the years, I’ve even watched them become curious about the little white dogs I was walking.
The dogs would bark.
The deer would freeze.
Ears forward.
Eyes locked.
The dogs, apparently convinced they had just successfully defended Northgate from a 150-pound marauding beast, would continue their threats.
The bucks seemed less impressed.
They would simply stand there watching while I encouraged the canine security detail to move along.
There was never a chase.
And somehow, everybody seemed to understand there wouldn’t be.
I’ve seen a lot of White-tailed Deer in my life.
And a lot of bucks.
Usually, when I see a mature buck, he is alone.
Every once in a while, I’ll see two together.
But three?
That got my attention.
This morning I looked across the neighborhood and there they were.
Three bucks.
An eight-pointer, a six-pointer, and a four-pointer.
Together.
Antlers rising above their heads.
Standing in somebody’s yard.
In Northgate.
Because I had hoped I’d see them on this morning’s walk.
I was prepared.
I raised my camera.
Click.
And whenever nature shows me something I haven’t seen before, I immediately want to know:
Why?
As it turns out, the answer makes these photographs even more interesting.
For much of the year, adult male White-tailed Deer are considerably more tolerant of one another than most of us realize. During late spring and summer, bucks can form loose groups commonly called bachelor groups.
And August is just about the perfect time to see one.
Their antlers have been growing throughout the summer and are still covered in velvet—that soft-looking, living tissue carrying blood and nutrients to the rapidly developing bone underneath.
Look closely at these boys.
Those antlers are already impressive.
But the autumn arguments haven’t started yet.
Right now, testosterone levels are comparatively low. The rut is still ahead. The serious sparring, chasing, posturing and competition for does that will define their lives later in the fall has not yet taken over.
So for the moment, competitors can be companions.
They may feed together.
Travel together.
Rest near one another.
And apparently hold early-morning meetings in Northgate.
There may be practical reasons for it as well.
More deer means more eyes.
More ears.
More noses.
For an animal whose survival depends heavily upon detecting danger before danger detects him, there can be an advantage to having company.
And a suburban neighborhood can offer something else deer appreciate enormously:
Opportunity.
Lawns provide tender vegetation. Landscaping offers browse. Shrubs create cover. Wooded edges provide escape routes. And human neighborhoods can sometimes create pockets where deer encounter fewer natural predators and quickly learn the rhythms of people, dogs, cars and activity.
They adapt.
Remarkably well.
Which may explain why these three appeared so completely at home.
But there was something else about the encounter that fascinated me.
This gathering has an expiration date.
Summer bachelor groups don’t last forever.
As the days shorten and autumn approaches, hormonal changes begin rewriting the rules. Velvet is shed. Antlers harden. Bucks begin rubbing trees. Friendly sparring becomes more meaningful.
And the companions of August gradually become the competitors of autumn.
The bachelor club breaks up.
The rut is coming.
Which means I may have photographed something that exists only during a brief seasonal truce.
Three future rivals standing peacefully together on a patch of green grass.
For now.
And that is what I love about nature.
We tend to imagine that the really extraordinary things are somewhere else.
Yellowstone.
The Everglades.
Alaska.
Africa.
Some remote wilderness requiring an airplane ticket, a guide, several thousand dollars in camera equipment, and preferably somebody who knows where the bathrooms are.
And then nature taps you on the shoulder.
Look across the street.
There they are.
Three White-tailed bucks standing beneath the trees, surrounded by ornamental grasses, mailboxes, driveways and houses.
Wild animals living their wild lives right in the middle of ours.
There is something wonderfully incongruous about that mailbox in these photographs.
At first, I almost wished it weren’t there.
Then I realized it tells the whole story.
This isn’t some distant forest.
It isn’t a wildlife refuge.
It isn’t a photograph from a remote expedition.
It’s Northgate.
My neighborhood.
Our neighborhood.
And on this particular morning, three bucks had quietly transformed somebody’s front yard into a wildlife sanctuary.
For a few minutes, I watched them.
They watched me.
Nobody seemed particularly interested in leaving.
And I found myself wondering whether they were brothers.
Whether they had spent much of the summer together.
Whether one was already dominant.
Whether, when autumn arrives, these peaceful companions will recognize one another as rivals.
I don’t know.
Nature doesn’t always give us the answer.
Sometimes it gives us something better.
A reason to keep watching.
Because somewhere between the houses and hedges, the driveways and mailboxes, another world is carrying on.
A world governed by seasons.
Instinct.
Survival.
And ancient rhythms that were here long before Northgate ever had a name.
This morning, I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it.
Three bucks.
Together.
For one brief summer morning.
Right in my own neighborhood.
And now that I know they’re here…
I’ve gotta see what happens next.
Naturally.
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