Monday morning brought yet another trip to a doctor in Erie. My mid-afternoon appointment enabled me to buzz around town early with a few errands, plus I planned to enjoy lunch with an old friend in Erie. But by the time I met Connie at the restaurant, I had a sad story to tell from my morning drive.

I love the back road from Sugar Grove, Pa., to Ashville, N.Y. The fields, the Amish farms, the cows and sheep – and oh, the horse-drawn buggies. I never tire of the pastoral vistas or the little blue-clad boys in their straw hats.

On Monday, I had just crested the first large hill to find a doe entering the roadway followed by her two fawns. I jammed on the brakes, swerving to the left as she ran her speckled babies across the road to the trees on my right. The third fawn was a tag-along. I never saw him until I hit him head-on with the front left of my Honda. Thankfully, I missed the first three, but there was no avoiding this little guy. The noise was awful. Omigod. Omigod. N-O-O-O-O-O.

I knew the small deer couldn’t possibly have survived that impact. I pulled off the road, more than a little shaken. Then, of course, I thought about the car. I checked my rearview mirror and saw a large black circular apparatus in the road. What is that? Could all that black be off my silver car? I got out, assessed the damage, and went to find the wee fawn..

The large black item up the road turned out to be the trim from my left front fender and wheel well. Just before reaching it, I saw one thin beige leg and tiny hoof sticking out from under it. The fawn was curled up inside. His eyes were silently open, unblinking. The blood on his neck, ear, and hip spoke of his instant death. His back right leg, obviously broken, was folded up in a way nature never intended. I just stood there, staring at him, quietly apologizing, my eyes swimming. I felt absolutely awful.

I imagine a white-haired lady collecting scattered pieces of her car isn’t a common sight along that road. A pickup truck stopped. “Are you alright?” the driver asked as he high-tailed it towards me. The passenger door was opened by an Amish man followed by his two young sons. The Amish gentleman asked if there was anything he could do for me.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “But can you heal my broken heart?” as I gestured toward the little spotted corpse.

“It’s just a deer,” he said. His boys, silent, watched us closely.

“But it’s a fawn. And his life is over.” I guess I must have looked as sad as I felt. He nodded.

“Yuh,” was all he said. I asked him if he would consider moving the fawn off the road for me. He grabbed the two back legs and whipped the baby deer onto the yellowed grass. Startled by his no-nonsense action, I realized this was an ordinary situation for him.

The driver helped me put the car parts in my back seat. Blood and all. Fortunately, the car was drivable. I thanked the men. The driver politely touched the bill of his cap and the Amish gentleman nodded toward me. He shepherded his boys back to the truck and we all drove away.

Later that afternoon, returning from my day in Erie, I pulled over at the scene of the accident. The deer was lying where he was tossed. I stood, watching the flies buzz around his broken leg and his head. The blood on his body was all gone. I could only imagine that other animals had cleaned him up. Perhaps mama had returned to find her missing baby. I Googled whether deer have triplets and it’s not uncommon, especially in older does.

At home, I told Dear Richard about my melancholy morning. As we talked, I remembered the last time I hit a deer. I was heading home from the market in a wintry dusk with my four and seven-year-old – 46 years ago. That doe and her fawn were standing in the middle of the road as I rounded the curve. I tried to brake, but traction proved non-existent, and I slid into both animals. The injured mother scampered haltingly away into the snowy field. I finally found her stilled fawn curled up beside the front tire.

At dinner, my youngest announced to his father, “Mom killed Bambi today.” Bambi? Ah yes, those pre-school picture books. Almost five decades later, I felt exactly the same. Like I killed Bambi. Again.

Yes, I know we have an overabundance of deer. Sadly, collisions are routine and their carcasses dot our roadsides. But that common sense understanding hasn’t made me feel better.

Oh Lord, if only you hadn’t made them so beautiful.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.