Bambi

The coyotes’ shadows blended with the night as they traveled in single file on a well-worn path.

With silence, stealth, and gnawing hunger.

At the edge of the forest, hidden among the shrubbery, they paused. Surveying the landscape before them, they sniffed the air for the scent of newborn calves.

Their attention settled on a cow and calf sleeping near the edge of the herd, which rested quietly in the open pasture. With the nimble skill of seasoned hunters, the coyotes spread out—crouching low, surrounding their target.

At the leader’s signal, they shot forward and attacked.

The calf cried out, and the silence was shattered. Mother cows leaped to their feet, calling their calves to their sides. At the edge of the forest, one brave mother charged the predators. Fearless and feral, she lowered her head and rushed at the coyote that had sunk its teeth into her calf’s back leg.

The calf bawled—a desperate cry for help.

Three more cows hurtled into the fray, each targeting a member of the hunting pack. The battle was intense but short. The coyotes were turned back.

As the chaos settled, calves pressed close to their mothers, who stood guard. Alert. Watchful. Ready.

When the coyotes didn’t return, the herd grew still.

All seemed well.

Until it wasn’t.

When we found the calf the following morning, his sides were drawn in. When he lifted his head, his ears drooped, and his nose was cracked with dryness. His body bore scratches from the skirmish. We brought him to the barn to rest and rehydrate, hoping to return him to his mom once he recovered.

But he struggled to eat.

When we fed him from a bottle, much of the milk dribbled off his chin and onto the floor. At first, we assumed he needed time to adjust to bottle feeding—but as the struggle continued, we knew something else was wrong.

When we looked inside his mouth, we were startled by what we found. A piece of his tongue was gone, the edge marked by the unmistakable shape of a coyote’s bite. The remaining portion had swollen to nearly three times its normal size.

We transferred the milk from the bottle into a stomach tube, which allowed us to deliver it directly to his stomach.

We named him Bambi.

With a full stomach of warm milk, Bambi lay down and slept.

As his strength returned, we tried the bottle again. At first, feeding Bambi was slow. He mouthed the nipple awkwardly, milk slipping from his chin as he worked to drink without a full tongue. Little by little, he learned to mimic the sucking motion by moving his jaw instead.

After two days, he drank from the bottle, finishing it in minutes.

Through it all, Bambi never made a sound. The damage to his tongue seemed to have affected his voice as well.

But then, one morning, he let out a bright, cheerful call when we brought his bottle.

He had found his voice.

After finishing his milk, he ran around the yard—bucking with pure delight. That summer, Bambi stayed close to the yard, growing stronger by the day. In time, he became a herd sire, fathering calves of his own on the ranch.

Maybe that’s what hope looks like.

One small life.

Changed, but still moving forward.

With what remains.

One day at a time.