The Miniature Deer

I'm walking in the forest with my wife. We find a miniature deer lying on the ground. Its throat has been slit from side to side but it is still breathing. I pick it up and we carry it to a small, circular tower tucked away in the trees. This tower is two stories high and made of a white stucco-like material. A staircase winds up the side of the tower and a wall surrounds it. We pass through a wrought iron gate in the wall.

Between the wall and the tower we find a pleasant outdoor restaurant set in a little garden that encompasses the tower. Twinkle lights hang from the trees and small circular tables rest on the brick patio. The restaurant is filled with happy, well-dressed diners who take no notice of the deer carcass I carry but continue with their conversations as if we were invisible.

I drop the deer on a rectangular table. It is now full-size and very dead. The nearly decapitated head dangles loosely from the body.

I sense that in the tower there is a man who can help the deer. This man emerges from the second story and makes his way down the stairway to where we stand. He is a pleasant-looking man, stocky and balding, wearing a white lab coat and a friendly smile. He seems genuinely concerned about the deer, but explains that he is a dentist and cannot bring it back to life.