I THOUGHT THEY WERE JUST CURIOUS DEER—UNTIL I SAW WHAT THE LITTLE ONE WAS CARRYING

 

I Thought They Were Just Curious Deer—Until I Saw What the Little One Was Carrying

It was just past sunset, the sky fading into a soft lavender as I sat on the back porch sipping my tea. Our property borders a thick forest, so it’s not unusual to see wildlife wandering close—especially deer. They're usually skittish, darting away at the slightest sound. But that evening, something was different.

A rustle in the tall grass near the treeline caught my eye. Slowly, a small herd emerged—four deer, their ears twitching and eyes alert. They moved with caution but without fear, inching closer to the edge of the yard. I watched quietly, assuming they were just foraging, maybe curious about the bird feeder or the scent of fruit from the compost bin.

Then I noticed the smallest one lagging behind. A fawn, likely just a few months old. But it wasn't the size that struck me—it was what it was carrying in its mouth.

At first, I couldn't make it out. Something bright, oddly shaped. My heart rate quickened. Deer don’t carry things. What was that?

I leaned forward, squinting into the dusk—and that's when it hit me.

The little one was carrying a plastic grocery bag. And not just dragging it—it was gripped carefully in its mouth, like a dog would carry a toy. I blinked, unsure if I was seeing things.

As it stepped into clearer view, the bag shifted, and I saw something tumble out—apple cores, a banana peel, and… a crumpled granola bar wrapper. My compost scraps. The fawn had raided my bin, and rather than eat there, it was bringing it back like treasure.

My jaw dropped. Was this normal? Had I somehow trained a deer to take out the trash—or worse, deliver it to friends?

The mother deer turned her head toward the fawn and let out a low huff. The fawn froze, then cautiously trotted toward the others, the bag still swinging in its mouth. The rest of the herd began to retreat into the woods, the little one trailing behind with its odd prize.

I sat in stunned silence. The scene felt surreal, like something from a nature documentary or a children’s storybook. But it also made something clear: animals are adapting. They’re learning from us, even when we don’t realize it.

The next morning, I moved the compost bin farther from the edge of the woods. Not because I didn’t want the deer around—but because I didn’t want them mistaking plastic bags for a meal.

Since then, I haven’t seen the little thief again, but every now and then, I check the treeline at dusk. Part of me still hopes I’ll spot that curious fawn—bag in mouth, head held high—returning for another evening visit.

And I’ll be ready. With a compost lid this time.