Late one summer night in 1956, on a logging road 'way back high in the Cabinets, a new-born fawn blocked my way. I stopped, got out of the pick-up, and lifted it onto the high cut bank where Mama Doe was snorting.
I was sorely tempted to keep it, especially after it quit struggling and settled-down in my arms as if it belonged there.
As I scrambled up the cut bank with it, I remembered what I'd so often read � that when they'd just been born, they had no odor. I thust my schnozz deep into that warm, soft flank and sniffed.
And smelled a very faint, very clean, very pleasant woodsy odor.
Reminded me of when my partner killed a hawk and told me to smell its body feathers � very faint, pleasant odor � not the same as the fawn, of course, but very much like it.
