Among the gifts bestowed by my long relationship with a wild deer, chronicled in Penelope: A Love Story , (Crown) being published October 13, was an opening of the spirit, a freedom from human/animal boundaries. This seems to be recognized by other wild animals, who come to the property, instinctively trusting, allowing me near.

One early Saturday morning in June of 2025, a pair of very small raccoon cubs, about six weeks old, were strolling around the yard, exploring their world. Staying close to each other, sure-footed, they appeared healthy, if too young to be on their own, but after observing them for a couple of hours it became evident that they had been orphaned.

The next morning, one of them was waiting at the door. He did not retreat as I went outside and when I bent, he allowed me to stroke his fur. Then he deliberately led me about a hundred feet across the property to the base of a tree where his brother lay inert.

There is an often-expressed belief that animals have no conception of mortality, that only humans have an understanding that life is finite. What happened over the next two-and-a-half days allowed me to witness sobering evidence to the contrary. The living cub tried valiantly to bring his brother back to life. With great tenderness and steadfast commitment, he did not leave the body, lifting his brother’s head with his paws, over and over again. As I watched, he performed what appeared to be a form of cardio-pulmonary resuscitation, with chest compressions, using his paws to open the brother’s mouth, licking the lips, and repeatedly conveying water into it from his own mouth.

Graham came as a gift from the treetops, one that might never have occurred, and I came to feel love for him.

For hours each day I stayed close, crouching to watch from inches away. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I felt humbled by this faith in the reversibility of death. Beyond providing a bowl of clean water and small piles of blueberries and Graham crackers, I did nothing. I was a privileged observer and would not impose myself or move the body until I was given permission. On the third day, when death was finally accepted, I buried the dead cub under the tree, where he had fallen.

The living brother had lost his family and made it clear that he was going to stay. My wife named him Baby Graham, after the cookies, which he passionately clamored for.

Perhaps because I had sat with him for more than two days, as he worked to revive his brother, Graham and I had bonded. From his ease with me and his closeness he indicated that we were friends and seemed aware that I was keeping an eye on him. I stood and watched as he climbed high into the dozens of tall trees, assessing the qualities of each, walking out along their branches, and back. Less than two months old, he was a gifted climber, agile, balanced, fast. The yard is not fenced or otherwise delineated, yet he mysteriously learned its perimeters and did not venture away from his home, walking confidently along the property line.