In a town full of deer, it’s no wonder that Maud barely turns her head when passing one of the majestic creatures as they graze on home gardens lacking fences and gobble shrubs like they’re feasting on corn on the cob. And, to be fair, the deer in St. Andrews have acquired a quiet confidence among the local canine population, barely faking a soft jog to get out of their path when they see one of their furry counterparts being walked on a leash by their master. “Hardly intimidating, but I’ll play along,” you can almost hear them say.
I am particularly fascinated by our local piebald deer population, and on my walks with Maud, I’ve mentally mapped out their favourite haunts based on their markings and have even started to get to know their personalities. There’s Gickles, named after Matt Gick who passed away this summer. Matt was a bold redhead, and Gickles is all white except for a patch of auburn fur on his head. There’s also a very good chance Gickles is a girl, but time will tell. Gickles is both social and a loner and, despite being quite young, is unflustered by humans—even those accompanied by dogs who stop to stare and take photos.
Maud is patient with me. I think she understands that piebald deer are my squirrels. She has little interest in animals that outsize her but is deeply obsessed with squirrels and chipmunks. When we’re on a quiet street and she spots a squirrel, I’ll often let go of her leash and let her chase one up a tree. She’s never caught one—and I’m not sure she actually wants to—but she loves the chase. She waits for me while I photograph deer, and I wait for her to return from the tree after she’s watched the squirrel in question disappear into the upper branches. This is just our way of life on our walks together, finding joy not in distance but in observation—two creatures taking turns to indulge our curiosities.
Our first walk of the day is the shortest—up Edward Street to my parents’ house for coffee. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch an early morning glimpse of Gickles. It’s rare, but I keep my eyes peeled. I’ve hoped to see him framed in the autumn leaves of my favourite tree just behind the Greenock Church. One day, maybe. A girl can dream. Maud has better luck, often chasing a squirrel up that very tree before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee. For her, the chase is caffeine.
When we get to my parents’ house, I put coffee on and, while it brews, scatter peanuts on the back porch. Maud stands behind the French doors, waiting for the daily return of our beloved backyard chipmunk, Chippy. The clatter of peanut shells hitting the wood is Chippy’s alarm clock. Within minutes, she emerges from her network of underground tunnels and makes a beeline for the porch, dodging squirrels and blue jays that try to intimidate her. With cheeks that can stretch to three times the size of her head, she’s able to carry multiple peanuts back to her burrow without missing a beat.
Maud is enthralled. Her body goes rigid, her eyes wide, reverent. She has no desire to chase Chippy. Chippy is not a squirrel. Somehow, even Maud knows she’s a kindred spirit.
My mother and I have grown just as attached. Over coffee, we’ve learned that Eastern chipmunks—the kind we have here in New Brunswick—spend their fall days in a flurry of preparation, sometimes making a hundred trips a day to store seeds and nuts underground. In the winter, they don’t hibernate fully; they fall into a state called torpor, waking now and then to nibble on the food they’ve tucked away. It’s an oddly comforting image—Chippy in her burrow, waking up midwinter for a midnight snack, alive and well under the snowdrifts.
Chipmunks typically live two to three years, though some stretch it to eight in good conditions. We’ve known Chippy for three and counting. Her continued existence feels improbable, a small rebellion against the odds.
And so, we celebrate her—Maud, my mother and I—these tiny rituals that tether us to something beyond the screen, beyond the scroll, beyond ourselves. There is joy in looking up from our phones long enough to spot a piebald deer in dappled light. There is amusement in letting my dog run wild after a squirrel she’ll never catch. There is wonder in watching a chipmunk fill her cheeks for a future she may or may not live to see.
Maybe that’s what love really is—not the grand gestures, but the quiet noticing. The small, deliberate act of bearing witness to life, even the tiniest form of it. Every morning, when Chippy appears and Maud stands frozen in awe, I feel it—the fragile, persistent heartbeat of this town, of this porch, of this shared world we all inhabit. One peanut at a time.
