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When Aaron received a text that said, “I think it’s dead—and it’s in your backyard,” he didn’t expect it to lead to one of the most unexpectedly moving encounters of his life.
What began as a grim discovery turned into a quiet reflection on empathy, loss, and the humanity that can show up in the most unlikely places. In this 7-minute true story, Aaron meets a man whose job is to remove what’s been left behind—but whose heart reveals something much deeper.
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The Team:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
I received an unexpected text with a picture and a message that read, “I think it’s dead—and it’s in your backyard.”
Oh boy. Not exactly the kind of message you want to get. But as unexpected as that text was, how this story unfolded—and how it ended—I didn’t see coming. Come with me on this short seven-minute journey, right after the music.
The text came from the gentleman who does our landscaping. The picture was what appeared to be a baby deer. It’s hard to even talk about. And if you’ve been listening to this podcast for a while, you know this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. For whatever reason, stories involving deer seem to find me.
This baby deer didn’t make it. It somehow ended up in my backyard. So I texted my buddy back and asked, “What do you think I should do?” Because honestly, I wasn’t feeling particularly brave about going out there myself. I didn’t know what to expect—or what I might be dealing with in terms of disease or safety.
He said I should probably call animal control. But that always confuses me—who do you actually call? Is it animal control, the city, the police, the fire department? So I called the non-emergency line.
A woman answered, and I explained the situation. I told her I didn’t feel comfortable going back there, even though it was technically on my property. She said, “No worries, I’ll send someone over.”
Now, I have to admit—over the past few years, my empathy for deer has gone down a little. But hold on. It’s only because the deer population around here is out of control. There are so many that it’s almost comical. Sometimes it feels like they’re the ones running the city. I swear I’ve seen a few wearing gold chains and Adidas tracksuits, yelling, “Hey, I’m walkin’ here!”
Still, I have a soft spot for deer. Maybe it’s because my third cousin, Joe Grse, was in The Deer Hunter—which, by the way, was filmed partly in Cleveland. I’ve always loved that movie. There’s this scene where De Niro stands face-to-face with a deer, and there’s this quiet respect between them. That moment stuck with me.
So when I saw that picture of the baby deer, my heart sank. It looked so beautiful and fragile.
About ten minutes later, the kids were inside, my wife Cori was inside, and I was pacing around the house in full dad mode—hands on hips, pretending I had a plan. Then a big red pickup truck pulled up. Out stepped this tough-looking guy in Carhartt overalls, tattoos, big beard, the works.
I said, “Hey, sorry, I wasn’t sure who to call. If you’re the wrong guy, I’ll figure it out.”
He said, “Nope. I’m the guy.”
“The deer guy?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. They call me for anything like that—dead animals, carcasses, whatever it is. I’m used to it. It’s a living. Where is it?”
We started walking toward the backyard, chatting along the way about the landscaping. I told him I wasn’t sure how the deer died. He said, “Sometimes the mothers leave them. You never really know.”
When he saw it, he knelt down, checked to make sure it was dead, and said quietly, “You wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve seen.”
He told me stories—dogs fighting deer, coyotes, animals getting hit by cars. He’d seen it all. Then he said something that surprised me: “It does get to me sometimes. I just wish there was more balance. If people took better care of their pets, maybe we’d have fewer problems with the deer too. They’re beings, you know?”
And that’s when I realized something. Beneath all the toughness, this was a sensitive guy doing a very hard job.
I told him I appreciated what he did. “Do you need gloves or a mask or anything?”
He said, “Nah, I’m good. I got all my shots.”
Then he picked up the deer—with one hand. I almost had to look away.
Before he carried it out, he asked, “Do you have little kids in the house?”
I said, “Yeah.”
He said, “Do me a favor—close the curtains. I don’t want them to see this. There’s already enough uncertainty and chaos in the world. They don’t need this image stuck in their heads.”
So I went inside, told the kids to head upstairs, and closed the curtains.
When I came back out through the garage, I saw him placing the deer gently in the bed of his truck—on a blanket he had set up beforehand. It stopped me in my tracks.
I reached for my wallet, ready to give him some cash. “Hey, I really appreciate what you did.”
He shook his head. “Can’t take it. That’s what they pay me for. But thank you.”
Then, before getting into his truck, he turned and said, “I try to make it nice for them.”
I said, “What do you mean?”
He said, “For all the animals I pick up. They don’t get a proper ceremony or burial. I just feel like I should make it as nice as possible for them. I’d want someone to do the same for me.”
He nodded, got into the truck, and drove away.
I stood there for a long time, thinking about what I’d just witnessed—feeling a strange mix of sadness and hope.
Because that day, I think I met a saint.
Okay, maybe not a saint. But definitely The Deer Keeper.
I’ll talk to you next week.
