Before anyone judges, let me explain—I work in wildlife rescue, mostly remote monitoring and tracking animals in tough habitats. It’s not glamorous—mostly muddy and lonely, recording data day after day. But yesterday was different.
I was following a doe and her fawn near a river when a sudden storm caused dangerous flooding. The two got caught in the current. I radioed for help but ran to the bank right away. Then I saw a crocodile approaching fast. The doe tried to protect her fawn, but the current was against her. I had one rope and one chance—I threw it to the fawn. I pulled her to safety, but the doe didn’t make it.
My team arrived moments later. Some said I did the right thing, but one, Theo, was quiet, reminding me we weren’t supposed to intervene. Then the lead biologist said, “You saved the next generation.” Her words hit me hard. I saved the fawn, but I couldn’t save the mother—and that guilt stayed with me.
The next day, alone at the river, I found a patch of the doe’s fur. As I picked it up, the fawn appeared, hesitant but unafraid. She nuzzled my hand gently. I stayed with her for hours before calling Theo to help take her to a sanctuary—too young to survive alone.
At the sanctuary, she was named Willow. I visited often, watching her grow stronger. She recognized me and seemed to trust me, but I couldn’t shake the sorrow for her mother or wonder if I’d made the right call.
One evening, I saw Willow with a young buck, grazing together. Nearby was an injured crocodile, no longer a threat, living in the enclosure while it healed. The odd group gave me hope—life can find harmony, even after hardship.
Months later, Willow and the buck were released back into the wild, and the croc eventually returned to its home. Standing by the river, I finally felt relief. I acted out of faith—in life, in compassion, in hope.
Maybe I made the hard choice, but sometimes being human means that. Through Willow, the mother’s legacy lives on.
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