I was driving along a mountain road on a sunny morning when a deer darted out onto the pavement right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, and the car stopped ten feet away. The deer stood in the middle of the road, panting, its fur wet with sweat, and I immediately knew something was wrong. I slowly got out of the car, trying not to make any sudden movements, and when I got closer, I simply froze. A car tire was strapped to the deer’s neck like a collar.
It was incredible —huge, branching antlers, beautiful white spots on its sides, a noble animal, and that damn tire, which had clearly been stuck there for ages. I returned to the car, got a bottle of water, quickly cut it in half with a knife from the glove compartment, poured water into the bottom half, and carefully placed it on the pavement in front of the deer.
It took a step forward, tried to lower its head toward the water, and then suddenly lifted its muzzle with a short, painful groan. I saw blood oozing from under the edge of the tire—fresh, scarlet. It was then that I noticed a rusty metal cord protruding from it, digging into the animal’s neck every time it tried to lower its head. That’s why the deer had jumped out onto the road—it simply couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t drink or eat properly, and the sharp cord was causing it intense pain with every movement.
I began to slowly circle the deer; it watched me warily but didn’t run away—it must have completely lost its strength. The tire had dug deep into the fur on its neck, creating a deep furrow, and for some reason it felt unnaturally heavy—as if someone had put a concrete collar on it.
I tried to grab the edge of the tire with my hands and pull upward, hoping to pull it over its antlers, but the deer jerked its head sharply, and I fell onto the asphalt. It became completely clear—the antlers were too branched and wide for me to handle them by hand. I pulled out my phone, quickly found the number for wildlife rescue, and called. The dispatcher on the other end of the line listened to me and told me to stay with the deer; a veterinarian was on his way.
For the next twenty minutes, I simply stood nearby, watching the animal, and noticed with horror that it didn’t even try to lower its head to the grass by the side of the road—it was too painful for it. Finally, a wildlife service pickup truck pulled up, and a veterinarian got out with a large bag slung over his shoulder. He walked around the deer, examining it carefully, and said in a low voice, “My God, he’s been walking around like this for an incredibly long time.
Look, his neck is completely raw, the fur is almost completely rubbed off.” The veterinarian pulled out a tranquilizer syringe, carefully approached, and administered an injection into the animal’s thigh. Five to seven minutes later, the deer was still standing, but calmly, with its eyes half-closed, as if dozing. The vet tried to twist the tire around the deer’s neck with his hands, but it wouldn’t budge an inch.
“It’s stuck fast,” he said, shaking his head. I asked him what was inside the tire, because it looked unnaturally heavy. The vet carefully peered inside and explained, “Mud, tons of mud. He’s been walking around with that tire for two years, maybe more, and in that time, everything has packed in there—dirt, pine needles, twigs, moss. It’s compacted like concrete.
That’s why he can barely move; he’s carrying such a huge weight.” The vet got a hacksaw from his pickup and tried to cut through the edge of the tire, but after a minute, he stopped, wiping sweat from his brow. “There’s a steel cord inside the rubber,” he explained. “A hacksaw won’t cut it; I need something more serious.
” I suggested we try to at least remove the mud from the inside first; maybe that would make the tire lighter and easier to remove. The vet nodded in agreement, and we got to work. I stood next to the deer, gently holding its head and stroking it between its antlers, trying to calm it, while the vet began to scrape the compacted mud out of the tire with his hands. Whole chunks of rock-hard earth, clumps of compacted pine needles and moss, bits of bark, and small stones flew out.
We removed everything we could reach with our hands, but most of the mud was so compacted that it was impossible to dig it out without tools. And even after numerous attempts, the tire still wouldn’t fit through the antlers—they were too wide and branched. The vet wiped his hands and said, “We need to cut it; I need hydraulic shears. I’ll call the fire department now.
” The veterinarian and I stood next to the deer, which was quietly dozing under the influence of the sedative, and I continued to stroke its neck, feeling with my fingers how deeply the splint had dug into it. The next twenty minutes felt like an eternity.
The deer stood motionless, breathing heavily, and I was afraid the sedation would wear off before help arrived. Finally, a red firetruck pulled up, and two men got out, carrying a pair of huge hydraulic shears—the kind typically used to cut metal after car accidents. The first fireman placed the blades of the shears on the edge of the tire and tried to squeeze the handles, but the tool slid off the smooth rubber.
” It’s too smooth,” he said, “I have nothing to grab onto.” Then I remembered where we’d dug out the dirt; the edge there was jagged and uneven. The fireman nodded. “Right, we’ll try that!” The veterinarian and the second firefighter stood on either side of the deer, supporting its head. I stepped back slightly in case the animal twitched, and the first firefighter positioned the shears precisely in the hollow where the mud had been.
He began to press down on the handles, and there was a sharp creak of metal, followed by a dry, distinct snap—the steel cord inside the tire had snapped. But the tire still held together, not completely disintegrating. The firefighter switched the shears to the opposite side and pressed down on the handles again with all his might.
There was a second snap, and the tire split in half! The veterinarian and firefighter grabbed both halves, carefully pulled them apart, and removed them from the deer’s neck. The tire fell to the asphalt with a heavy, dull thud that echoed throughout the neighborhood. One of the firefighters tried to lift the tire half with one hand, and with difficulty lifted it off the ground, whistling in surprise, “It’s so heavy!” I remembered I had a spring balance in the trunk that I always carry with me for fishing, ran to get it, and we weighed both halves right there on the spot. Together, they weighed nineteen kilograms. Almost twenty kilograms! It’s like
wearing a bucket full of rocks around your neck for two years straight, every day, every minute. The veterinarian carefully ran his hand over the deer’s neck, inspecting the damage. The fur was worn almost down to the skin, deep furrows were visible on the neck, the skin was red and inflamed, but, fortunately, not bleeding.
He quickly washed the neck with antiseptic straight from the bottle, then applied a thick layer of healing ointment to all the abrasions. “The wounds aren’t fresh, but they’re not infected either,” he said, “he’s lucky.” After that, the veterinarian gave him another injection—a preventative antibiotic, as the deer had been carrying open wounds on his neck for two years.
He then administered an antidote to bring the deer out of its sedative state. After half a minute, the deer began blinking more frequently and slowly raising its head. I held my breath, watching to see what he would do next. The deer carefully lowered its muzzle toward a puddle by the side of the road and began to drink.
He drank slowly, greedily, as if he couldn’t get enough, and I realized these were his first normal sips in an incredibly long time. Then the deer raised its head and turned its neck first left, then right, as if checking that it could truly move freely. Then it walked over to a road sign and began rubbing its neck against it.
The vet smiled and quietly said, “He can scratch himself properly for the first time in two years.” We all stood and watched with smiles on our faces—after everything that had happened, it was a surprisingly touching sight. The deer stopped, turned to us, and looked at each of us in turn for a few seconds, as if trying to memorize our faces.
Then he snorted briefly through his nostrils, turned, and walked into the woods—not in a panic, but calmly and confidently, his head held high. One of the firefighters carried both halves of the tire to the fire truck and asked, “How did he even manage to walk around with that for two years?” The vet shook his head and explained, “Some irresponsible person threw this tire out in the woods.
The deer most likely put it on when he was young, when he shed his antlers—at that point, his head was narrow enough for the tire to fit through. And when the antlers grew back, he couldn’t get it off. For two years, the tire filled with mud, getting heavier and heavier every day. And when the cord broke through a few weeks ago, he couldn’t bend his head down properly—every sip of water, Every attempt to nibble grass caused him unbearable pain.
The deer jumped out onto the road in a last-ditch attempt to find help. Another two or three days, and his heart simply wouldn’t have been able to take it anymore.” I stood and watched the deer until it disappeared between the trees. This encounter lasted less than three hours, but I knew for sure that I would remember it for the rest of my life.
