Killing the King Slowly.

For several years, a favourite TV programme of mine was a live, daily OB show called Springwatch. One of its regular features was watching the deer rut on the Isle of Mull, and that was the one I found most compelling.

There was a King Stag – I forget the name they gave him – who had been king for several years. Witnessing his strength, power, courage and determination as he drove off pretender after pretender was thrilling stuff. I do believe he became the closest I’ve ever had to a hero figure.

And then, one terrible May, he lost. He was getting old, obviously, and though his courage was undimmed, his strength was deserting him. He simply didn’t have the weapons any more, and so he lost.

The camera followed him as he walked slowly away from the battleground with head hung low, his magnificent antlers now drooping downwards instead of being held proud and erect as they had been. He cut a dejected, defeated figure as he wandered onto the higher ground above the river, now destitute of all reason to live save the natural imperative to exist. He didn’t look back, and none of his hinds went with him. Life is a cruel mistress in the deer world; concepts of exclusivity and lifelong fidelity have no place in her scheme. The commentator told us that he would spend what little remained of his life wandering the hills alone, until a cold winter’s night would finally put him out of his misery. We never saw him again.

How my heart went out to that guy. This was nothing less than emasculation, and that’s the one thing no male can endure. And what bothered me so much wasn’t the fact that he’d lost. There is no shame in defeat; life moves on, the cycle is unstoppable and no doubt that’s how it should be. I simply thought how kinder it would have been had his opponent killed him there and then. His life was over anyway, so why let it drag on without point, purpose or identity?

Unfortunately, Mother Nature is the most indifferent of women and not given to random acts of kindness.