I look into the eyes of "my" doe, curled up in the grass near my garage, staring off into the distance, and I wonder what if any window her eyes open to the animal world. After all, cats stare all the time. Dogs, more scrutable, stare at you with obvious wants: "Food? Anytime soon?" "A walk? I've got tree trunks to sniff." "Would it kill you to throw a stick?"
My doe, however, takes her eyes off some distant alarm and reverts to the prey's 1,000-yard stare - anything, anywhere, could be dangerous.
One of her stomachs pulse, making cud. Her foot twitches. She lies there, waiting to chew. Now, I can tell, she's staring at nothing. (Although her ears never quit.) Apples lie nearby, but for the moment she's not interested.
As rutting season approaches, I hope things work out, and I see her and a fawn or two next spring. Then, if she survives the winter culling season, I'd like to think she'll be staring at something much closer to home.