The Noble Deer Trapped in a Tire for Two Years—An Unthinkable Rescue

I was driving along a sunny mountain road one morning when a deer darted onto the pavement right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, and the car stopped three meters away. The deer stood in the middle of the road, panting, its fur soaked with sweat, and I immediately knew something was wrong. I slowly got out of the car, trying not to make any sudden movements, and as I got closer, I just froze. A car tire was tied around the deer’s neck like a collar.

It was unbelievable—huge, branched antlers, beautiful white spots on its flanks, a noble animal, and that damned car tire, obviously stuck there for ages. I went back to the car, grabbed a bottle of water, quickly cut it in half with a knife from the glove compartment, poured water into the lower half, and carefully placed it on the pavement in front of the deer.

It took a step forward, tried to lower its head to the water, and then suddenly raised its muzzle with a short, painful groan. I saw blood seeping out from under the edge of the tire—fresh, bright red. It was then that I noticed a rusty metal wire protruding from there, cutting into the animal’s neck every time it tried to lower its head. That was why the deer jumped onto the road—it couldn’t bear it anymore, couldn’t drink or eat normally, and the sharp wire caused it intense pain with every movement.

I began to slowly walk around the deer; it watched me warily but didn’t run away—it must have completely lost all its strength. The tire was deeply embedded in the fur around its neck, forming a deep groove, and for some reason, it was unusually heavy—as if someone had hung a concrete collar on it.

I tried to grab the edge of the tire with my hands and pull it up, hoping to slip it over its antlers, but the deer violently jerked its head back, and I fell onto the asphalt. It was completely clear—the antlers were too branched and wide for me to handle. I pulled out my phone, quickly found the number for the wildlife rescue organization, and called. The dispatcher on the other end heard me out and told me to stay with the deer; a veterinarian was on the way.

For the next twenty minutes, I just stood nearby, watching the animal, and was horrified to notice it didn’t even bother trying to lower its head to the grass on the roadside—it was in too much pain. Finally, a wildlife agency pickup truck pulled up, and a veterinarian stepped out with a large bag slung over his shoulder. He walked around the deer, examining it thoroughly, and then spoke softly: “Oh my god, it’s been walking around like this for a long time.”

“Look, its neck is completely scraped, the fur is almost all gone,” he noted. The vet pulled out a syringe of tranquilizer, carefully approached, and injected the animal in the thigh. Five to seven minutes later, the deer still stood still, but calmly, its eyes half-closed, as if dozing off. The vet tried to turn the tire around the deer’s neck with his hands, but it didn’t move an inch.

“It’s firmly stuck,” he said, shaking his head. I asked him what was inside the tire, as it looked unusually heavy. The vet carefully peered inside and explained, “Mud, tons of mud. It’s been walking around with that tire for two years, maybe more, and during that time, everything has been compressed inside—dirt, pine needles, branches, moss. It’s compacted like concrete. That’s why it was almost impossible for it to move; it was carrying too much weight.” The vet took a hacksaw from the truck 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 wire inside the rubber,” he explained. “The hacksaw won’t cut it; I need something more serious.”

I suggested we try to at least remove the mud from inside first; perhaps 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 between its antlers, trying to reassure it, while the vet began scraping the dense mud out of the tire by hand. Chunks of rock-hard dirt, clusters of pine needles and compacted moss, pieces of bark and small stones flew out.

We removed everything we could reach by hand, but most of the mud was so tightly compressed it couldn’t be dug out without tools. And even after several attempts, the tire still wouldn’t slip over the antlers—they were too wide and branched. The vet wiped his hands and said, “We have to cut it; I need hydraulic cutters. I’ll call the fire department right away.” The vet and I stood next to the deer, which was sleeping soundly under the effect of the tranquilizer.

I continued stroking its neck, feeling the depth of the scrape with my fingers. The next twenty minutes felt like an eternity. The deer stood motionless, panting softly, and I feared the tranquilizer would wear off before the rescue team arrived. Finally, a red fire truck pulled up, and two men stepped out, carrying a pair of massive hydraulic cutters—the kind typically used to cut metal after car accidents.

The first firefighter placed the blades of the cutters onto the edge of the tire and tried to squeeze the handles, but the tool slipped off the smooth rubber. “It’s too slick,” he said, “I have nothing to grip.” Then I remembered the spot where we had dug out the mud; the edge of the tire there was jagged and uneven. The firefighter nodded. “Alright, let’s try it!” The vet and the second firefighter stood on either side of the deer, supporting its head.

I stepped back a little in case the animal spooked, and the first firefighter positioned the cutters precisely into the muddy groove. He began pressing the handles, and a metallic creak, followed by a clear, dry snap—the steel wire inside the tire had broken. But the tire was still intact, not completely severed.

The firefighter switched the cutters to the other side and again pressed the handles with all his strength. A second snap echoed, and the tire broke in half! The vet and the firefighter grabbed both halves, carefully pulled them apart, and slid them off the deer’s neck. The tire halves fell onto the asphalt with a heavy, dull thud that echoed through the neighborhood. One firefighter tried to lift half the tire with one hand and struggled to hoist it off the ground, whistling in surprise, “It’s so heavy!” I remembered I had a spring scale in my trunk that I always carried for fishing, so I ran to get it, and we weighed both halves right there.

In total, they weighed nineteen kilograms. Nearly twenty kilograms! It was like wearing a bucket of rocks around its neck for two years, every day, every minute. The vet carefully ran his hand over the deer’s neck, checking the injury. The fur was worn almost to the skin, deep wrinkles were visible on its neck, and the skin was red and swollen, but fortunately, not bleeding.

He quickly cleaned the neck with antiseptic straight from the bottle, then applied a thick layer of ointment to all the scrapes. “The wound isn’t new, but it’s also not infected,” he said, “it’s incredibly lucky.” The vet then gave a prophylactic antibiotic injection, as the deer had carried an open wound on its neck for two years. He injected the antidote to bring the deer out of its sedated state.

Half a minute later, the deer began blinking more frequently and slowly raised its head. I held my breath, watching what it would do next. The deer carefully lowered its muzzle toward the puddle of water on the road and began to drink. It drank slowly, voraciously, as if it could never get enough, and I realized these were its first normal sips of water in what felt like an endless amount of time.

Then the deer raised its head, tilted its neck to the left, then to the right, as if checking that it could move freely. Then it walked over to a roadside sign and began rubbing its neck against it. The vet smiled and quietly said, “The first time in two years it can properly scratch itself.” We all stood watching with smiles on our faces—after everything that had happened, the sight was unexpectedly moving.

The deer stopped, turned to us, looking at each person for a few seconds, as if trying to memorize our faces. Then it snorted, turned, and walked into the forest—not in a panic, but calmly and confidently, its head held high.

A firefighter carried both tire halves to the fire truck and asked, “How could it walk around with that for two years?” The vet shook his head and explained, “Some irresponsible person dumped this tire in the forest. The deer most likely put it on when it was young, when its antlers shed—at that time, its head was narrow enough for the tire to slip through. And when the antlers grew back, it couldn’t take it off. For two years, the tire filled with mud, growing heavier and heavier. And when the steel wire snapped a few weeks ago, it couldn’t properly lower its head—every sip of water, every attempt to graze caused it immense pain. The deer jumped onto the road in a final attempt to seek help. Two or three more days, and its heart wouldn’t have been able to withstand it.”

I stood watching the deer until it disappeared behind the trees. This encounter lasted less than three hours, but I knew for certain that I would remember it for the rest of my life.