May
9, 2022
Greetings
from the top of the food chain,
If
you think about it, we have a very strange relationship with animals. If
we had to explain it to Martians it would sound hilarious.
Us: See, these animals we ride, those are for
pulling things but not riding, these animals are for eating. Some animals we keep in cages to look at, and
some we keep in cages to eat their young.
But these animals over here, we don’t eat.
Martians: Why not?
Us: These are pets, we don’t eat our
pets. We feed them and spend outrageous
amounts of money to care for them, and when they poop in public, we pick it up
and carry it. Often, we will push them
in pet perambulators, so they don’t have to walk. They are like royalty.
Martians: We are going to take over now.
In my house we
are executing ants. Technically they are not animals, so you may see it as off-
topic, but I want to mention this because I hope our reputation gets out and
other ants will think twice about walking around on our kitchen counter. Anyway, as my Mom would say when she wanted
to change the subject, animals.
I live at the
edge of a forest, which brings me in close contact with animals daily. Lots of birds, a few snakes, a bazillion
squirrels, some chipmunks. I have never
seen a koala here or a feral shoat, although the woods are lovely, dark and
deep, and they easily could hide both.
Sometimes the
animals try to come into our house.
Birds often crash into the windows, some kind of protest about the
quality of food we give them, I think. We
have had bats in our belfry, and mice will sometimes find shelter in warm nooks
and crannies here, where they are not welcome.
I have dealt with these invaders in the same way ants are dispatched,
and with only slightly less regard.
Woodpeckers occasionally put holes in the house, which up until now I have
forgiven, because they are pretty, and too hard to catch. You might sense an uneven scale of justice emerging.
Every day
there are deer in the yard. Deer are
welcome, except when they eat things we planted not to be eaten, a sort of Eden
irony. These delightful fragrant plants,
which are delicious but not to be tasted, we must spray with noxious potions in
the futile hope that it will spoil the appetite of the deer. But deer are so pretty and graceful, and they
don’t attempt to come in the house, so it’s hard to be angry at them.
Easier to be angry
at are groundhogs, also known as woodchucks (from that rhetorical math poem)
and my favorite appellation, ‘whistle pigs’.
We are being harassed
by a terrorist whistle pig, which is the first time in history those words were
put in that order in a sentence. This
wily marmot has been digging caves around the foundation of our house, which is
not only unsightly, but it also sets a bad precedent for other varmints. And it’s unsightly. Does anyone ever say something is ‘sightly’?
We decided to
humanely trap the whistle pig and have him/her/them taken gently to some other
woods where justice is tilted to allow whistle pigs, whatever their gender preference,
to live out their natural span. We hired
an expert, which I will say here is the second year we have hired him, who has
proven to be cheerfully willing, but woefully inept. He puts an ear of corn and some cabbage
leaves in the trap, which rumor has it is the whistle pig’s Happy Meal.
I check the
traps every time I walk past the window, which is too often. Immediately the traps were sprung and we found
we had caught some sticks. Another time a
trap was sprung, perhaps by the wily feral koala, and something ate the corn
right through the cage. So I guess we caught
cabbage leaves.
Then we caught
a raccoon. This might have been kind of
a victory, except for the look the raccoon gave me, which seem to say “Can you
believe this? Even a whistle pig doesn’t
fall for a trick so rudimentary.” You know
that look. I had to avert my gaze.
Then we caught
a possum. Also a false victory, although
possums are very unattractive, so I was glad he got relocated. I know it’s not
fair, but I feel like he was bringing down the average of the yard, looks wise. I think I can be that prejudiced if I begin
the sentence with ‘I know it’s not fair…’
It feels like
the whistle pig is toying with us, spreading false Happy Meal rumors, daring
other varmints to explore the cages, predicting Spring with no basis in meteorology. I’m tempted to give up, but I have promises
to keep.
The spectrum
of our relationships with animals is erratic and irrational and it’s better not
to try to explain it to Martians, as if they would bother to ask. They are likely much more curious about WWE,
disc golf, and meaningless memes about mean Twitter texts. Anyway.
I can’t worry about what Martians think when there is so many other fabricated
concerns to keep me awake. And miles to go before I sleep.
I just checked
the traps for the tenth time this morning, which if you are following along is
precisely the number of times I went by the window, and also the precise number
of times we have not captured a whistle pig.
I am sure if I’m consistently obsessive eventually we will catch
something besides everything else other than a whistle pig, but I have other fish
to fry. And miles to go before I sleep.
Hope
this finds you stopping by woods,
David
Copyright
© 2022 David Smith
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