2005 - Vol. 2, Issue 7

There are some people who have been speculating about why we've been having so many catastrophic meteorological events lately, particularly the recent hurricanes battering the US Gulf Coast. Jon Stewart of The Daily Show has suggested that this administration's warlike ways have brought on God's wrath. Others, such as radical Christian–right "End–Timers" — which includes some of our elected officials, such as Senate Environment and Public Works Committee Chair James Inhofe (R–OK) — actually rejoice in environmental crises because they believe such events are portents of the Rapture.

I see things differently. I don't believe in some omnipotent, omniscient God–in–the–Sky; I believe in a creative force that is present in all beings, including animals — along the lines of Mother Nature, I guess. Further, I think it's too easy to point to these big catastrophes and say, "There's the trouble," as if there haven't been hundreds of smaller problems cropping up over the last several years. It's like being in a relationship that's been coming apart for a long time, but you keep ignoring the signs until your lover finally dumps you. You feel like it came out of nowhere. But as you think back, you realize that, for months, all of your friends were trying to tell you, in a very caring, gentle way, that your lover is a shit–head.

That's why I think it's important for all of us to pay attention to the little things that are happening around us, nature–wise. Personally, I've been on the receiving end (literally) of some pretty unpleasant messages. I'm starting to get a bit concerned. And I'm wondering if it might not be a tad unfair, considering that I'm in the Green Party.

I'm a nature enthusiast. I've always loved animals and the outdoors. I joined Greenpeace in the fifth grade. In high school, I became an ethical vegetarian and stopped buying leather. I've had pet mice, rabbits, cats, dogs, fish, and snakes.

Since moving to the country for my health, I know the joy of seeing White–Tailed Deer, Wild Turkeys, Turkey Vultures, various hawks, grouse and pheasants, and countless songbirds on a regular basis. I've experienced the rare thrills of watching fox pups at play by the road, an otter splash in a nearby stream, and the notoriously reclusive Pileated Woodpecker pounding away at an apple tree in my yard. At night I sometimes hear the chilling yips and cries of a coyote pack. Often I'm awakened at dawn by the otherworldly mating screeches and hoots of a pair of Barred Owls, the male and female calling back and forth to each other in a seemingly endless loop.

Some of my most exciting and awe–inspiring memories are of seeing Black Bears around my house. The first time, I witnessed two adolescent siblings at my garden, one of whom stood on its hind legs and knocked over my four–foot–high compost bin (which had been secured to the ground with heavy–duty spikes) with a lazy swipe of one paw. Another time — the best time — a mother with three adorable, Koala–sized cubs strolled into my yard. Upon seeing me, the mama used grunts and body language to urge her cubs up a tree for safety. I'll never forget that image of the darling Black Bear cubs clinging to the tree, as if they'd been arranged for a postcard, just a few yards from me.

But I'm not the PETA poster child I used to be. My ideals of preserving animal welfare have been challenged by my illness and subsequent move to the country. When I became allergic to almost all non–meat sources of protein, I started eating meat. After too many sunflower–seed raids, I got a "squirrel baffle" for my bird feeder and delighted in watching the furry, gray rodents fly off the spinning sphere. In fact, I set my dogs on them as a seed–stealing prevention measure. Similarly, despite my fond memories of the mice I had had as childhood pets, after enough of my clothing had been shredded for nests and I'd found droppings in my boots, I took to instructing my cat not to leave a particular room until he'd consumed a sumptuous repast of rodent tartar.

Nevertheless, despite my — and the rest of humankind's — encroachment on their habitat, animals can be remarkably adaptive. Beavers, for instance, became nocturnal to avoid fur trappers.* And the Barred Owls around my home have now curtailed their hooting, preferring to exchange cell phone numbers instead.**

However, some creatures are taking liberties with this increasing neighborliness to gatecrash (sometimes literally) their way into places they have not been invited. For example, my feelings about bear encounters have undergone a transformation similar to that of a caterpillar that enters its cocoon as an earthbound, sluglike insect the size of a pinkie, and then magically emerges only a few weeks later as a 500–pound, massive, hairy, lumbering ursine beast. It started one night at 4 AM when my service dog Gadget went ballistic, waking me up. He jumped off the bed and ran to the window, frenziedly snorting the air, barking, and growling. As soon as I let him out of my bedroom, Gadget ran pell–mell to the porch door. When I looked out I saw a huge Black Bear that was just finishing its climb up the tall support beam and over the railing onto the deck. Its target was clear: the bird feeder hanging in a nearby tree.

Black Bears rarely attack people. The best way to handle them is to face them and make a lot of noise to scare them away. So, Gadget barked, and I yelled and stamped my feet. This worked great. The poor ursine creature ran this way and that, looking, I can only suppose, for an easier retreat than climbing back down the pole it had used to get up to bedroom height. Finally, finding no handy staircase with a sign reading "Bears, please exit here," it climbed down and ran away. When it had crashed into the brush, Gadget and I stepped out on the porch to see (me) and smell (Gadget) what damage, if any, had been done.

When I was a Girl Scout, we had a motto: "Take only pictures; leave only footprints." The bear definitely left footprints. There were some fascinating claw marks where he'd climbed up and down. And he had not taken anything: the bird food was still there, thanks to Gadget raising the alarm so fast. But he had left something behind: on the railings, the benches, the floor boards, there were stools — and not the kind you want to sit on. Yes, bear crap festooned my porch. Gadget and I had scared the bear shitless. Literally.

You know that saying, "Does a bear shit in the woods?" Now I know the answer: "No, he shits on my deck."

After that incident and a few more like it, I took down the bird feeder. But word had apparently spread throughout the bear community because it took a while before they stopped coming around. One particularly terrifying time, I let Gadget out without realizing there was a bear in the vicinity. Gadget chased it down and treed it — a full–grown, wild Black Bear — in the woods next to my driveway. I only managed to call Gadget off of it by honking my car horn and yelling hysterically for him to come (Gadget, not the bear). The dog came bounding happily over, clueless about why I was upset. When I examined him at home, I actually found bear–claw scratches on his chest, God help me.

But the scariest time was when I opened the kitchen door to find out why Gadget was barking, and there, not a yard away, was this enormous bear in my mudroom. It was quite a surreal moment as we stared at each other — this huge adult male in front of my powerchair. Then I screamed and slammed the kitchen door and the bear ran out the way he'd come in — through the screen that had once been part of my front door. But he didn't go far. From my windows I saw him stop in my yard. I put Gadget on a leash and the two of us stood on the front stoop, yelling, banging pots, and barking (Gadget is GREAT with a wooden spoon and frying pan; I prefer to bark) and this bear just lay down on my lawn, giving me this "Watta ya gonna do 'bout it?" look, which left me very disconcerted. (This is extremely abnormal Black Bear behavior.) So Gadget and I got more assertive and the bear responded by charging Gadget, causing my second coronary of the day. Fortunately, Gadget is nimble and the bear was bluffing. Gadget and I continued to put on a show of bravery, and the bear lost our game of "Chicken" and moved on.

I haven't had a bear intruder since. This supports my theory that the bears in this vicinity have an information network. Perhaps they use the Internet. (If you don't believe me, click here for www.BestGarbageAndBirdFeeders.com.)

After the bear–in–the–mudroom event, I had my landlord replace the screen door (which is now just a frame) with a storm door. But creatures make their way in, anyway: Recently I heard a cricket chirping in there. For four days, my assistants and I heard that poor insect every time we opened the door, its chirp becoming increasingly plaintive. But, since we couldn't find it, we couldn't rescue it. Then, on day five, I saw it, a shiny little black critter, right near my shoes.

Crickets are usually hard to catch. But lack of food and water seemed to have weakened this one. It jumped this way and that, trying to elude me, but without much liveliness. Eventually I caught it, carefully cupping it in one hand while using my other as a lid to keep it from getting away.

I carried it outside and lowered it to the grass. It wouldn't budge. I waved leaves invitingly toward it. I tilted my hand into the clover. Finally, I put my finger against it's butt to give it a little shove. That worked: it hopped away. But it left me a gift: poop. That's right, for my act of kindness, I was rewarded with a dollop of cricket shit in my palm.

And now even the animals with whom I’ve had long–term, positive relationships are turning on me. When I held a memorial service for my beloved cat who died of pancreatic cancer, one of the Phoebes that nests above my doorway flew overhead and defecated on my partner's arm. Right in the middle of a prayer, we got splattered. And this was by a bird that I house, along with its mate, every year.

What is it about me and my house? Why are the animals, great and small, getting in my face and shitting on me? (Although, thankfully, they have not yet started to shit on my face.) Are they revenging themselves against me because I was formerly Ms. Animal Rights, and now I'm a meat–eating, mouse–killing, squirrel–harassing bear–chaser?

Or is this part of a larger scheme? Is there a coordinated effort among the animals to make us North American humans pay for what we've done to the environment? My Audubon guide says the Barred Owl's call sounds like, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you–all?" Maybe it's just me, but it seems as if their call has changed subtly since November 2000. Now it sounds more like, "Who votes for double–u? Who votes for double–u, y'all?"

Notes:
*This is true. I saw it on National Geographic Channel.
**This is a blatant lie. It's my fantasy because I wish they'd just freakin' stop waking me up at the crack of freakin' dawn. Hell, I'd pay their roaming charges.