Intimate Strangers
My wife and I share our space with an interesting cast of characters. There’s Gus and Gertie, two German Shepherds who seem to accept us as adequate care givers. Gus who has had more than his fair share of tragic accidents and near fatal diseases has an adoring, but ever so needy side kick in Gertie, who never wanders very far from his side.
The pair can be found most days, waiting patiently on the front porch for a human escort to accompany them on one of their many strolls about the grounds. And an escort is necessary most days, because there is a stealthy band of thugs that patrol the area waiting for an opportunity to lay waste to unsuspecting innocents. Webbed feet slapping down hard in quick succession and a short hiss is all one is likely to hear before being accosted with a shocking nip to the inner thigh or calf muscle. My wife has a stick that she takes with her whenever she steps outside.” Run fast screaming and carry a big stick” is her motto. I think it’s funny . . . she, is not amused. But then they don’t bother me. I guess they bonded with me as goslings. I’m like their gang leader. They follow me around chatting me up and if I sit down, they come up to me and tell me stories while they untie my shoe laces.
Clarence, the big white goose with the large carbuncle like knot on his forehead, likes to be picked up and placed in my lap where he can feel superior. Thaddeus, the other male doesn’t seem to mind. But he is getting older and lately he has this look in his eye, like he may be channeling Charles Manson or Al Capone. Either way, I get the feeling he’s making plans of a nefarious nature for my untimely demise.
Of course, I have a noisy entourage that follows up the driveway when I feed the chickens. You never can tell; an unsuspecting hen may need to be reminded who the bosses are around here. The large rooster gets the respect his size commands. He’s the last one. His two friends got aggressive with my wife and found themselves mixed with wild rice and vegetables. Some hens are missing as well. Victims of our resident Coopers and Red-Tailed hawks.
We’ve had other animals that stayed for a short time. Crows, hawks, owls, baby raccoons and opossums, all needing a little re -hab. Some extra help to be on their way. But it’s the locals that we have come to appreciate. Flying squirrels that come at night to the feeder by the dozen. Gliding on invisible zip lines they come in from all directions. Frantic lunatics in need of a Ritalin prescription. They’re chaotic gathering on our back porch is more entertaining than anything on TV. Sometimes they let you get close enough to touch them, their fur; as soft as eider down
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There is a black snake here as well, he lived in a cement block on our basement wall that has a small chunk missing. One day I came out the basement door with a dead mouse that I removed from a trap. He was sunning himself on the lawn. I walked up to him very slowly and offered him the mouse. His tongue flicked out tasting the air for microscopic particles that identified what was being offered. Rather than strike quickly and coil around its prey which would have been the normal reaction, he slowly and gently took the mouse from my hand and swallowed it head first. I walked away under the gaze of cold, unblinking eyes. I still see him occasionally, he’s grown considerably since then. Too big to fit back in his cement block. I wonder where he stays now ?
Some years ago, my brother-in-law gave me a box turtle that he had kept in an aquarium, he named him Houdini because he was always escaping from his quarters. Obviously, Houdini felt he needed to be somewhere else and wasn’t happy, so my brother-in-law asked if I would take him and perhaps release him on our property. I did. I see Houdini now and again every summer. I know it’s him because he has a chip missing from the back of his carapace. He shows up in our front yard or on the driveway. I’ve offered him sweet juicy strawberries and other turtle delicacies but he has always refused.
Pileated woodpeckers are striking! They are the largest woodpecker in North America.
About the size of a crow. Jet black with bright white stripes across their face and down their necks and a flaming red crest. A dashing, arrogant bird that pounds large rectangular holes in trees tearing out chunks of wood the size of your thumb while searching out colonies of carpenter ants, wood beetles and insect larva of all kinds. Their old nesting holes are used by small owls, wood ducks, bats, pine martins and I’m sure, flying squirrels. The Pileated call is loud and primeval. Like something out of the Amazon rain forest. We have a resident pair. I am made aware of their presence almost every day. If I don’t see them when out walking, I hear them calling back and forth to each other or hacking away on a tree somewhere deep in the woods like a man with an ax
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Last summer I was laying out in a reclining lawn chair in the front yard when a fearless and handsome avian acrobat came swooping down from the trees and landed on a rooted stump I had put in the garden not five feet from where I was sitting. He ignored me as he went about searching for a possible meal hiding inside the stump. He was strong and sure of himself, a real professional. His eyes were bright and focused on the job at hand. A prehistoric looking creature so full of himself, I couldn’t help but admire him. We Had a friend who lived close by who loved these birds. She would get so excited whenever she saw them. She died suddenly last fall. Whenever I see them now I think of her.
We live in paradise and have become intimate with the holiness that surrounds us. The government lets me believe I own some property here so they can extract taxes for the privilege of that fantasy. But I know the truth. I’m merely a temporary caretaker of something perfect. If the powers that be, decide they want to run an oil pipeline through here, or a power line right of way, or if they find something of value underground, they will cancel my privilege and take what they want. I have faith that will never happen.
We do have intimacy here with the others who share our space. Strangers once. But no more. And what are we to them? Sometimes I wonder. Last fall I was sitting in a chair on the back porch and a nuthatch landed on my leg, it seemed to have no fear, so I reached out and stroked its head with my finger. After a few seconds it flew up on the railing a few feet away. How did he know not to be afraid, that I wouldn’t hurt him? Maybe he’s been watching me . . . and decided it was time to have intimacy with a stranger.