As a long-time friend and advocate of/for animals, I can’t help but be confused by how when a caring person assumes responsibility for an injured or orphaned “wild” animal, the wild side of that creature somehow magically disappears; and what should be something of the public’s interest — conservation, protection of species, etc. — instead becomes that individual’s own absurd self-imposed or self-inflicted notion of “doing the right thing.”
In other words, HIS problem.
Far too often, the public and even conservation officers themselves are at a loss as to what to do with or where to bring these animals. Horribly, the alternatives then become either so-called “euthanasia” or “letting nature take its course” — with the irony of the latter being that it was our alteration of “nature’s course” that probably brought the animal to the circumstances that she finds herself in to begin with!
One way to ameliorate this would be for the IDNR to provide funding to perhaps one certified and qualified veterinary clinic per county, tasked with the care for either injured or orphaned wild animals. Of course, doing so would probably entail that the agency refrain from viewing and treating living beings as little more than “natural resources” — i.e., like coal.
When I first met my now ex-wife, I’d been single for awhile and had been living alone in a shabby, cluttered and mostly unkempt studio apartment in the rather seedy neighborhood of Uptown, located on Chicago’s north side, about a mile and a half, give or take, from Wrigley Field. The room was wall-to-wall books and filing cabinets, owing (mostly) to the fact that I was both a political activist and the manager of a radical bookstore. The former allowed for little free time, and the latter allowed for little money — but it did provide me with a steep discount on any books I might decide to purchase. So I took advantage….
Mid-gentrification, Uptown had been rechristened as “Sheridan Park”
My ex was never all that impressed with my lifestyle. Same with my neighborhood. And she repeatedly reminded me that my apartment reminded her of Mel Gibson’s “compound” in the film, “Conspiracy Theory.”
Flash-forward to about a month ago, when I’m attempting to forestall a visit to my current home by a female friend whose relationship with me had become…complicated. I’d been to her place; she never to mine. So she wondered if I might be hiding something (or someone) from her. Otherwise, why no invite?
In hope of keeping our friendship intact, while still keeping her at bay, I’d explained that due to my being single for so long, working so much, and sharing my home with animals, the house had fallen into disrepair and was simply not fit for a lady. Not completely sold on that argument, I added, “It’s like ‘Conspiracy Theory’ Lite — plus ‘The Birds.’”
Unfortunately for me, she hadn’t seen either film. Moreover, she reminded me that she was a “huge” animal-lover and would “thoroughly enjoy” meeting all of my birds.
Ultimately I couldn’t put her off any longer without jeopardizing the relationship, so to my house did she come.
Almost immediately I knew that this visit was not going to go well, as she dodged and weaved around the wild flowers I’d planted and grown in my front yard. Upon entering and hearing the mild cacophony of bird chatter being emitted from the room near the front door, she plugged her ears and winced. And that’s also when a small fly nearly ended up in her mouth. “What’s with the swarm of flies?!?!”
In my defense, a few random flies hardly constitute a swarm. And in explanation, I told her that the bait shop where I purchase prey for some of the birds had run short on wax worms, and in lieu of this situation, the owner had substituted spikes to make up the difference. (Spikes, by the way, are also grubs. Commonly referred to as maggots, they are in fact baby flies.) Apparently, I told her, the spikes were not as popular with the birds as the waxworms; so, in time, instead of becoming a meal, the spikes became flies. Just like the one she had nearly swallowed.
No sooner had I finished my response, when she was pointing at the ground and exclaiming, “Oh, my God! You have roaches, too!” I quickly bent down, scooped up what she had thought was a German cockroach, and noted, “No. I have crickets!”
Her last words: “I’m out of here!”
My last words: “This all could have been avoided if you’d have told me that your love for animals only extended to those with four legs and not six!”
Our little corner of the Driftless received some rain last night. Finally. It’s been over a month. Not much, mind you. Half-inch, if we’re lucky. But as we say here, beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve been hauling water out every morning to keep bowls and reservoirs full and clean for the various critters that share space with me here. Nothing too exotic, especially this time of the year. Nope. Just our resident house sparrows that stick around all year, along with other native avians with the temerity to brave this bioregion’s winters. Not that they’re much of anything anymore either. Warmer. Fewer “big snow events.” Ice storms seem to be more common than I remember. And aren’t welcome. Because, unlike much of Illinois’ topography, it’s hilly here, with some very steep grades on even the major highways that wind through these parts. Ice-Age glaciers that carved and flattened much of the rest of the Midwest bypassed us here, leaving us drift-less: little of the typical-for-the-area stone deposits and other debris can be found. So, the land has some rather unique qualities to it; and with me being outdoors a lot, I’ve done my share of exploring them, mostly on two wheels and two feet.
Driftless Bioregion
I was up at seven again, rousted by the cooing sounds of the two pigeons that I share my home with. My other two housemates are a common grackle and a ring-necked dove, both of whom are fosters for a local wildlife rehabber. Neither is releasable due to injuries.
I fell asleep watching “Pulp Fiction.” It’s funny how I can stay up all night reading a book but I often feel myself dosing off ten minutes into a movie, regardless of quality. And I have come to love “Pulp Fiction.”
But first thing first. After a sip of coffee and a bite of the veggie omelette that I’d hurriedly made, I was ready for release of the opossum caught overnight in the live-trap in the front yard. I’d set it for the capture and relocation of feral cats that have been terrorizing my resident bird population. So far, I got me one ornery white tomcat, a raccoon, and now the possum. The three toads I’d “rescued” last week from planters in Scales Mound, the two mice caught in live-traps indoors and my new prisoner were quietly released where I normally do. All were in fine physical shape and quickly left me to live the balance of their lives where God had intended.
Ya see…I’m literally the guy “who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
After providing food and water for my housemates, I threw a cassette into the stereo to provide some company while I cleaned. This proved to be the “B” side of a Minutemen/Big Boys tape that I recorded off of the vinyl probably thirty years ago. The sound quality has diminished a bit but still plays just fine. “Bob Dylan Plays Propaganda Songs” indeed….
Following some spotty house-cleaning, my glamorous life continued. Outside again. Only this time to provide food and water to the wildlife that hangs around my house in the front and back yards. This time of the year, house sparrows are in the greatest abundance of any critter. A few squirrels are regulars. Starlings, too. I heard a few robins and saw a pair of grackles earlier. But it’s mostly the sparrows that snatch up the bulk of the birdseed.
Along with birdseed, I also leave out small bowls that I fill with grape jam and sometimes scrambled eggs, if I have extra. The jam attracts any straggling ants, yellow jackets and/or bees. The eggs are eaten by any creature fortunate enough to find them. Suet is hung primarily for the feeding of woodpeckers but many other birds partake. Along with a few raccoons. Might be ones that I’ve rehabbed an released. Along with working a “corporate” gig at a local convenience store as a clerk, I volunteer with a local wildlife rehabilitation center, for which I transport, rescue and care for injured and orphaned wildlife. Like these:
I’ve been at this rescue thing for over a decade but my love for animals extends back to probably when I was born. My mom used to love telling the story of when I cried and cried over how she was killing the ants that had invited themselves to share a bowl of ice cream with me. I was only two-years old then. “And the writing was on the wall."
