Caught Flat-footed
The fox was a gift of creation. I hollered, “No! No! No!”
The birds are all back, and I had forgotten how bossy the robins can be. Not with each other, but with me. With us. They have this capacity to give you stern looks. They are incredibly sensitive to motion, and have acute hearing, which they use to prowl for worms. One morning this week, just after dawn, I got up and crossed the hall into our den to sit and read. I fetched a pair of glasses off the bureau we have there, switched on a light, stepped toward the chair, and outside the window a fat robin started yapping at me—as in, “Turn off the damn light!”
You think I’m making this up. Without taking its eyes off me, it took two or three hops in my direction. It was clearly a confrontation. I wasn’t sure why it was making a fuss, until I realized that Mr. and Mrs. Robin had set up house again in the rhododendron outside the window. Last year, they switched lodgings because, we thought, they had grown weary and frustrated with the rhododendron, always having to bolt from the nest whenever someone came or went down our walkway—which, you know, in our case, was constantly. So they moved to the garden shed. Further away from heavy traffic, but still not ideal because I was in there regularly—daily—as well. As usual, the individual guarding the nest would storm out of the shed, perching nearby to yell at me, often with the support of its mate, until I collected the things I needed and moved on.
Here’s the problem now: the tarps are down around the shed. Snow remains a possibility around here (it’s snowing now) and there have been other things on our mind. Thus far, the tarps have not been the most important thing to do in a day. Had I known they were coming . . . well, of course, I knew they were coming, just not exactly when. Had I known when, I might have removed the tarps.
Too late. We will be tormenting each other for the next several weeks, as nests get refurbished and eggs hatch. And we will suffer from being thought of as dangerous, rather than beneficent caretakers, good property managers. Welcoming hosts. You would think after years of living side-by-side, over more than a few generations, there would be a better sense of partnership.
Except, yes, the tarps are still around the shed.
We were also caught flatfooted by the returning eastern phoebes who snuck in sometime this week before we had a chance to close their campsite, which is above the outside, front door light. It is prime real estate, for sure, sheltered under the section of roof that extends out over the door. By late in the nesting season, the phoebes are more relaxed about our comings and goings, and they don’t persecute us in the same way as the robins. But the porch light suffers mightily from the enzymatic action of their digestive systems, so that by the time the children move out, light from it is seriously compromised. My wife summed up the situation perfectly when we realized, too late, they had moved in: “Oh shit,” she said.
It is only April 3rd. There was still a foot of snow on the porch two, maybe three weeks ago. We are still using our wood stoves. As recently as last week, it was so icy I was sorry I was not wearing crampons on my boots walking Huckleberry through the woods. Yet, nature’s race is renewed.
Speaking of which, a fox dashed out in front of Huckleberry and me on the walk where I was wishing I had crampons. I saw it only from behind, as did Huck, and it was resplendent from that view, all bushy red tail and pointed ears, and quick as lightning. There was no preventing Huck from tearing after it. Shouting after him was useless (more useless than usual). He was gone like a shot, thrilled with the prospect of a decent chase that would not end with someone going up a tree—which is the problem with squirrels and chipmunks. The fox was a gift of creation. I hollered, “No! No! No!” but the two of them were in the vice grip of evolution as hunter and hunted.
Only the fox would understand the stakes completely, which worried me as I walked along, anxiously alert for ferocious noises. Huck eats kibble out of a bowl aromatized by warm water. Was he thinking play date? Would he be expecting the same reception he was used to getting when meeting other dogs on the trail (I chase you, then you chase me)? Cornered, unable to climb out of reach, I feared the odds would switch in favor of the fox as an experienced survivalist with, surely, a few close calls to its credit. Huck does not think about survival. He thinks about comfort, one pillow or two. I had to hope that he would be spared a confrontation thanks to the skills of the wily fox to avoid capture.
Happily, a quarter mile farther on, Huck caught up with me with the joyful air of a boy who had jumped from behind a tree to scare the girls. But there had been no screaming.
It’s April. The race is on. In the grip of evolution.