No, this is not a rant about poor little me against the powerful. It’s about secure little me living in the actual world.
I am lucky enough to work mostly from home, but once or twice a week I have to go to my office in the city of Woburn. The office is situated in an industrial/commercial park; the only other business that has remained open is the veterinary hospital across the street. There are only three other people in my company, two of them the owners. Only my boss who writes software and pays bills comes in Monday through Friday. Everybody else comes in as needed, so when I say we are open, I mean we are “open,” barely there most days.
Pre-Covid, the other coworker who is not a boss came in at 5:30 AM. He regaled me with tales of the exploits of the bunnies he surprised daily by his arrival. Six, eight, ten brown and white bunnies, freezing in place as if to become invisible on the black asphalt, hopping back into the scrub or across the street as though the cars weren’t threatening them. My coworker never witnessed a fatal bunny/car accident, and we couldn’t figure out how they somehow safely managed their comings and goings in such a busy place.
I never saw more than one bunny by the time I arrived at 7:00. Once I saw and edged past a red-tailed hawk in the scrawny tree next to the sidewalk to the front door. Canada geese paraded and pooped across all the properties. Gray squirrels, sparrows, the occasional flicker sucking up ants from the cracks in the walk. Altogether, not a place for wildlife.
That changed Wednesday, when this courting pair of turkeys blocked my way. (The female is in the shadow of the red maple.) Of course, there had to be turkeys around – lots of scrub and scruffy trees surround the industrial park. They had just never shown themselves before the shutdown led to quiet streets and empty buildings. I stopped immediately and brought out my flip phone with its pathetic camera to share the delight of wildlife invading industry in no time at all.
We are nothing to them.
Several weeks ago, I was weeding a backyard garden. Bent over, fingers probing for the root systems of the large plants, pinching and pulling the seedlings. The dog sniffed his way around the yard as he always does, seeking critters he will never catch. I was too absorbed in my task to realize he had found one. A red squirrel, helping itself to the birdbath water up on the deck overlooking the garden.
The dog trotted to the base of the steps. The red squirrel noticed him and was well-nigh trapped. Couldn’t go down the stairs, couldn’t climb down the corner posts. I was still bent over, oblivious.
The squirrel leapt from the deck railing, landed on my back, a most convenient flat surface, and jumped again towards the nearest white pine tree, scampering the rest of the way until it reached the tree and scrambled up.
I don’t know who was more stunned by the squirrel’s resourcefulness: me or my dog. He stood, forlorn, at the base of the stairs, foiled again by the enemy critter. I stood, baffled, in the middle of my garden, startled by the thump and scratch until I pieced together what had happened.
I was a tabletop, perhaps a bench, placed perfectly for an escape run.
I am nothing to them. Isn’t it lovely?