I had a bit of a collision with a black squirrel on my way over here just now. It was one of those awkward encounters when you think the other creature is going to the left, so you compensate by going to the left as well, but no, he goes right, so there’s a strange little shuffle, an apologetic smile, and you both laugh and go on your way. The squirrel was totally in his own world. He was so busy foraging for autumn nuts, he didn’t see me – human – directly in front of him. Or perhaps he’s a campus squirrel and is so accustomed to close encounters to college students that nearly running into me just now was party of his everyday routine.
As I sit here in the grass looking out over the city, I think about the animals that we form relationships with wherever we dwell. There are undoubtedly less animals living in cities than in forests, but the ones that do, we notice, we may bond with, we form relationships.
I have not seen a deer the whole time I’ve lived in Pittsburgh. I’m sure they’re here – in Schenley Park, munching on any and all plants they deem edible. At home in Connecticut, deer are everywhere. Driving at night, when two glowing marbles appear off the side of the road, you slow to a stop. When the deer has successfully skitted across, legs flailed out in all directions, you don’t go. You wait, because you know there are at least four more waiting in the brush, about to dart in front of your car. In my backyard and throughout our property, deer had regular trails that they traversed every morning. My brother and I would go through the woods in the spring with hedge-clippers and cut back the trails, so we too could follow them. We’d hike along the trails throughout the summer and pick wild raspberries that grew on long prickery vines. When we came inside with a basket full of berries, my mother would rinse us off and check us from head to toe, because Lyme Disease isn’t as fun.
This past summer, I was standing out on my front porch when three deer that were feeding on brush meandered onto my lawn. I decided I would stay incredibly still, in fact not move from the position that I was in at that very moment, and see what happened. The deer didn’t notice me at first, but one of them, a doe with scars all along her side, sensed something. She kept looking up mid-chew, staring in my direction. I stared directly at her; I wanted her to know I was alive. The other deer moved along the lawn, fully-absorbed with their meal. She walked toward me, small steps, until she was only feet from the porch. My heart pounded. Was it possible she would charge the porch? She wasn’t the healthiest of them, after all. The other deer made their way over to my mother’s garden and commenced chomping on her tulips. This is the point when my mother would appreciate me breaking free from my statue pose, stomping my feet, and making banshee noises to make them stop (and also feel guilty – I get the feeling my mother always tries to make the deer feel guilty when they eat her flowers.) But I didn’t. This moment was too precious. My deer walked closer yet. Suddenly, as if nature had reclaimed her, she bent down and resumed eating grass. Animal. She was an animal. But a moment later she was looking up again, straight into my eyes. I heard the bending and breaking of a stalk – one of my mother’s plants, and I felt guilty. I became a banshee. “All right, that’s enough!” I yelled. The two deer, who I realized had no clue I was there, went into a frenzy. Running faster than they should have, their hooves scratched across the driveway, and the two deer slipped and fell on the pavement. But my deer remained still, unaffected by the screaming. She gave me a last bewildered glance, then, as if she felt the need to prove to the others she was not human, still animal, not anything more than deer, she trotted into the woods and rejoined her frightened companions. I stayed on the porch a little longer and saw the two times my deer came back to the lawn by herself, looking toward the porch to confirm that what she had seen there had been real: a living creature, a human, who meant no harm, who did not disturb them, who looked her in the eye, who said, “It’s ok. I just want to let you know, it’s ok.”
Deer are animals of my home. In Pittsburgh I am forming relationships with new animals. Every night at 9:45, as I walk home from school, there is a gigantic slug that crosses the sidewalk by my apartment. I know exactly where he will be, and I look for him. Watch out, I think as I approach the one piece of concrete slab, I would never want to step on him. Sidewalk Slug. This is something I wouldn’t see at home.
No comments:
Post a Comment