Saturday, July 5, 2008
And Freedom For All: Including Possums!
Last night had a bonfire in the yard ... the big dog, Kitty, spent the night hiding from fireworks in the house, but as always the smaller dog, Buddy, stayed nearby.
His genetic memory of bird-dogging is sometimes quite present - despite Big Al's certainty, dogs certainly can look up, and he often goes a bit berzerk trying to get me to hunt something he has spotted in a tree or on a roof.
Last night, however, he was whimpering and wurfling ("wurfle" being a distinct sound he makes when he has something important, albeit whiny, to say) insistently by the gate no matter how many times I tried to calm him down. Finally I went to show him there was nothing there for him to be wurlfng about - and to my surprise there was a young opossum in the little mulberry tree, looking down at me with some clear dismay.
I put Buddy in the house for a bit to give the possum time to bug out, but when we checked again it was still there, higher up, with nowhere to go. So I went around to the neighbor's yard and had the kids push on the tree so I could reach a branch and pull the upper part down, and got hold of the possum's tail.
Years ago I got to take care of a baby possum for a couple of weeks after its mother had been accidentally killed on the farm where I rode horses. After that I saved an adult that our dog had cornered; I know that they'd rather play dead in most cases than bite or struggle. But this one, after the initial shock of being gently extracted from the branches, curled up along itself to press its small nose against my fingers, as if it was trying to decide if the fall would be worth the freedom after a good chomp.
Rather than just carrying it possum-style, I cradled its back with my other hand and carried it to the front yard where there was enough light for the kids to get a good look, and put it down in the plantains to regain its equilibrium. When it didn't run off right away, the kids started clamoring about keeping it for a pet; I firmly (but not without some wistfulness) told them wild animals are not to be kept as pets, because no matter how well one can meet their physical needs, they will suffer psychologically from being kept from their freedom.
I had forgotten how soft and fuzzy possum fur is; I petted it between the ears and down the back until it had decided we weren't going to eat it and it was ready to amble off. I told the kids it was a marsupial, and we talked about pouched mammals and other oddball critters. They wanted to pet it too, but I had to say no: I never for a moment believed it would bite me, but if it did I knew I could live with the consequences (including rabies shots), but if they had gotten nipped I would never forgive myself.
When it left it made a bee-line (or possum-line) for the closest garbage can. It was young, a little thin, and quite possibly of the brood that had been tormenting the neighbor by taking up residence in his garage. And now I wonder: will it stay far away now, having been treed by a dog, hauled out of that tree, and gawked at; or will it return, possibly with friends, to show off that it had this amazing (by possum standards) experience and ambled off unscathed to tell the tale?
Whichever the case, I do hope our little fuzzy visitor does well for itself, and that my kids will remember that freedom is just a word unless it is an Idea shared equally to all blameless creatures, great and small.
His genetic memory of bird-dogging is sometimes quite present - despite Big Al's certainty, dogs certainly can look up, and he often goes a bit berzerk trying to get me to hunt something he has spotted in a tree or on a roof.
Last night, however, he was whimpering and wurfling ("wurfle" being a distinct sound he makes when he has something important, albeit whiny, to say) insistently by the gate no matter how many times I tried to calm him down. Finally I went to show him there was nothing there for him to be wurlfng about - and to my surprise there was a young opossum in the little mulberry tree, looking down at me with some clear dismay.
I put Buddy in the house for a bit to give the possum time to bug out, but when we checked again it was still there, higher up, with nowhere to go. So I went around to the neighbor's yard and had the kids push on the tree so I could reach a branch and pull the upper part down, and got hold of the possum's tail.
Years ago I got to take care of a baby possum for a couple of weeks after its mother had been accidentally killed on the farm where I rode horses. After that I saved an adult that our dog had cornered; I know that they'd rather play dead in most cases than bite or struggle. But this one, after the initial shock of being gently extracted from the branches, curled up along itself to press its small nose against my fingers, as if it was trying to decide if the fall would be worth the freedom after a good chomp.
Rather than just carrying it possum-style, I cradled its back with my other hand and carried it to the front yard where there was enough light for the kids to get a good look, and put it down in the plantains to regain its equilibrium. When it didn't run off right away, the kids started clamoring about keeping it for a pet; I firmly (but not without some wistfulness) told them wild animals are not to be kept as pets, because no matter how well one can meet their physical needs, they will suffer psychologically from being kept from their freedom.
I had forgotten how soft and fuzzy possum fur is; I petted it between the ears and down the back until it had decided we weren't going to eat it and it was ready to amble off. I told the kids it was a marsupial, and we talked about pouched mammals and other oddball critters. They wanted to pet it too, but I had to say no: I never for a moment believed it would bite me, but if it did I knew I could live with the consequences (including rabies shots), but if they had gotten nipped I would never forgive myself.
When it left it made a bee-line (or possum-line) for the closest garbage can. It was young, a little thin, and quite possibly of the brood that had been tormenting the neighbor by taking up residence in his garage. And now I wonder: will it stay far away now, having been treed by a dog, hauled out of that tree, and gawked at; or will it return, possibly with friends, to show off that it had this amazing (by possum standards) experience and ambled off unscathed to tell the tale?
Whichever the case, I do hope our little fuzzy visitor does well for itself, and that my kids will remember that freedom is just a word unless it is an Idea shared equally to all blameless creatures, great and small.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Wild Ink'd!
Got my first tattoo yesterday afternoon:
2 more pix:
The labyrinth has special symbolic meanings for me, as well as being a practical choice for permanent body art: I now can "walk" it with my fingertip whenever I need a moment to reflect, calm down, or refocus.
The simplicity was also a good choice, being my first tattoo and one of the first done by the artist. (I am far happier with the result than he is, but he's a perfectionist and I just wanted my labyrinth, dammit. :) )
2 more pix:
The labyrinth has special symbolic meanings for me, as well as being a practical choice for permanent body art: I now can "walk" it with my fingertip whenever I need a moment to reflect, calm down, or refocus.
The simplicity was also a good choice, being my first tattoo and one of the first done by the artist. (I am far happier with the result than he is, but he's a perfectionist and I just wanted my labyrinth, dammit. :) )
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