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My father, who I loved greatly, was an avid hunter (as was his father before.) Much of his game found its way to our table: deer, duck, goose, rabbit, a squirrel or two. Many times I tagged along on his quests but looking back, I really can’t recall actually seeing him take a life. Quite odd. Of course, back then it was yet unknown that I was quite nearsighted. I used to marvel at Dad and his hunting buddies, aiming at flocks of geese that I couldn’t even see! This had to do a lot, I suppose, with my lack of interest in the sport. Aside from shooting at turtles in the pond with a BB gun as a young teen, I’ve never had any desire to give it a try. With time, even less so.
Take, for example, something I witnessed just the other day: there had been a light snow, enough to get the birds scurrying about in search of sustenance. I was walking the dog in the front yard when I spotted a flicker from the road’s edge. Not long before I’d arrived upon the scene, a passing car had struck what I believe was a finch. Its feather still quivered, yet I knew it was a goner. Before I could finish with my skittish canine the bird was deceased. I’m not too proud to say, it took me some time to get over that. The fact that I’m sharing the story with you, nearly a week after it happened, should prove how important it was to me. That bird should not have had to die. Humans did it, not out of malice, but because we have encroached, invading what should be wild lands with multi-ton devices traveling a mile a minute. And it hurts me. The fawn, last month, that I drove up on after dusk on a lonely back road? The driver who had struck it had pulled to the shoulder. Just a baby, it was struggling to stand. I’d like to think it found its footing and wandered off. I’d like to think that. As for the box turtle, trying to cross Delaware Route One? I’d stopped to help it but a small sedan crushed my friend before my feet would carry me that far. Etched forever in my thoughts, that little one.
I don’t know how he does it, God, I mean. How can he stand watching his creation, great and small, die each day? Well, I suppose I know the answer. He knows life here on earth is quite temporary, no matter how you live it. The dove that some feral cat killed in my backyard? Does it live on, forever, in the heavens? I’d say it deserves to. A raccoon, murdered by a Buick? It seems to have earned more rights to eternal peace than a sinner such as I.
A few years ago we were taking a Sunday drive on the back roads west of Vienna, where the ditches are wide enough to paddle a boat. We came upon a group of teens who had found an injured swan. How it managed to end up there, on a narrow road through the woods, is hard to say. I pictured it coming in for a crash landing like that “miracle” pilot Captain “Sully”. As we pondered what to do, it eventually managed just enough flight to get far away from us. We left it with a prayer. In the time since, my wife has obtained a college degree in the wildlife field. It remains to be seen where that might take her, but wishing to be prepared, she asked for a pair of heavy duty gloves to carry with her. Better to assist injured animals, you see. The vendor she chose caters to folks who come in and take care of “problem” wildlife. I was browsing the company’s website, but wished I hadn’t. I already knew that often, when you call to have some opossum or skunk taken away, they don’t just relocate it to some nature preserve somewhere. No, they get euthanized. One of the devices had a glowing review for how well it worked to kill a whole opossum family, mother and babies, swiftly and without drama. How lovely. And how inconvenient they were, for someone to bother having as neighbors.
I pray that they, along with any turtles some ignorant, nearsighted boy killed back in the eighties, are living forever in paradise. And I pray that we would learn to live with them while we are walking God’s green earth. Forget not, He knows them, every one.
