A Place of My Own

(lousy) artist's rendering

Trolling FB the other day, I came across a photo of a pair of baby deer. They were posed on the sidewalk near a busy intersection, looking sad and confused.

Comments, as one would expect, ran the gamut from those who felt sorry for the animals because their habitat was shrinking and they had nowhere to go, to those who said the trespassers were overrunning our properties and needed to be culled.

Ah, how fascinating the human "mine."

It's said that the original settlers of this continent didn't believe land could be owned. They thought those wacky Europeans were nutty for offering them stuff for their patch of earth. How can you own something sacred, something that was here long before you and will be long after?

The notion of land ownership is so deeply ingrained in non-native psyche, it's hard to fathom living in a world where patches of land aren't parceled out by owner.

We continue to plow over whatever wild areas are left to make way for new living spaces. Then we label them with cutesy names reminiscent of former inhabitants. Like "The Oaks."

Then we get mad when wild animals show up at our doorstep.

Understand, I'm not exempting myself from this scenario. Although my house has been in place since 1926, living near a Metro Park means we get strays. And I don't want raccoons and ground hogs in my grill anymore than any other home owner. I just wish I could convince these varmints that the park is a far more desirable place for them to hang out.

For example, I stopped putting food scraps in my compost heap when I realized that somehow the critters were gaining access (stuff was "decomposing" way too rapidly). I have sprinkled expensive deterrents around my porch to keep them away from the house. And I don't plant a garden, 'cause I figure they would harvest it before I could.

But I do have a bird feeder, because the birds and squirrels stick to their own habitats.

In short, I try to co-exist with the wild things as peaceably as possible, provided they stay out of my house.

At the end of the day, all we really are is renters. A piece of paper with some numbers and a signature on it may mean we get to use our space for a time. But someday, some stranger will live in my house, cut the grass and chase the varmints.

And yes, I'm sure, the furry creatures will still be hanging around long after I'm gone.