It's tourist season in big sky country, which means the internet is lit up with tales of human-animal encounters that end poorly for man, beast or both. The details vary, but the common denominator is the ugly American deciding to get too close to something — bison are often involved — with tragic results.
The stories that make me the saddest are those in which the animal has to be euthanized. The best I can muster for the human instigator is emotional neutrality, which is a step better, I guess, than the derision they generally earn from internet commenters and wildlife professionals.
Boundaries. We are a species with boundary issues.
This is on my mind at the moment because a little gray squirrel who started coming to our deck to raid the bird feeders has become my morning coffee klatsch friend. I call her Capt. Olivia Benson. She doesn't call me anything, but she does press her face to my window every morning for breakfast. Sometimes she crawls down from the roof and hangs on the screen. I'm sitting on the couch when this happens, so I turn around to see a demanding squirrel interrogating me with her stare — upside down. It will never not be funny.
When she started coming to the window, I'd grab some woodpecker mix, open the window, and place the seed on the deck railing. It was clear that while she was ready to bolt if I made any unexpected moves, she was betting on that not happening. She'd root through the seed for her favorite bits and I got to study her from just inches away. When she sat up on her haunches to chew, I could see she recently had been nursing. One nipple looked a bit abused, maybe a little infected. A mark on a rear leg suggested an injury that was mostly healed.
The day came when I decided to see how she would react if I offered seed from my palm. I didn't relish the possibility of being bitten, but I wasn't much afraid of it, either. I slowly stretched my arm out and opened my seed-filled hand. She approached, then retreated. Then approached again, and retreated. Four times. Then she carefully selected a peanut from the mix and stood up to chew.
Turns out she'll eat from my hand.
Within a few days, she grew comfortable enough to rest one paw on my fingers while she used the other to move the seed around, looking for a nut. Then she started placing both paws on my hand while she snuffled. Sometimes she goes for something that has dropped onto the railing, and her face brushes the side of my hand. These things are moments of heaven for me. I can't say why, it just has always been this way. Anytime I've been lucky enough to have a close encounter with something wild has been, for me, transcendent.
In addition to stories about Terrible People Getting Too Close to Wild Animals, the internet is alive with good advice on why wild animals should be left alone. Don't feed the ducks. Leave a newborn fawn alone; mom will show up. Put the baby bird back in its nest. If you find an injured animal, call a wildlife expert. Take down your hummingbird feeders at the right time so your little visitors get on with migrating. And for heaven's sake, don't take a selfie with a bison.
These are all good guidelines written for people who want to do the right thing but don't know what that is, as well as for those whose deepest consideration is whether they should post their dope video as a reel or a story.
And still. I want to honor wild animals and their right to stay wild while also honoring the human wish to connect, if just for a moment.
Decades ago, I was out for a morning walk when a hummingbird appeared right in front of my face and hovered there for a moment. It was astonishing. The bird seemed ... purposeful. Intentional. And yes, that's classic anthropomorphizing. Maybe the bird thought my nose looked like a flower and considered whether there was nectar to be had. No one knows. But on the rare occasion when we have a moment with something wild, some of us are filled with a sense of having touched with the divine.
It's essential to consider the ethics of how we behave with our fellow travelers in our wild, wild world. I think it's also important to acknowledge the unreasonable love so many of us have for these beings.
There are days when the best you can say about me is "Welp, at least she loves animals." And that's not all bad.
Every morning, after Capt. Benson has been breakfasting for a while, I put out a little more seed on the railing, then close the window and go about the business of being a human. She eats until she's ready to yield the railing to the mourning doves, then goes about her squirrel shenanigans. Scrambling for the trees. Clambering over rooftops. Chasing her mates. Living her best wild little life.
It's a thing to behold.