Almost every evening, I get home, change shoes, toss my necktie and sigh. My bride brings me a cup of coffee or a glass of tea, I mess with the dogs, she starts supper, and I begin the evening commentary about our favorite digital streaming program, a reality show that beats them all.
We try not to miss a single episode, since the plotlines can be difficult to understand if you aren’t invested in the cast. Some evenings are better than others, of course.
A typical evening might go something like this:
“Possum! Cat. Another possum. Late squirrel. Deer. More deer. Oh, Big Mama has the kids with her tonight. Dale’s moving to the inside.”
Perhaps I should explain.
A couple months back, we had a pair of uninvited human visitors on a Sunday morning.
I was lazy the night before, or else never made the third or fourth trip to town for whatever Sisyphus-ian project was destroying my Saturday, so I left the gate open at sundown. Considering the number of romantic couples, potheads, catalytic converter thieves and ne’er-do-wells who see an open gate into the woods as an invitation, we are usually locked at night.
Anyway, right as we were getting ready for church, an older model sedan pulled in the driveway. When they were confronted by a pack of roaring, slavering, bluetick catahoulas and bulldogs, not to mention Bucky the Psychogoat and a half-dressed bearded man carrying a firearm, they headed back out at a speed that is not recommended on our lane, unless you like broken rims, smashed mufflers and bent suspension systems. Those aren’t potholes, by the way: they‘re inverted speed bumps, or possibly portals to the underworld. But the path to our house is a column for another day.
There have been blessedly few worrisome incidents since we moved to our little hollow in the woods, but out of an abundance of caution I finally purchased a cellular game camera. I found one that would give me ample early warning to prepare for potential trespassers (namely enough time to pull on a shirt and grab something more authoritative than the snake pistol).
There haven’t yet been any security issues since we installed the camera – or if there were, the dogs ate the evidence – but I have discovered that the wooded lane to our house is infinitely more entertaining than anything on television. It’s somewhere between a soap opera and a reality show, without the bleeped language and fake tears.
I’ve always enjoyed scrolling through other folks’ galleries of deer, squirrels, and other wildlife. I did not realize it could become a legitimate, albeit wholesome, obsession. I blame my birthday brother Jake Faircloth, since he helped me get started.
I put the camera at what we call the Beaver Gate, where we release much of wildlife rescued and released by my beloved Miss Rhonda. I’ve seen deer there a few times though the years, as well as other critters, so it seemed like a natural spot to maybe get a critter picture or two along with any candidates for the county detention center guest list. Several trails converge and funnel into a long boundary cut for the front pasture. It’s basically several smaller wildlife roads joining a major wildlife highway.
I had no earthly idea how popular the spot would become until I poured out a few scoops of sweet feed and corn.
There’s Fireball the two-year-old buck, easily distinguished by the white line on his side. He came to us as a release from the Wildlife Commission, having been illegally raised as a pet. He has been truly rewilded, but you can tell he recognizes Rhonda’s voice when she’s calling the other animals. He also waits until I drive by in the morning to saunter out and see if I’ve left him anything to eat.
Big Mama had one fawn last year, but now she has two little bucklings. Sometimes they’re joined by another doe, Gertude. I call her that just because she looks like a Gertrude.
There’s a vulture who likes to sit on a fence post and stare at the camera, like he’s somehow watching me. I think he intentionally lifts his wings just enough to set off the trigger so I know he’s there. If I didn’t think so much of vultures, it would be a tad creepy to have one texting me multiple photos an hour several days a week.
Buddy the Squirrel is the series star. He will stand in the lane and pose. Sometimes he’s waiting for my truck and more corn; sometimes he appears to be contemplating the utterly futility of life in general. Almost every day, he looks like he’s playing guitar for a few minutes. I don’t know if he is scratching fleas or doing an air guitar solo to Free Bird. He might just be standing up, gnawing a hickory nut.
Buddy is often joined by several of his squiridaen kinfolk. I’ve caught four on camera at once so far, and while I cannot begin to figure out the plotlines to their bushytailed dramas, it’s pretty complex. Usually it’s just Buddy and Nadine. Buddy likes Nadine, but Nadine has yet to succumb to his charms, at least on camera. I hope that doesn’t happen.
Almost nightly, there’s at least one possum, usually Dale (Earnhart) who just walks in circles, vacuuming up food, going faster and faster with each lap. One of the other possums is a bit more deliberate; when the camera catches him coming toward the house, I can almost count down the minutes before the dogs start barking, as said possum stops by to see what morsels we might have left lying around. After a few minutes, the dogs hush, and fairly soon I’ll get a “click-click” on my phone and a photo of said possum heading back the other way.
The blue jays and cardinals frequently have disagreements over the comestibles. Jays have a well-deserved bad reputation, but you’d be surprised how violent cardinals can be. I’m fairly sure at least one of those little red boogers carries a knife, and is not afraid to use it.
We have an extraordinarily nervous fox, as well as a coyote that makes everyone tense. The notifications sound like a machine gun when canis latrans is passing through, since cats, possums, squirrels and deer flee, one after the other. It’s like they owe him money or something. He usually stops, sniffs the corn, marks the post beside the opening to the Beaver Gate, and heads on his merry way.
Speaking of cats – two of ours, Mystery and Andy, frequently have cameo appearances. Then there’s the unknown feral, and Bullseye, who has markings that look like targets.
The camera makes for a good warning system when our goats escape as well; I can be at work, see them waddling past, and call Rhonda to catch them before they raid the neighbor’s chickens. It’s amusing to see goats flash past in one frame, followed by my angry wife in the farm car, then the goats come back, still followed by the car. Usually Buddy will creep back out of the woods, watch her for a frame or two, shake his head and go back to the buffet.
Come springtime, I’ll be planting some healthier stuff in the viewscape of the camera. Clover, a beneficial privet or two, some ground cover; maybe I’ll train the wild grapes and the blackberries. I want to see growth in the covey of quail I have protected, as well as battles and dances of the descendants of the rabbits who once sucked down formula in the rescue room at home. I keep hoping the bear who scratched the trunk-lid of the car one night will make an appearance.
I’m thinking of upgrading to a video camera, then maybe selling subscriptions. The programming is really wholesome, and significantly more educational than anything involving the latest poptart wannabee screeching a cover of a song that is best forgotten.
But all that takes a lot of effort.
For the time being, I’ll just rest my aching feet of an evening, and tune in to the latest episode of As the Squirrel Turns.
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