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Illustration by Alex Siklos
I usually eat an apple on the drive home from work. It makes me feel virtuous and slightly superior to eat such a healthy snack, especially as I pass the lines of cars snaking around the Tim Hortons drive-through.
In addition to the health benefits, I am eating “local.” The apples come from an orchard near our house. We live on a residential street near what used to be the border between suburbia and farmland. Increasingly, the small farms that act as a buffer between the city and the large industrial farms have been selling, and the road is full of those ubiquitous signs announcing zoning changes and coming developments. But the family-run orchard is hanging on. I try to support it.
I usually time it so that I pull into the driveway just as the apple is finished. Kind of a ritual and part of the transition from a stressful workday to home. Normally, I carry the core, almost as a badge of honour into the kitchen to the bin marked “organics.”
But one day, I dropped the core as I climbed out of the car. Guiltily, I kicked it toward the hedge that divided our property from the neighbours’. I’ll come back later and pick it up, I rationalized.
Of course, I forgot all about it.
The next morning, there was a dusting of snow, and as I brushed off the windshield I noticed animal tracks around the hedge. I recognized the tracks immediately. Two small prints in front with two much larger prints right behind.
A rabbit.
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I remembered the apple core and felt a moment of satisfaction that some woodland creature had found the treat that I had inadvertently left. I imagined a full belly or maybe a den of little ones with mom bringing home the treat to share. My imagination went wild, and I thought of Beatrix Potter and Richard Adams. It’s only a rabbit, I said to myself. But I was grinning, and the happy feeling lasted well into the day.
That evening, I dropped the core at the same spot near the hedge and could hardly wait to see if my gift was received again. Not only were there rabbit tracks but I now noticed squirrel, chipmunk and several bird tracks.
I began to Google different types of critter tracks and for several months took great pleasure in identifying my visitors from the night before. I felt connected to a different world that existed all around me. It took me out of myself somehow.
I also began to notice the sounds of the different birds and other markings on the ground that hinted at other species. I learned to identify bird sounds and learned that in addition to cardinals and blue jays, we had hairy woodpeckers, black-billed cuckoos, great horned owls and rare yellow rails.
I didn’t share my new hobby with anyone and always checked the cores were gone the next morning – they were.
I knew the arguments against my seemingly innocent gifts.
You’re creating a dependency, and the animals will forget how to forage for themselves.
You’re attracting other wildlife like coyotes.
You’re attracting insects like ticks.
You’re attracting vermin like mice.
I ignored all the imaginary cautionary voices and enjoyed my new discoveries every morning, learning more about all the different animals found in a suburban backyard.
One day, I noticed the tracks were completely overridden by extremely large prints that looked like the largest birds I had ever seen.
The next day there were more.
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Eventually the entire ground around the hedge was dredged up and dirt, mud, leaves and twigs were scattered across the driveway. My husband noticed and immediately identified the tracks as wild turkeys. That weekend our dog was barking wildly. Through our front window we saw over a dozen wild turkeys clustered on our front lawn making the most piercing racket. They were huge. And hugely ugly.
Our neighbours began to gather at the end of the drive. It was an event!
“Should we call the police,” asked one woman. “Bring in all the children,” cried another. “I have a BB gun,” said a young man.
My secret happy co-existence with the wildlife around us had come to an end. I didn’t say a word to my neighbours, but I stopped leaving my apples at the hedge. It was at best a precarious relationship that was bound to end.
I eventually “confessed” to my husband. He rolled his eyes. This episode was just one more in a long list of seemingly innocent attempts to lessen the divide between ourselves and the many species with whom we co-exist.
It seems like living in partnership with our feathered and furred friends is a difficult challenge. I remain optimistic that we can figure it out, or at least lessen our impact.
Janice Locke lives in Ancaster, Ont.
