Gun season

(Please note - this entry involves the mercy killing of a wild animal.)

My partner is big on the idea of appreciating experiences for what they are at the time. I found time to go for a walk before the deer gun season began, but finding brain space was harder. For some moments I was present, for others I was caught up in worries or my plans for the day.

My opinions on hunting are too complicated to describe in a paragraph, but my ability to control human hunters outside our little piece of the forest seems as unlikely as my ability to control the red-tail hawk pair sometimes seen cruising over our tree tops. Or the coyotes that chorus in the depth of night, with the occasional encore after the noon whistle from the fire house.

It's hard not to feel under siege as we confine ourselves to the house, or to short trips down the driveway in hunter orange. Even the dogs are festooned in reflective gear, although we're keeping them under tight control just in case. Yesterday when we headed outside, Bear was on a leash while Ivy, who is codependent enough that we trust she'll stay close, was free. We hadn't gone very far when Ivy noticed a raccoon behind our woodpile and ran up to investigate.

The raccoon hissed. Fortunately Ivy is a scaredy-dog, so she fled back to us. After hauling two very excited dogs back into the house, we came back out to get a good look at the raccoon. She (we later discovered it was a female) was beautiful and huge. As we watched, we also began to notice she was not healthy. She appeared disoriented, not noticing we were there much less fleeing. Her every movement was shaky and seemed painful.

I called my banding friends because they have lived in this area so long and I've seen the husband of the pair shoot a deer that was fatally injured by a car. We held out an optimistic hope that she was injured, but they quickly recognized the symptoms of an advanced case of rabies. My partner took one of the dogs next door to her mother's house while I waited for their arrival.

The raccoon began to move and I followed. Her progress down the driveway was halting but purposeful. When my banding friends arrived she had collapsed yet again in the woods on a course for the nearest neighbor on our other side. One bullet ended her suffering and her threat.

We all dug a deep hole through tree roots and soil turned gray through seasonal water logging. On top of her body we piled dirt and stones then sprinkled Chlorox around, if only to dissuade predators from digging up the still contagious carcass.

I doubt I'll be able to relax much in the next few weeks as I keep an eye out for sick animals as well as men with weapons. But just as in the past agricultural tools have become weapons when the need arose, I'll remember that weapons can be tools if you wield them right.