I was initially going to write about some amusing excerpts about the current hedgehog dating regime; until something else occured over the weekend, which takes precedent. [Hedgehog blog to come later :) ]
I generally find writing theraputic [although this is apparently not the case when your writing as masters thesis]; as it creates a focus for your thoughts and enables you to processes them in a logical way. It's a bit of a brain dump, a place where you can chuck your cognitive load and go away feeling more at peace with the world. So this is how I come to be writing an obituary for a magpie.
Last weekend we we're doing a fair bit of work in the garden: digging out and laying some slabs for the BBQ hardstanding area, transplanting the somewhat sunked clover field [raising the height as it was a bit of a trip hazard] and digging out the existing cistus/rock rose that has been mostly annoying me since we've moved in. We were assisted in all of these activities by a young fairly confident magpie, who seemed to delight as much in our general company as that of the wee beasties he [gender uncertain - we weren't that intimate] was finding in the soil. He would happily come about 1m up to you, and work around his way around the garden picking out all the juicy bits. After his assistance on Saturday, we promoted him to chief invert expert/taster and named him Gary. On Sunday he again assisted in the garden, not really travelling much further than the gardens on either side of us. It seemed like he overnighted sitting on a log in the back garden. Probably tells you something about how well fed the foxes are here, that they paid him no heed.
I was thinking "this is great, in time he might trust us further! Imagine walking around with a magpie familliar!" and the like.
However on Monday he was conspicuously absent from the garden. In the afternoon I was nosying about in the back of the garden and unfortunately noticed a bundle of black and white feathers. We assume it to be Gary, as although there are [many] other magpies in the vicinity, only Gary was unperturbed by humans. There were no marks on him, so it seems likely he died of stress [or something internal that we couldn't know].
When we first encountered him [above] he was hanging round a parent - hoping to be fed. Unfortunately the parent had a new chick, and were doing their best to ignore him. This ostraciasation meant he was often on his own, and perhaps that's why he felt safer round people. Unfortunately birds are naturally social and as Gary wasn't included in any other groupings; this possibly contributed to his downfall.
I buried him in the back by the wall, as it felt wrong to do anything else with the body - other than return it to nature. It was an unusual privilege to touch the softness of his feathers [the ones at the back of the head are super fluffy], the firmness of his bill and admire the gleam of those wonderfully iridescent tail-feathers.
RIP Gary
It seems absurd to create an emotional attachment to an animal you've known for about 48 hours - but that's how strong the hook for creating a connection with nature is. Ok that, wishful thinking and a touch of anthropomorphism.
It's a strange emotional phenomenon when you find yourself with an opportunity for an interaction with essentially a wild animal. I think most people get it. It's a chance to reach out [figuratively] and reconnect with nature. Nature has offered us a 'hook', an invitation to be involved, be part of the bigger picture - that we're always talking about, but so few of us actually experience in the flesh. We want to be connected to nature, but we have evolved so far from our roots that we have forgotten the correct language, the subtle nuances of how to communicate, the secret knock or password of how to get back in.
I know I'm luckier than most. Just this evening I spoon fed a hedgehog. For me, the magic never gets old. Everytime there's some animal or bird or plant doing something different, I have to stop whatever I'm doing and immerse myself in another of nature's lessons.
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