It's May in the Heartland and after feasting on morels we harvest mild, crisp radishes and an assortment of greens— spinach, arugula, romaine lettuce. Spears of asparagus, tender as butter, are tossed in the breakfast skillet with chopped green onions and a scramble of eggs. And on the side is a bowl of fresh picked strawberries that might be the sweetest the world has known.
The birds have returned and nesting is in full swing. Several groups of goslings now patrol the yard. There have been mixups, so one family of nine includes the young of three different ages. They move around through the day— from yard to pond to creek to somewhere unbeknownst to yard again— covering hundreds of yards in the process.
A couple weeks ago one of the nine turned up lame with a leg dislocated at the hip. It couldn't stand. The bird would wave its stubby wings, push off with one good leg and land on its belly with the bad leg dragging behind. And there it would lay, nibbling grass rather contentedly, until it gained the muster for another lurch.
Initially, the parents and the balance of the brood moved on, but the peeping from the disabled one brought the gander back and the entire regiment came to a halt. The day’s movements would be modified.
There was a point we considered intervening, perhaps bringing a rehabilitator into the mix. There was also a point when I thought dispatching the bird was justified, but decided otherwise. By late afternoon the gosling showed marginal improvement and had earned a name: Gimp. It could now balance on its good leg for a moment before collapsing. Near dusk the family moved into the pond and waited expectantly. It took awhile, but Gimp eventually lurched its way through the tall sedges at the pond edge and went gliding swiftly across the water in an arrow straight line, propelled by one foot. The family left the water on the opposite shore and Gimp peeped miserably but finally made it out to join its clan for the night’s roost.
We didn’t expect it to survive. No doubt the entire family was at greater risk of predation due to their accommodating Gimp. But the following morning all were accounted for, and within a week, daily movements returned to normal. Gimp became quite proficient at standing and hopping on one leg, and could do so without flapping wing stubs for balance. The handicap now seems almost a nonissue. Gimp is off to the races.
There was a related experience a year ago with a quite different outcome. On that day there came a lot of splashing and vocalizing from the pond as a half grown gosling was being pulled repeatedly underwater. It was suddenly free and attempted to join its family which had left the water and was standing on the bank, highly alert. When the gosling reached the shore its wounds were apparent: a leg had been stripped of skin, and poking through the muscle was a jagged end of fractured bone. The bird hadn’t the wherewithal to haul itself ashore. Its family stood by attentively. They followed the wounded as it worked the shoreline attempting to pull itself out. They offered encouragement with outstretched necks and soft murmerings. But in about a quarter hour they moved on, as if recognizing the magnitude of the injury and the futility of their efforts.
Under the circumstances it seemed most humane to dispatch the bird, so with rifle in hand I began a slow approach along the far shore. At one point I had a clear shot but then the gosling spooked, and I caught a movement in the dark water directly below where the bird had been. The movement took form, and there was the massive, angular head of a snapping turtle in all its sinister glory. It saw me and made a slow, ghostly retreat to the depths.
Our suspicions were confirmed. We had identified the culprit and it was following the scent of raw flesh and blood hoping to complete a task. And I was faced with an option: I could step aside and allow a classic predator-prey interaction to come to its natural end, or I could intercede and bring it to rapid conclusion. I chose the latter, and led by some delusional sense of justice removed the carcass from the water, denying the turtle its rightful quarry.
In May, billions are added and billions more are taken from a complex and dynamic web of life. We claim our favorites, those we want to be winners. Few of us would root for the dung beetle snatched by the bluejay, the leech swallowed by the largemouth bass, the meadow vole that finds its end in the talons of a red tailed hawk. We give even less consideration to the green onions ripped from the soil and chopped and added to our breakfast scramble.
There are no rules of engagement, no enforced standards, only an age-old need for energy to be transferred for the sake of balance and productivity. Life sustaining life. The process includes harsh realities, but the results are beautiful.
