Fall has arrived and with it comes the great migration of critters preparing for winter.
Squirrels are darting across highways with puffed-out cheeks, clutching their nuts. I’m playing Dodge Squirrel, trying to guess: will they commit to crossing or pull a mid-road U-turn like they suddenly remembered they left the oven on?
Sometimes they just freeze mid-road, mid-mission. They lock eyes with me, tiny paws suspended, as if we’re both in a live action version of “Who’s Gonna Flinch First?” I’m gripping the wheel, whispering to myself, please choose life. And they just stand there, contemplating their fate. One twitch, one turn, and it’s either squirrel glory or squirrel doom.
Squirrels aren’t the only ones tempting fate. Yesterday, I spotted one of those tiny brown fuzzy, caterpillars inching across the road with admirable slow-motion determination. They don’t scurry. They don’t panic. They just sweetly, stubbornly, intentionally crawl toward their destination. One tire tread away from tragedy. And me? I’m swerving to avoid their demise. There’s something about their innocence, their quiet resolve, that makes it impossible to be the one who ends it.
It might have been the hare who said, “slow and steady wins the race,” but I believe that applies to fuzzy brown caterpillars and turtles just as much. Maybe more.
Lawn mowing this time of year is no picnic either. Cue the grasshopper palooza and the baby frogs, who, let’s be honest, aren’t likely to see adulthood. I hate it. I know I’m deciding it’s their last day on earth. It doesn’t feel good.
I’ve actually stopped the mower and summoned Saint Francis – my Catholicism kicking in. Or is it Saint Anthony? I always mix them up. Tony’s my go-to when I can’t find my keys. But when it comes to critter casualties, I offer up a prayer to Saint Francis:
“OK St. Francis, I hope I’m speaking to the right saint here, but regardless, here’s the deal. The lawn has to be mowed. There’s no humanly possible way I can avoid the thousands of tiny lives just going about their business. So just so you know in advance – I’m sorry. It wasn’t intentional. Please let them die instantly, no suffering, and usher them straight to the light. Amen and let the mowing commence.”
Now, snakes. Oh, snakes. My personal evil. I don’t aim for them, but I do scream like I’ve seen a ghost when one pops up mid-mow. Unlike a certain friend of ours who mows with vengeance, because if he sees a snake, you can bet he’s aiming straight for it. Me? I’d prefer not to leave a hundred sunbaked snake particles on the lawn for Gracie to roll in. Eau de serpent is not a fragrance I endorse.
And snakes, if you’re listening: keep your head down! The mower would’ve straddled you. But no, you had to pop up like a jack-in-the-box of doom.
I’m sure we’ve all encountered the dilemma while driving, if what lies up ahead on the road is a snake or a serpentine car part. It’s not moving, but one look in the rear-view mirror after driving over it settles the debate. If it was a snake, it’s now doing postmortem gymnastics. And once you’ve seen that, you can’t unsee it.
It’s all roadkill in my book. Raccoons, possums, deer, fuzzy caterpillars, frogs, turtles. Most folks don’t flinch at a dead racoon splattered on the highway, but show them a Bambi and suddenly it’s a tragedy. I guess cuteness wins. Or maybe size really does matter.
Some days, I can’t even swat a fly. I must be on some vibrational high those days. Even the tiny gnat in the sink, who I could have easily wash down the drain, gets a pass. Other days? You’re dead! Probably just a bad hair day.
So grab your favorite cocktail and let’s raise a glass: “To the road-crossers, the lawn-hoppers, the slow crawlers, and the surprise snakes. May we honor them equally, regardless of size or fluff factor. May our tires miss them, our mowers straddle them, and our hearts remember that every creature – cute or creepy, is just trying to make it through the season. Cheers to the fall migration, and to all the tiny lives we didn’t mean to flatten.”
