Wild Things: New Year’s resolutions

By ED KANZE

As one year ends and the next begins, we North Americans that walk around on two feet have a custom of making resolutions. Could it be possible that wild animals have a similar custom? I went for a walk to find out.

The first animal I encountered was a spider in a snowbank. It appeared to be walking stiff-legged, which is an uncomfortable situation for anyone but especially for an eight-legged arthropod. On first posing the question, I saw only confusion in the spider’s eyes, all eight of them. But then came understanding.

“Well,” said the spider, “I hadn’t really given the matter much thought. Live for the moment is my motto, or at least live until I catch the next succulent insect. The coming year? I expect to die before spring, so I’m not the best creature to ask. But if I had a future to look forward to, I suppose a rereading of “Charlotte’s Web” would be in order, as would be a sprucing up of my spinnerets.” 

Spinnerets are a spider’s silk spinning organs. I wanted to ask more but the spider ducked under a flake of maple bark and was gone.

Next I came to a barred owl. The rotund and fluffy bird was doing its best to snooze, a job made almost impossible by the mob of chickadees, titmice, nuthatches and blue jays that were screaming at it from surrounding branches. 

“Next year?” said the dark-eyed owl, pouncing on the subject at once. “First off I’d like these pestiferous songbirds to go away. I only eat a small fraction of them, so why all the fuss? I wish they’d let me sleep. Immediate annoyances aside, I resolve in the arriving annum to hunt with better skill and catch more mice and frogs and insects and yes, the occasional unwary perching bird. I would like to be plumper next year than I am now. That would greatly increase my chances of living to see the spring. Right now, alas, my odds aren’t looking so good.” 

With that, perhaps pushed beyond the limit of its patience, the owl dropped from its limb and zoomed off silently.

I proceeded down the trail until I came upon a whitetail deer looking bedraggled and unsteady on its feet. The deer was a male, a buck, with a handsome set of antlers. I posed the question. “What hopes or goals have you for the new year?”

Beginning with a sigh, the buck spoke in a tired whisper. 

“Above all, I resolve to get some sleep. Over the last month or two, I’ve been busy trying to produce heirs. Let me tell you, it’s a demanding, around-the-clock business. Autumns, we burn the candle at both ends. Then, when it’s all over, every buck in this forest is spent. As the new year approaches, we’re desperate to sleep, perchance to dream. Yet even when we find quiet, hidden places to lie and fade into blessed oblivion, hungry beasts — bobcats, coyotes, retrievers, schnauzers — come sniffing. If they find us, we must bolt or die, and often we die anyway. A buck’s is a demanding life, although, to consider the other side of the coin, it’s one rich in pleasures — does, fawns, tulips, hostas, arborvitaes, and more. Your kind keeps planting our favorite foods, then complaining when we eat it.”

Not about to be dressed down by an even-toed ungulate, I moved on. After just a few more steps, I came to the last participant in my informal survey: a gray fox.

This handsome member of the dog family did not appear where you usually see a dog. It was up in a tree, looking down on me from a stout limb. 

“Don’t look surprised,” barked the fox. “Only one member of the dog family in the world climbs trees, and you’re looking at it. What can I do for you?”

I explained. The fox answered in a voice that sounded like a dry cough.

“I resolve,” it said, “to live life to its utmost, avoid encounters with speeding cars, stay away from chickens, which, tasty as they are, provide more trouble than they’re worth, and play every free minute with my puppies.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “I thought fox babies were called kits or cubs?”

“Humans exasperate me,” said the fox. “Do I look like a cat or bear? I’m a dog, it’s plain to see. Dog whelps are called puppies.”

With that, the fox leapt, hit the ground running, and was gone. As it fled, it turned over its shoulder and barked parting words.

“Last thing,” said the fox, “I resolve to seize every day, every mouse and every vole. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”