My Pet Moose

Tuesday, April 5, 2005: Baby Bullwinkle

I worked very hard on my last post, Sleeping Sun. Not because it was difficult, but because my brain was tired and foggy from never-ending body ache and I feel like a wounded animal, isolated. I can't get out and nobody can come in. I am locked inside of a prison.

As I try to hurry to finish up and post, because it's almost noon and I must get ready to go to town, because Himself has been waiting on me for two hours already, a baby moose appears in front of our house, right in the driveway. A little angel, sent by the Universe to help me shift my focus from me, to something more deserving.

This is a very young moose, perhaps a yearling -- and extremely rare -- this is a baby bull, with two little sprouts beginning to protrude on top of his head, right in front of his massive mule-like ears. But he looks ill. His eyes are not bright, but dull. His blinks are not quick, but very slow. He digs in the layers of snow that form still a four-foot snowbank on either side of the drive, for food that I have thrown out all winter, old produce, bread and crackers. He acts like he is starving and sometimes I notice his legs shake.  But his belly is as round as a German beer cask. Collic? He digs with the sharp cloven points of his front hoof, through many layers of snowfall, hardened into solid concrete layers, unearthing his favorite things: broccoli, lettuce, apples, baby carrots, even celery and berries.

Himself says he hopes I am not going to kill the moose because they are only supposed to eat bark and grasses. I remind him that moose are vegetarians and this time of year they are starving, willing to eat just about anything that has been grown in the ground. He says he hopes we don't get into trouble for throwing food out for the wildlife and I ask him if he's going to call the state troopers on me and the moose.

I go to the window and shoot off the rest of the roll of film in the camera. He sees me through the window, startled at first, but continues eating. When I can't stand it anymore and go to the door, open up the screen to lean out and get clearer shots, he sees me, comes closer, and closer, hesitant, but very curious. He comes all the way up to the porch, right in front of me. He is gentle and sweet and very respectful. I talk to him, he is magnificent, he likes my voice, I tell him he is a Good Boy and he listens carefully. I shower him with flattery in a sing-song voice, about what a beautiful young Bullwinkle he is, when I sing softly, he leans closer.

Himself says: We gotta go. Stop petting the moose. So, I tell the baby that he has to go now. Go on, Baby Bullwinkle, go on over there ... we need to get into our truck ... and you're standing in the way.

Himself tries to get into his truck, after the moose moves back over to the snowpile in front of the house, but instead of one trip, he makes several. Testing? This makes Bullwinkle anxious. His eyes narrow and I think I sense, in between his chews, a couple of subtle snorts. I say: you better make up your mind - either get in the truck or come in the house ... I think you are threatening his food source and he's becoming protective.

Himself will not let himself be bossed by a baby moose, with or without nuts. Moose charges. Himself dives back in through the front door, shoving me out of the way, slamming the door shut and locking it.

This goes on for an hour.

I am ready to go now. I have on my boots. They are much too hot to wear this time of year, but with daily temps in the upper 40s all week, breakup has begun. It's soup out there. I finally talk moose into going "way over there." The truck is pulled in front of the porch so I can get in too, just in case I misinterpreted moose's behavior. We finally leave but it's already after one o'clock, almost 1:30 and we still have to gun the motor and toot the horn, so the moose will get out of the driveway to let us pass. He has No Fear.

We come back several hours later to find moose laying down in snow behind trees, facing front windows of the house, still eating. We have to back the truck into the garage so we can unload in safety. Himself must now leave for work. But not without getting charged again. He finally gets in his truck, and in a fit of "You're not the boss of me!" pique, toots his horn at the moose as he drives by, which is his more delicate way of giving moose the finger.

Moose watches truck with the bad man go away. He turns and walks towards the house, right up onto the porch this time. He acts like he wants to come inside and play. I shoot more film, closeups, as I smell his sweet breath through the screen door. Our heads are only six inches apart -- three inches on either side of the screen. He likes my voice. I like his big head. Sometimes, when he lays down to rest (while still eating) I notice his head looks like a giant rabbit's head, all soft brown fur and big pointed ears that occasionally flop over on themselves. He is lonely. He is lost. He does not feel well. I don't know what to do for him. I write for advice, but I hear none back. Who knows what to do for a moose? He could have that chronic wasting disease killing herds of wild deer, seeing as how moose are the largest members of the deer family. Lately we have heard of so many moose, just keeling over dead, right in people's driveways or yards, or on the side of the road. And nobody, not the fish and game department, nor the state veterinarian, knows what is killing them. Nobody has any advice. We are on our own, Bullwinkle and me.

He is so hungry. He hangs out for the entire evening, eating, laying down to rest, eating snow for an hour, changing position to lay facing my door, almost as if he's waiting for me to come back and talk to him? He came back up on the porch two more times, waiting for me to open the door up, but at this point, I thought it better to ignore him, even though I can't help peeking out through the blinds at his dark shilhouette. I don't want to be responsible for creating a troubled teen. When it has become almost completely dark, almost midnight, he finally decides to get up and he moseys on back behind the house to his bed, which is probably a cleared area in soft snow, surrounded by trees, where he can rest in safety, blending in, invisible to the world.

Wednesday, April 6th: He likes it here

Baby Bullwinkle is back early, eating all the willow trees in a line, a half acre long, from the back of the property, all the way up to, and down the back fence line to the garage. The dogs go mad! I have to keep pulling them inside so they don't give the moose any ideas about charging (and knocking down) the fence. That would be bad. There would be bloody snow all over the place and I would not be able to separate hoof from dog. But so far, dogs seem to entertain moose. He doesn't act in the least bit annoyed or threatened by their small fur-covered noise.

Willow trees are the favorite winter food for moose. Besides holding trace elements and minerals to keep them healthy and help bulls grow their antlers, the bark also produces the same ingredient that aspirin is made from, an analgesic, which also feeds them the necessary salts they need. So Baby Bullwinkle alternates the frozen produce market with all the willow trees on our property, at his leisure.

Moose have no feeling in their lower legs. This is because they have to stand in deep snow for months at a time when the temperatures may be incomprehensibly low, down to minus 65 below zero, F. (-55 C.?) Also, if they get hit by a car or fall through a crack in the ice or break through an ice crust to a hidden hole underneath and break their leg, they won't feel it. They just get back up, or pull themselves out, using their four-wheel drive to carry on as if nothing happened, a nifty built-in nature trick to help them survive and prosper against all odds.

He looks much better today, more energetic, more bright and aware, yet still lost, restless, orphaned. He plops down on the ice-covered driveway a lot, sighing. He stretches out and almost lays completely down, till another bit of color catches his eye and he goes to work on carving it out with an outstretched hoof, nonchallant from his position with knobby knees folded up under him.

It's no wonder he chose this home for refuge. I have always found sick and injured animals on my doorstep, brought them in, fixed them up and watched them scamper away. They know I am safe. I have nothing but respect for these guardians of Mother Earth. But, I can't bring this guy in. His head touches the porch ceiling. I'd never get him back out again.

He seems content to just hang out. I shoot another roll and a half of film, throughout the day and evening, forgetting all about the video camera in the closet. The dogs have been taught now, through the generous use of treats, to shut the hell up and leave the poor baby moose alone. They watch him intently through the window, like guerrilla warriors standing guard at their posts. Sometimes they whine.

April 7th: It's a Family Affair

No sign of Baby Bullwinkle this morning, but the dogs are barking outside, barking and ducking and slinking away each time I poke my head out through the back door, letting me know they are on duty, just in case I forgot what their official duties are.

Around noon, I take two rotting oranges and some old bread to the front door to feed the birds and squirrels. I open up the screen door to toss these items onto the snowbank and standing at the edge of the porch, six feet away from me, is a baby moose. I give us both a heart attack. Thinking its Bullwinkle, I recover and open the door up wide to feed him, saying hello! but see the boy with the nubs on his head, way over there, and this twin -- who must be his sister -- running over to his side, scared to death of me.

He has a twin sister! No wonder he looked so lost. He had lost his whole family! Lately, just about every moose cow we have seen has had two calves trailing along behind her, sometimes even three. It's amazing. I don't know why moose and also bears, have been having multiple births in recent years. Must be something in the water.

I throw the bread and this action is too much for her. She rears up on her hind legs and leaps two times like a gazelle to land in front of the garage doors, making that high-pitched whistle of warning. He just stands there, waiting for food. Silent communication, she hesitantly goes back over to join him in breaking bread. I shoot another half roll of film, some with her and him together, chewing and pawing the snow. Then I pitch one of the oranges to land in the snowbank between them and this orange bomb, too deadly and frightenting for her to contemplate, causes her to grunt, whistle and take off in a flying gallop around the corner of the garage.

I can imagine that seeing a big round orange thing, unnatural in these parts, flying through the air, would shock and awe most natives. Bullwinkle, however, licks his lips. I roll the other orange so it lands at his hooves. He looks down, sniffs, and chomps down on it, to see what it is. As soon as he tastes the juice, he swallows it down in two quick gulps and dispatches the other orange in one crushing gulp. He looks back at me for more, but is also worried about his sister.

After a moment or two of shared understanding and mutual thanks given and received for this most outstanding communion we have both been fortunate to experience, he ambles around the side of the house to follow her tracks through the snowfield, into the woods.

I figure the mom, ready to give birth to a new spring foal, must have kicked them out of her world. They have to do that or the babies would never leave her side. She probably got rid of them one at a time, separating them, and poor, newly orphaned, traumatized Bullwinkle was just hanging till he could meet up with his sister again. Kind of like when I got lost in Safeway, looking for the candy section, my hot, sweaty pennies trapped in my fist and my diaper dragging the ground, hanging out till the nice man in the bow tie called the police, who recognized me, and took me back home. Again.

Hopefully, Skittles, the skitterish sister, will help teach laid-back Bullwinkle, who has no fear of humans yet, how to avoid the likes of us two-hoofers who hold black stinky sticks that can pop out deadly thunder and fire ...  and he will protect her till its time for her to find her own beau and leaves him one fall day, while he's too busy stripping willow bark to notice that she's gone.

Comments

[Charlie]

One of your best yet Kate. The way you word your experiences, it is if I were there watching the entire scene. Thanks

Charlie

[philip]

Your voice takes my breath away. Thanks for this post.

[The Liberal Avenger]

Another post that rekindles my "sell everything and move to Alaska" fantasy.

[Mrs. Noded]

Wow, Kate I love they way you told this story. I felt like I was there with you. We don't really have anything like that here, just birds and large reptiles.

[SB]

Oh ooh oh. What a lovely bedtime story. Thank you.

So much.

[Monkey]

VERY nice post!!! Thank you for sharing this!

Here in Montana I've had a lot of critters in my yard so far - but no Moose yet - especially one like Baby Bullwinkle! :-)

Thanks again - you put a lot of time and thought and work into your posts and it shows - your blog is top-notch.

[Phyllis]

This is really Mary Lou posting from Phyllis' computer. She is on a trip and I am cat sitting, I have to sit and pet Punkin for awhile so she wont pee on sis's bed!! (spoiled Cat)

I LOVED this post!! How much do you want to sell your place for? I got 20.00! I would be up there in a heartbeat if I knew I could find a job, and sell this house. Id have to find a big house though cause Phyllis would be right behind me.

Send me a picture of bullwinkle and skittles when you get them back!!

[Kate S.]

Mary Lou, we were actually discussing the logistics of that very thing this afternoon. Time for a new adventure.

Thank you very much everybody, for all your kind words. You have no idea how much they buoy my spirit.

[john]

I knew you a great writer, but this is perfect. Blending story with great drops of knowledge; teaching and tending to the heart of the reader. In a word, inspiring.

[Chari]

Kate, can you post a couple of the pictures? I'd love to see them! Or send me one in email...? :) Fantastic story - it's like I was there watching it. Thank you!

[Kate S.]

I have four rolls of film that I was planning to take with me on my trip, so I could take them to a place that can develop them in just a few days, as opposed to waiting for two weeks up here. Then I can go through them, pick out a few of the best ones, scan them in, and load them up. I can't wait to see if any turned out! I am almost revved up enough to break out the digital ... and the instruction manual. Which is printed in Japanese. Or cuneiform. I'm hoping my sister, who is smarter than I am, will be able to figure out how to make the camera work. Then, I will let Himself figure out how to hook it up to the computer.

By then, we'll be retired.

[SB]

Oh, Kate -- the digital is worth it, really! That and Flickr. Life-changing, I tell ya.