I often find that I’m closer to life in the garden when I’m not actually in the garden. From here in the house, I can keep an eye on the outside world while I stay warm, dry and conveniently undetected.
A large cedar stands near the living room windows, and this morning I watched a scurry of grey squirrels spiralling around its trunk in a thrilling display of agility. This high velocity hide-and-seek looked like play, but for them it was serious business. These high-energy creatures squeeze two mating seasons into the year and seem undeterred by winter weather. I don’t know how many there were – they appeared and disappeared too quickly to count – but I do know that a female would have been the frontrunner. She was leading the males in a madcap race, whirling and streaking from tree to tree to test their fitness and their smarts before she awarded herself as the prize.
These eastern grey squirrels, which also come in black, were deliberately introduced to Vancouver’s Stanley Park from New York in 1909. Surprisingly, the implant of eight pairs didn’t take, and even more surprisingly another attempt was made some years later. This time the population settled in and thrived. I used to wonder how they crossed the First Narrows Inlet, which separates Vancouver from our home on the North Shore. Had these acrobats performed a high wire act across the Lions Gate suspension bridge? I wouldn’t put it past them but I learned the truth a few years back. As the squirrels began to scamper through the city, some inevitably met with cars or cats, and a wildlife rescue centre accepted the injured. Stanley Park was already overpopulated, so a well-meaning helper drove a batch of recovered patients across the bridge and released them in her invitingly green backyard on our side of the water. Oops!
Now common on the North Shore, they are the monkeys of our jungle, jokers with tails as fluffy as feather boas, who scoot across a road with a motion as fluid as cursive script, or who sit immobile, demure as teapots. Because they have dubious reputations as harmful invaders and are also avid consumers of tulip bulbs, I feel obliged to disapprove of them, and yet these captivating animals are so patently in love with life, how can I fail to enjoy their presence?
Our native Douglas squirrels are more trustworthy and are always welcome in the garden. If I were to choose a favourite animal, they’d be top of my list, right up there with a favourite tree, the Douglas-fir, and a favourite plant hunter, David Douglas.
Douglas was a young Scottish gardener who, in the early nineteenth century, collected plants and animals in the Pacific Northwest on behalf on the Horticultural Society of London. What he lacked in scientific background he made up for in courage and persistence, but it was also his friendly association with the knowledgeable indigenous people that made him one of the most successful of the European plant hunters. “I procured some curious kinds of rodents” was how he recorded his first encounter with the squirrels that came to bear his name.
At the back of the house beside the squirrels’ cedar, grows a large native crab-apple tree. Its tiny golden fruits help to feed overwintering birds, and this afternoon the branches are alive with varied thrushes. These are distinguished looking characters with russet waistcoats, smart orange eyebrows and black collars, which they wear like mayoral chains. While one or two perch and preen placidly, others perform fluttery gymnastics to snatch fruit from the spindly twigs. They are shy birds, but our living room windows provide me with a privileged, closeup view of their private lives.
Two other red-breasted birds, our local towhees, are gleaning apples knocked off by the busy flock above. A devoted couple, they are tamer than the thrushes and often scuffle in the leaf litter close by while I work in the garden. Their fancy footwork reminds me of line dancing. Jump to the front, kick to the back, step to the front, shuffle to the back. I’d love to see them add the Flea Hop or the Mash Potato to their repertoire.
The windows of the living room are not the only ones to turn this house into a hide – our personal wildlife theatre. Beside the kitchen window once, as we ate our lunch beside the kitchen window, a great blue heron flapped from the sky, lowered its unwieldy landing gear, and settled on the deck rail a few feet away from us. Our soup grew cold as we watched, in awe, this unexpected visitation from the age of dinosaurs. I’ve cheered as generations of chickadee families have fledged from the nest box outside my studio window, and from the bedroom window one morning I was surprised to see a large black overcoat dropped on the path below. I was even more surprised when it raised itself up and became a bear. Before it waddled off down the road, the shameless animal performed unmistakable muscular contractions, which left us a large steaming gift. Ray dealt with it – after I’d explained that cleaning up in the wake of bears had never been part of my job description.
You are so lucky to have so much wildlife on your doorstep. We have lots of sheep and starlings with a few sparrows. Where have all the birds gone?
Davina