Day: April 17, 2012

Lots of response to the new chapter of the oldest story, the farmer and the fox, and yes Thornapple Rover, the fox and the farmer story is a metaphor for life, for sure, which is why I am so drawn to it. “Can’t you post more photos of the dogs?” wrote one plaintive blog follower, not anxious to see foxes or chickens killed with her morning coffee, and hoping for some cute puppy shots. I understand. I smiled, not just now, my poor friend, not just now. Stories come when they come, I’m afraid, that is the nature of life also.

For me, this is about being clear. And be wary of me, good people, those of you who have been following my story for awhile know this, life turns on a dime. I give these creatures names, work  hard at taking lovely photographs of them, and then, bam, they are shot, missing, run over, stolen away by a fox, snatched by a hawk. The real world of real animals, I think, which is why I love it. Don’t get too attached to any of them. They are chickens, and they are living out their fate. A good friend e-mailed me that she was drawn up short by my line that chickens exist to be eaten, yet I know in my heart that this is so. What other purpose do these primal things serve?

Chickens are not really pets, although I love them sometimes, and others love them, but they are not too smart, not too complex. Many things eat them – dogs, foxes, ferrets, raccoons, weasels, minks, hawks and billions of people – and chickens are dumber than all of them. They are defenceless. For them, life is a minefield. They don’t even know enough to run. That is now nature works, that is the food chain. In the cities, in parts of the world where animals have become soulmates and children – this happens here too – this idea is jarring, disturbing. If I can prevent it, good, if I can’t, I accept it. Life itself.

The farmer is always in the middle. He fights for his humanity, because everything outside of his fences – dogs, deer, hawks, foxes, tractors, malls, people, legislators, animal rights advocates,  regulators, bureaucrats – is the enemy. I am not a farmer, but the farm has gotten into my head. This morning, on the hill, I saw my life passing in a way. Am I a writer? A photographer? A farmer? All of the above. The gun or the rifle. I am aware that men have problems with this killing stuff. Given a choice, they seem to often go with the rifle.The world is not a better place for that.  I think my wife would be happier if I got the camera instead. Can’t do it. The instinct to protect is as strong as the instinct to create. As long as these creatures are in my care, they deserve my vigilance and protection.

Rest assured that the fox will be back, and he will snatch up one of these colorful hens I am taking photos of, it’s almost a guarantee. One man’s art is another’s dinner. And one way or another, I can assure you, I will get him. I am just as smart and stubborn as he is, if not as agile or pretty.

I read Thoreau every morning. Be clear, he says. A self-determined life is about making decisions, and living with them. Respect yourself, says Hannah Arendt. It is not about what others would do, it is about what you would do.  If is not about approval, but self-respect.

I got up early to let the dogs out, and Mother, the barn cat, as usual, was waiting for me. I let the chickens out, said good morning to the donkeys, let the dogs out. The birdsong was beautiful, the mist clearing over the big barn, the farm never more restful. The chickens came up the hill a bit, then turned and ran towards the barn. The donkeys turned their heads up the hill, Frieda barked. I saw the fox  half-way up the hill, moving down towards the chickens, and then stopping, noticing me, just staring at me, watching me.

I ran into the house, looked at the camera, looked at the rifle, grabbed the rifle. I can’t sit in the house writing while the fox is looking to kill the chickens and the barn cats, I thought. And this is not a time to take a photo. It is not safe to fire a rifle and take a photo at the same time. And I needed to protect the farm. The farm comes first.

That was the choice. Maria came out, and Maria, who cannot bear to see things killed, turned away and I walked up the hill with the rifle, lay down on the ground. The fox, a beautiful red thing, came out and walked a few yards to my left, towards something – a mole, a mouse, a rabbit. He was limping, probably from a shotgun blast from my neighbor, who was trying to save his cats.  I made the sure the donkeys – they were all in a row, behind me – and the dogs, were all behind me, and that there was nothing but grass and trees in my scope.

I waited until he came into my sights. He paused and looked at me, looked directly at me,  and I fired off one shot from my .22. I don’t know if I hit him or not – it was about 50 yards – but he started and raced to the right. Another shot, and he turned. He turned again and headed for the bottom of the upper pasture gate, and I anticipated that and fired off another shot just ahead of him. Then he was gone, and in a few seconds, the farm was quiet again, pastoral, peaceful. “I didn’t like that,” Maria said. “I hope he isn’t hurt.”

I know, I said, but I hope he was hurt. I hope I got him. The divine lives in the real world, in the real hearts and the farm is a very real place. Life and death are  not dramas, not crises, but life itself, the rythyms of life. I protect the chickens, but I don’t cry for them. They are the simplest creatures in the world, and exist to be eaten, and in the oldest story in the world, the fox wins sometimes, and the farmer wins sometimes. I expect he will be back, and one of these times, sooner or later, I will get him for sure.