Animals act like jerks sometimes. This differentiates them from humans, who act like jerks only when they are threatened, injured or awake.
Whether it’s climate change or just me getting grumpier, animals are increasingly acting like jerks. This can most easily be seen when a human is just about to press the shutter release on a Nikon D850 (price: $3,096.95), perfectly focused and framed on a scarlet tanager. As the finger descends in super slo-mo the bird goes airborne a nanosecond before the “click.” And, just for spite, donates a decidedly not-scarlet deposit on the camera, expertly hitting the lens.
We’re seeing these animal revenge tactics more often. It’s not just scarlet tanagers. Even sedate, responsible birds such as great horned owls have gone ninja. They used to keep a respectful distance from our house, singing their two-tone duet from atop the highest trees: a soft, warm Reba McEntire “Hoooo, hoooo,” followed by a deep, melodious James Earl Jones “HOO, HOO.” We often could fall asleep to it.
But no more. The owls have joined the “Give Them the Bird” Air Force, sitting right outside our bedroom window and hootin’ and hollerin’ enough to make a reasonably literate man drop the “g” at the end of each gerund.
(Longtime QuipTide readers will recall that gerunds are words that end in “ing.” Yes, it’s a dumb, unnecessary word, since the “ing” is already a dead giveaway.)
Even the so-called domesticated chickens are getting pushy. They see us coming to feed them each day, but peck at my long-suffering wife’s legs as she spreads the grub around the pen. Talk about pecking the hand that feeds you!
The chickens are turning into those disgruntled denizens of B prison movies, rattling their trays across the bars and yelling, “I ain’t eatin’ this slop!” True, the food remnants we give chickens along with their pellets are slop, not fit for man nor beast. On the other hand, the chickens wouldn’t last 30 minutes outside the coop, so we do provide them with some benefit.
Don’t get me started on gophers. Bill Murray summarized all we need to know about gophers in his documentary, “Caddyshack.” They are always a nuisance but of late have turned our property into an exploded mine field. Our lawn looks like my face in high school. (OK, somewhat in college, too.)
The family dog, Opal, who began life as a feral huntress, knows all about gophers. She can hear and smell them far underground. Leaping up then sharply down, she can excavate a gopher run in a matter of seconds, often coming up with a near-sighted prize. Opal may be our only hope against the Gopher Apocalypse.
The animal revolt will no doubt culminate in their most evil scheme: the Reverse Ark. Built from humanity’s discards — mainly plastic waste, year-old computers, and back issues of National Geographic — the
humans in one spot, leaving the animals to freely poop
on lawns, as many already do.
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