“I didn’t exactly choose the ‘I prefer animals over people’ lifestyle. I just met enough people to realize the animals were winning.” This meme from social media pretty much sums up the past few months of my semi-rural life in southern New Mexico, not to mention it’s an ongoing theme woven throughout my Other Worldly novel series.
Therein, I not only address the folly of anyone thinking they’re superior to aliens, but also the hapless hubris of deeming animals inferior beings, less deserving of taking up space on Planet Earth. As if they weren’t here before we were, and won’t be here after us—unless we selfish humans manage to destroy our entire ecosystem, rendering life not possible for any living entity. This while we look to other planets for plundering.
Indeed, human desecration of Earth’s environment renders fauna survival an increasing concern, consequently harming all human lives. Accordingly, I addressed the need for honeybees to maintain our food supply chain in book four, Being Alien—there’s even a bee on the cover, pollinating a Scottish thistle.
Both the hummingbird and Luna moth are discussed beginning in book one, Alienable Rights. But in book five, Aliens Watch, I tackle a couple of creatures that are seemingly hated by humans simply for being scary and/or ugly: the bat and the opossum, both necessary and useful living beings who do not harm humans by existing among us. And in book six, Altogether Alien, both dolphins and humpbacked whales are featured for their intelligence, including emotional, which in many aspects could be considered superior to humans.
In book eight currently in progress, Alien Origins, I’m now tackling the importance of beavers for, among other things, flood control, in Scotland and also in the US. Way better and more efficient, along with wetlands, than concrete dams.
With respect to living life in southern New Mexico, another recent social media post made me think of one neighbor in particular: “If you pay $30k to fly to Africa and shoot a lion in the face, there’s something wrong with you.” Sadly, this man is proud to introduce himself as someone who’s been to Africa and Australia multiple times to kill animals as trophies for the walls of his home. I feel bad for his dog. Can you imagine living in that house, with the eyes of animals killed for mere “sport” staring down at you?
Additionally, another neighbor, when I told him I’d seen swallows flitting about (something I was quite excited about because I’ve missed them since living in rural Nevada), he actually said he once wanted to shoot swallows with a BB gun because their nest was attached to his house and it was “ugly.” Ugly. Why would anyone think birds should be harmed because they chose your home in which to build a nest? Not to mention the amazing ingenuity of swallows, because they build nests with literally thousands of tiny, wet, mud balls.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, however, because despite seeming to love most dogs, this neighbor is obsessed with maintaining a perfect “weed-free” yard, as if nature can be controlled, and as if weeds have less of a right to exist than plants he selected to be there.
Both neighbors are also big on pesticides, and have managed—either intentionally or unintentionally— to kill their own plants while attempting to save them from rats. I suspect they’ve poisoned a few owls or hawks in the process. Sickening and stupid. Especially since the rats weren’t killing the cactus. Sheesh.
All of this while I’ve spent the summer on the same street, fretting and fawning over newborn critters in my yard, putting their survival over everything, including when and where my precious dog can go out unattended.
The entire month of July was consumed with mourning doves or white-winged doves. They built a scrappy nest under the eaves of a small patio roof, right where I let my pooch out in the early morning, while it’s still dark. I worried about disturbing them by briefly turning on an outside light, both in the two weeks of incubating their eggs—two per clutch—which the mom and dad take turns at, and during the two weeks after the babies, called squabs, hatched.
Squabs, also dubbed squeakers as they get older due to begging for food (though I never heard them do this), take about two weeks to leave the nest, during which time I observed one parent or the other taking care of their needs (per the photo accompanying this post).
At times the squabs were also left alone, which is when I became particularly careful with my dog, who would lay on the porch just under the nest, completely oblivious, yet I didn’t want to stress the babies. One day I noticed it was now just the two squabs.
Then one of them left the nest, leaving its sibling behind. I grew anxious about that lone dove, so much so I told it that it was okay to fly away and join his family. Which it did, after two fretful days for me (and perhaps for the reticent bird).
Now I look up at the scattered remains of the nest, proud that they survived, and yet sad to be missing them. Perhaps I’ll have another nest to watch over next year.
This month—last week to be precise—has once again brought new life, and a very different challenge for me in a unexpected place, under the small deck next to my pool, where I first observed from a sliding glass door that a cat was sipping water.
The next day, the cat was crouched, watching me when I got out of the pool, and it didn’t look well, it’s eyes dull, almost lifeless. But it disappeared under the deck when I tried to approach. Day three, the cat drank water from the pool while I was treading water at the other end.
That’s when I could see it was emaciated, and my heart sank. Certain this cat was dying, I went inside, got a bowl, filled it with my cat’s kibble, and set it outside with a bowl of fresh water, taking great relief in watching it eat from the window.
Day four, I set out more food and some milk, albeit my lactose-free version, and that’s when I saw the kittens, though it was not clear how many. My heart surged, realizing I had been feeding an exhausted and starving new mother.
She now gets whole milk and food plus crazy amounts of cat treats twice a day. I’ve named her Zia, for the symbol on the New Mexico flag, because she has four kittens, three of them who look more like her, a grayish-brown tabby, and one that is black with white feet as far as I can tell. Zia comes to nap by the sliding glass doors in the afternoon, and now arrives there in the morning and evening to let me know she’d appreciate more sustenance.
After six days, she is still too thin, but her eyes are brighter, and she will come closer to me when I’m putting out food, her face just a few inches away yesterday. She especially likes the milk—no interest in the fresh water I’ve provided to keep her from drinking pool water—and the kittens like to tumble about, and to claw halfway up a tree nearby today, giving me heart failure. 😊
Yesterday, though battling a migraine (why this post is a day late), I nonetheless assembled a small outdoor feral cat house that arrived after ordering it two days ago. It has a soft cushion inside, but I don’t know if any of the kittens have tried it yet, despite thunderstorms all afternoon. I suspect Zia isn’t sure if it’s a trap.
Who could blame her, with humans like a few of my neighbors, who will definitely never know there’s a little feline family in my backyard. I hope these sweet cats can flourish, and that my own dog and (indoor) cat will understand.
Bodie keeps going bonkers every time Zia arrives at the back patio, and Morris has definitely noticed a small cat lounging outside, but has not otherwise reacted, though I’m sure he wonders why cups of milk and his food container keep heading out the door with me every morning and afternoon.
And, no, I have no definitive plan for the future, other than continuing to show kindness to a young mother and her babies. I just bought a gallon of whole milk this morning, probably for the first time in my life. It’s the least I can do, and it does my heart good in this crazy, cruel world that humans have wrought.