Those of you who follow this site know that recently the swamp that abuts on my property became the home of Castor canadensis (a beaver). Next to the edge of the swamp is a small shoreline where I sometimes see foxes, coyote, deer and other woodland inhabitants. A couple of years ago I was given a game camera as a present. I sometimes install it in various locations to get nighttime shots of the critters. A couple of weeks ago I strapped it to a sapling near the swamp and got some shots of the foxes, coyotes and raccoons. I typically take the memory card out every week and then re-insert it after downloading the files. I went to re-insert it today and couldn’t find the camera. Thinking that I had forgotten where I’d set it up, I looked around the area pretty thoroughly. I didn’t find it but I did notice that a lot of the smaller saplings were gone. The beaver has been busy. And I think he took the sapling the camera was attached to!
I’m usually a live and let live kind of guy. But stealing my camera strikes at my very identity. Who ever heard of a photog without a camera? The lodge is in a fairly inaccessible corner of the swamp and getting to it probably will entail personal discomfort on my part. Plus, I’ll be on his turf. In my mind he has fired the first shot and must now be considered hostile. I feel like Captain Kirk in the episode where he is being stalked by the big lizard man called the Gorn. Yes, just like that. It’s going to be him or me. I wanted to coexist. I came in peace for all mankind. But now where can I go to be safe? Before you know it, he’ll be dragging my truck down into the swamp. Then I’ll be trapped without an avenue of escape. And then he’ll come for me.
Like Kirk I have no phaser, no space age weapon to give me the clear advantage. It’s his giant razor-sharp incisors versus my brain. But he has a brain too. It may not be as large but it’s backed up by all the cunning and savagery that his rodent ancestors have accumulated down the long span of this island earth. He has that and also the hatred that all rodents feel for those who put out spring traps for their diminutive brethren the field mice. How many of his kindred have I snuffed out with my traps. I’ve thrown their bodies down by the swamp for the fox to eat. This must be the basis of his vendetta against me. What was I thinking? How else could he take that except as a war crime. Well, it’s too late now. Nothing will suffice but that this contest reach its bitter conclusion. Two will go in. Only one will emerge from the arena. If this be my last post then let me just say it’s been an honor. If it turns out not to be my last post then maybe I’ve slightly inflated the situation. Only time will tell.
Post script. Yeah, nothing happened. Never mind. But my camera is still gone. That fur-bearing bastard is probably taking selfies of himself inside his lodge and laughing and laughing at my expense.
To be continued.