A
couple of months ago, while I was cutting the grass on the riding
mower, I suddenly noticed a grouse running along the side of the fence,
back and forth, parallel to me. I assumed he/she was protecting a nest,
patrolling his/her territory and putting me on notice not to get any
closer. Each time I mowed the lawn the ritual was repeated. Then a
couple of times I noticed this same grouse running parallel to me, at
the forest's edge about ten feet away, during my daily backyard 5k run.
And then a month ago, while I was replacing the bulbs in some
of our outdoor lights, I heard a rustling noise and a grouse (I did not
know if it was the same one) appeared no more than a foot from me. As I
worked, he/she got closer and closer, finally pecking at my ankles. I
tried to shoo him/her away, but without success, and finally, after
deciding I must be very close to (another?) nest, I gave up and went
inside.
In August and early September, because it's so dry here
(and the property is too large to water), I don't usually have to mow
much, so I didn't really miss our feathered visitor until Bob, the
mason who has been repairing our chimneys, reported last week that a
grouse had sat at his feet for two whole days as he worked, and seemed
to take a liking to his scaffolding. Every once in awhile she (Bob is
positive the grouse was female) would wander off, checking out his
tools and supplies and even pecking at his power saw. She was so tame
that Bob was convinced she was a family pet and I was just having him
on by disavowing any knowledge of her.
The day Bob finished
the job (Thursday) the grouse got bolder still, flying up and sitting
on his shoulder and then later on top of his hat. That same day, as I
was mowing, she followed me all around the yard, jumping in front of
the mower and circling around it, retreating under the trees when I
turned the mower around and then pouncing out again when I returned to
cut the next swath. She followed me, for the first time, as I mowed the
front yard, repeating the same
behaviour. And Bob told me that as he was packing up and taking his
tools down to his truck she ran alongside him with each trip, as if she
knew he was not coming back and was urging him to stay. Bob's my age
and has worked outdoors all his life, and he says he has never seen
anything like it -- he was moved to tears by what appeared an obvious
outpouring of affection from this strange little bird.
Yesterday
I did some research to see if such behaviour is common. The ruffed
grouse as a breed is supposedly pretty shy, though there have been several reports
of astonishingly tame grouse, even some that sat on people's laps and
cooed and purred while they were stroked. This is the species that that
piece-of-shit war criminal Cheney gets his jollies shooting full of
excruciatingly painful (as the judge he shot will testify) buckshot for
'sport'. Farmed grouse are raised just for assholes like Cheney to
shoot -- their one moment of freedom is when they are taken from their
cages, sequestered in heavy thickets, and then 'rousted', only to be
slaughtered at close range in their first seconds of flight.
So
I asked myself: What would account for this strange, tame behaviour? I
have only one hypothesis. The male ruffed grouse apparently attracts a
mate by emitting a low, loud, sustained drumming noise. There is some
controversy over how this is done, though one theory is that the male
repeatedly beats its wings against its chest. Was our little visitor
attracted by the sound of my riding mower, and Bob's masonry saw,
hearing these sounds as mating calls from two apparently single males?
Or was she wise enough to know that we weren't of her species (and
hence not suitable mates), but surmised that perhaps males of other
species also made low drumming noises to tell the world that they were
alone, and searching for company? Was our grouse dancing with us in
sympathetic response to what she saw as our species' terrible
loneliness, and gracing us with her company as a way of cheering us up?
When
I started writing this article (I'm writing it outdoors at my
standing-height desk inside our backyard dining tent), I was going to
report sadly that this weekend she had seemingly gone, perhaps because
the changing weather had caused her to refocus her attentions on
preparations for winter (ruffed grouse don't migrate). But then
something caused me to turn around and there she was, peering at me
from under cover of the edge of the forest, perhaps ten feet away. I
rushed inside to get my camera and when I returned she was waiting for
me. For the next fifteen minutes we danced, circling around each other
cooing and clucking softly to each other as I took pictures so close
that my camera couldn't focus. Finally I sat down and gradually she
came closer and closer, first jumping on my slipper and then climbing
up my arm to my shoulder and jumping onto my head and pecking gently at
my hair. When I tried to shake her off she seemed to take it as a game,
rebalancing for a couple of minutes before finally jumping back down.
Just
when I think I can't be any more in awe of nature, an experience like
this happens. I'm still not quite sure what to make of it all (and I
would welcome readers' advice -- I'm inclined not
to feed her or allow her to get too trusting of humans), but I suspect
there will be further adventures to report (she's watching me still as
I write this, from the cover of the underbrush at the forest's edge).
Sometimes
we just don't pay attention until it's too late. And sometimes, we're
graced with another chance. I have stop writing -- I can't see the
screen through my tears. |
MADE IN CANADA
trust your
instincts 
