The Catch

I've been digging up old stuff. This one is from last year written about some time in my childhood. See, I used to catch all sorts of animals: butterflies, lizards, pill bugs, chipmunks, frogs, and yes, even the neighbor's dogs. But you can't get away with that kind of behavior without it affecting you...

The gravel of the garden path bites into my knees, leaving bumpy, angry red patterns. As I shift to a mossy patch, my target freezes, cheeks bulging, and vanishes through a tunnel of vinca. I don’t move, because I know after adding its cheek contents to a cash of seeds, it will return.

I have always held a passion for nature, but not in the usual ways. I am the surveyor, one who finds joy in walking through forests and watching the animals, and holding to the belief that humans should take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints. But I have also been a hunter, someone who won’t set herself aside from nature. I wish to be a part of the cycle, not exempt because of my species. Humans should have kept themselves a part of the environment instead of creating their own. I don’t want to sit high and mighty on my mortal throne, watching over a fragile domain. The trees in the park need not make way for me because I slip so readily around them. And like any hunter, as I tread silently I am thinking of the catch.

Sure enough, its pointed tan snout is shuffling through the sunflower seeds at the base of the bird feeder. It meanders beneath an overturned flowerpot propped by a forked twig and tied to a line of twine, the other end of which is in my tensed hand. I know from experience that if I pull now my quarry will escape with only a bruised bottom. Its small furry body disappears into the darkness of the pot…and I pull! The pot seems to fall slowly, but if my geriatric cat can catch one, the chipmunk’s escape will be slower. When I upright the pot the ground squirrel rockets out into my waiting net. As I unwind its body from the net into my hand, it bites my thumb, but a leather glove stops its surprisingly long yellow teeth. My catch is then squeezed into a wire cage until I release the chipmunk in the park, a safe distance away from my mother’s garden. She gives me one dollar.

When I close my eyes this summer, I see chipmunks.

My father uses poison.

In the warm and honey afternoon sunlight, a petite mass is lies sprawled on the edge of the garden path, very catlike, but not like a chipmunk should be at all. Its black and white stripes flash as its sides shiver up and down. I move its limp body to the grass. As I do it starts, biting viciously into my unprotected hand. A minute later I am left with a lifeless form. The chipmunk’s mouth hangs open slightly, showing four little teeth and small pink tongue. A sunflower seed falls from its cheek into my hand and is warm on my fingertip. The four-inch long body is unbelievably soft, completely surrendering to the shape of my hand. I do not cry, but I am sad. Sorrow clings to my heart with the tiny but significant weight of the seed on my skin. As I catch a chipmunk I see how, like a cat, I could twist it in my hand and end its life. But this death in my hands exposes that this is the catch I’ve been looking for. I am not a killer.

The catch can be anything. Like before in the garden, I freeze to spy my target. Ah, there it is. In the frosted air that cleanses inside and out, an owl’s hushed wings beat. I catch the sound, the smell, and the taste of the moment before I release it again to time.