Our Wild Kingdom
When I was growing up on the island, the biggest threat from nature was a crab hiding in the seaweed at low tide. Back then, you could still find prized sand dollars scattered across the sandy patches off Cove Beach and sea urchins hugged the rocks. The crabs feared a pack of screaming kids more than we feared them. Since they never actually bit us, confrontations were rare.
Fast-forward to today and it feels like we have skipped several chapters and landed squarely in the Wild Kingdom. Somewhere along the way, the island stopped being ours and became a nature preserve with very relaxed admission policies.
It began with the red ants. At first, they were barely noticeable. Then one bit you and they became unbearable and suddenly they were everywhere. Not just a few ants, but organized battalions. They had a strategy, a chain of command, and apparently military intelligence. They invaded Cove Beach. In an attempt to outsmart them we moved our beach chairs into the water thinking it was a safe zone. The ants were not deterred. They swam out after us in formation. The beach day was lost as it turned into an amphibious assault. Clearly, the island had been infiltrated by aliens in tiny red uniforms. This time, the Redcoats won - and they stayed.
Then came the mink.
The first time you see one you think, “oh look, there goes a very stylish rat.” Don’t be fooled. Their good looks are merely a disguise for their atrocious frat-boy behavior. They spend the winter squatting in empty island homes, partying like rock stars on lobster, mussels and fish, with absolutely no intention of cleaning up after themselves. Recently, the mink have mysteriously diminished in numbers. The word on the road is that they got wiped out by the “big winter storm”, but I don’t buy it. Mink survive Siberian winters; a Maine storm is basically a tropical vacation. With hope, at one of the Island cocktail parties, a breathtaking “faux” (wink-wink…nudge-nudge) mink coat will appear in the silent auction. There will be no questions asked. May the highest bidder win.
And now we have turkeys.
My question is: how did they get here? Everyone insists turkeys can fly. I have yet to see one commuting over Boothbay Harbor. Perhaps some overly ambitious islander was planning a cage-free Thanksgiving, smuggled over a breeding pair, and things got out of hand. Personally, after Reggie and I were ambushed by a particularly hostile bird – clearly suffering from severe anger-management issues – I am not a fan of these aesthetically challenged fowl. The only turkey I want to encounter is sliced thinly in a club sandwich at the Tea Shop.
Let’s talk Bambi. One Bambi? Cute. An entire herd of Bambis? That’s a National Geographic special waiting to happen. Flower gardens have become all-you-can-eat buffets, dogs have been leashed into submission, and the deer and tick populations are exploding in equal measure. My mother, meanwhile, is convinced I am one charging buck away from becoming a cautionary tale.
What are we supposed to do about all the nature?
The mice certainly are no help. They claimed ownership of just about every island house. Getting “miced” is now a thing and it is an experience no one wants twice. It is the island’s favorite cocktail conversation, right up there with creative strategies for their mass extermination. Feral cats have yet to make their way onto the Novelty, but if they do, I fully expect a welcoming committee, a parade, and honorary island citizenship before they have taken their first nap.
Jellyfish have taken over the beaches. Sharks patrol the spindle. Osprey have moved into the library with no plans to leave. Somewhere along the way, we stopped being the island's residents and became its summer guests. We may pay the taxes, repair the cottages, and keep the ferry running, but the wildlife has the deed. They graciously let us borrow the island every summer, provided we don’t mind sharing the beach with ants, the roads with turkeys, the gardens with deer, the houses with mink and mice, and the water with whatever happens to be swimming by that day.
Funny how things change. When I was growing up, the biggest threat from nature was a crab hiding in the seaweed at low tide. Looking back, I'd gladly take my chances with the crab.
When I was growing up on the island, the biggest threat from nature was a crab hiding in the seaweed at low tide. Back then, you could still find prized sand dollars scattered across the sandy patches off Cove Beach and sea urchins hugged the rocks. The crabs feared a pack of screaming kids more than we feared them. Since they never actually bit us, confrontations were rare.
Fast-forward to today and it feels like we have skipped several chapters and landed squarely in the Wild Kingdom. Somewhere along the way, the island stopped being ours and became a nature preserve with very relaxed admission policies.
It began with the red ants. At first, they were barely noticeable. Then one bit you and they became unbearable and suddenly they were everywhere. Not just a few ants, but organized battalions. They had a strategy, a chain of command, and apparently military intelligence. They invaded Cove Beach. In an attempt to outsmart them we moved our beach chairs into the water thinking it was a safe zone. The ants were not deterred. They swam out after us in formation. The beach day was lost as it turned into an amphibious assault. Clearly, the island had been infiltrated by aliens in tiny red uniforms. This time, the Redcoats won - and they stayed.
Then came the mink.
The first time you see one you think, “oh look, there goes a very stylish rat.” Don’t be fooled. Their good looks are merely a disguise for their atrocious frat-boy behavior. They spend the winter squatting in empty island homes, partying like rock stars on lobster, mussels and fish, with absolutely no intention of cleaning up after themselves. Recently, the mink have mysteriously diminished in numbers. The word on the road is that they got wiped out by the “big winter storm”, but I don’t buy it. Mink survive Siberian winters; a Maine storm is basically a tropical vacation. With hope, at one of the Island cocktail parties, a breathtaking “faux” (wink-wink…nudge-nudge) mink coat will appear in the silent auction. There will be no questions asked. May the highest bidder win.
And now we have turkeys.
My question is: how did they get here? Everyone insists turkeys can fly. I have yet to see one commuting over Boothbay Harbor. Perhaps some overly ambitious islander was planning a cage-free Thanksgiving, smuggled over a breeding pair, and things got out of hand. Personally, after Reggie and I were ambushed by a particularly hostile bird – clearly suffering from severe anger-management issues – I am not a fan of these aesthetically challenged fowl. The only turkey I want to encounter is sliced thinly in a club sandwich at the Tea Shop.
Let’s talk Bambi. One Bambi? Cute. An entire herd of Bambis? That’s a National Geographic special waiting to happen. Flower gardens have become all-you-can-eat buffets, dogs have been leashed into submission, and the deer and tick populations are exploding in equal measure. My mother, meanwhile, is convinced I am one charging buck away from becoming a cautionary tale.
What are we supposed to do about all the nature?
The mice certainly are no help. They claimed ownership of just about every island house. Getting “miced” is now a thing and it is an experience no one wants twice. It is the island’s favorite cocktail conversation, right up there with creative strategies for their mass extermination. Feral cats have yet to make their way onto the Novelty, but if they do, I fully expect a welcoming committee, a parade, and honorary island citizenship before they have taken their first nap.
Jellyfish have taken over the beaches. Sharks patrol the spindle. Osprey have moved into the library with no plans to leave. Somewhere along the way, we stopped being the island's residents and became its summer guests. We may pay the taxes, repair the cottages, and keep the ferry running, but the wildlife has the deed. They graciously let us borrow the island every summer, provided we don’t mind sharing the beach with ants, the roads with turkeys, the gardens with deer, the houses with mink and mice, and the water with whatever happens to be swimming by that day.
Funny how things change. When I was growing up, the biggest threat from nature was a crab hiding in the seaweed at low tide. Looking back, I'd gladly take my chances with the crab.
