The Badger

     The day had been hot, the third of three consecutive days topping out in the upper 90’s or even 100 degrees.  I had had my supper.  It was just at sundown.

     I stepped outside for something, what, I don’t remember.  It was really pleasant, cool, no wind, too dry to have any mosquitoes.  On the spur of the moment, I decided to take a walk.  I would stroll out and get the mail.

      I didn’t get far.  Down the steps, through the gate, turn right, get on the road leading to the county road and the mailbox.  In a matter of a dozen steps, I stopped short, uttered an involuntary “expletive deleted” (remember Richard Nixon?), and took two quick steps back.

The day’s fatigue was momentarily suspended by what I saw. 

     Just off the south wheel track lay a badger.  It was hunkered down as flat as it could be in the dried out not-very-tall grass.  As I stepped back, we locked eyes for a brief moment.  “What the . . .?” I uttered, again out loud.

     A few questions ran through the old, suddenly very active brain.  How had he (she?) got there without me seeing it?  It couldn’t have been there that long.  Why was it there?  Was something wrong with it?  Was it rabid?

      Lying flat on top of the ground was not ordinary badger behavior.  In the few other encounters I have had with badgers, they always turned and fled as fast as they can, which is not very fast.  You can’t really see their legs, just the bump bump bump of the fur ball of their departing rear.

     Hunkering down in open space didn’t seem normal.  The only other badger I remember seeing hunker down was a young one that strayed into the old barn and got caught in the milk cow manger.  Dad dispatched it with a .22 slug between the eyes.  The current farm dog of the time, Ruff, then tore into the dead badger.  We laughed at her bravery.

      But this one wasn’t cornered.  It had to see me coming, just as I should have seen her before I did.  I knew there was a badger in the area.  They dig holes everywhere, including under the south side of the garage. 

     I think they hunt for the pocket gophers and ground squirrels that live in underground burrows.  Whether they operate by smell or hearing, they find the burrows and tear into them with their curved front claws.  It doesn’t take them long to excavate a good size hole.  Ground squirrels inhabited the hole under the garage. 

     What had been a hole the size of a bratwurst became a hole that could have swallowed a watermelon, with the resulting pile of dirt  adjacent.  They are true miners who never bother to return the slag to the mine tunnel.

     He didn’t get all the ground squirrels, as every now and then, one scolds me when I walk around the garage.  The scourge of pocket gophers have largely disappeared around the farmyard, due to an owl who has taken up residence in the old elm trees north of the house.  At least I give the owl credit.  When he disappeared, I began to have mice problems, too.  I’m glad to have Mr. Owl back.

      Not so much the badger, even though he may help eradicate pests. Badger holes are large enough to rattle teeth when pickup, tractor, or mower wheel hit one.

      Rabies became my dominant thought.  I had been one-step away before I saw her.  She could have easily taken a good chunk of my left leg before I could have reacted.  I continued to back away as I kept an eye on her.  A few steps and I turned to walk normally back to the porch, still watching over my shoulder.   

      She hadn’t moved.  Three .22 rifles stood in the porch closet.  I opted for the shotgun, thinking my vision-impaired aim wouldn’t be good enough.  I had to go upstairs for the heavy artillery.  I glanced out the bedroom window.  Gone.  No badger, nothing.

      Nevertheless, I chambered a shell and put two in the magazine and returned to the scene.  I was a bit relieved.  Getting the heck out of Dodge was more normal behavior.  It probably wasn’t rabid after all.

      I took a walk around the place, keeping the gun at the ready.  Nothing.

     By now, it was getting dark.  Cool evening stroll cancelled.  I didn’t wish to proceed unarmed and the old Winchester is pretty heavy now (it didn’t used to weigh that much).

     The next morning, I kept an eye out for any new excavations as I went about my chores.  I saw nothing.  Perhaps the badger had been as startled by our encounter as was I.  With any luck at all, he may search out other hunting grounds.

     I may not have to kill a fellow creature who is just trying to get along.  That wouldn’t be how Dad would see it.  Badgers were evil creatures that made life difficult, that raided the chicken house, raised havoc and killed hens.

        I no longer have chickens, or even a chicken house.  Still, it would be fine with me if Mr. or Ms. Badger would find a new place to call home.