I'm talking about squirrels, ducks, pigeons, chipmunks, dogs leashed or otherwise. Go ahead, reader, name a city animal and there is a good chance one will spot a representative of the species somewhere in this iconic public space.
But rare it is to see an actual animal. And yet, every so often, a creature with the power to harm another takes its place among the pedestrians, dog-walkers, and camera-wielding tourists that so regularly ring the pond.
One day back in November, I was as amazed as anyone when a bird of prey was spotted swooping about. After closer inspection
Seeing the bird was, without a doubt, a noteworthy event. It was one of the more interesting days of the early winter. I spent quite some time that day captivated by this hawk. It seemed to glide from branch to branch. The easy way such a powerful bird flies is in stark contrast to the frenzied flapping of a common pigeon. In fact, the hawk flies without seeming to flap. If it were possible to stroll casually from one treetop to the next, the hawk would surely do so.
It's been a few weeks since that initial surprise. But given all the athletically-limited wildlife that runs amok in the Public Garden (myself included), I suppose it is logical for a bird of prey to swing by every once in a while for an easy lunch. In fact, I'm mystified as to why these birds are not spotted diving in and out of the crowds on a more frequent basis.
Again, though I am no wildlife expert, my guess is that a bird of prey will eventually arrive wherever there is an overabundance of prey. I do not need a doctorate in zoology to know that there is a basic supply and demand mechanism in effect wherever an overabundance of prey exists in a given area.
I first acknowledged this surplus prey population on one spring morning when a squirrel walked right onto my shoulder. This was the first time that anything like this ever happened in my whole life! Up until then, I understood that the official squirrel policy was 'run away first, ask questions later'. But on that day, I realized that with so many squirrels now in the park, some number of them must have grown up learning that humans were a friendly source of food.
I suppose this particular squirrel must have been driven nuts (!) by the totally inconsistent feeding schedule established by generous passers-by. I don't know for sure if anyone fed that human-scaling squirrel, of course, but I can't identify any other reason why it would break almost three decades (editor's note: I feel old) of human-fearing tradition.
I'm hesitant to imply that I see something wrong with feeding the animals in the park (a loosely discouraged activity that I have yet to see punished). I used to feed these animals quite a bit myself when I was a little guy, coming in from the suburbs with a subway token (editor's note: I am old) and a bag of frozen bread crusts. Once thawed, I threw these crusts at the ducks that trailed along behind the Swan Boats. It's fun to feed animals.
But it's sad to see some of the squirrels in the park now. The wide range in the size and mobility of these animals implies significant variance in each squirrel's ability to feed itself. Some, I'm sure, would starve without the crumbs from charitable hands. Others grow so fat that they can barely get out of my way when I cross paths with them during a morning run.
I don't see how either type of squirrel has made it this far into the winter but, again, I hold no advanced degree in zoology. Maybe birds of prey prefer dinner to fall in the middle of the size range?
And looking solely at squirrels obscures the types of problems that some other animals can develop. Ducks or swans that eat too much 'people food' are at risk for developmental deformities.
One thing I am sure about, though, is that my general sadness in seeing these animals is a combination of a few specific sadnesses.
Anytime someone is obviously unable to fully care for itself- that's sad.
Anytime someone starts circling, waiting its turn to take advantage of such a creature- that's sad.
Anytime charity helps the giver more than the receiver- that's sad.
Anytime a bird cannot fly due to a wing deformity- that's sad.
Anytime someone considers suggesting to little kids that feeding hungry animals is a mean thing to do- that's sad.
Anytime someone acts so wildly out of their own nature in search of food- that's sad.
Anytime someone considers the meanderings of Public Garden squirrels as symbols of larger societal problems- that's sad.
Anytime clear problems have no obvious solutions- that's sad.
The day the hawk captivated a small but grateful Public Garden audience was an example of the way things could be. The hawk moved with a grace true to itself and carried out its responsibilities from the top of its food chain in the way it knew best. Unlike its prey, the lack of interference from well-meaning humans allowed it to engage with this role as the powerful raptor that nature originally intended.
Of course, humans that feed animals are acting true to their own nurturing instincts. To suggest that people leave the starving squirrel to die is like suggesting we turn our own backs to the responsibilities atop our own food chain. What is to be done about this contradiction?
The only answer, I think, is in education. To me, education is not always about learning how to do long division or memorizing facts and figures. Education means understanding the role one can play as a higher-thinking participant in a complex environment. It means knowing the time to intervene and the time to let things be. It means knowing that suffering is an indispensable part of life yet recognizing that everything should be done to avoid or alleviate it.
A good education achieves a full understanding of the nuances and balances inherent to any complex situation. It examines the challenge of living within contradictions and equips the student with a toolkit to navigate these situations without leaning on extremist or dichotomous points of view.
I'm not sure how to best apply the concept to the local problem of squirrels. My education here has a long way to go. I am willing to guess, though, that a no-feeding policy will lead to piles of starved squirrel carcasses in the spring. And opening the floodgates on squirrel feeding is likely to invite foxes, coyotes, or snakes into the area. (I'll assume the dog-walkers won't welcome that development.)
I suppose that leaves just a middle ground here. Again, I can't really guess what such a place might look like. Middle grounds are large spaces- it means anything except the two extremes- but one benefit of that is it affords any well-intended idea the time of day.
A way to help park-goers understand that bread will harm most wildlife is probably a decent start. Discouraging people from emboldening wildlife to the point that they lose their natural fear of approaching humans (or at least me) is also critical. Education that reinforces an understanding of how wildlife differs from the domesticated is too important to overemphasize.
The most important lesson, in my mind, will involve helping people balance the contradiction that while for humans suffering is a valuable and perhaps necessary learning tool, it is also the most vital human task to avoid or alleviate suffering whenever possible. Passively accepted or policy-generated suffering isn't a growth opportunity, its sadistic.
So, perhaps the right direction involves better equipping people to feed the animals. It's worth the effort, even if it is a tiny step like adding coin-operated dispensers with squirrel friendly food around the park.
I'm not sure if this step would help someone learn these important lessons from a trip to the park. But every step that might lead there is worth considering, at the very least, because incorporating education whenever possible reinforces the idea that the cycle of learning and application never stops.
