I found some old files of posts, so I thought I would republish this one... it were my one and only Animal Story. I only add it to the new site now because I don't want to lose it again.
Only out of shear guilt do I finally attempt to post that which I so strangely requested from all (3 or so) of my readers, a story of an encounter with a wild animal within city limits. SlyBootess has come up with multiple accounts, all excellent; though her personal position on animal killing by hoo-mans seems to have gone from "it's a definite no-no" to "I like stomping things to death" to "I would like to kill something". I have no ethical or moral comment on these posts, other than to say, 'Right On, Sister~~!" I have wished to kill things many times, both animal and mineral.
Our story begins in a very special landscape in the Boston area, the Brookline Hills. What makes this area so spectacular --other than the big mansions and such --- is that it did not truly exist in its current topography since the dawn of time. Well, hills were there, but they were modified. And many big rocks were added. No, this was not a deleted scene from "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe". Bill Nighy was not making changes to God's punch list.
No, the interesting tid bit about this particular patch of Earth is that on it sits the home residence of it creator, Frederick Law Olmstead, the man who practically invented landscape architecture. On a small scale, landscape architecture can help make a visually-and logistically-challenged piece of property more usable, more arable, and easier on the eye. On a large scale, such as the vision of Mr Olmstead, it can be a bit presumptuous; Olmstead created the landscapes he wanted by literally building hilltops, dragging thousands of tons of stone into where he thought there should be a mini mountain, planted fauna in places they had never existed before, etc. A nightmare to the Green Peace crowd. But his stuff is pretty, and it lasts like all get out. So many new residents in Boston think this is the natural way the land looked forever. SPECIAL NOTE: Olmstead designed the man made island on Lake Michigan in Chicago that was to become the World's Fair or the Columbia Exposition. There was a great historic novel written recently about it called "The Devil in The White City"; which chronicles the development of the project by 5 incredibly egotistical White Guys who thought they owned the world, and of the story of someone who may have been America's first official serial killer.
But I digress.
SO back to the landmass that is the Brookline Hills. It is situated in what is called "The Green Necklace" of Boston, a series of interconnected parklands that reach from outside of the Boston, all the way into the Back Bay area. This allows you to pass through the most of the city entirely through park lands, rather than city streets. The Brookline Hills are particularly pastoral, in that the area is also bordered by THE Country Club of US Open fame. What this does is create loads of green space for animals to use as well.
Anyhoo, one Early fall morning (5:45AM, EST, appx.) I was driving through this select sylvan 'hood on my way to the 'Tute in Cambridge. As I rounded the curve that lead down over the man-made mountain by the aforementioned Olmstead, I noted his original residence and studio to my left, and pondered the kind of ego that could create landscapes just because he thought them up. Glancing to my right, a large mansion of quasi New England style rose on the artificial hillside. Its sweeping drive arced down the hill to a large wrought iron gate of a simple, Shaker-inspired design. The gate was open, I noted. And something seemed to have come out of it, at least as a flutter in the corner of my eye, which is why I looked at it. When my eyes returned to the road directly in front of me, I saw that which drew my attention.
A buck. A big mother buck. I think in England they would call it a Stag. And this buck was a least 8 points, or had been before he had broken on antler on some unknown obstacle, as it drooped precariously from the rest of its stem.
It was at least as tall as my shoulder, and the antlers would have cleared my head. And it was puffing steam out of its nose like a cartoon bull. And it was now stopped dead in the road in front of my (relatively) new(ish) car. And I was driving towards it.
Since I had been daydreaming a bit on this part of my commute, and since it is very hilly and leaf strewn, I was driving slower than usual. While you would think that my reaction would have been one of shock and dismay, somehow it was neither. I recall laughing, and doing some maneuver with the wheel that allowed me to drift languidly past Sir Buck. Who was plenty pissed at me for some reason.
My window was open at the time, it being a balmy early morning, and this put me at eye level with Sir Buck. I could see he was checking himself, clearly eager to slam into my side at the least provocation. Apropos of nothing, I called quietly but clearly over to him through the open window, "Dude. Chill. You're already all effed up."
As these last words left my lips, Sir Buck seemed to take in my words, and started to walk slowly alongside my car down the hill.
Lights appeared in my windshield from a car coming in the other direction, towards Sir Buck. I gently admonished him to get off the road. He declined. The other car turned out to be a Brookline Police Patrol Unit, driven by a gap-mouthed newbee officer. He turned on the blue lights and slowed to a stop, as I slowed coming nearer to him. Sir Buck stopped at this point, looked at me, then the cop, and turned gracefully up the drive to Olmstead's Estate House and its broad lawns.
Now I was parallel with the cop's window, which came down. He looked at me and said, "Wow. I've never seen one up close."
"They should put in a deer crossing sign," a voice said. Both the cop and I looked around to see an older gentlemen in a business suit standing beside a Mercedes 500 SEL at the mouth of the Shaker-simple gateway of the big manse on the right. "Once one comes through, there will be plenty more after that."
"Do you think I should put out some flares?" asked Officer Newbee.
"No," I said. "I think the morning rush is over. See ya." I nodded to Mr Richee-Rich and Officer Newbee, and puttered down the road. I still needed to get to Cambridge.
Observe the difference in these two images of Boston Harbor and the Charle River area. Yoy might think that the one on the left is a current image, and the one on the right is Boston before we the "Back Bay" was drained and filled in. But you would be wrong!
