He wonders, morning after morning, that the river is so cold and fresh and alive, and I still don’t jump in.
In Almost a Conversation, poet Mary Oliver imagines what an otter might be thinking, as she observes him during an early-morning walk along a New England shoreline. Getting close enough to admire his whiskers, she reflects, “I have not really, not yet, talked with otter about his life./ He has so many teeth, he has trouble with vowels./ Wherefore our understanding is all body expression …”
Oliver is right about animals’ body expression, and I’m part of a whole family who has these “almost” conversations with animals. For 40 summers we have sailed off the coast of Maine, among the islands surrounding Boothbay Harbor. Most summers out on the boat, we are entertained by frequent encounters with harbor seals. During low tide they haul their sleek, gray bodies from the chilly water onto familiar piles of rock in Linekin Bay, where we, animals and humans, speak softly and appreciatively about the warm stones and the enjoyment of lying in the sun. Farther out, they often pop their heads above the water line close to the boat, apparently eager to communicate. “Hi, guys,” one of us will say, giving voice to the seal. “Wanna swim? Bet the water’s too cold for you.” And then, “Blurp,” as it takes a graceful, deep dive back down.
Along the Maine shore we also verbalize for an osprey as it plunges from a tall pine into the bay, emerges, and returns to its haphazard, pile-of-sticks nest with a flopping fish in its talons, an evening meal for the family. “Mmmm … got the big one,” he gloats as he settles down carefully on the nest’s edge to feed his fledglings.
Here in Vermont, we’ve carried on with squirrels over the years, who do add sounds to their body language, the sum total of which is always much louder and meaner than anything a seal ever says. Often it’s about territory, as happened several years ago. “You think you live here, scritch, scritch. But this is my attic and my babies are in it,” a mother squirrel squawked to me from her ragged hole in the eave near the roof, as I stood outside talking with an exterminator about how to get rid of them all, forever. And, “Hah! to that dog you let run out the door every time I jump from the tree to the bird feeder. I can outrun him easily!”
When Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal arrive in the evening to gather sunflower seeds from the soil under the feeder, we imagine out loud their deferential conversation. “You first.” “No, you.” “OK, here. I’ve got a seed for you. Stay still and I’ll put it into your beak.” Perhaps an ideal marriage, one of us speculates.
Over the years, though, it’s been the domestic animals in the family with whom we’ve had the richest conversations. A long-ago cat named Spooky arrived as a kitten outside our door one winter night during our New York years, priming a then 4-year-old daughter with the words she would need when her dad said no to keeping him. “But, Daddy, he told me he’s my wish-come-true-kitty!” The cat was with us for over 20 years.
The many West Highland white terriers we have had since the ’60s somehow all got license to refer to my husband, always called David, as “Dave.” Perhaps he gave them permission via some signal that he, never much of an animal lover, would allow them a place in his life if they could work it out. When it’s time for a walk, the line is always, “Dave, are you coming?” Or when one of them tips over the wastebasket or chews on the heel of a shoe, “Dave, I won’t do that again.” “Dave,” profiting from the advice of the monks at New Skete on the ways of becoming an alpha dog (The Art of Raising a Puppy), learned to treat infractions during off-leash training with the appropriate “Grrrr, grrr,” as he got down on the ground and growled into the dog’s face, becoming its pack leader. In talking to me, our animals call me “Mare,” and no one else ever does.
Why do we give voices and words to this host of wild and domestic beings in our lives, I wonder? Maybe this unconventional communication helps us to tame their wildness, for just a few moments. Maybe it ignites, ever so briefly, our own wild natures. Perhaps we need to seek more conversations with these fellow inhabitants of Earth, to touch their wisdom, affirm our connections, or just to lighten up a bit!
Mary Otto lives in Norwich.