Sometimes An Eagle Is Just An Eagle

02/27/2012

While out walking my dogs this morning I managed to get this nice photo of a bald eagle before my hounds barked it off its perch. Clearly more annoyed than frightened, it flew away because the dogs had blown its cover. Most big birds of prey are used to being hassled by other wildlife. Even song birds will swarm and dive-bomb a hawk until it leaves their nesting territory. It stands to reason. To other birds, the sight of a raptor isn't a thing of inspiration, it's a cause for near suicidal terror.

It irked me that my dogs couldn't keep from barking. I wanted them to sit and watch and simply appreciate the sight of such a great creature. I understood instantly this was just my desire to impose human values onto canine behavior, and that this is rarely successful. I have, however, had a couple of occasions of sharing a moment of awe with my dogs. Once while hiking, a huge bull elk crossed the trail directly in front of us. I had seen it first, so I quickly got down on one knee next to my dog, made him sit, and whispered hypnotically to him "Just watch." This was accompanied by something of a doggy massage. It worked. We watched that bull for several minutes as he browsed, and my dog never stirred. Another time involved a white baby bison. In full disclosure, this wasn't a sighting in the wild, it was at a zoo. I'm happy to admit this because I'm thrilled there's a zoo where well-behaved dogs are welcome. It's at the Royal Gorge, in Cañon City, Colorado. It's the only place I know of like it.

We all know we're not supposed to anthropomorphize, but certainly there are lots of thoughts and feelings that translate directly across barriers between species. That's why we bother to keep pets. The Border Collie is capable of learning over 1000 unique human words. You could argue that the Border Collie has only learned these words to earn approval, affection, food rewards, and so on. But I'd argue that's why any of us has learned most of the words we know.

The real trouble with empathic identification with animals is that people don't work very hard to learn the animal's vocabulary. Our perspective is hugely distorted by our own self awareness and good intentions, which is why every so often you hear about some kind-hearted person living in the woods cozying up to the bears, only to be eaten by one.

The writers of the Bible use the image of the 'peaceable kingdom' to describe heaven. "The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them." (Isaiah 11:16). While lots of Christians are happy to take everything in the Bible as literal truth, I'm going to stick my neck out here and guess this is a poetic metaphor for a transformed human reality. It's not about the wolf or the lamb. The minute wolves stop eating sheep it's all over for them as a species. The image of the peaceable kingdom is comforting because we know it's about us finally ceasing to prey upon each other.

When I looked at the eagle I knew we weren't going to be friends, and that though I admired him, he certainly had no admiration for me. It's a tough idea to accept that we are not as connected to nature as we'd like to think. There's this notion that persists from childhood - exploited, but not invented by Disney - that we can make friends with all the animals, and that they are pretty much just like us. Think back to when you were a little kid, and maybe you found a baby rabbit, or duckling, or some other cute thing. Think about how intensely you wanted to possess it. You were going to feed it, care for it, love it. It was going to depend on you, and in return, it would reward you with its unique friendship. Then maybe some parent or other adult told you the baby whatever-it-was really needed to live outdoors, among its kind, wild and independent. Can you remember how crappy that felt?

The urge to connect with nature on a personal level, to receive validation from the 'universe' is powerful business. It may be an entirely romantic view of reality, but the promise of special connections to friends in the forest means we are really not so alone after all. It means the universe has our back. I have a friend who rejects outright, the possible existence of Jesus, or any other manifestation of a 'personal' god. How could a god bother itself with the details of individual human lives? Instead she believes in energy, the pulse and flow of life itself. Fair enough. But this friend routinely (and sincerely) thanks the universe any time she gets an awesome parking space, or if something goes well for her at work.

We're human, we want it both ways.

When I got home and looked at the eagle photos on my computer, I was rewarded with that unmistakably stern glare that birds of prey all share. I don't know whether the eagle was in fact being stern. Probably he looks that way all the time, no matter how he's feeling. Nature has uniquely equipped eagles with a fierce look, clearly designed to scare the bejeezus out of one and all. And it works. Something about this made me really happy. To see a thing for what it is, and accept it, is its own reward. I'm glad the eagle stopped by, but not because I think it had a message, or omen, or had a single thing to do with me, but because I'm certain it didn't, which makes me feel even luckier. Nature may have a lot to teach us about ourselves, but for those of us exhausted or over-saturated with self-discovery, it offers an occasional stern look to remind us it's not always about us. Sometimes an eagle is just an eagle.