Three years ago my Australian shepherd lost her only canine friend. Beau was a shelter rescue with a disturbing past. Escape artist, fearful of loud noises and a streak of separation anxiety defined him along with distinct coloration.
Coming from Utah’s desert rangeland, he was an experienced herder and a steadfast companion. A golden heart-shaped patch of fur adorned his chest.
When the two tricolor Aussies first met on Valentine’s Day, it was love at first sight.
That Beau was granted a second chance at life, lived it joyously and died of natural causes after a decade, provides some solace. My vet, Dr. Osguthorpe, kindly remarked at my dog’s passing a year after Beau’s, “If God made dogs man’s best friend, why does he take them so soon?”
The anniversary as well as a discovery on an early morning bike ride reminded me how domestic and wildlife companions reward and inform us.
Circling a roundabout on Midway’s River Road near the Kohler Dairy Farm’s open space stood a posted 10-mile-an-hour speed limit sign. In the roadway a large adult raccoon laid as if asleep. Except she wasn’t. A bloody trickle from her slightly agape mouth confirmed her ending. The engineered rotary designed as a traffic calming measure had failed her.
There were no cars, pickups or 10-wheeled construction trucks entering the paved circle as I dismounted and with gloved hands lifted the dead raccoon from a hot paved road. She felt heavy in my arms, maybe 20 pounds. Her robust body was still warm from the life she had before my arrival. An irrigation ditch flushed by cool water was only 10 yards away, surely she was headed there.
Cradling this lifeless form cracked my heart.
The dead raccoon with her roughened, thick coat and familiar ringed tail was placed under the shade of a nearby shrub and reminded me of a title by author Barry Lopez, “Who Are These Animals We Kill?”
Decades ago, a happier encounter with an orphaned raccoon weighing less than a pound of hamburger gave me answers to his provocative question.
I knew nothing about raccoons and wasn’t sure I wanted to know more. When I received her from the rescuer she was in a cardboard box still wet from an icy spring rain and wrapped in a towel. As I tentatively reached into the box, I had no idea what to expect.
Quickly, a minuscule front paw with five toes gently encircled my forefinger. Nothing in our man-made world comes close to the surreal softness of a raccoon’s paws. Not satin, silk, or velvet. As I would soon learn, the undersides of a raccoon’s front paws are designed by nature to sensitively feel, examine and identify items for survival: insects, tree bark, berries, fish. More surprising was that nothing prepared me for my response. I was hooked. She imprinted. We were bonded by time and life.
From the instant we touched until we parted company when she was released many months and shared adventures later, I was her protectress. We learned and explored together. I knew her to be highly intelligent, inquisitive, playful and beautiful, much like my dogs.
The lifespan of a pet raccoon may reach 20 years, In nature a sow might live three to four years and produce one litter per year with five kits. Miraculously, she returned two years later with her nursery. That raccoon had found a mate, reproduced and survived in her wild landscape. I had a new understanding about how she was and who she became.
What does it take to protect the wild animals who share our human world? How do we ensure their survival along with our own? The answer starts with our capacity to care, individually and collectively. But it doesn’t end there.
A look at community leader Erin Ferguson and her non-profit, Save People Save Wildlife, is instructive. Motivated by the cost and consequences of the 106 wildlife-vehicle collisions reported annually on Interstate 80 in Parley’s Canyon, Save People Save Wildlife collaborated in 2018 with the Division of Wildlife Resources, Utah Department of Transportation and the local community to build Utah’s first wildlife crossing.
The $5 million price tag has already paid for itself. Wildlife crossings work and work quickly. The Parley’s bridge has already reduced wildlife-vehicle collisions by 80%. Now, more wild animals have safe passage to water, grasslands and forests as they move year round to shelter and food.
We enjoy seeing a cow moose with her long-legged offspring visit our open spaces and back yards, feeding, drinking and growing into their wild lives. At the same time we are too familiar with the bloated elk and raccoon carcasses on our roadways and roundabouts. Maybe worse, we observe a helplessly injured or now-orphaned calf, kit or fawn left to fend on its own.
Save People Save Wildlife is aiming for a wildlife overpass across Highway 224 in Snyderville Basin. The proposed roadway widening for Bus Rapid Transit by High Valley Transit would kill more moose, mule deer, elk and bobcats. From 2008-19 alone, 247 large mammals were killed on 224.
Commissioned studies by UDOT and BioWest conclude that constructing wildlife-vehicle crossings (with funnel fencing) and connecting to open spaces near McPollin Farm, the Swaner Preserve and Utah Olympic Park is the most effective way to remedy 224’s wildlife carnage.
Collectively we understand or own a personal experience that tells us who these wild animals are that we kill or protect. Now that we know, what are we going to do?
Leslie Miller is the co-editor of “Reimagining A Place for the Wild” and a former, long-time resident of Park City who now lives in Midway.