Volume 2, number 9, Sseptember 2000 Here, Moosey, Moosey Remember the winters in the early nineties when it snowed so much? Margaret and I had just moved to Ester and we were living out behind the Ester Gold Camp in the Musicks’ old house. Nobody knew us very well and we didn’t know you either, yet. Instead of socializing I spent most of my free time shoveling snow off of the driveway and dreaming of using my next year’s permanent fund check on a new snow blower. I don’t remember skiing, walking the dog, or having much fun at all. Just a lot of shoveling. You would think I could recall something more pleasant about those winters but I don’t. It was just too over whelming. I exerted every effort on keeping the driveway cleared. I would work for hours at a time, often while it was still snowing. More than once I had to start all over again at the top of the driveway just as soon as I finished at the bottom. Margaret was still working then, while I was living the Alaskan male fantasy (not working at all and still getting regular home cooked meals). I would go through the same routine every morning, lying in bed, while Margaret would back her car down the driveway to go to work. I would watch the car headlights’ reflection on the bedroom ceiling. If they wandered around and then suddenly disappeared, I’d know she had successfully navigated the entire driveway and was safely on her way. If the reflection stopped, I could pretty much figure she had gotten stuck without her walking back to the house to tell me so. I would get up, go outside, curse the snow, and give her car a little push or something (like shoveling a couple of tons of snow) to help her on her way. The moose had it particularly hard those winters. Browse was very difficult for them to reach and they were all slowly starving to death. It’s no secret that whenever they’re stressed they begin hanging out near roads in neighborhoods where the food is easier to get. Moose encounters with people and dogs skyrocket. One Sunday morning Margaret and I were hanging out in bed pretending to hibernate as best we could. Ruby was outside chained to her doghouse near the driveway, not running around loose like today’s punk Ester bar dogs. From a deep sleep I perceived that she was barking her head off for some reason. I tried to ignore the noise but she wouldn’t let up. It was pretty unusual for Ruby to be barking in the first place. I got up and looked out the window. As usual it was snowing. So what else was news that winter? Then I noticed a calf moose heading up the driveway. I mentioned it to Margaret, who was also wondering what was going on with all the barking. I watched this calf continue up our driveway and head straight towards Ruby. Now that was weird. I’ve never seen a moose willingly go anywhere near a dog, least of all while it was barking. I was beginning to get a little nervous, feeling like I should be more alarmed when suddenly the calf delivered a wickedly savage blow with one of its front hooves to Ruby’s poor little head. Ruby was down and out in an instant. Her splattered blood was clearly visible on the snow. I feared she was already dead. I yelled to Margaret, "That lousy moose just caved Ruby’s skull in!" Well, I wasn’t going to take that kind of abuse from an uppity calf. I threw my jacket on over my sweats and grabbed, of all things, a broom, and went outside to teach this young ungulate bully some manners. Yelling and waving my weapon of choice I sternly approached this seemingly harmless creature, all the while ordering it in a commanding voice to "Get away from my dog!" The moose took one crazed look at me and decided it was time for me to die as well. It reared up onto its hind legs and repeatedly lashed out at me with its front hooves, something I had never seen or heard of before. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget. Calves are quick. It was all I could do to swat at its face with my broom and pedal my feet backwards as fast and as best as I could. I really wasn’t expecting this. Every time the moose missed me, its front hooves/meat cleavers would punch holes into the hard packed snow on the driveway, spraying the broken pieces into the air and into my face. Now I was panicked and beginning to realize this thing was bent on destroying me. I tripped over my own feet and fell backwards against the bumper of Margaret’s car. As I struck the car I became acutely aware of my right kidney. The calf hadn’t given up, either. It was back up on its hind legs again with its front hooves aimed squarely at my chest. At the last instant, nearly paralyzed with pain, I stabbed the bristles of the broom into the calf’s eyes and lurched to relative safety between our two cars. The calf missed me but pieces of Margaret’s taillight flew over my head! The calf’s hooves had come down right where my heart had been only an instant ago. On my knees and crawling for the front door, I yelled at Margaret not to come out of the house. I didn’t want her to get killed as well. It seemed that my whole family was being snuffed out by a rootin’-tootin’, hell-bent-for-leather, brain-eating Bambi from east Ester, for heaven’s sake. While scooting into the arctic entryway on my knees I noticed that Ruby was thrashing around spasmodically. She was still alive and that damned calf was headed back to finish her off. I didn’t know what to do. If I had a gun I would have gotten even real quick. But we didn’t. Going to the window, hoping for the best, I saw that the calf was no longer after Ruby but was nibbling away at the straw in her doghouse. I couldn’t just watch. I went back outside, this time stealthily out the back door. I swam through the snow around the side of the house to the front yard and with one eye on the moose I leaned down and unchained Ruby. The calf no longer seemed to care. It looked utterly exhausted, its eyes glazed over, concentrating on the blissful taste of food in its mouth. I picked up Ruby, who yelped with pain, and carried her gently back through the snow and into the house. We were finally safe and able to check out our injuries. My kidney felt like hell and Ruby had a gash several inches long over her right eye that went all the way to the bone, poor thing. Margaret made the decision for us. We both needed to see our respective doctors. After getting ready to go, we realized we couldn’t. The calf was now lying down in between the front door and the cars. The freaking thing had us trapped. A call to Fish and Game brought a warden to our house to scare away the calf. I hoped he would just shoot that hairball and get it over with, but he didn’t want to kill it. He already had an adult moose in the back of his truck, destroyed earlier that morning. After about three dozen bottle rockets, the calf, with its ears laid back and hackles up, finally ambled down our driveway, its future uncertain. The vet informed us that Ruby would recover. She now hates moose, runs upstairs and hides whenever one comes around. My kidneys, as everyone at the bar has witnessed, have also recovered. I now have a very healthy respect for moose, even the baby ones. They may look docile, cute, and harmless, but I’ll never approach one again without first killing it. Then I’m going to eat it. Savor its taste. Whatever is left I’ll give to Ruby. There will be no kibbles for you then, my sweet old friend. | ||
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