Indigenous Animals

Trillium. Dandelions. Indian Paintbrush. Milkweed. Daisies. Queen Anne’s Lace. Black-Eyed Susan. Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Purple Coneflower. Cattails.

The average American can recall 1,000 brand names and logos, but can’t name ten indigenous plants or animals. I read that somewhere. I think at a Starbucks.

Chipmunks. Thirteen-striped ground squirrels. Gray squirrels. Badgers. Juncos. White-tailed deer. Red-winged blackbirds. Red fox. Prairie chickens. Yellow perch. Bluegill. Mallards. Sandhill cranes.

I think these flora and fauna are all indigenous to Wisconsin. All off the top of my head. In fact, I can name two more: Black-capped chickadees; and, moss. Chickadees were as common as gravel in Amherst, Wisconsin where I spent part of my time growing up. And dark green moss was the outdoor carpeting in the white pine woods behind our house. So, don’t ask me why, but in fourth grade I snuck the BB gun out of our garage. My dad didn’t want me playing with it. Which is probably why I so wanted – needed – to do so. So, I snuck the gun out to the backyard and headed off to the woods where I spotted a chickadee in one of the pines.

Have you ever seen a black-capped chickadee up close? It’s a common bird, but it is quite striking. Black velvet cap. A black bib. Deep shiny black eyes. A luxurious gray-brown waist coat, with a downy white breast. And, an infectious call from which it derives its name: chik-a-dee-dee-dee. Although it has every reason to be aloof and snobbish, it lingers and shows little apprehension. A gracious innocent among the arrogant, marauding blue jays and grosbeaks.

Don’t ask me why I did it. At first I thought I missed. Dear God, I had hoped I’d missed. But, never was a truer shot fired. Straight to its mark. All was quiet. Then, the bird fell over. Still gripping the branch. It swung. Underneath the branch. For a second. Then. Headlong to the moss below. A small, black, white and gray form against the emerald floor.

I was horrified. Draped in guilt.

Not for fear of getting into trouble for taking the BB gun out of the garage. That was a misdemeanor.

The shock was from killing something beautiful. For as much as a fourth grader can understand that. Although maybe fourth graders have a better eye for beauty than others with 1,000 brand names stockpiled in their heads. I was horrified because there was no reason behind what I did. Maybe the first revelation that I had powder and shot packed inside my very own skin.

I didn’t set out to shoot a chickadee. Even when I aimed and pulled the trigger I was thinking I would just see how close I could get. But how does one measure that?

Brinksmanship. I didn’t mean to shoot the bird. Nor did I mean not to shoot it. Maybe that’s the bigger crime. That was the source of my dread.

Afterwards I stood over the chickadee, gun in hand, with what felt to be a rock on my chest. Years later, one hunter friend told me he would place a berry in the beak of the quail and ring-necked pheasant he would shoot. Maybe even say a prayer. A Native American sign of respect or something. I didn’t have enough sense at the time. And the only prayer appropriate would have been one of repentance. All I did was leave the woods and sneak the gun back into the garage. I hid in my room. It wasn’t until later, when I couldn’t stand myself that I confessed to my parents. I’m pretty sure I did that.

I can name a few wild things in my backyard today. But, it was in fourth grade that I began to name the animals and weeds indigenous to my own heart.

Kyle White lives in northern Illinois with his wife and two children, where they spend much of their time pining for their home state of Wisconsin. Kyle is the director of NeighborsHouse.org and is a freelance writer.