The Euthanasia of Clover(Carl Brooks) THE EUTHANASIA OF CLOVER
By
Carl Brooks


I’d seen him several times before, and he’d seen me. While sitting atop my tractor, mowing the slope down by the creek, something occasionally caught my eye; a slight movement, or simply the feeling that I too was being watched. When finally I was able to focus the distance and wipe the salty sweat out of my eyes, he had frozen at whatever his task-at-hand had been, as if waiting to satisfy himself that I was not a danger to his world. I never saw him look directly at me, full faced. Always, he’d only show a profile - his one eye fixed on me, intently and set. That’s the relationship either of us had allowed… distant and wary.

One of his genetic relatives had destroyed my garden two summers back, so consequently I viewed his kind as potentially a very destructive pest. I had nothing against him personally; I just hadn’t planted enough garden for the both of us. He was a ground hog and supposedly related to the western prairie dog. In fact, he very closely resembled another relative, the beaver, though without the characteristic flat tail. The first time I noticed him, he was busily rooting around near the creek and I’d thought him to be a beaver until his short, bristly tail set me straight. I watched him for several minutes, then, he watched me for several more, always through that single, sideways eye.

Along the extremity of my creek-bed lies a thick patch of white clover shaded by several Box Elder and Sycamore trees. I hadn’t consciously planted the clover in that particular spot, but there it grew, and I often thought how nice it would be to climb down off the tractor, lay down on that soft, green, sweet-smelling bed and take an afternoon summer nap. Unfortunately, my fantasy stopped with the wanting of it, for that’s how it remained. Sometime back in the heat of August, I was clearing some dammed-up brush from the creek-bank, when I noticed several good-sized holes in and around my clover patch. Upon further investigation, the holes turned out to be entrances and exits to the den of my tenant. Instinctively taking a long, slow, accusing scan of the creek-bank, I spotted him about fifty yards away, watching me with that black eye of his. The thought crossed my mind to destroy the den and drive the critter off with a stick or something. The nerve! That was my patch of clover and he’d taken up residence as if it had belonged to him.

I stared back at him accusingly, like a store detective trying to intimidate a suspected shoplifter, while assessing my options. I came to the conclusion that he probably had just as much right to that old clover patch as I did… maybe even more… squatter’s rights. At least he was using it for his own good purpose, while all I’d done was occasionally given it a pleasant thought and a promise not yet kept. Having relented, I went about my chores, but from that day on my new tenant had a name… Clover. It seemed a fitting tag, since that’s what immediately came to mind upon rare sightings of him nestled there, contented in that patch of white clover. Besides, he probably wouldn’t care if the name seemed to imply a certain degree of femininity. I only spoke his name aloud a few times, and then in little more than whispers. It was a secret between him and me. If he took offense, he didn’t let on.

Clover and I never really made a formal peace. Neither of us could be classed as friends of the other. I felt that he knew I had the power to evict him any time I wanted, and he seemed to know just how close to get without going too far. I was aware of his potentially destructive tendencies, especially toward my garden area, but as long as he kept his distance from my food supply, I wouldn’t exercise my farmer’s rights.
Without consciously wanting to, I found myself thinking about my new neighbor and how he happened to attach himself to my particular creek-bed. I came to the conclusion that critters like Clover lead a very precarious existence. I suppose the only other enemy they have in the modern world, besides an occasional transient coyote, or farm dog… is man. It seems pretty gutsy for an animal such as him to take up residence so near to a human’s domain. It seemed similar to my building a house at the edge of a dragon’s lair... there are several inherent problems with its placement. But, he seemed to be satisfied with the location, so not knowing what goes on in the mind of a wild animal, I figured if he can live with it, then I could too.


Eventually, I came to detect a sort of pattern to his activities. During the heat of the day he normally remained deep within his burrow unless there was something of interest in the creek that needed his attention at any given moment. He frequently raided my neighbor’s alfalfa field across the creek, but since his pilferage was minimal, I saw no reason to turn possessive, or stingy. Besides, if he foraged from that direction, he’d most likely have no need to pilfer my tomatoes, squash and melons. Mostly, I’d see him a few minutes before dusk had sent the day creatures scurrying for home, and about the time the night ones were waking up; a quiet, peaceful time in the woods and down by the creek. In fact, we both seemed to enjoy the early mornings and early evenings best of all, as long as we stayed out of each other’s way.

One of my pleasures, after chores are done, is taking a stroll through the woods and ending up at creek-side, just watching things wind down at a slow pace. I never actively sought him out, but would find myself glancing in the direction of the clover-patch, mildly hoping to catch a glimpse of my distant cohabitant and satisfy myself to his proper state of welfare and general well being. Invited or not, he was my tenant. Perhaps, along with a strange sort of distant camaraderie, there was also some degree of resentment on the surface; my wanting to see him in his own habitat, blending with nature as one of its truest citizens, while at the same time knowing he wished I’d go away. I was aware of being considered a possible threat, an intruder of sorts, into his world. While the sight of him was calming and pleasant to me, the sight of me must have been very stressful to him. I found myself regretting those conditions and feeling like somehow, I didn’t belong there.

As time passed, I became a sort of an unwitting protector of Clover. I don’t even know how it happened. It just seemed to materialize from a sort of neighbor association. Somehow knowing that trying to make a pet out of a wild animal was more than the wrong thing to do. I never tried to feed him or supply any of his needs in any way. My total contribution to his existence was to leave him alone, keep my distance and try to respect his space… and he, mine. What I got in return was that same one-eyed stare whenever I might be inching a tad too close, and his total avoidance of my garden area.

One day, two stray dogs appeared from up the creek. They were farm-dog sized and seemed quite hyper, generally exploring the predetermined boundaries of their territories and looking for mischief. I happened to be nearby and saw them an instant before they spotted Clover. Clover had apparently been watching them intently for several moments and finally realizing he had been spotted, raced toward his burrow and disappeared down one of his escape holes, just in time. The dogs immediately began digging out the burrow, whining and barking as if they’d treed a granddaddy raccoon. By the time I got the tractor shut down and ran to the scene, my bed of clover had been duly excavated, and one of the dogs had taken a bite out of Clover’s backside the size of a silver dollar. I could only guess that Clover had prudently dived for the first available hole to escape being mauled, but one that was yet to be finished. He’d squashed himself as far as possible up into the remainder of his dead-end burrow, while the dogs, having drawn blood, were set for a sure kill.

I grabbed a hickory stick and began beating the dogs about the buttocks, yelling in my most ferocious voice. Clearly, they were puzzled at my demeanor for doing what came natural to them and, in fact, had generally been previously encouraged to do. When they began retreating, I threw creek-stones at them until my arm gave out, then, chased them into a nearby pasture where they trotted off to some other adventure, still looking puzzled. By the time I got back to the burrow, Clover was nowhere to be seen, probably deep underground, terrified, and nursing his wounds. I straightened the area around the burrow as best as I could, then, retreated back to my chores.

Several days passed, with no noticeable sign of my tenant. I was busy cleaning out a nest of water moccasins from a brush pile near the creek when, I spotted Clover between two large tree roots, bumping his head up against a tree. It looked as if he were frantically trying to burrow himself up under the tree for safety, yet failing miserably. Scanning the immediate area, there was nothing of a threat to be seen. I watched him for several moments, trying to make some sense of his actions, while at the same time getting a strange, queer feeling that something was seriously wrong with the whole picture. Still a few yards away he hadn’t seemed to have noticed me, tried to run, or showed fear of my presence in any way. Every time his unfocused movements brought him upright onto all fours, he seemed to falter, stagger and fall back on his side, his feet and legs still moving, as if he were running in a dream.
Edging in for a closer look, my heart sank at the sight of his frantic body attempting to dig his way to perceived safety and getting nowhere. Avoiding the hairless wound on his backside, where the dogs had tasted his blood, I gently turned him over to an upright position only to have him attempt to walk away, stagger, and fall over again. I did this several times until the continuation of it seemed taunting and cruel. I very much wanted him to snap out of his obvious stupor and return to a normal behavior. It was as if I flatly refused to accept anything else. For the first time ever, he looked at me straight-on with both dark eyes. In being caught helpless, he seemed resigned to the worst of fates, willing to accept whatever was in store. He was clearly in serious distress.

I wanted to help in some way, but after working with him for awhile I realized that he was indeed sick, either from poison of some kind, a snake bite, or possibly some disease. It became clearer by the minute what had to be done, yet each time the mental picture of it entered my mind I rejected it, instead, replaying my options, as well as his, over and over, just in case I’d missed something. I tried to look beyond the glaze in his eyes. There was no pleading, whining, or wincing… only resignation.
Clover was very ill, and was dying. As I watched the light begin to fade from his eyes, he moved his furry mouth as if trying to speak some language only his kind understood. Finally, I did the only thing left to do. I went to the house for my rifle and sat for a moment trying to weigh the morality of my intended act. Should I simply wait for him to die, or do what humans consider to be humane and put him out of his pain and misery in the quick flash of the gun? At that moment I felt as both a betrayer and savior. Killing something you care about is not an easy task. I was angry at having allowed myself to become attached to this wild animal, and now having to take on the distasteful task of ending his suffering. But at the same time there was no way I could possibly allow anyone else to take on the chore. The responsibility was mine. As far as I knew, I was all he had, especially at that last, important moment. Everything within me said it was the right thing to do.
I carefully pointed the gun at the surest spot of his head, where I thought his brain would be, and pulled the trigger. His legs instantly began running against thin air. I shot again and dark blood began trickling out of his nose and mouth, staining his two perfectly white gnawing teeth. He kicked a few more times before total relaxation set in. I stared at him for awhile, regretting my actions, the cause of his illness, and the circumstances surrounding all of it…but not his company. After the shots, a sort of unnatural stillness fell on the meadow, as if nature itself had paused for just a brief moment to respect the death of one of its inhabitants before continuing its rhythm.

Unembarrassed toward the melancholy I felt in the death of this wild, gentle creature, I sat for an unexplainable while looking at Clover, replaying recent events backward in my mind and trying to find logic within his short life and death. The reality of it ran contrary to my need for a less violent conclusion, while the question hung in mid-air like a spider web, with no seeming support. By my intervention, I had cheated nature, no matter the purity of my intent or motive. Only a human would ponder such a moral dilemma, but the ability to ask the question in no way implies knowledge of the answer to it. I had allowed myself to care for this wild creature, not necessarily the flesh and hair of him, but his unique dignity and perfect patchwork-fit within his natural environment; this simple animal who, according to legend, could predict the changing seasons simply by seeing his shadow. Certainly, my meager talents include nothing so spectacular.
I buried him in his den among the clover. Every time I pass by the spot, my eyes and mind are drawn toward that clover patch, as if to see him sitting stock-still, watching me with that one eye of his, until the danger has passed… I suppose it never really does.

The End

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