A month ago I was driving to work when I noticed a Canadian goose in the median between the on-ramp of Route 2 and Interstate 95. Of course this is not unusual, as these gentle aves are plentiful in New England all year-round. But this goose was unusual in that it was alone.
My heart immediately sank in my chest. I knew why the bird was alone. I had seen this before.
I must have been close to 7 or 8 when a goose-driven drama unfolded across the road from my childhood home. We lived across from the "town ponds," a grouping of five small ponds that served at the town's water supply and home to many small creatures including muskrats a variety of water birds. A mated pair of geese had made a nest here, but summer had turned into fall before their eggs were laid, and they were the only ones of their kind remaining in Southern Colorado. We watched them care for each other, and work together to keep the eggs safe. They took turns hunting for food, sitting on the eggs. The male usually took charge when chasing away a predator, or leading it off with a dramatic honking calamity.
As human nature is truly a mystery to me, I will never understand why someone stopped by the side of road and gunned down this male goose. But the gravity of this situation became clear to us as snowflakes began to fall and soon only the female's head was visible. She was unable to search for food, leaving their eggs unattended, and my father took on a bit of a protective role for her- at least in the sense that he shot the neighbor's dog when the black lab set his sights on the feathered mother-to-be.
By some small miracle the mother made it through the winter with at least some of her young. And she returned, year after year. Alone.
As I looked at this bird in the median I remembered this poor goose I had watched 20 years earlier, and I remembered the unfortunate flurry of crushed feathers I had seen on the highway the day before- this birds mate, I was sure. The other geese had flown on to another feeding spot, but this one remained.
Day after day I drove to work and looked around as I drove the overpass. Each day I spotted the goose in a different place, sitting in a different median near this interchange, staring at the cars. And each day I felt saddened, wishing that he or she would go to join their own kind in a pleasant field or tranquil lake somewhere. I wondered if the bird understood death, and knew that it's partner was dead. I wondered if the bird was sitting there in grief, wondering what to do next. Or if the bird was simply confused by it's partner's sudden disappearance and was waiting for the mate to return to this spot where they had been separated.
Sadly, realistically, I knew that this bird wouldn't be able to keep up this vigilance for long. And on the fourth or fifth day of looking for this bird each morning, I looked and saw her lying just inside the outbound guard rail, lifeless. My heart fell again, but I profess I felt some relief for this poor bird.
The concept of "mating for life" is one that humans flirt with, but often don't seem to grasp. I've often debated with intellectual friends about the topic, expressing my opinion that every species either definitely "is" or "isn't" a species that mates for life. More than 90% of birds, for example, are monogamous. Black vultures, in fact, discourage infidelity so handily that birds who are caught philandering are attacked by the rest of the flock. Red-backed salamanders also punish those with a wandering eye. French anglefish are monogamous, and wolves are another species that often spends their entire lives with one mate, maintaining a nuclear family... but they are one of the rare mammals who do so.
Only 3% of mammals are monogamous. Gibbons, beavers (sure, insert joke here), most otters, the tiny dik-dik antelope, prairie voles (males stay with the female that takes their virginity), coyotes and even California mice (a breed, not mice living in California) make the cut- but humans are not a part of this small group.
I theorize that our alleged "superior intelligence" has created within us a great moral dilemma... which we have responded to by professing monogamy and exalting fidelity. Monogamy is a cultural and/or religious construct for us. It is a theory that we have mixed opinions and beliefs about. And it is also a conscious choice. It is not a biological drive or a behavior that "just is," as it is with all other animals. I think our ability for abstract thought counteracts any deeply buried primitive predilection we may have towards monogamy. Is all this "superior intelligence" really so great?
Cynicism aside, I do believe that some humans are naturally more suited for fidelity than others. I have always considered myself a monogamous creature, despite the pitfalls of my human-ness. I simply feel that I am not built for infidelity... but this too comes from my complex thought processes and notions about love and devotion and God and so forth.
Though I would hope that I would not be spending the rest of my days sitting forlornly in interstate traffic, I must say I admire this type of devotion I have witnessed in geese. I imagine that I would feel much the same way should my mate disappear one day.
When I was young, there was a cemetery just outside of Monte Vista that we used to pass regularly. For many years we drove by and saw a young man sitting by one particular grave. Any time you passed, there was a good chance you would see him and his silver car... and see the well-worn path from his car to the grave. In winter, his footprints in the snow. He sat by the grave on what seemed like a near-daily basis. In rain, snow, heat. We said, "that poor man." It was years before he stopped. Why he stopped, I don't know; perhaps he found a new mate, or he flew to find the rest of his flock. Perhaps he finally succumbed to the traffic- I don't know. But we didn't see him by the grave any more. The well-worn path in the grass grew over and time moved on.
But as sure as I am about anything in this world, I'm sure that a love like that made it's mark on this planet. In some way it made a mark on every person who drove by him day after day. It affected the world, it made it better. It affected more than just that one soul he was attempting to commune with in the grass. That love, and that grief, is too pure, too good, too right.
That type of love is too great to let all this thinking get in the way.
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