B.D. and Me

I am rereading Brown Dog, by Jim Harrison.  It is the collected novellas that feature the character of the same name, or B.D.  I don't often reread something.  I haven't read anything else quite like it.  It causes frequent bursts of uncontrolled laughter.  It's often a kind of startled laugh, and I think that's due to some recognition, or a kernel of fear, that there is a bit of B.D. in me.

The New York Time's Sunday Book Review described B. D. this way:

If Brown Dog qualifies as civilized, it’s only a part-time vocation. He is an “anti-magnet for money”; lust flares in his loins every 15 minutes; four days without a drink seems his best record. He plans to fast before going into “battle” (i.e., chucking fireworks at an ex-girlfriend), but a couple of hours later, he gets “distracted by a pail of fresh smelt” and “two cases of beer.” Running from the police, B. D. asks to stop for breakfast. He prefers to sleep outdoors because houses are too warm. He averages one piece of mail a year. He believes sobriety is a “tough row to hoe.”

Anthony Doerr, December 13, 2013

Before you fill the comments with your condolences, let me repeat the words, "a bit."  Nonetheless, a Venn diagram of our personalities has an area of overlap, something I hesitate to admit publicly.  Hopefully most of that area is simply the part of B.D. that is "every man."  This is about one small spot; really just a little thing I copied from B.D.  Martha will have to start her own blog and write about the rest.

B.D. lives in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and has a unique relationship with nature; a simple, direct approach to the world and it's inhabitants, and a deep understanding of, well, you're never quite sure what.

"Anyone who's not a fool should try walking in the woods on a cold night when the moon is full.  That's when I learned most of life's secrets that I know."

B.D. soldiers through bad weather, bad luck, and bad decisions.  He comes across an old bird book with instructions on how to build a raven feeder. "You build a four-by-four platform about twelve feet up a tree and try to keep it supplied with roadkill."  That strikes him as a great idea, although the logistics conflict with his circumstances.  "The question is how am I to pick up roadkills without a vehicle?  ...I got the notion this problem will be solved by fate.  Meanwhile, I'll hoof it, maybe get an old sled for roadkills.  Not a bad idea."

(Would it be a relief to you if I quickly said that I don't wander around Madison dragging an old sled loaded with road kill?)

I'm not quite sure how I got the notion that I could take this raven feeder idea, shape it a bit, and fit it into our life.  It may have something to do with the platform bird feeder my dad built when I was a kid - a 3' square plywood platform mounted about 6 feet off the ground on a pole in the back yard.  It might have more to do with my obsessive composting and my feeling that any organic waste that ends up in the garbage is a small failure.  One way or another I hit upon the idea that I could dispose of meat waste by putting it out on the roof of the rabbit hutch for the neighborhood crows.

Trimmings from a chuck roast.

Crows are delightfully smart.  They cottoned to the idea almost immediately.  If I place meat trimmings or chicken skins out there at 7:00 PM they are gone by 7:00 AM - all year round.  The hutch seems to be on their regular circuit now, but like the ravens at B.D.'s feeder they are wary; flying away at the slightest movement or sound of my approach.

Getting a good picture isn't easy.

I have found a way to turn garbage into crow manure.  This relationship seems to be mutually beneficial with few, if any, down sides, though I have not tracked down any information on proper crow nutrition.  There is that time around 6:00 AM when a murder of crows is excitedly occupying the ridges of the nearby garages and house.  There's a bit of cawing and jousting.  It only lasts about ten minutes and then they're gone, so I can't imagine the neighbors are bothered by this.  The crows don't seem to mind that weeks may go by without a single breakfast provided.  The schedule on which the hutch roof is stocked is based purely on the vagaries of our menu and the cooking waste it generates.  I don't shop with them in mind, and I feel no responsibility to be consistent.

So...

in that way...

I'm nothing like B.D.

"Before being wheeled into surgery he made Teddy, who had accompanied him in the ambulance, promise to get the other half of a frozen roadkilled deer up onto the raven-feeding platform at the cabin. Teddy was strong enough to pitch the carcass up there and wouldn't need to use a ladder. B.D. was mindful despite his inchoate pain that once you get the ravens coming in, you didn't want to disappoint them."