Bird watching hasn’t been quite as good this year. Around this time last summer, you could look out our south-facing living room window at any point in the day and see a variety of birds doing the hard work of seed swallowing and bug chomping in the grass, garden, and pond areas. The same species are back this summer, but are mostly seen on the wing or on the fences. The reason is likely due to the savage predator that moved into the area last spring: KiKi Shrewslayer.
KiKi on the prowl
Research in the United States estimates that free-ranging domestic cats account for the deaths of over one billion birds and more than six billion mammals per year. They stand accused of contributing to the rapid loss of important species, upsetting ecological balance, and contributing to the apocalypse that is our anthropocene era. Citing our own cat as evidence, I’m worried they might be right. While most Americans are struggling with homeschooling, working from home, and burning through sweatpants faster than ever while zooming through meetings and running out of streaming content, KiKi’s lockdown day in the life breaks down more or less like this:
Eka Pada Sirsasana is an advanced hip opener, great for improving one’s pouncing ability.
Wake up, complain about empty food bowl.
Watch food fill bowl, eat 2 pieces, rub against something and complain a bit more.
Go hunting around the pond, catch a vole.
Take a nap.
Follow Farley around the garden. Attack anything that moves, including Farley.
Take a nap.
Go hunting again, catch something else.
Take a nap.
Lay still in front of a hutch and stare at a rabbit for no less than 1 hour before falling asleep.
Wake up and follow Bryon to the fencing project and try to understand “why does the ground move?” under the thick mats of grass.
Head back to the patio, take a nap. Wake up, take another nap.
More hunting.
Beg for kibble, eat a little, thank the stairs by rubbing against them.
Disappear for awhile and attend secret cat meeting. Come back home soaking wet.
Walk to the edge of the garden at dusk and survey the veldt with a look of indifferent ownership.
Climb an apple tree.
Beg to come inside but walk away when the door opens.
Hunt some more.
Sleep on the patio until the sun comes up or a human comes out.
Repeat.
A peaceful moment of rest before dining.
Most of KiKi’s prey gets eaten, except the occasional shrew left in a random place. Birds are the worst to see her get — they make a lot of noise and she doesn’t seem to know how (or want) to dispatch them quickly. Our own attitudes towards different creatures can make this worse. When she catches voles, we are thankful. Voles are destructive. They play an important role in the ecosystem, but their reproductive prowess ensures their staying power despite hunting pressure. Birds are beautiful. They sing pretty songs, eat lots of mosquitoes, and enjoy a place of reverence in our logo. When she catches birds, we are sad.
Are we contradicting our conservation ethos by having a cat?
Yes. And no. It’s complicated. Due to the agricultural history of our land and the different attitudes that have come and gone over the years, the ecology of our place has the potential to be better. We have chosen methods of improvement that include domesticated plants and animals — a state of existence that gives us more influence over how they perform, allowing us to potentially improve the ecology here more rapidly than if left on its own. The trade-off is that domesticated plants and animals are susceptible to pests and predators which, in the course of doing what nature designed them to do, might undermine the ecological improvements that would benefit them in the long run.
So it’s a balancing act. We have formal conservation land that runs its course with minimal intervention, like pulling noxious weeds or creating cover for critters. We have informal conservation land that is a mix of natural but non-native participants that provides cover and food for birds, mammals, and reptiles (so many snakes this year!) until it turns into a winter oasis enjoyed by migrating waterfowl. KiKi does not venture into these places. Her domain is around the house and in the near areas where we are most active in our food-producing endeavors. Since we discourage natural predators in this homestead zone (fencing, few places to lurk and hide, and the scent of our dogs trickled and plopped here and there), KiKi acts as a substitute predator for eliminating those small creatures that are not quite fit enough to evade her. Whatever the reason — old age, illness, or faulty genes, the light pressure that KiKi applies to these smaller species ensures that their gene pools are vetted but not diminished. KiKi and the dogs also object to other cats in this zone, and since KiKi is spayed, she will not multiply.
In the ideal version of our conservation mindset, the presence of a single domestic cat seems hypocritical. But as with other technologies, like tractors, fencing, and domesticated species, her limited and controlled application may help to achieve a better outcome. Maybe our civilization can evolve back to a point were Felis catus is no longer justifiable. In the meantime, it seems possible that with a careful approach we can reverse some negative impacts with the very tools that caused them, and hopefully redeem those tools and ourselves in the process.