We humans have grown up thinking we’re something special, and we are.
On the other hand, we have recently discovered trees talk to each other through underground networks they establish with completely different species. They strategically turn their leaves to create shade for their offspring, and conserve water during droughts to keep their children from dehydrating.
We humans are not the only beings that hold our young in almost reverential importance. Birds feign being hurt to lead would be predators from the nest. A mama black bear sets her cubs to play, but keeps a careful eye on them as she forages. I have watched a Dad Northern cardinal feed seeds one at a time to his son the way a human parent might spoon cereal to his toddler.
Little ones trust their adults to keep them safe. One of my granddaughters was demonstrably fearless from birth. She would stand on the edge of the pool and jump to Grandma, confident that whether or not Gramma saw the little one jump, she would notice the inbound body in mid-flight and put out her hands to catch the flying youngster.
I leaned against a fencepost one afternoon and watch a herd of cattle. Cows with their calves turned toward the stranger who had suddenly appeared. One calf in particular moved in close to its Mom, and played at grazing, not really interested in eating, watching under Mom’s belly like a child peeking around Mommy’s leg, not really afraid, watching from the comfort of the safe zone.
After a few minutes, Mama cow signaled to her kid to “stay there while see about this guy who thinks the fencepost’s purpose is to hold him from falling.” She ambled across 100 feet of pasture to within a few yards of where I stood. We chatted silently. “All I want is a few pictures,” I said. “Sure is a cute kid you’ve got there.”
“Thank you,” she said. “He is a handsome lad.”
Then she eased back to her youngster.
Cows, like many other critters, keep their babies close when strangers are near.
Instinct and love are two words for the same motive, t f my favorites, when patches of deep grass and flowing water are turned to creekside maternity wards. Where mom and dad geese take turns on their nests and, eventually, guide their offspring to know the difference between what’s good for them and who is not.
I have marked in my mind a favorite spot across the creek from a nest where I could stand quietly and watch as Mom and Dad responded to my presence by rounding up their brood and heading off downstream. Until one day …
As I arrived at my favorite watching place, Mom and Dad marshalled their young’uns and gathered in the flowing water – and swam directly across to my side of the creek.
They swam in a line – one adult, all the kids, and the other adult – along the creekside in front of me, upstream, then turned around and back down.
Geese do not watch much television, as far as I know, so they do not have the benefit of the evening news warning them about the dangers awaiting their offspring. Like most of us, they watched until they decided the tall stranger in the odd colors at the edge of the wood was not a threat. They really wanted to show off their family.
As they paddled off, I thanked them for the honor went off in search of more surprises. That’s the thing about wildlife photography: with enough patience – or whatever quality makes one want to sit a long time watching grass grow and goose eggs hatch –one may be rewarded with some nice images of Mom and Dad goose and their fuzzy yellow kiddies.
Like the geese and the cow, we know the stranger by the fencepost is probably harmless, but we watch awhile to be sure he will not prove us wrong. Then we smile and bask in the glow of our future.
Text and Images ©2025 John Messeder. John is an award-winning environmental storyteller, nemophilist and social anthropologist living in Gettysburg, PA. He may be contacted at john@johnmesseder.com
