BY HANNES THUM
One summer when we were kids growing up, my friend brought home a wild badger from a ranch over in the Big Lost River Valley.
Badgers often were and are intentionally killed on ranches for various reasons, and Drew had developed either a soft spot in his heart for this particular badger or a powerful sense of curiosity about it (or both), and so lit upon an idea to bring it back here to town to try to keep it safe and to learn more about it.
Without asking anybody’s permission, Drew simply snuck the badger off of the ranch, drove it in a cage in the backseat back to his family home here in the Wood River Valley, released it into his closed garage, and began to try to figure out what it was that a badger needs, wants, and does.
We were neighbors, and he soon called me to come check it out. I will never forget what it was like to walk into that garage and make eye contact with this fierce, forceful creature.
Dubbed Digger because of his remarkable ability to rapidly dig holes in the backyard, this badger would quickly become many things: a family member, a pet of sorts, and a fascinating study for us kids in what wildness truly means.
Digger eventually was comfortable moving around the house independently, and he would let himself in and out as he pleased through a dog door. Digger became a raider of the refrigerator in the kitchen, a burier of raw eggs in the yard (I have no idea why he did that), and a subject of a video documentary that Drew made for a biology class.
We also quickly learned that Digger’s version of play could end in some serious claw wounds for us.
The house became Digger’s home base for the rest of that summer and well into the fall. Then, quite suddenly, on the morning after the first real snow in late October, he was gone. Digger tracks were visible in the snow, leaving the backyard and heading in a straight line off into the hills. We never saw him again.
To this day, a picture of Digger still hangs on the wall in my classroom. The documentary video, filmed on a VHS camcorder, has sadly gone missing.
I still hope that Digger knew that the humans with whom he interacted meant him no harm, even though he was moved far from the valley where he was born, and I still hope that he found a wild and good life here in this valley. Being separated from the ranch changed his life, but it likely saved it — I hope that Digger found it a suitable arrangement.
But, of course, these hopes are just hopes. And, they betray something important about the separation between myself and wild creatures. Digger certainly had more important things on his mind than what I thought about him, and my hopes meant and mean nothing to him.
It is folly to think we know what or how other animals think. It is not folly to wonder, though.