The worms crawl in,  

 The worms crawl out; 

 The ants play Pinochle 

       On your snout....     
    

Why is it that a rat is horrifying, but if you glue on long ears and a puffy tail, it’s all “hippity, hoppity, Easter’s on its way?” What exactly makes a rat creepy and a rabbit cuddly?

Is something creepy because it causes you harm? Not necessarily. Mosquitoes hurt you and can cause serious diseases, but they aren’t creepy. Maggots won’t bite you and can actually help you, but can we all agree that maggots are undeniably creepy?

Creepiness isn’t necessarily a permanent condition; what’s creepy today may not be creepy tomorrow. Apparently we can accommodate to it. When I first moved out here, I removed ticks with tongs; now I grab them with bare fingers. But accommodation isn’t a given; snail slime is still creepy and always will be.

When I decided to figure out why some things creep me out and others do not, my Urge-to-Classify genes kicked in, and I coughed up the-

Creepiness Rating System

I. Motation 

        A.  Mode of Moving affects creepiness.

          Slithering gives most of us pause, hopping not so much. So, snakes
          are creepy and bunnies are cuddly. Slithering feels like sneaking up
         on something.

          The worm is harmless, but it slithers, too, in its own way. When it
          elongates and then contracts between my fingers. a shiver runs up
          my spine.

Researchers have found that we have an innate ability to detect the presence of a slithering snake and to be leery of it, so recognizing their creepiness is hard-wired into us.

         B. Speed of Moving

Bats slice through the air, ripping back and forth faster than the eye can follow. When something does that, it is beyond our control or containment. It feels as though it could turn and be on us before we can react. That’s creepy.

         C. Rate of acceleration

        

If something can go from zero to right-in-my-face in 2 seconds, I freak out. A mouse across the room is not alarming. A mouse that looks me in the eye and then darts for my pant leg is creepy.

Creepy movements get a rating of 8 ICKs (Indicators of  Creepiness per Kilogram)

II. No Accounting for Taste

        

A willingness to partake of carrion is disgusting to most of us. (If it’s not, let’s talk about that soon.) Flies, vultures, eagles, maggots, hyenas, and other bottom feeders like their meat well aged.

Crow eating a catfish that an eagle pulled out of a hole in the ice

         Carrion eating gets 9 ICKs on the Creepiness Rating Scale.

III. Quiet 

Many creepy beasts are quiet. A swooshing sound by the ear is much eerier than squawking. Something that moves without making much noise seems to be stalking.

Silence gets 4 ICKs.

IV. Unattractiveness

             As in all things, it seems the handsome guys get a free ride.

No one is creeped out by a swan or a fox, but if you have a bald, red, gnarly face like a vulture,  people just won’t be comfortable in your company. Have cute little eyebrows like a raccoon, you skate through life; maybe you can’t get across the road, but you are beloved. Have no discernible features like a maggot, and you're not such a treasure.

Shapes matter. Long, skinny things like snakes or possum tails and irregular things such as turkey snoods put us on edge. Shapes not seen often in nature, like the triangular face of the mantis, give us the willies.

How adorable.....

Unattractiveness gets 5 ICKs.

V. Invasiveness

It’s a given: if it can slide or bore its way into you––

10 ICKs will be given.

VI. Inescapability

Permission to come aboard, Ma'am?

Can’t remove it because it grabs you or holds on or because it’s sticky? Or does it flit and flop all around you, following you no matter which way you go? 

I love frogs. I was amused when one hopped onto my kayak as I paddled by his log. I was less amused when he turned toward me, eyed the well I was sitting in, and tensed his hind leg muscles to jump. He was about to join me and climb around on my bare legs at will. There'd be no escaping him without tipping over. Note: These are not little toadies. Two of these bullfrogs would fill up your glove compartment.

10 ICKs granted.

VII. Surprise factor  

           I like bats. I put up a bat house on the garage, for heaven's sake. But 

           when I reach for the door knob and one zooms out of the light 

           fixture right into my face, I’m not feeling the love.

        

Surprising me gets 9 ICKs.

VII. Things out of place

Love the bird in the sky. Hate the birds in the bedroom smacking against the inside of the window. Snake in the grass, right and proper. Snake in the water, yucky.
When things are in an unexpected place, it's creepy. Like ants playing Pinochle on your snout.

           Mislocation gets 7 ICKs.

VIII. Texture  

           Things can be tactiley creepy: scaly things, slimy things, wet
            things, warty things. 

           Untoward experiences have seeped into our genes and made us 

            react instinctively to snail slime and lizard scales.

                                        
                   Slimy, scaly textures get 9 ICKs.

IX. Means of expression

How a critter communicates affects our reactions. The sweet trill of a wren, the bobbing head and cooing of a mourning dove–these elicit smiles. The darting tongue of a snake? No smiles.

Tongue wagging:  8 ICKs.
Red tongue: 1 bonus ICK.

X.  The Unknown

            Some things we encounter are just never identified.

10 ICKs to this fellow.

For more on our genetic relationship to snakes:
http://www.livescience.com/2348-fear-snakes.html

Mike

DESTINY

I was rounding the last curve on the Black Diamond Road on my way home. On the right side of the road was the old barn with “East Pittsburg” painted on the side. On the left was a hand-written cardboard sign. It was the kind of sign that causes my husband to sigh deeply and say, “Oh, boy.” Luckily, he wasn’t with me.

“Free Kittens,” it said.  My inner five-year old stopped the car.

We weren’t in the market for a cat. Lila Ruby had been more cat than anyone needs in a lifetime. She was long gone. Spencer wasn’t that amusing except for having 15 toes on his front feet. And Bruce had that mild allergy to cats.

Still----kitties. I do love kitties. I’d just take a look.

In the mile and a half between there and home, I named her Lily and reassured her as best I could; she had just left her mother for the first time. She was only 6 weeks old and fit nicely in the palm of my hand. I opened the car door in the driveway and said, “Here’s your new home, Lily Cat.” With that, the afternoon from hell began.

First, a digression. A few weeks after Lily arrived, my son carried her to me and flipped her over. “Mom, you’re a nurse, right? This is no Lily.” So Lily became Mike. Back to afternoon from hell.

Mike the cat leapt from my hands, jumped out of the car, and disappeared into the woods. By the end the summer we don’t go into the woods much because it’s very thick and deep. You can barely see your feet let alone a tiny kitten. And it was a 90-degree day in August. Mike couldn’t have weighed a pound, and he hadn’t been weaned. I knew he’d dehydrate in a short time. Even though I was wearing shorts and flip-flops, I chased him into the woods. Greenbriers and gooseberry thorns tore at my legs, but I was terrified about that cat.

I meowed, and he meowed back. I followed those little sounds well into the woods but couldn’t see him. Then his meows seemed to be coming from every direction. Catbirds were mimicking me! So much for following his voice; I lost his trail.

I searched for an hour, but a 20-acre, dark, overgrown woods was impossible. The biggest problem was that the entire forest floor was covered with May Apples. Those interesting plants form a false floor across the woods. At the top of each tall stem is a wide and occlusive umbrella of leaves. Hidden under that umbrella is a large waxy flower. You could hide a cougar under those things, let alone a tiny kitten.

I searched until my legs were scratched and bleeding, then went home. I was overheated and thirsty. The first thing I did was try to call a friend to come help me search, although by now I was quite sure Mike had succumbed to the heat. I called everyone I knew, and no one was home. So I suited up in long pants and mosquito repellant.

I looked for another 2 hours in a fairly hysterical state, but 20 acres is 20 acres. I sat down in defeat and a big puddle of guilt. I had ripped a baby from its mother and sent it to its death in a few short minutes. I slunked home.

After supper, I realized I couldn’t go to bed knowing that cat was out there in the woods, possibly alive. Flashlight in hand, I started out again. Being in the woods at night was as creepy, as you might guess.

After an hour, I'd made it to the far north edge of the woods. I sat down on a log, defeated. For no particular reason I took a stick and lifted the leaf of a nearby May Apple. And there sat Mike, stretching to his full 6 inches tall. Since this seemed impossible, I thought the heat was getting to me.

The kitten was terrified and ready to bolt again. I tempted him with a little stick, moving it in front of his toes. He watched it warily, then could not resist; I know a little something about cats. He took one little swipe. Then another. He rolled onto his back. As soon as he was engaged, I grabbed and caught one little toe. He struggled mightily, biting, scratching, kicking. Nothing could have made me let go, even as he hollowed out my forearm. With a death-grip on that kitten. I walked down the driveway toward home, the most relieved person in the world. He’d been missing for 6 hours, but he seemed okay.

Mike up on the beam

Mike nee Lily slept on the pillow by my right ear that night, a place he occupied the rest of his life. He was a small cat, bowlegged and wiry. He was an entertaining fellow who ran across the beams in the rafters of the house and brought me little mouse heads that rolled down the deck in the wind.

Here’s to Mike. In a 20 acre patch of May Apples (that’s 12 square blocks), he chose the only one I looked under that night.

Mike-a very excellent cat

       FOOTSTEPS    

I am grateful for the gifts bestowed by the countryside, but it’s important to acknowledge that I don’t always return the favor.

Some good comes of intruding on nature, of poking one’s nose into nests and pools and even the occasional tryst.  If you share your adventures, you may remind others to value the wilderness and care for it. If you notice problems, you might be able to repair them and even prevent others.

But our very presence does damage. It disrupts animals. It transports seeds and plants to places they may do harm. It may actually maim and kill.

Fences can be deadly. Two taut wires twisted around a fawn’s leg held her tight. We wanted to help her, but she was scared to death of us. She screamed and kicked and thrashed. Eventually we freed her, but her leg was dislocated. She ran amazingly fast on 3 legs and disappeared beyond the pond. The vet said the leg might snap back into place, but I think he was being kind. Fences are not one of man’s greatest inventions if you’re a wild animal.

Yesterday I watched a painted turtle up in the woods. She was pawing at the ground, so I figured she was covering her eggs. I watched for half an hour. When I walked closer, I saw that she was caught in a fence and was struggling to get free. I pried her loose, happy she wasn’t a snapper. If someone hadn’t put in that fence a century ago, it would never have happened. On the other hand if I hadn’t been walking in the woods, she would still be there.

Our fields had always been mowed by local farmers. We let them go wild, and the very next year, ground-nesters returned like magic. Dickcissels and meadowlarks sang their hearts out. But when I mow walking paths through the deep grasses, I also mow snakes, butterflies, and even a frog or two. Not a good feeling.

You can make planks out of our weeds out here. I was hacking at some scrub bushes that were too close to the house.   I cut a branch and just one second too late saw a warbler nest. I tried to prop it up but mama left the area.

You can’t really know the impact you have. It’s easy to step on turtle eggs or baby mice and never know it. It’s easy to distress a rabbit when you don’t even know you’re standing by her babies.

Nature takes balance. I enjoy it, notice it, learn about it. Respect it. Repair it. But I also know that not every creature is thrilled to see me coming.