Last week I wrote about the hawks, the coyotes, the ravens and the squirrels in my yard, and the dynamics that occurred with them. However, I didn't mention my javelina. (Admittedly, I'm a little possessive of him.
Ever since my parents moved to Sedona in 1989, and I moved here in 1992, I have been fascinated by the javelina. They are not pigs or boar. From what I've read online and heard from locals, they are essentially akin to giant guinea pigs, with a musky smell, poor vision, a keen sense of smell, and they usually run in packs. I've seen four to fifteen in a pack. It is rare to see a lone javelina. Dr. Peebles said that they are storytellers. (Perhaps one day I will channel one to see what stories it might tell.)
When I first moved to Sedona, the javelina showed up in my backyard every night. Residents of the area would often feed them vegetables, such as potatoes. When the javelina showed up in my yard, they would go into the giant prickly pear cacti patch (literally sit in it!) and eat the prickly pear fruit and pads, spines and all. The javelina have a very tough skin, and I noticed spines sticking out of their pig-like snouts, and they didn't seem to care.
One night I had a bag of potatoes that were getting green. I went outside expecting the javelina to show up, but for the first time in forever they didn't. I kept the potatoes for as long as I could, night after night hoping that they would show up. Finally I held up the bag of potatoes, and sent the javelina a telepathic message: "I have potatoes! If you want them, you need to show up NOW, or I will have to throw them away."
Well, holy guacamole! Javelina came from as far away as Alaska and Florida! (Okay, I'm exaggerating.) Apparently my telepathic cry to the javelina went "viral." I counted forty javelina within ten minutes of my call to them. And they kept coming. I stood on my porch tossing green potatoes to them. They crowded around me, and they fought and bickered over their potato trophies. I quickly ran out of potatoes, and grabbed a bag of carrots and continued tossing the spoils to them until they either left with bellies full, or huddled down in the prickly pear cactus patch for a nap.
Javelina are this strange mixture of cuddly piggy-ness, and then they have these huge boar-like fangs that could puncture a barrel of oil. They are blind, but so highly sensitive that they can tell if you blink your eyelashes in a threatening way. They are not aggressive, unless (understandably) cornered.
Fast forward from 1992 to July 20, 2019. I suppose it could be "Mercury retrograde" that things went so stupidly weird that morning. I woke up at my usual 4:30am-ish time, made my coffee, and thought I had plenty of time to order a gift online for my daughter's birthday before settling down to watch The Golden Girls on TV. What should have taken five minutes or less ended up to be an hour and a half as my internet wasn't functioning properly. I sat upstairs in my office at 5:30am, at a time when I normally would be downstairs sitting on the couch with my kitties. I was terribly frustrated with the internet, and looked out my window at the golf course just in time to catch a joyful glimpse of my lone javelina friend walking slowly down the golf cart path. My heart soars whenever I see him.
Just a few minutes later, however, I heard what sounded like a dog yipping a warning. I looked out my window again and saw the javelina standing on the hill on the golf course, just a few feet from the neighborhood coyote named Fairway. They were looking at each other. I thought, "Wow...they must be friends." Then, from the left side I saw another coyote running at full speed towards my javelina! The javelina's fur bristled in fear, and he took off like a shot, both coyotes in full chase! For a brief and terrifying second I thought, "This is nature taking its course." Not on my watch! I bolted from my chair, and threw open the sliding screen door open to my balcony. "Hey!" I shouted softly. The coyotes stopped in their tracks and looked at me in annoyance as my javelina got away. I telepathically sent them both a message, "I know you are hungry, but the javelina is my friend. Go get some smaller game." If a coyote could hang its head in shame, I swear that's exactly what Fairway did. Then she and her friend trotted over to the field on the other side of the golf course. I said a prayer of protection for the mice and rabbits who lived there.
I then resumed my frustrating internet pursuit of buying my daughter a birthday present, still trembling from my latest "Wild Kingdom" episode. I finally decided to call the company and order the present over the phone. The customer service rep who answered couldn't hear me at all, although I was on a landline, not a cell phone. Feeling defeated, I abandoned the project for the time being, and went downstairs for a cup of coffee. It was only 6:00am, and I'd accomplished nothing. I was also feeling a little conflicted about interfering with the animal kingdom and the course of nature. "Wow...what a wasted morning so far. What's all of this about, God?" I said aloud.
That's when I heard, loud and clear, "Wasted morning? I think not! You saved a life! And, Summer, you are an animal, too. You had every right to be involved in saving that javelina's life. You were just doing what a human animal would do."
That's when it occurred to me that even a bad or seemingly unproductive day really isn't all that bad at all, as long as you've put love into the equation. If you chose to carefully step over an ant hill, or scoop up a spider and put her outside, I would say you've had a pretty productive day. Our real job is to be the expressers of God's love in the world, in large and small ways, all equally important. As has been said by many spiritual teachers over the centuries (Dr. Peebles included): "Just be a good person. That is enough."
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