Since the pandemic, I have joined scores of others who delight in the peace that the observation of nature brings. Priory’s campus is a sprawling panoply of wildlife excitement — like the time we enjoyed a hawk stretching the sinewy remains of a disembodied squirrel tail in its beak for the last strings of meat during a grammar lesson, or the goose that chased Mr. Santa Cruz all the way to the safety of his Audi in the parking lot. Whereas most pandemic nature-watchers were birders, we became “Busseners,” captivated by the comings and goings of the ultra-rare bestia bussenus, affectionately known as Bussen. Following the extensive scientific study on the beast in The Record (Spring 2022), campus sightings were frequent delights. We watched him skulk, aimless, on untread paths, and tried to spot the tiny tufts of mustache, one of the distinguishing features of the male of this rare species. We observed, incredulous, as he attempted acceptance and adoption into the campus turkey flock. He went so far as to pretend to be a turkey dinner for solidarity, (photo) only to be rejected and cast aside by the superior alpha birds. It is this beast’s lonely search for acceptance by flora and fauna alike that has compelled us all in engaged observation. As the original study stated, he was classified as “non-threatening and even pitiable. Investigations are being made into the possibility of taming it, as it cannot be used for its (lack of) fur.”
Reader, my concern began when I noticed a significant drop in Bussen sightings that coincides with campus construction and reorganization. Where the beast once roamed freely with startling frequency, weakly attempting to defend its territory to no avail, there is only silence and deep, dejected footprint traces filled with snow. The fruitless search for sightings of the beast has left us empty, unable to focus on our work. I fear that Bussen has been drawn into captivity through our meddlesome self-interest. I have noticed physical traces of this liminal space between freedom and captivity–its green outer mantle shows a ragged tear in the right upper arm, a last vestige of its wildness as it ambles upright. The contrast is stark; our entire conclusion in the 2022 study about its nomadic nature has been upended, I believe, because of anthropogenic, or human-caused, changes. It is exhibiting nesting tendencies, evidence of desperate and uncharacteristic permanence, masquerading as stability.
Bestia bussenus has been seen squatting in Room 105, bringing in plant life to mimic its outdoor habitat, and, like other rodents, creating a nesting corner near the HVAC heat source with piles of English essay papers, used food wrappers, and rubber bands. Now I hear the cornered, enraged cry of a trapped beast from the depths of the 100s, a deep-bellied “Get of my ROOM, Woodcock!” when its new territory is threatened by a (legitimate) teacher just trying to teach some Beowulf. Perhaps we have a Grendel of our own making.
Let us not force Bussen to go the way of its close relative, the nutria, another invasive Missouri species. The Myocastor coypus is a semi-aquatic rodent that nests near ponds and can consume up to 25% of its body weight, closely related to bestia bussenus due to its attraction to the Priory pond and massive orange teeth (pictured). If we do, we will have a problem on our hands; we are to blame for this dearth of entertainment and joy.
New campus paths — particularly the connecting path to the ASC on the east side of campus — have pushed the beast out of its natural roaming plain, resulting in increased foot traffic by junior schoolers, who are a steady stream of vulnerable prey. This is a dangerous encroachment upon the beast’s former territory where it isolated itself in peace. Further, Coach Brotherton’s racing laps (best lap time 00:11) in the “EZGO” golf cart send the beast into fits of quaking terror, seeking “sanctuary” in the 100s. But is this truly an animal sanctuary or is it a pen for unruly beasts? The presence of the alpha Brotherton (on wheels!) and turkeys has sealed Bussen’s comfortable beta status. Doubtless Mr. Malecek’s sense of discipline, order, and justice has had an unnaturally calming effect on Bussen. However, is this beast intelligent and self-aware enough to appreciate such concepts?
What type of social and moral contract do we have for misfit beasts? Let us recall the lesson of Koko the Gorilla, born into captivity, taught a few words of sign language, and forced to stare blankly at a television for entertainment, calmed by her recognition of a favorite television host. Is this not the same as Bussen sitting in 105, blithe in its ignorance, tending to its plants, glazed eyes lighting up when Mr. Malecek strolls by? Is this the fate we wish for Bussen, more vulnerable, physically inferior, and intellectually weaker than Koko? Are we so callous as to entrap what was once wild and free to teach it a few measly vocabulary words so it can perform for us on our terms? Is it even teachable? Are we to let “campus improvement” infringe upon the right of beasts to thrive as Bussen has (kinda) in nature? I leave this letter with more questions than answers. However, I can only conclude that our worst nightmares have come true–the relative peace on campus where it was the problem has been irrevocably broken. Now, we are the problem. Bussen has been tamed.
