The Forest Park & Tower Grove Branches of the Woodland Mafia

There was a moment at the parish picnic this weekend when I felt truly understood. One of the parishioners casually mentioned that he, too, was battling rabbits and squirrels in his garden. I nodded immediately. "Brother," I said, "I know your pain."

We exchanged the weary look of two men who have watched months of gardening effort disappear overnight into the digestive systems of furry criminals.

Later that evening, however, while surveying the latest damage in the Garden of Weeden, I had an epiphany. Maybe these animals aren't invading my garden. Maybe I'm gardening in their neighborhood. Consider the evidence.

Just a few miles from our home sits Forest Park, one of the largest and most celebrated urban parks in America. At more than 1,300 acres, it's roughly one-and-a-half times the size of Central Park in New York City.

Directly across the street lies Tower Grove Park, a National Historic Landmark and one of the finest examples of a 19th-century gardenesque park anywhere in the country.

In other words, we don't exactly live in a wildlife desert. We live between two enormous animal housing developments. When you stop and think about it, is it really surprising that rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, opossums, chipmunks, and every feathered creature known to mankind occasionally wander into our yard looking for a meal?

To them, we're not homeowners. We're a buffet with convenient parking.

For years, I assumed these critters operated independently. I now realize how naive I was. There is organization, structure, a chain of command. There is, without question, a Woodland Mafia.

The squirrels serve as reconnaissance. They spend their days perched on fences, power lines, and tree branches conducting surveillance. If you've ever noticed a squirrel sitting perfectly still and staring at you from thirty feet away, don't be fooled. He's not relaxing. He's gathering intelligence. 

The rabbits are the foot soldiers. Cute? Absolutely. Harmless? Not even remotely. A rabbit can strip a vegetable plant with the efficiency of a demolition crew and still have enough time to pose innocently for photographs afterward.

The raccoons handle nighttime operations. If the squirrels are intelligence agents and the rabbits are the muscle, raccoons are the special forces division. They arrive after dark wearing their trademark burglar masks and proceed to overturn flowerpots, raid bird feeders, and inspect every corner of the property as if they're executing a search warrant.

Then there are the opossums. Nobody seems entirely sure what their role is. Every organization has that one employee. They wander around looking slightly confused, somehow surviving situations that should have ended badly years ago. I imagine they're in charge of sanitation. Every crime family needs a cleanup crew.

Meanwhile, every spring I commit the same rookie mistake. I spend weeks preparing garden beds, selecting plants, fertilizing, watering, and pulling weeds. Then I proudly create what can only be described as an all-you-can-eat buffet for local wildlife: tomatoes, peppers, beans, fresh greens.

To a gardener, these are crops. To a rabbit, they're brunch. To a squirrel, they're groceries. To a raccoon, they're late-night takeout.

Then I stand at the kitchen window acting surprised when customers arrive. The truth is these creatures are simply trying to survive. Over the years, we've replaced woods with subdivisions, fields with parking lots, and open spaces with shopping centers. Food sources disappear. Habitat shrinks. Then along comes some well-meaning gardener who plants enough produce to feed half the county. Of course they're going to stop by. If someone opened a free barbecue stand in my neighborhood, I'd probably become a regular too.

That doesn't mean I've surrendered. Let's not get carried away. Compassion has limits. I still have fences. I still have repellents. I still have plans that may or may not involve strategically deployed motion-activated sprinklers.

The Woodland Mafia may be hungry, but the Garden of Weeden has a security department. The battle continues. Every morning, I inspect the perimeter. Every evening, the squirrels conduct surveillance. The rabbits probe for weaknesses. The raccoons plan their next heist.

Somewhere beneath an ancient oak tree in Forest Park, I'm convinced a meeting is taking place. A large squirrel sits at the head of the table. A rabbit nervously presents the latest report. A raccoon adjusts his tie. The squirrel clears his throat. "Gentlemen, the grapes are almost ready."

The room erupts in applause. And just like that, another season in the Garden of Weeden begins.