Peart or Presbyterians: it's all the same to Tasiq

Tasiq is a beaver that I was privileged to raise from the time he was about a week old, orphaned by a dynamite blast. Because beavers are such family-oriented animals, they will, if left completely alone, die of loneliness. To make sure this didn’t happen, Tasiq spent his first winter with the run of my house. He now lives free in the wild, is doing well, and exists completely with no human contact. He doesn’t even want me, which hurts my feelings just a little.

Tasiq liked books, and had some taste about their literary value, I think. Anyway, it so happens that my father was a clergyman and I inherited some very pompous appearing volumes, which occupy the bottom shelf of my living room bookcase. They look very learned, but I must confess I have not opened one of them in more than 30 years, and I could not even list their names.

However, I do respect them, especially one day when, after I had been out for a few hours working with other creatures besides the resident beaver, I came home to find him sitting on top of a pile of carefully dissected pages. Not merely torn apart, but ripped into thousands of tiny slivers of paper.

“Tasiq,” I reprimanded, “that is not the way books should be treated.”

He ignored me, and went on tearing up bits. I finally found the old faded cover of the book more or less intact. The Presbyterian Book of Hymns and Prayers, published by the University of Oxford Press in Oxford, England, in 1895. Tasiq was not even interested in the ensuing lecture.

A week later Tasiq tried to impress me again; perhaps by being more up to date. Maybe he had read the impressive reviews in the newspaper. Anyway, in my absence once again, he reached up onto my reading table and helped himself to the latest murder mystery, which I read just before going to bed at night, Innocent Graves by Peter Robinson. I had hoped to finish it and have a good night’s rest. Tasiq ate the last two chapters. Fortunately, I was able to get another copy so I managed to find out who did it.

About 100 years ago, when I taught high school in St. Catharines, a young man who was to become quite famous was a pupil in my art class — Neil Peart, the drummer for Rush. He also wrote a book, called Ghost Riders, an intriguing book. I had read that, and again left it lying on the table. Some day I will learn. Anyway, maybe Tasiq was learning.

Again, when I went to look for the book, it was missing. I didn’t find any scraps anywhere. So I kept hunting and finally found it, tucked in behind the toilet but in such excellent condition I have been able to return it to my library. Maybe the beaver was learning to appreciate literature. Maybe I just got home too soon.

Tasiq will not find any books out in the swamp where he now lives. He probably doesn’t think he needs any. Being Tasiq, he likely thinks he will write his own, though I may do that for him.

This year I have two baby beavers, orphaned by something so horrific that they will never trust a human. I have never before, in all the years, been given such frightened little beavers.

I doubt they will ever have the slightest interest in books. But I do know that the day will come when they will be given the same gift that Tasiq has now received. They will live free lives in a place safe from the interference of that most dangerous of all creatures, human beings. And no books.

For more information on the Aspen Valley Wildlife Sanctuary, located near Rosseau, call 705-732-6368.