It is almost time to plant. The traditional time to do this in Alaska is Memorial day, so I am hastening to prepare the beds. I am working on what I call the "back rows," which I opened up last year. They need an awful lot of work. The tiller did the hard part; but now I have to go through, supplement the soil, remove many roots, and add manure to it. So there I was, spading, when this guy (or gal) wandered up to my operation.
A very young one. Looks like one just cast off by Mommy. And since Mommy is not around to tell him (her) not to talk to strangers, s(he) is quite fearless. It was clearly hungry. But, alas, not much to eat around my place.
Poor moosey. Cast off cruelly by its mother. Perhaps Ma was rather premature. However, the laws of nature are not always comprehensible to us, and believe me, they were not set up by Walt Disney (Bambi comes to mind), but instead by Darth Vader. For this young one, it is sink or swim. I hope it learns to swim, of course. Fortunately in a few weeks, all will be green and moosey will have a full menu to choose from. In the meantime it must be rough. Not a thing I can do about it. You can't, for example, put out hay for the moose. They can't digest it. So we wish you well, moosey; nothing else we can do.