Make Mine Rare

Blood and guts spilled on the first hole of Dyker Beach yesterday. And it wasn’t some poor soul committing hari kari after an exasperating three-putt.

As we trundled down the frozen fairway after a less-than-perfect tee shot, a bird of prey, wings spread imperiously, swooped down in front of us. Did it think the Titleist was an egg to be rescued from the five-iron about to smack it? No, the regal, stoic hawk, secure in its power over small mammals, had espied breakfast, a fat, furry protein source running for its life. The squirrel took to the nearest tree, grasping the trunk midway up, hidden from the view of the hunter.

Ah, but Mr. or Ms. Hawk is a patient stalker. He or she (how do you tell the gender of fowl?) stood motionless with what we swear was a satisfied smirk on its beak. Then in a flurry of action that can only be described as primeval, this descendant of velociraptors swung around to the other side of the trunk and tore the unfortunate fellow to pieces, gorging itself on a feast of raw flesh. Which made us put down our Danish and contemplate the cruel rule of the food chain and the suddenness with which we vanish from this vale of tears.

The squirrel, at the moment of leaving this sporting life, once filled by gleeful gathering of acorns and procreating with playful abandon, must have screamed in his squirrel brain, “There is no God!”

Yes, there is, Virginia. Indeed, there are several. Monotheism is overrated. Just as the Greco-Roman pantheon of immortals meddled mercilessly in human affairs, the hawks of high finance insist on eating filet mignon (squirrel meat is actually delicious rolled in flour or corn meal and fried) washed down with ambrosia.

The gods of Wall Street complain about the fettering of finance, while record profits and bonuses were made possible by making them whole at the taxpayer’s expense (see the pledge to back the liabilities of Bear Stearns and AIG, for example). We understand the argument that the need to make dough oils the wheels of commerce and that upper middle-class families organize their lives around the expected bonus. We also understand that it can’t be built on the backs of the squirrels.

As fun as it was to be out in the winter sunshine and watch the hawk fill its belly, we note that yet again life is not fair. Squirrels must be culled; hopes to break 100 must be dashed. Alas, a bogey on 18 put the final tally at 100 even.