When going for a walk with Miss Clover, she would follow us like a dog—sort of. We would suddenly realize she wasn’t with us, look around, and see geysers of soil flying into the air and a rapidly disappearing rump. We’d look at each other and Jean would say, “Oh man, she’s going to be into this for a couple of hours...

She would waddle rapidly to catch up with us when she was ready and greet us with joy, very gently taking food from our hands. In places that were new to her she would stay very close to us for safety.

Watching Miss Clover ambulate always reminds me of a flounder: flat, barely skimming the ground, the fringes of her coat fluttering like the edges of the flounder as it scoots along the ocean floor. She doesn't exactly cut a graceful figure as she waddles along on stubby legs under an impossibly wide body. Nevertheless, there is a jauntiness and seriousness of purpose that gives her a certain dignity.

Badgers are a much-maligned species, but as is so often the case their reputation is based on limited knowledge and experience, and an ungenerous misunderstanding. I have heard people who have never met a badger perpetuate the myth, "Oh, they are mean creatures!" We humans love the drama of it, but the truth is far more interesting and fun.

It is true that they can be what we might judge as ferocious:

Little Miss Clover was running as fast as she could after a six-foot tall worker who himself was running as fast as he could. The man was seen leaping on top of the first available source of safety, which happened to be an empty kennel box. He was standing on tip toes, looking down in terror at the snarling, growling bundle of fury, trying to attach itself to his leg. But she had a reason.

Despite warnings, he had picked her up by the scruff of her neck when she was very young, like a dog, with no feeling of respect. You simply don’t pick up badgers by the scruff of the neck. It is an insult. They have a very delicate dignity and a very long memory. In the badger world, it is also a punishment: the scruff of the neck is where they grab mice and other prey to shake and kill them for food. She simply never forgave him or any other tall, slim male who unwittingly came by.

As for the badger's reputation as being the meanest thing on four legs other than their fellow family members, the wolverines, Miss Clover is quite sociable. She always comes running over to the edge of her enclosure to greet us and guests, full of curiosity and enthusiasm. (And a word about wolverines: I have stood in an arena with five full grown wolverines, standing on their hind legs, forepaws on my thighs, asking for treats. An Austrian naturalist, Peter Krott, used to rescue and raise wolverines. A large male guarded Peter's newborn infant with tender care—he has photos to prove it. He stated he would find it hard to live without their charming vitality around him. Life is vastly more complex than the two-dimensional stories we are taught.)

As is true of her kind, Miss Clover does tend to “shoot first and ask questions later.” Badgers do not subscribe to discretion as being the better part of valor. If they feel the vibration of an animal passing by their den, the unfortunate individual is liable to be surprised by a chattering, growling package of rage, charging toward them with astounding velocity. But being a badger means having a small and low-to-the-ground body in a very big and dangerous world as well as being really nearsighted. If you can’t see too well, and are small in a precarious world, might you also not take the approach of attacking first and developing a fearsome reputation?

It is true, badgers do have a bit of a hair trigger temper, but as explained, that is entirely reasonable. Still, they are rather lovely creatures when we are able to get past their defenses; they can be charming, playful, affectionate, and very funny. Miss Clover will frequently be seen lying flat on her back, balancing her water dish on her four stubby legs and throwing it up in the air as she chatters to herself with a delightful sound that is very much like a human giggle. On a hot day, she will wet her belly in her water dish, then lie on her back and fan herself vigorously until gradually, the pace of her fanning slows to a few feeble movements as she starts to fall asleep. And the passion with which she pursues her main love in life— digging—with the full focus of her entire being! She is very alive.

Miss Clover and Streak the Coyote

The main point of the following story is not of Miss Clover’s dignity or attempt to protect herself but even further a story of friendliness and play, not only in badgers but in nature as a whole.

A professional photographer asked if we could arrange a coyote/badger interaction. In the field, biologists have occasionally observed a badger and coyote hunting in the same place at the same time. This interaction is open to several interpretations, depending on the way one’s training, culture, or personal temperament shapes and influences what we see.

The cynical or more practical view is that mutual hunting is of advantage to one or both species. It is true that badgers can dig like no other, and that they love mice and voles—they are very useful in keeping the rodent populations under control. And it is true that coyotes also like voles and mice, but are nowhere in the same league when it comes to digging. So when a coyote spots a badger digging in a field disappearing down a tunnel with the velocity of a freight train, there is a good possibility that there will be a frazzled rodent coming out the other end. Coyotes in the wild have been observed at a second opening of a tunnel, waiting for a morsel to essentially pop into its mouth. A bit unfair after the badger did the all the work, but there you are. Not fair, but definitely practical.

Miss Clover and Streak the coyote had never officially met until we brought them out into a field together. After some experimental sniffing and digging, Miss Clover sought, found, and dug. Streak saw, came, and stood at a second entrance, waiting patiently until a vole came up, seeking safety from the onslaught behind it. Streak pounced, caught it, held the vole in his mouth, walked around to Miss Clover, and trotted up to her as she continued to dig furiously. He tossed the vole invitingly up in the air. She ignored it—she probably didn’t even notice him. She was so fixated on her digging. He tossed it again. She didn’t notice—again. In frustration he resorted to bumping her on the side with his nose to get her attention. It didn’t work. He bumped her side with his nose again.

Finally pulled from her focus, Miss Clover noticed him, stopped digging, and making for Streak, bumped him back, decisively, on his side. Still intent on a friendly encounter, he bowed, hind end up in the air, tail wagging, front legs flat on the ground, inviting her to play.

It would be nice to be able to report that she responded to the clear invitation to play, but that was not the case. Despite all his best, tempting efforts, she single-mindedly returned to her digging. But she did not attack him. She wasn't even irritated; she was simply otherwise occupied and letting him know to leave her alone.

Seen through the lens of biology, the likely explanation is that there is an advantage for coyotes to hunt with badgers. That makes sense, but it doesn't mean that is the only thing going on. What was the "advantage" for Streak in inviting Miss Clover to play? Why was there no aggression on her part? Perhaps when relieved of the stress of needing to find food, safety, and territory to hunt, an entirely different side of wild animals has the freedom to express itself. Perhaps when given the opportunity, without the stress of survival, they enjoy the company of species other than their own.

Flat badger

Years later, Miss Clover was now an elderly badger. We noticed her slowing down when she was around twelve years old, and we sadly attributed it to age. But watching her over the days and weeks, dreading the possibility that we might lose her, we decided to have a vet check her out—perhaps there was something else going on.

Jean packed her up in her travel box and took her to Summer, our vet, who agreed to see if she could do anything for her. Ordinarily one might think that packing up a badger would be difficult, but Miss Clover idolized Jean and would do anything he asked—mostly.

The following is Summer’s account of working with a badger for the first time: “Growing up in Victor on a ranch, I had seen my fair share of badgers, although none up close and personal and certainly none with first names. When I got close to her carrier, she hissed at me. The funny thing was that when Jean would get close and talk to her, she would come nose to nose with him and start purring. The problem was I had to examine her, not Jean. We got Miss Clover positioned in the carrier so I could give her a shot. Considering this was the first badger I had ever worked on, I wasn’t sure exactly how much sedative it would take.

The hardest part was trying to figure out how much she weighed. She looked quite large in the kennel, but she had a tremendous fur coat. Not wanting to give her too much sedative I started with a smaller dose, and we waited and then we waited some more. Miss Clover did get a little sleepy but every time I touched her, she would lift her head up and hiss at me. I decided to use gas anesthesia. Still unable to remove her from the carrier, we made the carrier into an anesthesia chamber by covering it with saran wrap and putting in the anesthetic hose. Within a few minutes Miss Clover had finally given in and relaxed. We took her out and placed an anesthesia mask over her mouth and nose to keep her asleep while I examined her.

“I was amazed when I picked her up. She was much lighter than she appeared, and her body shape was unlike any dog or cat I had ever seen. I placed her on her back to examine her hairless belly and couldn’t believe how flat she was. Even her head was flat -from the top of her head to the bottom of her jaw was only about two inches. I have seen badgers going in and out of holes but hadn’t really thought about how efficient their body design was. I literally folded her into multiple positions to see how she could maneuver in tight spots. It was amazing to see how small she could make herself when she needed to. In the process of studying her contortionism I pushed on her bladder, and she released some very bloody urine.

I examined it under the microscope and found that she had a urinary tract infection and crystals in her urine. It was scalding her belly and she had been licking and pulling her hair out wherever it had come into contact with her skin. We gently washed her belly, used burn cream on the irritated skin and placed her on antibiotics. We took the mask off and she slowly woke up unaware of the badger acrobatics I had put her through while she was sleeping, and she went back home with her beloved Jean to recover.”

And Miss Clover did recover. She was a young badger in spirit again—alert, lively, guardian of the Small-in-Size-Only Animal Area. We would look out the office window to watch the daily architectural changes in her enclosure: Mt. Vesuvius erupting as she dug down to China at astonishing speed, dirt piling up behind her, an Alp appearing on the east side of her enclosure, crumbling and reappearing on the south side the next day.

She returned to full badger mode, digging, charming, digging, hissing, digging, snarling, digging, giggling, loving Jean, coming to meet visitors, and exploring with verve. She was back in her role of helping people to have new conceptions about badgers, and to question their assumptions about any animal they have not had the opportunity to meet under relaxed circumstances. She has educated hundreds of people who have learned to see her kind in a new light. She was a warrior badger, and she charmed everyone who met her: "I didn't know a badger could be like that!" Miss Clover’s character opened many minds to the possibility that other wild animals might be more multi-faceted than we have been taught.

Journal entry: the singing badger

When we first received her after her mother was shot, Miss Clover lived in an enclosure with a wooden floor until we could build an enclosure for her on top of soil. While construction was underway to improve the bear enclosures, rocks and soil became piled around her area. One day I heard a strange sound and turned around—she was pulling in the dirt and rock into her enclosure and singing—literally singing to herself with something that sounded remarkably like a person humming when very satisfied. She was finally able to do what badgers were built to do, meant to do in life—dig.