Annoying Noises

Sitting in my outdoor tub on fall nights, after the summer's insects have either died out or are hibernating for the winter, it can get very quiet—especially on those nights when there is no wind. As I sink into my reverie at those quieting times, I find that my hearing extends farther and farther into the distance. We live in a very remote area, so there are minimal traffic sounds—maybe an occasional car chugging up a distant hill, but then it all settles blessedly back into silence.

On these occasions I enjoy picking up on sounds of wildlife, far off in the woods. Whippoorwills call out in the summer night air, various insects sing out in late summer, owls add their periodic hoot, distant foxes and coyotes yip at the moon. All of their sounds are often accompanied by the gurgling creek. On some nights my peace can be disturbed by a far off barking dog, but that intrusion is thankfully infrequent.

Tonight, however, despite the quiet, I’m hearing a periodic and persistent sound of some kind. It's rather distant and rather subtle, so it's hard for me to discern whether it's a wild animal or a yelping dog. It could be a coyote. Maybe even an evening bird? I am thankful that it does not seem to be a machine—their unwelcome noise is a constant annoying drone for me. I hear this sound briefly, every few minutes.

If the source of tonight's sound is indeed coming from wildlife, I will find myself both interested and curious, so I try to tune into it and see if I can figure what critter may be calling out. Am I listening to an utterance from an animal that may be new to me, or a variation on a call from one that I've heard before? Maybe I can learn something new about Nature's critters that inhabit or visit these woods. If that’s the case, I'm tuned in and engrossed. 

But if the sound I'm hearing is coming from either human activity, or a persistent dog, I will feel irritated. Why do I greet wild animal sounds with curiosity and even pleasure, while I consider civilization's sounds to be annoying?

I moved out here in the country over three decades ago, with the objective of getting in close touch with Nature, and to distance myself from what I came to view as an abundance of urban insanity. I have reveled in this natural environment ever since. The plants and animals surrounding me out here have had millions of years to settle into an exquisite balance and beauty. I feel graced to have become immersed in their world and to become increasingly familiar and knowledgeable with its workings. All these critters and plants naturally belong here, and I feel privileged to share their world.

Humans, however, are the new kid on the rural block. We are largely a disturbance—we upset that balance. We make too much noise, pollute our surroundings, and use our power to dominate. We bring our dogs with us and either fence them or tie them outside. Left alone and bored, they bark incessantly. Sitting in my tub in tonight’s evening's hush, I am disturbed by that dog, while its “owner” likely sits indoors, planted in front of a blaring TV—oblivious to the unhappy dog's howls.

On this night, I eventually decide that I'm not hearing a coyote, but a monotonous, ceaseless dog. So I'll truncate my bath, hoping that the next tub soaking may be longer, accompanied by only Nature's songs.