Family for A Day

The hothouse is a competitive era, and survival can be cutthroat. But there remain benefits to cooperation too, and social, intelligent animals for whom instinct is not the only guide can have surprising interactions.

While their mother was busy feeding in the marshes of northern Serinaustra's saltswamp region, two baby bloblumps were busily exploring. Nearly twins, these playful three week old chicks hatched just two days apart, and have been inseparable since. They knew by now that they shouldn't stray too far, but both their parents were nearby, and there was no sign of danger, so they decided to push the envelope just a little. 

They paddle over toward the tall reeds at the edge of the water, their tips topped with a puffy white seed head. One tries to reach out its little trunk and pull the reed down to get a closer look, but the appendage still ungainly, its dexterity undeveloped, and it pulls much too hard, causing the reed to fall over in the water - and with it, the little lump, too. The other comes over and picks up the tuft, putting it into its mouth only to immediately spit it back out with disgust. The hairy seeds have stuck all over its face, and while edible, the texture is funny and unappetizing. Its sibling seemingly finds it amusing, chattering as if in laughter, and encouraging the other to chase after it, swinging the broken-off reed over its head like a sword.

But its brother wasn't the only one watching, as a splash close by causes both of the chicks to freeze in alarm. Standing at the water's edge, within the thicket of reeds, is an unfamiliar face. A small, furry creature about the size of a cat - not that the little bloblumps know what a cat looks like - with big pointy ears and wide, curious eyes. A white-tipped brushtrotter, holding a clam in one hand which it has just pried open. It sits on its haunch, as if to demonstrate it means no threat, and returns to feeding on its small meal as the trunko twins break free of their surprised stupor and paddle away to their mother's side for reassurance.

Yet as the day progresses, the chicks return to the reed patch several times, and each time they do, the foxtrotter is still there. It wades out into the water up to its shoulders, feeling for shellfish hiding in the mud with its sensitive fingertips, and each time it finds one returning to the bank to pop it open and eat up the contents. Moment by moment the baby bloblumps lose their apprehension of their funny new neighbor, and become curious about what it is up to. From a safe distance they begin to mirror its movements, sticking their faces into the murky water, feeling around for something, but not sure exactly what, until one of them finds a clam too! The other tries to take it, because it looks like something worth having. The finder fends off its thieving sibling, kicking it over with a big webbed foot while fiddling with the shellfish in its flanges. But what is it for? Neither has a clue - but the fox does. Seeing the inept twins juggle around a perfectly good snack, it approaches and snatches it right from the baby's grip. The chicks squawk in protest, but in a matter of seconds the stranger has pried the two shells apart, thrown one away, and revealed the prize inside. The chicks reach for it, recognizing it now as food, a rare treat their parents sometimes dig up from the mud and prepare for them the very same way. The brushtrotter stands, holding it in one paw halfway to its own mouth, and stops to think. It looks toward the bank, where a dozen empty shells lay opened and cleaned out, and back to the beckoning chicks. They don't look much like its younger siblings he's left behind back in the den, in the clan he was recently chased away from, now that he is big enough to find his own way - yet something about their behavior reminds him. They are clumsy and curious, helpless and hungry. For reasons even he doesn't likely understand, once he walks up onto the shore, he puts down the clam, and leaves it the chicks which have followed him over.

He watches as they split the spoils, scraping the shell clean with their strange mouths, and as they do so, he reaches out to touch one on the neck. The chick doesn't pull back, so he does it again, stroking the feathers down its back. Its not his family, but it's warm and fluffy just the same. The chicks tentatively sniff him, and then reach out to touch his arm with their trunks. He doesn't retreat, either - not even as one of them nuzzles against him with its head. Perhaps by instinct, instead he responds to the gesture by picking through the feathers of its neck with its fingers - social grooming, as he would do with his clan to affirm social bonds - and the soon both bloblumps are doing the same back to his fur. Then, suddenly, he jumps away - but not far, and then jumps back, taps one of the chicks on the head, and runs away again. A game - something the babies understand well! He wants them to chase him, and so they do. Soon they are following him through the reeds along the shore at full speed, stomping and splashing as he bounds just out of reach or slips up a tree, then drops back down to tease and pull a feather on their tails. It isn't long before the three animals are all hunting for clams together in the water, the stranger demonstrating how to take the two shells and twist them apart. When the chicks open their first, they chatter in joy, and the fox watches with a sense of pride, as he did when he would teach the clan's own young similar skills. Their noises are unintelligible to one another, and their shapes very different, but shared commonalities as intelligent, social creatures that seek to share a connection with another thinking being temporarily bridge the gap between them.

 When the mother bloblump sings out on the water and the chicks are called home, they are reluctant to leave their new friend, and the foxtrotter, too, is uneasy to be back all on its own. When the chick's parents come looking for them, it finds them sitting on the bank with something funny, that doesn't really look like their babies, but has taken on their scent enough that it doesn't provoke more than a curious sniff before turning away back into the water, the two babies paddling close behind. As they climb up onto the mother's back to rest, and the family begins to depart, the brushtrotter hesitates for just a moment before taking a running leap and joining them. The adult is unconcerned, used to all manner of small animals taking a rest - often to its benefit, for they pick its feathers clean of parasites, but the babies are overjoyed and snuggle up close to their new friend. As the ride moves off into the water and far from shore, it considers its life choices and decides that - for now - some very unusual company is much superior to none at all, and it closes its eyes to rest as its family-for-a-day soon begins to dose off beside it. Tomorrow - to the chick's disappointment - it will have to go, driven by instinct to keep moving and establish its own territory so that one day it may find a mate and raise its own offspring. But tonight, an unlikely friendship will keep a lonely soul company and provide some socialization to the chicks. When they part in the morning, both parties will have benefited in some way from the meeting, however temporary it must be.

But maybe, just maybe, one day a couple of years in the future a mature brushtrotter might take its own kits back to the pond to hunt for clams, and come across two much bigger bloblumps with their own chicks, which have developed an unusual fondness and skill for finding and eating shellfish than is common for their kind. Maybe, as they forage in proximity, youngsters will mingle, and the grown will remember. Perhaps there is a little time to sit and share company, before very different lives must go down their separate paths again.