A short history of a Canadian Icon: part two

Beware the beaver.

The beaver’s iconography was borne out of martyrdom. A 2017 story in Maclean’s titled Canada’s beaver problem contends that over the 200 years or so of Canada’s beaver trade, some 40 to 60 million beavers were massacred for hats and perfumes. (The same article also features a Manitoba man claiming that a beaver using its tail as a springboard to soar into the air tried to hunt him down.)

“The trade of beaver pelts proved so profitable that many Canadians felt compelled to pay tribute to the buck-toothed animal,” declares a Government of Canada post.

For its pelts and and anal secretions (yes, the aforementioned perfume), honours accorded the beaver included its inclusion on Nova Scotia’s coat of arms in 1621; the addition of four beavers in 1678 to the Hudson’s Bay Company’s shield on its coat of arms; and its likeness on Canada’s first postage stamp, the Three Penny Beaver in 1851.

The beaver became an official emblem of Canada on March 24, 1975.

And since then the little bastards have gone on a rampage, apparently inclined to wreck vengeance for the past. They’ve chewed through internet cables cutting communications to remote Canadian towns; pilfered wood posts, sparking RCMP investigations; and attacked domestic pets.

Most recently, as readers of this newsletter know, one of their evil legions has appeared in our backyard, savaging the birch trees beside the brook with its metal teeth.

Yes, you read that right: it’s metal teeth. As if the tail-leaping, post-pilfering, internet-cutting animal wasn’t terrifying enough, it has iron in its teeth, according to McGill University.

Honestly, I got a kick out of watching the beaver lumbering - see what I did there? - through our back yard. However, in recent weeks it’s made itself scarce, likely because it’s detected the scent of our two dogs who, when they visit the stream, are fascinated with the…uh, perfume the beaver itself left behind.

While I didn’t find any Heritage Moments about beavers, there is - naturally - a Hinterlands Who’s Who.

Since Levitt II beaver, as I dubbed the specimen that appeared in our backyard I have gained a new-found respect for the giant rodent, not the least because it might leap a prodigious distance using its broad tail as a springboard, and tear out my throat with its iron teeth.

Did I just say “giant rodent?” Check out this beauty in - where else? - Beaverlodge, Alberta. It weights 1,500 pounds and is 18 feet long, 10 feet wide, and 10 feet high. The town claims this is the world’s largest beaver.

Interestingly enough, it appears that his massive animal never made it into photographer Henri Robideau’s postcard set titled Pacanadienne Gisanthropological Survey. The 18 postcards published in a limited edition set of 1,500 featured such Canadian landmarks as the giant nickel in Sudbury, the giant dutch shoe in Thunder Bay, and, of course, the giant Canada goose in Wawa.

It seems like an odd omission, but the fault may not have been Robideau’s; tragically, I only have 14 of the 18 cards and, for the life of me, cannot recall the missing four.

It’s entirely possible he published a photo of the beaver in his book Canada’s Gigantic, but I’ll be damned if I know what I’ve done with my copy of that book. Shame, that.

While I have portrayed beavers as vicious, destructive rodents hellbent on killing people in retaliation for the fur trade, the truth is they are benefactors to the landscape, particularly following wild fires.

Scientists have discovered that beaver dams effectively act as water treatment plants, filtering out toxins left over from the fires, and which maintain water quality for humans, animals and plants alike.

In sum, I hope you found this two-part natural history of the beaver informative. Besides the sources linked to in the article, I relied on the voice of that renowned naturalist and journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, to stylistically inform my reporting.