One hundred years ago, on September 1, 1914, the last passenger pigeon died in her cage at the Cincinnati Zoo. Thus ended the sad story of the mass slaughter of a species of bird that once numbered in the billions, whose migrations would darken the skies across parts of the country for days at a time. The extinction of the passenger pigeon came about because they were hunted relentlessly, tens of millions shot from the skies, stuffed 300 to a barrel and shipped by trainloads, where they were then cooked and eaten up and down the East Coast.

Today, thankfully, we have the Endangered Species Act protecting thousands of species from the fate of the passenger pigeon. However, the same mentality that lead to the pigeon’s demise is still too much in evidence today: the attitude that other species exist for our pleasure and sustenance, and the idea that if another species is inconvenient to our way of life, we should just get rid of it.

Take our typical approach to landscaping. We pour herbicides and pesticides on our lawns to achieve the green, weed-free look so many of us desire. Besides the obvious health risks of these chemicals, they also turn our lawns into ecological deserts. For gone are the dandelions and clover that native bees and other creatures so love, gone are the insects that insect-eating birds crave. (Not to mention that these plants can be eaten by us as well, and you never know when you might need them!) The same goes for our backyard gardens. We can’t tolerate the thought that our Swiss chard could get one or two insect holes—or that deer, groundhogs, squirrels, or rabbits should eat any of what we have labored so hard to cultivate. We put out traps to catch groundhogs or rabbits, then relocate them, feeling virtuous that we didn’t kill the darned creatures instead. (More on groundhog-trapping a bit later.)

Considering that these creatures have been here far longer than we have, you’d think we’d be a bit more humble and willing to share. Modern humans appeared a mere 200,000 years ago, while white-tailed deer first appeared 3 to 4 million years ago. The grey squirrel has been here even longer and is traced back 50 million years. Perhaps the prize for backyard species longevity goes to rabbits, the oldest known species of which having appeared at least 45 million years ago. We’re the new kids on the block, and these old timers have every right to exist alongside us. Instead of killing or trapping these creatures, why not try to coexist with them by planting things they don’t like (daffodils instead of tulips, for example) or by excluding them from the tasty plants they can’t resist? After all, an unfenced garden is akin to a rabbit or groundhog all-you-can-eat buffet, and you can’t blame them for dining! And here’s another radical thought: What if they do eat some of the plants we cultivate? Is that so terrible?

Four years ago, when my husband David and I moved to our new home, we dug up a sizeable part of the backyard and put in a vegetable garden. The first year, even though we knew we had a local groundhog, we didn’t put in fencing, deciding to experiment and see what would happen without it. Predictably, the groundhog ate most of what we had planted. We decided to capture and relocate the critter, until I learned from our local wildlife rehabilitation clinic that our relocated adult groundhog would likely die. (Groundhogs remain in the same territory year after year and most cannot adjust when relocated.) So that’s when we decided to groundhog proof our garden. We put in not only fencing (and a kind of fencing that a groundhog would find difficult to climb), but aluminum flashing buried a foot and a half below ground, so the groundhog couldn’t dig its way in. It worked, and now we coexist with our groundhog, who makes his (or her) home under our gazebo. Despite our garden being off limits to him, he still finds plenty to eat, managing to eat some leaves that poke their way out through the fencing. He also eats lots of clover, as we have a natural lawn abundant with what the lawn care industry would call “weeds.” We’ve named our groundhog Ryan (why is another story), and we often see him standing in the middle of the yard on his hind legs, gnawing on an apple that has fallen from our tree, as if he owns the place. When I go out into the yard, Ryan lumbers away, surprisingly quick on his feet for such a fat creature. A week or two ago, we noticed that he had worn out a perfectly straight line in our yard, from the apple tree to the fence that he runs to and under when he’s disturbed. We laughed and considered that it was a good thing the apples were nearly gone. Otherwise, Ryan would soon turn his path into a dirt track.

We enjoy all the wildlife in our back yard from the finches, nuthatches, cardinals, and chickadees; to the squirrels, rabbits, and Ryan the groundhog; to the native bees buzzing around our raspberry vines and clover. Sure, the squirrels eat some of our tomatoes (taking one big bite and leaving the rest), and the rabbits eat the young hosta leaves in the spring. But our lives are so enriched by the wildlife that we wouldn’t change a thing.