Most evenings, in the tiny sliver of time between supper and tub, I run out the back door to to check on the chicken ladies. I drop off any peelings or cucumber-end snack might be left from our meal, secure the coop, bring in an egg or two, etc. A little moment to myself before our bedtime routine/chaos. One night, for some reason, I waited until after the girls were both tucked in and quiet, so it was a bit later than usual. The sun was setting all pink and gorgeous. I had a glass of wine at the ready and some Parks and Rec on the Netflix queue. So, you know, it was gonna be a good night. As I approached, the chickens were bawk-bawk-bawking around their little enclosure and looked at me with some alarm. But they are ALWAYS alarmed, and ALWAYS bawking, so I thought nothing of it. I threw some spinach into the pen, and turned on the little flashlight app so I could poke around for eggs. And heard a rustling, crunching sound. I turned my light toward the sound. In the corner of the coop where the nest was that week, the light revealed a pile of really soft-looking glossy black fur. A cat in the coop? The fuck? I thought. And then the cat moved and showed me its equally soft looking glossy white-striped back because NOT CAT! SKUNK!!1!!!! SKUNK!!!!!11!1!11!11
Yes, ok. I live in Maine, but in the suburbs! Why are all the animals in my face all the time? Anyway, luckily, the skunk didn't register my presence, and continued crunching away at the egg pile.
I don't know if I have ever moved so quickly plus silently in my life, you guys. Without even knowing fully how I got there, I found myself in the middle of my back lawn, dialing Tim on the phone. I explained the situation and his words, his REAL ACTUAL WORDS were: Wow! Well, that's probably the worst thing that could happen, huh? Well...don't go back in, I guess? So...very...helpful. We agreed that he would block any potential entry points the following evening (we are doing a sort-of nesting deal, post forthcoming). I spent the next half hour googling "will skunks kill chickens." And finally realized the sheer force of my worry would not actually keep the skunk from killing my chickens, went inside and forced myself to have my relaxing evening. To brace myself against the possibility of returning to a coop full of headless birds the next day.
The skunk did not kill my chickens that night. Praise baby Jesus.
So. In the following weeks the skunk and I got into a routine. I would race out to the coop after bolting down my supper, collect any eggs, and race back inside. Every third night or so, I would leave the eggs there so the skunk enjoy a tasty snack that was not the blood of my flock. Sometimes the skunk would beat me to the coop and I would find nothing but empty shells. We even bumped into each other a couple of times but somehow I never got sprayed, and it never got spooked off.
And one night, while I was sitting on the back deck, I watched the skunk squeeze itself out from under the coop. You know how cats fit themselves into impossible spaces? It was like that, in reverse. Its narrow head stuck out of this teeny-tiny hole under the corner of the coop, and then the rest of its bulk shimmied out after. Twice the size of a housecat. Fluffy and silent. I watched the skunk squeeze itself into another tiny opening to get into the coop. The chickens didn't even raise an alarm. I stayed outside until the skunk went back into its basement apartment, and went in myself.
One evening not too long after that, our beloved Brooklyn friends were visiting. And suddenly there was a smell. A SMELL THAT YOU COULD TASTE. If you've never had the pleasure of experiencing REALLY fresh skunk spray -- well, it is...thick. And...oily. It clings to every part of the inside of your nose, pungent as fuck. It's otherwise indescribable. We had to close the windows. And the smell was still so strong that it kept me awake.
And the next morning, just up the street from my driveway, was the body of a skunk. Of course I can't confirm if it was "my" skunk. But. We have too many eggs, now.
xoxox,
A
Showing posts with label They make great pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label They make great pets. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Friday, August 2, 2013
I Didn't Even Know I Had a Belfry Up in this Piece
On Tuesday night, a few hours after I fell into a wine-y, swoon-y kind of sleep, I had a very strange dream. In my dream, it was 3 am. I awoke in my bed, and looked around my own room, just as it was when I went to sleep, Little A. snoozing next to me. A bat was swooping and darting around my room. Round and round it went, skimming over the covers, banking turns off the angled walls, stirring up the air. The cat jumped off the bed and went to investigate. She made a couple of prrts! but then just sat in the middle of the room and watched the bat's hectic flight pattern, SWOOP-retreat-SWOOP-retreat. And as quickly as the night visitor came, it disappeared. I heard a thump, maybe in the closet. The cat trotted over to the closet, but quickly returned to her place on the bed. And we all went back to sleep.
I told my mother about the strange dream and thought nothing more of it. She has been having strange dreams this week, too. There must be something in the cosmos. So the usual Wednesday thing happened at my house, and I put myself to bed early.
And then it was 1 am. And there was a shadow on my ceiling. And it was THE FUCKING BAT WHICH WAS NOT A DREAM BAT AT ALL BUT A REAL FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM.
Jesus Christ, you guys. I am all for bats in nature. They catch bugs! They are a valuable part of the ecosystem! Bat houses! Yay! But in my bedroom? Swooping my bed? Getting close to my FACE.
No. No no no no no no. NO TO THE POWER OF INFINITY.
As is typical in these midnight fright scenarios, for a few long moments I froze and watched the little fucker swoop around. Nothing like waking up in a cold panic to get the old adrenal glands pumping. What to do. What to do about a FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM. I willed my limbs to work. I turned on the light. The bat flew out of the bedroom.
Aha, I thought. Bat rodeo. I grabbed a pillowcase, thinking maybe I would throw it on top of the bat if it landed somewhere. Like a net! I have successfully employed this method with unruly cats and toddlers, but not flying things, so it would be an experiment. The cat and I paused on the stairs to watch the bat swoop around the living room. Once I saw it clear that room, I followed, flapping the pillowcase in front of me as a sort of shield/bullfighter cape thing. While also trying very hard not to shriek or otherwise raise an alarm that would wake the sleeping children.
And so, that was the game. The bat would fly into a dim room. The cat and I would follow behind, the cat with her tail in the air, me with my trusty pillowcase flapping in front of me. Finally, the three of us made it to the kitchen. Which is next to the dining room. Which is where there is a giant door to the deck. Which was my hope for a flying-rodent-free abode.
The bat landed on a window and tried its damnedest to scrabble out through the screen, and then just rested there for a moment. I raced over to the door and opened it as wide as it could go, and then tried to send psychic signals about the nearness of the open door. I flapped my pillowcase and turned lights off and on, trying to find the right level of dimness to encourage a scared, tired, and probably hungry bat to FIND THE FUCKING OPEN DOOR ALREADY. The cat sat in the middle of the kitchen and deigned to raise one paw at the bat as it flew past her on one of its tumble runs. Then she looked at me and asked for a treat. Fucking cats, man.
Once, twice, the bat made a crazy circle around the perimeter of the kitchen. On the third pass, it took a sharp right a few feet in front of me and flew straight out into the darkness. Out into the OUTSIDE. Out into its OWN DAMN HOUSE.
And so I successfully, luckily, got the bat out of my house. It took me an hour or so to get back to sleep after that, and all day yesterday I had the PTSDs around bird-shadows. I'm over that today (I think).
SO. Let it be known to all that I am a bat-wrangler extraordinaire! Both girls slept through the night and never had a clue what drama a flying rodent wrought in their home.
I dearly hope I will never have to employ that particular skill-set, ever, ever, ever again.
xoxo, A
I told my mother about the strange dream and thought nothing more of it. She has been having strange dreams this week, too. There must be something in the cosmos. So the usual Wednesday thing happened at my house, and I put myself to bed early.
And then it was 1 am. And there was a shadow on my ceiling. And it was THE FUCKING BAT WHICH WAS NOT A DREAM BAT AT ALL BUT A REAL FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM.
Jesus Christ, you guys. I am all for bats in nature. They catch bugs! They are a valuable part of the ecosystem! Bat houses! Yay! But in my bedroom? Swooping my bed? Getting close to my FACE.
No. No no no no no no. NO TO THE POWER OF INFINITY.
As is typical in these midnight fright scenarios, for a few long moments I froze and watched the little fucker swoop around. Nothing like waking up in a cold panic to get the old adrenal glands pumping. What to do. What to do about a FUCKING BAT IN MY BEDROOM. I willed my limbs to work. I turned on the light. The bat flew out of the bedroom.
Aha, I thought. Bat rodeo. I grabbed a pillowcase, thinking maybe I would throw it on top of the bat if it landed somewhere. Like a net! I have successfully employed this method with unruly cats and toddlers, but not flying things, so it would be an experiment. The cat and I paused on the stairs to watch the bat swoop around the living room. Once I saw it clear that room, I followed, flapping the pillowcase in front of me as a sort of shield/bullfighter cape thing. While also trying very hard not to shriek or otherwise raise an alarm that would wake the sleeping children.
And so, that was the game. The bat would fly into a dim room. The cat and I would follow behind, the cat with her tail in the air, me with my trusty pillowcase flapping in front of me. Finally, the three of us made it to the kitchen. Which is next to the dining room. Which is where there is a giant door to the deck. Which was my hope for a flying-rodent-free abode.
The bat landed on a window and tried its damnedest to scrabble out through the screen, and then just rested there for a moment. I raced over to the door and opened it as wide as it could go, and then tried to send psychic signals about the nearness of the open door. I flapped my pillowcase and turned lights off and on, trying to find the right level of dimness to encourage a scared, tired, and probably hungry bat to FIND THE FUCKING OPEN DOOR ALREADY. The cat sat in the middle of the kitchen and deigned to raise one paw at the bat as it flew past her on one of its tumble runs. Then she looked at me and asked for a treat. Fucking cats, man.
Once, twice, the bat made a crazy circle around the perimeter of the kitchen. On the third pass, it took a sharp right a few feet in front of me and flew straight out into the darkness. Out into the OUTSIDE. Out into its OWN DAMN HOUSE.
And so I successfully, luckily, got the bat out of my house. It took me an hour or so to get back to sleep after that, and all day yesterday I had the PTSDs around bird-shadows. I'm over that today (I think).
SO. Let it be known to all that I am a bat-wrangler extraordinaire! Both girls slept through the night and never had a clue what drama a flying rodent wrought in their home.
I dearly hope I will never have to employ that particular skill-set, ever, ever, ever again.
xoxo, A
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Than It is to Rust
I am having a hard time starting this post. Figuring out the tone. Finding a way to convey that I am well aware that he was just a cat, and that if he had to go, at least it was quick, and he was healthy until the moment he died, and knew he was loved (Do cats care about that? He at least knew all his needs would be met with great haste, and isn't that what cats demand of us?).
But, you guys. My cat got run over, and I am sad.
You never know how pervasive these creatures are, the pets we choose to share our lives, until they are gone. I keep seeing him disappear around corners out of the corner of my eye. I catch myself waiting to hear him tap-tap-tapping into the den to sit next to me and purr too goddamn loudly before I start my nightly episode of Mad Men. My heart seized last night when I thought I heard a rustle in the corner where he liked to sleep (on a pile of my maternity clothes that was meant to be bagged and sent to Goodwill but I kept because he liked to sleep on it). Every morning I push the container holding his steroid pills (the stupid guy had asthma, have you ever heard of such a thing) further into our vitamin cupboard. I can't throw them out, yet. His bag of treats is still sitting on the counter, though my father-in-law picked up his food bowl and hid it away in the pantry.
He was the cat we worried about most when we first brought Little A. home from the hospital. Worried, like, would he scratch the baby? Would he scratch up the couch because he is mad about the baby? Our worries were completely unfounded. He was the most awesome cat after all. He would let the baby pull his tail, or a handful of fur, and never once raised a paw. He would give me a oh god please help meeeee look, and I would accordingly unclench the fat fist from whatever body part. But never once, not once, did he even threaten to hurt anyone. Not even when Little A. squished his most-amazingly-soft underbelly, or tried to pick him up by the front paws, or when Baby G poked him in the eye and pulled his whiskers and put his tail in her mouth.
Every morning, he would meow his way up the stairs, thump into our bedroom, jump onto my nightstand, meow some more and then grumble around trying to find a place to cuddle in the middle of the family wake-up routine. This Sunday, I woke up to find him already cuddled next to the baby, who was having her post-super-early-nursing-session snooze next to me. I said hey you're not allowed at this end of the bed, and he gave me a very cat you talkin' to me about rules, mama? Psssht. look. And Little G rolled over, delighted to see Kitty! Pull fur! Fur in mouth! YAY!
A couple of hours later, while we were packing up for a trip to Gramma's house at the lake, and doing the last minute locate-and-lock-down-the-pets routine, Tim discovered his body in the middle of the road. No one stopped, we didn't hear any brakes.
Mama is very sad, Little A., because Grey Kitty got killed by a car, and we are never going to see him again.
Don't worry, Mama. We can get another one, she said, soothingly, and patted my arm. Don't be sad.
But I am going to be sad, for a little while longer, because while it is most likely we will get another cat, we will never find such a good-natured, fat, incredibly soft cat, who I will imagine is gay, into furries, and has a British accent (c'mon, you don't over-anthropomorphize too?)
No, this one is irreplaceable, and now he is buried in his most favorite sun-dappled spot in the yard, from whence he would survey his territory, and protect the chickens, and come dashing when I called for him. For even though Tim brought him home from the shelter years before I met him, the Grey Kitty was truly mine. And I miss him so.
Con muchos besos, A
But, you guys. My cat got run over, and I am sad.
You never know how pervasive these creatures are, the pets we choose to share our lives, until they are gone. I keep seeing him disappear around corners out of the corner of my eye. I catch myself waiting to hear him tap-tap-tapping into the den to sit next to me and purr too goddamn loudly before I start my nightly episode of Mad Men. My heart seized last night when I thought I heard a rustle in the corner where he liked to sleep (on a pile of my maternity clothes that was meant to be bagged and sent to Goodwill but I kept because he liked to sleep on it). Every morning I push the container holding his steroid pills (the stupid guy had asthma, have you ever heard of such a thing) further into our vitamin cupboard. I can't throw them out, yet. His bag of treats is still sitting on the counter, though my father-in-law picked up his food bowl and hid it away in the pantry.
He was the cat we worried about most when we first brought Little A. home from the hospital. Worried, like, would he scratch the baby? Would he scratch up the couch because he is mad about the baby? Our worries were completely unfounded. He was the most awesome cat after all. He would let the baby pull his tail, or a handful of fur, and never once raised a paw. He would give me a oh god please help meeeee look, and I would accordingly unclench the fat fist from whatever body part. But never once, not once, did he even threaten to hurt anyone. Not even when Little A. squished his most-amazingly-soft underbelly, or tried to pick him up by the front paws, or when Baby G poked him in the eye and pulled his whiskers and put his tail in her mouth.
 |
| Grey kitty photobomb |
A couple of hours later, while we were packing up for a trip to Gramma's house at the lake, and doing the last minute locate-and-lock-down-the-pets routine, Tim discovered his body in the middle of the road. No one stopped, we didn't hear any brakes.
Mama is very sad, Little A., because Grey Kitty got killed by a car, and we are never going to see him again.
Don't worry, Mama. We can get another one, she said, soothingly, and patted my arm. Don't be sad.
But I am going to be sad, for a little while longer, because while it is most likely we will get another cat, we will never find such a good-natured, fat, incredibly soft cat, who I will imagine is gay, into furries, and has a British accent (c'mon, you don't over-anthropomorphize too?)
No, this one is irreplaceable, and now he is buried in his most favorite sun-dappled spot in the yard, from whence he would survey his territory, and protect the chickens, and come dashing when I called for him. For even though Tim brought him home from the shelter years before I met him, the Grey Kitty was truly mine. And I miss him so.
Con muchos besos, A
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