Chicken Sitting

When my neighbors left for a vacation this month, I found myself babysitting four feisty hens for five days. Did I mention that chickens are not my favorite creatures? Here’s why:

My teen years were difficult enough, but I was given the job of chicken wrangler to a flock of White Rock poultry, the meanest, most henpecking and carnivorous birds I have ever encountered. They plucked each other bald, ate their own eggs and attacked me out of spite when I tried to retrieve any eggs they laid. I was regularly dragging out dead bodies from the coop and the smell of my father’s chicken butchering has lingered in my nose for decades. My job was to pluck the feathers after decapitation.

That said, I find their manure makes the best fertilizer and the scent of Sunday roast chicken is one of the best in the world. So to say the least, I’m conflicted.

Flash forward to the present flock of birds who are named and considered pets. I start out impartial and cautious. Letting them out of their coop in the morning is easy, but herding them in at night is a challenge. The first day happens to be the hottest day of the summer and instead of cooling off when night falls, the heat index continues to register at over 90 degrees Fahrenheit. There is not a breath of breeze and the chickens are panting, clearly stressed.

I’m outside at 10pm trying to ventilate the coop while mosquitos feast on me, watching the heat lightening flash like a strobe light. Eventually I give up and go to bed only to be awakened by a torrential downpour, two inches in half an hour. But luckily the storm has broken the heatwave and temperatures drop to acceptable levels that last the rest of the week. Despite my reservations, the chickens and I form a bond of trust. Somehow they seem to appreciate me and I begin to like them.

They each have a personality that I can recognize and respect. When they see me they run to the fence, and I offer them any insect pests from my garden that I come across. They generously leave their eggs for me to collect unscathed, and I give them treats throughout the day. When the local red-tailed hawk hovers nearby, I rush out and scare it off, protective of my flock. I have become a chicken mama.

And then the neighbors return from vacation. I go back to being the chicken-less next-door lady. But every once in a while, I turn to see them watching me, pressed against the fence and waiting for me to join them.

I must admit that I miss them but roast chicken is still part of my favorite Sunday dinner.

Deja Vu All Over Again

The latest addition to the family.

The squash and cucumber patch is busting out, literally.

Just as John Fogerty so famously sang, this summer’s movie reel is a continuous replay of events from nearly twenty years ago. Again and again I’ve been struck by the similarities. Indeed, there are even close parallels to childhood and teenage summers gone by. But almost two decades ago, I was adapting to a new life in a strange place, juggling a giant garden and a gaggle of pets, with no idea where this was all headed.

Three years later I was headed back to the suburbs, with a newly diagnosed autoimmune disease and a sense of defeat. Nice try, I thought, too bad my attempts always end in failure. All for nothing. Flash forward to 2018 and like so many of my random life experiences that held no rhyme or reason, suddenly that brief foray into organic gardening and sustainable living provided the foundation for me to start a new garden with support from fellow gardeners in the community I now call home.

Based on the wisdom and guidance of those who have lived and loved this farm and retreat center for many years, the 5,000 square foot vegetable garden that is part of the property’s centerpiece full of flowers, fruit, shrubs and trees, has produced over a hundred heads of lettuce, bushels of heirloom tomatoes, countless cucumbers and ridiculous amounts of squash.

And the community members have responded by creating beautiful and delicious dishes out of all the bounty in addition to produce for the retreat center. Whereas before I was alone in my endeavors trying to find ways to give away excess food, now I have a network and a sense of connection with my fellow villagers. Just the typical random morning chat in the gardens with coffee makes all the years of preparation for this cooperative garden effort worthwhile.

While in the garden at the beginning of June discussing lettuce with one of the chefs, the other deja vu element showed up in the form of a tiny kitten with blue eyes followed closely by a local vet who happened to be attending a retreat that day. “She’s a tortie, seven or eight weeks old,” the vet called out, “barely weaned. A baby.” The whole retreat group tried to catch her, to no avail. I was left waiting for my ride at the end of the evening, dead tired but unable to ignore the gut-wrenching mewing coming from the shrubbery.

Flashback to 2002, when my last cat landed on our doorstep in the country, full of fleas and desperate to live with us. And beyond that experience were the ancient memories of kittens abandoned in my parents’ farm fields, tiny cries for help from corn and bean rows that I would answer because I couldn’t ignore those sounds without my heart breaking into pieces.

Now I was closing in on two years since my last cat’s passing and vowed not to get too attached. Certainly no kittens, I said, too much work. But once again I couldn’t ignore those desperate little cries, and I started meowing back. She came straight to me out of the bushes, dripping wet, and climbed right into my arms. Turns out she was a neighbor’s cat that crawled up under a car, took a little ride and tumbled out about a mile down the road. She suffered a scraped nose and lost one of her nine lives, but she managed to find me just when I needed her. I just didn’t know it yet.

So here I am at the end of July, with a lifetime of living accomplished in just a few short months, with a cat and a garden and too many vegetables. But also with a sense that all that’s come before has prepared me for what I need now, to start all over again.

Anniversaries

I spent yesterday celebrating our 32nd wedding anniversary with my amazing husband, almost 33 years since we first met. If you’d told me all those years ago that I would be married this long, I wouldn’t have believed you. My track record up to that point had been nothing short of disastrous. Nevertheless, we usually recognize the date simply, a day free of work and the usual chores, a quiet dinner out.

We always manage to note our nuptials in the nick of time, right before the looming national holiday, a boisterous and bombastic event that steamrolls over our quaint little memories of a small country wedding with only 25 guests. (And that count included my husband and me.) For Throwback Thursday on Facebook yesterday, I joked that the above photo could easily have been taken in 1925 instead of 1985 if it weren’t for the Instamatic camera with 110 film that my husband holds in his left hand.

This year another anniversary follows fast on the heels of firecracker festivals and sizzling backyard feasts. It’s a new one that I dread, and one that I will always remember because of its proximity to the Fourth. Funny, how I don’t often recall the death dates of dear, departed pets, but this one seems to be different. He was the last, at least for a while until we become settled again; and in my travels of late, he returns to me in the form of farm cats at the retreat center where I work, who snooze on the porch steps all afternoon, or find a warm lap in the cool dawn dew when one becomes available from a lawn chair.

Once a country cat, my old buddy would have loved this place, where his kind roam freely all day to catch mice and tease the birds, though still called in to safety every night away from coyotes and other creatures of the night who would do them harm.  When I first came, they ran from me and stared back at a respectful distance, but now we are on a first-name basis. They tell me all about their nine lives, and I tell them about my old friend, how he could hunt even without his front claws, how he loved to stay out all night and sack out all day in a corner on the floor, no soft bed needed.

But I keep to myself how he ended his days up in a third-floor apartment, with a cupful of grass instead of a whole backyard lush with the stuff, while birds taunted him through the glass door of a balcony the size of his litter box. We did what we could to make the transition easier for him, since another home in the country or even a new suburban yard were out of the question for us in this stage of our journey. A cowardly trip to the shelter was unimaginable. In the end, he was stuck in his geriatric ways enough to be dependent on the people who took him in all those years ago, for better or for worse.

At least on this Fourth of July, I take solace in knowing that he doesn’t have to endure the battle sounds of our country’s anniversary, unless he wants to.

When the Last Pet Leaves

The final picture of him.

We said goodbye to our cat this summer, the last of five pets who came with us when we moved from the country back to the suburbs 13 years ago. With his departure, our 30-year streak of caring for a dependent (pet and/or child) ended, as well. We are truly empty nesters now.

I won’t lie to you — it feels strange. I’m having a hard time adjusting. No more trips down the grocery pet aisle, no more lugging cat litter up two flights of stairs, no more fur in the dryer vent. Okay, maybe I don’t miss those. But on the other hand, I do miss his greeting at the door after a long trip, his purring for no particular reason, his warm body hogging most of our bed on cold winter nights.

This particular cat was MY cat, my familiar. In early years outside, he left me half-dead gifts by the backdoor; in later years indoors he brought me tiny trinkets carefully placed on the floor by my side of the bed — buttons, toe nail clippings and plastic bits, choking hazards that a lesser being would ingest and end up at the emergency clinic. But not him. He caught elusive flies and terrorized the house spiders, leaving their gigantic crumpled carcasses in full view as evidence of his love for me.

He was a sickly, flea-infested stray who showed up at our door 14 years ago, and pushed the limits of my husband’s patience when I called to tell him that “we had a situation” with a stray kitten. “You didn’t feed him, did you?” he asked warily. And of course I had.

I must admit, this was always the plan. Child off living her own life, pets gently ushered out. But the empty rooms devoid of hairy tumbleweeds seem sterile now, and the silence that greets me when I turn to say we’ll be back soon is hard to bear.

Life goes on, however. Every day I notice more spiders moving in, rejoicing in corners free of feline tormentors, still alive.

Smile

Day 17: My Smile

Okay, I hate taking selfies. So here’s you-know-who with his perpetual dilemma: is he smiling, or not? There’s a thin line between crusty and cheerful. But I guess we’ll never know for sure.

I’ve decided to participate in Susannah Conway’s December Reflections  photo prompts again this year. During this hectic and stressful season, won’t you join me in mindful reflection from life’s photographic window seats and contemplative comments that provide refuge from the madness.

Bunny Fur

DAY 30: SOFT

His coat has grown coarser as he’s aged, but the pure snow of his belly still reminds me of a pet rabbit my brother set free long ago.

My cat hates that comparison.

This month I’m taking a photo a day and following the topics of Susannah Conway’s August Break 2014. And why don’t you join me? I double-dog dare you!

Wash Day

On my hands and knees
I scrub away your life
left in tile cracks and corners
of walls, the fine hairs
from countless days shed
waiting by our door
released in the snap of
doormat, the mop shaking
off memories from
fifteen years’ worth of
vigilance against life’s
marauders and circling
storms that dared threaten
your family, while carpet worn
into your shape testifies
to a loyalty that reaches far
beyond a dog’s age, for
when these windows crack
open to air out the void,
I feel you brush by, cleansed.
 
 *For the canine companion we lost last week.
 
NaPoWriMo #17
 
I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. We may be able to live without poetry, but who would want to?

What the Groundhog Didn’t Tell You

The cat didn’t see his reflection, either.

Okay, so Punxsutawney Phil and most of his rodent brethren predicted an early spring this year. His poor track record aside, you can’t deny the lengthening of days and the smell of thaw in the air. From precious offerings for protection of livestock (not necessarily groundhogs) to feasts celebrating a good lambing, this halfway point between winter solstice and the spring equinox has been as big a deal to the ancients as our Super Bowl rituals are to the sports obsessed (fair-weather halftime and commercial fans excluded).

I think modern folks can all agree, if they happen to look up from their mobile devices, that something is going on this time of year. There is the promise of love and/or bling on February 14th as well as the hope for a future tax refund. The weather maps show a good chance of enough rain to wash the road salt off the car. And I can always count on noticing the geese and robins, even though they’ve been around all winter or at least most of it. I want my indicators of spring to show up on my timeline.

At my house, our ancient corgi has rejuvenated herself enough to run pre-dinner laps again (no matter how wobbly or brief), while the cat who won’t step foot on anything white or wet has taken to poking his nose out the backdoor for a whiff of catnip to come. Late at night we hear him yelling disconsolately at a toy mouse that refuses to resurrect itself. Now there’s the spring-fever spirit.

This year, I have begun too many projects, always a good sign. Most of these could be fun, even. My own offerings of knitting, writing, sewing, pastel and music are lying about the house in various stages of address. I’ve signed up for a painting class, and made plans for a healthier diet and a big spring cleaning that will probably happen late summer.

There is no sure way to predict how this will all turn out, of course. The joy is in the process, the rush of potential and the good kind of exhaustion after a long day of using your imagination. The kind of tired you felt falling into bed as a kid. I have missed that.

As for assessing the whims of the gods, weather or otherwise, I have only this to say. The meteorologists are forecasting a big old nor’easter sweeping up the east coast later this week. And calling for the groundhog’s head.

Way to go, Phil.

Eye of the Cat

I do believe we’ve known each other in past lives, nine at least. Something about that gleam of recognition, the cry for home from rescues wandering in childhood’s corn fields, lonely strays found waiting at the door or languishing inside cardboard boxes offered by finders who don’t want to be keepers.

On a summer afternoon in this incarnation, he threw himself at my bare knees, and hung on for dear life. Covered in fleas, sick with virus, he had found me again.

I bring him back from the dead, only to save him over and over. There was the sinister piece of plastic stuck in his mouth, the suicidal leap onto a hot stove, the recovery of that giant hair ball after hundreds of dollars spent at the vet.

In exchange, he kills spiders in my dungeons, leaves me offerings by the backdoor, and brings the tiniest of lost treasures to lay at my feet. At night, he is the guardian of my dreams.

Off duty, he can be found basking in past glories on the living room ottoman, surveying our kingdom while he grooms his armaments for battle.

After ten years together, I know this to be true: Our union is inevitable as I gaze into the face of my familiar.

Nip it in the bud

I’ve seen those eyes before: in high school parking lots and open-air concerts, at parties your “mama told you not to come” to. He sits by the door waiting for another hit of aromatherapy.

I was smart this year and planted it in the front porch pot with the basil as olfactory camouflage. And that is the only reason his supply has lasted this long.

Let’s face it — dude is an addict. He doesn’t even roll in it anymore, just swallows the entire leaf like it’s his last day on earth.

Which it might be if he doesn’t shut up.

Most years I’ve tried to grow the stuff, he sniffs it out and mows down the whole crop like a kitty combine. Later, I’ll come upon yet another sad scene of destruction, plants inhaled down to broken stems, nothing left for a single, solitary . . . locust.

Oh, and he’s too good for store-bought bags. He turns up his little pink nose at the stuffed mice, herbal sachets and smell-enhanced teasers on a stick.

Only the real thing will do. Which is what I discovered this summer growing as a healthy volunteer in my flower bed, hidden in the weeds. Just to be sure, I pulled off a leaf and passed a sample under my sleeping tiger’s snout, causing a miraculous resurrection.

Next thing I know, he’s racing around the house high on life, munching at the food bowl, crazy as a — cat.

So yeah. This explains the all-night howl jams at our house.

He knows he’s busted.