Mike

DESTINY

I was rounding the last curve on the Black Diamond Road on my way home. On the right side of the road was the old barn with “East Pittsburg” painted on the side. On the left was a hand-written cardboard sign. It was the kind of sign that causes my husband to sigh deeply and say, “Oh, boy.” Luckily, he wasn’t with me.

“Free Kittens,” it said.  My inner five-year old stopped the car.

We weren’t in the market for a cat. Lila Ruby had been more cat than anyone needs in a lifetime. She was long gone. Spencer wasn’t that amusing except for having 15 toes on his front feet. And Bruce had that mild allergy to cats.

Still----kitties. I do love kitties. I’d just take a look.

In the mile and a half between there and home, I named her Lily and reassured her as best I could; she had just left her mother for the first time. She was only 6 weeks old and fit nicely in the palm of my hand. I opened the car door in the driveway and said, “Here’s your new home, Lily Cat.” With that, the afternoon from hell began.

First, a digression. A few weeks after Lily arrived, my son carried her to me and flipped her over. “Mom, you’re a nurse, right? This is no Lily.” So Lily became Mike. Back to afternoon from hell.

Mike the cat leapt from my hands, jumped out of the car, and disappeared into the woods. By the end the summer we don’t go into the woods much because it’s very thick and deep. You can barely see your feet let alone a tiny kitten. And it was a 90-degree day in August. Mike couldn’t have weighed a pound, and he hadn’t been weaned. I knew he’d dehydrate in a short time. Even though I was wearing shorts and flip-flops, I chased him into the woods. Greenbriers and gooseberry thorns tore at my legs, but I was terrified about that cat.

I meowed, and he meowed back. I followed those little sounds well into the woods but couldn’t see him. Then his meows seemed to be coming from every direction. Catbirds were mimicking me! So much for following his voice; I lost his trail.

I searched for an hour, but a 20-acre, dark, overgrown woods was impossible. The biggest problem was that the entire forest floor was covered with May Apples. Those interesting plants form a false floor across the woods. At the top of each tall stem is a wide and occlusive umbrella of leaves. Hidden under that umbrella is a large waxy flower. You could hide a cougar under those things, let alone a tiny kitten.

I searched until my legs were scratched and bleeding, then went home. I was overheated and thirsty. The first thing I did was try to call a friend to come help me search, although by now I was quite sure Mike had succumbed to the heat. I called everyone I knew, and no one was home. So I suited up in long pants and mosquito repellant.

I looked for another 2 hours in a fairly hysterical state, but 20 acres is 20 acres. I sat down in defeat and a big puddle of guilt. I had ripped a baby from its mother and sent it to its death in a few short minutes. I slunked home.

After supper, I realized I couldn’t go to bed knowing that cat was out there in the woods, possibly alive. Flashlight in hand, I started out again. Being in the woods at night was as creepy, as you might guess.

After an hour, I'd made it to the far north edge of the woods. I sat down on a log, defeated. For no particular reason I took a stick and lifted the leaf of a nearby May Apple. And there sat Mike, stretching to his full 6 inches tall. Since this seemed impossible, I thought the heat was getting to me.

The kitten was terrified and ready to bolt again. I tempted him with a little stick, moving it in front of his toes. He watched it warily, then could not resist; I know a little something about cats. He took one little swipe. Then another. He rolled onto his back. As soon as he was engaged, I grabbed and caught one little toe. He struggled mightily, biting, scratching, kicking. Nothing could have made me let go, even as he hollowed out my forearm. With a death-grip on that kitten. I walked down the driveway toward home, the most relieved person in the world. He’d been missing for 6 hours, but he seemed okay.

Mike up on the beam

Mike nee Lily slept on the pillow by my right ear that night, a place he occupied the rest of his life. He was a small cat, bowlegged and wiry. He was an entertaining fellow who ran across the beams in the rafters of the house and brought me little mouse heads that rolled down the deck in the wind.

Here’s to Mike. In a 20 acre patch of May Apples (that’s 12 square blocks), he chose the only one I looked under that night.

Mike-a very excellent cat

       FOOTSTEPS    

I am grateful for the gifts bestowed by the countryside, but it’s important to acknowledge that I don’t always return the favor.

Some good comes of intruding on nature, of poking one’s nose into nests and pools and even the occasional tryst.  If you share your adventures, you may remind others to value the wilderness and care for it. If you notice problems, you might be able to repair them and even prevent others.

But our very presence does damage. It disrupts animals. It transports seeds and plants to places they may do harm. It may actually maim and kill.

Fences can be deadly. Two taut wires twisted around a fawn’s leg held her tight. We wanted to help her, but she was scared to death of us. She screamed and kicked and thrashed. Eventually we freed her, but her leg was dislocated. She ran amazingly fast on 3 legs and disappeared beyond the pond. The vet said the leg might snap back into place, but I think he was being kind. Fences are not one of man’s greatest inventions if you’re a wild animal.

Yesterday I watched a painted turtle up in the woods. She was pawing at the ground, so I figured she was covering her eggs. I watched for half an hour. When I walked closer, I saw that she was caught in a fence and was struggling to get free. I pried her loose, happy she wasn’t a snapper. If someone hadn’t put in that fence a century ago, it would never have happened. On the other hand if I hadn’t been walking in the woods, she would still be there.

Our fields had always been mowed by local farmers. We let them go wild, and the very next year, ground-nesters returned like magic. Dickcissels and meadowlarks sang their hearts out. But when I mow walking paths through the deep grasses, I also mow snakes, butterflies, and even a frog or two. Not a good feeling.

You can make planks out of our weeds out here. I was hacking at some scrub bushes that were too close to the house.   I cut a branch and just one second too late saw a warbler nest. I tried to prop it up but mama left the area.

You can’t really know the impact you have. It’s easy to step on turtle eggs or baby mice and never know it. It’s easy to distress a rabbit when you don’t even know you’re standing by her babies.

Nature takes balance. I enjoy it, notice it, learn about it. Respect it. Repair it. But I also know that not every creature is thrilled to see me coming.

                                  LAST STOP

                                O              O      

                                         

As beautiful as the countryside is, there is a relentless effort to trash it. On almost every farm, there are wonderful ravines full of old cars and washing machines. Rusted out farm machinery fills rolling pastures. Trees grow through abandoned tractor windows. One nearby gulley is filled with twisted metal, an old mobile home long since buried and grown over. One summer a fox raised her kits in a cave under its corrugated side panel.

In the field behind us there was an old school bus. It was buried in the ground up to the bottom step. There’s no access to that field, and it’s a good half-mile off the road. I have no idea how it got to its final resting place.

Our little seven-year old friend spotted that bus in an instant. We set out through the marsh. When we stepped inside, it was clear someone had actually lived in there. It had a refrigerator, chairs, dishes, old bus seats, and broken glass throughout. The arrangement had to be the result of a rollover.

This was a little boy’s dream. He sat in the moss covered driver’s seat and turned the huge steering wheel. He shifted, checked the gauges, pulled knobs. He stood on top of the bus, king of the swamp.

Turns out the bottom field wasn’t the final resting place for that bus. One day it simply disappeared. It didn’t sink into the earth like the cow did. (See entry for 2/22.)  It would have taken a crane to lift it, but the crane would have to be airlifted in. I believe I’d have noticed that. And the bus was such a rust-bucket that surely it would fall to pieces under its own weight. The more obvious question, of course, is who wanted that pile of rubble? This carjacker must have been smoking pokeweed.

A few weeks later I was driving along a country road and spotted the bus in a farmyard 2 miles away. It was above ground, but it didn’t look any better. That bus did not need restoring; it needed resurrecting. If they get ‘er done, it will be the triumph of hope over impossibility.