WOODY

One morning the log on the very top of our woodpile rolled over, but I wasn’t concerned. To me the world is a freak show until I put my glasses on. Seeing a log roll over is no weirder than seeing a giraffe who turns out to be a grain elevator. It’s an easy mistake.

grain elevator                                      giraffe

Someday I will donate these eyes to a medical school. They demonstrate farsightedness, astigmatism, and misalignment all in one package. My glasses are trifocals with prisms added to urge my eyes to peer at the same object at the same time.

But I don’t need sharp focus to get through breakfast, so I was going au naturale, optically speaking. When the log sat up and stretched, however, I ran for my specs. Sitting on the woodpile was a long haired cat, the color of a fresh apricot. 

The countryside is overrun with feral cats. As you drive along, hundreds of little green sparkles light up the ditches. If you slow down, they flee into the fields, scurrying down the cornrows. Most are in very poor condition, their eyes drippy, their coats mangy. Farm cats and feral cats are not like those prissy cats in television ads. They live on what they catch, and they breed mercilessly. Most end up wild and desperate. Believe what you read about not being able to tame a feral cat––you don’t have time or immunizations enough to make them love you.

But Woody was gorgeous and unusually calm. Maybe he wasn’t a true feral cat, just a lost cat. He was a big, beautiful specimen, and I was pretty sure my husband’s cat allergies could be managed with medication. I opened the door and tiptoed onto the porch, waving a slice of prosciutto in front of me. The cat leaped into the woods and disappeared.

I left a bowl of cat food by the woodpile every evening for a week. It’s not true that I used our best china, just a little bowl that had belonged to my mother-in-law.

There was a tarp over part of the woodpile, and Woody spent his nights underneath it. Every morning he climbed onto the tractor and surveyed the world. He always ate the food, but I couldn’t crack the door without him bolting.

Woody

I read all about feral cats. Undeterred, I borrowed a live trap. It was winter, and I didn’t see how he could withstand the sub-zero temperatures and blizzards. For several days, the food disappeared from the cage, but the cage was always empty, the door not sprung.

One morning Woody didn’t appear on the woodpile, so I suited up and trudged out in the snow. He was in the cage, trapped. As I approached, he reared up and growled at me. It wasn't a low "don't mess with my catnip mouse" growl; it was an "I'll rip your arm out by the roots" growl.

I carried the caterwauling cage into the house, past my stunned husband, past the horrified dogs, and down to the basement. Woody was warm and safe at last. I spoke softly to him, reassuring him he was going to be loved and cared for. He responded to this, yes he did––by repeatedly throwing himself at the walls of the cage, screaming, and flashing his canine teeth at me. I went upstairs to give him time to ponder his options.

Next morning, Woody was quiet and calm when I approached. That warm bed and good breakfast did the trick. Ha! I’m good at this. Those pessimists on the Internet should be ashamed of themselves. The trick is to do everything gradually.

I put a finger between the slats and gently stroked Woody’s toe. He remained calm––a good sign––so I stroked his  paw. I withdrew my shredded, bloody fingertip and made a mental note to find some recorder music without any C-sharps in it for next week's quartets.

So Woody went free, disappearing from the woodpile and the neighborhood. I did see him one more time, but I shall spare you the details. It’s so much worse than you are imagining. (see entry for February 13, reference coyote incident)

The important thing is that Woody gave me a lesson in acceptance. Let nature be. Que sera, sera. 

Tuesday when I was leaving for the airport, there appeared in our field a sleek black cat. In view of the Woody episode, I drove right past him. On the other hand, when I slowed down, he didn’t exactly run away. Maybe little Midnight isn't really a feral cat––the future’s not ours to see.

For information on the Feral Cat Coalition:

http://www.feralcat.com/taming.html

THE GEEZER AND THE COOT

You should not settle near wetlands if you suffer from anatadaephobia. You're presuming that’s a fear of ducks, aren't you? Oh, it’s so much better than that. It’s the fear that ducks are looking at you. My advice would be, if you are ever in the presence of an anatadaephobe, you should not raise your glass and say, “Here’s looking at you, ducky.”

We have a huge variety of ducks stop by our pond for a swim and a little bluegill sushi on summer evenings. So many ducks, so hard to tell apart. You’ve got your crested, your mallards, your teals; your ring necked, your shovelers, and your buffleheads. You can add in some whistlers and widgeons, too.

What we seldom see is a lonesome duck. Commonly there are 3-4 pairs paddling around together, at the very least one pair. This is why I was interested to see an unusually large black and white duck with red eyes making a solo cruise around the pond.

I became concerned when he dove under water and didn’t resurface. Not for a long, long time. I was in my boat; if he had come back up, I’d have seen him.

He did surface eventually, and when he saw me, he got up and ran across the water. He hobbled along, finally becoming airborne. Usually ducks can get up and away in seconds; they’re very skittish. This fellow labored into the air like a foundering DC3, and it took him half the length of the pond to lift off. Once he was in the air, I could see why he was having trouble lifting off––he had huge, lobed feet. This was a duck in mukluks.

Turns out our visitor wasn’t an odd duck or any other kind, either. He was an American Coot, a member of the rail family. And their feet are big and fat like Big Bird’s. Because it’s too hard for experts to keep saying “big fat feet like mukluks,” they describe these lobed feet as fissipalmate.

Coots have a white marking on their faces. (If you know the card game Indian Poker in which you hold a card against your forehead, you get the picture.) Their eyes are red and look like amber glass. 

Ms. Coot

They may have trouble getting off the ground, but Coots can fly long distances. Long as in overseas. They’re quite territorial, so it’s no surprise I saw just one.




I've seen one female in 15 years. If you are lucky enough to see a group of these birds, it’s called a Raft of Coots, and really, what more could you ask for? Well, perhaps to get glimpse of a baby Coot––a little yellow pompom with a red beak (see link below).

So go ahead––call me a Coot.

I’d be pleased to be so cute.

For more about Coots:

http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/American_Coot/id

To buy acrylic Coot eyes:

http://eyeconicstore.com/product.php?ProductID=17

To see a BABY COOT and you really must, cut and paste this address:

http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://i1.treknature.com/photos/1482/coot.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.treknature.com/gallery/North_America/United_States/photo11028.htm&h=436&w=509&sz=128&tbnid=0WKXDWlH0Yj_oM:&tbnh=112&tbnw=131&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dbaby%2Bcoot&zoom=1&q=baby+coot&usg=__yIjnQtcUjKZbH2ZglmBkPAXQs6k=&sa=X&ei=UvVfTaDhF4OgtwfenamADA&ved=0CBoQ9QEwAA

 IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII     DON’T FENCE ME IN     IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

My  friends in town think they have rabbit problems. Out here, our rabbits take a number and wait in line to shop in our garden. To keep the beasts out of the peas and asparagus, we made raised beds that stand about 18 inches high. The first night, we could hear them laughing as they squeezed between the 4x4s.

One morning I discovered my beautiful broccoli was gone, and I had become caretaker to a row of one-inch stumps. I headed for the lumberyard. Enough of these miserable rodents––bunny, schmunny. Stick a powder puff on the rear end of a rat and you get a rabbit. They're not that cute.  

I dug a trough along the inside of the raised bed and sunk the bottom of a wire fence a good foot below ground level. Then I staked the upper part of the fence with posts one could use to contain rhinos at the zoo. The fence rose 4 feet above ground. A rabbit can’t climb that high, and it can’t dig that low. I had them unless they were going to call in some little hare-a-troopers.

I was collecting my tools, when I noticed something in the lettuce patch.There was a small indentation in the ground, and it was fur-lined. I got down and moved some straw. Awww––a nest of bunnies, newborn bunnies. I picked one up. It was adorable––but oh, no! These would be tasty hors d'oœvres for my dogs! Or a ravenous hawk. Or fox.

So I cut another fence, made more posts, and made a barrier around and over the nest. Now I had a bunny preserve inside my rabbit-proof fence. Even as I did this, I knew it was not rational.

I brought them shredded carrots, but I swear––I did not name them. Well, just Harley, because he kept kicking out his back foot like he was starting a little motorcycle.


After a few days, mom rabbit moved them out of the garden––I truly hope she moved them. I was left with the bill from the lumberyard, no broccoli, and a bad case of empty-nest syndrome.