|
Or so I thought. I'd brought their ground turkey mixed with dry cat food out onto the porch, and Blackie, the youngest and smallest, who's usually late for meals, came first. "You must be really hungry," I said to him fondly. I enjoyed sitting on the porch and watching the feral cats eat, often petting them and holding them when they were finished. Spy. the little girl cat came up to eat next, and just then Dave walked from the garden to his van. All of a sudden there was snarling and one cat ran off the porch down the front steps and the other off the side near the cactus. Within seconds there sounded like a territorial cat hissing over by the dumpster. Just a neighborhood cat from the McMansions, I surmised, and never gave it another thought. Eventually Spy came back with her older brothers Spats and Big Boy (fondly called Pinkie because of his large pink nose). Blackie had evidently gotten enough to eat. Saturday evening I fed the cats out in back, where it was cooler by the pond. I saw Blackie hanging around the brick wall, apparently shy again like he was his first six or eight months of life. Scaredy cat, I called him then behind his back. But eventually he warmed up to me, and now loved to sit in my lap and let me pet him, turning over so I could scratch his belly when he got tired of being rubbed on his back and behind his ears. "Come on, Blackie!" I called to him, but he just sat and looked at me, and at the food. "You don't look exactly like Blackie. Are you Blackie? You look like Blackie's daddy. Are you here for the holiday? Come on, you can have something to eat." He slowly came up to the bowl I'd set on the back sidewalk. Spy appeared then and crept slowly toward me, keeping close to the house and away from the black cat, which was only a little larger than Blackie. "It's okay, that's Blackie's daddy!" I told her excitedly. I had seen him only once, a year or more earlier, and had immediately recognized him as the father of the runt of the litter, Blackie. Blackie, though, was now, at a year old, developing a very faint whiff of white hair on his chest, like his momma Boots had had. "He's come for Memorial Day! He's come for a picnic. He's okay." Daddy turned to me and looked at me with wild but appreciative eyes. Spy slowly went to the bowl and ate with Daddy, though she seemed apprehensive all the while. Spats appeared, and also ate with Daddy, though I had to keep reassuring them all -- "He's okay. That's Blackie's daddy!" Eventually Blackie showed up, late as usual, and eyed the scene. "That's your daddy, Blackie," I called out to him. He also skirted the house and came to me for comfort and reassurance. "That's your daddy," I told him again. "He's come for a picnic. It's a holiday!" I knew the cats all could tell the difference between a weekday and a weekend. They always let me sleep later on the weekend, they got special food, and I'm sure they noticed the relative quiet from bulldozers and nearby highway traffic (except for the McMansion birthday parties with fireworks on an occasional Saturday night). But a three-day holiday was different even more, and last year I remember seeing eight or nine cats lined up out in the paddock, watching me, watching the house and the goings on, on both Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. Daddy obviously knew it was time to check on his progeny and pick up some delicious food, like many daddies did on holidays. Blackie stayed by my side until Daddy left the bowl before he was brave enough to venture away from me. He seemed to understand the need for tolerance, but he was too afraid for direct confrontation. Well, Daddy didn't want to leave. After a couple of days we told him it was time to go home, that he'd extended his stay long enough. Every breakfast and dinner for months after that we told him to "Go home" in a loud voice. But he didn't want to. He had liked our food. Even with the impatience in my voice when I wouldn't let him have any after that first couple of days, he tried to get at it. I finally had to trap him and turn him over to the shelter, where they had him neutered and released him to a farmer as a barn cat. Like getting an order of protection for an errant daddy. July 2007 |
|
The geese arriving signals to me that there's no turning back: summer is over, fall is in full swing, and winter is nigh. My assistant and I brought in the plants today that I want to winter over - three lantana, one red, one yellow, and one red and yellow wintered over successfully last year; two nasturtiums of a deep orange-y red; two poinsettias, one tall and full, the other short and fat, artfully arranged together in one pot; an orange hibiscus flower, and a repotted cactus which burst forth from its tiny clay pot with the hearty sun of late summer. There is much squawking and honking as the geese, usually 11 or more in number, descend on my little farm pond. Full of turtles and frogs and snakes and other living things, it is a frequent stop for wildlife to catch a drink or a bite before going on their way. Deer, fox, an occasional coyote, river otter, or beaver stop by and lend beauty to the observation window in my office, and I check it frequently during the week. Guests often ask to look at the pond, which provides a daily excursion into nature that most people are unaware of, not privy to, or simply ignore. Even my feral cats, hardly more than kittens, notice the geese, and eventually they will come to associate the geese with the smoke coming out of the chimney and the warmth of the rug in front of the woodstove. "HOT!" I call out as they get close. "HOT!" Like I would to a child. A warning of danger I know they've learned. They understand many words - Dog, Rain, Storm coming, Dinner, Stay out of the Garden, Stop, and each others' names. Spats let me pet him on his neck tonight; over and over he kept coming near and almost begging for my touch. His fur felt soft but coarse to my fingers. October 6, 2006 |
|
What if I were chosen to
come to earth, mate with an earthling of acceptable intelligence,
in order to produce offspring that would be able to go out and preach
and teach others? Things that earthlings need to know in order to
survive. Each offspring would be responsible for teaching and preaching
to a different group of earthlings.
August 2006 |
|
I seem to pick up men like feral cats -- uncivilized, able to survive without me (not dependent), needy at times -- but able to provide me with the small bit of emotional connection -- the qi connection I don't get from vegetables and fruits. Well, fruits are the most civilized of all -- aware of their surroundings, people, behavior -- but manly and sexy. I've been with a few. "Straight" men can benefit from the advice and example of the queer, as can straight women learn from the lezzie. January 26, 2006 |
|
She became more and more
reclusive the longer she lived. She didn't have much use for most
people. The squirrels and birds appreciated her weekly gifts -- with
more on holidays. They celebrated them all together, the solstices,
the Christian Christmas and Easter, Jewish Chanukah and Yom Kippur,
Valentine's Day, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July.
Saturday, December 31, 2005 |
|
There are two kinds of people who look out my Pond Window. One looks out on a warm -- about 84º -- clear, calm day, and seeing the splotches of lime green painted on my chocolate farm pond, says "Oh, how beautiful." The other kind looks out and exclaims, "Oh, you have all that algae. Why don't you put something in your pond to get rid of it?" I survey it all, happy for the frogs and turtles who live amongst the algae, along with hummingbirds and herons, bats and dragonflies, fox and geese. I thank God for providing me with such a variety of wild creatures to learn from. They hear me when I cough or turn on the lights in the middle of the night, still thinking me a predator, even though we have come to peace with each other. I don't poison them or torture them if they don't get too close to the house. I provide them with an Eden to live in, a preserve to be free in -- as long as they don't get too close to the house. They provide me with entertainment and I have a never-ending array of life to satisfy my curiosity and stimulate my intellectual interest. I acknowledge myself for having the persistence to find a place -- to align myself with God's wishes? desires? needs? -- to seek out and find a place to heal and help others heal. We have one of the second kind voted
in (?) as President of the United States. |
|
While boys were doing, girls were talking, dreaming, reading, wishing, and hoping. Maybe that's why women are better at understanding directions than men: their visual imagination is better. All is not lost, however. Many men I know who have spent most of their time around women — who are drawn to women to be with rather than their fellow man — seem to know the things women know; their minds have been expanded and are comfortable operating like women's minds. They can understand from their woman friends' perspectives. I, on the other hand, having spent most of my time around men, have learned many of men's characteristics, in the outspoken way I talk, the demands I make of others, and the confidence with which I express my ideas. This helps me be supportive of men and their unique position in life.
October 23, 2003 |
|
Smart girls don't need to be as cute and pretty as average or dumb girls, because from a mating/evolutionary point of view, smart boys are more attracted to girls with brains. Improvement of the species and all that. When we have risen to a high level of smartness, the smart boys begin to find good-looking girls of average intelligence desirable, while the smart girls go for good-looking guys who are perhaps not geniuses. This makes for a better gene pool over all.
October 22, 2003 |
|
This morning, after yet another rain, my pond is swirls of chocolate ice cream and lime sherbet. I am tired, even though I have had a good night's sleep. I feel like the people in the TV commercial for some pharmaceutical drug, the ones who have had chemo and are so tired. But I have had no chemo, just pollution to breathe. The rain washes through for a brief moment, then the tropical air returns and I am stifled by its weight. I lie down and let the bright white light in for just a few minutes, reveling in its strength, its warmth, its calm. I am at peace. August 8, 2003 |
|
I walked with enthusiasm this evening to see the last of the flowering quince out on the long driveway. I missed it the first year I lived out in the country. But after discovering it the second spring while I was pruning dead branches nearby, I opened up the space around it, discovering a second plant that needed nurturing. This spring, my fourth here, I was waiting for them to blossom, and began my daily walks to see the beautiful bright salmon-colored flowers. Flowering quince comes out after the yellow daffodils and forsythia, but just before the white cherry and dogwood. It only lasts for a few days. Like all in nature, there is an order to things, a pulsation, a cycle of life that includes the plants, the wildlife, the nearby housebuilders, and me.
April 28, 2003 |
|
|
|
Some geese are better parents than others. The good parents find an ideal spot for a nest, he keeps a lookout for predators, she lays the eggs, and together they warm and watch until the eggs hatch. Other geese couples wander around, discussing and arguing. He wants to nest in the front yard, where the grass is greener and more succulent. She wants to nest in the old nest, sat on by many other female geese. But the beaver keeps crashing tree branches down near that location, so they decide to move to the back wetlands, where the peepers live. However, it is too open there, so he convinces her to try the east wetlands, where new grasses are growing. They stay there for a bit, but it is too close to the road pollution, so they decide to try the front yard again, only to be chased out by the lady of the house waving her broom. Round and round, back and forth they go, arguing and discussing. Eventually they can wait no longer, as the eggs have become very large and uncomfortable in her belly. The eggs are laid in the old nest. As soon as she has recovered she takes a swim in the pond while he keeps guard. But as he is looking out for the beaver, the fox darts in, steals an egg, and eats it. When the gander starts calling to his mate to come help him, the fox darts back and eats the other egg. The two geese wander around, discussing and arguing, whining and wailing. They decide to move.
April 21, 2003 |
|
|
|
In the beginning of a good love story, they're on opposite sides of something, and he makes her laugh, she makes him laugh, and they both begin to find their authentic selves. He's oblique, closed down, a workaholic perhaps. She seems full of life to him. Every meeting is left unfinished, incomplete — each new meeting they're glad to see each other. They are well aligned, their commonalities comforting, and differences interesting. Music joins them further. They bond, they confide, they grow closer. One or both become afraid of the strong connection. They back up for a while, miss the connection, reach out to each other, embrace, laugh, touch, talk — and so begins the dance of love. And so began ours.
May 11, 2003 |