The Mystery of the Bathing Bird

I have lived in my small town for going on four years now, and it only just occurred to me two weeks ago that I live in the mountains. Never having lived in the mountains before, my eyes have been opened to shocking concepts, namely that winter lasts a lot longer. Despite this somewhat disappointing fact, spring does eventually even come to the mountains, and along with spring comes little birds.

I have noticed that little birds really enjoy being clean. Now, one must bear in mind that my small town does have a lovely, small river running through it. This small river is even replete with little shallow areas of slow moving water; a veritable bathing bird's paradise.

But is this where the birds choose to take their daily dip? No. Rather they choose my dog's water dish sitting in the backyard. From sunup to sundown, it is not uncommon for me to see large groups of little birds communing around my dog's water dish. They sit on the edge. They jump in and fluff their feathers through the water. They poop in it. . . And it's only eight inches in diameter.

My dog could be sitting right there, next to the dish, and some brazen bird is flitting around in his dish, bathing itself. Sometimes Lewis is too close to the dish and the birds get antsy, jumping around him, waiting for him to move so they can dive in.

How do these birds even know his dish is there? When they have an entire body of water to douse themselves with, what draws them to two inches of water in an eight inch dish in a dandelion-filled yard?

Maybe the answer will come to me, in about four years . . .

Embracing the Unexpected

The unexpected. It is a concept I have been pondering lately, and one illustrated well by a group of marsh-dwelling frogs. On my walks at dusk, I pass what would seem to be a large group of frogs, croaking merrily away amidst the grasses of a horse pasture. At first listen, one would think the group consists of hundreds of frogs.

Wanting to witness first-hand the conglomeration of amphibians, I tiptoed stealthily their way the other night. Pointing my flashlight toward the croakers, I expected to see many little eyes and nose holes peeking up through the grasses. Alas, I saw none. No movement, no eyes, no bulging throat skin. I stepped closer, shone my flashlight right where the sound was coming from. Once again, nothing.

One step closer and all croaking ceased completely. There was no movement. No frogs ducked under the shallow water. Still I could see nothing. What appeared to be plain was in fact hidden. Unexpected.

This morning, I expected my day to go a certain way, but I can tell you that everything that transpired, including the gorilla-suit wearing woman mooning a couple of police officers (no joke!), was unexpected. My response? Great day! I can't wait for what happens next!

A Word on Faith

"Now faith is the confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see" Hebrews 11:1

Great concept, very ethereal, but hard to explain in practical terms. Despite being able to intellectualize a lot of things, I have a hard time really grasping something until I have had an experience with it in some way. House building has taught me and continues to teach me many things, and one of these lessons is about faith.

I think I would be well justified if over a year ago when my brother Lee said, "Why don't you build your own house?", I just said right back in return, "No way man! Are you crazy?!" Instead I thought, well, if he thinks we can do it, we must be able to do it.

Despite the logistical shortcomings of two people, one being a smallish-framed female with zero construction experience, building an entire house by themselves, I doggedly plow forward in this venture because I believe we can do it. And I believe we can do it because Lee, a person well versed in the construction world, says we can do it.

On a couple of occasions, when he is suffering from a myriad of aches and pains, Lee has asked, "Do you think this is more than just the two of us can handle?" And I will tell you, in those moments, my faith completely waivers. No longer am I happily plowing forward through a daunting task, trusting the leadership of my brother. Instead I start thinking about the many tasks before us, all of which I know nothing about, (plus lifting more heavy stuff!) and I feel despair. But then I shake it off and declare, "No! I don't think it is more than just the two of us can handle! Because you said we could do it!" And we both shake it off and carry on. Now that's faith.

The Cat Wrangler

It can be challenging being a humanitarian, or catitarian as it were this time. Especially when the feline in question feels it is doing just fine living the feral life, thank you very much.

Walking a route I had not walked for awhile this past weekend, I noted a couple of cats in a notoriously cat-heavy section of town. Upon seeing me with Lewis, one of the cats skimmed away, but the other stood still, staring vaguely our direction and swaying on unsteady feet.

Upon closer inspection, the cat's eyes were glued shut with eye gunk, it's matted hair stood up every which way, and it breathed heavily with some kind of respiratory infection. With no way to take it home with me, I left it to fend for itself. The next day I checked with a gal who runs a local rescue, and she said if I could catch the cat, to take it to the vet and she would take care of it from there.

A few days later, I drove to the cat area where the previous siting took place. There was the cat, under a tree, peering at me through its eye gunk. Not wanting any of its diseases on me or in the car, I brought a tupperware along that I could seal the cat in for the trip to the vet (gotta keep those cat diseases fresh!)

I spoke soothingly to my feline friend right before tossing a blanket over her. She started to run to no avail. I scooped her up and attempted to deftly slip her into the tupperware. She popped her head and front legs out of the blanket and dug her claws into the edge of the tupperware. Not wanting to touch her with my hands, I wrestled her with the blanket. Suddenly she let out an ear-piercing yowl. Figuring the neighbors were going to look out and see me stuffing their unsuspecting cat into a tupperware, I quickly threw a corner of the blanket over her head and managed to get her in the tupperware and the lid on.

I got her to the vet unscathed if not a bit miffed about the tupperware wrestling incident. I have yet to hear of her outcome, but with some medical care, at least she has a chance. Perhaps I have opened a new door of opportunity for myself. . . small town cat wrangler.

A Horse, a Fog Bank, and a Bellowing: Tale of a Fog Monster

The density of the fog intensified as Copper took somewhat hesitant steps away from his herd mates into the white mist. Merely a few minutes earlier, when we started out, the fog wasn't too bad. I could see a good hundred feet ahead of us. The sagebrush began to take on progressively eerier shapes, however, as the moist particles seeped in, combining to form a solid shroud. What seems like suddenly, a hundred feet deteriorated to only a couple. The whinnies from Copper's herd mates diminished in the damp air behind us.

Suddenly, Copper stopped short. Off in the distance, to our left and no telling how close or far away, we had heard a bellowing. Knowing there was a dairy in that general direction, I told myself it was only a cow and urged Copper forward. We had only walked a few more steps when the bellowing came again. This time Copper turned quickly and started to head back to the safety of his herd.

I pulled him around and squinted into the fog (for whatever reason, it seems that squinting is a logical exercise that will make seeing beyond dense fog easier). With significantly less gusto, I urged Copper on, slightly less convinced that that noise came from a cow.

By the third bellowing I decided that now was not the time to throw caution to the wind. The horse wants to go back, let the horse go back. Clearly he's thinking a noise like that can't come from a harmless cow, so best to hightail it out of there before things get bad.

After a safe return, I recounted the bellowing story to my friends. Instead of sympathy for my plight and support that I did the right thing, my uneasiness was met with guffaws. "You let yourself get scared by a cow?! Bahahahaha!"

"It wasn't a cow! It was a bellowing!" (snicker snicker).

I sighed and gave up, knowing only Copper and I would know what we really heard. That night as I drifted off to sleep, the door cracked open to the outside for a breeze, I heard the sound of cows from the dairy . . . mooing.

The Itchin' Stitches

My dog Lewis is learning that the senior years aren't so golden. Plagued by a degenerative nerve disease, he drags his back legs around, scraping every last inch of toenail he has down to the toe bones. Fortunately someone came up with the brilliant idea of fake dog nails to save people's hardwood floors. I use them to save Lewis's back toes from utter annihilation.

Another misfortune of Lewis's elderly state is a large growth that sprang up seemingly overnight on the top of his head. Starting as a tiny bump, Lewis's "second brain" grew exponentially over a few short months to the size of a large grape. Supplied by arterials, the brain was discolored and veiny. It also had a few bumps on it where it had healed from my attempts to excise it with a needle. I finally decided something must be done.

A day trip to the local vet provided the venue for the last of the offending brain. However, when I picked Lewis up later that evening, he was still quite altered from the tranquilizers he had received. Now, a normal dog on tranquilizers is interesting enough, but put a dog with degenerative nerve disease on tranquilizers . . . you have a rag doll. And anyone who knows Lewis knows that he doesn't like being a rag doll.

Fraught with anxiety, Lewis feels the need to be at a heightened level of attention at all times. Despite his default state, the tranquilizers left him half flopped over on a regular basis. I found him by his food dish, half sitting, half laying, doggedly picking kibble out of his dish despite his perpetual fog.

When his countenance finally cleared, he had a new challenge on his hands: itchy stitches. Some dogs, because they are dumb and don't see pain as a sign to stop what they are doing, have to wear those cones after surgery. Not Lewis. He's a respecter of pain. One toenail scratch on those stitches, and he hasn't touched them since. But that doesn't keep them from itching.

Good thing for him, I know how to scratch his stitches without hurting him. Multiple times a day he jams his head under my hand, demanding I scratch his stitches. Scratching them puts him into a coma-like trance where he tilts his head at indescribable angles and closes his eyes. If he's really getting into it, he will lean too far, his nerve disease will keep him from catching himself, and he will fall right over.

Lewis's stitches come out in a few days. I assume the scar will still itch from time to time, and he will want me to scratch that too. Eventually his nerve disease will take him. I will miss his idiosyncracies, his endless anxiety, and his demands for me to scratch his stitches. 

Trencher Anyone?

Winter: the time when normal people are cozying up to a warm fire. I on the other hand, find myself standing around in a muddy lot wearing seven layers of clothes and holding a shovel. Slowed by a reluctant bank, my brother and I doggedly plug away at our construction project when others of tougher ilk high-tail it to warmer regions and wait for spring. Yeah, they go inside.

But not us. Unfazed by temperatures hovering at freezing and endless rain, we splash around our lot, loading truckloads of mud into a dumptruck, digging holes, and fencing while the locals drive by shaking their heads. Despite all evidence to the contrary, things were actually going quite well until our last day with the excavating equipment.

I must preface this event with the disclaimer that my brother is a notoriously poor communicator. Accomplishing tasks together requires me to do a great deal of mind reading, a skill I have not completely mastered yet.

The task was to scrape a thin layer of grass off the soil along the sidewalk. My exact statement was, "So you want me to put the dumptruck on the sidewalk." The answer was yes. 

As you can see, driving on the sidewalk turned out to be a bad idea. Furthermore, apparently "put the dumptruck on the sidewalk" actually turns out to mean "put the dumptruck on the lot nowhere near the sidewalk." Who knew?