An Aptly Named Cat

Trouble and I are just back from the vet, where the heretofore bundle of love seen at left morphed into a tiny ball of holy hell. He turns out to be a very healthy, nearly 11 pound, 3-ish year old neutered male, one who has definite ideas about what should and should not be done with needles and thermometers. After the vet took him to the "treatment area" ("to spare your arms," she said) to de-worm him and give him his shots , the offscreen ruckus was almost comical. I was genuinely surprised when the vet returned unbloodied. And yet, not five minutes after we get home, this is his demeanor.

So he is someone's pet, or at least ex-pet. I wouldn't expect the farmers here to neuter a barn cat, and he's in terrific condition with no fleas or scars or any of the other calling-cards of a stray. He could be a dumped cat, like Pippi was, but I don't know why anyone (other than a vet tech) would want to rid themselves of such a loving, mild-mannered, healthy cat. He could be a runaway, but he's been here more or less consistently for at least six weeks, and nobody has come looking for him. I'll get my landlord, who knows everyone in the valley, to ask around, but there's really not many houses in runaway-cat range, so I doubt that will turn up anything. Plus, nobody at the vet's office recognized him--and believe me, they would have, given his performance this morning--and they are the only vet in town. So it looks like he's my little bundle of joy mixed with a dash of terror.

Here Comes Trouble!

It's looking more and more likely that this is my new cat. He (or she) is the neighborhood cat, a very loving but feisty and very small cop cat (i.e., black-and-white). I started calling her (or him) "Trouble" because, invariably, that is what would ensue when he (or she) came into contact with my landlady's nearly identical cop cat ("Boots"). When Boots came into my yard, he was always looking for Trouble; hence the name. I quickly made friends with this love-starved animal, but I was unsure if she (or he) was a stray or just a wayward neighbor.

Trouble insists on this profile shot, claiming it makes him (or her) look more dignified. Anything you say, little Trouble.

My friends L&D were considering giving me one of their cats, so I bought all of the necessities so as to be prepared when they came to dinner last weekend. Prior to that, however, and after an absence of about a week, Trouble suddenly appeared in my backyard, and when I asked her (or him) in, she (or he) quickly accepted, and we began a settling-in process. This week, I took an overnight trip down to the Bay Area, and the minute I stepped out of the car upon my return, there was Trouble, asking to be let in. We've been more or less inseparable since (although he or she is outside now.)

It's still an open question whether the other cat ("Deuce") will be joining the family, but it seems unlikely.

Trouble is a lap cat that gets overstimulated easily, resulting in love bites that can be fairly deep. As we haven't been to the V-E-T yet, I'm hoping that she or he will not break the skin until we can have some tests done and shots administered. And maybe then we can clear up the mystery of whether Trouble is a he or a she, before rendering that distinction an historical curiosity.

Stupid Sports Clichés, Vol. 63,904

Because the Met Opera Radio is playing Hansel und Gretel (ugh), I've switched on the radio coverage of the British Open, where 59-year-old Tom Watson is still in contention late in the final round. Watson had just done something good when the BBC broadcaster, in his best Olivier voice, intoned "is history beckoning for Tom Watson?" There was a slight pause, followed by at least three other members of the announcing team, all sounding a bit startled, mumbling variations on "well, yes, it's beckoning, all right. It's certainly beckoning."

Aside: in case you think golf on the radio is about as dull as dull gets, I'll point out that you can also find NASCAR on the radio.

"He keeps birds. Dirty, disgusting, filthy, lice-ridden birds."

It is suddenly nesting season here on the north coast. I'm no birder, so I can't identify the species, but I have a nesting pair who are insistent on building their nest right outside my front door. This is something I just can't allow, and I feel guilty about it. They started to build their nest around a nail in my porch overhang. I knocked down what they'd begun and removed the nail, hoping they'd try somewhere else, but they just keep coming back. They haven't started any new construction, and seem rather frustrated that their nascent home is gone without a trace. It makes me sad to watch, but I can't have protective birds attacking my head every time I pass through the door. I'd be willing to settle for using the back door, but I've already permitted a nest to be built near there, and the inhabitants routinely buzz me whenever I go near it.

The birds know I'm talking about them; they're back kicking up a ruckus right outside my door even as I type this.

There are other birds here whose presence I warmly welcome. There is a large floral hedge that separates my yard from a sheep pasture; like the birds, I can't identify it, but maybe you can from the photo at left. The hedge itself is perhaps ten feet tall and runs for about 30 yards, and is positively lousy with hummingbirds. I wish I could provide a picture, but they won't come near when I'm outside, and my camera's zoom lens isn't strong enough to catch such a small thing from inside my house. It's not uncommon for me to look out at the hedge and see as many as five of them buzzing around. Even though the novelty of seeing them has worn off, it's still a thrill to have them around. They compete with honeybees, bumblebees, and butterflies for the available nectar, making this already-beautiful hedge alive with winged grace. And so far none of them has attacked me for coming too close to their homestead.

If anyone can identify either the bird or the bush, or even if you can't, please leave a comment.

A Prayer

Today I was out taking an unexpected hike through the forest (more on this another day), and got to thinking about trees. I was on a steeply descending stretch of trail, and mid-slope I encountered the large, knobby roots of a very large tree--probably a Sitka spruce--spread across the path. This was a welcome site, as it allowed me footholds to slow my momentum and recalibrate my pace. It occurred to me that Richard Nelson, certainly the best writer and probably the wisest person I've ever known, would stop to thank the tree for uncomplainingly providing this service. While I was lost in this, another of my increasingly frequent WWND (What Would Nels Do?) moments, these thoughts came to me.

Thank you, tree, for supporting my clumsy steps; and for supporting this trail, and the hillside which makes this trail possible. Thank you for providing shade, making it possible to enjoy your home on this hot day. Thank you for providing the air that I breathe, and for cleansing the water that I drink. Thank you for providing habitat for the birds whose song I am enjoying, and for the ferns that make this such a beautiful path. Thank you for sacrificing yourself so that I can have shelter and heat in the winter. Thank you for making our world a continual source of wonder and beauty. May we continue to learn ways to live together, respecting each other's needs and contributions to our shared habitat.

Final Score: Bat 1, Fiddlesticks 0

I'm not really sure, but I think he came back last night. I dunno--either it was a very big moth or a very small bat. He circled the ceiling four or five times, then vanished and did not return. I was not really in the mood to deal with a bat attack, as I was already being attacked by something I ate earlier in the day, so I was glad when he went away. Still, I've decided to cede the territory to the flying rat--I've moved out of that bedroom, which can be sealed off at night. Now he can haunt the ceiling to his black heart's content; I don't think there's any way he can get into the main part of the house when the back bedroom door is shut.

This actually solves a number of problems, while creating only a few new ones, as far as I can tell. The floor in that back bedroom is not level, and thus neither was the bed, which made sleeping difficult. I believe I've mentioned that the big window never really closes, making the room fairly breezy and cool. Plus it gets very light very early, and also is in the line of fire of the nighttime airport beacon, and I won't miss either form of light pollution very much. Maybe I'll convert the back room into a dining area, so I can enjoy the morning light and views that way. Hmmm.

My new bedroom, upper left, is in the front of the cottage (southwest corner), has level floors and tight windows. It's near the stove, so it will be warm in winter--I only hope it's not too warm. The bathroom is off this room, which might cause a problem if I ever have a non-amorous overnight guest, but is a godsend when my stomach behaves like it did last night. The move allowed me to put some of the borrowed furniture to better use than I was giving it, and it permits me to have a furnished front room, right and below left, rather than a largely empty space. One newly-created problem is that the bedroom has a beautiful red and blue Persian rug, and even my color-deficient eyes tell me that my brown bedding scheme clashes with it. Click the picture to enlarge it, and you'll see what I mean.

So far, however, I like it. I hope the bat does too.

Oh, My Aching Back

Over the past three days, I have unloaded and stacked two cords of firewood (see left--there's more than what's shown), installed and set up my landlord's new 47" HDTV (in an upstairs location), and loaded, transported, and unloaded a new refrigerator, which necessitated removing the doors, which further led to an unsuccessful attempt to reverse the doors.

I am officially tired. But I'm glad to have the wood, and very glad to have the fridge. Today comes the real heavy lifting--I'm going to Costco to stock the refrigerator.