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.

Die Fledermaus, encore

Guess who came to pay me a visit last night?

A little after two a.m. I was awakened from a restless sleep into an even more restless hell. It seems the Rohnerville Aiport, situated atop the bluffs just across the Eel from stately Fiddlesticks Manor, added the Bat Signal to their all-night-every-night rotating beacon, and out came my housemate from his hiding place in the attic. As I lay terrified and cursing beneath my comforter, to which I ascribe life-saving powers, the bat (perhaps equally terrified) circled the bedroom looking for a way out.

This being the second-shortest night of the year, I briefly considered remaining huddled under the comforter until daybreak, which I figured was only a few hours away. I wasn't going to get any more sleep anyway. But then I realized that this was not a solution, as the Capeless Crusader would just give up and return to the attic, set to haunt me another night. (Alternatively, he might chew through the comforter, get into my hair, and bite me, causing me to die a slow and agonizing death from rabies, as all bat-bite victims do. I still remember a news story from my childhood, in which the victim somehow, miraculously, survived a bite from one of these huge bugs, the first time in the annals of history that anyone had not succumbed to this most horrible of fates. At least, that's how I remember it. It is possible that I'm conflating this story with "Boy Trapped in Refrigerator Eats Own Foot," however.)

I knew I had to engineer a way for Batman to get to the Batmobile and get the hell out of my bedroom. Fortunately, I had the tools at hand. At the head of the bed, shown left, is a large window through which I can look out over the Eel and enjoy the morning light. (And through which my companion can see the Rohnerville Bat Signal.) This window has no screen and opens by releasing a single catch. Indeed, it never really closes, staying open just enough to let the night breeze in and keep the bedroom feeling like it's partly a campsite.

With visions of The Big Chill in mind (in that film, a skylight is opened to let the bat escape, only to have more bats fly in and join the attack), I bravely reached an arm up out of the mountain of bedding and flipped the latch to open the window, then retreated under the comforter, exposing my vulnerable, quivering self just enough to see the top of the window so I could monitor the bat activity. Shortly thereafter I saw a bat seemingly pass through the window; in which direction I could only guess. (Bats fly so erratically that it's tough to trace their paths, especially with one eye peeping out from beneath a comforter.) I guessed/prayed that he'd gone out to fight crime, and quickly pulled the window shut. Perhaps a minute later, the bat, or one of his relatives, fluttered back over my bed. I've no idea whether he'd failed to leave, or whether I had let an incremental bat in, or whether I had been a multi-bat household all along, but seeing that I was out of ideas (and that I had to go to the toilet really badly), I reached out and re-opened the window.

Once again a bat seemed to fly through the opening, but this time I left the window open, figuring that no bat in his right senses would fly in, and if one did, I'd need the window open anyway. (It's important to learn to think like a bat.) I left it open for what seemed like an hour but was probably better measured in seconds, and when I was satisfied as to the lack of bat-activity, pulled the window closed again. Using the light from my bedside radio, I monitored the situation on the ceiling for, oh, 30 minutes, then crept out of bed to the bathroom, doubled over and cursing my height the whole way. Once safely back in bed, I lay beneath my protective covering of cotton and alternative down and stayed on alert until about 4 a.m., but no bats returned to disturb me any further.

I still can only guess where the bats come from and whether they are back there right now. Just about the only similarity my cottage has with Bruce Wayne's stately Wayne Manor is that the bat ingress/egress is a closely guarded secret. I assume that they live in the attic, which is supposed to be separated from the house by the ingenious application of a piece of plywood, but even with the help of Braulio the farmhand I could not get this awkward, heavy board to fit flush over the opening (see left.) I presume that the bats laugh at my feeble hope that they will not bother to fly through the 4" opening left by the misapplication of the plywood. What I don't know is if they can get into and out of the attic from the outside (they could have come in through any number of open windows while the place was unoccupied, during which period the attic "door" was on the bedroom floor). They're probably up there right now, snickering at how easy it is to terrify me. Maybe I need to get some really powerful bug spray.