Category Archives: Animal Stories

CORONA VIRUS- APRIL 25, 2020

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Another week has passed. Each day seems to be moving at a snail’s pace at the same time it feels like the weeks are flying by in the blink of an eye. I’m a person that enjoys living a productive life. I set daily goals for myself. I’m my own taskmaster. If I’m tired, I push myself to accomplish my goals anyway.

Jalapeno, Eclectus Parrot- Photo by Bob Culver

Unfortunately, I have a tendency to hold my family to the same standards. “What did you do today? What else? You mean you just looked at the internet all morning? I guess you could say I’m a bit of a nag.

I have a high energy level; sometimes I forget everyone isn’t like me. They don’t necessarily feel an internal pressure to be busy every moment of the day. Even before I retired and I was working full-time, I did volunteer work on my days off. I taught English As A Second Language, and Basic Skills Classes and helped people get their GED. I was a mentor for Big Brother/Big Sister. I have always wanted my life to have value and make a contribution to our society and help other people do the same.

For the past three and a half years, I have been volunteering three mornings a week at an Animal Sanctuary in Coats, NC. I take care of parrots, Macaws, and Cockatoos. I love animals. And I loved these birds. But I have to admit it is exhausting work, especially for someone my age.

Sparky- Photo by Bob Culver

As I was driving home yesterday from Animal Edventure, I realized that one of the things that I enjoyed the most now is the drive back and forth from my house to Animal Edventure. It is only a fifteen- or twenty-minute ride. But it allows me to be alone with my thoughts and reflect on what has been happening in my home. And what has or may occur while I’m at Animal Edventure.

I live in a small development, and I drive through farmlands to the Animal Sanctuary. I had the opportunity to observe the long winter pass and Spring arrive one day at a time. The crops are beginning to grow, wildflowers are springing up, giving me hope.

There are fewer cars on the road. It’s a quiet ride that offers me the opportunity to see the cows and chickens and the horses and beautiful steer with their magnificent horns.  And I see the crops growing a bit taller every day. It lifts my spirit. That somehow, our life will move forward to better days. It fills me with gratitude for all our planet has to offer.

I arrive at  7:15 at the Animal Sanctuary, and I’m usually the first one up and about. The eight dogs that live there greet me with their doggy smiles as I walk down the path from the front gate, and I hug and pet each one. Sometimes I offer them each a dog biscuit too. Dogs are such wonderful creatures we are lucky to have them in our lives.

I get ready to head out to the bird building by filling the water jugs and getting any supplies I may need for them and put it all in a little wagon to bring out to their building. Before I go there, I give each of the Foxes a treat. I can see they are eagerly awaiting it. They show their excitement with a high-pitched whining and wide, toothy grins.

As I’m about to go into the bird building, Tuni, the blind pig greets me, and I pet her from her bristly head to her little tail. She grunts at me and waits patiently for her small snack. She is such a sweet soul.
I look forward to seeing her.

Sometimes, Matilda, the Emu is waiting for me, she isn’t                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        patient and always seems to think I’m late. If she is in a particularly bad mood, I have to step aside quickly, or she will peck me with her sharp beak. She has quick reflexes and keeps me on my toes.

As I enter the building with two of the outside cats, Camo and Orange Julius Paco scream out, “helloooo.” I call out, “Hello, birds, how are you all doing today?”

I take out the cat food and put it on the floor for my little cat friends. And as they start eating, I pet Camo but not Orange Julius she doesn’t like more than a pat on the head. I go over to each of the birds and ask them how they are? They each answer in their fashion. Sometimes they say hello, sometimes they scream. It’s noisy in the bird building; it takes getting used to. I have been working there for three and a half years. And I have learned to block out most of the noise. Jalapeno is a bright green Electus. He jumps on my shoulder. Sometimes he likes to ride in the hood of my jacket. He always wants to be fed first before all the other birds. If I don’t feed him first, he will go over and start eating the cat food. He isn’t one bit afraid of the cats. And the cats run out of the building when they see Jalapeno coming towards them.

I spend about three and a half hours in the bird building. I feed all the birds and clean their water and food dishes. I clean their cages inside and out and rake the floor. I have come to love these beautiful creatures—each different from the next in their personality and their moods. I talk to each one and ask them how they’re doing. I feel lucky to have the opportunity to know them.

Sometimes the kangaroos come by and try to break in, but I shoosh them away. And occasionally Jack the Blood Hound stops by, and bangs on the door, and I hand him a dog biscuit. He often lies down outside the door in the morning sun and takes a nap.

It’s a busy morning in the bird building but the time goes by quickly. Before I leave, I say good-bye to my feathered friends. And tell them I’ll see them in a couple of days.

I return the wagon to its parking place and head toward the exit. I say good-bye to all the animals, as I pass them. Adelaide the Kookaburra is one of my favorites; she always sings out for me as I pass her by and, I say, “hello, Adelaide, I see you’ve woke up.”

When I arrive home my husband and daughter ask me,” Ok, what happened today? And I relate stories about each one of my animal friends and what they were up to.

Then I go outside and eat lunch on our screened-in porch and look at our garden and the little pond that we put in the first year we moved to North Carolina from New Jersey. That was almost four years ago.                                      The irises and peonies that I brought with me from NJ look so beautiful this year. And our little Koi fish are getting so big. My dog, Douglas, greets me as if I’ve been away for ten years instead of four hours. I love that little dog so much.

So yes, this is a tough time, a sad time in so many ways. But mother nature has done such wonders this Spring and it gives me hope that someday life will return to a version of what it used to be. I hope we learn whatever lesson we are supposed to learn from this experience. I know one thing is to appreciate your life and the lives of your loved ones. It is precious and fragile and can be lost so easily. I try not to take it for granted. And that our planet is irreplaceable as well we must protect it as if our life depends on it. Because it does.

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Tea Break

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The bed creaks as Sarah wrestles with her sweaty sheets. She closes her eyes tightly against the early morning light. She knows what time it is because she wakes up at seven-thirty every single day. Even the sleeping pills on her bedside table don’t allow her one more moment of rest.

Strottles the cat Photo by Bob Culver

She gives in, opening one eye at a time, and looks out her bedroom window. It’s a sunny, unbearably bright day. Sarah slides her bony feet into her worn purple slippers. Slowly, reluctantly she makes her way into the blue-tiled bathroom with the matching blue toilet and sink. Turns on the hot water and lets it run into the sink until steam rises to the mirror and obscures her face. She plunges her hands into the fray of water and splashes it on her face. Grabs a towel and roughly dries her face.

Sarah returns to her bedroom and pulls on a pair of elasticized pants, shrugs on an old white tea shirt with a faded American flag on the front, and pushes her feet into her ancient yellow leather Keds.

Holding tightly to the railing as she descends the staircase. Sarah fears falling more than anything. She lives alone, save for her cat, that occasionally shares her bed. Strottles went out several nights ago and hasn’t returned yet. He has an active love life, a happy bachelor.

Sarah wouldn’t admit to anyone how jealous she was of her cat.  That is, if she had anyone, she felt she could confide her deepest feelings. Although she often whispers them into her feline Lothario’s velvety ear. He at least has never betrayed her lonesome soul.

A week ago, Sarah ate a breakfast of burnt toast and Earl Grey tea. She heard Strottles meowing outside the kitchen door. Strottles stood at the bottom of the steps with five multi-colored kittens. Sarah blinked several times, stepped back into the kitchen, and closed the door behind her.  She sits down, and a tear runs down her face into her teacup, adding a salty taste to her morning repast.

This morning Sarah once again hears meowing at the back door. She looks out the window on the door and sees a black and white kitten staring back at her. At that moment, Sarah realizes that although humans had often failed to be faithful friends and left her behind when she needed them the most, cats had not.

Sarah opens the door. She sees not one cat but five, and behind them, Strottles. “Well, come in, come in. The heat is going out the door.”

“Well, Strottles, you have been a busy boy. Now here you are with a family. Where’s the Mama?”

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Oh, can’t take a joke? Well, it doesn’t matter. Let me get you and your feline family something to eat. I think I have some canned food for the babies. And some dry food for you. And perhaps some milk as well.”

Sarah opens the pantry door and gazes inside its dark interior. And she pulls the string that turns on the light. It reveals a pantry that needs restocking. Luckily, she always has cat food since Strottles has a healthy appetite. She takes down two cans, Chicken Delight and Pate’ Turkey and Giblets. One of Strottle’s favorites.

She sets out five saucers and Strottles bowl and places a little wet food, and mixes the dry food in it. Strottles is an old cat, almost twelve, and is missing most of his teeth. But he still manages to devour both the wet and the dry food. He mustn’t have had much to eat since he left save for the occasional mouse.

“Here you go, lad and lassies, breakfast. And here is your bowl, Strottles, the proud papa. You’ve done yourself proud with this little family.”

“You know, Strottles, I should’ve gotten you fixed years ago, and I think I will do that now. But I will take care of your babies until I can find some families to adopt them. Eat up now. And I’m going to give each of these little kitties a bath with Dawn just in case they have any fleas and you too, Strottles. I know you hate baths, but you play. You pay as my dad used to say.”

After the kittens have eaten their fill, Sarah walks over to the laundry room across from the kitchen. She puts a blanket in a box with a heating pad underneath it and places the kittens in one at a time. One of the kittens is the spitting image of his father, An orange-striped cat with emerald green eyes. Sarah can see he is going to be a big cat like his dad. His feet are enormous. And he has the longest tail she had ever seen on a kitten this little.  He keeps rubbing up against her legs.

After the kittens settle onto the blanket, Sarah covers them up to keep them warm. She stares down at her newly adopted family and feels a sense of contentment she hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Alright, Strottles, let me get the sink ready for your bath and clean you up. You look like you were sleeping rough. From now on, you will be staying in the house with your little family.”

As the sink fills with warm, soapy water, Sarah considers names for her new charges. She considers naming them after the Virtues of Prudence, Justice, Temperance, Fortitude, and Hope after she gets to know their personalities better.

She walks over to Strottles and picks him up. He protests by meowing as loudly as he can. Sarah ignores his crying and puts him gently in the sink. His meowing begins anew, but somehow, he is even louder.

Sarah says,” Settle down, it will be over before you know it, and then you can take a good long nap after your bath and toweling off. Sarah sprays Strottles and rubs Dawn over his body from his head to the tip of his striped tail. And then she rinses him off with warm water. Sarah rigorously towels Strottles off. As soon as she puts him down, he heads over to his cat bed in the living room and promptly falls asleep.

Sarah rinses off the sink and goes to the linen closet for some more towels for the kittens. Momentarily, she stops and thinks, what in the world am I going to do with six cats. She vows to herself not to get attached to the kittens.

It isn’t as easy bathing the kittens. Even though they are smaller, they’re so tiny they’re able to squirm and escape leaving trails of soapy water all along their escape path.

Sarah grabs the last kitten, who she decides to call Hope. She feels exhausted, and she’s dripping wet from head to toe. However, she can’t recall any time recently when she felt this happy and invigorated by anything she has undertaken.

Sarah walks over to the laundry room across from the kitchen. She puts a blanket in a box with a heating pad underneath it and places the kittens in one at a time. One of the kittens is the spitting image of his father. He is an orange-striped cat with emerald green eyes. Sarah sees he’s going to be a big cat like his dad. His feet are enormous. And he had the longest tail she had ever seen on a kitten this little.  He keeps rubbing up against her legs, and he has the loudest purring she had ever heard come out of such a small cat.

After the kittens settle onto the blanket, Sarah covers them up to keep them warm. She stares down at her newly adopted family and feels a sense of contentment.

Sarah decides she better makes a trip to the grocery store to do a little food shopping. She changes her clothes and puts on her good shoes and coat with her purse grasped tightly in her hand. She has a nagging fear that someone will steal her purse, and then where would she be?

It isn’t easy getting old. Sarah often feels as if she’s alone and out to sea in a boat. She suddenly realizes that now she’s smiling and feels her spirit-lifting because she has a purpose now and isn’t alone anymore. She feels better than she has in weeks.

Sarah steps out her front door and closes it with a bang, and locks the top and the bottom lock. You can never be too careful. The Mom and Pop grocery store is only a ten-minute walk, and Sarah quick steps it to the corner where she runs into Gloria. An old friend she hasn’t seen in months.

“Gloria, what a surprise to see you. I heard you moved in with your son after you had that heart attack scare. How are you? I’ve missed you so much. I don’t have your son’s address, so I couldn’t even send you a Get Well card.”

“I’m much better. I just came home two days ago. I was on my way to your house to see you. I should have written or called you. But for the first couple of months, I was in a nursing facility, and I was depressed. Then once I moved in with my son, they kept me busy every minute of the day. Where are you going? I’ll go with you. Maybe we could stop and have some tea at Tea Break. I have so missed their Ginseng Tea.”

“Why, that sounds like an excellent idea. I would love nothing better. I have some great news to tell you. You know, Strottles, my cat. He showed up this morning after being missing for quite a while, and he returned with a litter of kittens. And one is his spitting image. Anyway, this morning I bathed them all, and now I’m on the way to buy some supplies.”

“Well, I guess congratulations are in order. What are you going to do with a litter of kittens? I would love to have one. It gets lonely living alone. On the other hand, living with my son and daughter-in-law and my four grandchildren was wonderful but exhausting.”

“Really, well, after lunch, you can come over and meet the kitties. And spend time with them until you decide which will be best for you.”

As Sarah and Gloria continue on their way to Tea Break, they see their mutual friend Connie waving at them from across the street. They wave back and cross the street. Simultaneously, they say, “Hi, Connie. How are you?”

“Well, I’m better now that I see you two. Gloria, I heard you were back. I’m so happy to see you looking so well. Where are you two off to?”

“Connie, we ran into each other as I was walking downtown to get some supplies for Strottles’ kitties. And then, we decided to go to Tea Break and tell each other what we have been up to.”

“Well, that sounds like fun. Would three be a crowd? I would love to join you. I haven’t been out of my house in a month of Sundays.”

“Well, that would be great. ”

“Can you two give me a few minutes to run a comb through my hair and put a jacket on? I would love to catch up. I missed seeing you, Gloria. I heard you were staying with your son while you recovered.”

“Yes, but I’m much better now that I’m back home. I loved spending time with my grandchildren.  I’ll tell you all about it at Tea Break. We’ll wait out here while you grab a jacket.”

“Gloria, this is turning out to be a wonderful morning. First, Strottles shows up with his beautiful kittens. And now you’re home, and we meet up with Connie. And we’re all going out for a get-together. ”

“You’re right. I feel like a weight is off my chest. It will be such fun. I think we need to make this a regular thing for us to do together. ”

“You’re right. Sometimes there are days when I don’t see or speak to another soul.”

“I hate to admit it, but that’s true for me too.  And there is no reason on god’s earth for that to happen when we all live right down the street from one another, a short walk or phone call away.’

“And we can all thank Strottles for getting together because of his wanton ways. He is an old scoundrel, but I love him.  Oh, here comes Connie. Let’s go.”

“Look out, world, here we come. Hey, while we’re at it, why don’t we stop and see the matinee at the Roxy Theater and then have some dinner on me.”

“Sound like a plan. So Sarah, what have you been up to? Anything new?”

“I’ll say, but let’s walk up to Tea Break, and then I’ll tell you the whole story.”

REALITY BITES

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My cat is pretty good at playing dumb, but it wasn’t clear that he knew anything. I had left my cat, Sloopy, at home because he hates staying at the vet’s or even at my mother’s house. I really believe he’s more attached to my house than he is to me. In any event, I hired my neighbor to come over twice a day and feed him and give him fresh water. And spent a half-hour every evening watching TV in my living room while Sloopy slept next to him on the couch.

Sloopy-Photograph by Bob Culver

Oh, I almost forgot he had to clean out the litter box every day and brush Sloopy because he is a long-haired cat that gets terrible mats. If he isn’t brushed out regularly, and believe me, that is a real nightmare. He hates being brushed and is prone to biting and nipping at the brusher. I have the scars to prove it.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, I took a much-anticipated cruise to Alaska. I live in Los Angeles, and so I just hopped on a Princess Cruise ship right there at the port.

Things got off to a rough start, and I should have taken that as a sign. But not being all that superstitious, I thought I was having a string of bad luck, as per usual. Somehow, my reservation got screwed up. And I didn’t get the cabin I paid for. I got one so small that it was difficult closing the cabin door. Once both I and my suitcase were in the room. I ended up keeping my suitcase under the bed. And taking my clean clothes out one at a time and putting my dirty ones in a plastic bag inside the suitcase after I took them off.

One good thing was the food. I never took a cruise before, and I didn’t realize that the ship was just one big, floating restaurant. A floating restaurant with tiny bedrooms attached. I ate so much in the first few days that I could hardly zip any of my pants. It turned out the second half of the cruise. We had some rocky waters due to an unexpected change in the weather.

I felt a bit seasick during that leg of the trip and didn’t eat that much. Since I was alone on the cruise, and almost everyone else came with their mate, I found myself having my meals with an odd assortment of single people ranging in age from forty-something to eighty-something.

I admit I’m over sixty, but I still have plenty of life left in me. I can’t say I was looking for the love of my life. I had already had that, at least for a while, until the unfortunate divorce. I was hoping to meet the love of my life on my vacation. Didn’t happen, not even close. I did meet an interesting woman. She was eighty years old.

I met her the first evening when I went down to have dinner in the dining room called Last Call. She saw me wondering about looking for a place to sit down. I heard a booming voice calling out above the buzzing of all the other voices, “Hey, you, big guy, come here, come sit with us.”

I looked around,  trying to figure out who belonged to this foghorn of a voice. Then I saw a very small woman in lime green and shocking pink Mumu waving frantically at me from across the room.

Her name was Hermine, and she was quite a pistol and had me laughing my head off throughout most of the trip. Goes to show you shouldn’t judge a book by its wrinkled old cover.

I walked nonchalantly over there, and she said, “come on, come on, don’t be shy, have a seat. She looks at all the people around the table, all women, by the way.

“Look at what we have here, the only handsome single man on the ship. You remind me of a man I knew back in the late 1960s, got to know him quite well, as matter of fact, intimately, if you know what I mean.” At this point, she gives me a big wink and a salacious grin.  This was the moment I knew my luck had taken a turn for the better.

It turns out she had spent most of her life traveling with some kind of carnival. She had a lot of intriguing stories to tell of bearded ladies and a man tattooed who looked like a tiger, including having fangs put on his canine teeth. Not to mention, a set of Siamese twins joined at their backs, who never actually saw each other face to face but hated each other’s guts all the same.

But the strangest one of them all was the three-legged man, who had three functioning legs, except he couldn’t use the third one because it was several inches shorter than the other two. He had special ornate suits made to fit his unique physique. He had made a fortune exhibiting himself. He was from India and retired at thirty, a wealthy man in his home country. Where he is considered a celebrity, he fell in love with the then-shortest woman in the world, who was about thirty-six inches tall. I dare say they must have created quite a stir when they were walking along the streets of Calcutta.

After visiting Anchorage, a place in which I damn near lost my fingers, it was so cold. I also took a lot of digital pictures. I planned on boring my fellow members of my camera club at the next monthly meeting. I have taken over five hundred pictures, and I hope to show them all.  They had done the same thing to me many times over the years. Hermine kept me company as we hit a few of the typical tourist spots. The second day, she said, “OK, stretch, this isn’t my first trip around this rodeo. So I’m going to show you some of the, shall we say out of the, way sites, places only the people in the know, know about.”

For the next two days, I met some of the strangest people. I think they were people. And I saw some sights that I would never forget, no matter how hard I try. I’ll mention this one because I keep hoping if I tell enough people about it, I can release it from my memory.

We walked for about a half-hour to an alley that led to yet another alley and then to a back street called, You Ain’t In Kansas Anymore. I’m not shitting you here. I met a guy, well over seven-foot-tall, whose hobby was to “create” fantasy creatures from parts of different animals. One that is forever burned into my memory. It’s preserved under a glass globe and looks like it comes from another planet. It seems part beaver and part antelope, with lots and lots of sharp pointed teeth. I could write a book about the tour that Hermine took me on in those few short days, and maybe I will one day.

Let’s just say for now that it was a very memorable trip, and don’t ever make the mistake of judging a book or an old lady by her wrinkled old cover.

Eight days after I left LA, I arrived home and took a taxi to my apartment. It took about one hour because of the heavy rush hour traffic. I was looking forward to seeing Sloopy. Who heard me coming to the door as I wrestled with the sticky lock on my apartment door. I had bought him a little souvenir doll from Anchorage, and I hoped he would love it as much as I did. It was a stuffed cat wearing a tee shirt with; I survived the Ice Rivers in Alaska emblazoned across it.

I fumbled with the lock for a few minutes. I managed to pull the door open only to be assailed by the most putrefying smell as if something had died and was rotting. I prayed it was not my beloved Sloopy, and thank god it wasn’t.

Unfortunately, it was my neighbor and cat sitter, Mr. Bean. He was laid out on the kitchen floor, with his hand clutching at his chest. Sloopy was sitting near him, but not too near since he has a very sensitive nose.

Mr. Bean was dead, as dead can be. He had a weird expression on his face, unfortunately not a peaceful one. I felt his pulse in his neck and was met by a cold dead stare. Sloopy walked over to me calmly and rubbed against my trembling arm, and let out a loud “Meow.” I washed out his bowl and put some kibble out for him since his food dish was empty. He seemed relieved to see me, as I was him, but not under these distressing circumstances.

I reached over to my phone and dialed 911, and explained the unpleasant circumstances. They arrived shortly and questioned me in detail. The coroner arrived and concluded that Mr. Bean was indeed dead as if I had questioned that fact. He asked if anyone else was witness to his death, and I said, “Yes, of course, Sloopy, but it just doesn’t matter anymore because he is my cat and can’t tell you a thing.

Childhood Isn’t Always What It Is Cracked Up To Be

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I skipped and half-ran down to the corner house. Darlene Domeraski’s house. I looked forward to the visit all day. While I suffered through the dear nuns ranting and raving, all the way to the three o’clock bell at dismissal.

I absolutely loved going to Darlene’s house not because she was my best friend because she wasn’t. She was Janet Rathgab’s best friend.

I loved her house because she had her own bedroom with a giant queen-sized bed that had a down-filled comforter. She had a closet full of dresses made for her.

Sea Turt;e

Sea Turtle

I did covet everything that lived her kitchen cupboards and inside the oven where they stored their snacks.

Darlene’s father came home about four-thirty that afternoon. He called Darlene outside and said,” Hey, Darlene and Susie I have something to show you.” I followed her to the driveway next to the grapevine where we often ate so many grapes, we got sick. He called us over again. “Come here girls take a look.” He let us stand on the back of the truck bumper. As we peered down, I saw a beautiful sea turtle. I was about to reach out and touched it when he pulled out a long knife and cut off the turtle’s head.

I screamed as loud as I have screamed in my ten years of life. I jumped off the bumper of his truck and ran the two blocks to my home. Just as I reached my house, with tears streaming down my face I got sick on the sidewalk. I stood there crying until my tears ran dry.

I wiped my eyes dry with the sleeve of my favorite yellow sweater and took a deep breath and ran up to my front door, and into the kitchen. My parents were sitting at the kitchen table. My father said, “hey Susabelle, what’s the matter? Were you crying?

I looked at my father and then over at my mother and I said. “What no, I just ran all the way home so I wouldn’t be late for dinner. I never went over Darlene’s house again. I never coveted her house, her clothes or her room again either.

AS THE CROW FLIES

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I woke up abruptly this morning. I heard something tapping on my bedroom window. I tried to ignore it for quite a while. I put my pillow over my head. I plug my ears. The noise is relentless. My bedroom is on the second floor. So really, who could be knocking on the window? A window washer, Superman, a drone. Oh no, perhaps it’s a second-story man.  All highly unlikely suspects. I toss and turn and try to fall back to sleep. No luck, I’m wide awake. And once that happens, I have to get up. I  walk over to the window and throw open the curtains.

CROW by Capri 23auto

I’m startled. I see a Crow with bright, black eyes staring back at me. He begins tapping on the window. Tap,   tap. tap. I tap back. Tap.  Tap.Tap. He’s hanging on the screen.  “Hello,” I yell loudly. He opens his beak wide. I believe he might be saying hello back to me.  I smile. He opens his beak again. And then tap.  Tap, tap. What does it mean? He flies away and lands in the Dogwood Tree that I planted next to my Koi pond last year. It’s just now beginning to bloom—my favorite tree.

I’ve always been very fond of birds. I think you might call it some kind of harmless obsession. I’m a painter, and almost all my paintings have birds in them.  I spend a great deal of time in my garden, planting flowers that will attract birds and butterflies, and bees. I have nesting boxes and bird feeders all over my yard.

But all that is beside the point.  I have enjoyed my momentary interaction with the Crow. Since I’m awake, I decide to get an early start on my day. I dress and go into my studio and continue working on my latest painting. Several pleasant hours pass by. I notice a growling noise. It’s my stomach; I realize that it’s nearly lunchtime, and I haven’t eaten anything yet today.

I rummage around inside my frig and decide to heat some vegetable soup. That I made yesterday, it’s a gorgeous sunny, Spring day I choose to go outside to my screened porch and eat my soup and crackers. I take a deep breath. The air is sweet and fresh.

I so enjoy watching the birds fly from one feeder to another. There are six Cardinals at the feeder next to the back fence. I notice that a Blue Bird and her mate are building a nest inside the Blue Birdhouse. I smile. What could be better than this? I look forward to seeing them raise a family there. Spring, by far, is my favorite season. It inspires hope when the earth wakes up from its wintery sleep. It inspires hope as all new beginnings do.

As I sit on my porch, I think, what could be better than this? I finish my soup, and I must admit it’s delicious. Nothing tastes better than something made from vegetables that you grow in your garden from seed. As I’m about to go back to the house, I notice a crow in the cul-de-sac. He’s standing in the middle and is bowing over and over again. Four crows are walking in a circle around him. It looks so absurd that I burst out laughing. I wonder if he’s the same crow that was taping on my window early this morning. Perhaps he’s the King of the Crows.

The next morning, I’m still fast asleep. And I hear a tapping noise once again. I groan and look over at the clock. It’s 6:45 am. I pull my pillow over my head so as not to hear the tapping. It’s relentless. I can still hear it. Tap.  Tap.Tap. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and walk over to the window. And Pull the curtains aside. And behold, it’s the King of Crows. Once again, tapping on my bedroom window. As I study him, I realize that he isn’t the uniform black that I first observed. He had a light violet on his torso. And his wings were a fantastic, greenish-blue.

“What? What are you trying to tell me? Please stop waking me up so early in the morning. I realize he can’t hear me through the closed window. I open it up slightly. He begins to caw loudly. I still don’t understand what he wants me to do. I decide to do some research on Crows that will enlighten me on this behavior.

The next morning, I wake up bright and early. I wonder if the Crow will tap at my window. I’m somewhat disappointed when he doesn’t arrive. I get up and walk over to the window. I pull one of the curtains back just far enough to the lookout. My crow is hanging on the window screen.  He looks directly at me. I see his beak opening up wide. I know he‘s cawing at me. I decide that this is just his way of saying Good morning or hello. I laugh. He opens his beak again.

He flies away, and I  watch as he lands one again in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Four crows fly down from the forty-foot evergreens on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac. They form a circle around him once again, and he bows as they circle him. I open the window, and I hear him cawing. The four other crows join in. It’s a mysterious ceremony. I feel a compulsion to join in. I know it’s absurd, but still, I want to do it. Perhaps I was a crow in a former life? Then I say out loud, “former life, I’m losing it. I’m going off the deep end.” I’m spending too much time alone in my studio. I need to get out more. See more people, join in. Go to the gym. Something.

I end up going to the library and researching Crows. I know I can find information about them online. But then I wouldn’t be getting out of the house, would I? And I would also miss going to my favorite place in the world, the library. Yes, that’s right, the library. I have memories of a lifetime of experiences within the walls and between the stacks at my childhood library, the library in my college, and of course, my local library. The bastion of knowledge, a literary jackpot. The somewhat cheesy smell and touch of old books, ink on paper. The oily residue of a hundred hands.  Old books have their history. How many people have touched the pages, digested the words? The possibilities are endless. For me, it is a sanctuary, a respite. Yes, even nirvana.

I decided I should approach the research librarian. I’m somewhat ambivalent though I have a fierce love of the library and its contents. I fear the librarians. It has been my experience that librarians are not social creatures. I believe they each chose this calling because they don’t care about interacting with their fellow human beings. And that is precisely why they chose this line of work. Because they thought mistakenly, they would spend their entire working lives with their beloved books. But alas no. They soon realized that they would be interacting with people. Beings capable of disrupting the quiet. They might become noisy, even boisterous at times. And god forbid dogearing the pages and most hideous of all desecrating these sacred volumes by marking the pages.

I stealthily approach the research librarians’ desk. She has her head down. Several ancient-looking tomes are open on her desk, and she’s running her index finger along the line of printed words. She is scrupulously not to touch the page lest oil from her hands’ mar, its precious surface. I consider telling her to use finger cots, but I imagine she might slap me for making such a crude suggestion. As if I might be suggesting she use a condom.

“Excuse me,” I say in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Excuse me.” No response. I clear my throat several times. Nothing. I say in a somewhat louder tone, “Hello, madam, could you please help me. I need some assistance. I wish there were a bell on the desk. But no such luck. I imagine she may stroke out if I did ring a bell. She slowly raises her head. She gives me a cold, dead stare. Her eyes are pinned on me. I fear she might make a sudden move and attack me in some way.

“Yes.”

I smile, my very friendliest smile. One that I reserve for dogs and babies. A smile that rarely fails to ingratiate me. It does not affect her. She continues to stare. It’s unnerving; I decide just to jump in and spill it all out at once. “Could you please help me find information about the crows that live in this section of the country?”

She begins by typing rapidly on her computer. I wait patiently. After no more than a minute, she says, ”Corvus brachyrhynchoz, American Crow. Common to this area.”

“Can you tell me if you have any books in this library that I can take home to study?”

She accesses her computer once again. “No, not here. But I can put in a request from one of our other branches. If you give me your library card and contact information, I will notify you when we receive it at this branch. She slides me a form to fill out. I quickly do so. Then, she writes down some numbers on another paper and says abruptly, “here, go to the stacks listed on this paper, and you will find several books on birds that inhabit North Carolina. They’re reference books, but you can copy pages that interest you.”

She puts her head down; I’m dismissed. And I have disappeared from her conscious thoughts. I count my lucky stars. I come away from this interaction relatively unscathed. I look at the call numbers for the books. And I’m off to the reference section of the library. I notice that my teeth are clenched and my shoulders hunched. I take several breaths and try to relax. At one time, I had considered becoming a librarian. I can see that I would then have become a clone to this woman. And I don’t know for sure if that would have been a good thing or a bad thing.

I find the books noted on the paper and sit down for several hours immersed in my current obsession, the Crow. It’s fascinating.  I wonder where this experience will take me. I could study this particular species and be done with it. Or perhaps once I read about it, I’ll then want to observe the “Crows” behavior. Or maybe I’ll take it further. There’s no knowing at this point. But I have been down this path before. And have only regretted it once before. Only time will tell.

After spending numerous hours reading about crows, I realize that this will become a long-term project. OK, some may call it an obsession. But I say tomato, tomato—same difference. I would spend the evening creating my strategy, and tomorrow I would begin.

I set my alarm for sunrise. Last night I studied the research that I gleaned from my visit to the library. It was enlightening, to say the least. Most importantly, I have discovered that Crows are highly intelligent creatures. More intelligent than Parrots. They are capable of making and using rudimentary tools in their pursuit of food. They have phenomenal memories. They can distinguish and remember a human face over a long period even if they haven’t seen that face for several years.

They are known to ban together to mob predators and even humans that they consider a threat for some reason.  They mate for life, and both the male and female and older siblings care for the baby birds communally. And what I found most profound of all they mourn the death of a fellow crow, even if it was formerly unknown to them. And it’s at that point I know I have entered the first stage of a full-fledged obsession.  I welcome it. I’m never more complete than when I’m immersed, whether it be a new painting, creating a new garden, or solving a mystery.

Last night before I retired to my bed, I gathered different types of food that I believe would entice my new avian friend to stay longer at my window. And that I might become better acquainted with him. I had read during my research at the library that Crows are omnivorous. And they will eat whatever food is readily available. That could include anything from vegetables to insects. Or even dead animals and garbage.

I collect an assortment of food, from hard-boiled eggs to a spider I captured in my basement. I carefully placed it in a small cup that I attached to the siding underneath my bedroom window.

The following morning, I hear a scratching sound followed by cawing outside of my window. I carefully peek through the curtain. I see my crow studying the food cache I left for him. He’s eyeing it thoroughly, and then he reaches down and gingerly picks up a grape and eats it.  He looks directly at my face and caws. He picks up the piece of boiled egg and flies off with it in his beak. I watch him until he’s no longer in my field of vision.

Later that afternoon, I peek out the window. And I realize that all the food I left is gone. And in its’ place is something shiny. I shove the window open and pick it up. A small cut stone.  I realize it is an emerald. It looks familiar, somehow. I stare at it. And then it comes to me. It looks just like the emerald that I lost last Spring when I was working in the kitchen garden. I rush over to my jewelry box and pick up the ring that’s missing its stone. I remember how upset I was when I lost it. I looked everywhere for it. It was a birthday gift from my mother on my sixteenth birthday.

My mother passed away last summer. I put the stone in the setting. It fits perfectly. A wave of emotion fills me up, and tears flow out of my eyes. I feel like I have regained a little piece of my mother again. I can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. I think that King Crow and I were somehow ordained to meet. And I’m somehow meant to help him someway in the future.

About a week later, I enjoyed a bowl of hot oatmeal on my back porch when I heard a loud ruckus. I realized that it’s a murder of Crows cawing at a hawk swooping down on a fledgling that’s eating seeds on the ground underneath my birdfeeder. I stand up and pick up my binoculars and look at the bird on the ground. It’s a fledgling crow.

I’m finally able to drive off the Hawk by walking around the back yard banging a pot and pan together. After I go back onto the porch, I sit and watch as four crows come down and surround the fledgling. They walk all around him bobbing their heads. I know he will be safe for now. But I have to come up with a plan to keep the hawk out of my pond and away from the crows.

I decided to create a scarecrow. I‘m going to dress the scarecrow in my old gardening clothes. I know the Crows recognize me and aren’t going to be scared away by a scarecrow, but the hawk would be. My Koi will be safe, and so will King Crow and the fledglings. I go into the garage and begin to build the frame for my scarecrow and put my old clothes on it. I have to admit it looks like a decent facsimile of me. I even put my old straw gardening hat on its head.

As I place the scarecrow near the back fence, I notice that at least a hundred crows are roosting in the trees in the woods behind my fence. They are cawing to one another. Then one crow flies down and lands on the ground about five feet away from the bird feeder. He watches me with great interest. He doesn’t leave until I start walking away. I look at him and bow, and he bows back. I‘m certain it’s King Crow. He caws loudly, and I caw at him. I walk back to my house and then turn and wave at the crows.  He brought the ring back to me, and I gave him and his fellow crows a haven. It’s. No one will ever convince me of anything different.

The Day The Earth Stood Still Or So I Thought

2 Replies

I shoveled in my oatmeal as quickly as possible without choking. I was watching my mother’s parakeet Prettyboy eat his morning treat of lettuce. Afterward, he hopped out of his cage through the open door and flew onto the kitchen table. He walks across the table, knocking the forks and the knives onto the floor.

My mother pretends she’s mad. “Prettyboy stop that. Get back into your cage.”

I think she secretly enjoys his mealtime antics. 

“Susie and Karen, please eat your oatmeal.”

The oatmeal feels like a ton of bricks in my stomach. My mother believes that every child should start the day with something warm in their stomach that sticks to their ribs.

Still, it’s a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning, my favorite day of the week. I can get up as late as I want. Well not really, if I wasn’t up by nine AM, my mother would come into my bedroom to see if I was still breathing. It’s late spring, which means I only have about eight more weeks of school. Then summer will arrive. I hate school more then I hate vegetables, and that was considerable.

As soon as I finish my last spoonful, I jump up so violently from my chair that it falls over. My father starts yelling,” Susan, you are being a pain in the ass.”

“Susan, please remember your manners and asked to be excused.” My mother chimes in.

I start explaining to my father. Sorry, sorry it was an accident.” He keeps going on about how I did the same thing every day and never seemed to learn. I was pigheaded and stubborn that I would argue with the pope. “Sorry, Dad, I won’ do it again.”

I run out the kitchen door, slamming the screen door behind me. I can hear my father yelling after me, “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t slam the door.”

I was free now, free to go where I please and do what I want. I chose to wander over to Mrs. Collins’ yard and visit my friends who live in her cellar. But they’re allowed within the confines of the outside kennel to enjoy the good life out in their backyard.

There are about twenty to thirty cats, give or take a few. I know all their names and stop to pet them and exchange a few words with each one. They come rushing over to greet me. Each beautiful in their way. Some were black and white, some calico. Some had long tails that sway. Some had no tails at all. They’re my friends.

My best friend’s name is Strottles. He doesn’t live in the Collins’ cellar. He’s a wild cat. He had belonged to one of our neighbors, the Lombardi family, but he scratched up all their furniture and sprayed on the doors. So, they put him out of their house.

He survives on his wits and on food that people in the neighborhood put out for him. It wasn’t unheard of for him to kill and eat the occasional bird or mouse. Strottles is the biggest cat I have ever seen. His fur is orange, and mangy looking. He has scars and part of one ear missing. But to me, he was the most charming and handsome of them all. I love him.

As I crouch down in the grass petting the cats through the chicken wire, I see Strottles cruising through Mrs. Lombardi’s yard and heading in my direction. I call out to him, “Strottles, hi Strottles. How are you?”

He comes over to me slowly and bumps his head on my shoulder. I can hear and feel him purring. I start telling Strottles about my morning and how my father told me I was pigheaded. I told him how I was yelled at for knocking over my chair. He gazes at me with his enormous golden eyes and somehow conveys to me with his look that everything will be ok.

Strottles and I spend the morning investigating and saying hello to all the neighbors’ pets. Strottles is very tolerant of dogs and female cats, but he can’t abide other male cats.

In my room early in the morning, I have often been awakened by the sound of cats waling and screaming. When I look out my bedroom window, I see a whirling dervish as Strottles fights any male cat that dares to interlope in his territory. As far as I know, he remains the victor in all his battles. He wears his many scars and healing wounds as any great warrior would. I hear my mother calling me to come in for lunch from the kitchen door.

“Susie time for lunch, come home Susie, lunch time.”

“Strottles, I’ll see you later.”

He stares at me intently with his great orange eyes, and I stroke him from the top of his head to the end of his straggly, broken tail. As I run towards the side of my house, I take a last look at Strottles as he strolls away in the other direction. He seems in no great hurry to reach whatever his next destination might be.

As I open the kitchen door, I smell chicken noodle soup that’s steaming in a pot on the stove. My mother stands there in her housedress, covered by her everyday apron. She has a long line of safety pins hanging down the front of it. She claims that you never knew when you might need a safety pin, to pin up an errant hem, or replace a lost button.

“Hi, Susie.” She says with her beautiful smile. I’m making grilled cheese sandwiches, please go and wash your hands before you sit down.”

As I run into the bathroom, I hear my sister Karen, coming in through the front door.

“Hi, Mom, what’s for lunch?”

Then I close the bathroom door. As I finish my business in the bathroom, I hear a great commotion coming from the kitchen. My father is yelling, and my mother ‘s crying. I run into the kitchen to see what’s going on. I see my father at the kitchen door with a broom. He’s chasing what looks like the tail end of an orange cat. I have never seen my mother cry before. I feel my lower lip start trembling, and tears sprang to my eyes. My mother gives me a look that I had never seen in her eyes before. I know that something terrible has happened and somehow I‘m to blame.

My father comes back into the house, and his face carries an angry expression. I know that I was about to be on the receiving end of something terrible. “You and that stupid cat,” he spits at me, “look what you have done.” My sister looks at me, her mouth in a circle. Then everyone stares sadly up at Prettyboy’s now empty cage.

“Where is Prettyboy?” I beg as tears roll down my cheeks.

“That dammed cat of yours, he ran into the kitchen while your mother took out the garbage. He jumped up onto the kitchen table and he killed your mother’s bird.”

“Oh no, I sobbed, oh no, Strottles wouldn’t do that.” But I know in my heart he would. He’s always hungry and on the lookout for food.

My mother looks away from me. My father roughly grabs me by the arm and smacks me on my behind.

“Go down the cellar and stay down there and think about what you have done.” He pushes me through the door and closes it behind me. It seems I was down there a very long time. I cry and cry until my eyes are swollen shut. I hear my mother’s soft voice and feel her arms around me.

LOVEY

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Lovey is exhausted and anxious. She’s been cooped up in the hot, dirty van for almost two days. Her legs are restless; she’s so thirsty that she begins to tremble. She trumpets her fear, and discomfort for all to hear if anyone bothers to listen. She’s angry. She hasn’t felt anything for a long time, but she feels red-hot anger now. She rocks back and forth hitting the sides of the van so violently that the van sways and rocks with her.

The driver of the van yells, “Stop Lovey, stop” to no avail. He calls his boss on his cell phone. “You have to stop, so I can let Lovey out, or she’s going to cause herself and the van untold damage.” The owner agrees to stop in the next empty lot he sees. And stay for the night, take care of the animals, and let everyone rest before their next performance.

The last caravan pulls into the deserted parking lot well past midnight. Time and the sun have faded the painting of the bearded lady on the side of the van. But you can still clearly see her glamorous figure clad in a red, white and blue ballerina tutu. Her glorious red beard is there for all to admire.

They had driven almost six hundred miles in the last two days. Everyone in the Three Ringed Circus is extremely tired, hot and sweaty. It was getting harder and harder to find new venues. The public wants to see the glamour and amazing feats of courage and flying acrobats, doing death-defying acts. They want their animals wild, but safe, looking healthy and happy.

But they weren’t getting that from Three-Ring Circus. It’s on the last leg of a journey that began its’ history in the early 1950s. Most of the famous performers have retired or moved on, or just disappeared from sight altogether.

When Gaucho pulls open the sliding doors to the van, Lovey trumpets as loud as she can. The only thing keeping her in the van is the shackles on her ankles. Gaucho has the bullock in his hand and shows it to Lovey. Usually, this is enough to calm her down.

She knows from many years of experience that if it slaps against her sensitive skin, it will sting for a very long time and might well cut her. If the cut becomes infected the circus doesn’t have a veterinarian on staff. And certainly, the little towns that they frequent don’t have a wild animal vet. She would be a very sick elephant and might die from a simple injury.

The circus often only had outdated medications and no money to spend on the care that these animals need. In the wild elephants often walk up to fifty miles a day across the savanna and live as long as fifty years. Animals kept in circuses even the famous, moneyed ones lived an average of twelve years.

Gaucho steps back, he knows this animal has great power and weight behind her, but he’s never seen her like this. He has been her trainer for five years. He knows from talking to the other carnies that Lovey and has been with the circus for a long time.

And that at one time, she had a mate, named Ganesha a huge elephant from India. He had sickened and died before a large animal vet could be found. Lovey had been very attached to him and mourned his death for many years. He was told that she was never the same after his death.

She had refused to perform and sometimes refused to eat or drink. She has a big heart, and it had been broken by the loss of her mate. Elephants are herd animals, and she was here alone with no other elephants. She was near animals that would have been a threat to her if she were still living in the wild. Her life with the circus was unnatural and very stressful for her and all the other wild creatures that are captive here.

Gaucho walks over to the supply truck and pulls out a wagon that contains water. Luckily, they had filled all the containers on their last stop. He grabs a bucket and puts it in the wagon. He pulls down the ramp and hurriedly pulls the wagon down the ramp, and over to the terrified, and terrifying Lovey.

He carefully slides the bucket next to her and fills it with water. Lovey’s about to kick the bucket away then she realizes its water. She puts her trunk down into the bucket and sprays the water across her back and then again into the bucket and quenches her thirst.

She feels momentarily relieved and quiets. Gaucho slowly and carefully unchains her ankles. By this time many of the circus performers and all of the grunts are standing behind Gaucho. “Stay back, fools, get away from here while I take care of Lovey. Unless you want to be pummeled into the earth.”

Gaucho waits for a few moments then give Lovey the trunk-up signal. Lovey becomes enraged and begins trumpeting loudly and stamps her feet. There’s a look of fire in her eyes and it’s at that moment that Gaucho knows to get the hell out of the way and shouts.” Run, run.”

He follows his own good advice just in time, Lovey charges out of the van and begins running, running for her life. In her mind, she sees before her the golden savanna grasses being blown by the soft breeze and the cool water of the elephant water hole of her youth in the distance.

She’s determined to reach it at any cost. She will run down anything that tries to prevent her from arriving there. She’s saving her life. Her instinct for self-preservation kicks in and she runs full tilt, there’s no stopping her. Everyone who has been watching her now disappears into the wind, not wanting to be trampled by this behemoth that has lost her mind.

Someone has called the coffer and he arrives just in time to see the elephant charging his jeep. He quickly reaches behind him to get his rifle and aims it at her head and pulls the trigger, and then again for good measure. Lovey keeps moving momentarily before the message gets to her brain that she’s dead. And then she drops to the ground, finally free, free to travel the land of her birth, among her tribe. She sees her beloved Ganesha, she feels love fill her huge heart and then peace.