Conversation with My Wife (99)
Meet Aunt Whitesox, Skippy the Wonder Squirrel, Mr. & Mrs. Cardinal, and Henrietta the flutter-brained robin
Deb & I sitting at the table eating breakfast one morning.
DEB: Honey! Honey! Aunt Whitesox is back!
Aunt Whitesox is a feral neighborhood cat.
About four years ago, there appeared on our back deck a momma cat with four kits. And another adult cat. The momma cat was obviously the mother of the four kittens, since they tended to orbit around her and tried to mob her when she lay down (“Lunch!”). The other adult was similar in appearance to momma, but she acted differently. More like the responsible adult of the group.
Anybody had experience with the single friend of a new mother, the one who has never had kids but somehow has all the answers? Yeah, that was Aunt Whitesox. (Deb dubbed her that because of her four white feet.) She was the one who went back to round up the stray kitten. The one who sounded the alarm when we came out on to the deck. The one who kept the kittens from getting close to us (good thing, or their cuteness superpower would have overwhelmed my wife and we’d have ended up adopting — and Deb’s a dog person!).
The cat family would visit every so often over that summer. The kits would play on the steps, or play peekaboo through the railing, or nap in the sun and be startled when we showed up. One Sunday Deb was napping on the deck, woke up, and there was a small heap of kittens in the corner. Aunt Whitesox had not done a proper sweep for humans beforehand, but THAT omission was corrected promptly.
The years following saw no more kittens, but Aunt Whitesox would still prowl through occasionally. She was very miffed when we replaced the deck with the porch (or that may just have been her normal expression).
ME: (after getting picture of cat) I can’t believe she still comes back here! At least before, they could shelter under the deck.
DEB: I just worry about the birds when she’s around.
We have birds. That’s intentional, we put out suet cakes and loose seed. Originally we (okay, me) also had a war going with the squirrels, leading to elaborate attempts to keep them away from the seed. My arch nemesis was Skippy the Wonder Squirrel; Skippy proved able to jump gaps that were supposed to be unjumpable, climb poles sprayed with WD40, and gnaw his way into “unchewable” feeders (we only buy metal feeders now). Skippy had a casual flair, such as when I caught him hanging upside from a limb to get into a feeder with auto-closing doors; I swear he gave me a “Dude, nice try, totally useless” look when I walked out to confront him. He got around another self-closing feeder by jumping on it… jumping off… jumping on… and each time the doors slammed shut and more seed fell to the ground to be eaten.
I devised electrical defense systems. Deb overruled me. “Why would I want to smell electrocuted squirrel when I come out in the morning…?”
DEB: Mr. and Mrs. C are here.
We have a cardinal pair, which Deb names Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal. Logically, they can’t be the same pair all these years, but we never have more than one couple at a time; maybe it’s a franchise thing? One year they had an adolescent with them, who played “baby budgie” every chance, meaning it fluttered its wings, held its head near the ground, and lifted its beak up like a baby bird would — and the adults (parents?) would give it seeds. Hell, other species of birds would feed it. Apparently the “feed the young” instinct is strong (do birds have basements? Just curious). But this year, no youngsters (too early), but every so often Mr. C hops over to Mrs. C and feeds her a seed. No baby bird behavior on her part, he apparently does it spontaneously.
DEB: Awww! They’re so cute when they do that!
Also, for what it’s worth, similar actions between a male and female human, using, say, a piece of breakfast cereal when he leans over to smooch, do not go over as well.
DEB: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?
ME: Fiber One cereal?
DEB: SERIOUSLY?!
Maybe it’s the surprise thing that spoils it? Hold on a second… Nope, alerting the recipient beforehand does NOT make a difference. Well, this is why we try these things.
We also have at least one robin each year whose purpose in life seems to be qualifying for the Darwin Awards. Henrietta builds nests perfectly suited for a two-forked branch… on a branch without a fork. The nest falls down at some point, oddly enough.
Or she hides the nest is a thickly-leafed tree where no one will find it, then returns to it, mouth full of nesting material, flies into the tree at full speed, and proceeds to make more noise than a rock falling through the branches. Every time she flies back. Every. Time. Or she builds a nest that it awesomely constructed… at waist height. Did I mention the cats? The eggs hatched, the chicks peeped, and not long after the nest was totally empty. <sigh>
DEB: I like our backyard creatures, honey! Some are a little odd, but they suit us.
Copyright © 2018 by Jack Herlocker. All rights reserved.
