Nature Calls

I keep intending to finish and polish 2 other pieces I’ve been working on and intending to post, but life and nature keep getting in the way, so I’ll go with a rambling outpouring of present and near past events for your reading pleasure.

I was urged out of bed this morning by Richard calling from the upstairs bathroom, “There’s a big coyote on our hill.” I got up and joined him and, sure enough, there he or she was at the top of our rise in back, silhouetted through the dusting of snow coming down (yes, the 2nd day of Spring and snow. And after a week of a Spring weather tease and the beginning ruts of mud season.) The coyote was burrowing for something, then darting back and forth to several locations, tracing rodent tremors. We got the binoculars for a closer look and placing them up to my eyes, the large silhouette of the coyote transmogrified into that of a large, bushed out fox! I dropped the binoculars to my chest and lifted them to my eyes several times not believing the transformation, but I couldn't argue with the clear evidence - the coyote had turned into a fox. There’s magic in these hills. Richard and I stood mesmerized by his hunting habits, passing the binoculars back and forth between us. The fox would dig tenaciously, then pounce up and down, his spine curving up like a yoga exercise. Then, successful at flushing out his quarry, he’d dash about for a few quick seconds, catch it, and then stop still and chew in place. A pause of post-prandial delight and then right back to digging. There must be more! The chicks at our feet remained indifferent, but, of course, they couldn’t see the goings on, being tiny and squat and … at our feet on the floor.

Chick update. The “chicks at our feet” now in a large, warmed plastic container in our upstairs bathroom include the “injured one” and a friendly Wyandot to keep its company. No, Wyandot is not a member of a local native American tribe, but another breed of chick that Richard has here in the house. The “injured one” or Black Australorp (remember?) had a convalescent period with more and more friends of various breeds- Speckled Sussex, Buff Orpingtons, Wyandots, etc - allowed visiting priviliges until we felt it was time to reintroduce her back into the larger flock. This larger flock, by the way, has been moved from the cellar to our guest room on the main floor to offer them sunlight and get them away from the damp and cool of the lower depths. This move has given the guest room a new tangy scent, but pishky-poshky.

The reinclusion of the Australorp went very well … for about 5 minutes. Recidivism set in and after the initial “hi, how are ya, where’ve you been?” the Silver Wyondots (Another breed, not to be mistaken for the nicer more docile plain ole Wyandot) lay into her, roughing her up, and getting her hurt leg in a beak hold, the same beak hold that worked so well before. Police action was called for and we quickly separated them again. The nice Wyandot was sent in to buddy system and all was made right with the world once again. Except that ...

Richard’s geese eggs haven’t arrived yet and we’re reaching the 14 day limit. You pass 2 weeks and there's very little chance that the eggs will hatch. The eggs are insured though which is a good development. But this morning, another imbroglio set in. A few moments after the coyote/fox switcheroo and I walked into the kitchen where Richard sat disgruntled in front of his laptop.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
“The eggs.”
Of course, I thought he meant the goose egg shipment and being evolved and kindhearted and rising above any old feeling that Richard is slowly, but surely becoming immersed in a chicken/goose/turkey-raising obsession, I lent some spiritual support. ‘Oh, that must be frustrating.’
“I don’t mean the goose eggs. This is the shipment of pure-bred Wyandots from a woman in California.”
‘Oh.’ Wyandot eggs? News to me. I squelched questions that began fireworking through my mind and listened to Richard get out his frustration. Something about Paypal and an egg lady not reading one of his messages in time and the eggs being shipped to his parents in Arizona rather than here. Soon, together we figured out that there may be no mistaken address and that the Wyandot eggs may very well be en route safely and securely to Vermont as intended. The storm passed and Richard’s mood eased, he uttered, “Maybe there’s no problem after all; I don’t know.” I suggested that line would make a great title for his autobiography.

Oh, I forgot! Right in the midst of the goose egg/Wyandot egg discussion, Richard gave out a “What’s that up on the hill, now?!” He was looking past me out the back kitchen window up to the top of the hill where the fox had been just a short while before and there was yet another animal there now. We ran for our binoculars and took lookout stations at 2 different windows lo and behold we spotted our first Fishercat!! This has been a mysterious, much maligned, mysterious creature, spoken of, but seldom seen, that lurks in the woods around here. It’s been decribed as a member of the stoat and mink family, though larger, with huge, sharp teeth. Cats and small dogs fall prey to these storied creatures, and I'm pretty sure that one of those was our own “Lucy”, an orange cat that made the trip with us cross-country from Los Angeles in a 10’ Budget Rental truck several summers back. She disappeared one day and it was either a fisher cat or a coyote or an owl. I loved Lucy and mourned her passing, but I'm sure its nature's payback for all the birds she nabbed out of nests, out of the air (hummingbirds!) and the rats and mice whose necks she'd snap and then come lay at my feet as love offerings.

Binoculars out again, Richard and I peered to the top of the hill. My God it was big. Like an otter. Or a bear cub. From a distance, it looked a bit cute and cuddly. Still I tried to imagine it cornered with teeth bared, maybe dripping saliva like “Alien”, and I remembered that this may have been one of Lucy’s last sights and the “cute and cuddly” monicker flew from my mind’s thesauras. I don’t know if it could feel us watching and talking about her/him, but something startled it and off it went toward the woods behind Royce’s. Wildlife. Wild life. What a morning!

I just stopped in the bathroom upstairs and where there had been 2 chicks earlier this morning, there now were 3. They’re multiplying! This is a spooky place: coyotes turning into foxes, then into fisher cats; chicks multiplying before your eyes. Scary. I sit on the toilet Rodin-like and peer in at those 3 little chicks going about their little chick lives. Not much to it, just eating and drinking and pooping and pluming their feathers and scrapping around, taking in their world, pecking playfully at one another. It's calming watching them wander around in the red glow of their heat lamp (a similar light beams out from the front windows of our guest room at night as if something infernal were going on inside). Sometimes they do take notice of me and stand and look out through the plastic. Who knows, maybe they're having the same thoughts of me as I have of them (“Isn’t he calming? I love looking at him sitting there.”) They are sort of silly and cute. Sometimes I walk in and they're completely konked out. Sacked out, still, smashed to the floor of their container as if they’ve just crashed from an all nighter. This whole thing is starting to feel like something between a state fair and a science experiment, something having to do with chicken genetics, but for now, they've got me wound around their little ... what do you call that on a chicken? Talon? I'm sure Richard knows.

Okay, that’s it. I have nothing else to say right now. Richard and I are off to Montpelier for a bite at the culinary institute before taking in a few flicks at the Green Mountain Film Festival. We’ll leave the chicks and cats (fisher and otherwise) and coyotes and foxes to fend for themselves for awhile. I’m sure all will be well.