Oh Cap'n, My Cap'n!

The tragic tale of the missing Cosmos took a cosmic turn. During the doomed search and rescue phase, we received several phone calls about a black cat nearby at this neighbor's or that's. Hearts ablaze with hope, we'd rush to the scene only to discover a black kitten, three years too young, eyes of gold not green, and a round face, not triangular.  The shoulders of our thoughtful would-be-hero neighbors would sag and we would shuffle back to our grief-stricken home, our laps still empty. We would marvel at the chutzpah of anyone to let their 3 month old roam these hills alone, but what could we do about that? Although the kitty was adorable and terrified, I found it annoying to have my heart jerked around.

Later, I spotted it in our field, larger now, and sized like Cosmos. Shocked, I leaped over acres of weed-hurdles yelling, "Cosmos!? Cosmos?! Really?! It's you?!" But no, it was only the startled interloper doppelganger. I gave him a few pets and shuffled on back home.

The cat, impressed with his reception on our property, came back a few days later. I again flipped out that a miracle had occurred, hallelujah! Cosmos had pried himself from the coyote's cache and returned home! Slaughter the fatted calf! Roast the lambs! The boy has returned! But no...

The cat began hanging out in our yard in earnest. Coyote's were close by throughout that week. I saw the kitty crouched in the ditch as coyote's howled. I spotted the kitty sleeping half way up the Russian Pine outside my kitchen window, while coyote's howled. So one night, we put him in the car and drove door to door looking for his owners.

They have the newest and fanciest house in the neighborhood, a gable-plex behemoth with an importantly enormous wood door and a workshop the size of Texas, all in tasteful gray. I know them. The woman is a wonderful teacher at one of the variety of schools we've tried (until settling contentedly where we are now). Based on the grandeur of her home, I assume her work as a teacher is hobby-based employment. I was primed to forgive her for her sloppy cat-stewardship. I wanted, as I always do, for my admiration of this person to remain in tact. That was my primary goal here. And so I was unexpectedly crushed beneath the icky flow of disappointing information that she puked up. Here's the sampler: They've lived there for two years already now, can it be? and they've gone through 6?7? maybe more? cats. So hard to keep track of them all! The longest one was a year. The neighbors can't seem to spay or neuter in a timely manner so a bushel of kitties are always available, a never ending supply, an utterly renewable resource here for our convenience. So handy. The kitties, dirty overflow kitties, are not allowed inside anywhere. Is that our cat? Probably. Yeah. Oh well, life in the country! Haha! Am I right?!

Noting my slack jaw, she rolled her eyes at me, "Oh, you're the," she paused here and I thought or imagined or actually heard the ghost of the word "idiot" seep off into the ether before she continued, "who put up the posters."

I came from this culture, but it is not mine.

"Yep, that's me. We care about our pets."

What about "domestic cat" escapes people? Inherent in the term is the human bred obligation to care for them, at least somewhat, with food and some kind of shelter, any kind of shelter. We aren't fanatics here - no rhinestone tags and inside-only owners are we. But they are here by human will and we owe them at least the basic necessities.

Also, I'm not going to out and out blame her for the disappearance of Cosmos, but she certainly made it clear to the coyotes where they could find a hot meal. She basically erected a neon "OPEN" sign over our neighborhood: dishing up morsels of kitty round the clock! Come and get it!

We left the cat in their "care," and went on our stunned way, asking ourselves, "Did she really say that?" "Did you hear her say that too?"

As the song goes, the cat came back the very next day. After another week of watching the terrified thing (that looked cruelly identical to the cat our laps were still mourning, except for the balls on his back side) skulk around our yard, we finally set him up in the garage. And a week later, when our night temperatures plunged to single digits, and upon the ethical and biological advice of our veterinarian, we brought him inside, to the basement, just for one night, because I had no intention of disposing of a little frozen kitty carcass.

And then the next night. And the next. And the next.

I asked around about the ethics of this and no one raised any red flags. Cats are known for choosing their homes. And Cap'n Jack's former owners didn't uphold even the most rudimentary of ownership duties. Also, the cat's original property is separated by ours, at the corners, by only 50 feet. He could have gone home any time. He still can.

Cap'n Jack destroying Coyote's Lego Black Pearl

He now refuses to leave the house. When I make him, he hoovers up the mice at a rate of 2 per every half hour. Cosmos never did that. His purr is more songbird chirp and I like to imagine it's due to a  Romulus-n-Remus-type-experience, but with birds instead of wolves and thus being socialized by the finches in the pines. King Louis (apparently our cats all come with ostentatious titles. No Private Jack. No Serf Louis. Not in this house) is adjusting perfectly. Cap'n Jack is much more likely to fulfill behavior expectations than Cosmos ever was. When we told him to not scratch the furniture, he listened. Don't get up on the counters. Okay, then, thanks for letting me know. The gratitude and humility and constant, deep level understanding that things could have gone very differently, are rich in rescued animals.

Cap'n Jack still indulges in a few insecurity-based activities like licking us, but the vet expects he'll get over it soon enough, once he realizes he's home for good.  And we've marked him as ours now, getting him neutered and vaccinated. Soon, he should get the idea that he's secure here, as secure as a cat can be.

I like to think that Cap'n Jack had a moment of recognition when he experienced my confused and effusive welcomings, when I thought I was recognizing Cosmos. He knew, as soon as he saw it, that that was what he was looking for, what he wanted, what he deserved. He deserved love. And that was the first thing he got here. Food and shelter too, but first came love, however mistaken it was.

Perhaps Cap'n Jack was destined for some kind of coyote, but he lucked out with the kid kind here.

Coyote: Christmas at the Reserve

Cap'n Jack also knew that if he stayed "where" he was, which was nowhere, which was just outside some place safe, he would die. And I think we all feel that way when it's time to grow: this situation, the one I was handed, it no longer works for me and if nothing changes, I will die. And so he went in search of safety and life and it was only 1/4 mile away and it was ready for him. Safety had an opening for a black-cat right when he needed it.

I like to imagine that he'd read the signs around the neighborhood. I can almost see him knocking on our door, cap in hand, face smudged with dirt like an Oliver orphan, "Ma'am, I heard you be lookin' for a black cat. I mayn't be the cat youz lookin' for, xactly, but I do fit the description. Might you give me a chance to try my hand at bein' your black cat?"

Blue: Christmas at the Reserve

Such an unusual wrinkle to our tale of losing Cosmos, it seems magical. Perhaps he's our very own familiar. Maybe he's a symbol of Huck and my anarcho-syndicalist past together. Or maybe, as is the Scottish superstition, he's a symbol of coming prosperity. Or perhaps he's the Cat Sith, as he arrived on our doorstep near Samhain. Ooh, or maybe one of Freya's lucky black cats, destined to pull her chariot. Or, more prosaically and likely, just an unloved stray-ish looking for a sucker or someone infected with the cat-love parasite Toxoplasma gondii. But even Blue, uber-atheist and uber-rationalist, can't resist the idea that there is some mystical element to this, musing,"It almost seems like Cosmos sent him to us. Almost." Whatever it is, despite not quite feeling ready to open my heart again to a cat, he feels like a blessing, like a gift from the cosmos.

Chuck and the French Bite

I’ve always been terrified of forgetting, of the oblivion every moment threatens to slide into as soon as it passes. My TBI is a cosmic joke, poking at my hornet's-nest-fear of failed memory. I don’t know why I've always worried about this (scribbling 4 apple boxes worth of journals throughout the years), as the destiny of each moment and memory is and must be oblivion, eventual, certain, and permanent erasure. I’m sure I’m not on the cusp my own Alzheimer’s, although my head injury dramatically increases its eventuality. Lately, I remember things and I worry that it will be the last time I see them. The TBI's oblivion now creeps into my present moment and erases things before I notice they ever existed. But the things I do remember are clear and I tend to remember what I do very precisely.  I’ve read that what we remember has emotional markers on it, a feeling-scent that at the time alerted us to its importance, alerting our inner secretary to file this one, not shred. What you remember can tell you quite a bit about who you are, what you value, and what you fear. And I feel terrible when others remember what I don’t, like my mind has implied to the world that it wasn’t important to me. To a schmuck like you, maybe. But to a grand poobah like me, nope.

In my favorite tree

I posted to Facebook a 1992 photo of me and a friend from Bellingham who came all the way to South Carolina to visit me. I remember that I gave her a chitenge from Malawi that I had apparently promised to someone else (but I’d forgotten that) and the someone-else was angry that she hadn’t received it.  I eventually felt okay about the genuine mistake because Keri was the only person to visit me in exile … er South Carolina, and she deserved the blue and green swath of cloth reward.  Keri remembered making bead earrings while listening to Ella Fitzgerald. I do not remember that, and I'm sad about it. I’m certain we did that however, both things were staples of my high school existence.

Heading out on my own, will I get lost?

Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong were the first two non-Christian-music artists' tapes I bought (at Avalon Records in Bellingham at the corner of Magnolia and Railroad), and I listened to them constantly and likely remember every word. These tapes were joined by two others: Sinead O’Connor’s The Lion and The Cobra (is she wearing baby pj’s on her butt in this video?) which my brother gave me. “I think you’d really be into this new singer” he said, handing me what was likely a hot tape that had likely come from one of the many car stereos of mysterious origin that were filling up his closet during his years of experimentation with exactly which illegal career he was best suited for. I also had procured the Indigo Girls debut at that point, thus rounding out my formative, oddly lesbian-esc collection of music. When I was home alone, I put on Sinead for the first time and I danced through the tape twice. 

I recently remembered this because I am in need of exercise and the outdoors is shutting down as a viable source, but the gyms are too loud.  So one evening Coyote was listening to “Hearts of Space” while I was beginning to remember that music is the human experience that moves me most deeply. Ironically it is one that I have no natural ability for, so I suppose part of its allure is that it is sort of my personal forbidden-fruit. And I began to dance, making sure the curtains were all closed, rolling up the carpet, staying safe in my sequins-ed shell/shawl. I danced my unclassifiable mix of ballet, belly, swing and ska until I was worn out, about 15 whole minutes. And the next day I was sore and that’s the indication there’s work to be done. So I’ve been dancing to every type of music (except country, musicals and Christian rock – the ménage trois of ear-torture) as daily as possible for my allotted 15 minutes and it makes me sore and happy down to my toes and the buzz lasts all day.

I was 13 and had just begun the terrible, horrible no-good high school youth group at our church. I was thrilled to be old enough-- FINALLY!-- to join, only to quickly realize it was a raunchy group of assholes and our leader was the Terrible Asshole in Chief (oh god… I have stories-- STORIES! about this regrettable group.)  So much of our childhood is wasted on looking forward to things that turn out to be, at best, underwhelming but more often, nightmarish. But who wants to tell their bright eyed child THAT? Better to let life’s letdowns come naturally, at their own pace.

After only a few summer weeks of Wednesday nights in the church’s double wide (the former “parsonage” my family had once lived in, since converted into Sunday school classrooms), I left early for my long, dark walk home, across the street.  On that warm summer night, moments before my Freshman year, a cute high school Senior with freckles and a bowl cut followed me out to the gravel parking lot.  I had made it as far as the plum tree when he called my name from the back porch. I turned. "Wait up!" He jumped over the railing and ran towards me, crackling across the gravel. When he arrived by my bewildered side, he wordlessly placed his hand behind my neck, tilted my head towards him and kissed me on my lips. It was my first kiss. It could not have been more romantic.  

I want to always remember the moon, full and shining through the leaves of the plum tree. The plum tree was likely the one from which my baby sister once picked up a black slug, assuming it was a plum, and ate it at the table with our elderly visitor; a black slime dripped, un-noticed for half an hour, from her baby mouth. It was the tree beneath which I was bounced (I'd been told) from an overly-enthusiastic wagon-ride provided for me by my big brother, always taking me out for adventures… and stitches. But those were two different trees, weren’t they? Maybe I was kissed beneath the ash tree, full of radiant red berries, or maybe that tree was at the other house.  So it was a tree, the moon was dappling our shoulders with its light. But it wasn’t the moon, I now realize, it was the sole streetlight in the church parking lot; it did not shine silver but sodium vapor yellow.  At any rate, Chuck would become my boyfriend. And I danced all the way home.

Chuck rode a motorcycle and I loved climbing on the back, sliding my hands up beneath his shirt, clinging to him around the curves of our country roads. He always let me wear the helmet. Later he got a car with windows that steamed up nicely for added privacy.

I was babysitting, my usual nanny job, so I think it was summer time yet… maybe. Yes, the last day of summer vacation.  The kids had gone to the neighbor’s but I was still obligated to stay, watching MTV, the forbidden fruit of television.  I called my new boyfriend and he happened to be at a friend’s house across the street, and we could see no reason why he shouldn’t cross the street.  And suddenly we were making out on their couch and then in their kitchen.  And, this must have been early on in our courtship, because he tried on this day, my first French kiss.

I spit out his tongue, “What the hell was that?!”

“French kissing.”

“French kissing is disgusting!”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“How will I do that if I’m never doing it again?”

“It’s the main part of kissing. You need to learn how to do it.”

“Nope. Not going to happen. Don’t try it again.” That was clear, right? I’d made myself clear, I believe.

But three seconds later, there’s a goddamn tongue in my mouth!

So I bit down, hard! And I held it. He was screaming.  I finally let go.

“What the hell wath that!?” He lisped.

“I told you I didn’t want to do it. And I meant it.”

Oh, but I didn’t mean it for long. Soon we were Frenching everywhere, at school against the lockers, at basketball games, and on the short walks home from Youth Group.

Slavin, alone for the first time in 2 years

My parents did not like this boy: “What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he date a woman his own age?!” my dad thundered. I think I understand what he meant, but an insecure 13/14 year old only heard that anyone who dated me would have to have something wrong with them. My brother, who was more Chuck’s age, didn’t like our dating either and he made him a pariah of the illegal-activity set. 

My parents escalated from insulting him to outright forbidding me to date him.  And so I did not date him where they could watch. I went to basketball games with my friends, but spent the time steaming up his car. My parents went to a family gathering, while I stayed home in sickness or homework and Chuck would wait down the road until he saw their car leave. We would make out on the living room floor and listen to Sinead O’Connor. (I am listening to this song with a cat on my lap and see now that it is the ultimate house cat song...I'm envisioning a video of this song with alluring cats!)  Until one day my parents doubled back to retrieve some forgotten item: oh those forgotten items! the bane of every sneaker! And I was never allowed to stay home alone again. The more upset they became, the more attractive Chuck got, my savior from these nutso's, my motorcycle get-away driver.

I was not head-over-heels for Chuck, really. He was just so exciting and forbidden. But after the excitement of the “firsts” wore off, he was just kind of a jerk, kind of nice too.  I was on the fence. My friend convinced me one evening to finally break it off. So I did. Chuck, surprisingly unruffled, sweetly asked if I would need to change the name of my cat, Charlie.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you named him after me.”

“Oh god no. He’s named after Charlie Chaplin.” I realized then that I was making a good choice. "Who names a cat after their freshman boyfriend?"

Chuck and my friend showed up the next day at school as an item. It was a terrible thing for her to do (which she apologized for recently) but I was not too upset. I knew we’d break up eventually as I was only 14 and had always known I wouldn’t be marrying the guy I dated at 14. No, I was saving those absurd, unrealistic expectations for when I was 15!

Blue loves the story of the first French kiss. She asks for it again and again. Now, she is my age, then. And she is very different from me, more secure, more level headed and practical. Better, in every way, I often marvel. But who knows what she's got up her sleeves. Only time will tell (and then forget.)

Blue's Totoro pumpkin

Whatever happened to Chuck, we might ask. Chuck joined the army a few months later, had two kids and committed suicide at 28. I am the sole proprietor of these utterly cherishable memories. And now I’m not.

A Familiar Memorial

Fresh off a Two Hour nap, I attended a 40th Birthday Party for a friend recently. I felt myself as myself in perfect clarity.  These moments come now and again, more frequently.  The fog and strain of just figuring out what is going on subsides for a minute, and my essential self beams out, sometimes with a clarity and power that I have never known before.  It was a wonderful party and I was fully capable of enjoying it.

Sunflower stamens

But it was stressful to get there, to the party.  Coyote would not co-operate unless he could bring his new laptop, recently purchased with his own stash of birthday money.  I was pretty sure there'd be a surging sea of children threatening to overwhelm and drown everything else out and a computer would just get smashed, or lost, or forgotten.  It was stressful.  He trampled my last nerve.

It was just before equinox, and the days are shorter now than they have been for 6 months. After 38 full years here on this planet, the shift still catches me off guard. Our giant old orange cat, King Louis, was on the door step as we all stampeded out of the house, fuming and fussing, that night. I didn't know how long I'd last at the party (3 hrs!!), and I couldn't remember when it got dark, so I shooed him in.  He's old and slow, and would have been vulnerable to coyotes, an entree served on a silver platter with fork and knife and napkin.  I didn't see Blue's cat, small and black and young and quick -Cosmos- anywhere, but we'd only be gone a little while and I couldn't think through the chaos of leaving that night. He'd handle that okay, right?  We'd left him out past dark several times, even when we've been home, just because we forgot to bring him in.

King Louis was a shelter rescue who's been with us longer than Coyote.  We walked into the shelter and he rolled over the second he saw us and let us pet his tummy. We knew that was our cat instantly.  Impossibly huge, not fat, just enormous, he's elicited oohs and ahhs and shock from all visitors, usually like this, "Oh my god! Look how huge that cat is!"  Louis has always loved kids and has attended every birthday party my kids have had.  No skiddish kitty under the bed is he. He's a wise old cat too.  Up until a year or so ago, he would pop outside for five minutes and come back with an expertly disemboweled mouse or gofer. He's not hunted in some time now. Six years ago, when we move to Wenatchee, he went missing for three weeks.  We were sure he was dead, but then he showed up on the other side of town, skinny and confused, but alive and ready to be rehabilitated into our family.  But he's old, he's 15 or so now, and has renal failure.

And when Blue said she wanted a kitty for Christmas three years ago we figured that would be good timing. The new cat could learn all of the old cat tricks from Louis.  And we'd have someone to cuddle with when Louis kicks the bucket.  But that is not to be.

Chillin' on the clean laundry on the airhockey/laundry table

We all feel sad that we missed King Louis's obviously completely adorable kitten years.  And so Blue was set on a kitten.  After checking out every damn shelter, all kitten-less that Christmas, we finally went to a store.  It was full of kittens that they'd procured from all the shelters to keep their Christmas stock able to meet demand. The only requirements we gave Blue were that the kitten not be bat shit crazy.  She picked a calm black one and we were off.

He was adorable and way crazier than he first seemed.  He kept us up all night needing pets and attention.  He scratch every basket in the house to smithereens, despite having a centrally located scratching post.  He ruined the front door, despite the spray bottle squirts.  He did not care a whit about learning from the old wise cat.  He played with the mice instead of crushing their skulls.  He'd stand at the top of the stairs and bat at you as you walked down, pretending to be a panther in a tree.  We turned that into high-fives  And, tellingly, when we opened the door to the great outdoors, King Louis stands there and sniffs and if anything smells amiss, if there is any sign of trouble in the air, he turns around and stays in. Cosmos careened straight out the door with his devil-may-care attitude. And yet we adored him. So cuddly and small and perfect.

We couldn't find him that night after the party.  We yelled and searched. He'd been gone overnight a time or two before.  And Blue was confident he'd be on our porch in the morning.  He wasn't.

I think we've clarified here that I mostly hate people. I hate talking to strangers. I hate it all since my head injury.  But I've called every neighbor I have a number for. I've even done internet searching for neighbors I don't have numbers for. I have not felt self conscious or nervous at all about bothering and indeed annoying the crap out of my neighbors.  CHECK YOUR BARNS! Did you check your shed, your garage? Did you check yet? I've posted signs on every newspaper and mail box for a mile.  I've talked to neighbors I've never met before.  I've approached other recluses and they were nice and we chatted for 45 minutes.  I careened my car into someone's gravel driveway, spewing gravel everywhere, to catch her. I have no idea what has come over me, but I think it has to do with my head injury and the sense of power and entitlement I now feel to be me, to advocate for what I want, to be annoying if need be. What do I care what you think of me? There is no judge, no jury and nothing hangs in the balance, in reality, if my neighbors find it annoying.  And imagine my surprise that none of them seem annoyed! Many have even checked back in with me and seem to care and understand! Apparently it is normal to do whatever you can think up to do to find your beloved cat. I can't think what I've been so afraid of.

I am also here, canvassing the neighborhood, to bring some healing to my own trauma, I think.  My mother never understood my love for my nervous cocker spaniel, Lady, and my tuxedo cat, Charlie Chaplin (I was a huge fan of Chaplin's work and his style, wearing a bowler hat for much of 8th grade. I'm still a fan, finding more to love about him). When I was 15, my mother brought them both to the pound, not a no-kill shelter, where they'd get a few days reprieve among the masses of other discarded cats and dogs. I discovered this loss, I don't know how many days later, when I went to eat my breakfast on the front porch and no one came to lick my bowl. I asked my mother if she'd seen my cat and dog and she became very uncomfortable and said, "Well..."  She didn't like them, one had fleas, and we might move in a few months. I loved them, but that didn't matter to her, she couldn't hear that, believe that. She was a farm girl and cats were like rats to her.

8th Grade Graduation: found a dress to accommodate my bowler hat

A year and half ago some family members were going through old memorabilia and they found what was described to me as the most hilarious note from me to my mother, so funny, I just HAD to read it. In it I expressed my pain about her taking my pets to the pound.  It's clear that my mother was angry at me for being in a foul mood about it, and so I was explaining to her that without my pets to relieve my stress and sadness (I even cited pages from my health text book), it was unlikely I'd be pulling out of this funk any time soon.  So funny, right? the emotions of a bereft15 year old, hilarious stuff. I actually had to explain to them that it wasn't funny.  I'd somehow managed to nearly forget about the incident, to make up excuses about why it was okay, or I deserved it, or whatever, and move on with my life.  But this note brought it all back.  My mother apologized recently, nearly 20 years later; she says she has no idea what she could have possibly been thinking. But any time the loss of a pet occurs, I will be reminded of this. Apologies have been made and accepted, but it will always have happened. It will never not hurt when I talk about it.  It hurts to lose my pets, all pets, always. And it hurts to have been betrayed by someone I was hardwired to trust. And my guess is that this hunt for Cosmos is a bit about saying to the world and myself: hey! emotions are real, our relationships with our pets are real, and teen girls are real people who deserve respect and care.  It's about finding the cat, yes, but it's also about sending a message to my daughter and my wounded "inner teen" (is that a thing?) that we matter.

The kids were in the car when I pulled into old Marylou's drive way.  She was out sprinkling seeds for the quail (a.k.a. coyote bait) and I asked her if she'd seen our little black cat.  She has a black cat too, but she hadn't seen ours. She then launched in to an accounting of all the cats she's had that coyotes have taken, some right under her nose in broad daylight. Ixnay on the Oyotecays!!  Blue was right next to me, hearing all the gory tales. We are trying to hope that is not what happened.  The visual imagination is terrifying. Coyote began to wander out loud what Cosmos felt when the coyotes tore his leg off. (He was immediately hushed. He's 10 and it was no innocent wondering.) No, not to our kitty, that didn't happen to him. But Marylou persisted: once, someone driving by scared the coyote away.  And they brought the mangled, but living cat to her.  She assured them she was on the way to the vet and the good citified Samaritans left.  She took that cat out back and shot it. She eyed me, waiting for a reaction, for me, a relative newcomer to the country, to recoil. I would not give her the satisfaction so I said, "Yep, I grew up with shootin' kitties!"  It came out wrong, but had some truth to it. We had only boy cats that my parents never neutered.  Neutering was for chumps, despite the fact that Bob Barker reminded us how awesome it was after every Price Is Right, a popular show in our household.  Bob definitely got to me, but my parents remained impervious to his pleas. These cats, outside cats, disappeared every few years. We loved them, but they were accessories (By contrast, Charlie Chaplin was a neutered cat given to me, full grown.  He slept in my bed.)

Charlie Chaplin himself!

Once, a neighbor's pregnant cat made it's birthing bed in our basement.  At 7 I watched her poop out what looked like slimy mice and I thought it meant something was wrong with her digestive tract and was confused as to why I was pulled from the bathtub to watch.  One of her kittens found warmth and comfort in the car fan and had to be shot. I did not get the sense that my father enjoyed that activity at all.  But that is what I meant by "I grew up with shooting kitties!"  I meant that I knew that had to be done some times.

I disappointed her with my un-phased-ness.  And she persisted. The next time she saw that coyote coming up on another cat, she "went an' got my gu-un, and that sucker took off, the second he saw me with my gu-un."  Well, I wasn't sure I could take many more of these tales, so we skedaddled fast. And Blue says, "I forget some times how out in the country we live.  Gu-un.  She said 'Gu-un'!"

Turns out every neighbor has a tale or two of kitty to coyote loss.  It seems it's a right of passage here.
I told Coyote that if Cosmos isn't back by Sunday, I'm going to have to change his name.  But he loves his name, so I can't.

Slavin Reserve again!

Why not a chicken? I have five and I am completely unattached to them.  Sure, I love the fresh eggs, but they themselves are nothing to me. I'm just using them. I even have two black ones, if black was what that little fucker was looking for.  Please, eat my chickens! Half of them are too old to lay anyway and I don't know what to do with them. Eat them, please, it would be my pleasure.  But leave my kitties alone.

When do you grieve a missing cat? At what point do you call it? Why cry if that cat is going to come back in three weeks? But cry we will. And now the internet is just one big trigger-warning and is ruined for me now; just too many cute kitties. We miss him so much. I wake up at night and check the doors, not to see if they're locked, but to see if there's a little adorable black cat just outside them, needing shelter and food and water and pets.

The other night, some sound woke me up at 2am or so, and I wondered if it was little Cosmos, so I went to the door.  Something compelled me to step outside, into the dark night, into the stars, so numerous and bright out here.  There was a bit of cold on the edge of the breeze, and I let myself feel it.  I didn't shirk from it, or huddle away from it, but I let it chill me. I am, I exist here in four dimensions, in this body, full of senses.  And I heard them, the coyotes, echoing each other across Paradise Prairie.  Yipping and howling, not all at once, but one at a time, taking turns. It was so beautiful. It was so painfully beautiful. I love them, but they ate my daughter's cat so I can't love them. I don't know how to reconcile this. I just don't. This universe, so full of beauty, so full of everything my senses crave.  I was born to love it, to feel it, to know it. So much pain is here too; the distance between stars is long and cold and dark. Oh my vast cosmos! I love you and it hurts.

Excuse me while I kiss the sky

Slaughter the Meadow

The spigot on the house has a three-way attachment.  A while ago I got a the female end of a hose stuck on to one of the male spigots. The other end of the hose had been run over, so I re-circle-ated it and got a sprinkler seriously stuck on the male hose end.  The other two spigots (in what is turning out to be an overly sexual discussion of watering my lawn) have waterballoon-filling attachments (or at this point we'll just call waterballoons condoms).  One of those nozzles leaks and rather than water our basement foundation every time I water my lawn, I stick a bucket underneath it.  This pretty periwinkle blue bucket fills at a rate of once an hour which I then dump on favorite plants outside the semi-circle range of the sprinkler and in places that no longer get water because I mowed over too many parts of the sprinkler system.  We never dug the thick black hoses in to the ground because we have five acres and only two of us and we have other things to do, like watch youtube videos of old They Might Be Giants concerts and figure out which outfits still fit.  And also because our division of labor is that Huck takes care of the serious, non-sprinkler oriented irrigations and I mow the lawn to which he is allergic.  We sort of have two different perspectives on irrigation lines and their destiny as relates to the ground, above or below.

Mission Beach! Kids on boards behind us!

Now understand that if we did not irrigate we would live in a dust pile.  We already live in a dust pile, but irrigation ensures that it includes dusty trees and shrubs.  It is nice to imagine that without contraptions and civilization and modern conveniences we'd be living in a paradise where a meal was as easy as reaching up into the trees.  But here, in the time and place in which I actually live, we rely on electricity to power the well which pumps a glorious 45 mpg and could potentially create a lush Eden out of our little slice o'paradise... except that I minced the irrigation lines. And I am really sorry about that.

Coyote standing on his own two feet

Generally, I love, and have always loved, mowing the lawn.  I longed for the chore when I was a kid, even throwing a tantrum one late summer afternoon when I was called in to set the table and/or make the salad while my brother was made to mow the lawn.  I wanted a chore swap, yelled and cried for a chore swap, called them sexists and said they were preventing both of us from being complete individuals.  Also, I loved the wild, juicy, green smell of mowed lawn and and I wanted in on that.  But I was told they feared me running over my foot with the mower.  Ok.  So.  I was  a little dreamy and my head was in the clouds and I admit that there may have been some likelihood of that, given the number of time I sliced myself making our nightly salads. I suppose we can call ourselves lucky that, to-date, I have only wounded irrigation lines, lines that I have so diligently tried to avoid, leaving narrow strips of unmowed mohawks across the lawn.

This shell doesn't sound right

Luckily, neither husband has fought me for mowing rights.  On Orcas Island, when my first husband was in Alaska "working" that last summer, I was given a lawn mower, a very exciting, self-propelled thing that dragged me on many adventures.  But it threw spark plugs which I would go in search of and pick up and burn the prints off my fingertips.  Until I got wise and kept an oven mitt handy whenever I mowed the lawn.  But I tired of playing with spark plugs and I brought it in to get fixed.  The shop estimated $70 which seemed fair.  But when I picked it up the invoice was for $140! Twice as much!  And I rightfully demanded an accounting.  And that man, (He was a fat man and I use that term in the worst possible way with every negative connotation because once someone pisses me off, any trait is fair game as an insult: skinny, fat, blond, brunette, woman, man, freckled, tan, et al.  Any trait I normally don't give a flicking flea about becomes an insult, when provoked.) that fat man leaned his head back and laughed AT me, "Well, that was $70 to fix.  You wanted us to put it back together again, didn't you?"  I didn't want to pay, didn't think I should have to, but I wanted my mower back, my lovable, surprising, adventuresome, self-propelled mower.  So I paid. And that is life on an island.  There is only one place to get your wagon fixed and they'll charge whatever they damn well please.

Mulin Rouge Sunflower

Huck and I moved out here with only our reel mower, from our tiny Pullman yard.  It was obviously inadequate to the task.  Sure, the cows once took care of 3 acres, but a reel mower is still not up to 2 acres.  And it may not have been adequate for the 1/16th acre Pullman postage stamp yard either, now that I think of it.  The old owners left us their lawn mower, which was so nice, especially since it never worked.  Eventually I bought my nifty old riding lawn mower from a friend's father-in-law.  He'd bought a new one and offered us this one for a fair price.  Unfortunately, at that moment, we didn't have a fair price in our account.  Then he called me up! "Listen, I've got cancer.  I'm going in for radiation tomorrow.  I just want this thing out of my garage.  Would you please just take advantage of me?"  This was supposed to encourage me?! I'm no island mechanic.  I almost fainted with the stress.  But I rallied and stammered out a ridiculously low price figuring he'd bargain me up, but instead he said, "Great, I'll bring it by on my way to the hospital tomorrow."  Oh, shit, delivery too.

And that's how I got "Sexy Dude" (named after Patsy Cline's car... I think, I can't remember now.)  I spray painted it pink but with all the dust it just looks like unwashed red.  It's got a wonky tire that my dad taught me how to change, which sort of redeems that major gender/chore fuck up of my youth.

Zinnia

I promised the Weed Board (Blue would say here: "NO! Not THAT kind of Weed Board!") that I would mow my lawn... er weeds, by two days ago.  We only maintain 20 feet of fire-break lawn around the house, the rest is dusty "meadow" full of skeleton weed that the Weed Board wants gone, by hook or by crook.  We've looked in to renting goats (no one in this household is in the mood for owning our own livestock these days) but that's too expensive.  Spraying is the long term, but very unfortunate, plan.  For now, a few gallons of gas and some extra pounds of greenhouse gases and everyone will be happy, right?  But instead of mowing skeleton weed around defunct irrigation lines (that, I swear, I tried sooo hard to avoid!), I'm writing a blog about the pretty blue bucket that collects the dripping water and in which I found two stiff drowned mice that for all appearances look like they tried to poop their way out either through propulsion or possibly by making a pile high enough to jump off.  And also, there was, prophetically, one stunned praying mantis, bobbing vertically like a buoy.

Standing by the 6' Rudbeckia

 Addendum:  I wrote this, then Coyote re-commandeered the computer to finish off his summer vacation in style. Now I'm back, but the hiatus basically forced me to mow the "meadow," (not the field, no, not the field. The field will require heavy farm machinery at this point).  This meadow turned out to be very rich habitat which I utterly destroyed over the course of three days. At times I felt I was herding grasshoppers this way and that with each pass.  I involuntarily ran over many praying mantisi, I would try to stop and let them crawl to safety, but they often did not know which direction that was and got mowed on the next pass.  I tried to help one particular mantis several times but in the end, as he crawled on two legs, his wings shredded, I just ran over him on purpose. One flew up on my leg and looked me in the eye.  I imagine it was quite a spiritual experience for her, like seeing god in the eye of a tornado.  She was clearly asking me to stop with the slaughter; how would she find a husband's head to eat after mating?!  But I was god in this situation; I didn't have to stop.  And also, the Weed Board was breathing down my neck.  I kept mowing.  I also ran over several butterflies, eventually I hit and mangled two rainbows, and finally took out the last remaining unicorn.  I feel like an asshole.  But, after mowing, the yard was filled with gleeful quail dashing from maimed insect to maimed, immobilized insect.  The ring necked doves and finches twirled and dove overhead.  All the birds were looking at me like I was god, like I'd just bestowed the best blessing they've ever received.  They looked me in the eye and sang little bird songs of thanks and praise to their goddess. It was nice.