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Category: animals

Good Morning

Good Morning

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A morning rinsed and spun-dry, cleansed by thunderstorms in the night and a cool breeze in the morning. Whereas yesterday was about humidity and heavy possibility, today is quick on its feet, ready to move into the month, into this strange new almost-summer that is upon us.

In the garden, the irises are prepping for their appearance, narrow buds on the Siberian ones and plump buds on the others. The inside birds are singing in the brightness, having spent some of yesterday with heads tucked and wings folded. They are like little barometers. You can almost mark the weather by them, so tied are they to the world outside.

As for the mammals in the house, they have slept late, as they are wont to do these days.


(I snapped this photo about 10 days ago, when the dogwood and azaleas were still in their prime.) 

Missing the Derby

Missing the Derby

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For the first time since 1945 there was no Kentucky Derby on the first Saturday in May. There were no thoroughbreds thundering down the back stretch at Churchill Downs. There were, I hear, some fans — many wearing fancy hats — who couldn’t stay away. They appeared, crowned and masked, to traipse around the track and take photos of vacant betting windows and empty paddocks.

We’ve lost many of our traditional markers this spring. No tournament basketball in March, no first day of baseball in April. And now … no Derby in May — to be followed by no Preakness or Belmont, either, at least for the time being.

Of all the pain, sadness and disruption brought on by this pandemic this is hardly the greatest. But for this transplanted Kentuckian, who has never missed a Derby either live (twice) or televised (every other time), it was a loss indeed.

Elevated Apes

Elevated Apes

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“It is the same shabby-genteel sentiment, the same vanity of birth which makes men prefer to believe that they are degenerated angels, rather than elevated apes.”  — William Winwood Reade

I thought of this quotation while on a recent walk with Copper. The little guy is old now and seems to have lost most of his hearing and much of his sight. But there’s nothing wrong with his nose. He must retain most of the 300 million olfactory receptors dogs are reputed to have because he seems to enjoy sniffing now more than ever.

But he’s not the only one. Every day on our strolls together (and on my solo walks), I take a deep whiff of lilac. Say what you will about stopping to smell the roses, it’s the lilacs I walk across the street to inhale.

Savoring their delicious aroma gives me a hint of the pleasure dogs take in their own frequent sniffing. It is, then, a unifying activity, one that reminds me that we are “elevated apes” rather than “degenerated angels.”


(I first read this quotation in the book Love, Sunrise and Elevated Apes, by Nina Leen, a volume I treasure for its wisdom and photography.) 

Bounding into the Future

Bounding into the Future

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Copper and I reached the gate at the top of our deck stairs this morning at exactly the same moment that a four-point buck landed in our yard. He had jumped over the fence, trotted down the slight slope and paused in his foraging, as if listening to a faraway call.

I’ve become quite inured to the deer around here. They eat the day lilies and even the impatiens, if there’s nothing else. They cause auto accidents and are responsible for several dents in our cars through the years.

But seeing the buck this morning, so young and strong, stopped me in my tracks. I stared at him, mesmerized, and he stared back. He was beautiful, a messenger from a wild world. And indeed, in some cultures deer are sacred, a symbol of death and rebirth on account of their antlers, which they shed and regrow.

How perfect to see the deer on this day, which is itself a passageway to another world, another decade. I took the fellow as a good omen. And he — since he disappeared with a flash of his white tail — is not around to correct me on this.


(The stag I saw wasn’t white, but he was noble. Photo: Wikipedia)

Gaudete!

Gaudete!

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Yesterday was the Third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, with rose-colored vestments and the theme of … rejoice!

And rejoice I shall, starting with today, the birthday not only of Beethoven but also of our own sweet doggie, Copper.  To celebrate the former, I drove to Metro (through sleet and freezing rain) to the sounds of the lovely Archduke Trio, which made the drive almost bearable.

To celebrate the latter, we had a celebration over the weekend, complete with steak and cake. We sang a song and lit a candle and played with the little guy, who had somehow found the squeak toy I bought him and pulled it out of a shopping bag. Can he be smarter than we think? You never know…

Gaudete and happy birthday, birthday boys!

Back to Slow

Back to Slow

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Our little doggie has injured himself again. Like many of us who are getting older, he doesn’t always recognize the limits of his strength and endurance. We found him whimpering at the bottom of the deck stairs Monday night. Once again, it seems, the darkness and the stairs have done him in, and he now has his second torn ACL.

When he walks slowly, I walk slowly. So we strolled a few houses down and back this morning, taking in the fine new smell of the morning and getting a sense of the day.

As he sniffs, I look around. There was a fox, not more than 50 feet away, staring at us. Could Copper have possibly missed him? I think he did. Maybe the fox is why I woke to the sound of a crow caw. Was it a warning from one bird to his flock?

Closer to home, we ambled beneath the weeping cherry, now sparsely leaved. It was dripping pink petals the last time Copper was injured. We are charting the seasons with our strolls. I inhale deeply, ponder the dearness of this doggie, and walk on.

(Speaking of foxes, I snapped a photo of this one a few months ago in the backyard.)

Stinkbug Season

Stinkbug Season

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They fly in from who-knows-where, these funny armored bugs — in from fields where they’ve been gorging themselves all summer, I guess. And predictably, on warm days late in the season, they congregate on our windows and doors and, if possible, inside the house, too.

A stinkbug announces itself with a whirring sound and, when disturbed, will emit a cloying aroma that smells a little like cilantro.

But in the old days, I knew they were around when I heard a certain kind of shriek, as this house full of girls reacted, I’m afraid to say, in a most gender-stereotyped way. One especially notable occasion happened late one night when a daughter pulled down her window shades only to find that a bunch of stinkbugs had nested there during the day.

Now the bugs are calmly scooped up and cast out when they’re found. Not without a shiver, though.

(Luckily, these critters are on the outside of the screen.)

Battling Ants

Battling Ants

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For several months, we’ve been engaged in a valiant fight against tiny ants that have taken up residence in the kitchen. Several times they seem to have been vanquished — only to return a few days later with reinforcements.

I have no problem with ants as long as they stay outside. Let them have their ant hills, their cooperative societies, let them lug crumbs around on their little backs. But once they invade my house, I’m going after them.

The problem is, nothing seems to help — no vinegar, diatomaceous earth, no home remedy. Various over-the-counter poisons sideline the critters for a few days … then they come marching back — not two by two, as the song says, but just as resolutely.

I’m always a little loathe to call in the professionals, whose remedies, I fear, may be worse than the problem itself. But on Friday, I’m officially giving in.  This has evolved from a skirmish to a battle. By the end of the week, it will be a war.

(Hoping there’s not something like this under my house.)

Sniffing

Sniffing

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With his new summer haircut, Copper reminds me of a Park Avenue dowager, her thin frame decked out in pearls and an old Chanel suit. He’s an older doggie now, but still has his pride and his passions, just as these old women do.

Most of all (and unlike them), he loves to sniff.

I’ve grown far more tolerant of the ambling pace that allows him to inhale all matter of olfactory delights: the soil, the weeds, the marks (and sometimes much more) left by other dogs.

As his hearing has fled and his strength has faded, sniffing is one of the pleasures that remains — and who am I to deprive him of it.

Late-Day Stroll

Late-Day Stroll

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Copper and I had a delicious late evening walk the other night. There was a sliver of a fingernail moon just setting in the west, along with the sun.

There were birds darting everywhere, finishing up their late-day chores before bedding down for the night. There were bats, too, I suppose, just starting their day, though we didn’t see any.

Mostly, we just strolled at the pace that has become our own, which is to say much slower than either of us goes individually. He sniffed, I mulled. It was meditative, like pacing a labyrinth.

It was the perfect way to end the day.