Expectations

My dog, Gus, is pouting tonight. After the stretch of snow and frigid weather, when we had a fire in the fireplace every evening, he’s come to expect it, like kids who get s'mores at every campfire. His head in my lap, he stares into my eyes with his mournful ones. I eliminated the other possible causes—did he have to go outside? We went. Did he want a treat? Always, and I gave him one. Finally, disgruntled, he crept into the living room and lay down in front of a cold fireplace. But hey, it was 55 degrees out today.

Gus isn’t the only one around here with expectations. The nuthatch counts on finding dried mealworms on the kitchen windowsill every morning. It snatches one in its scissor-like beak and flies away. The male bluebird assumes there’ll be fresh water in the birdbath before he goes to battle with his adversary, his reflection in the bedroom window. And most of the frequent-flier songbirds anticipate black oil sunflower seeds in the bird feeder. But my buddy, Gus, thinks he deserves a few more perks than the birds, and he’s probably right.

 

Gus reveled in the snow. At first light, he was out the door like a released rocket, running in broad circles and diving face-first in mid-stride to scoop up a bite of the closest thing he’ll get to ice cream. 

Then he’d survey his kingdom and patrol the pond. As cold as it’s been, he didn’t last long, but would come inside and park in his favorite spot. The fireplace.

As warm as it was today, I started feeling chilly this evening. So, now, there’s a fire in the fireplace, and both of us are happy. Pass the marshmallows, please.

Cockleburs

After October's drought, when the ground was dry as cocoa powder without the flavor, and dust clouds followed our every footstep, the rain on our hilltop this week was a welcome relief. Unfortunately, not everyone benefited; storms caused roads and bridges to wash out and damaged fields and fences, but that's a story for someone else to tell. 

By Tuesday, we had accumulated 12 3/4 inches, and envisioning the streams and tiny rivulets down the hill, I couldn't resist the call of the hollow. Gus and I headed down the familiar trail to a slope overlooking the broad valley. Two brooks rushed over the recently dry rocks, then merged to form a swollen stream flowing to the lake. From my vantage point, the enchantment of it all took my breath away. I knew the valley teamed with ticks, stick tights, and cockleburs, and my better judgment told me to turn back, but the beauty before me beckoned me on.

Down the hill, Gus sprinted across the creek as I picked my way over slippery rocks, the water rushing over my water-proof boots and squishing between my toes.

Once across, I called Gus, and my heart sank as I saw his head pop up from the midst of a field of ripe cockleburs. He limped my way, but the damage had already been done. Many of the small, thorny fruits of the plant were attached to his coat, and every step he took toward me attracted more. 

When he reached me, I stooped and extracted a few from between his paws and others I could get quickly; the rest had to wait until we got home. Armed with cuticle scissors, I began the painstaking removal process, which took nearly an hour and a half and gave me plenty of time to regret my decision to venture into the hollow. Despite the discomfort, Gus remained remarkably patient and trusting, and when it was over,  he was free of the thorns and handsome again. 

Gus's tail before

Gus's tail after

Except for his tail, that is. He noticed the chop job the next day, and if you see him, please don't mention it; he's a little chagrined about his new haircut.

Chip's Golden Escape

Seeing Gus the Golden Retriever interact with the wildlife in our backyard always amuses me. While he often enjoys watching squirrels out the window...

...they are ubiquitous, and sometimes, he tires of them.

However, there's a chipmunk that frequents the deck (we'll call him Chip). When Chip appears, Gus's attention is riveted by the small, furry ball of energy with his quick, darting movements. I'm grateful for the diversion that the tiny creature provides him.

On a recent pristine morning, I slid the deck door open, unaware of Chip's presence. Gus was out the door in a split second; he pounced and held the panicky fur ball in his mouth. My heart raced as the only sound in the vicinity came from me, yelling at the top of my lungs, 'Gus, drop it!' In that heart-stopping moment, I feared the worst. In retrospect, I shouldn't have let him watch that documentary about lemmings in Scandinavia, their fate sealed by the jaws of wild creatures. But hindsight is 20/20. To my immense relief, Gus let go, and the seemingly unharmed chipmunk made a hasty escape before diving into his hidy hole underground.

I spent the day in anguish, wondering about the psychological aftermath of the attack on Chip. Had Gus lost his primary source of indoor entertainment? But Chip proved to be resilient. Contrary to my expectations, he returned that afternoon, busily stuffing his cheeks with sunflower seeds while keeping a vigilant eye on his escape route. Gus, innocent and carefree, was unfazed by my worries and didn't seem surprised that his furry friend had reappeared.

After the attack, I pictured Chip back in his den, trembling in his recliner for a few minutes, then, determined, picking up the pieces of his day and heading to the cupboard for a bit of chocolate. There are just some things sunflower seeds can't fix.

Goodbye, Sweet Prince

We hadn't had a dog for a while and didn't know we needed one until we met Barley. And he needed us. He came into our lives just under eight years ago on what would have been the last day of his life. How could we have imagined the joy he would bring us?

Barley was four years old when he arrived at our house, and his first four years hadn't been easy. We loved him from the moment we set eyes on him. It didn't take long to become accustomed to the comfort of his companionship. Looking out for him became as natural as breathing. You notice such things when they are gone.

Walking toward the house today, I glanced back for Barley. It was a momentary lapse, then reality hit like a blow. Barley died at home Tuesday morning, most likely from an embolism. It happened quickly and it was a mercy that he didn't suffer long.

As words are still hard to come by, I'm adding some pictures as a tribute to the dog whose paw prints are written forever on our hearts.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Botany and Barley

Stooping to free myself from a tangle of greenbriar on this early morning walk, I checked for Barley. Fifty paces back, he was a statue in the forest, nose glued to the ground, gathering information about the night shift. The level area around me was above the creek, where supple-jack grows in profusion, green and brown vines intertwined, the new green spirals winding around unwary cedars and dogwood trees. A thin spiral of supple-jack will start up a tree, subtle as sin, then grow and bring the tree to its knees before eventually uprooting it. Of course, the supple-jack comes down with the tree. Make of it what you will.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mean to disparage supple-jack completely. Many wild birds, including wild turkeys and bobwhite quail, dine on the fruit. The vines also make good perches for birds. A vine harvested last year formed an arching perch over our birdbath. It was broken recently, and the remains were useful only as something for Barley to carry around. I cut a few strands to take its place.

The walk up the hollow used to be an easy one, but since the 2009 ice storm, much of the area is obstructed with downfall, bleached bones of once stately trees. Searching for a clear path, I had turned up the bank from the creek bed and walked through shoulder high weeds along a deer highway that widened into a bedding area, then split off into narrow paths. One of the trails led back toward the bottom to the flat area where I now stood.

A few steps down from the flat was water, and Barley had come to life and found it before I did. It doesn’t take much to make him happy. A spring gurgles out from the rocky hillside and forms a creek that flows into pools where polliwogs and watercress grow. There are many springs here, but the kind that run all year are referred to as everlasting springs. The presence of watercress is a mute testimony to this.

Years ago, up a little further, I found wild hibiscus growing out of a rock ledge beside the creek. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find Sunday, but the clock turned me back before any notable discoveries were made. Though, on the way back, I saw several black and white feathers scattered on the ground, about 7” long. From the number of them there, it seemed likely that the bird they came from wouldn’t be needing them any more.

Back home, Don and I speculated about what kind of bird gave up the feathers. Don guessed a red headed woodpecker, or possibly a pileated. “Or maybe an ivory billed”, I suggested. “Good luck with that one”, Don grinned.

One of my college professors gave an assignment each semester for students to go out in the country on a clear night, lay on the ground for an hour facing the sky, and think about God. (The times were safer, and they didn’t have ticks there.) It was a worthwhile exercise, and I came away with even more awe of the One who scattered the stars in space.

I get the same feeling in the hollow, this place without distractions, surrounded by God’s creation. I came back refreshed, and with only one tick, a reminder that we are in this world and not the next.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Ten Seconds

There will be plenty of people counting down the seconds to the new year tonight. 

Since I hope to be sound asleep by then, here's my own countdown a little early--

10 of my favorite animal sightings of 2016:

10. Fox Kit

Little Foxes

9. Wood Duck

Woody in the Tree

8. Eastern Chipmunk

Generation Z

7. White-tailed Fawn

Once in a Lifetime

6. Eastern Wild Turkey

Trapped

5. Raccoon

Co-inhabitants

4. Monarch Chrysalis

Morning Metamorphosis 

3.White-tailed Buck

Morning Fog

2. Male Cardinal

Mountain Lion Hollow

1. Golden Retriever, Barley

Co-inhabitants

Happy New Year!

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Mountain Lion Hollow

It's good to see the sun after several gloomy days, which had closed in on us like grey felt in a flower press. The hunting season finally over, Barley and I have taken to walking in the hollow below our house. Where the trail makes its final descent into the hollow, winterberry trees have put on their Christmas decorations, bright red candy-colored balls. Birds flee at our approach, receding as waves into an ocean of weeds, or wildflowers, depending on one's perspective. I stand still, holding my breath, and the birds return, one by one, drawn by the fruit, devouring the ornaments like a child who can't wait for Christmas.

Barley holds his breath, too, standing motionless several paces behind me.

The hollow is quiet this morning, except for the twitter of birds, but this place is not always without drama. One October, in the early morning dark, Don walked down the trail and set up with his bow in a tree facing the valley, overlooking the creek. As the first rays of light streamed across the hollow, he noticed movement in the tall amber colored weeds, about 75 yards away. He fixed his gaze on the area for a short time before a tail appeared, swishing slowly back and forth. Then the steely eyes of a mountain lion came into focus, staring straight at him. A chill went down his spine.

Don remembers thinking that he’s always preferred to deer hunt alone. It was more true that day than ever before. Looking down at his bow, he calculated his chances of getting off a clean shot at a charging cat. Not good. He decided to begin his retreat. Then, if the mountain lion charged, he’d have time to get his back against a large tree and pull out his hunting knife. He got his feet on the ground and took one step sideways up the hill, keeping an eye on the path, and one on the predator below. The mountain lion didn’t move. Its tail twitched, but its eyes were steady.

Don continued to sidle up the hill, judging, with each step, the distance to the next tree. He was home before he could breathe easy. 

I think about that mountain lion once in a while when Barley and I are walking in the hollow, and my fingers tighten, momentarily, on the knife in my pocket.

Linking with Saturday's Critters
and
 Wild Bird Wednesday

Co-inhabitants

Every once in a while, when we start thinking that this place where we live belongs to us, 

we are reminded that our opinion is not universal.

Most mornings lately, four Eastern Wild Turkey gobblers have been gathering on our back patio.

They like the convenience of fresh water (or sometimes ice) in the birdbath, a chance to admire their reflections in the window glass, and the exceptional acoustics. If volume had anything to do with ownership, when they gobble, they would have the deed to the house in their feathery back pocket. The turkeys retreat a little when we pass by the windows, but seem only mildly inconvenienced by the other occupants of this place, namely us. Their forebears, after all, were here long before ours were.
 
Before dawn yesterday morning, Don watched a skunk saunter away from the back of the house, while a fat raccoon sat in the bird feeder, eating a bedtime snack. We've been wondering why the bird feed disappeared so fast, and now we know that it's been going to two more residents.

              

In the summer, a mother raccoon and her two kits would come in the evenings to eat... 

...before climbing up to their nursery in a large oak tree behind the house. 

In the nighttime, the place belonged to them.

Deer have always been occupants of our woods. 

Of the seven we see regularly, one button buck has taken to the dog kennel, and helps himself to fallen acorns. 

We see the larger bucks less frequently, but in the shelter of the darkness, they may consider this place their own, too.

Barley is the only four-legged creature with a key to the house.

So far.

Linking with Saturday's Critters
and Wild Bird Wednesday

Lost and Found

We had a bit of a scare at our house last evening. At dinnertime, when I let Barley out the front door, a Black Snake slithered in. I screamed bloody murder, and Don came running. He trapped the snake with his boot while I went after the loppers; then I retreated, shaken, to the kitchen as he dispatched the snake. It was a mature Black Snake, not huge, but a good 2 feet long.

The calamity averted, we looked for Barley. Since coming to us last December, except when we've taken him places, he's never been out of sight of the house. He spends most of his time in the house with us, but sometimes we call him our driveway dog, because when we walk in the woods, he always runs home ahead of us, as if drawn to the house with a large magnet, and waits in the driveway. But last night, we didn't see him anywhere. Nor did he respond to our calling. Alarmed, Don noticed that the deer were still grazing on the north side of the house, so we knew he hadn't gone that way.  

Don got the pickup, and I joined him, and we headed for the road. At the highway, we saw where Barley had dropped his favorite stick. We thought he could be headed for Don's brother's place, a mile away, but Barley is not savvy about cars, and anything could happen. Across the highway and up the hill on the county road opposite ours, we found him, 1/4 mile from home, looking lost and lonely at the side of the road. With great relief, I got out of the truck and wrapped him in my arms, then he willingly jumped in the back seat, and rode with us back home. Once there, he sniffed the front door with great interest, then settled back into his routine, seemingly as relieved to be back home as we were to have him.

We trembled when we thought of the other possible outcomes for Barley.  But it's comforting to know that the God who watches over us doesn't confine His interest to people, He sees every bird that falls, He cares about every creature He has made, and He certainly cares about Barley.

In His hand is the life of every creature,

and the breath of every human being.

Job 12:10

First posted on 8/17/10