Cavalcade of Cats : Lucy

Lucy

Guardian of the sink,
drip-watcher,
spunk under her feather-duster tail,
too shy to ask for love,
still, you must ask her.

Lucy
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

Cavalcade of Cats : Olivia

Olivia

The princess,
sleeps on a feather bed,
leaving the warm spot I crawl under each night.

Olivia
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

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Cavalcade of Cats : Alex

Alex

My shadow,
never more than arm’s length away,
long and lean,
without a voice,
says everything with his touch.

Alex
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

Cavalcade of Cats : Max

Max

The leader,
powerful and physically strong,
scales walls and leaps great distances,
to stand atop open doors,
his weighty tail thrown sideways,
and checks me several times in the night,
gentle paw to my chin,
rough tongue in the darkness, cleaning.

Max
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

The lilies

Soon enough, they will fill the roadsides.
For, already the sweet and succulent apple-green leaves are dense and hurriedly growing, ready to cover anything unable to outrun it--the fast feet of Daylilies.
Not that I don’t love them,
wait for them,
stand and stare at their velvety orangeness--
miss them when their day of beauty has passed.
But, bright and bold as they are, they’ve moved in and made themselves at home in a place not their own.

Yellow Trout-lily, Erythronium americanum

The waking woods are home to those more quiet.
Where, seeking the filtered light reaching the forest floor, the tiniest of lilies peeks from beneath the dried leaves of winter with nodding head, on delicate stem barely ankle high.

Trout-lily leaves

Trout-lilies, so named for their spotted leaves resembling the markings on trout, cover the hillsides here, sometimes in large colonies of one hundred plants or more.
And share a time with the great trees they stand beneath.
Hundreds of years, together.

Colony of White Trout-lily, Erythronium albidum

Bright white or yellow,
catching rays of this first spring light.
Theirs is a rich joy.
Old money.

Our Lily, Felis catus

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Footprints

This entry is an update to a ongoing story recorded here.

Perhaps we were seeing a bit of our future, that Sunday afternoon in June, working in the cool, dimly lit interior of the big, old barn. For, our first inkling of another’s presence with us, was discovering tiny footprints captured in one of the small, square slabs of concrete, hand-mixed and left to cure, undisturbed, on the dirt floor.
Preserved in stone.

The footprints, alone, meant nothing. Raccoons, opossums, even woodchucks wandered through its drafty, dark spaces regularly. And skunks often scented the summer nights’ air. But these were different—of a small, young animal’s tentative first steps, alone.

In the days that followed, we caught only shadowy glimpses of the five young kittens hidden beneath the old wooden floor boards where Mama left them to sleep as she wandered the nearby fields for what little she could find.
How she had come to be here, tattered and worn, we could only imagine.
But clearly, of her fading strength, to her young she had given all.
Mama’s kittens became ours that Thursday.
Country roads are not gentle, nor patient with those who linger at the edge.
And so our life with kittens began.

Max, bold and black.
Alexander, kind and gray.
Olivia, tender and disheveled.
Lucy, shy and lovely.
George, spirited and wearing stripes. (adopted)

Max

Alexander

Olivia

Lucy

In several days, we will pass the 6-month mark.
And, of the original five, four kittens remain.

Large, magnificent animals now, with long ruffs and fur-covered toes,
heavy coats and loving spirits,
like none I have ever known.

They live upstairs now, in the house, with us, and Lily, who arrived a year earlier. Together, they race, feather-duster tails held high, the length of our long hallways.
And tumble in a ball of fur, somersaulting across the floor.

Each morning, I’m woken by loving licks of 4 warm, raspy tongues.
Each night, tucked in securely beneath 4 heavy bodies, purring.

Max

Alexander

Olivia

Lucy

Outside the back door, is a small square of concrete, inscribed with several small footprints that catch and hold the morning light.
Footprints that look as though the one who left them was just passing through.
Though those that know the story,
know better.


Safe, at home, they are.
Here.

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Puppy Love

I like to watch people.
Catch the moment their eyes meet those of one familiar.
Witness the indescribable ease that spreads across their face when together--washing it free of concerns for the other.

The barely imperceptible glances—
affirming, guiding, quieting all.

And the love given in return,
from wide eyes that speak, “You are my world.”

A visit from Julie Zickefoose and Chet Baker

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Annie

Annie and Katya were friends from the start.
The little orange cat, afraid of the big world she’d stumbled upon at the top of a steep, gravel drive off a narrow, winding road--
and the 8-year old girl, a new resident of the old brick farmhouse situated atop that hill.
Miles from nowhere, it seemed they were. And perfectly suited to each other’s company.


Soon, the two traveled as one, exploring together—Annie swaddled in Katya’s woolen shirt, shed as the sunshine warmed the summer mornings. By fall, her accommodations in the barn were upgraded to an accumulation of blankets at the foot of her little girl's bed.

The years flew past, from tea parties to slumber parties to high school graduation—and the now very large orange cat, present always, kept her many secrets, as a best friend should.



Last week, Annie and Katya, now 23, spent their last night together.
Then the quiet orange cat passed on.

We are very fortunate to have a vet who cares for people as tenderly as he cares for their pets.
For the last 2 years, Annie has required shots twice a day for diabetes.
Monday, she began experiencing seizures, and for several days, underwent testing and treatment in his office for what was thought to be encephalitis or a stroke, unrelated to her sugar levels.
When it was clear that she would not recover, he medicated her to prevent further seizing, tube-fed her a substantial meal and released her to us with instructions for “Going Home”.
Our daughter, Katya, arrived home from out of town that evening to be with her friend. Annie died the next morning.

Franklin

This is Franklin.
As I write, leg propped on chair, heating pads engulfing it, Franklin is quiet. Sometimes he rises to rest his head in my lap, big brown eyes from beneath giant schnauzer brows ask, “Mommy not feeling too good?”
He settles in to snooze the day away, knowing he’s in charge of the household. Franklin and I are home alone.

Over the years, he’s grown into a welcome companion in our somewhat isolated old, country house. No one would dare approach me past his hefty growl and large, commanding size. At 107 pounds, he’s all watchdog—on his turf. But gentle and submissive with our small-statured vet, who pries open his jaws to inspect Franklin’s teeth--as if he’ll soon put his head into the lion’s mouth.

Five years ago, after several weeks of trying to get this 8-month-old puppy settled into his third new home, ours, I would’ve gladly given him away. He was a disaster.

He had started life in a breeder’s home, probably not placed as a young puppy in hopes he’d become good breeding stock, but soon growing too large to be that. By that time and having been kept in the yard only, he had had no housebreaking or obedience training. His first placement…and second…were too stressful to the new owners—they ran an ad in the paper, and, almost full-grown, Franklin came home with me.
Unfortunately, moving through three homes was also too much stress for this young dog.

The first night, we kept him in a large cage in the kitchen, not having any other way to confine the unruly newcomer within our house. We thought we’d given him a wonderfully cozy place to sleep—a large, (expensive) cushy mat covering the base. What more could he need?
The next morning, we discovered why the initial whimpers of the previous night had abruptly stopped. The lovely mat—torn into shreds the size of golf balls.
Oh, Franklin.

The next few weeks began the process of undoing his “separation anxiety”.
Sleeping in my sleeping bag on the kitchen floor, Franklin eagerly curled right up on top of me. Persuaded that beside me was as good as on me, we gradually gained more separation each night.
Soon, he was on one side of the kitchen gate; I, visible but untouchable, on the other.
I moved upstairs, to the second floor landing. Now unseen, but still, my voice his comfort until morning.
Then, after weeks of calculated inching, I casually disappeared behind the bedroom door.
No sight, no sound—and it was alright.


You’d never know now that this dapper dog had a rough start. He’s become confident, caring and trustworthy. His glossy coat defies a year-long treatment for demodectic mange. He’s an animal that is admired. His proud head and pointed ears give him the appearance of being in control—and, usually he is.

We’ve failed in obedience training. This very intelligent animal knows all the rules—he just chooses when to obey them.
And, as frustrating as it can be to have him show his high-spiritedness, he’s affectionately called, “the son I never had." His puddle-splashing, snow-diving, Dennis the Menace personality makes us laugh, so full of life he is.
Yet minutes later, his head resting on your chest as if he understands how exhausting a long day of work can be, says faithfully, “It’s okay if we don’t play today, as long as we’re together.”
Oh, Franklin.

These photos had to be taken outdoors in his run.
Franklin is afraid of cameras and I was unable to get him to pose for this photo shoot inside because of the flash!

The family

We have goats, pygmy goats.

They're fairly old, as goats go, and now they're "out to pasture." But, when our girls were younger, the goats were 4-H projects and a small breeding herd, as well as their best friends. When you live in the country, your closest playmate probably eats grass.





Lining up for the family portrait, we have:
Sylvie, Naomi, Edie, Boy, Kibby, Maggie and Chloe.

Pygmy goats have a "barrel-chest" that can make them appear fat, even though it's actually a desired shape. Their legs are short and sturdy, unlike the miniature goats that are more fine-boned and smaller in scale.

We have just the 6 females now, and one wether (neutered male). At one time, we had a total of 13 in the herd.
Bo, was our breeding buck--a handsome, but smelly, black, registered pygmy. He'd begun to struggle to get around--a debilitating stiffness (arthritis?) in his back legs. But, the warmth of the summer sun and a deep green pasture made him very happy. Last fall, we wondered if we should have him put down before the cold of winter set in. We never had to make that decision. Bo died peacefully in his stall, just as the summer days were ending. It was his time.

Chloe has now developed the same hip trouble. Bo was her father--probably a hereditary fault he's passed on to her. Her mother, Aggie, highest ranking female, died shortly after her birth, and, with no one to stand up for her, Chloe dropped to the bottom of the herd. She ended up being bottle-raised, and, for a while, used a litter pan in the kitchen. There's nothing more endearing than a baby goat--and Chloe, little hooves skittering on the kitchen floor, was a classic!
Chloe


Edie's her half sister, daughter of Aggie and Obie. Aggie was a very light caramel, and Obie a light gray agouti, explaining Edie's white appearance. Edie leads the herd. Edie also demands attention, as you can see.Edie



Sylvie's one of the oldest goats we have now. This summer, she'll be eleven. I always wanted a goat, for as long as I can remember. Sylvie's "my" goat.
Her daughter, Kibby, was also bottle-raised, because Sylvie didn't recognize her as her own. The birth was difficult, twins-- and Sylvie sat, looking sort of stunned, while I revived the one living kid, Kibby. I brought Kibby to work at the library with me for 2 weeks--keeping her in a straw-lined crate in the back of my van, and preparing a bottle for her on my break. The little gray goat, with the white blaze and the black stockings was loved by many.
Kibby

Our barn, with 3 goat pastures behind it--and the phoebe on the fence.
The goats are old goats now, and we expect we'll lose the rest of them one by one over the next few years. Green pastures, blue skies, and scratches on the forehead until then.