Reflections on the First Week of Spring

    Spence frowned. “I'm worried about George.”

    George step-limped-step-limped to his food bowl.

    “Maybe his arthritis is acting up,” I said.

    Spence raised his right hand. “I think he lost a claw.”
    Since George wasn't complaining or bleeding, I called neighbor Kathy, who owns more than seventy animals

    “Don't call the vet,” Kathy said. “My cats lose their claws all the time.”

    “Not just the sheath, the whole claw.”

    “Oh. I'd better come look at George, but I can't right now. Things have been hectic since Hairy's baby came yesterday.”

    “Whoa! Hairy the bull had a calf?”

    Kathy chuckled. “Hairy's the daddy. I'll run my errands and stop on my way home to look at George.”

    When Kathy arrived, I held George around the middle to make his feet stretch forward.

    Kathy separated the fur from each claw on George's right paw. She lifted a curled-back claw. It's tip had scraped George's foot pad. “He hasn't lost the claw.”

    He squirmed and mer-owed.

    Kathy let George's paw go and patted his head. “He needs his nails clipped.”

    George jerked, and I set him on the floor. He limped-dashed-limped-dashed to the bedroom.

    When Spence and I searched the junk drawer in vain for a cat nail clipper, Kathy said, “I have an orange pair in the cupboard over my sink. I'll get them and come back.”

I grabbed my camera. “I'm going with you.”

    Kathy reached for the door. “Sure. Come see the new calf.”

    When her car bounced down the rutted pasture lane, she said, “The cows are here, but I don't see the baby yet.”

    I scanned the field. Black, white, and brown cows sun bathed. Hairy the gray Brahman bull lay next to a white cow. No one day old calf.

    “There he is.” Kathy pointed to what looked like a stone. “That brown pile in the grass.”

    The tan and white lump uncurled, and the calf stood on long legs. Except for his bovine face, he resembled an Easter lamb. Without a limp, the calf trotted to his mom. She focused her eyes on Kathy and me. The calf left his mom to sniff the back of a black cow. Not curious as to how that smelled, I clicked photos till, one by one, the herd circled the calf.

    We returned to Wells Wood with the clippers. George, sleeping in my chair, was easy to find. I grabbed him around the middle again.

    Kathy held his right front paw, positioned the blade around a claw, and clipped.

    George tired of the repetitive snips, squirmed, and pulled his paw away.

    I squeezed his middle.

    Kathy took his paw again, and repositioned the clippers.

    “If you'd hold still, this would be over sooner,” I told George.

    His mer-ow-er-ow probably meant we didn't need to finish.

    Two days after the claw clipping, Kathy called. “How's George doing?”

    George pounded down the spiral stairs, front paws-back paws–front paws-back paws, and ran to the food bowl.

    “He's better,” I said.

    Before Kathy and I finished chatting, George step-limped-step-limped to the sofa.

    Spence frowned. “I'm worried about George.”