Reflections on the Ninth Week of Fall – “It’s not about the killing.”

Doe and Yearling 1

Last Tuesday, while I sat in the great room and searched for an apple-blueberry pie recipe to bake for Thanksgiving, a movement caught my eye. I glanced through the sliding glass door and into the south garden.

Snow specks drifted, and my husband’s deer baffler―an aluminum pizza pan dangling from a string―swayed in the breeze. Near the baffler, a brown hump huddled against Spence’s chicken wire and pvc pipe fence. The hump unfurled into an adorable fawn. Undeterred by the baffler, the fawn jumped the fence and nibbled on dried weeds entangled in the wire.

Another movement pulled my eyes to a yearling nibbling the tops of frost-blackened pepper plants.

After fetching my camera, I attached the zoom lens then slid open the glass door. The white tail deer stared at me.

Standing still, I stared back.

They dropped their heads. Step by step, bite by bite, they filled their stomachs on November garden dregs.

Spence wouldn’t begrudge them weeds or dead peppers.

I stepped onto the deck and focused the zoom lens.

White tails rose.

While I took pictures through the snow, the deer vaulted over the fence and dashed to the woods. I couldn’t imagine my seventy-year-old bones matching their awesome, agile flight.

Fawn Jumping

Resuming the recipe hunt, my mind drifted back a week to a conversation with Leanne, the swimming buddy who, when hiking alone, packs a derringer in her bra.

Our adjacent YMCA showers sprayed hot water―balm to arthritic bodies after the chilly climb up the steps to the women’s locker room. I rubbed rose scented soap in a vain attempt to cover odor of chlorine. “Were you hunting yesterday?”

“Yeah. It was the last day of bow season and gorgeous weather.” Her shampoo bottle clattered onto the tiles. “We stayed out all day.”

Leanne and her husband hunt together on their fifty acres. When bow season started, she’d told me she wanted a buck with a big rack.

“Did you get your buck?” I turned off the shower and reached for a towel.

“No.” She sighed loud enough to be heard downstairs in the pool. “I saw a buck with seven points, but he was too far away for me to track. It would be cruel to injury him for nothing.” Her shower stopped spraying. “I saw a lot of does but didn’t shoot any. They were fun to watch. The poor things were eating sticks. We’re gonna dump the apples we gathered from our six trees. The deer will eat all the apples in three days―long enough before rifle season so it won’t be illegal bating.”

With a skimpy YMCA towel almost wrapping my torso, I paused at Leanne’s shower stall on my way to the locker room. “Most people would be surprised that a hunter had such compassion for deer.”

She rubbed moisturizing lotion on her leg and let out a belly laugh. “It’s not about the killing. It’s about being in nature and observing wonderful things.”

Friday's Yearling 6

Her words looped through my head this past Friday when I sat in the great room with a lunch tray full of Thanksgiving leftovers―turkey, trimmings, and a slice of apple-blueberry pie. Through the sliding glass door, I observed a doe and yearling grazing on Spence’s winter rye cover crop. I set my lunch tray on the table and fetched my camera.

Ears on alert, the deer looked toward the glass door.

I took a few pictures through the glass in case I spooked them sliding the door open.

They lowered their heads to the winter rye.

Opening the door, I took more photos.

The deer glanced at me between munches. Like Leanne had said, they were hungry.

When I stepped onto the deck, snow melt dripped off the gutter and onto my head.

No white tails. No dashes to the woods. The deer ambled toward Spence’s fence despite the deer baffler twirling and clanging against its pole. They nibbled weeds. They peered at me from time to time while I took ninety-four pictures.

Back inside, I traded the camera for the lunch tray, settled in my Adirondack chair, and watched the deer.

Spence came home from getting diesel for his tractor, toed off his boots, and stepped behind me. He rubbed my shoulders, watched the deer with me, and said, “I hope they get the four-one-one by Monday.”

After fifty years of marriage, my spouse can still puzzle me. Spence doesn’t hunt, but he allows hunters on our property to cull the deer so they don’t harvest all of his summer crops. Had he turned deer-compassionate like Leanne? “What information do you want the deer to get, Spence?”

“I want them on the hill across the road. I don’t want to clean the mess if they’re shoot in the garden.”

Okay. Not so compassionate.

Doe 1

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Fall – Don’t Underestimate Him

George Drinking from the Fountain

 

Shoulders hunched and head bent, the vet tech trudged into the exam room clutching the results of our cat’s November ninth blood test. “George’s numbers are up, and he lost one-point-two pounds.” She extended the paper toward my husband.

With his arms around George, so he couldn’t jump off the exam table, Spence said, “Show Janet. She’s the one for numbers.”

Taking a step toward me, the technician pointed to 4.1. “This is the previous test.” She slid her finger down to 7.2, and her face muscles drooped as if she’d aged thirty years in a second. “This is today’s.”

She stepped back to face Spence and me. “Give him fluids daily, not just three times a week. Up the dosage from one hundred fifty to two hundred milliliters or as close to that as you can before he squirms.” She moved her hands and the bad report behind her back. “And you’ll want to make an appointment with the vet next week.”

Spence’s eyes met mine. I didn’t need words to confirm he’d also concluded we’d get the end of life discussion from the vet.

I’d observed signs that George’s kidney failure had worsened. He needed more time to stand after napping because his muscle tone had weakened. He also scavenged for water like a mushroom hunter searching for morels. He licked the shower stall after someone showered, lapped up rinse water when I scrubbed the bathroom floor, and emptied rain puddles on the deck. Then he peed rivers. And when I scooped him off the floor, George felt like a hairy skeleton―the result of losing over a pound since his check up two months ago.

“We’ll make the appointment for a month from now to give the fluids time to work,” I told the waiting vet tech. “Please get us enough fluid bags, supply lines, and needles to last that long.”

After she pushed the door open with her fanny and left, I said, “George still has quality of life―pestering his sister.”

Spence scratched George’s chin. “Licking everyone.”

“Exploring the deck.” I pressed my lips together and glared at the door separating the exam room from the lab. “Fluids helped before when he hardly moved. Fluids will work again.”

Spence scooped George into his arms. “The medics always underestimate George.”

At home, Spence concentrated on enticing George to eat. Spence shook George’s food bowl by the sliding glass door in the great room. “You could have a snack, George.”

George yawned and plodded to his water fountain in the kitchen.

A half hour later, Spence tried again. When George licked water from his ceramic dish by the sliding glass door, Spence got on his hands and knees, pulled the cat over to the food bowl, and stroked his back. “Take some nourishment, George.”

George Eating

George ate one kibble then jumped into the Adirondack chair for a nap.

The next morning while I brushed my teeth, Spence called from the kitchen. “Do you remember teaching Charlie to poop?”

Teaching our son to poop? Where did that question come from? I spit out toothpaste, put the toothbrush away, and walked to the kitchen where Spence cooked breakfast at the stove. “No. I don’t remember that. I do remember teaching him to pee in his potty chair.”

“Yeah. Didn’t you use Fonzie? We could do that with George.”

“Tell George that Fonzie doesn’t like wet pants?” Spence really didn’t expect me to teach George to use the toilet, did he?

Spence set his spatula on the counter and walked to George drinking at the fountain. “George, Fonzie likes cats that eat their food.”

I stiffed a giggle. “Wouldn’t it work better if you used a model George knows? Maybe―Charlie likes cats that eat their food.”

Spence petted George on the head. “George, Charlie likes cats that eat their food.”

George kept drinking.

Spence walked back to the stove and lifted a slice of chicken breast out of the cast iron skillet. He cut a few pea sized pieces and took them to George. “Here’s some Big Bird, George.” Spence set the chicken on the floor beside the fountain. “Warm and tasty.”

George sniffed the chicken, ate one piece, and ambled away.

Was chicken good for George? The vet tech had emphasized giving George the prescription kidney food. I reached for my laptop for answers. George’s 7.2 blood test measured phosphate levels. A healthy cat has 2.6. So, I checked for foods high in phosphates. All three lists I read included chicken, and breast meat had more phosphorus than dark meat. “Spence, chicken is high in phosphorus.”

“Really?” He picked the chicken pieces off the floor. “No more Big Bird for you, George.”

Unlike Spence, I didn’t kneel on the floor or remind George to eat. I figured he’d eat when he felt better, and getting more fluids into him would make him feel better. So I scheduled fluids for the first task each morning.

On the first morning, while Spence stretched his arms around George’s sides and held his front legs, I stuck the needle in George’s back. Then I flipped the valve to open the IV line and gently massaged the area around the needle to prevent him from flexing his muscles and pushing the needle out.

As soon as he’d received 150 milliliters, George’s ears twitched. He merrowed as if to say he’d had enough.

Spence released George’s legs, scratched his chin with one hand, and his head with the other. “You’re fine, George.”

George backed up. His left back paw reached beyond the edge of the table.

I let go of his back and grabbed his air-bound foot.

He flexed.

The needle popped.

And IV fluid squirted Spence’s arm. “He’s done for the day,” Spence said wiping his arm.

The next day George protested at 160. By the end of the week, he’d tolerated 200 milliliter doses three different mornings. Progress!

But Spence didn’t let up. He coached―“George, you could have a snack”―every time George woke from a nap or walked through the great room.

So Saturday, when Spence volunteered at a Cleveland conference for his crusade to stop poisoning children with lead, I emailed him a midday update.

George is having a snack―after a LONG nap.

An hour later I sent news on both cats.

Mr. G is having ANOTHER snack. Emma is sleeping on the sofa.

Spence responded.

All good news!

When Spence returned that night, he greeted the cats and me then dropped to his hands and knees. He crept to the food bowl, lowered his head to food level, and smacked his lips. He looked up long enough to say, “Take some nourishment, George,” then smacked his lips over the kibble again.

George stared at Spence, padded to his sister Emma, and licked her head.

I’m not worried.

Yesterday, George took ten steps in the deck snow before turning back. Then he wailed with the hairy-snake toy dangling from his mouth.

And every day, his sister Emma is the best diet enhancer a cat could have. She looks like a soccer ball but weighs as much as a bowling ball from all the rich prescription food she consumes. When she gobbles, George pushes her aside and eats in her place.

Don’t underestimate George.

George Licking Emma

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Fall – Ah, Black Walnuts! (Part 2)

Still Life of Husked Walnuts - Mashed, Wiped, and Scrubbed with Stainless Steel Pad

On a mid October afternoon, I stood on the garage driveway, picked up the three gallon bucket of black walnuts I’d husked, and pondered my husband’s question. Did I want to scrub the walnuts in the basement? Surrounded by piles of wood, seed trays, and tools? Trapped by the cement floor, the joist ceiling, and unfinished insulated walls?

“No. I’ll scrub the walnuts outside as long as the weather cooperates.”

Spence carried the bushel basket of tractor-smashed walnut fruits down the slope from the driveway and past withered bean and tomato plants in the north garden. “Then we’ll store them on the porch.”

I followed him to the porch. “Won’t the squirrels find the walnuts here?”

“They’ll be safe.” He put the bushel basket on top of the recycle cabinet.

Though I didn’t trust squirrels, I trusted Spence. I lifted the bucket and set it beside the basket on the cabinet.

The next day dawned sunny. I pulled on my walnut processing clothes―stained pants, a sweatshirt splattered with walnut-pulp, and an old red sweater that moths had ventilated. After setting the timer on my cell phone for thirty minutes, I shoved it in my pocket and stepped outside.

What looked like long grains of white rice were scattered on the top of the recycle cabinet. One of the grains wiggled. Not rice―maggots. Yes! The overnight frost had driven the maggots off the husked walnuts. I wouldn’t have to flick off maggots while scrubbing. With rubber gloves, I finger-brushed the maggots off the cabinet and over the railing then set up for walnut scrubbing at the end of the deck ramp.

I sat on a landscape timber with a bucket of water between my legs. To my left lay a cardboard box lid for scrubbed nuts. To my right―the bucket of husked nuts. I dumped some into the water and hoped they would sink. One bobbed to the top. Floating meant the nut didn’t have edible meat inside―no need to scrub that one. I tossed it into the woods across the street. Gripping a nut in my left hand, I used my right to scrub with a stainless steel scrub pad.

A bumblebee landed on my pant cuff. The bee cleaned its feelers and legs before flying off.

I scrubbed in a Pooh kind of rhythm―rubadub-rubadub, rubadub-rubadub, rubadub-rub―then turned the walnut thirty degrees and scrubbed again. The more I scrubbed the more the stainless steel pad shredded. When I finished a walnut, I pulled off strings of stainless steel, placed the nut on the cardboard lid, and reached for another nut.

A yellow jacket crawled up my pant leg. Better than gazing at drills and hammers, but not where I wanted the insect. I put the scrub pad down and picked a three inch fern from the grass. The yellow jacket flew away before I could tickle its feet.

When my phone beeped, I’d scrubbed two dozen black walnuts. The walnut pulp had turned the water black, and the cold, black water cramped my hands as stiff as an Amazon box.

Drying Walnuts - Scrubbed with Wire Brush

Three scrubbing days later, I had twelve dozen ready-to-dry walnuts and the remains of three stainless steel pads. I asked Spence to buy more at the grocery store.

When he returned with the groceries he said, “I checked. They don’t sell stainless steel scrubbers at Giant Eagle.”

How would I clean the rest of the walnuts? Scrape them with a knife?

He set two grocery bags on the table. “There’s a wire brush in the garage. Do you want it?”

So back outside with sunlight glowing through yellow leaves, I wielded the wire brush. It bang-bang-banged against the inside of the plastic bucket, turned the cold water into a frothy brew like a draft porter, and splashed walnut dye into my gloves. I ignored the liquid sloshing around my fingertips.

Over the bang-bang-banging of the wire brush, I heard clucking. Was a flock of turkeys grazing in the woods across the road? Chattering joined the clucks and bangs. High-pitched twitters turned up the volume. Then the woods resounded with a crescendo of warbles and whistles. Not turkeys, starlings.

Pausing my walnut work, I gazed at the starling show. A few shuttled between the woods floor and low tree branches. When a pickup truck drove down the road, a thousand starlings rose with a deafening roar of wind created by their flapping wings. I’d never witnessed a flock, called a murmuration, of starlings so close. Amazing! But their gathering sounded more like a raucous rout more than a murmuring. The starlings swirled around trees, twittered, then settled to the ground. Warbles and whistles resumed. A few birds flitted from the ground to branches and back.

Another pickup drove past, and the murmuration of starlings rose a second time. Holding my breath, I watched the birds soar en masse. Then they drifted further into the woods, and their twitters diminished. I exhaled and savored the silence they left.

On Halloween morning, I dressed in my black walnut costume one last time.

Spence looked out the sliding glass door at the wind tossed trees and steady rain. “You could work in the basement today.”

Surround myself with man-stash in a windowless trap and miss the chance of being thrilled by nature? I grabbed a stack of newspapers and opened the front door. “I’ll be fine on the porch.” I covered the cement floor with newspapers and sat on a wooden box. Rain slanted through the woods and washed leaves off the trees. No insects came out in the changed weather. No birds either. I shivered and scrubbed the last twenty-two black walnuts.

Two hundred eighty-one scrubbed black walnuts dry on screens in the basement―away from scavenging squirrels. In a month, I’ll dust off the long handle anvil nutcracker to crack the nuts. For now, I’m content to rest my hands and wait for nature’s next surprise.

Nutcracker