Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Fall - Little Lords A-leaping

Gilbert Leaping

Kneeling on the chilly deck last Sunday, I reached into an old wash tub, and tucked prickly pine straw around the root ball of a three foot Norway spruce—this year’s Christmas tree.

My husband licked suction cups attached to a clear plastic triangle. He reached over me, pushed the cups against the sliding glass door, and disappeared around the corner. Maybe he just wanted to attach the top of the window feeder before temperatures plummeted making attachment more difficult if not impossible.

Spence returned with sunflower seeds filling the feeder’s bottom, a funnel ending in a pair of perches. 

Uh-oh. Bear food. 

“Tell your mother about the bear,” Spence had called over his shoulder while he clanked his spatula against the iron skillet making breakfast one day.

Swallowing a mouthful of oatmeal, I straightened in my chair. “You saw a bear, Charlie?”

“Yeah.” he sipped Earl Grey tea and smirked.

When he didn’t offer any details, I peppered him with questions to learn that on his midday drive back to Seneca the day after Thanksgiving, he saw a large black bear race across a fallow field about five miles from Wells Wood. 

Since then our temperatures averaged 37 °F (3 °C) for highs and 27 °F (-2 °C) for lows. The season’s first snow had melted, and we hadn’t had another laying snow. Still bear weather. Yikes. 

Shaking my head to erase the image of a bear at the sliding glass door, I scooped a handful of escaped pine straw off the deck. “Isn’t it too early for the feeder on account of bears?”

Spence slid the feeder into the grooves under its roof. “It may be too late.” He stepped back and squinted at the river willows where, in previous years, birds perched to wait for turns at the feeder. “Birds might have made other plans.”

Would we see a bear or a bird first?

Thursday morning, while Spence drove to Columbus. I stuffed shampoo and conditioner into my swim bag in the bathroom. A kitten in the great room stuttered mrr-mrr-mrah—kitten hunting chatter. A kitten would hide from a bear. I stuck my head around the bathroom door. 

Three kittens sat with noses a whisker’s width from the glass between them and the Christmas tree. Tails swished. Ears stood at attention. Ande, the biggest kitten, chattered.

A black-capped chickadee flew to the feeder, spied the kittens through the glass, and darted off.

The Cardinal Watching Ande

Woohoo! A chickadee, the scout of the winter feeding group, had found the sunflower seeds. Now it needed to perch long enough to grab a seed. In past winters, birds had skittered away at the sight of our old cats on the first day the birds spied the feeder. Then they dined in leisure. This year they had to contend with three male kittens.

The chickadee soared back.

Gilbert leapt. Instead of nabbing the bird, Gil hit the glass between the feeder and tree.

The bird fled without a seed.

Gilbert dropped to the floor.

Another chickadee zipped to the feeder.

Rills leapt, hit the glass, somersaulted in mid air, and landed facing me. His eyes glazed with determination to get the feathery-mouthful next time.

A chickadee winged in.

Gilbert leapt.

The bird took off.

A chickadee landed on the perch.

Rills leapt.

The bird skedaddled.

A chickadee perched.

Ande leapt, banged against the glass, and crashed onto the ceramic food bowl. Kitten kibble scattered across the great room floor. The kittens turned away from the door and tip-pawed through the kibble while a chickadee perched, pecked, and absconded with a sunflower seed.

Belly laughing, my fingers hit the wrong computer keys so often I hit backspace more times than I cared to count while emailing Spence. “It’s the tenth day of Christmas here with little lords a-leaping.” The leaping-fleeing-scattering details followed.

Spence emailed back. “Go black caps! Eat that seed, tell others.” 

Lugging swim gear, I left the leaping kittens. Maybe they would tire and take naps.

Two and a half hours later, I returned to bleary-eyed kittens. Their sides heaved, and they slow-walked across the great room like exhausted athletes who’d run a marathon. The level of seeds in the feeder had lowered a millimeter. I petted the kittens. “It’s okay if you guys take a nap and let the birds eat in peace.”

A chickadee swooped in. The fellas crouched by the window. They murmured mrr-mrr-mrah in harmony. None leapt. 

Sighing, I pulled the leftover trout from the refrigerator. 

All three ambled to the kitchen and leapt to the table. Their noses worked at normal speed.

One by one, I lifted them off and made a fish sandwich at the counter.

Ande Crouching under Chickadee

Three weary kittens meandered to the sofa, curled, wrapped paws around each other, and napped.

Before the sun rose Friday morning, I swiped Spence’s glass cleaning bottle from beside the wood stove and sprayed the inside of the sliding door. The ammonia smell tickled my nose, and the squeaks of a rag rubbing the glass brought the kittens. My supervisors.

Content with the inside and determined to have a clear view for a photo of my little lords a-leaping, I slipped into a winter jacket and trudged out to the deck. Cleaner sprayed, psst, and six kitten eyes peered through the wet glass. I wiped.

White flakes fluttered off the rag. The spray had frozen. Frost polka dotted the glass door. Sheesh.

I switched to a second cloth and rubbed. The frosted spray stuck like dry Gorilla Glue. Gritting my teeth and pressing so hard I wondered if I’d push the glass out of its frame, I rubbed again. 

Rills and Gilbert wandered off. Ande, my shadow, stroked his side of the glass with a paw. 

My fingers chilled and cramped. I rubbed.

Spence snuck up behind me. “It’ll come off by itself,” he grabbed the cleaner bottle, “when the sun comes out.” 

From the white pine stand, chickadees protested. Cheep, cheep, cheep.

Ignoring them, I rubbed another minute, sighed, and gave up.

The sunshine cleared the frosted cleaner. A pair of cardinals and a titmouse joined the chickadees at the feeder. 

Turning the camera sideways, I focused on the cats, tree, and birds. My septuagenarian fingers couldn’t click as fast as my little lords could leap, but they gave me plenty of opportunities for photos. After pushing the lens over a hundred times, I lugged the box of Christmas decorations from the loft to the deck.

In the balmy air, I wrapped white LED light wires around branches expecting to get pricked by the pointy spruce needles. Only one prick. The soft needles flexed under my fingers. I looped a gold garland and looked into the white pine stand for perching chickadees. No chickadees. No protests. Maybe they scavenged seeds off dried wild flowers. Balancing the box of Dad’s sand dollars on an empty deck planter, I unwrapped the ornaments and twisted their wire hooks around branches so the wind wouldn’t blow them off. The branches emitted a citrusy, evergreen fragrance. 

Saturday morning, rain drummed against the metal roof and splattered the deck. Dad’s sand dollars, on the door side of the Christmas tree, stayed dry under the eaves. I looked from the ornaments to the feeder. No birds. “Where are the birds? Is rain keeping them away?” 

Detaching Rills’s claws from his jeans, Spence set the kitten on the floor and glanced outside. “No wind. Moderate temperature. They’re probably finding food in the field.”

Mid morning, rain changed to snow. A pair of cardinals flew to the deck railing and bobbed their heads to study sleeping kittens. A goldfinch, in its tawny winter coat, perched and gobbled seed after seed. Chickadees grabbed a seed from the other side of the feeder and flew away to store the food for later. The male cardinal braved the perch and feasted. 

Sunflower seed level lowered to half full. 

Snow covered the ground—hopefully sending sated bears into hibernation. I relaxed. 

I can enjoy the birds until February when hungry, male, black bears will wake and search for bird seed.  

Ande Leaping