All's Well that Ends Well

Wednesday, a day that will live in infamy, started pleasantly enough. But after chores and supper, the cat had still not come indoors. “Have you seen Smokey?” I asked Hubby.

“I saw him stalking the sparrows,” he replied. Five or six sparrows spend every night with the goats in the barn. Smokey hunts them zealously but has only claimed one casualty in two years.

Perhaps Smokey had been shut up in the barn. I bundled up against the cold and went looking. No cat. An hour later, I searched the place again with a flashlight, calling and calling. No cat. More time passed, but no cat. I was sick with worry, thinking maybe he’d met his Waterloo with a coyote or owl. Hubby went out the next time, taking the big “calving” flashlight. Hubby found the cat right away—on top of the power pole.

For a split second, I was relieved that Smokey was located, until Hubby said the words that turned my blood cold: “If he jumps down on that transformer, he’ll be fried.”

“If he stays up there, an owl will pick him off for sure,” I said. We stood frozen, looking up at the pitifully-mewing cat atop a 35-foot death trap. Then I ran inside and called the electric company.

The lady from the answering service must not like cats. “You want me to send a lineman to rescue your cat?” she sneered. You’d think I’d asked her to send a veterinarian to tend a sick bedbug. Fortunately, the linemen, who left their cozy homes to go to work, pick up the truck, and drive 30 miles to try to save the less-than-smart feline of people they’d never met, were much more gracious than she. “It’ll take us 45 minutes to get there,” one of them said.

As the time crawled by, Hubby and I were so anxious that we could barely speak to one another. After a half hour, I got in the Escape to drive down to open the front gate, which can be tricky to find in the dark. I absentmindedly switched on the radio. “His eye is on the sparrow,” someone—maybe Ethel Waters—sang. I’m not kidding. I was too tense to fully appreciate God’s perfectly timed, wry sense of humor, but I did relax just a bit.

Finally, the angels from High Plains Power Company arrived. After surveying the scene, they decided to play it safe and drive a ways down the canal road to shut off the electricity that comes into the transformer. When the lights went out, Hubby and I sighed in deep relief. After maneuvering the truck around the yard, one of the angels donned a face mask and heavy gloves and went up in the lift. The rest of us chattered nervously below, hoping Smokey wouldn’t panic and jump off or frantically claw his savior, but all went smoothly. “Smokey did good,” the angel announced.

“Smokey’s had some misadventures, but this one takes the cake,” I said later as I crawled into bed. It was late; the alarm would be going off in less than six hours.

“Linda Smith has a cat that went up a power pole—twice,” Hubby announced. I groaned.

“Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” Luke 12:6-7

Mug Shots III

Back by popular demand, here's some more Crazy Faces.

Panda

Clarabelle A virtual twin to Annabelle (see Mug Shots).

Winky

Blossom

"He puts a smile on my face. He's my God." PSALM 43:5

Mug Shots II

The lane to our house leads past the haymeadows. If the Heffalumps are anywhere near the road when you drive through, just stop your car and roll down your window. I guarantee that our black-and-white welcoming committee will come over for a visit!  

Sundae

As in hot fudge sundae. She’ll be one of the first to your car.

Ziggy

As in “zigzag”, for obvious reasons.

Dottie

The easiest to spot (pun intended) in the crowd.

"For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills." PSALM 50:10

Mug Shots

The Crazy Faces (new heifers) have adjusted well to their new digs, the haymeadows, and are growing plumper by the day, earning themselves a new nickname: the Heffalumps. Hubby’s been around cattle his entire life and has never seen a friendlier, gentler bunch of heifers. They always stop their grazing and come to see us; several allow us to touch them, and Annabelle even wants to be scratched all over! Peder, the Angus steer calf that we’re keeping for next winter’s freezer, is hanging out with the Heffalumps but can’t figure out why they always want to visit us and pose for photo ops. Here’s a few to whet your whistle; I’ll post more soon.

Annabelle

Already voted Most Photogenic and Miss Congeniality, she’s also one of the leaders--in cow terms, that means first to the water tank and first to the feed!



Bubbles

One of the easiest to name!

"The joy of the Lord is your strength." Nehemiah 8:10

Equilibrium

We brought Smokey home to the ranch over two years ago, and I think it’s safe to say that we’ve never been bored a single day since. From day one, he’s captivated us with his irresistible cute-and-cuddliness, his unshakable self-confidence, and his irrepressible high spirits.

Smokey’s mission statement is simple: fun at all costs. Even if winter mouse hunting chills him to the bone; even if chasing birds may leave him perched precariously atop barns or trees; even if stalking spiders on the wall or ceiling knocks down valances or pictures; even if banging cupboard doors, knocking objects off counters, or racing around the house at midnight wakes up tired family; even if ambushing goats triggers them to butt him; even if hooking sleeping dogs with a claw makes them snap at him; even if assaulting people causes them to shout and beat him off with the nearest pillow—no matter! When merriment is the goal, the resulting mayhem is not a consideration. We don’t mind; we haven’t been this entertained since The Carol Burnett Show went off the air.

In contrast, I work too much and play too little. I’m not opposed to amusement, it’s just that there are things to do, goals to meet, projects to be accomplished—and so little time. Maybe I’ve always been like this because I remember Pete, my grandpa, quoting this proverb to me on several occasions when I was young: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Ah, well, perhaps I should have paid more attention; I fear I’ve become something of a fuddy-duddy. But wait! If one factors in the mischievous cat, playful goats, and crazy-faced heifers (not to mention my wisecracking Hubby), then surely I’m balanced out!

On your feet now—applaud God! Bring a gift of laughter, sing yourselves into his presence. PSALM 100:1

Crime in the Country

“Whenever the pressure of our complex city life thins my blood and numbs my brain, I seek relief in the trail; and when I hear the coyote wailing to the yellow dawn, my cares fall from me – I am happy.” –Hamlin Garland

I myself have sought relief from life’s stresses on many a trail, so I can relate to Mr. Garland in that respect. But if this gentleman had decided to permanently escape the dog-eat-dog city life and move to the country, he likely would have changed his mind about the coyote wails.

To country folk, the howls of a coyote family bring about as much pleasure as the wailing of ambulance or police sirens do to city dwellers. We country-ites who have (or live next to) small dogs, cats, chickens, goats, and lambs have little affection for our neighborhood Wile E. Coyote because the latter savors the taste of the former. (For the literary purposes of this post, younger readers who grew up deprived of Looney Tunes may need to Google Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner.)

My neighbor, Susie, just lost a passel of her beautiful chickens to an unknown predator--it could have been Wile E. or a fox, coon, or free-roaming dog. Chickens can also be haute cuisine for our hawks, eagles, and mink, but the evidence suggested otherwise.

I was the first to come upon the carnage. I’ll spare you the gory details, but believe me, it was a sad and ugly sight that made me forget my New Year’s resolution to eliminate cuss words from my vocabulary. Perhaps I’ll suggest to Susie that she raise roadrunners instead of chickens.

“The thief comes only in order to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have and enjoy life, and have it in abundance….” JOHN 10:10 (AMP)

Turdus migratorius

Decades ago—I won’t say how many—when my twin and I were born, our parents dubbed us Jennifer and Robin, respectively. I’m not sure why our folks named us what they did, but I’m thankful they didn’t adhere to the then-common practice of giving twins names that rhymed. We could have been Jennifer and Hennifer, or Jenny and Henny for short. So, under the circumstances, I’m very grateful to be Robin, even though my namesakes aren’t exactly the celebrities of the bird kingdom.

Robins aren’t as intelligent as jays, as colorful as goldfinches, as stately as doves, as articulate as meadowlarks, as beautiful as bluebirds, or even as cute as the humble house sparrow. Furthermore, robins are renowned for hopping around the yard like they’re on pogo sticks, yanking up worms (ick) and snatching up moths (shudder). Even their Latin name, Turdus migratorius, is totally lacking in sophistication. Maybe that’s why, eons ago when I was young, I didn’t really mind when my best friend’s dad always called me Bluebird.

Nevertheless, Hubby and I truly enjoy our robins. The winter robins hang out in the Russian olive trees, providing us with much-needed color and lively company besides. The olives keep them plump despite the frigid temperatures. In a few months, after the winter robins have headed north, our spring-early summer robins will return. The latter, a less-hardy but much noisier bunch, will entertain us as they bustle about their family-building business and whistle their happy tunes. The robin’s song, as transcribed by birders into English, sounds like, “Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.”

Regretfully, I sing more like a rusty gate than a robin, but it’s my heartfelt hope that my blog will spread a bit of cheer in this sometimes-dreary world!