Outside The Box

One morning late last winter, there was a ruckus on the back porch. Dogs and cats were sounding their discontent. Our furballs grew up together but like any siblings, they sometimes disagree. We’ve learned not to be alarmed by their arguments, but we always investigate.

Peaches is half Australian cattle dog, and her herding instincts are strong. Georgia is a minature lioness, independent and aloof until she wants her chin rubbed. Peach Pit is fascinated by Georgia. “Are you getting up? I’m getting up too. Are you going over there? I’m going with you!” They really do love each other, but sometimes that affection is bracketed by hissing and spitting. Blood has been drawn, but there is frequent sniffing and nose touching. One’s pack is the other’s pride.

On this particular morning there was caterwauling and then excited barking followed by hiss and spit. We assumed that Georgia and Georgia Peach were having a disagreement on what needed to be done. When Tracey arrived on the scene, she found that Peaches was holding a small bird gently in her mouth.

Peaches is not a bird dog. She herds our chickens and watches out for them. She is ambivalent about the songbirds that visit the feeders during the months the bear is holed up for the winter. Georgia, however, is an occasional bird murderer, so Tracey deduced that Peaches had taken Georgia’s prey away from her and Georgia was registering her disapproval.

If Georgia and Samantha didn’t love me so much, I wouldn’t have a cat. Generations of cats have been the last I intended to have, but I mean it this time. Cats are murderers. They are highly destructive to the ecosystem. They torture their victims and if they don’t kill them, leave them horribly wounded and in pain. They scratch the furniture and leave cat sausages behind the sofa in retribution for obscure offenses adjudicated secretly in cat court. These are absolutely the last cats I’m ever going to have until the next ones come along.

No more cats. Every time I open the shop door in the morning they perform their Oliver Twist act. “Please sir, I want some more. We’re so hungry. We’ve never had a square meal in all our lives. Why are you so cruel?” It has been many moons since either caught a mouse. I should get rid of both of them…except Samantha thinks she is a dog and follows me everywhere, watches me work, waits at the various petting stations she has identified around the farm. And Georgia…well, everything is out to get her and she’s afraid of her shadow. She wouldn’t last a day on the mean streets. Besides, Peaches would be heartbroken.

Back to the bird. A small brown house wren trembled in Tracey’s hands. It was cold and in shock, and a little bit slobber-slimy having passed from a cat’s claws to a dog’s jaws. She brought the little bird inside, held it gently and warmed it up. When it seemed to calm down, she took it back outside and had me open the lid of the gas tank where there is always a nest, safe from cats, leftover from the previous spring. She put the little bird in the nest, said a prayer for it and closed the lid. I love that woman.

The next morning the little fellow was gone and we hoped he had been strong enough to fly away. Later that day, he appeared on the window ledge while we were having lunch. He just sat there for a while looking at Tracey and then hopped away to do bird things.

During the next couple of weeks, Tracey’s little buddy visited that window and others around the house many times. He would sit on the ledge or cling to the screen, look inside until he was satisfied and then bounce away. During meals he would visit several times, and always at the window where Tracey was sitting.

As spring approached I put up several bird houses around the property, including one at the end of the eave over the deck. One morning sitting at my desk, I saw “Buddy” hop onto the railing with a twig in his mouth and then he flew up to the birdhouse with it. Buddy had decided to make his home with us.

We were elated, but also concerned, remembering how Buddy had come to make our acquaintance. We kept the cats inside during the day while he was building his nest and making frequent hops onto the railing with his construction materials. At the end of the deck under the nest, Tracey arranged some of her plants to make a buffer zone. Buddy seems very “cat-wise” now, and some of the things he has said to them from the safety of the persimmon tree at the end of the deck, I can’t repeat in polite company.

There is a small statue of an angel on the corner of the deck. Buddy likes to perch there and survey his domain. The nest is complete now, and yesterday as the sun descended behind the mountain, he stood there and sang his song. It was some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard.