Louie’s Limerick

There once was a pet dove named Louie,

Who was bit by a cat called Kafluwie.

The cat spit him out,

There was never a doubt,

That Kafluwie found Louie too chewy.

-Ogden Connell aka Granny

Louie. The seventeen-ish year old, ring-necked turtle dove, post cat attack.

True story.

Mostly.

The cat’s name was probably Simone but since she wasn’t caught in the act we can blame it on the mythical Kafluwie Kat.

The bad news is she bit him in the head. The good news is that he is on his way to a full recovery. Still on antibiotics and not quite back to his normal self, he has been cooing a bit again and is currently soaking up the sun as he spends the day convalescing in the greenhouse.  In the meantime I’ve put up signs declaring our bedroom a cat-free zone and then rearranged half the house to move his cage into it. Now I’m in the process of running around with a tape measure and inspecting all our bird cage options trying to come up with a better long term plan.

Animals keep life interesting.

More good news- he didn’t lose an eye like I thought he might! (That weird poky thing is just a scab that’s coming off above his other eye).

Free to a mediocre home, one cat named Kafluwie.

(Simone, for better or worse, is Jane’s cat and will be continuing to live with us.)

A Hostage Situation

I loved my grandpa and he loved purple martins.

I shared his love purple martins too. These colony nesting birds make their homes in man-made houses on tall poles, eat on the wing and sing beautiful songs all day.  And I could, and have, spent hours just watching them zoom in and out of their homes.

In the year after he passed away, I was explaining to John the necessity of me traveling three and a half hours north to our family’s cabin where the purple martin colony that Gramps spent years attracting, taking care of and recording their activity was.

John looked at me and said, “Alright, but you realize that you are being held hostage by your dead grandfather’s migratory birds, right?”

I laughed and went and took care of the martins.


Last week I was standing thigh-deep in the lake in my underwear holding up the purple martin pole so that it’s three tiers of gourds and their precious cargo didn’t go crashing into the water with John’s words ringing in my ears.  I could have laughed but my arms were too tired.

You see the cabin is on a flowage and on years that the water is high, the base of the martin pole is underwater. The martins don’t mind. In fact since they have eschewed the identical set up on land for many years in a row, I’d say they prefer it that way. Perhaps they just like to watch us squeal when we wade out to crank the whole colony down and check the nests when the water is cold and the wind is high.

In any case, one hazard of a pole being sunk into the water is that winter is often unkind to it, and by the time spring has come and the ice is gone, the pole develops a serious lean.

The preferred method of dealing with this lean is to run to the local hardware store and rent a trash pump. A trash pump being a fairly large pump that you can pump water and any other debris that might be floating by directly from the lake, through the pump, back out a four inch hose. Then, using a handy and ginormous wand my dad created, the water gets funneled to a one inch pipe and the resulting jet of water can be used to dig out the sand at the base of the pole. I was promised that “in less than five minutes” you can push it back to vertical.

It started out swimmingly. I, a novice to this project with only pants in my bag, was in charge of starting and stopping the pump as well as checking the status of the lean from dry land.  My mom, in her experience and shorts, was in the water directing the jet and pushing the pole.

Then suddenly, with the help of a gust of wind, the pole started rapidly descending toward the water. Mom threw the wand down to grab the pole. I shut the pump off, threw my jeans in the grass and jumped into the water and before I knew it, there I was. Thigh deep in a northern Wisconsin flowage in May in my underwear with the words “you are being held hostage by your dead grandfather’s migratory birds” ringing in my ears.

Following that flurry of activity we had some minor issues with the pump that were eventually resolved, though it took a shovel, a canoe paddle, two wire stakes, a wooden bench that had floated to shore, approximately 37,000 hours of me or my mom standing holding a pole attached to a dozen gourds full of nests of Purple Martins, (did I mention they are cavity-nesting birds…basically dependent on man-made housing, just like what we were about to accidentally dump in the lake, for survival?) and a large amount of sheer stubbornness.

All the while as we pushed and schemed and figured how to get the pole upright, the martins swirled around us, calling to each other and even popped in and out of their chosen gourds. I guess it’s true. I am being held hostage by my dead grandfather’s migratory birds but I have to admit, I’m loving it, cold water and all.

 

 

Flying Through Summer

I’m flying through summer sort of like this Purple Martin. 

It might not be prudent to fly for too long without looking where you are headed but when there is so much going on around you how do you even have time to look ahead to the next week?

Tonight was the first night in the 16 days the kids have been off school that I’ve had a breather to look around and start picking up the house… and the garage… and the yard… and the trucks…

It was like an archaeological dig.

On top of the couch was the bag of dress clothes I wore to the funeral of a family friend this morning. Hiding under that was the miscellaneous items the kids dropped on their way in the door from the summer solstice party we were at yesterday. The garage was heaped with the camping things from earlier in the week. And under it all was a thick layer of capoeira debris from a solid week of workshops and events. Drum making materials mixed with extra instruments on the mantel, cord dying equipment still on the table, boxes of un-sold shirts by the stove and stinky workout clothes in all the corners. Feed for the new goslings can be found under the camping equipment in the garage. And if you dig deep enough in the truck you can still find the remains of the tools we brought north to build bunk beds at the family cabin. Buried beneath it all on the table was a mountain of papers the girls brought home on the last day of school.

The fridge is mostly devoid of food and the laundry, clean and dirty, is piled high. But the good times have been plentiful and now I’ll have some time to work on the mess we left in our wake…

 

… but first I have two weddings to celebrate…

 

My Oldest Frenemy

I saw my oldest frenemy over the weekend.

I was really happy to see him but my toes were sort of scared.

Yes, that is a turkey vulture.

Yes, I used to work with him.

Yes, he is a ham.

Yes, he bit my toes.

No, I didn’t wear real shoes then either.

Yes, he got car sick.

No, that’s actually worse than it sounds.

Yes, I love him anyway.

 

V is for …. Vulture

Turkey Vulture if you want to be specific.

I always know when they are flying over the house because my bird dog came with a Vulture Alert System.

Perhaps it’s the frustration of having big bird that he can’t point leisurely sail by, perhaps he suspects that there is something smelly and dead nearby that he doesn’t get to roll in, or maybe he just hates vultures.   Whatever the reason, he goes tearing across the lawn barking at them.

Every.

Single.

Time.

I guess it works, they’ve never tried to infiltrate his yard and it is a very handy habit if you need a “V” picture…

 

Photo blogging my way through the alphabet with: