My Haven

Have you ever noticed when you return home from vacation that animals knew you were gone, so they’ve moved in? It’s almost as if they conspired and waited for the day when the garage door would close, and they’d feel no vibrational frequency emitting from your home. With a welcoming wave of a hand and a short whistle, all the animals emerge from hiding, exposing themselves for the sheer pleasure of taking over human space. How satisfying.

Conniving little beasts.

Spiders construct new webs in the lower level. More deer lie in the backyard—the does filing their hooves and applying a fresh layer of polish, bucks now recovered from rutting season are playing a riveting game of poker. And birds have chosen to nest in your new hanging planter, the precious plant having been picked out and carelessly tossed on the ground.

Opportunists.

This type of activity happens in our home and yard. The difference is, we never go anywhere, so they conduct their presumptuous behavior right before our eyes. Years ago a friend said, “The meek shall inherit the earth,” quoting Psalm 37:11. “I think what’s meant by that is insects, small and insignificant, will eventually overcome everything.”

Scary thought, but possible.

I’ve always attracted those less fortunate and those who have lived through a lot of emotional pain. I endured much bad stuff as a child and have done almost everything, so I really can’t be judgmental. People and animals know I’m trustworthy, and some take advantage of me, but I’m forgiving to a point…after which I disappear like the wind.

The most recent less fortunate being is someone I thought was dead and consumed by coyotes. I hadn’t seen him for three weeks, nor had several neighbors. But last weekend while standing in my neighbors’ backyard talking, I noticed a pair of ears. For five minutes or more, those ears didn’t even twitch.

Finally I asked if Bette and Bob would turn around and look at what appeared to be a ceramic deer, which would be a pretty weird thing to have, given the tens of deer trotting around all the time. We all trekked down the hill, and sure enough, it wasn’t a ceramic deer.

So I ventured, “I’ll bet it’s our injured one,” referring to the young buck I call Franklin, whose hindquarters are virtually useless after being struck by a vehicle. So we chose to let resting faux-ceramic deer rest.

By the next day, the injured deer was grazing in our back forty, as I call the easement area. I walked downstairs and outside to unlatch the back gate, so he’d have access to fresh water, the hot tub, and a more expanded area to poop. And sure enough, he’s made himself at home under the large junipers. Even Shiloh the Lab knows to leave the poor guy alone, so they share space.



Aside from one very close call during rutting season, Shiloh doesn’t let deer bother him. A fawn once touched its nose to Shiloh’s, and a doe chased the dog as he fetched his ball.


Today a ringed turtledove perched in our juniper above Franklin, and a beautiful kitty with a chunk missing from its left ear is skittering around. I boiled her a chicken leg and set it outside with a bed in a wooden box. This feline, however, will remain outdoors, unlike the other two. My heart goes out to the wounded and strays, as I hope someone’s heart would go out to me in times of need.

Two years ago I wrote to my friend William, currently a contractor in Iraq: “Shiloh found two kittens in the backyard, adding to the thick web I've woven. I feel as if I have a farm, but I can't butcher any animals.”

To this he gently replied: “Those animals are not an inconvenience. They are a way for you to be reminded that your house is a home, and it is safe for friends, family, and wayward strays.

“Don't worry about the poop. They'll make up for it by licking your hand one day.

“Be safe! William”

“If one of my wayfarers licks my hand, it’ll probably be the bear. Love, Goldilocks.”

Am I Lunch?

A friend and I had finally gotten together for lunch and caught up on the prior year's events. As I grabbed my doggie bag and walked toward the restaurant door, I suggested we go together to the garage below where I was parked, then I'd drive him to his car.

When we arrived at my Trooper, I opened the rear door where Alex, my patient yellow Lab, awaited me. To my friend's shock, I said to Alex, "Look, honey, I brought you lunch!"

My friend thought I meant him.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/12/lunch.html

Sniff, Sniff

I like my home to smell good, which is quite the challenge with a Labradog, two cats, a fish, and being a gastronome. And though I daily put baby shampoo on our Lab’s feet and rinse them off in a trimmed vinegar container filled with water, his feet still smell like Fritos.

Now that cold weather has dropped on my life like a Thanksgiving turkey, and I can’t open my windows without putting on a dreaded bra and sweater, keeping our home semiodor free is much more challenging. So I compromise.

I turn on Clarity, our Honeywell Enviracaire air purifier, and periodically move her to various places in the home. Then I spray peppermint water high in the air and in our trees and plants throughout. Sometimes I even add my friend bleach, but just a few drops, because intense bleach doesn’t like me quite as much as I like him.

One or two droppersful of peppermint in a quartsize spray bottle of water freshens with its mist and makes the dog sneeze. A little acidic wipe of doggie boogie from the wall, and voilà, I feel as if I’m back in college having a schnapps hot chocolate cleaning up after my roommates.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/11/sniff-sniff.html

Revenge

Revenge may be the dish best served cold, but I served mine while it was still warm.

From 2:30 till about 6:30 almost every day for weeks, someone’s dog barked like my mind thinks—incessantly. But the dog bothered me more.

I resorted to wearing my shooting muffs while I worked in an attempt to concentrate. Considering one’s home should be their sanctuary, my coping device seemed contradictory—though I had contemplated shooting something.

By week five, I wore permanent circles around my ears from the muffs, and my tolerance had worn as thin as the seat on my favorite jeans. So I ventured down the street and began spying behind people’s houses.

There it was, the culprit: a Lab mix wagging its black, long-haired tail as it pranced back and forth in its backyard that abuts my kinder neighbors’ backyard. The dog probably hoped its owner would hear what the rest of the neighborhood had gone insane from and let the neglected beast inside.

But derelict petkeepers aren’t concerned about what their dogs need, nor what their neighbors have to suffer. The unconscious flybrain probably wouldn’t even notice if every house on the block displayed a For Sale sign, with arrows pointing toward the perpetrator’s house.

I know everyone on my street, but not everyone on the adjacent street where Inconsiderado lived. Had I known this person, and being the diplomatic, sensitive person I am, I would have promptly suggested his or her moving to North Korea.

In my investigative, CIA style, I learned that the inattentive, irresponsible black hole was a female! I jotted down her name and phone number and decided to ring her in a courageous moment and have a little chat.

But I don’t have many courageous moments anymore and never got the nerve. Instead, I donned the shooting muffs again and tried to work. After wearing the muffs so long I could hear my thoughts twice, I decided to walk around the block with our fairly well-behaved, nonbarking Lab, Shiloh.

I first tossed the ball a few times to encourage him to deposit treasures on my own lawn, rather than another’s. Once accomplished, I leashed him and embarked on our journey. We rounded the corner at block’s end, walked the short end of the block, then turned right again, proceeding up Numbskull-Neighbor Street.

Only two houses into this block and good ol’ Shiloh yanked me to the side to produce yet more jewels for my collection. I stared up at the sky, hummed a little all-I-ever-do-is-pick-up-doo, I-need-to-feed-him-less ditty, and awaited my opportunity to bag the morsels.

Great, I thought, that’ll cut my walk short, because I will not hike with this odiferous, porous bag at my side. And then I started to smile. Today was garbage day for some. I continued forward about eight houses, and Bingo! Such excitement! Her garbage container awaited my warm, thoughtful gift. I surveyed my surroundings, saw no one watching, and with the widest, most devilish of grins, I slipped my Warm Dish of Revenge into No One Is Really Home’s empty bin.

Revenge may be the dish best served cold, but fresher and warmer with a little side odor is more gratifying. What a stinker!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2008/06/revenge.html