Of Felines and Rodents

Got punched this morning.

My wife said she had to go put her face on and I shot back playfully, “Please don’t put the one you had on yesterday.”  [Drum-Roll]

Well, we’ve had some interesting times since we’ve bought our humble abode.
It may not be idyllic, after all; reality is starting to set in and the euphoria and that “new-house smell” is beginning to wear off, as we all knew it must. Alright everybody: Collective sigh!

We – my wife and I – do love our new house out here in the midst of Oregon wine country, don’t get us wrong, but the depth of our decision is beginning to weigh upon us, and do so somewhat heavily. This is normal, I am told. In any event, the house – rambling and of quirky temperament, as it is – is great and is of the notable, solid construction characteristic of the 1940s. It is definitely an energy-saver. These thick, plaster walls retain heat in the winter and remain cool well into the hot afternoons so common to this region during the summer. It needs work, however. Nothing major; nothing that would make it a money pit. There have been, nevertheless, some moderately unpleasant logistical surprises.  With these and other thoughts rambling around my head, I sit here and type this while watching the Today show, and reflect upon the morning, my thoughts sprinkled hither and yon with semi-risqué fantasies centered around Meredith Vieira.

I awoke this morning, like always, at about five-thirty. Being a creature of habit, I mechanically made some coffee and then retired to the front porch, which faces the morning sunrise. The way it silhouettes the hills to the east, including 1600-foot Bald Peak a few miles away, is truly awe-inspiring. This time of the year, the early mornings are still very cool and there is usually always multi-layers of fog and mist flowing and meandering along the contours of the hills, near and far. It only makes me wish we had a back porch, facing west towards the magnificent Coast Range. Sometimes, the morning scenes of the mist-shrouded Coast Range harks back to something akin to the film "The Lord of the Rings." Perhaps, sometime in the future, after the necessary work is caught up, I will build such a porch. My wife promises, with a wink of an eye, that I will get “so laid” when I do so. That’s all the motivation I need.

My wife, bless her heart, is a night owl and could never be accused of being a morning person.  So, while I’m usually up at no later than five-thirty, my wife is usually not at all functional until at least eight o’clock and two strong cups of coffee are behind her. The downside is that I’m usually spent with the arrival of the eight-thirty until about ten region of time in the evening, while she is just getting her second wind.

In any event, my routine involves taking my cup of coffee – French Roast– out on the porch and allow the peace and solitude of the early morning air, cool and dry, to bathe and caress my body and soul.  This selfish moment only lasts about 30 minutes, but it is a half-hour well-spent. 

From my perch on the porch I allow my gaze to drift on its own volition. Off to the left, my gaze falls upon a field of Timothy Grass (cut and being allowed to dry before baling). Off to my right, it rests upon a field of spring wheat, still streaked with green but giving over to amber more and more every day as it ripens. The pheasant and quail love the spring wheat. The field is thick with them. The pheasant also like to hang out in the hazelnut grove to the east – at least during the day – announcing their presence from time-to-time with their harsh call. It seems incongruous, to say the least, that such a beautiful, such a majestic bird could have such a discordant song.

A charm of hummingbirds, sounding like miniature buzzsaws, frequents our feeder.  A murmuration of starlings and a murder of crows or two go about their morning business…business known only to them. There are also owls hereabouts (no, not including my wife). These owls, even those not standing in parliament, make their presence known at night, but only by voice-vote. I’ve been privileged to ease-drop on their interrogatives many times, but I’ve never seen them. As I take another drink of my coffee, more birdsong, their source unbeknownst to me, flow to my ears from every direction, and it doest soothe my troubled spirit.

There is an inquisitive, somewhat diffident bark of a dog in the distance. In another, the confident crow of a rooster. Yet, another, the mournful lo of a cow.  And…that’s about it. No sounds of traffic or of conversation of little to no consequence. The scents I smell are of fresh air, fresh-cut hay, wheat, and the occasional farm animal. There are no assaults on the nose from an overabundance of hydrocarbons, raw garbage and untreated sewage so common in the urban blights. The air is fresh and largely free of contaminants.  At night, on a clear night of which there have been plenty as of late, I can spy the Milky Way. Just bought a telescope for the expressed purpose of stargazing. It’s not a top-of-the-line model, but it is a good ‘scope. Light pollution still seeps in from the Portland Metro area on the far side of the hills to the northeast. But, it only affects visibility to that horizon. The rest of the sky is clear and bright, especially the sky directly above us and that’s all that matters to me.

I am also told there are cougars around here. Only a few, say three or four for about a thousand square mile area, but a presence, nonetheless.  They stay out the heavily-farmed valleys and keep mainly to the forested high country to the east and west of here.

Now, to some of the not-so-positive aspects of our little slice of heaven.
Well, there is hardly a place on or in the house that couldn’t stand a few coats of fresh paint and my wife and I are planning for this contingency.

The woodwork, and there is lots of it, while still solid and free of termites and other insects, needs some TLC, something that has been lacking for quite some time. The wood floors need some work, too.  Eventually we’ll strip and varnish them. Basically, the house has a sound roof and basement; it’s just everything in between that needs a little TLC. The house has been neglected for far too long now. 

And, now, the yard. The yard is a veritable minefield of gopher holes. Mowing is an exercise in caution…and frustration. The little buggers are an industrious lot, there’s no denying that fact. Everyday, there are new mounds in the yard. Hell, I’ve watch the little bastards surface right in front of me as I sat there on the porch trying to drink my coffee and fend off the amorous advances of a damned stray cat that has become a fixture around here. But, more on her in a bit.

There are a hundred other little nickel-and-dime chores and tasks that need to be done around here, but nothing catastrophic. It’s just that there are so many little things I need to do, it seems I spend all my time killing alligators rather than just simply draining the swamp.

One of the more obvious quirks of this house comes in the form of a monstrous specimen of a stray cat, which I briefly mentioned above. It’s a massive specimen of a half-feral animal and appears to have come as a package deal as part of the sale of the property. It is huge, moderately scarred and extremely muscular. When you pet her, you can feel the hardness of her muscles rippling in response. It is a huge animal, but with no fat on her. It’s all rock-hard muscle. I sincerely doubt this cat has lost many, if any, of its fights. Even the regular nightly raccoon visitor to the cat dish doesn’t screw with this cat. The coyotes don’t appear to either and we know they come up to the porch at night from time to time. On occasions, when I can’t sleep, I will come out here in the middle of the night and listen to the packs of coyotes a mere 120 yards from the front door (according to my laser range-finder), serenading each other in the hazelnut grove.

So, not really wishing to take on the responsibility of a cat, but loathe to take it to a shelter, I took the damn thing into the damn town, to the damn vet, got its shots and a check-up and now feed and water it everyday. My wife has informed me in no uncertain terms that this cat is entirely my responsibility and I had better take care of it, because she won’t. As my wife stood there and laid down the law to me regarding this cat (actually shaking an accusatory finger at me) I had a flashback to when my mom gave me almost the exact same lecture when I was nine in the matter of a small and irresistibly cute puppy.

I have to ask: Is this ability to scold and admonish us guys an inherent talent among women? Sure appears that way.

In any case, I digress. This cat doesn’t have a name (and doesn’t need one) and doesn’t come in the house. The porch is large enough and elevated and very dry and we have bought it a warm cat bed for it as it still gets in the low 50s here at night and that seems to be comfortable enough.  She doesn’t appear to be complaining except when I am not fast enough in getting her morning meal.

This cat is also a tad proprietary. Meaning, she has latched on to me for some reason. She doesn’t like my wife, much. I should say: that she is mostly indifferent regarding my wife. She’ll accept affection and food – especially food – from her, but she won’t actively seek it out from her. Me? This frigging cat practically mugs me everytime I go out to the porch in the morning, assailing my ears with that god-awful croak of hers until I cough up the goods. And, then when she’s done, she wants attention and lots of it and she wants it from the comfort and convenience of my lap. The thing is: when she gets all amorous she drools and drools in abundance – and that’s an understatement. Basically, this ugly tabby is the Niagara of cat drool.

And, when I say “half-feral” I mean, just that. In other words: while she readily accepts and even seeks out affection from me, it is only on her terms. She only wants to be petted a certain way (she particularly likes the attention be directed to her kitty-waddle) and if I stray from that acceptable routine I could get a claw, and I have. Therefore, I decided to respect the cat’s boundaries, discretion being the better part of valor and all that. This is a cat used to having it her way (typical female).To her credit, though, if I do stray from the acceptable bounds of petting, more often than not she will give me a warning before she gives me a claw. She’s much like my wife in this respect.  I have a couple of fully feral cats living under the barn out back. I don’t feed or any way, help these. I couldn’t anyway; they won’t let me within 100 yards of them. But, this ol’ porch cat I’ve buddied up with strolls around here like she owns the place.

She also has this really annoying habit of feeling she must leave me little offerings in the morning…almost every morning, in fact. These little offerings consist of rodents of various species – usually either voles or field mice – or both. This morning was a good example.

The fields here are thick with field mice and other rodents, probably at least 10 lbs per acre, so catching them are no problem. Obviously, however, this cat is not catching these rodents for sustenance.  This is another reason I am not too concerned with the feral cats living under the barn. I figure they should have no problem finding enough to eat and in fact don’t appear so.  Shrews and gophers proliferate here, as well.

I realize cats, especially those that tend towards the feral side, are natural born killers, but I really wish I could come out to the porch to enjoy my early morning coffee without having to worry about stepping on slaughtered rodents.  This cat also has this unnerving habit of eating the heads off of her offerings. As if it weren’t already disgusting enough. Since, this cat is obviously not hungry, I often wander if chewing the heads off is in someway, symbolic?

I can’t find it in my heart to scold the cat for giving into its nature, but I do wish that its nature wouldn’t tend so much towards the murderous, or at the very least, the grotesque, so intensely.

So, no, not idyllic. But, pretty damned close.