Hunting Season

Frank enjoys our backyard jungle

                It’s autumn!  In South Dakota, that means it’s hunting season.  Since I’m a vegetarian and my husband is more of a motor head than an outdoorsman, we’ve never gotten involved in our state’s favorite pastime.  The cats, however, embrace it wholeheartedly.

                They began honing their skills when the first leaves hit the ground.  Any loose leaf tumbling in the breeze is fair prey.  The hunters jack up their hind ends, hunch down over their front paws, wiggle their butts in excited anticipation and…pounce!  Another dried leaf bites the dust.  Today, all five of the clowder spent the afternoon in the sun, alternating between naps and stalking. 

                Frank has moved on to more elusive targets:  grasshoppers and cicadas.  The crunchier the bug, the more fun it is to chew.  Eww…I’m especially looking forward to stepping on the crunchy remnants he’ll inevitably hack up this evening.  I’d better wear socks tonight to help cut down on the yuck factor.

                Toby, having reverted to a semi-feral state this fall, has foregone leaves and bugs (except for the occasional butterfly) and has focused his attacks on squirrels.  So far the score is Squirrels 153, Toby 0.  I hate to think what would happen if he actually caught one.  As noted, he’s shed his tame housecat demeanor this fall.  We only see him at night if he needs petting and in the morning when he wants canned food.  The rest of the time we glimpse him in brief blurs as he flies past the window in pursuit of aforementioned squirrels.

                Soon enough the snow will fly and the cats will be stuck inside for the winter.  Let them have their fun as long as these glorious days of autumn last!

Chicken of the Woods

Our homegrown fungus

(Warning:  despite the title this is an animal-free post) 
            Somedays the most wonderful surprises arise in the most ordinary places.  Yesterday we were enjoying a relaxing Sunday afternoon with a hint of autumn in the air, when a neighbor knocked on the door.  He and a friend wondered if it would be alright to cut the fungus out of our front ash tree.  
             The mushroom was one of those frilly, yellow-orange shelf varieties that I have admired my whole life and have even photographed, never dreaming it was edible.  Apparently it is and it tastes like chicken and is quite delicious fried in butter. Its official name is Chicken of the Woods. As a mushroom lover myself, I certainly couldn't say no to their request.
             The young man took one of those saws on the end of a long pole that people use to trim branches and sawed it off while his friend and kids stood below to catch it.  Sadly, it was too dried out to be edible, so the fungus hunters left.  
             Several minutes later there was another knock at the door.  There was our neighbor with an offering of a fresh "chicken" they found down the block. (I LOVE small towns!  I can't imagine this would happen in a big city.)  They wanted to give us a chance to taste this wonderful delicacy.  Guess what's for lunch today?  I can't wait to try it.  
             On this morning's walk, I found myself scanning the trees instead of the sidewalk.  Maybe mushroom hunting is in my future. 
(Postscript:  I fried the mushroom in butter and it does have the exact texture and taste of chicken.  Two thumbs up!)

The Return of the Clowder

Toby hides in the garden to avoid being petted

                My apologies, clowder fans.  I had no intention of staying away so long, but life got in the way and writing moved to the low end of the priority list.  (Writing was still higher on the list than exercise and housework, which speaks sadly of the state of my body and home.)  The good news is that you were spared the story of Frank eating a large beetle and then barfing its parts onto my sandal, and the tale of Jersey's latest vet visit.  Talk about a tough old gal—Jersey, who spent the 30-minute car ride with projectile diarrhea and vomiting and is about age 96 in cat years, was able to fend off five people (three of them trained animal  care specialists) so her blood draw attempt failed miserably. 

                I know I am not alone in having a hectic schedule, but for my quiet drama-free husband and I, it all but undid us to cram several years' worth of major events into one summer.  There were wonderful moments of joy and dreams, beginnings and endings, and all the messy, get-your-hands-dirty stuff of humanity.  My daughter married the love of her life.  They bought a fixer-upper nearby with eleven layers of wallpaper on the walls.  A storm put a tree through their roof and ruined ours.  We learned how to plaster and texture walls.  We met in St. Louis at the beginning of summer and ended the season watching freighters pull into the Duluth harbor.  We spent a month saying goodbye to my mother-in-law—so much living in such a short time.

                Needless to say, the clowder does not appreciate the latest track of our human journey.  Not only have I not been available 24 hours a day to cater to their every whim,  I have refused to hold the kitchen door open and wait for 2-3 minutes while they each take a turn deciding whether to go out or stay in. 

                Their displeasure is manifested in many ways.  For example, one cat has been naughty…repeatedly… on the carpet in the corner of the dining room.  The carpet is wet.  It smells bad.  My blood boils over, but I can't prove who did it.  Of course there are the usual suspects (FRANK!) but no eyewitness evidence.  Toby registers his anger with us by refusing to let us pet him, except at 3:00 a.m. when he wants constant stroking and bites my elbow if I fall asleep and stop.  The remaining cats pin me down the only chance they get—when I'm trying to sleep.  They've adopted a "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" sleeping formation, with Jersey on my head (she rats my hair with her claws so I awake looking like a poodle), Frank on a shoulder, Finnegan on my knees, and Biff weighing down my toes.  Biff likes that spot because he can bite my feet if I try to move or kick off the covers.

                September has returned with a sense of routine and normalcy.  Hopefully the cats will pick up on that soon and start concentrating on what they do best--living out new storylines that I can share with you.