The Deer Menace

Woe be to the deer of this community now that Griffin is here. Just this morning he came trotting along with a nine inch antler in his mouth. He's allergic to meat so we're looking for the rest of the carcass before he gorges himself into a seizure.

Now there is a chance that our eight pound chupahuahua has not graduated from Royal Canin hydrolyzed protein bits to big game. This could be one of the deer carcasses that passers by throw over our fence as a neighborly gesture before they take the remains of their front end to a body shop.

The fact that the deer cross the roads at unexpected and inconvenient times is a growing problem out here. In fact, there are some who say we have a real deer crisis. In addition to being uncitizenlike pedestrians, the deer consume carefully tended flower beds, shrubs, vegetable gardens and field crops. One of my neighbors was even attacked by a buck.

For obvious reason these hoodlums are very unpopular, and the town is intent on solving the problem by culling the herd. On the one hand it seems we already have a culling plan with the local automobiles doing such a bang up job on the problem, but I suppose there could be some methods that are safer for humans.

Garden Chic

I didn't wear shoes often during the summer when I was growing up. Instead, I prefered to run barefoot through the woods. My feet were like concrete pavers by the end of the summer in both color and texture. I wasn't a tomboy. It was just what we did. Eventually, though I got tired of digging stickers out of my arches and burning my feet on the pavement. I went to the other extreme and now I am an advocate of protecting my feet from all manner of hazards.

I'll get a summer pedicure in case there is a fashion emergency that requires me to wear sandals, but for working around the yard I still need to cover my feet. My wonderful black paisley Nomad boots have been great for digging in the spring mud and taking the dogs out in the snow; however they don't look good with capris. Perhaps you would recommend tennis shoes as an alternative garden shoe. Alas, as I explained in Happy Feet, I really don't like tennis shoes. "Crocs are great for gardening," you might suggest. Crocs don't look good with capris either. In fact, I don't think they look good with anything or on anyone. Upon reflection, I believe they are actually ranked below tennis shoes on my list of likely-to-wear foot coverings.

Crocs do bring to mind clogs with their dowdy rounded toes and lack of heal protection. For those very reasons I'm not crazy about clogs, but I have compromised in favor of finding something suitable to gardening. Oh my... what wonderful clog-crossovers I found. The unassumingly named brand Sloggers makes a very comfortable, beautiful garden shoe in a variety of colors and patterns with some protection for the heal. They won't exactly be the shoe paired with capris on Milan runways next October, but they are not awful and they are not tennis shoes. Thank Goodness!

The real advantage, I think, of having these funky patterned shoes is that I can wear them with anything I might wear in the garden for a whimsical statement. There is a fine line between being lighthearted and being a joke. So long as the rest of my ensemble coordinates, these zany, but practical shoes make it possible for me to get muddy in a way that says "I meant to do that." The key to any style is knowing how to strategically break the rules. 

A Growing Bed of Pets

I’ve never been particular about making pets sleep on the floor, but this is the first time I’ve had a 60 pound lead weight with fur sleeping at my feet. It’s a bit like being short sheeted. In our house, whoever doesn’t take the dogs out in the morning gets another ten minutes to stretch out in bed. This is considered a luxury.

Recently we discussed the situation, and found out that we have different views on how much space is being allotted to whom. We were drawing pictures in the air, assigning percentages and mostly complaining about Calicocoa.

She’s not in any real danger of losing her spot on the bed, though I am curious why she hasn’t given up considering that she rolled off of the bed last week.  Rolling off of the bed is serious in our house, because the pillow top is easily 36” from the floor.

Since we were so detailed in our descriptions of how the other half sleeps, I thought I’d share family maps of the bed.

Farm Diva

In my version of the bed, my boyfriend has just barely enough room to squeeze on. I have plenty of room at the top of the bed, but Calicocoa takes up enough space that I am forced to tuck my knees under my chin. Griffin nestles himself comfortably in the middle.

Boyfriend

 

In my boyfriend’s version of the bed, he is hanging off of the edge. Calicocoa has a corner. I am sleeping spread out across the remainder of the bed. Griffin has nestled himself comfortably in my boyfriend’s back.

Calicocoa

 

In Calicocoa’s version of the bed, we’re all interlopers with whom she is being exceedingly generous. There is little concern as to how we sort out the upper part of the bed, except for the usurper who should be rooted out of the middle. That would be Griffin, nestled comfortably in the middle.

Griffin

 

Griffin’s version is more abstract. The entire bed belongs to him. There are three desirable warm spots and one area containing Calicocoa’s monstrous jaws. Protection from the jaws drives his preference to be comfortably nestled in the middle.

Richard Parker

 

Of course, Richard Parker joins the fray on occasion. If she comes to bed, she lies next to my boyfriend so he will pet her at night. If her water bowl has been overturned, she might walk over my face to get to a glass of water on the bedside table. She has no interest in the dogs, but if Griffin is nestled comfortably on my pillow she has no qualms about stepping on his face too.

Would You Like Some Grapes, Deer?

A mini-vinyard in progress.

This weekend the grape vines went into the ground. My boyfriend built a pergola of sorts for them, while I was digging a hole in the back yard. Him building something fabulous while I'm distracted for ten minutes happens a lot. Meanwhile I'll muddle along trying to get the grapes to grow.

I will be pleasantly surprised if my new plants actually produce any grapes.  They are cold hardy and will thrive in our soil, but our late frosts will likely kill off the chance of any grape harvests.  I'll be just as happy if it fills in the pergola to create a shady little arbor. We have future plans for the area next to the arbor, but for now we've put down wild flower seeds. I think grapes and wild flowers alike will like the sunlight and good drainage.

The main reason to worry for the survival of my grapes will likely be the deer.  We placed the grape vines next to the house hoping that the deer might not want to come in that close. We're finding that the deer are coming right up to the house almost every night.

Just this morning, I looked out the window to see how my new lilac sucker was coming in, but couldn't see it.  I rushed outside and found each one of the leaves hand been carefully bitten off. I think it will live, but we'll be installing deer cages and grow tubes this week. If I can ever get the lilac to bloom, the deer will probably leave it alone... but my grapes are a different story.

Grapevines and wildflower seeds ready to grow.

Our Girl Richard

 It seems odd to me that I have not written anything extensive about our cat, Richard Parker, because she is by far the most interesting individual in our little family. She came to us in her dreams one day last winter. That is to say, she was a shelter cat asleep in a Petsmart when she caught my boyfriend's eye. He wanted to assess her, but it took three people and a five page application form completed before they told him that the rescue would be in touch with him in a few days as to whether or not he could interact with the cat. The wait didn't matter, my boyfriend, Salt, was already attracted to her personality; the cat slept the entire time.

I was dubious about the validity of determining personality based on the ability to snooze in a crowded store, but he was right. I have never seen a cat like her. She answers when called (if she wants to). She obeys commands, and only issues a single protest "mah!" as she complies. "Get off the coffee table!" will cause her to jump to the floor and petulantly "mah!" "Don't claw the sofa!" will cause her to step away from the furniture and "mah!" "Don't use your claws when you play with me" results in her retracting her claws, "mah!"

Eventually, she was named Richard Parker after the Bengal tiger from "The Life of Pi." One night we were watching the movie about a young man stuck on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger and the tiger had a look on it's face that seemed to say, "I could kill you, but not right now." Having seen that expression on our own cat's face so many times, her name was immediately settled. 

She does have other nicknames though. She is called "Thunderfoot" when she clomps down the stairs with a gate that sounds exactly like a large dog. She is called "Princess Stinkums" for the occasional litter box bomb. She indignantly ignores our teasing with all of the forbearance of a teenage girl.

We have come to think of her as our teenage daughter, beginning with the day we accidentally left the guest bedroom open. That afternoon we noticed the cat was missing. After a brief search we found her stretched across the queen size guest bed, enjoying a patch of sunlight and the feeling of a silk comforter. When I entered the room she lifted her head and glared at me with the perturbation only teenage girls can master. If she could have rolled her eyes, she would have. We made a rule not to bother her in her room.

Like any teenager, she does creep into the living room each evening to endure us. At parties, she will even sashay through the center of the room -- seeing and being seen -- before disappearing to her sanctuary again. 

With her position and domain well established in the household, one can imagine how disruptive the past month has been for her. Truly, I think the new dog, the move, and settling in have been harder on her than on any human or dog in the household. 

 The first thing to go was her private bedroom, which had to be stripped of furniture for the carpet cleaners. As the mattress was being removed she walked circles around the room mewing in protest. The mattress did not return.

Then Calicocoa arrived. Richard Parker has held her own with our chupahuahua, Griffin, since the first time she bopped him on the nose with such power I heard the thump ten feet away. With the arrival of our blue heeler, Calicocoa, Richard has made special effort to impress upon the large dog that she is the household enforcer by taking swipes at Calicocoa when the dog gets too near. She has also interfered in spats between the two dogs. Her intent is probably not to defend either of them, so much as to quash any rowdiness. She absolutely despises rollicking behavior among the dogs. For this reason we leave her in charge when we're gone.

Besides the increase in activity, Richard Parker has found that Calicocoa is competition for attention. Richard likes to have her attention, so it's no surprise that she's become even more affectionate with us and with house guests. Now instead of just making an appearance at a party, she picks a comfortable looking lap in which to situate herself. She's now more likely to spend most of the night sleeping next to Salt, tucked under his arm, purring contentedly. She has become more assertive about reminding us to play with her on her scratching post and to feed her ... now... right now... not in a minute, now. I am almost convinced she is saying "now" rather than "meow."

Obviously the ride over from the old house to the new house was horribly traumatic, as I reported previously in my running monologue about the move:

"Drop Richard Parker in her cat crate, and head off to the new house. The miserable wailing of the tortured begins immediately. Three blocks away Richard Parker urinates. Two miles away she begins trying to force her head through the wire mesh, scrapes her face badly, but only gets her nose out. Five miles away she begins panting and long ribbons of drool hang from her mouth. She defecates. She sprays. She claws at the cage. She drools more. She yowls desperately and then hopelessly the entire time. No conciliatory talk helps her calm down. She has to endure forty minutes of this hell. My heart is breaking."

She seemed to recover fairly quickly and took an instant liking to the finished basement, where Calicocoa will not venture and Griffin seldom goes. She found all of the sunny spots for napping throughout the house. She found the good perches and the good window views. Her food dish is secured on a ledge. Her litter box is in a bright corner.

Unknown to us, until last week, there was still something important missing. Richard Parker wasn't paying too much attention to the construction of the guest room bed frame, but when the box springs was set into place, Richard leapt upon it, circled it, and felt it with her claws, mewing all the while. We had to remove her to make the bed. She paced the room while we finished. Once she was set upon the completed bed, she immediately began to run. She circled the bed top three times. She shouted out her joy, "Mew! Mew! Mew!" as she ran. She was giddy. Finally, she threw herself on her back in front of Salt, inviting him to pet her, but she couldn't make up her mind if she wanted to rough house or be adored so she alternated between rolling and scratching.

Fast forward to two nights ago when we were snuggled together with the dogs on the sofa, trying to stay warm as a May snowstorm knocked into the house. Salt thought it would be nice to have Richard Parker join us and went in search of her. He returned a few minutes later, perplexed. She was not on our bed or on her perch in the bedroom. She was not hiding under the dining table. She was not on her bed.

It was unlikely that she would have dashed outside on the best of days, much less during a snowstorm, but one does worry about those things when the temperature drops. I checked the deck, but found no sign of her. I joined Salt to search downstairs. Her bedroom was very cold, but I crouched down to look under the bed. She wasn’t there either. 

I could hear Salt calling to her in the box filled room next door. I sat up just in time to see her head rise up from beneath the pillows of her bed. She looked at me with disgust. . . a teenage girl saying “Can't I have any privacy?"

Welcoming Party

My commute to the heart of downtown takes about an hour and a half, but I don't really mind. There's a thirty minute drive through the countryside to the nearest suburb in the metropolitan transit system. Then I sit in a comfortable motorcoach for an hour, where I can read, blog, answer emails, check on Facebook, get a jump on work, or simply rest. By the time I get to work, I'm in a good frame of mind.

Last Friday, was a particularly beautiful day to be driving down country roads. The grass was turning green. The temperature was warm. The weekend was beginning. I rolled down the windows and sailed along the hills toward home.

As I got near to the house, I saw Calicocoa in what I call the goat orchard, a semi-enclosed pen with a fenceline along the county road. She jumped and trotted along the fenceline merrily barking at my car, and behind her was her new shadow, Griffin. I could barely see him bobbing up and down in the tall grass as he followed Calicocoa. What a sweet welcoming party.

They weren't outside on their own, my boyfriend was home working in the yard. Calicocoa is only allowed out when we are home. Griffin is only allowed out with Calicocoa as escort, and he is her loyal tag along as she ranges the mini-farm. Griffin can't be trusted to come when called, but he does follow Calicocoa who will obey.

Good dogs, happy dogs, running to greet me when I came home. It was a great start to the
weekend.

The Contentment of Sleeping Under the Porch

I hurt. My back hurts. My neck hurts. My abs hurt, and the last time that happened I had food poisoning. My hands hurt. They're red, swollen, and tired. It hurts to type. It hurts to sit. It hurts to stand.

Obviously, this mini-farm renovation and gardening are great for me. This is better than going to the gym. Also, unlike the gym, there's no getting out of it. The deck will look disgusting until I do something about it. The plants will die if I don't attend to them. The dogs would like to feed themselves, but that's a bad idea. It's a lot of work, but it's good for me.

Before

I spent the day alternating between relocating ornamental grass and tearing down the hideous, white trellis that someone thought would make a good fence. This all seemed easy in theory, but digging up grass means digging through thatch and tearing down a trellis means removing hundreds of screws. By the time I got to the last plant, I was so fatigued I couldn't even pull it up with a pry bar. I did much better with the trellis, even though my arms were aching before I was even a third of the way through. Then it was time to feed the pets, feed the plants and feed the humans. It was a dawn to dusk sort of work day, but it was also a beautiful spring day.

Another advantage to this new lifestyle is that I get to see things I would ordinarily miss. The honeysuckle tree was in full bloom and in the cool hours of the day it was humming with bees. We saw the first of the lady bugs who are welcome to feast on the whiteflies as soon as my tomatoes come out.

My boyfriend found a cactus about to bloom and transplanted it to his garage garden, which is what I call the small space between the kitchen door and the garage where he plans to make his personal outdoor room. I have already banned his kegerator from the garden, which he says creates an unreasonable burden. When ice cold beer spews forth from cane stalks, he can have that magical plant in the garden, until then he'll have to walk to the garage. See, I'm not unreasonable. He spent a lot of time mowing this weekend. With his old straw hat on, he looked like a farmer.

The little dog, Griffin, was given unusually free rein to roam nearby, yesterday. He spent part of his time tailing Calicocoa as she made her rounds. He also had fun chasing grasshoppers, though he didn't seem to think they tasted very good. He kept releasing them and trying to catch them again.  Flibbertigibbet.

Calicocoa loped around the property at will, drank ice water, had to be chased out of the barn for eating manure and finally took advantage of the trellis-free deck to fall asleep under the front porch. She looked like an experienced farm dog, lying there in the dirt with sand caking her nose. She looked content. Just the same, I wondered whether I would really let her in the house without a bath. (Too tired, I did.) 

After

Richard Parker had a day of peace and quiet with the house to herself.

Altogether, I think everyone had a good day. Now that the grass is transplanted, the trellis is mostly gone, the dogs are fed, the rugs are vacumed, the plants are watered, and the dishes are done. It's time for some Advil and lights out. I'll do the ironing tomorrow.