Saturday, October 04, 2008
Paco the Oregon Cat . . .
Paco the Vole-Catcher lurks by a birdhouse high in a tree, hoping that some hapless bird won't notice his gaudy coat, surveying the ground for Vole movement.
It rains all day. I listen to the honking from the low clouds as I take a pick axe and dig a trench around part of the house for a rain garden to catch the roof runoff. I carry rocks, one at a time, and line the trench with big ones, then smaller, then river rock, then tumbled rock on top, and plant juncus along the side.
Dad rolled around the house last night in his wheelchair. He snagged the cookie jar, ate every cookie, and wrote a note on a manila folder, which he tapes on the lid with duct tape : "Keep This Full, Please! Signed, The Night Crawler."
Oh my aching back. Oh my blisters. Oh chain gang. Oh rocks. Time to hang up the pick axe, and feed Paco.
In the cat food bowl, a surprise for me: a mangled vole. I flush it, clean the bowl (cat, not toilet) and fill it up (kibbles). Where is he? Kitty, kitty? Out hunting.
I am mud. It seeps through my gloves. My fingernails are packed with dirt. I am soaking wet and filthy. My garden clogs are caked with red clay. I slip them off by the door. The rain stops. The clouds part; the sky is empty. There is no quacking. The birds are down for the night.
It's dusk, and the frogs take up the silence.
It rains all day. I listen to the honking from the low clouds as I take a pick axe and dig a trench around part of the house for a rain garden to catch the roof runoff. I carry rocks, one at a time, and line the trench with big ones, then smaller, then river rock, then tumbled rock on top, and plant juncus along the side.
Dad rolled around the house last night in his wheelchair. He snagged the cookie jar, ate every cookie, and wrote a note on a manila folder, which he tapes on the lid with duct tape : "Keep This Full, Please! Signed, The Night Crawler."
Oh my aching back. Oh my blisters. Oh chain gang. Oh rocks. Time to hang up the pick axe, and feed Paco.
In the cat food bowl, a surprise for me: a mangled vole. I flush it, clean the bowl (cat, not toilet) and fill it up (kibbles). Where is he? Kitty, kitty? Out hunting.
I am mud. It seeps through my gloves. My fingernails are packed with dirt. I am soaking wet and filthy. My garden clogs are caked with red clay. I slip them off by the door. The rain stops. The clouds part; the sky is empty. There is no quacking. The birds are down for the night.
It's dusk, and the frogs take up the silence.
