Furry Pancakes

I'm beginning to feel I'm being used.  The mother ground squirrels are sending their children into the barn at milking time, ostensibly to watch the entertainment, but in reality so they'll have a little time to themselves.  Like kindergartners with their nap rugs (do they still have nap rugs and graham crackers in kindergarten?), these little kids settle in to watch the show.  Yesterday there were five, and one at a time they stretched out flat as pancakes, lined up like speed bumps (hillbilly undulations) with front and back legs splayed.  Slowly, the susurring lullaby of the milk hitting the bucket caused their lids to droop...and they slept.  Now I'm a babysitter for baby squirrels. 

I just love words that sound like their meaning.  Susur is one, cough is another.  How about zip, or sigh?  Thank you, Mother.  It was she who introduced me to the "susurring of the wind through the pine trees."

I conceded defeat and took Pearl to the vet to have her stitches removed.  A la fuel filter episode, I'd forgotten that I'd need both hands to cut the sutures, and that I'd need both hands to hold a cat who did not want to be held.  That left me two hands short, and rather than risk her ending up looking like she'd been treated by Edward Scissorhands, discretion seemed the better part of valor.  This time as we drove in to town, she called me everything but a child of God, even though I explained that it was for her own good.  She got clearance from Dr. Ric, and when we got home, I let her out of the crate (in the house) and told her to "Fly and be free!"  She immediately disappeared somewhere (but not in the dreaded bathroom) for several hours, and then spent a few more hours exploring familiar territories before asking to be let outside.  I really was concerned that she would take off for parts unknown to avoid the possibility of repeat imprisonment, but she and Frank came in at the appointed bedtime hour...and all's right in our world once again.

Today is my daughter's birthday.  As we were talking last night, the birthday of each of my children takes me back to their birth day, and the intense joy of meeting these unique individuals for the first time comes flooding back.  It's a happy birthday for them, and for me.

Bumps and Bats

We seem to have hit one of those rough patches in the road.  Yesterday was spent at the vet's while Pearl had emergency surgery.  She had a gash on her neck from something that had happened the night before...fence? coyote? no idea.  It's too far to town to drop her off and come back, so I waited for hours.  There's always a book in the truck for just such occasions.  Poor Pitiful Pearl is now wearing a conehead, and it's Frank's turn to hiss at her.  It's been almost a year to the day that Frank injured his leg and also had surgery.  Pearl thought he was the Killer Clown from Outer Space then and shunned him like something evil.  Until the drain comes out, Pearl is confined in isolation in the big bathroom.  Bessie Anne whines and cries at the door, worried about her missing companion, hopefully making up for Frank's bad attitude.  I can't take Pearl in on Tuesday to have the drain removed, because Dave is having repair surgery on his shoulder, injured last October.  I should just set up an infirmary...I'm sure Stumpy would enjoy company in the laundry room.  Everyone hits these bumps in life...experience tells me they won't last, and I learned a long time ago to never ask, "What else can go wrong?"

The bats are finally here.  Their arrival was evidently delayed because of the long wet season.  I so look forward to watching them flit and dive in the early morning and twilight hours, silhouetted against the rising or setting sun.  I've been in love with bats ever since I can remember.  I was thrilled to meet Burma, a huge bat living at what was then called Africa USA in Vallejo, and she was my main attraction whenever we went.  She was over a foot tall, with cinnamon-colored plush velvet fur, golden eyes, and smooth black leather wings that spread nearly three feet.  I coveted her, but I'm happy with the tiny, three-inch bats who come back like swallows every year.

It's the Fourth of July, Independence Day, and I'm going to celebrate at Joel and Judy's annual barbecue bash this afternoon.  A rerun of the miniseries, "John Adams," will be showing soon and I highly recommend it.  It never hurts to be reminded how and why we got to be Americans.