Half Moon

After a long day of mowing, weeding, cleaning, and organizing areas large and small around the ranch, the barn and most of the landscape looks well attended to. The kittens played outside all day, the horses grazed in the north pasture, and the dogs lazed in the yard keeping careful watch over all. We toiled under a mostly blue sky with cool autumn-like temperatures.

If feels like summer never actually came this year. Our weather from June on has resembled a very long spring now folding seamlessly into fall. Not that I'm complaining, this has been a perfect season with many beautiful sunny, but temperate, days followed by cool breezy nights--sounds almost too good to be true.

We fell into bed last night around 10 o'clock. Pat's snoring began almost immediately, while I laid awake reviewing the day's accomplishments. A cool breeze found its way through the open window animating the curtains into a slinky dance. This ghostly apparition set the stage for a chorus of yipping coyotes in the not too far distance. I slid out of bed not wanting to disturb Pat or the dogs, then positioned myself kneeling at the window, listening to the call of the wild. There were several voices harmonizing as I scanned the landscape looking in the direction of the call.

In the distance, a dark orange half moon sat low in the sky bidding farewell before slipping behind the Adele range. By 10:30, we'll have a moonless sky allowing millions of stars their first appearance in many weeks. The Milky Way streaks across the darkness like a veil of vapor. I often wonder why I can see the Milky Way, as if it is out there somewhere, separate from our mother planet. How do we see it if we are in it? It's like seeing the forest from the perspective of one of the trees.

I also wonder if the coyotes anticipate a moonless night, as they yip with great expectation. What does a moonless night mean to them? A better chance at hunting? Or something bigger? Perhaps their instincts inform them that change is on the way. While I may never know what lies in the mind of coyotes, or how the phases of the moon affect the various creatures that feel its pull, what I do know is that as my senses sharpen to the world around me I feel a greater calm and peace in the knowing that all is well--and so it is.

The Perfect Coverup

Uncle Charlie's feet barely touched the ground as he flew through the closing door nearly getting his tail pinched as I jumped back not knowing what was racing toward me. Each evening before dark sets in, I return to the barn for a head count and to close up the doors with Puff and kittens securely tucked in for the night.

Tonight, however, Uncle Charlie had his own ideas. There may come a point in time when our toms will insist on spending the night prowling, but 8 weeks is far too young. So when Uncle Charlie decided it prudent to escape the closing door, my curiosity allowed me to stand back and watch before scooping him up. Not wanting to create a late night rodeo chasing kittens hither and yon, I closed the door, causing Puff enough concern that she sat on the inside of the door crying for her wayward son.

Hopping onto the fence for a better view, I scanned the corrals searching for movement in the waning sunlight. Finally, I spotted the little bugger. He managed to flee to the far end of the outer corral--a spot clinging to the last ray of vanishing light where he circled, pawed, and sniffed, then apparently dissatisfied with the choice, he walked a few feet to the north, circled, pawed, and sniffed once again before plopping his bottom into the second freshly dug divot. How a kitten decides where to poo, choosing one spot over another and another, completely baffles me.

After sitting stoically erect over the impression for a few moments, he hopped up, turned around, admired his accomplishment, then scooted in a circular direction pulling dirt with each turn creating the perfect cover up for his tiny poo.

Once Uncle Charlie finished his business, he agreeably bounded toward the now closed door, answering his mother's concerned call. I cautiously opened the door hoping the other two kittens weren't waiting for a similar opportunity. Not a problem, thankfully. Puff escorted her bold little boy to the awaiting kennel where his brothers had already snuggled down in their favorite corners. Puff circled a few times before settling into her resting spot. Bold little Uncle Charlie waited until his mother sighed, then cuddled up close to her. When I looked back one more time before leaving, Puff had her arm firmly wrapped around Uncle Charlie's neck secure in the knowledge that at least for one more night all is well. And so it is.

Itchin' To Shoot Somethin'

After the dinner dishes were prewashed by Cali and stacked into the dishwasher by your's truly, the two of us headed out for our after dinner stroll. Luna usually hangs back more interested in Pat's attention than most anything else on the planet, even gophers! It's all good, though, everyone's happy. She and Pat will take their walk later on.

Our gravel driveway runs a good 1/2 mile where it ends with a few mailboxes, a cattleguard, and the decision to turn left or right. Right will take you to the interstate 3 miles south, left will take you god knows where.

At the midway point along the driveway there is a Y. Coming up from the road, bearing right will drop you at Gerard's place, head left and you'll end up at our place. Cali and I got as far as the Y when I noticed a lump in the road about 100 feet ahead. Taking a closer look seemed foolish, so I fumbled around each pocket searching for my phone thinking I'd call Pat and he could drive up with the gun. Of course, the phone's sitting on the kitchen counter leaving us to hike back to the house as quickly as possible. I sure didn't want Mr. Snake to get away. Just last weekend Pat and I spent half a day learning gun safety and practicing shooting paper gophers. By now I'm itchin' to shoot somethin'.

Having reached 90 degrees this afternoon it was a bit too warm to run, but with the promise of a treat, Cali managed to walk really really fast. By the time we reached the house my heart was pounding with excitement. I was finally getting a chance to shoot the dreaded snake. I yelled up the stairs for Pat. With competition from the TV, it took a few yells before he reluctantly answered. I told him to put on his shoes and come with me. "There's a snake on the driveway near the mailboxes. Come with me while I shoot it", I bellowed. Down he came--hiding his excitement, but I could tell. "You load while I drive", I said. He took the gun and ammo and we both hurried out the door.

At the Y, I stopped the car scanning the road hoping the snake was still enjoying the warm gravel.

"There he is", I yelled-- with the excitement of a 6-year-old catching the first glimpse of Disney World.
Pat responded, "you mean that pile of horse shit?"
"What? That's horse shit?"
"If you don't know the difference between a snake and horse shit..."

I turned the car around and headed back home more disappointed than embarrassed, but embarrassed all the same. What if I truly don't know the difference between--
a snake and _____.

Fire Season

According to my calender it is mid-summer; however, if you're a student or the parent of a student, you are probably counting the number of days left until the buses begin rolling, once again signalling the end of another summer and the beginning of a new school year.

But right here in my corner of Earth, mid summer means combines, balers, tons of dust, and the ever present fire danger. Since we haven't seen rain for many weeks, it wouldn't take much for fire to erupt. Last week a plumb of smoke arose from behind Square Butte blackening the sky overhead. Our neighbor informed us that a fire broke out on a ranch in Fort Shaw about 20 miles west as the crow flies. A baler struck a rock, sparks flew, and within an few minutes 15 acres were consumed. Sitting at the foot of the Rocky Mountains it's nearly impossible to avoid rocks. Even the most careful farmer and rancher knows that fire potential awaits every turn. Thousands of acres can disappear within hours. There is a vigilance in the air as we watch over ourselves and our neighbors. We keep fire extinguishers in all vehicles, the tractor and on the riding mower. Periodically I check the 360 degree view from upstairs, at times confusing a distant plumb of dust for a plumb of smoke.

Last night's local news reported a couple of fires 70 or so miles to the south and west. As the sun rose this morning, winds began blowing from the southwest creating a veil of smoky haze and a chilling smell that reminds us of our vulnerability and our responsibility. For now, spending mid-summer on the prairie with eyes wide open.

And so it is.

Chip Off The Old Block

Twice today, I entered to barn to find Chip frolicking behind the haystack with a dead body in his mouth. While not entirely sure whether Puff's catching the mice, or if it's Chip himself, one thing is for sure, he's got the instinct and the tenacity of a true mouser.

On my first trip, I was horrified by the grizzly discovery of a disembodied head lying in the middle of the floor. Curious to know what happened to the rest of it, I peeked into every nook and cranny wondering if Puff had eaten it. I had my fingers crossed it wasn't true. Killing a mouse is one thing, but eating it is quite another. Friends have told me that when you feed a barn cat it is likely to kill more mice because it is killing for sport rather than for food. Conversely, an unfed cat will only kill when it's hungry. So it seemed unlikely to me that Puff was eating as well as killing.

As I was about to leave the barn, Chip appeared from behind the haystack with what looked like a string hanging from his mouth. He wouldn't come to me, but instead ran back into the dark corner. I grabbed a broom and went after the little bugger. After poking him a few times he finally sprang forth and showed me his coveted prize. He had the headless mouse in his mouth and could not have been more pleased with himself.

A few hours later, I return, lunch in hand.
Puff, Ernie, and Uncle Charlie dive into bowls.
Chip--conspicuously missing.
Thumping sounds behind hay.
Chip emerges.
Fully intact body dangling from mouth.
"Cute factor", zero.

We're losing our kittens and gaining cats. Boy they grow up so fast. Maybe now I can get something else done around here!

Trust the Process

More and more each day, the kittens (yes, the kittens, again) grow and gain greater independence from Puff. This is all normal, expected, and desired. However, I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown watching these small vulnerable kittens take on the harsh dangerous world. Nothing stops them; no gate is too tall; and no one, especially me, possesses the agility and speed necessary to catch and contain their fearless spirit.

For the past 6 1/2 weeks, these tiny creatures have challenged each and every attempt made for the purpose of "keeping them safe". The reality is they are outside cats; and in order for them to develop their innate survival skills, they must stretch their reach beyond the four walls that they're apparently outgrowing.

The problem belongs to me, this I know for sure. My inability to let them go and experience what may, keeps them bound in ways that are neither healthy nor natural.

What to do! Do I open up the barn and allow? Do I keep creating bigger and stronger barriers? Is it more beneficial for a kitten to experience the world when his curiosity calls? Or is it better (safer) for him to wait until I'm ready?

Of course I know the answer to these questions. I must honor, respect, and trust the process. Even if that means....

Awaiting His Turn

This morning like most every other morning, I was greeted at the barn door by four hungry, sleepy little souls. As I opened the door, sunlight flooded the opening much to every one's delight, including mine.

Once the bowls hit the floor, my next chore took me to the back of the barn where the litter box sat begging my attention. Not my favorite chore, but certainly a necessary one, I quickly whisked the box outside to the nearest waste can.

Within a few minutes, the box was once again ready for use, and not a moment too soon it appeared. Our littlest kitten, Ernie, promptly hopped into the box, went through the preliminary motions, assumed the position, then dug and pawed as if....

Not believing that a 6-week old barn kitten would know what the box was for, but rather, assuming he was mimicking behavior he had seen Puff demonstrate, I leaned in for a closer look. To my complete astonishment, there lie buried beneath an adequate amount of litter was the most precious little turd I'd ever seen.

To my greater amazement, was the fact that while Ernie made use of the box, his older brother, Chip, sat quietly alongside awaiting his turn.