Saying Goodbye

 I found Sydney wandering with her mom when she was four weeks old. I didn’t want another dog, but there was an instant connection that lasted nearly thirteen years. Though we were very close, it wasn’t until she ran away during a thunderstorm several years ago that our relationship morphed from dog owner and dog into something I still struggle to define. A neighbor had told me he had seen Sydney running down the road toward the river about a mile from our house. I scouted the area for hours calling her name until she finally emerged from the tall grass. She ran toward the sound of my voice and without hesitation jumped into the river where she sunk like a stone. The water was deep, and I jumped in to pull her to shore. We lay together wet and cold on the bank in the mud staring at one another. “I will never leave you,” I said. She was dazed and panting but managed to raise a paw and rest it on my shoulder. A cosmic transcendence between species opened a new kind of relationship. I belonged to her and she belonged to me.

Over the years people often commented on our relationship. When we were home, we were never out of each other’s sight. When I traveled, my husband would report Sydney appeared anxious awaiting my return. I called her the love of my life much to my husband’s chagrin, but he also understood it to be the truth. I prayed that day while looking for her. I would not survive the uncertainty of not knowing where she was and begged God to return her to me. While I had God on the phone, I promised to be Sydney’s faithful guardian. I spent months after our reunion worried that some unforeseen event would take her from me: a car accident, a snake bite, valley fever. Time passed and the signs of old age and illness crept into our lives. It started with a chronic runny nose. There were tests, medications, X-rays, and even a CT scan. Meanwhile Sydney and I remained loyal to one another. Nature was taking her slowly from me while God granted me time to come to terms with what was to come.

In the end my prayers were answered. I had been granted the gift of letting go slowly. I shared this story with a friend who said he knew someone who worked in hospice. My friend had asked him how he would want to go knowing this man had seen a great deal of death in his profession. His answer? Cancer. He said that was the way to go. He said it’s best for the person dying and family and friends. As cancer is eating away at a person’s body, her mind, emotions, and spirit are still intact. This gives patients and their loved ones time to come to grips with what is to come. We hear of an old many having a heart attack or someone getting hit by a bus and we say, “That’s the way I want to go.”  Is it? The last fifteen months with Sydney were painful as I watched her body and mind change. But I had time to grieve and to let go. I cried countless tears fearing the worst, so when it was time to say goodbye, I could be with her, to hold her as she passed on to the next realm.

I find myself reaching down at my side scratching the ear that is no longer there or running to her aid when a crack of thunder ascends on the house. I am still grieving, but not in the ways I imagined. I did the best I could for her and her for me. In the end, that is all anyone can ask for.

 

Cats in the Cradle

catWe lost our barn cat yesterday. I found her sprawled out on the concrete just a few feet away from the cat door we have out in the barn. It looked like she may have died from a head injury, probably attacked by a coyote. I didn’t know this cat well. Occasionally she would dart through the barn to a proven hiding place when I entered to leave food and water. Last week she came around the house and even got into our back room where she drove our indoor cats crazy with her carrying on. I’d mentioned to my husband, Ron, that she was probably in heat. Our neutered, grey tabby, Fast Eddie, kept us up for three nights, some primal residual egging him on to mate. The sound was low and sorrowful, like he understood what we had done to him; what he’d missed out on.

I’d been out on a walk when I noticed the cat. After putting the dogs up in the house, I grabbed a garbage bag and a pair of gloves. I’ve had to do this kind of thing before: the kitten that was half-eaten by a coyote; birds, lizards, and mice that lost their lives to cats and other predators; the Great Horned Owls that perished atop a faulty electrical transformer; song birds that chased their reflection right into our living room window. Each animal I’ve stumbled upon has caused a catch in my throat.

The barn cat was brown and white. She was young and had six toes on her front feet like my nineteen-year-old house cat, Little Miss Molly. Seeing those paws, I fell to my knees and sobbed. You don’t belong here, Beth, rose from somewhere deep inside me. There is no taming this wild place. I either play by nature’s rules or pack my bags and get out. Last week it snowed, followed by three days of brutal, frigid wind. Today it’s seventy degrees. The trees in our orchard are confused. The plum trees have blossomed in tandem. The peach trees are giving it another go after the buds froze in the last storm. Songbirds are fighting for space on the feeders, and the bees, so heavy with pollen, are buzzing around like they’ve had too much to drink. All this was going on yesterday while I walked back to the house with the barn cat cradled in my arms. I cried when I placed her on a table in the garage where she wouldn’t be disturbed until Ron could bury her. I cried while I poured a glass of wine and got dinner started. I was still crying when I went outside to feed the dogs. By then I had convinced myself I didn’t belong here. That I would be better off in a small house in town where my life would be manageable, a place where I’d have some peace of mind for God’s sake.

Then I looked up from the dog dishes and caught the sun setting behind the Chiricahua Mountains, leaving in its path a crimson sky; a slice of cornflower blue cut through the middle exposing a glimpse of heaven. I wiped my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “For now, I’ll stay.”

Let it Bee (Whisper Words of Wisdom)

squash blossomThe couple who stayed in the bunkhouse this week were  both PhD students. The woman is studying bees, She was delighted to discover squash bees in our garden working diligently deep in the centers of squash blossoms. Her partner’s focus is insects. I lack the inclination and discipline necessary to be a scientist, but I marvel at folks who have the propensity to hone in on something as specific as bees.

I am hardwired to linger in the grey areas of life. While driving or taking a shower, I ponder the words we use and the context in which we use them. Kismet feels fun on the tongue. It’s Arabic for divide and was adopted into Turkish to mean fate, as in the way we use the word in English. I wonder if the Muslim faith believes in fate and how this word that once meant divide came to mean something that in the end, brings us, the universe, and our faiths together. Looking into a dog’s eyes, I see the reflection of my best self and worry that science and politics has whittled away so completely at the natural world that perhaps I have lost bits of tenderness and intuition along the way. This is how my brain works. The edges are fuzzy and bleed into one another. In short, I’d make a terrible scientist. That said, if I wasn’t deathly allergic, I may have committed myself to the lives of bees as they answer the philosophical, religious, cultural, and political questions that have plagued humans since the dawn of our existence.Inkedbee_LI

On our morning walk down the runway, Ron and I came to the conclusion that honey bees would have been wiped from the planet long ago if the little buggers didn’t sting. Hives would have been robbed clean by cave dwellers and nomadic folks if bees acted more like puppies or butterflies. Their sting reminds us nothing worth a lick is given up freely. I’d never even heard of a squash bee or the 20,000 other species of bees that inhabit the planet until our guests arrived. The honey bees we have here at the ranch are perfectly happy living in cramped, warm quarters of 15,000 to 60,000 whereas squash bees are solitary creatures who nest in the ground. In human terms, I imagine it’s like our small community of say 500 versus the 8.5 million people that make up New York City.

By some metrics, I have the home range of a female black bear. I need 3 to 10 square miles of open space to feel at peace. Some folks I know live in apartment buildings akin to marmot burrows. Whatever the case may be, humans fall somewhere on the home range continuum. How close is too close? We don’t have a great deal of crime out our way, no shootings this year that I know of. Chicago, on the other hand, has had over 1,400 shootings since the first of the year. Does having people crammed into such close proximity increase the likelihood of crime? I have no idea, but I do know this: if bees are in harmony whether living on top of one another or nestled alone in the ground, why is it so difficult for us?

Double Blind Peer Review (By an Owl)

2017-07-23 08.27.53A biologist friend told us not to become attached to the three baby Great Horned Owls that hatched this April. He explained the owls have brains the size of peas and that their sole purpose is to hunt. This isn’t our first rodeo; we’ve had baby owls before, but I didn’t mention it.

It’s hard to be objective when Ron and I watched the mother owl sit on her nest for thirty-seven days without so much as flying to a nearby branch high up in the pine tree from where she nested. We were thrilled when the first baby poked its head up from under its mother’s wing and were in awe when we counted heads again a few days later to find the mother was willing to share her nest with three rambunctious babies. All the while, the father brought food to keep his brood alive.

In mid-June, when Ron found one of the fledglings on the ground out by the windmill with a broken wing, we made calls and found Dennis who works for Gila Wildlife Rescue in Silver City. Two days later, we found out the owl had an infection and needed to be euthanized. I was sad but told myself its part of nature’s plan. “We still had two babies left,” I said, when a friend asked how I was doing.

One evening in late June, a wind storm came through sending dog dishes and lawn furniture skittering across the lawn. The next morning, we found a second baby owl under a pine tree. We called Dennis, and Ron and I agreed to keep an eye on it. A day went by. The owl was able to fly short distances but continued to return to his place under the pine tree. We took the owl in to be examined where it was decided it had been electrocuted. It died shortly afterwards. Devastated, I followed the third baby with my binoculars praying nothing would happen to it. As the monsoon season approached, I secretly hoped the wind and rain would remain at bay until the baby was strong enough to withstand the punishing storms. In these parts, where every drop of rain counts, this was an act of treason for which I harbored no guilt.

My interest in the baby owl, which bordered on obsession, grew into something that now resembles friendship. Each morning, I am greeted with screeching when I take the dogs outside. At night, after chores are done and the animals are in for the evening, I step out into the yard beyond the lights and call for her. Sometimes she answers from a nearby tree, but now that she is getting bigger and hunts on her own, I hear her faint screech from a half mile away. When I return home after being gone for a few days, she will greet me from an outlying branch where she bounces and shrieks as though saying, “Look at me! I’ve missed you!”

Like many kids, I took my first biology class in eighth grade where, with trembling hands, I dissected a frog that had spent its post-life in formaldehyde. It was in that class that I was introduced to the scientific method:

  1. Make an observation
  2. Pose a question
  3. Form a hypothesis
  4. Conduct an experiment
  5. Analyze the data and draw a conclusion

At no point was I asked to share my feelings about the dead frog that lay on the metal tray in front of me spread eagle with pins sticking out of it to keep it from sliding onto the floor. If given the chance, I would have asked to go home where I would have gone to bed, pulled a blanket over my head, and cried until my mom said it was time for supper.

Like some of the other kids in my class, our friend the biologist was cut from a different cloth. I imagine examining the internal workings of a frog or a sheep’s heart may have provided a sense of order in his world as he studied systems and learned about the taxonomy of animals. And by spending a career steeped in the scientific method, he learned to avoid the obvious: Great Horned Owls are capable of forming relationships.

As so often happens, I didn’t have a rebuttal when he said, with professional authority, owls were designed to hunt. That’s all. Period. But if I had been prepared, or at least wittier than I generally am, here is what I would have presented to him in terms he would have understood:

  1. Make an observation- The baby owl seems to notice me more than it does other people.
  2. Pose a question- I wonder if the baby owl has formed an attachment to me?
  3. Form a hypothesis- If the baby owl has formed an attachment to me, it should react to me in some distinct fashion.
  4. Conduct an experiment- Each time I go outside, I will screech and see if the baby owl screeches back in response. Control Group: Ron will also screech when he goes  outside to elicit a reaction from the owl.
  5.  Analyze the data and draw a conclusion- The baby owl reacts differently to me than to other people. Proof: Ron comes in and says, “You need to go outside. Your owl is calling for you.” Conclusion: Great Horned Owls are capable of discerning their attachments toward humans.

My own conclusion? I care deeply for the baby owl who continues to defy the monsoon storms that have arrived in full force. I delight in her antics and feel a connection when she calls out to me. I can’t predict what nature has in store for her and will have to deal with the loss, god forbid, something happens. What I have learned in observing the owl is that the things that matter most like friendship, feelings, and love cannot be accurately measured using the scientific method. I guess for now, the owl and I will stick to what we know, and let science ponder questions that don’t concern us.

Along Came a Spider and Sat Down beside Her

cobweb-morgentau-dew-dewdrop-53367From nursery rhymes to Emily Dickinson’s poem, The Spider Holds a Silver Ball, these eight-legged, silk-producing arachnids ignite wonder for the curious-minded and, in Charlotte’s case, bestow wisdom that stretches far beyond the barnyard. And why not? Their ability to spin glorious webs that catch droplets of morning dew make romantics swoon. But as Little Miss Muffet reminds us, they are also to be feared.
I’ve been a gardener my whole life. I blame it on genetics. My people were Irish and Bohemian farmers. Hearty Northern folk who held the seasons in their bones. I grew up in the 70’s in the suburbs of Milwaukee, where lawn care bordered on religious doctrine and dads fired up the grill in the backyard on Saturday night. In our backyard we had a garden that rivaled those found on hippie communes. It never occurred to me that we were the only family in the neighborhood who spent the summer planting, harvesting, canning, and pickling. My sisters and I were too busy weeding to notice most people just went to the grocery store. I was a scrawny kid who froze most of the year. If for no other reason, I loved working in the garden because it provided plenty of warm sunshine. My mom had a shelf in the bathroom of salves, sprays, and repellents for the bug bites and scratches. If I complained to her about spiders or any other creepy-crawlies, I don’t remember. That all changed after I was bit by a mosquito carrying the malaria parasite while living in Honduras.
I was sick with malaria for five years. What I didn’t realize at the time was that few US doctors have the training or knowledge to address the long-term effects. When the last fever passed eighteen years ago, I thanked God I had survived. Little did I know that it was the beginning of a long list of health anomalies I would encounter over the years.
Our orchard and garden demand our full attention right now. Along with the work, comes a host of insects that can do me in. Whether it’s the seemingly benign grass spider that builds its funnel-looking web among the squash leaves or the banded garden spider whose ladder-like web stretches along the tops of tomato plants, I know that as soon as I enter their domain, I’m fair game. No matter how careful I am, spiders seem to be attracted to whatever it is malaria left behind in my blood.
We finally planted our garden last Friday. It was a terribly windy day. Both Ron and I were exhausted by the time we finished. After a hot shower and some lunch, I was still tired and took a nap. I woke three hours later disoriented and experiencing muscle pain and chills. I immediately checked my body for bites. Sure enough, I counted three. I couldn’t focus my thoughts to make dinner and over the next twenty-four hours, things went from bad to worse. A red ring formed around one bite (perhaps the sign of either a tick carrying Lyme’s disease or a brown recluse) and thoughts of worthlessness consumed me.
Two days later, as I started to come out of it, Ron and I went for a walk through the desert where I was bitten again. Beyond the pain and exhaustion, my greatest fear is that the confusion will stick with me. I wonder if in a week, a month, or a year from now, I will pick up a book or sit down to write, and all I will see are individual words on a page that my brain can no longer link into sentences and paragraphs. I’m terrified I will lose the ability to make sense of the world through stories and my thoughts.
I woke up today feeling much better. My Little Miss Muffet fear of spiders has receded some as I sit here thrilled that I am able to write this. The seeds we planted last week are poking through the soil. Nature waits for no one, and I have work to do.

Hoot Hoot

animals-birds-owl-fauna.jpgFor thirty-seven days a Great Horned Owl sat on her eggs in a nest twenty feet up in a pine tree outside our front door without doing much more than twitching her ears. During that time, Ron and I got haircuts, joined friends for a fish fry, and spent time with our granddaughter. We planted seeds for our garden, trimmed fruit trees, and Ron harvested three gallons of honey from our bee hives. I hosted the Cochise Creative Writing Celebration, edited the Mirage Literary and Arts Magazine, and presented a writing workshop for the Rocky Mountain Outdoor Writers & Photographers. I learned a little something about birding, attended my first bull sale, and read two novels. In short, our lives consisted of much more than twitching our ears.

The owl came to live with us back in October and perched for months in a pine tree on the west side of the house. At night she graced us with her hoot-hoot. In February, we noticed a male owl and in no time a love connection was made. Once she took to the nest, we included checking on her in the morning when we took the dogs for a walk and again in the evening. I could hardly contain myself when, on the thirty-seventh day, we found her sitting up in the nest. My best guess was the eggs had hatched. Four days later my suspicions were confirmed when a downy, white head with enormous eyes peeked out from the nest and wobbled in the wind.

From what Ron and I can tell, there are three owlets. I’ve been doing a great deal of reading and it seems even though the male and female mate for life, Great Horned Owls lack in parenting skills. Because they are opportunists rather than nest builders, they often make bad decisions when shopping for real estate; often times selecting a nest that is flimsy or too small. Luckily this couple commandeered a vacated raven’s nest. It’s a catawampus mess of sticks, but I’d trust it in a hurricane. Even so, I worry about the baby owls. If the parents are bad, the owlets are god-awful. Some will bat their wings until the nest falls apart, others try to fly the coop long before they’re ready, and sibling rivalry can send a brother or sister tumbling to the ground. I worry at least one of these little guys won’t make it long enough to fly out of here.

That’s the owls’ side of the story. Inside the house we have four cats and a ten pound Corgi-Chihuahua mix named Peaches. The voracious appetite of a parliament of owls leaves little to the imagination should my cats get out. I keep the dog on a leash for our walks with a vigilant eye to the sky. Several times a day I shout out, “Where’s Peaches!” or “Count the cats!” The anxiety wears on me as I make my way through the house checking doors and windows.

Now that I’m noticing the amazing birds migrating through the pine trees and orchard, I’m reminded of my house in Arizona where our cats spent the mornings outside while I gardened. To show their appreciation, they often brought me lizards and pretty, little dead birds. The karmic implications are not lost on me. This is the cycle of life, I tell myself when I can’t find one of the cats or Peaches darts out the front door unaware of the hunters perched above her head.

Black-headed GrosbeakToday a Black-headed Grosbeak is holding our bird feeder hostage as the poor House Finches plead for seeds. I have spent most of my life unaware of how insanely active and cut-throat the natural world is. I’ve been too preoccupied to notice things like the owl-cat-songbird cycle-of-life. I’m too busy with meetings, appointments, and obligations to notice the grosbeak bully on the block. This morning an owlet spread its wings. The birds are twice the size they were when we first saw them a week ago. Moments like this give me pause. Life goes on whether we pay attention or not.

 

Stormy Weather

barn owlIt is not late snow or heavy rains that send us indoors dreaming of better weather to sooth our aching souls after months of cold and darkness. Here, in Animas, it is the wind. March comes, and we pray this spring will be different. It never is.
I have sacrificed scarves, hats, dog dishes, even food (Cheetos mostly) to the wind gods, and still they laugh, sending stronger gusts our way. A stretch of I-10 is often closed this time of year because of dust storms. The birds and rabbits hunker down for days. We pray the roof will hold. It’s that kind of wind.
I was out of town last weekend when Ron called to say he’d found the barn owl that lives in our pine trees, injured on the floor of the garage. Ron surmised because of remarkably strong winds, the bird was caught off guard and may have slammed into a tree. Soon a photo came, via text, of this once majestic bird laying with its wing at a peculiar angel on our doggie bed.
Ron and I both made calls and by ten that morning, we’d found someone who could help. While I went about my business in town, Ron wrestled with a logistical nightmare to get the owl to a wildlife rehabilitation hospital.
The recent weather reports coming from New Hampshire and Louisiana sound like something out of a postapocalyptic thriller. Before cable television, weather events like we’re seeing now were big news. Families huddled around the TV in the living room, where they watched stories that rocked the nation on the CBS, ABC, or NBC evening news. Parents shook their heads at climate anomalies. “It wasn’t like this when we were growing up.” People talked about the aftermath of such storms in a collective frenzy at offices, schools, and factories. There was a sense of community in the shared experiences we gleaned from the news. The nation would have grieved for the people who lost their lives in Louisiana; the family who lost their house when a tree toppled in New Hampshire. “Terrible,” we would have said while waiting to use the copy machine. “Just terrible.” “Let us bow our heads in prayer,” our spiritual leaders would have asked of us.
It isn’t like that now. There are too many bells and whistles vying for our attention. We are all kids in a global candy store. Our barn owl nearly lost its life in a crazy wind storm. Like us, it was caught off guard by changes in the weather; by the changing times.