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There's a heron in my washer!
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There's a heron in my washer!
   We’ve had new animal additions to the family in the past week—one brief, the other permanent. If you read this spot on May 12, I know what you’re thinking: “Why in the world would they get more animals?”  I have no answer. The first addition is a kitten, about eight weeks old now and obviously with a little Russian Blue. Eric brought it home. The kitten’s name is pending right now. I think it’s a female. I’ve thought that before, and been proven gravely mistaken a couple of weeks after naming someone Princess. The kitten was quite happy to see all the other cats here. The others were less than thrilled. Mario, the senior cat, was so put out we couldn’t pet him for two days—he snarled every time one of us got near him.  There was even more snarling every time the kitten approached one of the other cats. Then I’d snarl at the big, rude cats—It was a very snarly house for several days. They all hissed, spat, and ran away—except Smacky, who offered to inflict injury on the tiny kitten and had to be restrained. My heart went out to the kitten. It obviously needed and wanted the companionship of the others cats, but was violently rebuffed again and again. They hissed, they spat, they ran away—except for Smacky, who stood ready to fight the tiny kitten to the death and had to be restrained on more than one occasion. I needn’t have felt sorry for the kitten: After a couple of days of this harsh treatment, it seemed to embrace its status as a pariah. It figured out that if it wandered into the midst of all the big cats as they fed, they would run away and it could eat all their food.  The baby began strutting about sideways with its legs stiff and its tail all puffed up, making tiny snarly noises at cats three or four times its size. Because they run away from it, the kitten thinks it’s the baddest cat in the house. Someday when it’s bigger, Smacky will disabuse it of that notion, but for now it might as well enjoy its illusion of grandeur. Then we had a visit from the heron. This is nothing like a visit from the stork, for which we’re all immensely grateful.  Eric gets credit for the baby heron, as well. He was leaving the house early and saw it walking down our street. He called me and I went out in my pajamas and followed the heron a while. It didn’t look sick or hurt, although it did turn out to have a broken toe. It just wasn’t old enough to fly, and obviously had no idea where it was or where it should go. Some of our neighbors have three dachshunds. You know I’m an animal lover, but those dogs really test my commitment. Their own people don’t seem to like them much either, because they won’t keep them in a fence or in the house or on a leash. The dachshunds enjoy chasing things—cars, cats, pedestrians, cyclists, the woman who pushes her baby in a stroller, the man who uses an electric wheelchair. And, it turns out, baby herons.  So I picked the baby heron up. I wasn’t afraid, because we rescued one after their tree fell over in all the rain last summer. I picked him up from behind, with his head away from me, and was glad I did when he began hissing like a steam engine and snapping his beak. It was a little disconcerting.  Not nearly as disconcerting as discovering their heads swivel more than 180 degrees, allowing him to turn and snap at my face while I carried him. Bringing such a thing into the house caused all the cats and Gladys Little Dog to run and hide. Katy Big Dog, however, was enchanted, and made the trip to the laundry room twice as difficult as it needed to be. Try juggling a hissing, snapping big bird while trying to step over and around a very large, jolly dog. We didn’t have a box big enough for a baby heron, so I put him into the tub of the washer, backed out and closed the door to the laundry room to keep Katy from getting to know the heron better. Then I called the Gulf Coast Wildlife Rescue hotline. I can’t say enough about the wonderful work those people do. If you’re looking for a charitable cause to support, send them some money. They need it, and so do the animals they rescue and rehabilitate. Their Website is at http://www.gcwr.org/.  One of their volunteers came to take Big Bird to the rehab shelter, but not before he got either curious or bored enough to climb out of the washer and roam about in the laundry room, honking and clacking. When I checked on him, there was a large gallery of cats lined up outside the laundry room door, listening intently, sniffing under the door, but poised for rapid flight. Probably all thinking, “Great. Like the kitten wasn’t bad enough.”  So that’s our wildlife week, with just one more small note: We have a mockingbird this year whose song includes a few bars that make me laugh aloud every time I hear him. It’s really difficult to capture a birdsong in print. The nearest I can get is WOO-tuh- This part of the mocker’s song is delivered with inflection and cadence that cause it to sound exactly like the Swedish Chef from The Muppet Show. Go ahead, try saying the birdcall I wrote in the Swedish Chef’s voice. Do this in your head if you don’t want people to think you’re odd. It’s hysterical. I don’t where that mockingbird’s been, but I think he’s been watching too much TV.  |
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