Category Archives: animals

Deer oh deer

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It’s spring, and the hosta have come up all over the garden. This is good news, not only because it means the weather is warmer and the garden is prettier, but also and more to the point: The deer did not manage to kill off all my hosta when they clipped them down to bare stalks last fall. 

Even the expensive designer blue, cream, gold, dark green, and chartreuse hostas in mix-and-match stripes and leaf-margins are back. Given the amount of shade here, the leaf-patterns of these hostas are an important part of the garden: The shy and retiring Allan P. McConnell, Aristocrat, flamboyant little Feather Boa, Grand Tiara, Great Expectations, June, Touch of Class, and the hard-to-find Venus, with unprepossessing green leaves and marvelously large and fragrant flowers in August. There are also lovely swathes of narrow-leafed and wide-leafed green hostas and twisty green-and-white-leafed hostas that are legacy plants from the previous owner and that we have propagated across the garden over the years.

So now, my job, as I see it, is to make sure that the deer don’t get these hosta again. 

Last weekend we went to Lowe’s, and I bought two different types of deer repellents. I installed the one and sprayed on the other. Yesterday, I did some research on the Internet to see what else I might do. I found that there are many products on the market, including those that smell bad to deer, those that taste bad to deer (don’t use these on your vegetable gardens, though), and both. My favorite of these is a substance called “Milorganite”, which is made from Milwaukee sewage. Really! And–it’s organic!

There are also many recipes for deer repellent that can be made right at home from readily available (or, well, obtainable) ingredients. These range from eggs to liquid detergent to hot peppers to garlic to hair clippings to urine (don’t ask). 

But of all the recipes posted by helpful people on various Web sites, my absolute favorite is from Hanxter at www.deer-departed.com. Please click through and read it! Even if you don’t have a deer problem! This may not be the most effective solution to the deer problem, but hey — turnabout is fair play.

I wonder if they have a hunting season in Newton.

Cruelty to Animals

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I try, I really do, but for the life of me, I cannot understand how some of the people I know who make the biggest protestations about loving animals and hating to see them suffer can eat meat. And not just any meat, but the meat processed in industrial slaughterhouses, where the animals are kept in small pens as they wait for their turn to become a raw material. Where, my friends, do you think that chicken parmesan comes from? That juicy hamburger? That sanitized styrofoam tray of meat in the supermarket?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying people shouldn’t eat meat. But in this country we vote with our money. Let’s eat the meat from farms where we know that the animals are treated humanely and live in a way fairly normal for their species up until when they die for our steak dinner. Or let’s not hear any more of your whining about the “poor animals”.

Wendell Berry said it better than I can:

“Eating with the fullest pleasure–pleasure, that is, that does not depend on ignorance–is perhaps the profoundest enactment of our connection with the world. In this pleasure we experience and celebrate our dependence and our gratitude, for we are living from mystery, from creatures we did not make and powers we cannot comprehend.”

Thunder

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A thunderstorm is passing overhead. A flash of lightning, mostly obscured by the trees is closely followed by a loud crack and a persistent roll of thunder. Amber, who the moment before had been sleeping by my side, is instantly alert. His head jerks up. His eyes are wide; his pupils, dark. His ears antenna in all directions. The sound passes. Amber rests his head on his paws again.

I suddenly understand that wherever we get this fear of lightning and thunder from, it’s very deep and very ancient.

Amber

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Amber, in case anyone reading this doesn’t know, is a twenty-pound Maine coon cat who has been living with us since he was a six-ounce Maine coon kitten. Amber has fur the color of peaches and cream, and he loves to be brushed. In fact, next to eating, being brushed is Amber’s (distantly) second-most favorite activity.

Amber has worked hard to give the overall impression that he’s dumb. Really dumb. That he’d come off second best in an IQ test against a sack of his favorite cat kibble. And he’s generally pretty successful at this.

In fact, Amber’s overall success at appearing more stupid than any ambulatory organism could possibly be should have been my first clue. But I am only now beginning to suspect that he has my password memorized, and when I go off to sleep at night he sneaks into the kitchen, gets on the computer, and—he’s blogging!

Amber is actually famous on the Web for his advice on how to look your tiptop best. He doesn’t know much about fashion, but thousands of women all around the world follow his column for the latest word in skin- and hair-care products and techniques. They all think he’s a glamorous supermodel. They have no idea he’s a guy (well–of sorts), even less that he’s a cat.

He seems to be telling me now that if I don’t get off the computer and brush him, he’s going to change his will and cut me out of it. He’s going to leave his millions to… Gwenny. But I’m not worried. I know he has it all invested in cat-food futures.

I am sitting in an armchair reading a chapter on …

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I am sitting in an armchair reading a chapter on the valuation of assets for federal estate and gift tax purposes–not the most gripping material. Gwenny the cat is sleeping on my lap. Her body heat along with the ambient heat level up here in my third-floor study on this 90+ degree day contributes to my overall drowsiness.

Into the quiet room a loud noise explodes. Not that loud, really; more like a definitive thud than an actual explosion. But it is sharp and sudden. It could have come from the attic–something falling or–being knocked over. Gwenny and I both startle, she (with her faster reflexes) a fraction of an instant before me. I am awake now. It wasn’t that frightening a noise. It could have been Elvie closing a door downstairs. I pet Gwenny with parental calmness to let her know all is well. Our animals, our children.

But with parental alertness, Gwenny isn’t taking any chances with our safety. She continues to watch the attic door–just in case.

Gwenny

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Gwenny sits at the foot of my desk chair and speaks to me. “Me!” she says. “Now!”

“Come on up,” I tell her, and pat my lap invitingly, just so that she’s clear on the concept.

She puts her front paws onto the chair and considers the offered lap. It looks good. “Me!” she asserts, and she jumps up.

Gwenny circles my lap and settles down facing me. I touch her, and she purrs. She likes it when I touch her. This is fortunate. Gwenny is a Russian Blue cat, and there is nothing on this planet that feels remotely as good as just digging my fingers into her fur. Especially the area under her ears at the back of her cheeks. It feels like velvet would feel if it were longer and plusher and softer. It feels like butter. If there is such a thing as heaven, this is exactly the feeling that would be awarded to saintly fingers. I am so lucky.

Gwenny settles down to sleep in my lap. Sleep makes her heavy. My legs start to ache. But every once in a while I touch the soft fur of her neck, and I am rewarded with a slight subsonic purr. Her toes curl in pleasure in her sleep.

My legs are starting to get numb. I really have to stand up.

But I can’t.