In June of last year, I happened upon a pair of red-bellied woodpeckers toiling to feed their raucous young. The parents visited the nest in turns, each arrival heralded by peals of plaintive screeching from the insatiable nestling. As I watched the parents flit from tree to tree, probing bark with sharp eyes and beaks, I wondered at their dedication. Is it love that moves them to such labor? Or couldn’t it, at least, be called love?
After all, who wouldn’t love a face like this?
Today I dreamed of summer. In honor of longer, warmer days, I rescued a few videos from the cold darkness of digital storage.
The rabbit nest is empty now, a hollow pocket of memory lined with dirty hair and dead grass. Even so, the magic isn’t quite cold. It’s tempting to believe that every half-grown rabbit I see is one of “my” rabbits, to feel a warm connection with these creatures that are born and nursed in plain view, yet also in secrecy.
A family of chipmunks lives in Mother’s yard. My experience with these tiny burrowers is limited, so I’ve been enjoying their company.
I am most fascinated with their reaction to gray squirrels that browse the yard’s maple trees. Whenever squirrels are around, a single chipmunk will bark a raucous, staccato alarm. I can’t decide what the alarm’s purpose might be, as the squirrels and other chipmunks seem to ignore it. Perhaps this guard is a unique individual, exhibiting a behavioral quirk that is politely ignored by everyone except me?
From my earliest memory I lived among packs, herds, and flocks. Not all of the pets belonged to me. Each was designated an “owner” within the family, for the sake of clarity…and blame. So that when my sister’s Husky chewed another plug off another cord, the destruction belonged to my sister. When one of my cats clawed another hole in another screen, or delivered kittens on Daddy’s coat, the trouble was mine. (Though Mother shielded us from the worst storms. I don’t believe Daddy ever knew about his coat.)
We chose some of our pets, others chose us. For the most part, once they set toe on our property, they stayed. Every nook and cranny, every shed and tree sheltered our teeming beasts. I can’t imagine a world not crowded with warm, funny companions. We fed and housed them, and in return they taught us to laugh and cry with their wonderful, infuriating habits. Despite the semantics of ownership, I now claim them all. I own a story for each of them. They are in everything I do.
Over the last few weeks I have come to know Mother’s current cats, four rescued felines with wildly different personalities. They range from shy to bold…from chronically sleepy to intensely curious. I’m delighted to know them, to add their characters to The Menagerie’s story.
Rae Spencer 