Overnight Explorer

Blogger’s Note: I wrote this post last week, then managed to close the program without saving the work. It was of course, some of my best work 😊 and though I spent the weekend trying to recapture the brilliance of my words, my success was limited. I humbly present Take 2.

Fennel has taken to greeting me on the barn porch in the morning. The sun remains unrisen at that hour, and though this is a daily occurrence, his stealthy block of blackness slinking toward me from under the rocking chair or on top of the hitching post continues to jump start my system with a jolt that my first cup of Laughing Man dark roast will never duplicate.

It must be part of The Barn Cat Code to remain silent until a familiar voice is heard, because neither he nor Mace ever make a meow until I speak to them. Perhaps I’ll introduce an “Announce Your Presence” amendment at the next meeting.

Because he’s lurking outside in the early a.m. on such a consistent basis, I suspect Fennel must be sticking close to home while giving in to the nocturnal wanderlust his DNA demands. Or maybe Mace assigned the rookie to the graveyard shift, in accordance with the by-laws established by the loosely organized Felines Around Barns Catching Adversarial Trespassers (FABCATs).

In any case, the tabby tyro spends his overnight hours exploring the flora and fauna of greater Four Sticks Farm. He’s cultivating his kitten brain, becoming a solid-citizen cat as he experiences the ways of the world beyond the boundaries of the barn, and learns a little about how the other halves live.

There’s a big wide world of wonder out there, much to be marveled at by a freshman mouser. It’s good for a guy to figure out who’s friend, who’s foe; what’s worth a fight, what’s not; where to hunt, where to play, where to rest, where to steer clear; when to stand still, and when to beat feet.

I suspect he roams through the reed grass, finds frogs in the marsh and mice in the field, climbs trees, runs fence lines, spooks at shadows, feigns ferocity and burrows in the bushes.

The slow return of hair on the slow healing gash on the tip of his tail bears witness to his first successful lesson in wilderness survival, though the cause of the cut shall forever remain a mystery. The little ginger cat is becoming wise to the ways of the woods and the swamp, discovering which are the trails less traveled, which are the most rapid routes home. It’s fun to be Fennel.

So venture out Fennelton, enjoy your overnight explorations, but be home for breakfast.

And please meow a morning welcome upon approach.

Return to Reading – Shelved Again

I started this post with the intention of announcing the summer’s return of Reading with Rowdy, reworked, refreshed, and renamed The Rowdy Readers Club, to our little local library.

But upon further review, the idea of gathering a group of energetic elementary schoolers in a small space with a rambunctious retriever who knows nothing of social distancing seems unwise. So, sadly, for the second consecutive year, the fleecy blanket shall stay in the closet, folded next to the library-only pawprint collar in the 2-wheeled tote that elicits spins of great joy when pulled out and thump, thump, thumped down the steps.

Rowdy may miss the ear scratches, head smooches, belly rubs, sticky fingers and smelly toes that come with children in the summer, but he will not, for one moment, regret the cancellation of the pre-visit grooming session. Five years into our relationship this remains a bone of contention, and he refuses to accept that he must occasionally endure the indignity of the bathtub and the blow dryer.

It occurs to me that by the time we return in 2022 (yikes!) many of the readers we knew way back in ’19 will have grown beyond our program, which makes me a little bit sad. But several of them have younger brothers and sisters who may need some handholding by older siblings, so I’ll have the opportunity to not recognize my old book buddies as they’ve matured 2 years closer to middle-school.

It also occurs to me that by the time we return in 2022 (can’t believe I’m talking about events in the year Two Thousand Twenty-Two!) the gregarious golden retriever will have celebrated his 6^th birthday, which puts him solidly in the middle-age sporting breed demographic.

Middle age. A time in which one may be expected to have put away childish things. Key word – may. Rowdy has yet to become the ironic twist of a name I believed it would be, but now we’ve got a whole ‘nother year to make that happen. So maybe we shelve The Rowdy Readers Club in favor of Relax with Rowdy. Possibly Read in Repose, Restful Readers, or even Recline and Read.

Just thinkin’. And hopin’

In the meantime, rowdy Rowdy and I will while away the summer hours hanging out at home, hiking in the park, and horsing around with Biskit, Chicago, Fennel and Mace.

We’ll miss the kids and the books and the fleecy blanket.

But not the bath.

No April Fool

Seems all I had to do was put Fennel’s fears into the blogosphere, as within two weeks of my post about the timid tabby he met me on the barn porch in the pre-dawn darkness for morning chores. I’ll confess to a moment of regret for what I’d wished for, as I realized he’d possibly been out all night, facing the perils of the country after dark.

My discomfort deepened with the observation that his newfound knowledge was limited to one-way travel through the feline flaps.

Shortly after I wrote about Fennel’s fear of the cat door, he figured it out. Initially, he went from workshop into barn, and I’d find him in the hayloft when I came down in the early a.m. He didn’t seem to realize that there was another door that opened from the barn to the outside world, which was fine with me.

But being a cat of cautious curiosity, he eventually figured out the second door too. Though just as with the first, it seemed to be one-way trip, and in this case, the way back in added the peril of getting past eight equine feet that might move in any direction at any moment.

He figured out how to get out, but he did not know how to get in unless you count waiting outside for Lisa to come down and open the people door. Which I do not.

But here he was, alive and well so I gave a nod to the gratitude gods and opted to think positive, take the small victory and pray for a steep learning curve.

However, on April 1^st, there was no Fennel. Not on the porch or in the barn or on the lawn chairs or in the hay loft. He didn’t come when I called him out back, in front, or alongside the barn. He didn’t come when I shook the feed bin and rattled the kibble onto his plastic plate. No joke.

It made for a sad day at Four Sticks Farm to be sure, even though I’ve learned to let go a little of the urge to ride herd too tightly on the barn cats. They keep the barn rodent-free, and in return they get love, food, love, shelter, love, an annual road trip to the vet clinic, and the privilege of roaming the wild kingdom that surrounds our home, where every exploration runs the risk of being the terminating trek. We’ve lost some to cars and more to fates that shall forever remain a mystery. But other than the 3-day adventure of Mocha, the Kwik Trip Kitten, which I’ll save for another post, once a cat doesn’t show up at a regularly scheduled time, s/he never does show up. It’s heartbreaking but it’s reality.

So when Fennel did not appear to demand his Good Night kibble ration, I knew I needed to open his space in my heart and fill it with thanks that he’d been part of our feline family. But just in case, I didn’t slide the barn door completely closed as is the norm, but rather left it open about 6 inches, just enough for a little fraidy cat to fit through in the dark of the night.

Which was apparently what he was waiting for, because he greeted me in the barn the next morning. Real casual, jumping down the hayloft ladder like he always does, like I wouldn’t even notice his Day of Disappearance. Of course, joy beat irritation, so he escaped a serious scolding and instead endured several minutes of being scooped in my arms with smooches and head scratches.

Apparently, he also escaped something not so pleasurable though, as I noticed a smear of dried blood on the tip of his tail, a barn cat badge of honor. I’ll never know just how he spent his April Fool’s Day vacation, but I do know that since his return he’s moved to the hayloft for most of his day. He acknowledges my presence at the top of the ladder every time I go into the barn. Every time.

And on Easter Sunday he passed another rite of passage – his first rodent kill, properly presented for my approval. Halleluiah.

So Fennel has faced his fears and found his calling.

I know he’ll do his job; he’ll do his exploring; he’ll find his way home.

And I’ll leave the barn door open.