by Wendy Dudley
God willin', Morris Erickson is still riding the range, drifting free as a summer cloud. Morris has worked most of his life as a range rider, moving around like a homeless mustang, breaking a few colts here and working some Herefords over there. Like his friend and neighbour, the late Harrold King, Morris roped bears and coyotes just for the fun of it. He's never longed for his own place, preferring to pack memories rather than mementos. He's bedded down in barns, relying on the horses' warmth to thaw out his frozen fingers, and he's stuffed his boots with newspaper when the temperature hit fifty-eight below. Almost eighty years old, he reckons he's as wild as an eagle, his spirit owned by the horses and the hills. Morris is a man truly wedded to the land.
I may not be cowgirl-tough, but I too cherish land, its strength a much-needed anchor for me during chaotic times, its moods and power keeping me humble. As cowboy philosopher Will Rogers said, "God ain't making any more of it." As long as there is land, horses to gentle, and cattle to move, there will be cowboys and cowgirls. May they continue to be tough so that they can ride out the bad times and tell their stories during the good ones.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ruffled Feathers
I hate to see a dead animal go to waste, so we were going to leave the broke-necked grouse for the coyotes—until a neighbour requested them for his cooking pot.
We looked down at the ruffed grouse lying on our dining room floor. Yes, lying, as in sprawled out dead. All around us were shards of glass, spearing our carpet and stabbing our chairs. Moments before, the grouse, as if on a suicide mission, had rammed our living room window, imploding the double panes into thousands of pieces that scattered like shrapnel. This was not the year's first dead "fool's hen," a nickname for these mountain chickens that display no fear of people. In fact, it was the third. The other two didn't break the windows; they just cracked them, then fell like stones from the sky, landing on our deck with bloodied beaks and broken necks. While we cherish our southern exposure and view of the meadow and spruce hill, we often think we would have been better off in a windowless cabin, or at least one with panes as small as portholes. As bird lovers, it's hard for us not to feel guilty every time we hear that heavy thud against the glass.
We have tried hawk silhouettes, and we have leaned aspen saplings against the windows so their branches sprawl across the pane, breaking up the reflection of clouds and sky. But neither of these tactics has reduced the collisions. One evening, just when the light was turning into a shroud of mist, a great grey owl toting a mouse in its beak smacked into the pane. It dropped the mouse, then retreated to a fence post, where it perched for birds, chasing them from the bird feeders into the sky of glass and grabbing them for dinner.
For a small bird, like a chickadee, nuthatch, or pine siskin, there's usually just a tap, a small knock on the head that sends it to a branch where it recovers with a few blinks and a shake of its head. But for the larger birds, like grosbeaks, it's not so easy. The impact usually knocks them to the ground, where their heads become buried in the snow. That's when Mom and I step in as Florence Nightingales. With only a few seconds to save them from shock and suffocation, we quickly place their trembling bodies into a shoebox kept in our mud room. The bottom is layered with paper towels, and once the bird has settled we cover the box and leave the bird alone in a darkened and warm room, usually the bathroom, where the cats are not allowed. Rarely do we lose a bird. Their eyes can be glazed and half-shut, and their hearts beating so hard their bodies vibrate, but in less than an hour they are usually ready to fly. It's a magical feeling to hold such a small creature in the palm of your hand, its warmth like a fuzzy mitten. The grosbeaks tilt their heads, looking up at you with dark, wet eyes. Gripping with their claws, they work their way to the edge of your hand, where they perch before taking flight. My heart flutters with each wingbeat until I see the bird fly straight and land on steady legs. It's always a delight to free a bird, each one a small miracle.
I wish I could say that all the injured birds have recovered, but that wasn't the case with a downy woodpecker, the smallest of all woodpeckers. The poor thing. If only it had died on impact, but instead it tried to stand up, its head leaning far to one side. Its long tongue hung out into the dirt. Holding the crippled bird, we wet its tongue, watching half of it recede into the bill. But minutes later it slid out again. We propped the bird up in the shoebox, but an hour later he had not improved. Perhaps he just needed more time, to allow the swelling in his head to go down. So we packed him up and made the hour's drive to a wildlife animal hospital near Madden, northwest of Calgary, where there are no line¬ups or waiting lists.
Built in a donated and renovated church, the Rockyview Wildlife Recovery Centre is a godsend for injured and orphaned animals. It was the dream of biologist Dianne Wittner, who truly believed in the slogan, "Build it, and they will come." Since the centre's opening in 1993, its team of volunteers has received thousands of animals, with admissions increasing from 149 in 1994 to 1,421 in 2001. Their patients, most of them rehabilitated and returned to the wild, include hawks, owls, ducks, songbirds, beavers, fawns, prairie hares, fox kits, coyote pups, baby skunks, and porcupines. The majority are victims of road-hits, cat and dog attacks, poisonings, or collisions with power lines. Those that cannot be saved are humanely killed—as was the case with our downy woodpecker.
After several days of care and feeding, the little guy still couldn't hold his head straight. After a veterinarian diagnosed his condition as permanent, he was put to sleep. It was a story with a sad ending, but the following summer there were five happy endings when the centre successfully raised and released our orphaned nest of barn swallows.
One afternoon I found two of five babies alone on the floor, the other three huddled in unusual silence in the nest. Opening the stall door to retrieve the ladder, I discovered both parent swallows dead. One of the barn cats sat nearby, his tail twitching. It wasn't difficult to figure out what had happened. With the babies on the floor, the adults swooped down, trying to drive off the stalking cat. Coming within a hair's length of his claws, the birds were easily swiped from the air. With both adults dead, the babies were doomed to death. Climbing the ladder, I cut down the nest, returning the two fallen birds to their siblings, all of them now dangerously dehydrated. During the hour's drive to the wildlife centre, we frequently stopped to slip an eye-dropper of water into their beaks. When we lifted the shoebox lid, the birds, still stuffed in their nest, squawked for food, their demands deafening in the small space of the car.
At the centre, Dianne had dinner waiting—for the birds, that is. Each one gobbled down a special blend of protein, their ruckus growing louder the more food they received. When we left, the swallows' eyes were bright, wide open, and alert. This time, I had a good feeling. Several weeks later, Dianne sent us a photograph of the birds, letting us know that all had survived and flown to freedom. Thankfully, swallows do not have to be taught how to find food. As soon as they can fly, they are ready to catch insects on their own.
Gradually, we have tried to bird-proof our house. The window shattered by the grouse was replaced with a stronger pane, one that has proven its worth by remaining in one piece after several grouse attacks. We taped cutouts of owls to the glass, after a neighbour said birds are smart enough to notice the flying hawk silhouettes never move—an obvious and unnatural pose. Because owls perch for hours, the birds are convinced those cutouts are the real thing. Outside, above the windows, we have dangled almost anything that will flutter or deter collisions: dry reeds, clay mobiles, evergreen boughs, and strands of taffeta. For two people who live like hermits in a deep-woods monastery, our home sure looks like a party house. Long strips of red and silver tinsel flicker in the sunlight and crinkle in the wind, sounding like footsteps crunching across dry grass. Canary-yellow hawk kites swing from the log beams above our kitchen panes, and twirling wind-catchers spin in a circus of colour outside our glass deck doors. Welcome to Mardi Gras year-round!
Some people
call our place the birdhouse; I like to think it's because we are bird-friendly. But some days, when I stand back and watch all the paraphernalia waving, clanging, and clattering against our windows, I suspect it has more to do with us—the two cuckoo innkeepers.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Hud
T.S. Eliot would have cherished a cat like Hud, placing him centre-stage in his parade of beloved jellicle felines. Move over, Mr. Mistoffelees and Rum Tum Tugger! After all, he is a real trouper!
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He may look like a regular overstuffed brown tabby, plump of jowl and thick of thigh, but mediocre he is not. Hud is one of a kind, magic on four paws. I don't know how many lives he has used, but I'm sure it's more than nine. He's been sliced by a car engine, torn by tomcats, chased by donkeys, pelted with stones, attacked by a weasel, and gnawed on by a dog. But what makes Hud truly special is his blindness. For a cat with no sight, he sees so much, enjoying life's bounties and teaching me that one can see through chirping songs, gusty winds, crackling leaves, springy grass, wet puddles, warm sun, cold snow, and, of course, squeaky can openers.
When Hud first came into my life, he was full-sighted. He chose me, pitter-patting through my open door and climbing onto the end of my bed as if he'd slept there since he was a kitten. He was a filthy street cat, a tramp, begging at every doorstep and leaving his calling card on every doorway. His territorial marking didn't stop at the stoop. He sprayed my white walls, my hardwood floors, and anything else he felt like backing into with his raccoon tail quivering like a flag. The insides of his ears were black as coal dust, a sign of ear mites, and he had scratched one until it was raw and bleeding. A monster when it came to eating, he inhaled every morsel, like a squirrel stuffing its cheeks with enough food for a winter cache. I did everything to discourage his presence: I cursed his tom-hood to his face, sprayed him with the garden hose, tossed pebbles at his tail, and ordered him to take his vagabond ways elsewhere. Already owned by three house cats, I declared my inn full, but the same determination that kept this stalwart cat alive kept him yowling outside my window until I gave in, allowing him to sleep on a towel at the foot of my bed.
One day he arrived at my door earlier than usual, his neck and shoulders matted from deep oozing gashes. Seeking warmth, he had snuggled against the warm engine of a neighbour's car. With a turn of the ignition key, his skin and fur were snared, sliced, and gouged by the moving parts. I washed his wounds, listening to his grateful purrs and watching his mighty paws knead the wool blanket I placed beneath his battered body. He was a young cat, but his black toe pads were tough as dry leather from his endless journey to find a home. I named him Hud, after the reckless maverick played by Paul Newman in the movie of the same name.
Of course, now that he had a name, Hud moved in full-time. No longer a back-alley hobo, he was now the prince of pillows. A visit to my veterinarian took care of his ear mites, and also his tom-hood, and thus his obsession to perfume my house with his signature scent. But he never got over his food addiction, eating as if each bowl might be his last, as if at any moment I would toss him back to the streets. He grew and grew, his cobby legs as thick as tree stumps, his face as round as a full moon, and his belly as bloated as a cow on wet grass.
But oh, was he happy! Waddling down the street, he would roll onto his back for every laughing child, chasing after them until they reached down to scratch the top of his head. Everyone loved him, even the neighbourhood dogs, who didn't dare curl a lip in his presence. For several years, he visited the infirm in a long-term care centre, never scratching when patients grabbed his fur and twisted it in a tight knot, and never biting when they made rude comments about his hefty weight. His relaxed body rested like a rock in their laps.
"Oh, Thud, you're so heavy," one lady cried.
"Here, I'll take him from you," I said. "And his name is Hud, not Thud."
"Hud? Well, I certainly think Thud is a better name," she remarked. With Hud now tipping the scales at more than twenty-five pounds—about three times what he should weigh—I could not have agreed more.
Hud remained a popular visitor until I moved to the country, more than an hour's drive from the health care centre. Never a fan of cars—I'm sure the revving engine gave him flashbacks to the night he was carved up—Hud would have staged a revolution against a two-hour sojourn on a highway crowded with growling trucks. Besides, he'd found another hobby, one that quenched his husky appetite. Here, at his front step, were fields of squirming mice, moles, and pocket gophers. Hud was convinced he'd found a heaven on earth. Of course, he had to prance home with his catch, dumping it on the porch so all could see what a wonderful boy he was. After much praise, he would gulp the animal and greedily head back to his killing fields. One morning he retrieved seven mice, at which point I put him inside, his belly swollen with the litter of chewed rodents.
Hud took to farm life as if he'd been born in the barn. He sunned himself on the cattle chute and yowled at the feral queens, recalling his days as a princely stud.
He followed us on walks, ploughing his way through the knee-high meadow grass and climbing our pant legs if it was too tall and wet. In the far fields, he preferred to straddle my shoulder, where he felt safe and had a bird's-eye view of his kingdom.
Hud's joyous life continued, until one day I noticed a mark on his eyeball, a gouged hollow that looked as if it had been scratched by a twig. He was squinting and in recent days had spent more time curled up on my bed than he had roaming the outdoors. The vet diagnosed chronic inflammation in both eyes. For months, Hud was treated with eye drops and pills, but his eyesight gradually dimmed. When one eye ulcerated, I had to wake him for a treatment every three hours. Grateful for any pain relief—even at 3 AM—he would purr as I squeezed the drops into his inflamed eye. Hud eventually lost that eye, when the weakened ligaments holding the lens in place gave out. Before the eye was surgically removed, I stroked his head, committing to memory the beauty of his emerald eyes and how they sparkled like fresh mountain lakes.
Hud's recovery was amazing, a wonderful example of how animals cope and adapt to new situations. He romped about like a youngster, as if he were better off without the sick eye. No more eye drops. No more stinging ulcers. He could still hook a mouse, detecting movement and shifting shadows with his one foggy eye. What a warrior!
Two years later, Hud is now blind, his remaining eye a dull grey. He no longer catches mice, and I can't remember when he last leaped onto the cushioned bar stool or sprang to the countertop. He bumps into anything that wasn't there before and often smacks into the door frame before finding the entrance. He sits and stares at walls, ignoring the avian landing strip around the bird feeders and prods the carpet with his whiskers and nose, in search of his food bowl. Wandering outside has become a risky adventure, ever since he was attacked by a ferocious weasel. Hud has dodged donkey hooves and tricked coyotes, but this time he almost fought his last battle. Ambushed in long grass, he couldn't shake the snarling creature off his back. Weasels can be nasty varmints, clawing and biting their way up an animal's back until they reach the neck, where they strike a fatal bite. With full eyesight, Hud might have had a chance, but he was fighting a creature he couldn't see. Screeching in pain, he caught the attention of the two dogs, who ran to his side, barking and growling as the weasel darted through the meadow's thick sedges. That night, I bathed his wounds with peroxide, counting the lives he's lived and counting our many blessings!
Curtains may have dropped on Hud's eyes, like thin ice clouding a deep trout pond, but in many ways his world remains a pool of senses. His spirit marches on, as he bunts open the screen door with his broad head. It's another day, and there's wet dew to shake off his paws, clicking grasshoppers leaping at his toes, and succulent greens to nibble. This is how he now sees his world, and by sharing his shadow land, Hud has taught me to feel, listen, and taste such small yet large wonders as the dizziness of a single leaf twirling to the ground, the muffled buzz of a bee deep inside a flower, a
nd the sweet freshness of a meadow morning.
Hud and I still take long walks together; I just go a little slower so his paws can feel my footsteps. He's a gallant lad, and he needs to know that after all these years, just like Paul Newman, he can still land on his feet.
Chapter Forty
Bear Wisdom
It is the end of January, but the day is as mild as June. Ambling up the hill is a bleary-eyed black bear.
It was a sultry night, the air heavy, still, almost suffocating, the wicker blinds not even trembling against the open window. I lay naked on the bed with the sheets tossed aside, staring at the ceiling, too lazy even to read. The clock beside my bed read ten past midnight.
At first, the clanking and clunking wasn't all that noisy, but then came the crashes, like falling china and breaking glass. What the heck was that? And why aren't the dogs barking? Then, another crash. I sat up, thinking perhaps it was Hud, blindly strolling along the top kitchen shelf, knocking knickknacks to the floor as he tried to navigate a path strewn with trinkets.
"Is that you, Hud? Are you OK?" I asked, fumbling for the crutches beside my bed. Still recovering from my broken hip, I was confined to the first floor of the