Feral Friends

 

I wonder; would Monet, were he alive today, have done a series of canvasses studying wind generators? All white they are the perfect foil for changing light, and with their curved form, particularly the aerodynamic twist of their blades, they are a study in gradations of shade too, especially while in motion. Of course the motion part would have been a challenge even for Monet's brush, so we'll leave that up to the once and Futurists.

Verdant grass, chicory blue and the intense amber of a mown wheat field, all under an indistinct sky; The light was just there, like it came from nowhere, the colors muted. A high fog, I guess.

Those are a couple of the random thoughts that I remember having. There were more, and a story I wanted to tell, I went back to Shipshewana, but that was way back last week. I'm on vacation now. I have the whole week off. I either had to take the time, just the money, or lose it all. I'll take the time, and the money, thank you. I need it. Friday my boss called and asked if I'd work Monday. I considered it but I was afraid my car was on its last legs. I couldn't commit. I'd already given up going to a pig roast in Indy on Saturday. It turned out that it only needed a tune up; duh. I could have called my boss and volunteered, but chose not to. He called today, Tuesday. I didn't answer the phone.

The pig roast was a year unspecific reunion of the art school I went to, back in the seventies. I'm sorry I missed that but it way worked out. Sarah, a Northern Jersey girl that spent four years here in college and who worked at the Pub back then, was back for a visit, eight months pregnant and happily married. Betsy's band played at the Player's Pub; oh they of the horn section. We claimed half the bar. Sometimes the stars align and beautiful memories are made. I feel like I already know that baby, she had to have been dancing in the amniotic fluid.

Then, Sunday, a real musical treat. My friend Chris Little has had a Sunday Jam, where who knows who will show up with their instruments and play, for about as long as I can remember. Me, I'm not a musician. I bang on bottles with a stick or slap my thighs, and occasionally sing, but it's all good. The only trouble is that with my job I can't stay up that late Sunday night; but hey, I'm on vacation! With a recent rain everybody was indoors (we're talking the deep woods here, the end of Hash Road, on the border of Brown County, with a pond and everything), in the middle of a song. The damn door stuck, swollen with the humidity and I felt like a fool charging in. “Steve Levine!” They stopped the music. It felt so nice to be welcome.

I'd seen Chris since Allison died, at some show at Jake's. I'd hugged him, told him I loved him and that I was looking forward to the songs he was going to write, the seeds that grow from this ground. As things were breaking up Sunday he told me to hang on and disappeared for a minute. He came back with a copy of the Randys' last cd, with Allison on the fiddle and vocals, and a home burned disk titled Songs to Allison in magic marker. I am both honored and humbled.

So...I've got a problem. I am home so little through the week, and so hassled playing catch up on the weekends (which I never do, we just play tag) that my neighbor had to tell me that I have a feral cat with kittens living under my deck. So that was the strange bird I'd heard in the early morning: kittens. I'd seen the momma before, so rail thin I thought she was a male, certainly not nursing. What choice did I have but to feed her; them. Well, my other neighbor tried target practice with his pistol, but that's not my choice.

That was a couple of weeks ago. I borrowed a trap from Vanessa. This is my project for the vacation. I caught two of the kittens without even baiting the trap; took them to the shelter. They're probably too old to ever find homes, but I'm not going to ask, just wish. I didn't set the trap again until this morning. I kept them hungry over night and baited the trap. Snap, I caught momma. Problem solved; only when I picked the trap up it tilted forward, the door swung open and the cat was gone in a flash. I didn't know that was something to watch out for!

Now what am I going to do? Is she ever going back into that cage? They have a program here in Monroe County where they'll spay a feral cat, called “Feral Friends.” That was my plan. How do I explain to her that her life depends on going into that cage? My next best option is to borrow the true neighbor's rifle. I just can't have feral cats multiplying like rabbits in the neighborhood.

I couldn't get so lucky as to have the coyotes come by and clear them out. In fact it's interesting how in charge she is of her space. I've been putting food out for two weeks and haven't seen a trace of raccoon or opossum. Nikity, my ex-wife's fat, declawed, eighteen year old cat that's come here to retire mostly stays in the front yard, feral momma in the back. Every now and then there's a skirmish though, and I rush outside to protect Nikity. The other day I heard a confrontation and rushed out just in time to see Nikity giving chase to the young survivor. I'm sure that my backup plays a significant role in this social order, but see, we've got that settled: Queen Nikity. Now how do I convince momma to go back in the cage?

And I'm going to Chicago to see Shoshana and Amir on Thursday.