Ode to Mooch

About three years ago, an obviously aged cat wandered onto Milagro Acres. She was shy at first, but hung around until feeding time, and then mooched a meal. After about the third day of this, we decided to let her stay, and we affectionately called her Mooch.

The first sign of trouble was when the other cats began to chase her away from "their" feeding area. They were not as anxious to share as we were. Jim placed a pan on the top of a post at the end of the old rail fence, and Mooch ate all of her meals there. Jim often had to stay there long enough for her to eat, as she was fairly pokey about it, and the other cats were not patient. They eagely chased her away and stole her food when given a chance!

The first winter of her stay, she managed to find secure lodging in the wood pile by the barn. I must explain here that inviting her into the house was never considered. We didn't know where she came from, but she seemd content to be outside with the other "barn" cats.

When it was really cold, Jim would feed her wet cat food, patienty standing by her until she got her fill, before letting the other cats have their share.

As she got even older, she was not able to groom herself as thoroughly as the younger cats, so in time her long fur became somewhat tangled. I thought it looked like dred-locks, and I found it charming and endearing. An occasional visitor would suggest that we take her to town and have her groomed, but since she wouldn't be able to keep it up, we decided to let nature take care of it. It was not a universally accepted decision, but one that we agreed was the best choice for her and for us.

What was to be her last winter, Mooch claimed the wood box by the front door as her place to sleep through the rainy season. Honoring Mooch's choice, Jim moved the wood pellets into the house, and placed an old sleeping bag in the box. Soon, nestled in the folds of the blanket was Mooch's favorite thing in the whole world, an old, snug fitting cardboard box. Mooch slept more and more, and seemd to wake up only for feeding time, or for the occasional broken egg that we brought back for her from the chicken house. It was a special treat for her.

By spring it was obvious that Mooch was getting very old. Jim noticed that she appeard to be deaf. He made sure she could smell her food so that she could continue to eat, even if it meant picking her up and placing her on the fence post. Her movements became slower, and she slept more and more.

By June of this year, she was looking bedraggled and uncared for. To some, it appeared that she was being neglected, because her dred-locks were NOT lovely to look at, and she was getting more frail by the day.  Together, we gave her a "fur-cut" and a warm bath. While most cats hate the water, once she realized that the water had been heated, she relaxed in Jim's arms and just sort of snuggled (if that is possible) down into the warmth.

The hair-cut of course made her look even more skinny and malnourished. She could have easily won an "ugly-cat-of-the-year" award. She also was beginning to show symptoms of dementia. Sometimes she seemed alert, and sometimes she looked around as if in a fog.

When Mooch was looking her absolute worst, the grandkids came to visit. Four year old Link took one look at Mooch, and it was love at first sight. He held her every chance he got. He carried her around the acres. I showed him how to carry her so he wouldn't hurt her ribs. Mooch received more tender loving care in the last week of her life than she could ever have wanted. When the kids left for the airport, it was Mooch and Mamma cat that got all the hugs and kisses. We had to beg for ours!

As we were leaving for Portland, I noticed that Mooch was walking down our road, and seemed to have no idea where she was. I stopped the car and tried to get her to move, but, being deaf, she just didn't know I was there. I picked her up and put her on the side of the road, hoping that she would be safe until our return.

Pulling back into our lane later that same day, there was Mooch, looking bewildered and lost, standing in the middle of the driveway. Jim stopped the car, honked, and Mooched (though she probably felt our presence more than heard it)  moved just enough for us to get by. In her confusion, she immediately returned to the spot when she had been, (and where we could not see her) and was killed instantly by our car as we slowly approached  the house.

Jim was heart-broken, and I was sick to my stomach. It was time for her to go, I know, but it is always a sickening feeling when one is responsible for the death of a pet. Sometimes animals seem to be unaware of what they are doing, but there are times when I do wonder who is the most knowledgeable. Was it REALY an "accident" or was Mooch so ready to go that the Great Cat in the sky put her where she needed to be to have a quick and painless death?

R.I.P Mooch. You are still missed, and we talk about you every day. Hope you like the marker that we made for you. xxoo

Free At Last... but Liberty Has Its Price!

   Even after a lengthy "discussion" with St. Francis about what to do with the four bunnies that had come into my care, I still looked about for some sort of suitable housing for our "harey" critters. Jim finally found an advertisement in Craig's list for a "large rabbit pen." On my first day off, we took a little drive to see the "pen." It was indeed fairly large, but it was still a cage, and my heart fell down to my toes. I just couldn't put those sweet little critters into a steel cage.

  "Well," said the farmer, "I do have some other pens I'd like to get rid of." So we looked at his other offerings, and finally settled on a large wooden, divided "house" that had once held small fowl. We took the appratus home. It languished in the back of the truck for two week while I agonized if I could really put those rabbits in THAT contraption.

   It was then that I remembered the discernment process that had taken place with St. Francis as my guide....all those many weeks ago. The only REAL solution was to liberate the rabbits and let them be free as nature had intended them to be. GULP!  What if something happened to them? What if it rained and they couldn't get under some cover? What if a hungry, larger critter spotted them? To each "what if" Jim had a reassuring answer. "Mary...they're rabbits. They are meant to live outdoors. There are lots of places for them to get  under and to hide in for protection. They will be fine!"

   Finally, I decided to liberate the rabbits. Jim and I agreed that we would only feed and water them in their "safe place" in the chicken pen. I'm not sure who was the most frightened, me or the bunnies. We left the door to their pen open, and just watched to see what would happen. At first they just sort of "hung out" in the chicken pen. Well, except Paulito, of course, who scurried out as soon as the rabbit door was opened. He seemed to revel in the fact  that he had escaped and that Mary hadn't noticed! 

   For the first week I hovered. I  made numerous forays to  the chicken house. I checked the food and water to see if they were eating and drinking. ("Mary, they have acres of fresh green grass. They aren't interested in dry pellets and hay!" said Jim) Peter seemed to cling to the relative safety of the rabbit pen. He was always there when I checked on him. Daisy would sometimes join him, but the other two were less attached to the indoors. They spent most of the time outside. Every evening and morning I would go outside and "count noses." If one was missing, I would ask Jim to be on the lookout as he worked outside during the day.In time they all became aclimated to being outside rabbits. They freely came and went as they pleased.

   Now, many months later, they are almost exclusively outside hares. They no longer run and hide when I go out to talk to them. They just sort of "hang out" near the house, as if THEY are checking on US to be sure we are still around. It is a joy to watch them hop and play freely in the great outdoors. It is a comfort to see how attached they are to Milagro Acres!

  If this sounds like a happy ending, let me assure you that it is not a TOTALLY satisfactory solution. Before long, Mary found out that liberty does have it's responsibilities. The rabbits are free, but Mary is kept busy trying to rabbit proof the growing things that bunnies love, but Jim thinks is off limits to them.

   Next project...rabbit-proofing Mr.Kaineg's garden. Sigh!
  

Taming the Wild Hare...OR...How Did I Get Into This Mess?

    Once it was obvious that we would soon have more rabbits in the pen, I began trying to train Peter and Daisy to use a litter box. Peter took to it in one day. Daisy, on the other hand, refused to go into the litter box, but preferred to do her business right beside it.  After trying every trick I knew (after all I had raised 5 kids), I narrowed the space until Daisy had very little choice. It worked splendidly.....until I widened the space again. Daisy and I finally agreed to disagree. To this day, she does what she does right next to the litter box, but NEVER in it. Guess who gets to clean up after her every day?

   Paulito and Daphne arrived on my birthday. Because there were only two, they were bigger than the other litter, and (please don't tell them this) they really weren't as cute. Daphne has a flattened nose, and Paulito looked like a roly-poly Peter, only with a devious glint in his eyes. This deviousness was well hidden at first, since baby rabbits don't leave the nest for several weeks. It became obvious soon enough!

   We had become accustomed to letting the rabbits run free in the chicken house at night while the chickens were roosting. They seemed to enjoy hopping about and burrowing in the straw, and just having room to run. In the morning we would entice the rabbits back into their pen with fresh greens and hay, then open the door and let the chickens run free. It seemed routine and simple enough.

   One morning I went to the chicken house and found only 3 rabbits. Paulito was no where to be seen. I looked everywhere, whistled and called his name. Nothing. I decided to try being very quiet. Sure enough, I heard a noise on the chicken roost. There was Paulito, hiding behind a post, chuckling at me. I was not laughing. First of all, the roost is 3 feet off the floor. How did he get there?  Well rabbits can jump, silly...but 5 week old rabbits shouldn't be able to jump that high!!

   Soon it became almost routine. Paulito would escape. Mary would chase him. In time he began to find holes that would let him escape outside. Mary would patch the holes. He would find another one. He loved playing hide and seek. He would hide inside the bale of hay. He would hide behind the old machinery stored in the hen house. Each time he escaped, he would run and jump and shake his little short tail at me as if to say....nanner, nanner, I won...again!

  I began to get worried about Paulito. He would sometimes run away and stay out over night. I was concerned that some predator might get him. I was also concerned about a cute little cottontail rabbit that seemed to be hanging around Paulito! Since he lived a protected life, I was sure he would fall for her feminine wiles. At times he would be gone for two nights. Just when I would decide that he was gone forever, he would be in the chicken house, lazily munching on a piece of hay, looking at me as if it were all MY fault that he couldn't  get back into the locked rabbit pen!

   At five and a half months, Paulito made the trip to the pet clinic. He didn't seem to be too upset about his new condition. Miss Hussie Cottontail, however, was later found as roadkill, on our road. She must have been so distracted that Paulito was no longer the play boy bunny she once knew, she just forgot to look both ways before crossing the road. Poor Miss Hussie Cottontail!

   As the rabbits grew, they seemed to need more space. It was a real quandary for me. I don't like to see animals caged, yet sometimes that is the only way to protect them. I decided it was something to discuss with St. Francis. After all, he talked to the animals. He would know what to do!

I'm With You, Beatrix......

Many years ago, when I first read The Tale of Peter Rabbit, I didn't really appreciate Beatrix Potter's love of animals, or her understanding of their characters and personalities.  Now that I have time to appreciate our farm critters in a way that I did not when they were just part of my chore list, I value Ms. Potter's insight. Each little critter has a unique and individual personality.

I first met Peter Rabbit (not the one in the afore mentioned book!) when our neighbor came to our house wanting to know if we would "like" a rabbit. She had been raising them as 4-H projects, but now she was moving on to another phase, and had to get rid of her rabbits. Reluctantly, we agreed to become Peter's adoptive parents. What an adorable critter he is. He is gentle, loving, and VERY quiet. He loves munching on fresh greens, and talking (VERY quietly) to me.We fashioned him a pen in the chicken house. He had been raised with chickens, so he adapted very quickly to his new digs.

Things became complicated when the neighbor returned one day to say she had one more rabbit to "get rid of," and her dad was going to put it in the soup pot if she didn't find a home for it soon. She assured us that this rabbit was as tame as Peter, and even though she was a girl rabbit, Peter had been "fixed" so it would not create a problem for us. Since I had by this time become completely smitten with Peter, Daisy was welcomed into the rabbit pen.

Now, I don't want to admit that she (the neighbor)  knew a sucker when she saw one, but it wasn't long before it was obvious that Peter and Daisy had become a couple, and that Peter was indeed fully intact! Ergo, we soon had a rather large litter of absolutely adorable baby bunnies hopping around the pen. We knew this was going to happen, of course, because of the nesting habit of Daisy. She had fashioned a snuggly, warm home for her babes out of fur from her own body. She placed this little nest in the farther most corner of the pen. Voila! There they were one morning when we went in to feed the critters.

Six weeks later we were able to place the bunnies at a local pet shop, whose owner assured us they would be easily adopted because they were so cute. Ah....., now all we had to do was get Peter to the veterinarian ASAP. There was, of course, some heated discussion about the necessity of spending that kind of money on a RABBIT, when fried rabbit was considered a delicacy!

Having grown up on a farm, I had eaten almost ever critter I had helped raise, so I understood the theory. I no longer accepted that theory however, because we did not need the meat, not the income from selling the rabbit for meat. Besides, Peter had become my  buddy. He trusted me, and I loved him. In the end, he spent a day with the veterinarian, and was placed back in the pen with Daisy.

A few weeks later, Daisy was again building a nest of fur and straw. We could not believe this was real, because Peter was not longer capable of pro-creation. As it turned out, that sneaky rabbit had pulled one last little surprise on us BEFORE he made his visit to the pet clinic! Thus we acquired Paulito and Daphne!

I don't want to suggest that those sweet and docile rabbits are capable of revenge, but Peter's son, Paulito arrived in the nest a contrary and wretched little creature who tugged at the heart strings one second, and raised the blood pressure the next.

Did Peter encourage him? Or... could it be that Paulito is just the wild hare in the hutch?

I Think That I Shall Never See.....

   I can relate to Joyce Kilmer, who wrote Trees. As he penned the line: " I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree" he must have had his heart touched by nature. There is a certain something about God's floral offerings that makes me wax poetic too. (and I'm NO poet!)

   There are many trees on Milagro Acres. The one that has touched my heart, though, is and old and twisted plum tree. I first became acquainted with this tree when the remodel was taking place. The tree grows directly in front of the kitchen window. When the deck was being built, there was discussion about whether the tree should go or stay, as it was going to compromise the building of the deck.

   Begin married to a forest ranger, I was never very worried about the tree. Somehow I knew the tree would win out over the deck. Sure enough, while vigorous trimming had to occur, the tree still grows and blooms outside the kitchen window.
 
  The very first time I really took notice of my "God" tree, it was filled with blooms and alive with millions of bees. It was an occasion that filled the senses. The beauty of the pink blossoms. brilliant in the sun was a feast for the eyes.  Than of course there is the song of the bees. The entire tree sounded like a room full of people praying in tongues. It was truly heavenly. The third sense that was touched that day was the sense of smell. It was wonderful. As I gazed at that tree, set in a background of brilliant morning sun, I was called to give praise to a God who loves us so lavishly.

   I grew up in the Texas panhandle, and what trees are there must be nurtured through hot dry summers, windy falls, miserably cold winters and tornado filled springs. Yet there is beauty in the prairie too.There are brilliant sunsets, prairie flowers, and prairie sounds.  I first learned to praise the God of creation as I stood watching a windmill bring fresh water to thirsty cattle. Somehow, the windmill has become my personal symbol of the Holy Spirit. Wind driven, it brings life-giving water to a parched and desolate soul. The soul of the person, and the soul of the land.

   Back to my God tree. Once the blooms were dispersed, the tree gave shade to the kitchen. The humming birds fed eagerly at the feeder nestled in the trees branches. In the fall, when the rains come, the tree seems to change colors. It becomes a silvery grey, somewhat like the rain clouds that dominate our winter weather. By mid-Winter  the branches are covered with hoar frost. Then the tree limbs boast a  lustery sheen that makes them appear luminescent in the soft morning sun. My favorite vision of the God tree, though is when the dew is dripping from every branch and each little twig. That is when the tree appears to be brillianty lit with tiny, sparkling, lights that shimmer in the grey morning light. As the sun gets higher in the sky, the droplets begin to dissipate, but not before I get a chance to once again praise a God that creates such beauty and mystery, right in front of my kitchen window.

   I think that I shall never see a poem (or much of anything else) that is as lovely as a tree. Thank you God, for putting me in lush, green Oregon. Praise you, God, for placing me in the Texas panhandle where another kind of natural beauty first called me to see you as the Divine Gardner. 

Drama, Trauma and Tragedy at the Chicken House

     By late spring, the feathered creatures had become mature fowl. Because the chicken coop was so far away from the ponds that the ducks couldn't see them or hear them, we had to continue using the kiddy pool. It had to be cleaned  and filled every other day. This was time consuming and back breaking. 

   The time had come to introduce the water fowl to the pond! One bright, sunny morning, we herded the ducks toward the pond closest to the house. It wasn't difficult....but it was slow going.  When we finally reached the pond area, I expected the ducks to take off  running in eager antcipation of a B-I-G  pool in which to play! Ah, contraire!  They took one look at all that water and headed for home. Another lesson learned: water fowl raised away from the water do not naturally take to swimming in big, scary bodies of water. We herded the ducks back to the pond area, where they cowered under the trees, near the water, but not in it. We left them dabbling in the puddles of water that remained in the tree area.

    When the sun set, I worried about the ducks. Were they safe? Should we bring them back to the chicken coop? After lengthy discussing, we decided that they were ducks! They should know instinctively that they are safe in the water, they should love the water, they will adjust....yadda, yadda, yadda.

    In the morning, we found BaRack cowering under the trees, but LeQuack was nowhere to be found. Rocky and Rosy were also missing. I refused to think the worst!  We found Rocky back in the chicken house cozily munching on ground corn and chatting with the chickens. Rosy was nowhere to be found. Jim finally located what was left of LeQuack in the creek bed. Alas, because of our ignorance, some four footed critter had enjoyed a late evening dinner. I was devastated. We returned BaRack to the hen house, where he lived for about a year, before being captured by "something"  during his nightly dip in the kiddy pool. Rosy was never seen again. Rocky lived, slept and ate with the chickens. We wondered if he would ever be a true Mallard, swimming and playing in the pond, as I had first imagined that Easter so long ago.

   Minnie, the guinea became the boss of the farm-yard. When she screeched, the chickens, the duck and the people paid attention. Guineas are really skitterish, so it doesn't take much to set them off. It takes a LOT to shut them off, however. I grew to love her ear splitting screech. I knew she would warn us if danger was afoot. Due to natural selection and attrition, our little flock had changed over the summer, but the critters that remained cheerily greeted us every morning. Seeing their joy at just being alive made me appreciate even more the wonderful life God had given us. In my prayer, I rejoiced  that we had become so blessed.

   One bright, sunshiny day, as I walked around the place.....   

Chickens and Ducks and CATS...Oh My.

Taking care of the feathered creatures was not our only concern at Milagro Acres. Reconstruction had begun on the real house, there were acres of grass to mow, yard to tend and flowers to plant. There was always another chore waiting to be done.

One day we found Ditto, the least domesticated of the five original cats, lying at our front door. This was a phenomena, because we had as yet been unable to get near him. He hung back at feeding time, and ate only when we disappeared from his view. Never had we gotten close enough to actually touch him. Yet, here he was, lying at our door, looking at us with pathetic, sad eyes.  

As we approached Ditto to see what was going on...he skittered away. It was immediately obvious that he had come to us for help. His back leg was hanging loose and at an odd angle. This little critter was in pain! We discussed the situation and agreed that the least we should do is have him examined and weigh the options. Good plan! Now all we had to do was catch him. After several disastrous and unsuccessful attempts, we got a fish net on a long pole and captured the poor guy. 

Jim called from the Veterinarian's office to ask how much, monetarily, I thought the cat was worth. I gave him a figure, but we had already exceeded that amount. In the end, a decision was made to try to salvage the leg and give the animal another chance at life.

Several days later, Ditto came home with a repaired and "pinned" leg. To better feed and care for him, we kept the patient  in a crate outside the door. On about the third day, Jim went to open the cage to medicate the little guy. The ungrateful wretch bit him in the hand and made a run for it!

Once he was free, you can bet the "scairdy cat"  did not come close to the house for several weeks, though we could watch him come in to the feeder at night when he thought he was safe.

Now, several years after the traumatic events,  whenever the cats are having breakfast, Jim will smile and say: " I still think it was worth it. Just to watch Ditto run free and climb trees makes me glad we had his leg repaired."  (He thinks I haven't heard him call the silly feline Thousand Dollars every chance he gets!)

Sadly, the mortality rate for the feathered creatures was not so optimistic.