The woodchip path is slowly forming behind the machine which is ever so slowly moving into the wilder parts of the property. Yesterday we found a "step" of cinderblocks embedded in the ground-- something put in by Mildred, perhaps? I cleared off the debris and marked the steps so we will remember not to stumble on it. This would be the perfect spot to build a low ledge/retaining wall with some pretty plantings to welcome a walker into our forest.
The dogs and I take that path, now, short as it is, to tour the periphery of the woods-- and we are, I suspect, intuitively designing where this path will be laid as we proceed on the doggy walk. Pim and Brinks sniff all the "evidence" that their canine noses pick up-- holes in the ground and places in the leaves where who knows what has happened. Brinks knows more than any of us what goes on back there, since his hookup outside is right at the corner of the woods and he patrols tirelessly, "mentioning" every important event, such as a rabbit hopping or a feral cat lurking. He has alerted us to all sorts of events we would certainly have missed in the time we have lived here. There was the migrating turtle (not a very friendly fellow) and the grey cat. There was the very large rat snake (about ten feet long all told) that got caught in our blueberry bird netting. And turkeys and a woodchuck...and one event that changed our lives.
We will never be the same from the moment Brinks got hyperactively sniffy about three years ago in May. He was sniffing and scratching next to the shed ramp and looking not so much the hunter as the pitier! I pulled him away and tied him to a post so I could investigate.
Lying down on the grass and peering under the shed I heard the smallest voice-- and out came a tiny creature mewing, stumbling, and with such recently opened eyes that they still looked blueish. The little face. I'll never forget it. I folded this tiny spirit into the front of my t-shirt and took it inside.
My beloved and wise one said, "Don't show me...no, no!"
I said, "...but, but.."
He said, "Think what you are doing..."
I said, "...but I WANT him."
It was not long before the creature and I were in the car headed for a pet supply store to find necessary items, including a litter box and litter and a tiny bottle with a tiny nipple and a supply of colostrum formula. The cat was rolled up in my shirt the whole trip, being eyed by the storekeeper and being wished good luck.
Like new parents we kept him next to our bed and fed him several times a night and often during the day. He never knew he was a cat. He still doesn't really-- he looks us straight in the eyes even now (cats don't usually do that) and lets me hold him in my arms with his feet up and his head back like a little baby. He just lies back and lets his body stretch out and accepts the petting and tummy scratches as he did when he was the size of a tennis ball.
We called him Mort until we knew his real name. He taught us that he was K.C., standing for the obvious: he was a Kitty Cat. He got his last name "Quantum" a few weeks later, when he showed us his feral genes, making acrobatic leaps and dashes, and making himself be here and there and no where simultaneously. (The Quantum Theory is of fascination to us here, so it was a natural happenstance that this name came to mind.)
K.C.Q. runs our life now, as do Pim and Brinks. We don't go out much. We have to see that everyone gets water and food. We have to deal with kitty litter. We have dander. We have allergies. We have barriers around so dogs and cat don't mix. We have a whole room that changed from an art studio into a cat room. We have hotwater bottles for winter. We have treats. We have exorbitant vet fees and exorbitant kennel fees. (We don't do grooming.) It's so fun.
Yes, it is fun, even though it's exasperating and unbelievably inconvenient. We are co-dependently stuck.
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