Category Archives: Animals We Know and Love

Dogs and Cats

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“Please, please let’s go for a walk”. Her eyes fixed on mine, never wavered.

“But Sable, it’s nearly 90 degrees outside and the humidity is hovering around 70 percent. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Please,” she repeated with those expressive eyes.

“Ok, a short walk. Go get your leash.” I gave in. It was early enough on a July Saturday that the pavement hadn’t become too hot for her paws. I pulled out of the drawer her soft, protective paw boots, which she doesn’t like but will accept if that is the price for a summer walk.

Sable pirouetted and ran to the laundry room, where her harness and leash are kept on a blue wooden peg, two feet from the floor, just the right height for her to reach.

Sable is a dog of indeterminate ancestry. She is neither wolf nor shepherd, hound nor terrier. She is approximately 20 inches tall and weighs 25 pounds, with short fur of a rich, deep brown hue, hence her name. She has a narrow white collar that dips onto her chest like a small white pendant, and a short black velvet muzzle.  Her small black ears stand at attention as if waiting for a signal. The mold was definitely broken when she was born. I don’t think there can be a duplicate. I wish I could have her cloned because she is the most perfect companion ever, and I know she has an expiration date.

Her golden eyes are alive with the vocabulary of a college professor. They communicate very effectively, and what she can’t convey with her eyes she passes to her tail. If her tail can’t make you understand, then her whole body gets into the act, quivering, pointing, circling, or hopping foot to foot. Sable is an active listener and patiently absorbs any manner of conversation from religion to geology, movies to politics. She puts her paw on your leg in affirmation or her chin on your lap if you are sitting. She rarely disagrees, but can let you know if she is unhappy with a low guttural sound or quiet mewling.

Sable is a rescue. A real rescue. Three years ago, on my way home from a meeting across town, I drove past her little form sitting in a puddle in a vacant lot on the side of Tanque Verde Road during a monsoon. Abandoned. She couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old, too young to have run away from home on stubby little legs and too plump to have been a feral dog. She had been living in someone’s home, fed regularly, and then disposed of for an unknown reason.  How does a person abandon a helpless puppy near a busy street in a storm? She looked confused. I pulled over in the nearest safe spot, got out of the car, and walked back to her through the downpour. She was shivering, not from cold but from fright. Back in my car, I sat with her in my lap, giving her sips of water poured into my palm from a water bottle. She lapped it up little by little until nearly half the bottle was empty. She stopped shivering.  I put her in the passenger seat on an old towel that I had thrown into the car in case I was caught in the predicted downpour. She immediately curled up and went to sleep. She didn’t move for the thirty-minute trip home to a suburban community outside Tucson. Once in the house, she explored each nook and cranny and pronounced that she was indeed home by jumping into my lap, reaching up to lick my face, then jumping down and peeing on the floor in front of me. The deal was sealed.

As all pet parents know, the creatures have a way of creeping into our hearts and taking residence in our minds. They become a priority, especially for a single person. I know Sable will be there to greet me with enthusiasm each day when I return from work. She doesn’t care if it was a good day or not because, for her, my presence makes her day great. She doesn’t withdraw with silent moodiness like my ex-husband if I don’t read her mind. She accepts the attention I give her with total love. Sometimes, I become absorbed in the day-to-day demands of my job or social relationships. She is always there when I resurface to the moment, waiting patiently with full devotion.

Sable is small enough that I can take her with me when I run errands. She loves car rides. She hops into her booster seat and waits to be snapped into the harness. I am able to take her into most of the stores where I shop. She sits obediently in a cart or walks quietly by my side. She ignores entreaties to leave my side, but accepts friendly pats as her due. I can’t take her grocery shopping in the store, but I can do pick-up. She knows the delivery girls at Fry’s, eagerly anticipating their friendly greeting. She loves a stop at the bank, knowing as we approach the drive-up window that she will get a treat. She delights in her puppucino at Starbucks. She appreciates my Sirius XM music, especially the Elvis channel. Sometimes we go for a longer ride to the mountains or to visit friends in Carefree. She passively watches the scenery, but when she hears a big rig eighteen-wheeler approach, she gets all excited, stands up in her seat, and watches for it to pass, ears pricked forward and tail waving ninety knots to nothing. I think in a former life she was a long-haul trucker.

Recently, she has learned to tolerate my friend, Colin. He has become a regular visitor, and she was very stand-offish at first. Now she grudgingly makes a space for him next to me on the sofa if he stays after dinner. He knows she has first dibs on wherever she wants to lie. He learned very quickly that he needed to accommodate her preferences.

Luckily, he has Marcus, a big yellow tabby cat, at home, so he understands the pecking order for guests in an animal’s domain. I’ve met Marcus. He is very sweet in his catty way. His green eyes pierced me, searching the depths of my reliability. He sat out of arm’s length, assessing me and, I’m sure, questioning my motives for being in his house. He allowed me to stroke him on his terms. He walked away with a tail held high as if to say, “You’re ok, but don’t let this go to your head. It is a temporary situation.” He is the product of a broken home and a custody battle. He was shuffled from home to home for about six months until Colin’s ex decided she didn’t want the responsibility. According to Colin, Marcus is shy of any other commitment.

We anticipate the day when we might introduce Sable to Marcus. Sable loves everyone unless they demonstrate by action or harsh words that they are untrustworthy. I insist Sable is open to any relationship, and he claims Marcus would be okay when he gets to know me a little better. There is a hesitation about the right moment to make the introduction. If it doesn’t go well, what will it mean to OUR relationship? We are taking our friendship slowly toward a deeper connection out of deference to our four-legged roommates. It is probably a very good thing to move slowly since both of us were burned in the past. Basing a romantic life on the acceptance of our pets, maybe, not so much.

Bird Friends in Somerset Canyon

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We live amidst a variety of birds that visit our yard daily. Some are seasonal visitors, and some stick it out through hot or cold, sweltering sun, monsoon rain, or winter snow. The doves are the latter. They are always here.

Our yard backs to a nature preserve that used to be a golf course. Substantial old mesquite trees line the edge of the preserve. Rising above the other trees and brush, they are lookout posts for birds. Doves wait patiently in the top branches for me to put birdseed on top of five block fence pillars each morning. Then they swoop down, and the seeds disappear within minutes. If the doves are slow, smaller birds will start their feast.

The gentle cooing of the Mourning Dove is soothing. We hear the more aggressive sounds of the White Wing Dove – still a coo but stronger with an emphasis on the beginning sound. The White Winged dove is slightly larger and more decorous than the mourning dove. White Winged Doves have light gray bodies with white stripes on their wings and, when they fly,  rounded tails sport white feathered fans. The smaller mourning doves are drab gray-brown with black spots and have narrow black tails, but their wistful call is so much sweeter.

We enjoy the gleeful cheeps and tweets of other birds, most of which I have not identified. Harris Hawk sounds like the beginning of a baby cry that stops abruptly. She is the dark presence of a predator in our benign assemblage. She is beautiful, however, and oh so clever.

My favorite of all time is the Mockingbird. Their chatter is a symphony of sounds, sometimes a birdy twitter, sometimes a hammer, then a barking dog. When our mockingbird visits, we are entertained for as long as he wants to stay. I never leave the backyard as long as he is around. He used to visit often, but it has been over a year since we’ve seen or heard him in the backyard. I heard him this morning, as I walked through the Preserve, so I know he and his cohorts are still around.

We are blessed with little hummers too. I believe they are the variety called Anna’s Hummingbird. They are mostly green and gray, but some have a reddish head. The females are gray-brown with a bit of white on them. They are attracted to anything red. When Ken wears his red ball cap outside, they come to investigate his head. They hang around the lemon tree when it is in bloom. They rise and dive through the air in a birdy ballet.

Doves signify peace, hope, and spiritual purity in many cultures worldwide. To the Greeks, they were holy animals of Aphrodite. To the Jews, they represent God’s holy spirit after the flood. The Cheyenne people of North America had a saying, “If a man is as wise as a serpent, he can afford to be as harmless as a dove,” the equivalent of “speak softly but carry a big stick.” In Hinduism, the Inca Dove represents love and spiritual peace.  Doves are used as a universal symbol of peace at international gatherings.

Those folks have not met Lefty.

Lefty is a white wing dove. He is at our back fence nearly every day.  We sit on the patio with our morning coffee to watch the coming and going of our bird neighbors. We identified Lefty because he is arguably the major antithesis of a peaceful bird. When he flies in to join other birds, he shoos them off by lifting his left wing and pushing at them until they move or fly away. Mourning doves and small birds skitter when he lands. Even our cardinals who are more his size, leave after he knocks them with his wing a couple of times. The only bird I’ve seen stand up to Lefty is a Gambel Quail. They are roughly half again his size. He doesn’t back down readily but if push comes to shove, their shove is mightier.

The Cactus Wrens are chatty birds, and they are here year-round. They don’t fight, but they are active, flitting from pillar to pillar, staying out of Lefty’s way. They raise their bold voices to scold the other birds, but they don’t get physical. I love to watch them scale the side of the block fence. When other birds are landing on the top, the cactus wren will hop up the wall sideways.

When a local Harris Hawk comes to visit, Lefty along with ALL the birds disappears in a furious burst of winged agitation.

Every now and then, Harris sits on our fence waiting for her breakfast. She knows a dove will eventually come out of hiding. Doves, not known for their smarts, are very low on the food chain. They are the perfect size for a hawk’s meal. Harris has to work harder to get a quail, but I’ve witnessed one being devoured by her.

As I watched one day, Harris patiently observed the Preserve from our back fence. She was waiting for the right morsel to break her nighttime fast. She watched the trees, then cocked her head, looking to the ground. I think she was ready for anything feathered or furred to move. After fifteen minutes, several of the smallest birds came out of hiding, flashing their feathered finery and darting through the branches of trees right in front of her. Instinctively, they knew they were safe because they weren’t even a mouthful for the predator. They acted like a motley crew of comedians, skipping, fluttering and dipping through the tree limbs as if putting on a show. They sat directly in her line of sight as if to say, “ha-ha, catch me if you can.” Of course, it would have been easy for Harris to pick off one of those jeering birds, but the nourishment acquired would not compensate for the energy expended. Harris is no fool. Harris turned her head to look at me as I videoed the scene from my patio, off and on for over an hour, as if to say, “I’m the star of this flick, right?” Finally, a furry creature, I think was a mouse, possibly a pack rat, darted through the underbrush and swoop went Harris. When she flew away, I could see the small meaty creature in her talons, destined to be her morning repast.

We don’t have to leave home to find amusement. We have an endless display of nature to enchant us, especially the charming members of the bird kingdom.

A Dragon in the Morning

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It was an interesting experience to wake up with a dragon in our dining room. He was mostly quiet and considerate. Occasionally he got ambitious and moved things around in his living space, making clunking noises. George belonged to our neighbors who left on holiday for five weeks. I volunteered to be a critter sitter while they were gone. He and his tank were lodged on our dining room table for the duration.

This photo is of Sadie, our baby, and George, our prehistoric visitor, a Bearded Dragon. At the time, Sadie was about three years old, a rescue, so I’m not precise about her birthday. His age is undetermined but he comes from a long line of primordial legendary critters with massive life spans. He and Sadie bonded.

Sadie was sleeping on the back of the sofa in my office as I watched George, with a few minutes of out-of-tank time, explore the floor. He spied Sadie and climbed quickly up the sofa to check her out. She woke up with George nose to nose with her and they shared a few moments of wordless communion. Pleasantries were exchanged telepathically. I couldn’t resist the photo op. George returned to his tank to await another adventure on another day.

Our male cat, Oliver, also enamored with the exotic creature, spent hours lying beside George’s tank silently communing with him through the glass. George would sidle up near the place where Oliver lay, cock his head as if to say “what’s happening big guy?”

Our eldest feline, Nunny, said “ho-hum – just another space invader.” She ignored him completely. We were amused watching the variety of feline – reptile interactions.

When we had guests, George was the center of attention. All our meals were taken at the kitchen table. At the end of summer, our neighbors returned and came to reclaim George. I was happy to get my dining room back but we thoroughly enjoyed his visit.

Mussolini in a Fur Suit

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It is said that even dictators can have a good side. Mussolini, who ruled Italy in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s as an evil fascist tyrant, gained support because he made the trains run on time. Our home has been run on a schedule for eight years by our own little Mussolini – a benevolent dictator. Her name is Nunney Catch, a six-pound gray and white cat. She made it clear what the agenda was from the day she entered our house. She was between five and eight years old according to the vet when she came to live with us. A special needs adoption. She came with some medical problems that were easily handled over the years with our compassionate vet, Dr. Medler.

Nunney Catch

From the very beginning, Nunney decided she wanted to go to bed in my office at night with the door closed. Promptly at 8pm, she would announce bedtime. If she was sitting on my lap, she got up, jumped to the floor, and looked at me until I got up to take her to her room, give her fresh water and a treat, turn out the light, and close the door. If the door wasn’t closed, she would come out again and repeat the process, staring at me until I followed her to her bed and then close the door. When new cats were added to the family, she still insisted on going to her room at night. She didn’t care if one or the other cats joined her as long as her door was closed. I always knew when it was 8pm because she would find me to let me know it was bedtime.

Every morning when the office door was opened, she walked to the kitchen to get her medication that Ken administered along with a treat. She waited beside the kitchen island without fail. We never had to coax her or force her to have her meds. She obviously knew they were good for her.

Nunney nestled in my drawer if I didn’t close it quickly

Nunney also insisted on eating her dinner (canned cat food) at precisely 3pm. It started out to be 4pm, but she upped the time about two years ago. If I was sitting down, she climbed up beside me, tapped me on the shoulder with one paw, and look deeply into my eyes to tell me it was dinnertime. I never had to look at the clock. She was precise. If I was not in my chair, she would find me and let me know she needed her dinner. She would then walk to the kitchen and parade around and around the kitchen island in a clockwise direction until the food was dished up and presented to her. She had access to dry cat food all day but was very insistent on her canned food in the afternoon. When I was unavailable, she gave the same directions to Ken at the appropriate time. He followed orders as well.

Nunney was a very sweet girl. She was the possessor of a loud vibrating purr. She was amenable to anyone who petted her. She liked treats and yelled at the top of her voice when she delivered a toy to us to let us know she wanted a reward for the gift. We adopted two cats after we had Nunney. She was the smallest of the three by far, but master of the house. If she wanted a toy they were playing with, they backed off, if she wanted to eat from their dish, they backed off. She had first claim on my lap and snarled and hissed if either of the others tried to usurp her.

A few weeks ago, Nunney began a new behavior. A puzzling behavior. We had a cat many years ago named Phoebe. She was a small tuxedo cat with an enormous personality that belied her dainty six-pound size. When she died, we buried her in our backyard under a slate marker. There she has been for fifteen years, long before we adopted Nunney. Nunney liked to go outside with us when we sat on the patio in the morning or afternoons. She didn’t like the rocky backyard; it was too sharp on her little paws, so she stayed on the patio. Nunney began to ask to go outside every morning as soon as she got up. She went directly to the sliding door and sat looking into the yard until we opened it. She didn’t wait for us to go outside with her. She purposefully traversed the patio; then, with delicate steps, walked across the rocks to the slate marker over Phoebe’s grave. She sat on the marker for a few minutes and would lick the slate, then turn around and walk back into the house. The ritual lasted about two minutes total. We watched this pattern quizzically for days and I video-recorded it because it was so unusual. She had not met Phoebe and certainly was not aware we buried her in that place. It had been years before we even knew Nunney, even before Nunney was born. I remarked to Ken that Nunney was telling us something.

Ten days ago, Nunney showed signs of dying. She had not been ill or injured. She stopped eating, stopped drinking, became incontinent and lethargic. Her old spark was gone. I checked her out all over and she didn’t appear to be in pain anywhere. Her systems were shutting down. It happened quickly. We kept her comfortable and near us, but she didn’t respond in her usual way. Nunney died in the middle of the night, January 4. I found her still and quiet in the morning.

We mourn our little Mussolini. Things are not the same in our household. For those who have been close to animals and experienced their short life span, you understand the grief that comes when our dearest fur babies die. Their remarkable spirits are woven into the fabric of every day. Even the feathered and scaled ones find ways into our hearts. We buried Nunney in the backyard next to Phoebe and placed a marker above her. I believe that was what she was telling us with her three-week morning ritual. I’m grateful that she did not linger and become sick. She instinctively knew she was coming to the end of her days. She communicated in her fashion to prepare us. I’m always amazed at the intuition and communication abilities of animals when we take the time to know them. We are thankful she was in our lives. She made an indelible impression.

The schedule in our home has gone to heck. The trains no longer run on time. Oliver and Sadie don’t have anyone demanding dinner on their behalf at 3pm. They haven’t figured out a timetable. Now they are fed in the afternoon – maybe early evening, but never at a precise time. I don’t have a timekeeper to remind me. It is strange albeit liberating not to have to referee at dinnertime to keep Nunney from gobbling up all their food. They eat side by side without having me watch over them. Oliver assumed the role of lap cat when I settle down in the evenings. The door is always open to my office because Nunney no longer insists on her private time. If I get up in the middle of the night, as I’m wont to do, I don’t worry about waking anyone when I go to my desk. Our house feels empty even with two cats entertaining us with their cat antics.

Nunney’s spirit does abide. I know she’s looking over us, probably rolling her eyes at the disorder of our lives. She’ll make sure things are on schedule in heaven.

July in the Desert

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Originally posted on A Way with Words

Saturday started in the usual way, up at 5 am as dawn cracked the horizon, then a walk through Vistoso Trails Nature Preserve, a 202-acre former golf course that backs to our property and connects with other open spaces in our town.

A rambling six-mile trail (former cart path) winds through open areas and trees offering beautiful vistas of the Catalina Mountains as well as local wildlife. Birds of all kinds chatter in the trees declaring the news of the day as we walk along. Roadrunners and rabbits skitter across the paths in a hurry to go to breakfast. Animals and humans stay a respectful distance from one another. The wildlife does not seem frightened or threatened by people passing through their home.

Yes, it is hot in southern Arizona in July, but not so hot that nature cannot be enjoyed in the early hours. We are lucky to live in this amazing environment. The trails are busy with walkers and a few bikers until about 9 am when temps start to climb and everyone retreats to air conditions homes. Monsoons are on the agenda for this month yet none have arrived. They will certainly be welcomed when they do. They bring drama to our Sonoran Desert and much needed rain.

Later in the morning, Sally and I met at our town’s newest bookshop, Stacks Book Club, a long-awaited addition to the Oro Valley Marketplace. Wow! We were impressed. The owners, Crispin and Lizzy, have done a great job creating a comfy ambiance, a gathering place. They are open from 7 am to 8 pm every day and offer a variety of coffee drinks, teas, energy drinks, beer, and wine – something for every time of day – plus an assortment of pastries and sandwiches, and BOOKS. Their opening weekend drew over 1,000 people. Crispin said it seriously reduced their inventory of books which they are busy upgrading. The bookshop is a real bonus for our community.  I’m sure they will do very well. We plan to visit often. It is a great place for a writers’ group to meet to discuss individual projects and have a cuppa.

Check out Stacks website: Stacks Book Club.

That was my day – from bobcats to books to baseball (on TV). Dodgers beat the Mets, Angels beat the Astros, and Tigers beat the Mariners. Then a happy hour hosted by our neighbors, Joyce and Rick. Perfect!

Our Charming Feline Family

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

Our life is ruled by our three fur babies. As all animal lovers know, every animal has a soul and personality unique to themselves. It is said, dogs have masters, but cats have servants. We happily serve Nunny Catch (named after a street and café south of Bath England), big brother Oliver, and Sadie, the baby.

Nunny taking a snooze

Nunny is a rescue special-needs cat. We acquired her when she was three (although our vet says she was more likely five or six and had given birth to many litters). She is now eleven or twelve and shakes off her old lady ways occasionally to chase Oliver and Sadie around the house. She has arthritis and breathing issues that are controlled by a small amount of medication given every other day. Nunny is very small. She still has her cat skills and can jump to the top of the cat tree in the family room. Nunny is a love sponge. She likes to lay on the top back of chairs and sofas, so she is at the right height to be petted when someone passes by. She never gets enough. She sits on our lap whenever a lap appears. She taps me on the shoulder if I’m sitting to let me know it’s mealtime, sometime between three and four o’clock in the afternoon; or walks around and around the kitchen island meowing that it is dinnertime. She purrs so loudly she can be heard over the TV. In her mom role, she grooms the other two cats if they hold still long enough. She is rarely out of sight. She curls up in whichever room we are in so she can keep an eye on us. Nunny insists on going into the library/office at night. She taps me on the shoulder if I’m sitting, just as she does at mealtime, to remind me it is eight o’clock. Her internal clock is infallible. If I don’t take her in there she meows loudly and walks back and forth until she gets me to put her to bed and close the door. Occasionally one of the other cats joins her, but not often. She likes her quiet nights alone. 

Oliver on vanity

Oliver, also a rescue, was three when we brought him home a year or so after Nunny. He is now seven. It took him three years to let Ken touch him. He tolerated me but wouldn’t come on my lap or allow me to pet him for months after we got him. He is very suspicious and stays far away from company. If someone stays with us for a few days, he may make an appearance just to see what’s going on but disappears quickly. There are times we look high and low and cannot find him. He has a peculiar habit around mealtime. He comes to the kitchen when he knows I’m fixing their food. He’ll even stretch up at the cabinet like he’s reaching for his dish but when it is put down, he smells it, possibly tastes a bite, then shakes his right paw as if to say “this is not to my liking”, tosses his head and leaves the room. Oliver will eat his food only when no other cat is around late at night. Sometimes I feed him in another room by himself if I want to make sure he gets his food early.  Oliver is also the only cat I’ve met who doesn’t like treats. We’ve tempted him with all kinds but he will not eat them. They will lay where we give them to him until one of the other cats eats them. He will lay on my lap late at night when Nunny is not around. He now loves to be petted – on his terms. He hates being picked up, makes his body rigid, and fights. Needless to say, he doesn’t get picked up very often. He usually responds when he is called so we don’t have to corral him. He loves to be admired and photographed. He poses like a prince.

Sadie’s work rearranging dining room picture
Sadie on the file cabinet at age one

Sadie is the charmer, the clown, the scamp. She was a kitten of a few months when we brought her home. Tiny and cute then, she is now, at the age of three, the biggest of them all. She loves people and is immediately everyone’s best friend when they come to visit. We have to close her in the library when guests come who don’t appreciate feline company. Sadie is everywhere all the time. Unlike the other two cats who do the cat thing and sleep most of the day, Sadie is busy, busy, busy all day long. She rarely stops. If you find her sleeping, it is a fluke. She climbs to the top of everything. She flies from chair to chair to table to piano to bookcase to sofa, never touching the ground. She plays with toys, bottle caps, coins, whatever she can find, shooting goals under the refrigerator, sofa and closet doors. She has broken lamps, pulled pictures askew on the walls and pulled books and bric-a-brac off shelves. I don’t know how she gets books off library shelves when they are wedged in but I know she works at it. Sometimes books are pulled into the middle of the room. She is also a thief. Well, that is harsh. She is a trader. Once when Sally was visiting, she took Sally’s keys from her purse, but she put a cloth toy mouse in its place. The keys she took back to the closet and put in my shoe. We had quite a time finding keys so Sally could go home. Another time I found a lipstick that was not mine on the floor in the bedroom. I called a friend who had visited earlier in the day to ask if she was missing a lipstick. Sure enough when she looked in her purse she found a cat toy and was missing a lipstick. I do not know how Sadie came by the idea of trading but now I caution women to close purses tightly. It is impossible to put purses where Sadie cannot reach them because she can get anywhere. She is also extremely good at disappearing. We have searched and searched at times and she stays well hidden until a treat is offered.

Our three darlings are our companions and entertainment. We love them because of their quirks not in spite of them. This is a short essay about the unique personalities of our cats. I can spend hours writing all kinds of stories about their antics. I’m sure you have stories about your loved pets also. Take some moments to write them down.

Sadie attacking Oliver and Nunny

Miss Piggy

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originally posted on A Way with Words blog

As I’ve mentioned in other posts, we live at the edge of a nature preserve in Rancho Vistoso. One of the delights of living here is seeing animals in their environment whenever we walk through the neighborhood and preserve. Occasionally, wild things show up in our yard (both front and back) or at our fence. We live with bobcats, deer, coyotes, ground squirrels, geckos, and javelina as our neighbors. A mountain lion and black bear have been spotted in other areas of Vistoso but we have not seen them in our neighborhood. We also have snakes (I just saw a king snake at our patio door), tarantulas, and scorpions on occasion. The bird families are many and include road runners, Gamble quail, mockingbirds, redtail and Harris hawks, mourning doves, white wing doves, cardinals, cactus wrens, and smaller birds I haven’t identified. Sometimes it feels like we’re in the cage as animals peer at us through the fence. The deer especially look over at us as if to say “Ahh, poor humans, closed in by fences while we have the whole Sonoran Desert to roam.”

Ken and I sit on our back patio every morning with our coffee/tea and watch the birds. I put Desert Blend birdseed atop the fence posts and they greedily scarf it down scattering a goodly amount on the ground. The small birds come first, then the doves. White-wing doves are bullies shooing other birds away until a quail shows up, then they back off. Quails reign. When a hawk flies in all the birds scatter. Once in a while a hawk will catch a dove and sit on top of a fence post to have breakfast with us.

Just to say Hi

Last week as we sat with our morning beverage, we were visited by a javelina I dubbed Miss Piggy. She was so friendly. She came up to the fence and allowed me to take several pictures of her. I took videos of her, too. In one her snout is moving back and forth as she surveyed me and my camera. She snuffled a couple of times, I think in acceptance. (I posted a video below, I hope it works.) She scrounged around for leftover seed on the ground. After about twenty minutes she went on her way.

Miss Piggy
Two adults and two babies in the rocks

The next morning, she was back. She came right up to the fence and stuck her snout in to say, “Hi, I’m back”.  I went over to see her and found she was accompanied by her family. I suspect she is a teenager and she brought along the parents who were both much bigger and two little brothers who were much smaller. The photo I have of them isn’t very clear. They were more standoffish. Only Miss Piggy came up to the fence again to say Hi. I am constantly in awe of the natural world that surrounds us.

We have great weather so we’re able to enjoy being outside in all seasons. I walk between three and seven miles daily depending on the heat and the time I get started. Every season brings its own delights with wildflowers, blooming cacti, and animals. I’m looking forward to monsoon season which is about to begin. The intoxicating smells of the desert during rainstorms cannot be equaled.

An Obsession called Horse

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originally posted on A Way with Words blog

From the time I can remember I wanted a horse. It was my request for birthdays, Christmas, and every occasion when a gift was offered. In my earliest years, we lived in a city, Wichita, Kansas. No place to put a horse. The pelt of my Dad’s old paint horse Knobby was slung over a folded rollaway bed we had in the basement and I’d climb up on Knobby’s pelt with the head of a broom stuck in the fold of the bed, a rope for reins and pretend I was riding the range.  Later we moved to the suburbs of Bellevue Washington – still no place for a horse and Knobby’s pelt didn’t even make the trip.

When I was little my father promised he would get me a horse – someday. I was given riding lessons and horses were rented for me to ride at stables and arenas but for the entire time I lived with my parents, nary a living horse of my own. I had plastic and ceramic statues of horses, read books about horses and horse magazines, played with farm sets with horses; pretended I had a horse in our garage that I groomed daily. I lived in hope that a horse would materialize if I kept the faith. But alas, no horse happened. Then my teen years erupted, and my obsession changed to Elvis, music, and boys. I still took riding lessons, but the glow was off the dream of owning a horse.

In the spring of 1967, my dad called and said he had a horse for me. A real horse. I was married with an eight-month-old daughter. We lived on the edge of town on an acre or so and we did have a little room for a little horse. Lucky me, it was a little horse. Periodically the State of Washington would round up wild Palouse ponies and put them up for auction to manage the wild herds. The Buick car dealer purchased some as giveaways with their new cars. My dad was buddies with our local Buick dealer. His friend told him about the giveaway and my dad immediately went down to buy a new car and voilà I got a horse. He had Dandy delivered to our house and we quickly put up a fence to keep him on the back acre of property.

Dandy was feral but I knew with time and love he could be a good riding horse for our daughter. I set about breaking him to saddle. It was slow and bumpy, but we got along pretty well. Then I found out I was pregnant again. Done was the riding. Fortunately, Dandy was a gentle sweet-natured fellow, so training continued. He followed me around like a big dog and I was able to continue working with him. I was confident enough in him to put our daughter on his back and lead him around the yard. A thrill for her. But I knew we couldn’t keep him. We were moving to a new house for our growing family and had to find a home for him. I put notices in the paper and called around, but no takers. Then I called a riding stable that gave lessons to kids. They came out to meet him and agreed he would be perfect for their beginning riders. Dandy found a new home.

Dad fulfilled his promise to me. Little did we know he would be dead in less than a year from a sudden explosive heart attack. Thank you, Dad, for my horse.

Red and Moxie

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Originally posted on A Way with Words Blog

We live in a wild place. Our property backs to two hundred-plus acres of the Vistoso Nature Preserve, one of the many wildlife sanctuaries in Oro Valley. A variety of species of wildlife make their home in the Preserve from mule deer to javelina, coyotes, and bobcats. A mountain lion is sighted occasionally, and a black bear was reported in Big Wash preserve in our town. We are interlopers that they tolerate. Our town is bounded by the Catalina Mountains to the east and the Tortolita Mountains to the north. Animals retreat to the mountains during the hottest months of the year just as many people do. Come late summer, they return to the valley just like people do. It is common to take a walk in the neighborhood accompanied at a respectful distance by a family of javelina or a lone coyote. Bobcats pop in and out of yards, using fences as elements of their parcourse. Lizards and geckos are more prevalent than flies. I’ve not heard or read of a person being attacked by any of these animals in our town but people with small pets, cats, and dogs, have to be vigilant. Great Horned Owls and hawks have been known to carry off the little pets and a hungry coyote may attack a dog even if it is on a leash. We have a plethora of quail, rabbits, and lizards so you don’t see emaciated coyotes around here.

Ken and I have our cups of tea and coffee every morning on the back patio. Tea for me, coffee for him. Our open-air aviary attracts hundreds of birds daily. We enjoy the morning antics of tiny hummingbirds, small wrens, sparrows, and finches with the larger doves, mourning and white-wing. The variety of birds changes with the seasons. Dozens of Gamble Quail live in the underbrush at the edge of the Preserve all year around. They come as families to eat their share of the bird food we put out each morning. They squeak like a baby’s toy to call each other. In spring, they bring their offspring, eggs on legs, Ken calls them. The little ones can’t fly so they scurry around the ground, coming through the rail fence into the yard to chase each other until mama quail calls them back. They follow their mama in neat lines with papa as the shepherd bringing up the rear. There is always the renegade who goes his own way and makes papa double back to round him up.

Moxie

The winged visitor I enjoy most is the mockingbird. I named her Moxie. She was a steady visitor for a few years, sitting in a tree near our patio. Her conversation is amusing. Che-che-che, he-be, he-be, chirp, whistle, chitter-chitter, needer-needer, trill, click, twitter. She performs long soliloquies. We missed her for two years. I think she quarantined during covid, but she is back now. We noticed her delightful chatter a couple of weeks ago. She can scold like the cactus wren, clack like a roadrunner, and caw like a crow. When homes were being built near us a few years ago she would rat-a-tat-tat like the nail gun. She doesn’t join the feasting throng but sits in a tree above the crowd. Mockingbirds prefer insects and fruit to the seeds we provide. By 9:00 in the morning she goes on her way. I’m not sure about the lifespan of a mockingbird, so there may have been many over time, but I choose to believe it is Moxie again and again. I am very grateful she returned this year to entertain us.

Red

Another friend who joined us this year is Redtail Hawk. He sits high in the tallest tree. Mostly he is on the lookout for breakfast. When he soars in to take his watchful place all the birds, especially the doves, take off in a thunderclap of wings. He sends his squeaky greetings down to us as he sits preening. Gradually the birds reappear to continue eating. We discovered he is only interested in the doves. I think the smaller birds are too much trouble for the sustenance they provide. If a dove gets careless and returns too soon, Mr. Hawk is on it like white on rice. Doves are not quite bright and slow to boot, very easy prey for Red. He sometimes perches on one of the cinderblock fence posts with his catch and consumes it slowly. Soft grey feathers float into the breeze as he strips it down to the meaty parts. Not bothered by humans nearby, he concentrates on his meal. Then he too leaves the backyard for other daytime adventures and we are left with the twitters of the smaller birds. They are quiet during the afternoons, naptime, but start up again at dusk for a short time until dark. Resident bats come out at dusk. They are very quiet as they snap up flying insects. They are reclusive during the day. We are ever aware of the natural world in this place we call home.

A Ringtail Tale

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Originally posted on A Way with Words Blog

“Diana,” Julie, our receptionist called my desk, “there is a kitten on the rail outside the office. I’m going to bring it in before it falls.”

“Sure,” I said and left my desk to see what she was talking about.

We owned a small property management company, and our office was on the second floor of a building in a commercial area of Tucson. The pebble concrete open stairway was the only way up to the landing outside our door. The rail around the landing was the barrier that kept us from falling to the parking lot thirty feet below. A kitten walking on that rail was doing a highwire act with no net.

In Julie came with a small orange ringtail cat. She set him on the floor of the reception area, and he pranced into the main office, a prince coming to assess his kingdom. There was no hesitation. He did not appear frightened or intimidated to be in a foreign place. He held his ringed tail up proudly and acknowledged everyone in the office with a short visit as he toured each nook and cranny. It was obvious he had been cared for, no feral cat he. He was plump and confident. I followed him around to see what he would do. I began talking to him.

“I’m Ringer,” he told me in a telepathic way.

His Elegance, Ringer

I announced his name to everyone. I asked Julie to take petty cash to the Walgreens down the block and buy a litter box, cat litter, food, and bowls to make our visitor welcome for his short stay with us. We made posters to put up around the building. The only residential parcel on the block was an apartment complex behind our office building. It was sectioned off by a six-foot plus fence at the back of our parking lot. We made a poster for the apartments with Ringer’s picture and details to put up wherever people might see them. Ringer set about making himself at home charming each of our agents and employees.

My husband was out of town but due back the next morning. We had a cat at home, Phoebe (you can read about her in a separate blog post, 9/19). She was a demon cat and I knew she would not be amenable to adding to the family. No one else was immediately willing to take Ringer home. At the end of the day, I said Ringer could stay in my husband’s office for the night and we’d decide what to do with him if we didn’t get any response to the posters. It was a Friday night.

I picked Ken up at the airport and said we needed to make a short detour to the office before going home.

“What’s up?” he asked suspiciously.

“Just something I want you to see.”

When we got to the office I opened the door to his office and out came Ringer. “Where did you get that cat? It’s not staying here.”

I filled him in on Ringer’s backstory as best I could and said we were trying to find his home. Ringer did his part weaving in and out of Ken’s legs, looking up, making clever little meow sounds asking to be his best friend. It worked, Ken succumbed to his spell quickly.

“Ok. He can be here for the time being but we need to find him a home.”

Several weeks later, Ringer had established himself as the official office greeter. Everyone who came in, client, tenant, or applicant was checked out. He ran to the door whenever it was opened to see what new friend he could make. We had a policy with new tenants who had dogs that they had to bring the dogs into the office for an interview before we rented to them. The whole office is animal crazy so it was our way of getting to know lots and lots of dogs. Ringer also liked dogs and would make a quick acquaintance when they dropped by. If the dogs were friendly, he would stand by during the interview in the conference room, if not he would disappear back into the office.  He was never intimidated but he was respectful of others.

Ringer especially liked to hang out in Ken’s office. If Ken left for a minute, Ringer would curl up on his chair. Otherwise, he would stretch out on the desk or snuggle up in the visitor chair. From time to time, he would wander the rest of the office checking on each person. Everyone adored him and enjoyed his company. He loved it when the printer started and would run to the cabinet it was on to stand by to see what came out. He was a great poseur when the camera came out.

Ringer stayed in the office every night alone. I took him to the vet that specialized in felines around the corner from our office. He pronounced him fit and healthy and said he was probably four to six months old. He also said he should be castrated. Ouch! I wasn’t sure I knew him well enough to authorize that act but since no one had stepped up to claim him, I did. We took him home after the operation to watch over him. Phoebe let it be known she did not approve. She would walk up and slap him in the face when he was resting on his little bed. Small as she was she packed a powerful punch. She hissed, she spat, she growled – in every way telling him he was an intruder. I spent time with her telling her she was still queen and that he was recovering from surgery and would go back to the office in a few days. I don’t think she bought it. We had to quarantine him to keep him safe.

Taking over the bosses desk

I took him back to the office after a few days and he was happy to be in his friendly environment. We started taking him home on weekends because we enjoyed his happy personality. He was the yang to Phoebe’s yin. Phoebe adapted, sort of. Ringer learned to stay out of her way. Then we began taking him back and forth every day. Ken always left earlier than I did to go to work so Ringer was my passenger. He liked the car ride to and from the office, especially when I played classical music on the radio. He would get into his carrier instantly when I put it down whether to go home or back to the office. Eventually, he grew to be fifteen pounds and too heavy for me to lug up and down the stairs every day. We made the decision that he was our home cat and Phoebe would just have to like it or lump it. It was a little nerve-wracking to leave them alone the first time without putting him in a separate space. We didn’t know if we would come home to war or peace. They worked it out. Ringer gave Phoebe a wide berth and she pretended he didn’t exist.

Ringer supervising the printer
Ringer, relaxing at home

Phoebe was my all-the-time cat. If I was home, she was with me, beside me, on my lap, sleeping with us. Ringer found his own place and stayed out of the way. Ringer adopted three stuffed pets, a yellow duck, a gray mouse, and a brown teddy bear. Each was two to three inches high. He carried them around with him one by one. Sometimes he would bring one or the other to us – meowing as he walked into the room to let us know he had a gift. He would lay it at our feet to share his special toy with us.

When Phoebe died, I had a talk with Ringer and told him he was now my support animal. He understood and from that day he came to sit on my lap, he slept with us at night and he hung around both of us all the time. He would bring his three buddies to bed at night, putting them at the foot of the bed. Then during the day he would take them one by one from the bed and play with them or leave them in other rooms. But always he would tuck them into bed each night. He enjoyed a cocktail at cocktail hour – a martini glass of water with a dash of water added. He liked being a part of the party.

Ringer was an indoor/outdoor cat who the entire neighborhood got to know. He was always friendly and curious. When he died, we heard from neighbors how much he would be missed. All the office staff mourned his passing too. Of course, no one misses him as much as we do. He is buried in our backyard with his three pets – mouse, teddy and duck, but at a great distance from Phoebe. Years later our cat, Oliver, goes to the marker slate at Ringer’s grave daily to sit and contemplate his domain in the backyard. I believe there is a spiritual connection between them.

Ringer, enjoying his martini (water)
Oliver at Ringer’s grave