Eagle's Song

After a long stressful day when I have almost come to the limit of what I can endure, there is nothing like spending time with a mistress of mine, the ocean.  Whether I walk her skirts where the frothy frills kiss the sandy slopes or I converse with her over rocky cliffs with fishing rod in hand, she seems to quench my thirst for calm.  Rippled waves hypnotizing me with their rhythm as they lick the surf.

She sends her children to distract me from my woes and delight me with their simple way of being, no apologies made or conscious effort given trying to be anything other than what they are.  Eagles visiting with their stuttering wise whistle songs seem to tutor me in natures’ way.

Brine scented breezes tease my tendrils and caress my bare sun burnt shoulders while white triangles wink from the horizon’s edge and with this illusion I can understand why those of long ago feared toppling off the salted table’s edge. 

Puckered cumulus blush the sunset’s brink and I am further rewarded with slick black and whiskered faces gazing at me from the waves.  Perhaps they hope that if I catch anything that isn’t big enough for my table, I will throw it to their watery plates instead.

I play witness to fathers teaching young daughters the art of skipping rocks, and mothers sharing sea pool secrets with sons.  I am taken back to my early childhood memories when as a girl I had learned the same thing on these shores, my smile is born and lingers. 

I revel in watching the Blue Heron in his silent hunting meditation and I am struck by his patience and dedication, he reminds me of a grey feathered monk. 

As the sun dips into the sea to continue her pursuit of the moon, I too must make my way.  No longer am I bloated with the strife of life, but rather revitalized in its celebration.

Stress Reducing Gut Buster

When I have those days where deadlines are looming, family is pulling me in different directions, hot water tanks have given up the gusto, or things in general are not going my way, I find that nothing cures what ails me like a stress busting run. 

I wasn’t always a runner.  Before my days of lacing up and hitting the asphalt, I was apt to taking my frustrations out on a bag of chips or pretzels, trying to crunch and munch my way through my throes of woes.  As if I was able to somehow chew my way out of the conundrum presented, if only I found the right food to feed it. However all that the snacking succeeded in doing was increasing my waist size and it did nothing to clear my head, or smooth my furrows of worry.

I first turned to walking, figuring that just getting out into nature and meditating in the sunshine would blow through the fog in my head, giving me the break time from my problems that I so desperately sought.  It worked.  Not that the problems went away, mind you, but I was able to put things into perspective and it turned out that these times alone were great for the reduction of stress too. If I went out regularly, I found that my head was clearer than if I missed a day.  

I gradually progressed to running by joining a running clinic, and this put me into a deeper meditative state then walking did.  I became more focused during the day and able to complete tasks at hand faster.  Things that had worried me before no longer cross my mind and I have a more positive outlook over all.  When I am out on a long run I can mull over problem scenarios in my mind, and come up with the best possible solutions, then come home and soak sore muscles in a hot bath.  Or I can go out with a friend on a run and just forget about everything for a while, which works wonders too. 

Another unexpected benefit I have gained from running is the fact that my health is better.  Running boosts your immune system, and I have reaped the rewards of less colds and flus throughout the year.  Even in the winter when I am running in cold torrential rain or snowy conditions, my body seems to reject the usual viruses.

I have even given up smoking for my new found love of this sport.  I didn’t have to.  I ran for eight months while smoking before I decided it was time to give up the habit.  I was curious about how I much I could improve my performance and how my energy would improve if I gave up the tobacco that had been part of my life since my teenage years.  I won’t say it was easy because it wasn’t.  I will say that if I hadn’t had running to fall back on during that time I probably would not have stuck to it like I have. 

Embracing running in my life has reduced my stress load, improved my health, but best of all it has reduced my dress size and increased my confidence and what can be better than that?

Ribs Anyone?

I was in the shower when it happened.  Just the normal everyday motions of washing my hair did the trick.  Who would have thought a dose of suds in the layered locks could prove so painful?  Suddenly there was a clicking sound and then I had to fight to breathe, I had seething pain right in the middle of my shoulder blades along the spine. 

I thought I had somehow slipped a disk.  I rinsed my hair, and carefully got out of the shower navigating the towel through shards of pain.  If I leaned this way I was ok but several inches the other way and it was mind numbing pain again.  Perhaps a pinched nerve? 

I pulled on some clothes over my mostly wet body and thought about what my options were.  One was a trip to the emergency room, which when I thought of the long lines and the general sickness of the people there, was an idea I was not fond of. 

I tried to isolate what I thought was my problem.  It had first started with the sound and then the pain.  It was a kind of twist that had started it, but it didn’t feel like a pulled muscle at all.  The fact that it affected my breathing when the pain was the strongest meant it had to be dealt with, and sometime in the immediate future.  Then I knew what I had to do.  I had to call a Chiropractor.  Even though I had heard some negative stories about these kinds of practitioners in the past, I thought there was no other solution to my problem.  Especially when two hours later I was still wracked with pain and it had not eased at all.   

When I called and explained my problem they said that they could fit me in as soon as I got down to the office.  I was floored.  What kind of an office does that?  I suppose they thought it was an emergency as much as I did.  Their point tally in my head just went higher.  I got a ride down to the office.  There was no way I could have driven myself.  That would have ended in disaster.  When I got to the office they told me to sit for a couple of minutes and fill out some forms then the Doctor would see me.

The young secretary ushered me into an office and told me it would only be a minute more.  When the Doctor came in I was surprised.  Not by the fact that she was a woman, but because she was such a thin waif of a woman.  I thought that the position would have to be filled by a gruff muscled sort.  One who would have no trouble in bending the human torso this way and that, popping air pockets and aligning spines.   This woman must have been all of one hundred and twenty pounds if that and she stood about five foot seven.

She must have read what I was thinking on my face because she said, “I am lean but muscular, I have been doing this for years on people much bigger then yourself.  It is not a matter of force per se more like precise manipulation.  When you have everything lined up just so, there is not much strength needed.”  And as she got closer I could see what she meant.  This woman was thin yes, but a waif?  Not on your life.  It seemed as though she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, and underneath her skin her muscular form was firm and defined, yet feminine. 

She asked me a bunch of questions about the pain, about how it started and some health questions, then told me to lay on the table and relax.  I had a hard time doing that because of the pain and because I had no idea what to expect from her.  I had never been manipulated “precisely” or otherwise before, and it made me nervous.

She must have sensed this because she got me talking about other things, the weather, what I do for a living that kind of thing while she twisted me this way and that.  Every time I relaxed enough crack, she would bend me one way, then crack she would pull on something else.  I felt a bit like a big voodoo doll being tossed this way and that. 

In twenty minutes she had me back to my regular pain free self.  She explained that what had happened was when I was in a car accident in the past, the impact had knocked out one of my ribs some of the way from my spine, but not enough to cause pain or an issue until the motions of everyday life had wiggled it out more and more until now when “pop” it came all the way out.  She wanted to see me two more times and then all would be fixed up.  I asked her if it would happen again in the future.  She said that the joint would never be snug again like it had been before, but that it shouldn’t happen again for a long while.

I thanked her for her time and for fitting me in as quickly as she did.  I now see Chiropractors in a whole new light and to this day, knock on wood; I have never known that pain again.

A Square Peg in a Round Hole

Who said being a teen would be easy?  Not the books I read that’s for sure, and popular cinema was no better!  I was told or shown, various taunts and tricks that seniors would pose on juniors if one was unwary.  If someone were not to conform to the regular river of fashions and implied rules, one could get locked in a locker or worse.

I thought I was right to worry, for I was no regular girl.  I was not one for make-up or nervous fits of giggles when boys went by, I didn’t look forward to the latest fashion magazines and shopping escapades.  In fact the mall made me nauseous.  Even when I was a young girl I traded playing with Barbies to getting muddy with Tonka trucks and Hot Wheel cars.  I was all for hanging out with the guys, in jeans, climbing trees, cliffs and making tree houses, I was a girl who liked snakes, tadpoles and fishing down by the sea shore.  Much to my mother’s dismay; she wanted to dress me in dresses and lacey things, which she succeeded in until I was about six or so when she gave up because I repeatedly came home with mud in the ruffles, and grass stains on my knees. 

It was not that I didn’t like guys, it was that I didn’t feel like I had to spruce myself up into something I wasn’t in order to get unwanted attention.  I thought the whole thing was rather silly really.  Why would someone like me just because I looked a certain way or did certain things?  Why would I be more valuable because I fit into a certain group and how that group’s status was looked upon?  Who was making up these silly rules anyhow? 

When I finally did get to junior high I quickly saw how things were divided down into subgroups, there were the Popular kids, Goths, Punks, Jocks, Metal heads, Skaters, and the Geeks.  I had not come up with these names of course, it seems they were a sort of inferred social hierarchy handed down over the years by those who had come before us, those who had survived our plight of the lowly junior and lived on to the grand heights of becoming a senior. 

Personally I didn’t think I fit into any of the said groups, and I was glad of the fact.  I wanted to be different, a square peg in a round hole.  I wanted to be hard to define, to stand out from the rest and to be trekking down an untrodden path.  I decided to join groups that interested me rather then ones I was “supposed” to be interested in: The swim club, drama club, school newspaper, and the photography club.

Then I found my niche, which was when I became a peer helper in school and on the crisis line in my city.  I had a knack for listening and being there for those who needed to unload their stories, those who needed a shoulder for a while.  There were those who wanted guidance and those who didn’t.  I was there for them regardless.   I was listening to them no matter their social standing, skin color, or creed, but because of their simple need.  I learnt a lot from the experience.  I found out that no matter who we are, or where we come from, or what we think we know, we are all the same.  We want to be loved and accepted for who we are, challenged at what we are good at, and cherished as individuals.  So reach out for what you want, don’t be afraid of breaking through barriers just because someone has pegged you this way or that.  You might just find another dimension to the person you are.

Playing Chicken

When I was in grade school I had one really great friend.  We lived on the same street, liked to do the same things: bike ride, roller skate and build forts in the empty treed lots around our house.

Monica was a tall girl who had moved from the United States up to our little patch of Vancouver Island, Canada.  This made her a star in my eyes.  Minnesota sounded so foreign and aloof, a place where magical things happened.

We became fast friends and were inseparable most of the time, almost as though we were joined at the hip.  When we weren’t actually together we would be on the phone talking about someone or making plans for this or that.  One day in grade four, the strength of our friendship was tested.

As luck had it that year we were put into two separate classes, something that neither of us was pleased about.  We even tried pleading with our parents about the situation but it turned out that our parents were for the separation, saying that it would make us focus on school work more.

I was stuck in a classroom with some of the more “popular girls”, those of a more privileged means.  They had the best and latest clothes, toys and went on big vacations.  I can remember being so jealous of them sometimes, and it would only make me more lonesome for Monica.  I tried to be nice to them, thinking perhaps that once I got to know them they would not be as bad as I imagined, but they just looked down their noses at me.  I knew most of them were brought up in the same neighborhood and that would have been another reason why their bond was so strong, but it didn’t take the sting out of the rejection.

Which is why what happened on the school yard took me so off guard. 

Monica and I were down on the bottom playground where a balancing beam stood two and a half feet from the ground.  The idea was each person gets on either side of the beam, then by balancing along the thin piece of wood, they would come to the middle of it to spar with their arms to try to knock the opponent off of the beam.  The first person knocked off the beam is the “Chicken”. 

We were having a great time trying to knock each other off when all of a sudden we heard “Well if it isn’t Laurel and Hardy.”  Jennifer, the most popular girl in the school always referred to us like this.  I had to ask my Dad who they were and he told me about the classical comedians of the black and white era of American television.  I looked them up.  They were two men who dressed up in suits and did slapstick comedy.  One was tall and lean—that was in reference to Monica, and the other was short and stout—in reference to me.  The names at first didn’t bother me at all because I didn’t understand the insult, but once I knew who they were and watched some of their acts I got what Jennifer was laughing about. 

Monica and I stopped our mock “Chicken Fight” and hopped down.  “What do you want Jennifer?” I asked, knowing full well she hated being called by her full name.  She came over to me and smiled, her friends circled and crowded around.

“We’ve noticed you.” She said pointing at me.  “We want you to join our group.  There is a sleep over this weekend at Stacey’s house and you are invited, but only if you give up your friendship with Laverne here.”  She finished pointing at Monica. 

I started to get really angry by this point; she had just insulted us again about our height differences and insinuated that Monica was somehow flawed.   Why would she think I would give up my best friend for her and her band of rich—I’m too good for you—girls that clung to her every word?  I wanted a friend of equal footing, not some girl who wanted to reign queen over her subjects. 

I looked at Monica and tears were welling up in her eyes, she had this look on her face that said I should do it and she would not be mad.  Like she would understand if I went with the others, and then she turned to leave.  I looked at Jennifer who, by now, had a huge grin of victory on her face.

“Wait!” I called out to Monica, “Where are you going?”

“What do you mean?  You can’t be friends with me if you want to be friends with them.” She stated.

“Who says I want to be friends with them?” I smiled at her.  It grew larger as I saw the shocked expressions on Monica’s face and on the faces of the other girls. 

“I would not take a thousand of them over our friendship, they have no idea what true friendship is, if they did they would never have asked the question.”  I told Monica.  The smile was restored on her face.

I went over to where Jennifer was standing.  “I thought at one point that it would be cool to be part of the in crowd, but today you have made me realize something.  You aren’t happy.  You might look happy on the outside when others are watching you, but that is only so they won’t know how lonesome you truly are.  There is nothing like a good friend to turn to when things get tough, or when you have something great to celebrate.  Hopefully sometime soon you will find this out.”

Then Monica and I left them standing in silent streaming sunshine, and headed back to class.

Stretching Further

Making the transition from Elementary School to Junior High was no easy time in my life; new kids, new rhythms, how would I fit in? 

There were so many changes to get used to, a new school, with a whole new system of learning.  Now I would have a different teacher for each subject taught and I would be responsible for finding the class and getting there on time instead of the usual one teacher one class routine.    

My friends and I had heard of many horror stories about what the older kids would do to us younger ones if they got the chance; stuffing kids in lockers, stealing clothes out of gym lockers, dumping cologne and baby powder over the unsuspecting new student.  We were warned by older brothers and sisters not to take directions from elder students seriously because they would send us on wild goose chases to make us late for class.  I learned pretty quickly to keep my eyes forward and my head down so to speak.

Once the school year started I found out it was not as bad as what we had all feared.  As I became familiar with my schedule and my teachers, even my nightmares about losing my combination to my locker and my way around the school subsided. 

I began to flourish in my new environment.  English, Art and Drama, helped me to channel my creative side, and gave me self confidence along the way, pushing me out of my shell as time wore on.  I even performed in a play in front of the parents and the school faculty and then the entire school in the gym, something I would never have considered before Junior High.

In English I had Mr. Dobson who inspired me with his classes; it was his teachings that fostered my love of literature.  The written work opened up my world to things beyond my wildest dreams.  Great authors of the past made me dreamy with thoughts of breaking through my ordinary mold and taking a risk on stretching myself into someone better, making me strive harder to accomplish my dreams.

I joined the teen crisis line as a counselor to youth in trouble, and became involved with getting recycling programs introduced in the school.

High School was more of the same, but with a different group of friends.  I joined the school newspaper, the photography club, and still had lots of time to get into mischief.  Looking back, it was a pretty good time once I got the hang of it.  Sure there were some mistakes here and there, things I might think about changing.  Perhaps not.  It is in the bad times where we learn the most about ourselves and what we are capable of.  We can’t appreciate the good times if we didn’t have to be challenged now and again.  Every sunset has a sunrise, but we wouldn’t know the difference if there was no darkness in between.

The Laced Up Confessionals Part Eight

At the end of every running clinic there is a goal run.  It gives us something to work towards and for me it helps me to stay on track and keep focused.  It gives me strength to quell the excuses as they arise and it makes me stay accountable to the trails and to my weekly regimen. 

This clinic was no exception.  The race was down Island in beautiful Chemanius B.C.  I love any time I can spend in this coastal town, with its murals on the sides of buildings and quaint shops and galleries.  It is a great stop at the best of times for tourists, but when paired with a great 5KM fun run and the wonderful people involved it becomes even more fetching. 

The four of us piled into the car and car-pooled down.  One of the wonderful women in our group headed down earlier to pick up the running packages.  Most times the running package will consist of a running bib, (The tag with the numbers worn on the chests of runners for identification.)  and Safety pins to attach it with.  A shirt too if there is one and you requested one, but this time there was something more.  Every runner in this race had the option of purchasing a shirt; most times they are regular cotton t-shirts with the name and location of the race and the sponsors involved.  This time however the woman’s shirts were of a better quality and of a more “yoga” style.  I was thrilled when I looked at mine, it was a pink coral color and the logo of the race on the back of it was well done. 

This was not my first race or competition run.  It was actually my forth.  I had run two in the winter, the New Year’s Resolution Race which occurs on New Year’s Day (This race is one of my favorites because it always has a great colored pullover for it.), and the Santa’s Shuffle (shirt).  Then there was the “Run for the Mountain” which is a race to save the city side of a local mountain from being clear cut; thus saving the beauty of the trees and more importantly the habitats of many animals.

It feels great to be out there with a bunch of runners with the same goal but it is even better when you are running for a great cause and bringing awareness with you.

On Tuesday’s race day I was worried because during the whole day there had been pregnant storm clouds squeezing out their tears.  I didn’t want to run in the rain if I could help it, but I would take the cooler weather and the rain over the heat of summer any time!

When it was time I laced up and headed out the door to the prearranged spot where we were meeting to head down.  We opened our packages with the bibs, shirts and information, but there was a surprise for us too.  None of us had run a race with the electronic foot tags.  These were long plastic orange strips with electronic chips on the back of them that would track us as we went through the route and got over the finish again.  I had only seen these in the bigger races such as marathons, and the presence of the tags made this race seem more serious and important.

We arrived and found where we were supposed to start and took the time to check out our fellow runners while music played in the park for the event.  There were runners from all ages, sizes, and walks of life; tall lean sprinters doing practice speed laps to warm up, others were stretching and conversing with friends, novices were mixed in with the pro’s and it didn’t seem to matter.  Some were decked out in the latest gear and others were just in t-shirts and shorts to have fun.  It was great to be mixed in with such a variety of runners from all over the island. 

Then it was time to gather at the start area of the route.  I knew from experience in the other races that I had to watch my speed at the start.  It was so easy to get caught up in the moment and exhaust yourself by heading out to fast.  This time I put myself in the middle of the pack, making sure I was behind all the sprinters.  It can be so demoralizing to be in the front lines with the top runners and have them leave you in the dust!  I think it is better to start out in the back and pass some people then have most of them pass me.

It wasn’t long and we were off in a surge of bodies.  The route went through town and then wound over a dirt gravel road and around again.  All of us in my group didn’t like the gravel part of the track, it slowed us down and I personally felt as though I was doing a Bambi impression when he was on the ice, like at any moment my ankle would go over or I would be doing the splits down in the dirt.

The track looped back on itself so I could see the faster runners as they completed the loop and passed me in the other direction.  The fast sprinters looked like gazelles, bounding effortlessly over the ground.  Again I was struck by the diversity of the group, but there was a common thread throughout us all; we had sweat on our brow and smiles on our lips.

I finished the race ahead of my goal, and it was great to hear the crowd cheering for us as we came in.  There were awards in the ending ceremony for the fastest in each age group for men and women and then some fabulous door prizes too.  Then there were the treat tents to visit and more socializing afterwards.  The girls and I had a great time, and even though this clinic is finished we are committing to the next one which is starting on July 11^th, 2011.  Until then we are still going to run together in different places in the city.  I look forward to the time with the girls, the new tracks and forging evermore friendships.

Santa's Secret

When we were young and belief in all things magical had not hit the trails of conflict.  Something wondrous happened one Christmas morning.

“Look!  I told you he is real!”  My brother shouted, flushed excitement making his face ruddy. “Peter told me that he was just something parents told children to get them to behave at Christmas time, but here is the proof!  He’s been here, he’s really been here!”   David ran to the spot where he had been pointing and picked up the white piece of fluff that had been on the floor.   “I knew I heard him on the roof last night!”

I took the piece of fluff from him and looked at it closely.  Turning it this way and that, trying to discern just what it could be.  I caught my mother giving my father a quizzical glance and he only shrugged back at her smiling. 

“Just what do you think it is?”  I asked my brother.  All I could see was some white fluff that was a little denser than cat hair.

“It’s part of Santa’s beard of course, he must have lost it when he came down the Chimney.”  David said with conviction.

“What?  You think Santa lost part of his beard in our chimney?  I thought about how much force that would take, and winced.  It can’t be part of his beard, it’s too soft.”  I said, “Go and feel dad’s beard and you will see that it can’t be part of a beard.”

“Well you didn’t feel the beard of the Santa in the mall; it was just as soft as this!”

“That’s because those guys are fake stand in Santa’s filling in because the real one is so busy.” I told him.

“Why does mum get us dressed up every year and have our photo taken with a fake Santa?” David asked no one in particular.

“Well I guess it doesn’t matter now, you have a piece of the real thing.”  I said smiling, but truth be known I was still not convinced.  Somehow I could not imagine the real Santa leaving parts of his beard behind in people’s chimneys.  Wouldn’t that be a fire hazard?

“Even if it isn’t part of his beard, it is probably some of the white tuft from the lining of his suit.” David suggested.  “Look, the milk and cookies are gone too!”

“The milk and cookies are gone in the morning every year.”  I gently reminded him, I didn’t want to burst his bubble, he was so happy about finding part of Santa, or Santa’s suit.  “Come on, Mum’s calling us for breakfast, we get to open presents after that.  Race you!” 

Throughout the day I came back to David’s discovery, trying to come up with another possible explanation.  One by one I looked at each decoration looking for possibilities.  I was just about to give up my search and accept my brother’s idea when my eye was attracted to the stockings my mother had made for us years before.  Each one was red and had our names written on them with silver glitter.  That was not however what had caught my attention.  It was the faux white fur trim at the mouth of each stocking.  It was not unlike that which my brother had found on the carpet that morning.

“What are you doing?”  My brother had come into the room as I was inspecting the stockings.  I turned to look at him, wondering if he too would make the connection.  I remembered the look of pure delight on his face when he thought the magic real.  I didn’t have the heart to let it end.  I steered him away from the stockings.  “Oh I was just checking to see if I had left anything in my stocking.  Do you want to go and try out our new skateboards?”

That is how Santa’s secret, and all things magical were kept a couple years longer in our family.

Stolen Pillows

I lie beside him and look with longing at what lies beneath his head, I move closer wanting to share.  He has had a ‘night mirror’ as he calls them, and has come to seek shelter and warmth in my warm cocoon. 

His disheveled brown hair, rosy red cheeks, and pink lips remind me of a cherub;  although sometimes when he is awake he grows horns and stomps his feet, most often when he has been told he cannot have his way, or when a nap is needed.

I am careful not to disturb his Duplo dreams, while I breathe in his slumbered scent.  It reminds me of days past, when as a baby he shared my bed and I barely slept as I listened for a halting breath, which would signify a possible soul release.  Those days are past us now, and I wave at them with a smile.  Both he and my worries have grown, evolving as we mature and get to know each other.  I smile; it seems like eons ago I was taking a black and white photo of his ten tiny toes to send with his birth announcement.  Yet my mind knows it was only mere years. 

I snuggle up to him, the curve of his back to my breast, listening to soft snores.  I lie in the darkness knowing that all too soon these nights will come to an end.  Just like the hugs and holding hands in public will.  I wonder how much more time I will have before he doesn’t tell me anymore that one day he is going to marry me.  When I will stop being his best friend and become a foe to rebel against? 

Will I become a third party to his life and all he experiences?

I must remember to give him space when that time comes, so he will be able to stretch his wings.  I will remind him that I am here if need be, no matter what that need is.  I will watch him struggle, just like when he took his first steps, but I know he will prevail if only I trust and let him work through it.  I think that will be the hardest part for me, learning to let go, while still holding on backstage.  For right now I am going to enjoy every one of these moments when he comes in to share my bed, and robs me of my pillow.

The Cat Who Loved to Fetch

This winter when the neighbors moved out I was surprised that they had abandoned their kittens. 

I guess I should not have been.  She seemed to be the type of person to collect men kids and tattoos; cats seemed the logical progression.  I had to give her credit though she named the black and white critter quite well; his legs were covered with white patches from foot to chest and all the way up his hindquarters, while the rest of him was black as a moonless night sky—thus she called him Moon-boots.    Not the typical “Socks”, “Sooty”, “Shadow” nor “Smudge”.  No, she named him Moon-boots, and it suited him perfectly, an unusual name for an unusual cat.  

Blissful Moon-boots who ran up to you mewing his greeting, wanting nothing more than love in the sunlight while I was gardening, or to jump into my lap when I was writing on the patio.  Moon-boots who was the only cat I knew who loved to play fetch with my eight year old son, his fishing rod and a catnip filled toy at the end of the fishing line.

What was not so surprising was that she had decided to take Moon-boots with her, to the disappointment of my son and I, while leaving three cats in his wake--a huge ginger tabby and two twin grey and black tabbies.   I made the discovery when I was walking up the driveway one day and saw the cats emerging from under the market next door.  Perhaps I should explain.  There is a local grocery market next door to us and it has a residence in the back of it.  They are together in one building but separate, and it was from under this that they emerged.  I was saddened.  Not only were they abandoned but now they were left to find shelter under the old market.  It wasn’t right. 

I re-traced my steps back to the market to find out if I could get any more information from the teenage employees working that night.  I found out that the renters were indeed gone, and they had left the cats.  (I thought perhaps there was a chance that they could not find the cats on moving day and would be back to collect them, but alas this was not the case.)  I asked the girl what she thought about it.  She said that she wanted to take the cats herself but couldn’t because she already had three of her own.  I asked her what the owners thought about the situation and she told me that she hoped that they didn’t know about it because they would call the pound and have them rounded up.

There was a foot and a half of snow on the ground and I wondered when the cats had eaten last.  I asked her when the tenants had left, three days ago she told me.  That was it; I grabbed some cat food and asked her if they had any plastic containers I could use.  I couldn’t have the cats in my house because of allergies but there was no way I could let them starve. 

I paid for the cat food, went up my driveway again and then I lined up all three containers, filled them with food and then came back with a bigger container full of  water.  Then I went into the house to see what would happen and how long it would take until I saw some movement.

It wasn’t long at all before I saw a pink nose quivering just shy of the shadowy darkness, it hovered there for a moment, then back it went, only to reappear a moment later with some whiskers this time too.  I could tell it was one of the little twins.   So timid it was, coming out slowly, eyes wide with caution, little pink nose never letting go of the promise of food.  Then it was eating with gulps so big I thought it would choke!  Eventually I trained them to come to the back patio for the food and water so that the rain and snow would not make it swell. 

It was supposed to be a temporary thing, this adoption of these three furry orphans.  Just to give them a fighting chance over the winter.  But it seems that my heart has come to enjoy their presence and their routine.  They are still quite flighty and will run at the sound of the back door opening, but I hope that will change. 

I am not quite sure what to do about the crows and other birds that come to steal their food.  At first I took to the patio every time I heard them cawing to their counterparts, I must have looked like a mad woman flailing my arms in an attempt to scare off the black feathered jackals.  But even if I did, it didn’t seem to faze them, they would just come flying and hopping back again as soon as I left or closed the door.  It would make me so angry thinking of them stealing the cats food!  It infuriated me to think that they would take from these little souls who had so little. 

Then as I thought about the problem more deeply I found that it wasn’t a problem at all.  It was just that I was looking at it all wrong.  I originally wanted to help the cats and alleviate their suffering, but the crows and the birds had just as much right to the food didn’t they?  They too were sentient beings.  Why should I put the cats over the birds?  Weren’t they just acting in the way of their nature?  Opportunities arise and we are provided for, it is no different in the animal world.  Besides the crows keep the eagles out of the yard, and I would really hate to see one of my kittens flying away.

So now when I hear the call of the crows, I don’t worry as much.  It will be what it will be and it will be perfect as it is.  And hopefully in the summer, we will have 3 more cats who love to play Fetch.