The Great Escape

Grabbing my stuff, I walked out the door at noon, happy to be slightly ahead of schedule to meet my cousin and her husband at the senior care home where my step mom lives.  We were planning a pleasant visit, their first in a number of years.  I locked the back door, went down the back steps and out onto the gravel pathway to my car.

To my absolute shock I was greeted by young Fletcher coming around the corner.  Behind him skittered young Prince Mica; both had frantic expressions.  How on earth had they gotten out of the enclosure?

Twenty odd years ago I had built a sturdy and roomy chicken wire enclosure for my cats to be able to enjoy the great outdoors with no dangers of said great outdoors - racoons, coyotes, cars.  They have 24/7 access to this marvel though a series of catdoors, and tunnels.  Over the years I have reinforced and upgraded this enclosure (corrugated polycarbonate roof, carpeted shelving and cat tree, several perches, cat toys) - and I have checked it regularly especially in the spring to make sure no openings have appeared.  

To my great shock, today I discovered this hole under the porch - the hardware cloth had been ripped away from the post - from the inside by the kitties or from the outside by a raccoon?  Either way freaked me out.

By the time I made this horrifying discovery, Fletcher and Mica had come 'round the back, and I propped the back door open, hoping they would just go back into the house.  This was not to be, however, they had never gone in or out through this door on their paws - only in a carrier.  They were totally unfamiliar with the concept of a door.

I began to hope they would just go back into the enclosure through the hole, but they were too scared because they must have thought I was mad at them.  They just kept darting back and forth through the undergrowth.  Mica was especially freaked.

I went back into the house and got some catfood.  I hoped to entice them.  By this time I decided it would not be a great idea to keep the back door open, I did not want to lose anyone else.  I later discovered a tuft of orange fur on the edge of the hole - meaning Leto had been availing himself of this new-found freedom.

I was running back and forth through the house, gathering up staples and a hammer to seal the hole.  But I realized that sealing the hole would mean Fletcher and Mica would be unable to crawl back into the enclosure.  On one of my frenzied trips I saw Fletcher scuttling around the corner - inside the house!  Thank God!

But now I had to try to coax poor distraught Mica back in.  I circled the house, inside and out, calling, coaxing, begging.  I looked everywhere - and had no idea what to do next -how could I leave my littlest man outside all alone and scared?  Yet if I sealed up the escape route, he would not be able to return to the safety of the house.  And I certainly did not want any of the others to disappear.

I scoured every closet, under every piece of furniture, all the time growing more crazed.  I was regretting not micro-chipping the kittens when I had been given the opportunity.  

On my last frenetic trip down the hallway, I glance into the kitchen - and there, standing wide-eyed by the feeding station, was Mica.  I guess a tiny coal-black kitty who is scared enough can melt into the woodwork when he does not wish to be found.  But who cares where he was hiding?

My kitty boys were all safe and inside!  WHEW!!!  Thank you Bastet! 

I stapled the hardware cloth shut and reinforced it with a large piece of aluminum flashing, both nailed and wired into place.

Tomorrow I secure the perimeter and maybe add another layer of hardware cloth or chicken wire; if it was a raccoon trying to get in to do my kitties harm, I am going to make sure he is stopped in his tracks.

I am so happy that everyone is safe and secure and would you believe, I arrived at my original destination only a half hour late and my cousin arrived five minutes afterwards.  We had a lovely afternoon.

Leto, Fletcher, and Prince Mica.

Serious Moonlight

Silence.  Serious moonlight.  The night Fort Erie went dark (Power company turned off all power to the municipality for 8 hours to accomplish critical repairs).  The night of the hugest full moon.  No arc lights, no porch lights.  No traffic lights. (No traffic)  No street lights.  From the loudest band in the smallest bar, Cinco de Mayo in full absurd swing on Allen Street and Electrorespect 5 at Nietzsche’s (Girl Power!!!) (chocolate chip cookies and friends); ears ringing, traffic on the streets and sidewalks, everywhere noisy drunks, flashing cop lights, loudness and brightness.  Cruising along the thruway – little traffic but brightly lit, everywhere I look.   Following the moon, or is it following me?

 

Crossing the Peace Bridge, looking to Canada – shoreline is inky blackness banded by moonlight – one inspection lane open, generator echoing in the chill night mist – minimum lighting in buildings, no light from the gigantic fixtures – and then no lights in Fort Erie at all.

Reflections from street signs and numbers and hazard stripes and who knew stop lights were surrounded by bright orange reflective rectangles?  Nothing open; no gas stations, no restaurants, no Timmy’s!

My street – no light at all – except my astonishingly brilliant brights and the even brighter moon.  Silence, except for muffled roar of the big transport trailers on the QEW.  I hear them when I am out on the porch with the tripod trying to capture the moon.  Only sound inside my house the answering machine, inexplicably hissing even after unplugging both the power and the phone jack.  Kitties little shadowy forms, materializing here and there, puzzled by the lack of sound and light and me awake at 4am – wondering perhaps about the warm flickering of the oil lamps and the cold light of the LED lantern.

Loud purring.  Keys clicking.  Soft hissing (muffled under a sheepskin scuff).  No radio, no Internet, no Facebook!!!  (OMG)  I am wide awake.  Customs lady said it was creepy, no lights, darkness surrounding the plaza.  I find it mystical, magical, marvelous – and most everyone else is sleeping sound(less)ly.  I am wide awake.

As quiet as it usually is in my lovely woods (dark and deep), I use the flashlight to find batteries for the portable radio.  Too quiet, too quiet.  Tune in BBC.  Eat a few of Carla’s Tootsie Rolls, brush my teeth, and feed the cats so I can sleep longer.   Battery fading on the laptop.  Go to bed, to sleep, perchance to dream….of the serious moonlight.

Dancing with Myself (Uh-oh)

All of my life I have wrestled with a sort of love/hate relationship with dancing.  It began in first grade when my mother enrolled me into a ballet class even though I had been desperately petitioning for tap.  No, no – she dreamed of me as a ballerina.  (She so wanted me to be a real girl…)  The culmination of this horror show was a recital in a very scratchy pale blue tutu and wherein, as the tallest in the group, I had the supreme pleasure of leading our wobbly line onto the stage.

 

Mom had made a matching tutu for my little teddy cat, and it was after my first epiphany that I announced to her, “His name is Cowboy and He is a Boy!”

I also had the delight of coming down with measles the night of the recital and my sweet revenge was infecting many of the rest of the dancers.

Fast forward to seventh grade.  I was at a party at my best friend Marcia’s house and we were listening to music in her backyard.  "The Bunny Hop" came on and we gathered in a circle to dance.  As I was hopping around happily, Marcia, with the unconscious cruelty of a pre-teen, said to me, “You dance like a horse.”

I stopped dancing immediately and never resumed until the advent of Chubby Checker.  The Twist was fairly easy to do, even for me – stand in one spot and move only from the waist up.

 

Dance fell away for a couple of years after that – I watched Bandstand but never attempted to learn any of the popular dances.  I just loved the music.

When I was a sophomore, I was invited to the Junior Prom by a friend from my art class.  He was very socially awkward (think Sheldon Cooper crossed with Ichabod Crane) and I did not want to have anything to do with the stupid prom, but, alas – my mother made me say yes.  My girlfriend Ruth and I were double dating for this event, and we bought matching bright green wool sheath dresses.  My mother was horrified but hey, at least I was going to the prom.

No members of my family had ever danced that I knew of, but my mother decided to teach me how to Cha-Cha.  The only record I owned that was a Cha-Cha was “Down by the Station” and we played it over and over on the console stereo in the parsonage living room.  One, two, cha-cha-cha.  Three, four, cha-cha-cha.

 

Luckily, my date’s desire to dance was even less than mine (I do not recall that we danced at all) and although I was maneuvered into one slow dance with my Sunday School teacher’s very short young son (could he really have been wearing his Scout uniform?), Ruth and I hid giggling in the girl’s bathroom most of the evening; then we all left early and went bowling.

A boy from church invited me to my own Junior Prom and I declined, and then, the following year, a Future Farmer asked me to the Senior Prom and I turned him down as well.  So that was the end of dancing in high school.

Dance reared its ugly head again in 1979 – I was 33 years old and had become a devotee of the late night cult classic The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  Our ragged little group of would-be thespians performed in synch with the movie every Friday and Saturday for the midnight show.  Several times I had the misfortune of attempting to portray Magenta and that required doing the "Time Warp" on the slanting sticky floor in front of the screen at the Granada Theater.  I retired after two performances in which I nearly tipped over.

In 1981 I was introduced to The Continental and discovered that on their dance floor, no actual dancing was required.  Jumping around or swaying pretty much covered every situation, from the DJ upstairs to the bands on stage downstairs.  One night I was upstairs swaying to Billy Idol’s “Dancing with Myself” and some punk in engineer boots stomped on my foot.  I was rescued by Michael, who has been one of my best friends ever since.

Another incident comes to mind.  My friends and I were attending Sandy’s wedding reception and one dear old friend asked me to dance.  I demurred, telling him that I did not know how to dance.  He dragged me out on the floor and started to (try to) dance with me.  I had no idea what to do.  He stopped after a few missteps and remarked, “Wow, you really don’t know how to dance, do you?”

I’m afraid I’ll have to admit it – I ain’t no dancer.  Leonard Cohen will just have to take his waltz and dance someone else to the end of love.