What Died In The Feral Cat Box?

         Here it is, another week gone by and what a beautiful week it was here in the mountains of Pennsylvania.

         The first job I tackled was one I had not been looking forward to.

         "What's that?" you ask.

         Cleaning out my feral cat box, that's what.

       I knew something had died in there but I didn't know what. I had a lot of those big old fat death flies buzzing around in the cat room so I took boxing tape and taped over the opening of the cat box. I thought that would keep them inside but those pesky little critters found a crack someplace and managed to escape anyway. So while I was waiting for the weather to warm, I'd go in there a couple of three times every day and swat flies. They weren't hard to kill because it wasn't very warm in there and the flies weren't very active. I could swat one and the fly right next to him wouldn't even move. I had an 'eww' moment when Feisty came over and started eating some of freshly fallen flies (say that five times fast). EWWW! But whatever. I guess they won't hurt her.

         On Monday, Mike helped me take down the plywood and cardboard that held the insulation against the door and then helped carry the box outside.

         "You'll have to take the dead thing out before you can fold the bed over and pull it out," Mike advised, then left me to do the job. Well, I'm going to tell you right now that that wasn't going to happen! No way was I putting my hand into unknown territory and pulling out who knows what — even if I did have rubber gloves on!

         I didn't see any flies stuck to the sticky side of the tape but as soon as I pulled it away from the opening, the flies swarmed out.

         I stood there for a little while trying to get my courage up before bending down, reaching in, and trying to pull the cat bed out through the opening. It didn't work. The opening was really small and the bed was really gushy. Mike didn't want to take the box apart but I honestly couldn't see any other way of getting it out of there. Besides, who needed Mike? I could do this! I took my rubber gloves off, went and got Mike's cordless DeWalt drill with a screw bit and a trashcan and started taking the box apart.

         I can always put it back together again, I thought and made a little pile with the screws I was taking out. I got the top piece off and when I started pulling at the insulation, I saw it was full of slow moving flies. It was cooler in the cat room than it was outside but it wouldn't take them long to warm up in the sunshine. I proceeded with caution. With the insulation out of the way and in a little pile of its own, I saw I'd have to take the front off too. When I took the front off, tons of egg casings were dislodged from the insulation. I removed the transition piece that connected the two openings and saw the opening of the inner box was bigger than the outer one. Was it big enough? I got a hold of the cat bed and pulled. It came right out. I studied it for a moment but couldn't tell what it was. There was no head or tail visible. But whatever he was he died with a couple of old ham bones for company.

         I wanted to throw the cat-bed-turned-grave into the trashcan so I picked it up and carried it to the weeds where I intended to dump the critter out. I gave it a little heave-ho but it didn't work. He'd bonded with the bed in the time they'd spent together. I turned it over and shook it. No go. I thumped it on the ground a few times. Still didn't work. I looked around, found a stout looking twig, and pried him out. That's when I could tell he had been a possum.

         Picture?

         I have one, and it's not really that gross, but I'll spare you.        

         You're welcome.

         I threw the cat bed away and turned my attention to the cat box. I squatted down and peered inside. It would have to be cleaned out and the thought of sticking my arm in there up to my elbow or beyond didn't appeal to me at all. Besides, with the insulation being full of flies and fly casing, it seemed more prudent to just burn the whole thing.

          "Go ahead," Mike said when I made my excuses to him.

         I got the little garden wagon and pulled it around to the cat room where I loaded the cat box and carted it off to the burn pile. I put the wagon away and went back to finish the cleanup job. I picked up the insulation, stuffed it down in the garbage bag, and tied it shut. Hmmm. That reminds me. I bet my little pile of screws is still out there. I don't remember picking them up.

         "I'd have just burned the whole thing from the get-go," you say.

         I would've too if I'd known we were going to end up burning it anyway. Aw, heck! Who am I kidding! My curiosity would never let me rest until I found out what had died in there.

         And so ends the saga of What Died In The Feral Cat Box?

<<<<<>>>>> 

         The next job I tackled was shampooing the girls Itsy and Ginger. Neither one enjoys having a bath very much but I'm bigger than they are and I manage to get the job done. 

     Once they were dry, I gave them spring haircuts. Itsy had a fit. She would NOT stand for me to clipper her head or neck so I had to use the scissors. Needless to say, it's not the best haircut she's ever had but it's good enough and it'll grow back by the time she needs longer hair.

     They look so different and Ginger is a whole new color.

          

     

>>>>><<<<< 

         I had four members of my entourage with me on a recent walkabout.

         Two woodpeckers landed on the utility pole near us. By the time I got my camera up and focused, they had taken flight and I'd only gotten one.

         "It doesn't look like a woodpecker to me," you say.

         They were not the downy woodpecker or the redheaded woodpecker these are called flickers.

         The forsythia is blooming. Our bushes are kind of scraggly looking and not as full of flowers as other forsythias in the area are.

         And this is what the pussy willows look like when they start to grow out.

         Smudge caught up to us at the end of our walk and pounced on his cousin Spitfire.

         With the warming weather, Mike is working hard outside. He started clearing the branches and trees the winds brought down over the winter.

         Our pond dried up completely last year. "It could be muskrats," our neighbor Jon Robinson told Mike. "They make tunnels and the water leaks out."          In another conversation Mike had with Jon, he told Mike you could tell you have muskrats because they slide down the banks and you will see the slide marks. Mike went up, got Jon, and brought him down here to look at our pond.          "You need to get those out of there or they will take over your whole pond," is what he advised indicating a lot of bushes. "Every time they drop a branch in the water it grows a new bush and they drink a lot of water too."

         I don't know if he saw any evidence of muskrats or not, but they did mark the edge of the pond with a stick, "...to see how fast the water's going down."

         After three days, it's down about a foot. Muskrats, just the bushes drinking it all, or a natural leak-down? We don't know.

         So — guess what Mike and I did this past week.

         If you guessed, "Pull bushes out of the pond," you would be right!

         For some of the younger stuff, the whips, we used the golf cart and a tow strap. For the bigger stuff, we had to use a chain and the tractor.

         I had on my rain boots, which go up to my knees, so I volunteered to go in the pond and do the chain wrapping. Some of the whips I could pull out by hand. I grabbed one and pulled and pulled! I could feel it give a little so I gave it another mighty pull. It surrendered too easily and I was left off-balance. I tried to take a step back and that's when I found out my boot was stuck in the mud. My foot started to slip out of the boot and visions of a wet sock and pant leg filled my head. I pinwheeled my arms like crazy, the small tree I'd just pulled still firmly in my grasp, water and mud flying from the end of it as I tried desperately to not fall — and knew I was going to fall anyway. My bottom was headed for the pond. Splashdown was imminent. Since I couldn't stop my fall, maybe I could control where I fell and in a last ditch effort, I collapsed my knee and landed — with a thud! — on the bank. Whew! At least I was dry and unhurt. I pulled my stuck boot from the mud and reseated my foot.

         "Did you fall?" Mike asked. He'd been dragging our just pulled bush out and never saw me go over.

         "Yup!" I answered getting up.

         Mike got off the tractor and came to help. "Are you okay?"

         "Yeah. What's my bottom look like?" I asked and turned around.

         He looked. "Fine," he answered and brushed the twigs and dirt from my a-double-ess.

         We had this one big old grandfather of a tree that Mike thought would just pull right out since it was half in the water. Famous last words. It was mostly rotted at the base and every time we wrapped the chain around a section of it and Mike pulled, it would just break off. We worked on it for a long time and finally, with nothing but the root left, and nothing to wrap the chain around, Mike tried to dig it out with the bucket.

         Yeah. It's still there.

         Friday was a big day around here. Why we always seem to have big days on Fridays I'll never know, but it was jam-packed full.

         We started the day with a trip to Tractor Supply in Wysox. They have their own brand of scoopable cat litter that normally sells for $5.99 for a 25 pound bag. That's a better deal than say, Wal-Mart's brand of cat litter and it works just fine. It went on sale last week for $4.50 and that's a significant savings. We loaded up, buying 10 bags. That's 250 pounds of cat litter people!

         On the way home we stopped at a yard sale. "Peg, we don't need anything!" Mike says every time I ask to stop at a yard sale.

         "Then we won't buy anything," is my standard response — and he stops for me anyway.

         The first thing we see when we get out and start walking around is an old electric hacksaw. "I always wanted one of those," Mike says.

         It was cheap. "Get it," I say. "You could probably scrap it out and get more money than they're asking for it."

         He looked at it longingly. "Naw. I don't really need it." Then, just for a moment, I saw a gleam in his eye. "Besides, I've only got twenty dollars and that's for my haircut."

         Mike's haircut was somewhere in the future. "You can stop at the ATM and get another twenty on your way to get your haircut," I say. Problem solved.

         I walked around looking at things and considered a few craft items but in the end, I left them sitting.

         Mike did the express tour and was talking with Sherry, the host, while I looked and I heard him ask, "Does that old hacksaw work?"

         "Yeah. You can plug it in if you want," she replied and went on to say, "We sold the drill press already."

         "I'd like to have seen that," Mike tells me later.

         I finished looking and stood by listening to their light-hearted banter. "I think you should get that," Sherry said gesturing to the old hacksaw.

         "I don't have any place to put it. The back of the Jeep is full of cat liter," Mike told her. "Will you deliver it?"

         "Yeah," she answered brightly and too quickly. "Well, I don't know. Where do you live?"

         And the conversation was off again with talk of Robinson Road, old sawmills, and renovation projects. I really thought we were going to get out of there without buying anything when Sherry says again, "You should buy it. I'll bring it out to you."

         That was it. Mike gave up, reached in his pocket and pulled out the twenty that was gathering dust in there. He straightened out the folds and wrinkles and handed it over. We exchanged phone numbers and by this time other people were wanting to pay for their treasures. It was time to go.

         While we had been yakking with Sherry other cars had been pulling in and this one had parked beside us. A dog barked as I got in the Jeep. I looked over and had to laugh. Isn't he a handsome boy?

         We had just turned off Route 6 and headed up the Wyalusing New Albany Road when Mike spots these bad boys and pulls to the side.

         "Did you see that truck Peg? It has two steering axles." We sat there for a few minutes as Mike admired the trucks then he pulled back out into traffic talking the whole time about the trucks. "Did the other one have two steering axles too?" Mike asked.

         "I don't know. You should have just pulled in and looked at it," I said. Boy, that was a mistake. Mike pulled a u-ey and back we went.

         "They use those things to take pipe out to the wells," he told me. "With two steering axles they won't get stuck. I can't imagine what one of those costs."

         When we got home we unloaded the car and put things away. After a quick cup of coffee, Mike and I went to work at the pond for an hour or so. We decided if we do a little each day it would get done. Eventually. And that's fine by me. I've got lots of other things to do. Mike does as much as he can by himself but with his bad back he can't take a lot of up and down off the tractor and bending over to wrap the chain, so he really does need my help.

         We worked on another section of the pond this day with the golf cart and tow strap, deciding to just work on the things the golf cart had enough power to pull out. I had my boots on and while waiting for Mike to come back with the strap I'd pull a few whips and weeds by hand. Things were going along fine and I was pleased with the progress I was making.

         Too pleased, I guess because that's when things took a turn for the worse. I had a big old handful of dried weeds that were being stubborn; I get a better grip on them and gave a mighty pull...

         "OWWW," I yell.

         "What?" Mike asks. He'd been taking the weeds and whips I was pulling and making a pile of them.

         "I've got a splinter," I say and hold my hand up. In the web of my thumb on my right hand, my dominant hand, is a broken stick. I pulled hoping it wouldn't break off before I got it out and OH! MY! GOODNESS! I pulled and it came out and out and out and out! That thing was embedded at least a mile into my hand! Okay, okay! That might be a slight exaggeration, but I bet it was every bit of a half-inch. Then the blood started. I watched as it puddled in my hand.

         "Mike, I think I need to be done for today," I said to him.

         "Why?"

         When he turned to look at me I held up my hand. The blood was bright red as it ran down my hand. "I don't think I want to put my hand back in the pond water today."

         Mike didn't need any convincing. He gathered the tools and we headed for the house. I get to the kitchen sink and I am absolutely amazed when I wash all of that blood away and no new blood gushes forth. It had closed itself up. I squeezed it a little but I couldn't get it to bleed anymore. After drying my hand I reached for the turpentine. The real stuff made by trees, not the synthetic stuff, and I poured some over the spot where I'd impaled myself.

         "Turpentine!" you exclaim.

         Wait. We'll get there.

          Late that afternoon, Sherry calls, but I miss her call. She left me a message. "I've closed up my garage sale for the day and we can bring that saw out to you, if you're home. Give me a call."

         With my TracFone, I don't always get my calls and text messages right away. In fact, sometimes I won't get them until the next day. The only reason I was even checking my phone was because it was almost time for me to meet with my beautiful Moxie Ladies and I was seeing if anyone texted to let me know they wouldn't be there.

         "Sherry called," I told Mike. "Here, call her back," and I handed my phone off to him while I continued to get ready for my class.

         "My wife has exercise class tonight, but I'll be here," I heard Mike tell her.

         When I get home, this is sitting in the yard.

         "Why didn't you just have him help you take it inside?" I asked Mike.

         "I can get it in with the wheeler," Mike said. I know how he hates to ask anyone (but me) to do things for him. "Besides, look at this."

         And he mooned me.

         "How did you do that?"

         "Sherry's husband and I were setting if off the truck and when I bent over it just ripped!"

         LOL!

         He hasn't split a pair of jeans in a coon's age.

<<<<<>>>>>

         You know something?

         I like winter. I don't necessarily like being cold, but I love the snow and the way it sparkles in the sun and crunches under your feet. I love the way it decorates the landscape with its quiet beauty.

         But I like the spring and summer and fall too!

         I opened up my craft room and spent time in there cleaning things up, getting my tools out of the boxes and tubs I'd brought them from Missouri in. Then I set to work creating. I cut the glass for four owls, ground all the pieces smooth, and set them aside. I would take them in the house and wash them before I foiled them and foiling is something I can do at the table in the evenings.

         I also cut all the pieces for a Long Dangly and a Crazy Bird. 

          I'll tell you what! With all of those spikes in this guy's hair, he's a pain in the patootie to make. If I can't get at least $25 for him, I'm not making him. The owls are easy. I was thinking $7 or $8 for them. The Long Danglys will be $15. What do you guys think?'

         On one of my many trips past the cat room that day, I looked out through the cat room door and saw Feisty stalking a bird in the yard and I had to get my camera and get a picture of this mighty hunter for you.

         Needless to say, she didn't get this one. But someone did get a bird. I saw the feathers on the ground under the bird feeder and that's were that big old yellow gib of ours hangs out.

         "Gib?" you wonder. "What's that?"

         Gib is what they used to call a neutered male cat. No one really uses that term anymore unless you are a geek like me and Google it. I knew I couldn't call him a tomcat because he isn't a tom anymore!

>>>>><<<<<

         When I talked to Momma on Friday I told her about spearing myself in the web of my thumb and how I reached for the turpentine.

         "Good," she said. "That'll keep it from getting sore."

         You don't realize how much you use a part of your body until it hurts when you do use it! I babied my hand all day and reapplied the turpentine after I was done doing whatever I had washed them for, only instead of pouring it on, I just dipped a Q-Tip in and dabbed the area with it. I probably did that three or four times that day. 

          Saturday, I got up and never thought about my thumb for hours and hours — cause it wasn't sore!

         And with that we will call this one done!