I love living in the wilds of Lanark County. I love the trees, the wide open sky and the amazing glittery carpet of stars at night. I especially love the critters, as long as they don’t want to suck my blood.
However, as much as I love the critters (Peter, too- we often will stand by the windows and watch them go by), apparently we don’t love them as much as our tabby, Wick.
I’ve told Wick stories before, and they always seem to start with . . . there was this really strange noise . . . you know, the kind of noise that registers in the cacophony of every-day sounds as not normal?
So there was this really strange nature noise that had me standing up to look out my office window. And what do I see? A fat white wild turkey running helter-skelter down the driveway with Wick in hot pursuit, her legs flying like the fastest cheetah.
I wish I could have seen it from the beginning. I imagine it would have been Wick, thinking to herself that whatever it was she was watching was the biggest thing she would ever try to tackle (besides the dog or me). I imagine she became a mighty huntress, stalking through our too-tall grass, crouched low to the ground, her tail swishing in dangerous arcs, her eyes wide, pupils dilated. She is no longer a house cat, she’s the mighty lioness, ready to bring down the meanest wildebeest on the plains of the Serengeti.
But, of course, all I got to see was the white wobble of the turkey and Wick’s rapid chase. By the time I screamed at Peter to come see, I was laughing and the frightened bird and our mighty cat were gone, only ghosts of dust clouds remaining.
Seriously, what in the world would she do with a turkey if she caught it? Would she expect me to serve it up with some stuffing and gravy? If she’d managed to drag that thing back, I would have served it on a silver platter to her. But the turkey managed to get away.
When the deer munch near our crab apple tree, Wick lays in the branches above or at their feet. I wonder if she provides the dinner conversation?
So there was this really strange noise, this time out the back bedroom door. I crawled out of bed and opened the drape, much to Peter’s dismay. It was kind of early on Saturday morning.
But that danged Woody Woodpecker was back, his full head of red feathers swaying in time with his loud hammering on our birch tree. The woodpecker was a full foot tall, and quite beautiful.
But what did Wick see?
Snack.
So she’s at the base of the tree, and the woodpecker stops hammering and starts bellowing at the cat, six feet below.
Peter didn’t want the woodpecker on the tree anyway, so he started egging her on, telling her to get that nasty woodpecker.
It’s not like she could have caught the bird, but she sure shot up that tree fast enough, accompanied by the ‘good girl!’ shouts from both of us.
You’ve got to love the chutzpah of our little Wick. She dreams big, and she goes after her dreams. I guess we could all learn a lesson or two from our pets, couldn’t we?
Maybe, but I won’t be climbing trees or chasing wild turkeys anytime soon. And the deer? They can have the apples, thankyouverymuch.
I'm sure Wick will let them know when she's had enough.
