A WEEK END IN THE COUNTRY

THE RESIDENT FOX

Abbey and Lucy, the two West Highland terriers that rule our house, went into full-blown, bat-shit-crazy barking at the window yesterday.  A fox went slinking past outside. He didn’t stop to acknowledge the two domestic cousins totally flipping out on the opposite side of the glass. Instead, he circled the yard, and examined the brush pile and the heavily treed back berm. I last saw him disappearing over the edge of the ravine.

Was he scouting for a suitable den — a place to move his bride? Raise the kits? Or only prowling for food? We have a New York City population of chipmunks holed up around us. The neighborhood cat took the summer off. Chipmunks moved here from all parts of the globe. I don’t really mind but Abbey and Lucy, the Resident Canine Green Berets, saw them as Nazi invasive forces. I assume that foxes eat chipmunks and there you have it — the balance of nature in spite of humans and domesticated pets.

ABBEY AND LUCY

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Our bird feeders are back in action. Chip takes them down in May, as soon as we begin seeing bugs and seed heads in the naturalized “meadow,” aka, backyard. Feeders go back into place with the first snowfall — usually the beginning of November. 

I enjoy watching bird politics. Clearly, the red headed woodpecker rules. He eats first — alone — like royalty. Nobody challenges that right. Once in awhile a blue jay lands but decides not to pull a coup and flies away. The smalls — chickadees, finches — swarm the feeders and are pretty democratic. They easily make room for incoming nuthatches, titmouse, redpols. No big deal — one takes a break and waits in the bar next door for a seat at the table. 

Doves are ground feeders  — the cat fish of the avian set. They eat the dregs, the leftovers that fall to the ground. Doves make me sad. They seem so …gray! No sparkle, no grace, no warble. They remind me of homeless people — ever present in spite of liberal intentions. 

I count cardinals among the exotics even though I see them in the spruce trees year round. That flash of red — impossible to miss against dark green and the first white of winter. They come to the feeders as a pair — male and female — when no-one else is around. 

Dr. Zhivago and Lara, Heathcliff and Cathrine. So beautiful.

We don’t feed sparrows. And we don’t feed squirrels. The feeders are outfitted with anti-invasive devices. One must have limits. 

(Uh-oh. The blue jay just dived in and took position at the very top of the feeding stand. The challenge is on. He looks around with determination this time. All other birds have retreated into the brush. I wonder if I should shoo him away? Just as I am about to rise to the task, I see that he’d flown up to the nearest tree branch. Is this a tactical move? Is he plotting wood pecker assassination?

Oh no! There’s a second Jay! Now what? I can’t handle the stress. This is beginning to seem like a Quentin Tarantino movie. I need a cookie to settle my nerves. I’ll write about art next time.) 

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