That Time Of Year Again — Turklets

 
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…



Zzzzzz…. Ah, corn, cookies, mashed potatoes…



Harumph…. Huh? Who’s there? Wait, where am I?



Wha? I was just dreaming…creamed corn…



Oh my, what a big eye you have…



Are you my mom???




Postscript: Six poults hatch from among the couple of dozen eggs the mama turkey lays on. Turkeys are big and clumsy, and the mama squashes her babies by accident, killing four.

Jim and the girls snap into action. There are only two poults left, one injured, the other tangled in the octagon of a chickenwire fence. Jim cuts out the trapped baby.

Both are just a few days old but already they eat and drink. Like most babies they sleep a lot. An old photography light/heat lamp simulates (as much as possible) the warmth of Mama’s downy feathers.

Jim says we’re nurturing the next generation of turkeys. Every day until all the eggs hatch he’ll be out there watching for the next set of poults.





Turkeys on red Ravine

• Word Of The Day: Turklet
• Good Mother, Bad Mother
• Wild Turkeys Of Rioteague Island
• The Great Wild Turkey Experiment Is Failing
• Introducing (Drumroll) The Amazing Turkeys Wallenda
• Just Like A Warm, Fuzzy Lick (Almost)
• Happy Turkeys Day
• Turkeys Are Exhibitionists (And Other Things I’ve Learned From My Feathered Friends)
• Reflections On The Other National Bird
• Giving Thanks

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Mr. Stripey Pants Goes Postal

It’s Time For Mr. Stripey Pants To Come In For A Visit!, Minneapolis, Minnesota, September 2008, photo © 2008 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

Right after I did the piece on postcards and letter writing, this arrived for Mr. Stripey Pants — a personal note from Dick Van Dyke himself (did you know Mr. Van Dyke was born in Missouri?). I remember Dick Van Dyke most for The Dick Van Dyke Show, Mary Poppins, and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But why is he writing to Mr. Stripey Pants?

Well, it’s time for Pants to go in for his Senior Exam. It’s true what Mary Poppins says — a spoonful of sugar really does helps the medicine go down. But Pants doesn’t mind the vet. It’s Chaco who gets freaked out.

Anyway, as Mr. Stripey Pants prepares for the fall elections, we’ll be taking him in for his Senior Exam. He’ll be 11 years old in November. And when cats start to age, it’s more important than ever to catch things early.

But what about this mail thing? Pets are becoming so important in our electronic (and increasingly isolated) day-to-day lives, that we’re receiving slick, 4-color magazines as appointment reminders from veterinarians. But is it really right that Mr. Stripey Pants receives more personal mail than I do?

Mr. Stripey Pants Goes Postal, Pants preparing to read his mail from Dick Van Dyke, Minneapolis, Minnesota, September 2008, all photos © 2008 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

     

-posted on red Ravine, Sunday, September 7th, 2008

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“Pants” For Obama!

Pants For Obama! (Exhibit A), Minneapolis, Minnesota,
August 2008, photo © 2008 by QuoinMonkey. All rights
reserved.

Our cat, Mr. StripeyPants (we call him Pants for short), is one unique character. His claim to fame is that he plays PawPong with me on the bed, running to fetch the ball and bring it back to me every time it goes out of bounds. Last year (after nearly dying), Pants also competed in the Olympic Fly-Eating contest and won the Gold Medal in 2007.

He is notorious for leaving his trophies in clumps in his food dish. He also hides them in unsuspecting places around the house. (See Exhibit B: Ball In Cuff for evidence of his latest hiding place.)

This morning when I got up, half asleep and stumbling to make a pot of French Roast, I looked down to see a pink glow from his food dish (See Exhibit A at top of post). There, between two of his red felt balls, was a “change” button.

I yelled to Liz, “Hey, you gotta see this!” She rushed out from the back room to a roar of laughter. “Hey, Pants must be for Obama,” she said. “Do you think he’s trying to tell us something?”

I grabbed the “change” button out of his dish and tossed it on the table. He flew across the room like SuperCat and started batting it around tables, chairs, through piano bench legs, and under doors. He scooped it up between his teeth, shook his head as if gnawing a mouse, and proudly trotted over to his food dish. “Yep,” I laughed. “Pants is a righteous Obama fan!”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Since ybonesy did her Obama piece on red Ravine last February, and I posted one of the only political pieces you’ll probably ever see from me, a lot has happened. Hillary has long been out of the race; Obama chose his running mate yesterday. Okay, I guess Mr. StripeyPants is more politically savvy than we’ve given him credit for.

Well, I guess if humans are casting their votes (in record numbers) for the groundhog, Smith Lake Jake for President, then surely a cat like Mr. StripeyPants can vote for the human, Barack Obama. What more is there to say? Pants for Obama!

Mr. StripeyPants — Set On Change (Cats For Obama),
Minneapolis, Minnesota, August 2008, all photos © 2008
by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

-posted on red Ravine, Sunday, August 24th, 2008

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Who Said Snakes Aren’t Cute?

      

   

   



Baby was up and at it the other day. She almost seemed to be posing for me. She’d eaten a rat a few days earlier, and the sluggishness from winter had all but worn off.

Do you ever look at your animals and wonder what’s going on inside their heads? I do, especially with our dogs. Usually I think they’re either blissed-out happy or totally miserable. It’s almost always the former, but every so often, like when they’re covered in mud or have just rolled in something disgusting and it’s damp outside and I won’t let them in — then they’re miserable.

But with a snake, it’s not the same. You don’t look at a snake and say to it in a squeaky voice, “Hi, little Baby, are you happy I gave you that rat?” Most of the times I look at her, I wonder if she’s awake. Sometimes I even touch her skin to make sure she’s alive. On a very rare occasion, she hisses at me. She shakes her tail violently as if she were a rattlesnake, which, apparently, is one of the ways bullsnakes protect themselves.

What I’m trying to say is, I don’t normally anthropomorphize my snake. Remember the turkeys and the post I did where I imagined what they were thinking as they stared at us through the windows? Later I pretended they were The Amazing Turkeys Wallenda, and another time I put words to what they were thinking as they greeted me coming up the drive. I loved making fun of them.

But our pet bullsnake is the one animal I’ve taken at face value. That is, until today.

Today I looked at the photos I took of Baby on that day she was so active, and there it was, calling out to me. Not all of them, but one here, another there:

     Can ya scratch my chin, right there, under my right fang.

     Are you my mom????

     Peekaboo. I see you.


I don’t want to go there. Baby has dignity. Not that turkeys don’t, but Baby’s a special case. She defies being made into a goofball.

I’m not sure what to do about it. The silly side of me wants to break loose. Ah, what will Baby care? She’s a snake. She has no feelings.

The other side, though, stares into those steely eyes and realizes that I’m the only one who will look the fool if I dare try to penetrate her inner snake.

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