Turf War
There’s a war being waged in my backyard. Each side stepping up their attacks. Refusing to back down. The escalation shows no signs of abating with limited precious resources on the line. It’s about turf. Pride. Title. Honors. But more than all of that? The thing that spurs these brave combatants into the field each evening? Meow Mix. Salmon and chicken flavored Meow Mix.
The Skunk has taken the field.
He thought it would be easy. Small Cat was feeble. Meek. Unable to face The Skunk’s charge for even a moment before turning and scrambling away in a disorganized rout. The Skunk hadn’t even bothered to ride out and cut down the fleeing enemy. Why bother? If he returned, he would be dealt with swiftly. Oh how sweet the Meow Mix had tasted that day, drizzled with the thrill of triumph and fringed with delicious glory. Surely, the bards would sing of this feast for generations. Hell, even the bowl was sent flying across the patio when it proffered no more. Foolish bowl! It was once the vassal vittles vessel of the vanquished! Ripe for treachery! Better to do away with it now. The Skunk would not be taken so easily.
However, patios must not only be won; they must be defended. What The Skunk did not know, COULD not know, would soon pull him from his newly won throne and back into the melee. His undoing wrought by a foreign invader whose very existence was hitherto unknown. An invisible enemy, silent, yet no less lethal than those of flesh and blood he had clashed with in so many battles past. The Skunk would now have to face… the power of friendship.
Grey Cat and Big Cat have taken the field.
Nobody knows whence they came. Neighbors whisper to one another, question whether the fast flash of fur from afar be feline or figment of a frenetic frontal lobe. Blurry grey silhouettes stalking across the view of so many doorbell security cameras. Until they weren’t. Until they became real. Speculation and shadow materializing before The Skunk’s very eyes. His very smelly, suddenly outnumbered eyes.
But The Skunk will not yield so easily. If a battle it must be, he will be there. Ready. Waiting. Hungry.
Tonight, the battle continues.
—-------------------------------------------------
… well that was silly and got out of control.
I thought I had put an end to these yard critter hijinx. When the groundhog (Fat Cat) kept digging under the fence gate, I dug a barrier trench and put down gravel to keep him from coming in and out. Take THAT, Fat Cat! He did. Within days he realized he could, with some effort, dig right through the gravel. Defeated, I was ready to let him wander in and out with the cats. You earned it, Fat Cat. But THEN…
… the skunk (Smelly Cat)…
It was hard to even tell what he was at first. Camera footage shows him squeezing through Fat Cat’s gate tunnel and walking up to the patio right as Small Cat was sitting down to eat. Small cat ran. Mysterious stranger threw his tail straight up and froze, suddenly less mysterious. He ate all the food, angrily tossed the bowl across the patio, and foraged for more a few minutes before skulking off into the yard. It was 30 minutes before Small Cat came looking for any leftover dinner. He found none.
That Smelly Cat izzuh asshole.
Determined, I sprung into action. I dug up the gravel I had just put down and installed some big heavy patio pavers under the gate. Dig through THAT. I used the extra dirt and gravel to fill some gaps underneath the rest of the fence, but there was still too much room. Fat and/or Smelly Cat could dig under that as they please. So I took the nuclear option. I spent $200 on a 25 pack of dig defence wire barriers, each a 32” row of welded metal stakes.I spent several hours sweating profusely as I sledged those stakes into the ground against the fence across the entire back of the yard. Each 8” deep. Cats continued to climb over the fence to get in and out. I thought I had won.
Until last night. Cameras captured Smelly investigating the front gate. Unable to dig under anymore, he proceeded along the fence into the neighbor’s yard, out of view. 4 minutes later, he came back. Still probing. Out of sight again. I did it. I had won. Until, 15 minutes later, he appeared in view, on the patio, once again ruthlessly savaging the food bowl.
I haven’t had a chance to see where he got in, but this isn’t over. Small Cat will have his dinner. Grey Cat and Big Cat, whoever they are and wherever they came from, will continue chasing moths and crickets around the patio in peace. Smelly Cat will be forced to fuck right off into whatever hovel Fat Cat disappeared to.
Mark my words.
—------------------------------
Oh hey. Future M here. All of the above was written in a draft last weekend. I never came back to finish the entry. In the meantime THERE HAS BEEN A DEVELOPMENT.
Small Cat… has given birth to Smaller Cats.
I had been wondering why the food bowl was emptying so quickly. It didn’t seem like there was enough Small Cat to justify that much Meow Mix. Then Wednesday evening I saw her laying out on the lifting platform, looking at the shed. Just looking. Came back for more food, and right back to the platform. Didn’t know what to make of it, until Thursday morning when I looked out to see if she was still in the same spot. Instead, she was awkwardly flopped on her side, still half sitting up, with at least three little ones toddling around her and nuzzling into her belly.
Look, I’m all for spaying and neutering. My plan when I first started leaving food out was to try and gain enough trust to find out whether the cats had an owner and, if not, trap them to take them in for vaccinations and fixing. By any measure, Small Cat appearing with litter in my yard was failure on my part.
But I was so. damn. excited.
Dogs are better than cats. Full stop. But newborn kittens are cuter than newborn puppies.
There. I said it.
I quickly recognized that one kitten was a perfect mini replica of Grey Cat. One an orange and grey marbled coat like the cat that hangs out on the neighbor’s porch down the street. And one the same black and grey mottled coat as Big Cat.
Small Cat, you little slut.
Watching them from my room, Small Cat spotted me. There was a long stare, then she freed herself from her brood and walked right towards me. She walked onto the patio, a story below and directly in front of my vantage point, sat down, and stared at me. Eye contact. Just staring. The message was clear.
“HELP PLEASE.”
Small Cat scrambled off when I stepped out onto the patio. Smaller Cats had mostly disappeared under the shed again, save a tiny grey tabby face peeking out at me from one side and a tiny black paw reaching out from the other. I plopped down in the grass and clicked my tongue for some reason. Had I called cats with this noise growing up? Must have - it came instinctively. No movement or noises in response, until the little black mottled one came poking out. Stumbling, wobbly, but bright blue eyes shining. Ears perked. He got halfway to me, mewing, before he froze and stared at me a long while. I kept clicking, wiggling my fingers towards him, fully expecting Small Cat to come tearing at the back of my neck at any moment. Eventually, though, the bravest little ebony lion took the bait. Wobbled right up to my hand for a quick head scratch before turning and high-step swaying back towards his siblings.
That did it. I am now the father. I will protect these kittens. At all costs.
I don’t know much about much, but judging from the ears up, open eyes, and toddling around I know these aren’t newborn newborns. 3 weeks? 4 maybe? A quick google search told me they’re probably not on cat food yet, but will be looking for it soon. I put out some extra fresh water by the corner of the shed, just in case.
I ordered more dig defence panels. $400 to keep Smelly Cat out so he doesn’t spray me seems like a lot. $400 to keep predators away from the kittens?
AT ALL COSTS.
As I was sitting through morning meetings, I remembered all the spare plywood scraps and foamboard insulation I had been storing in the shed. Almost threw them out on several occasions, now I’m glad I didn’t. On lunch I gathered supplies and traced out the cuts I would need to make for the panels of an outdoor cat house. Chopped up a spare 1x2 into 2 inch lengths for braces to connect floor to walls. Took my circular saw outside and hacked up the plywood. Test fit okay, now I just need to…
… crap I’ve been on “lunch” for like an hour and a half haven’t i? I went back to work for a few hours. Then back at it.
Jigsaw took out an arched entryway from the front. Glued and screwed the panels together, only having to adjust the length of the side walls by a half inch to get everything fitted together. Not bad for winging it. While the glue set, I grabbed the foamboard insulation and an xacto knife and started measuring out those panels. Notched spaces for the 1x2 braces. That rhymes. Centered the roof and installed the hinges so I can get in and change bedding/care for kittens/scare the hell out of everyone when their home opens up to a giant man face. Then I grabbed whatever outdoor paint I had on hand, a bright trim white, and slapped a coat on all surfaces. Whatever - if they take to it I’ll add a better roofing material later.
I grabbed some cardboard for a liner, and some spare washcloths/one of my dirty knock-around-the-house t shirts for bedding. Do I remember something about kittens taking to people faster when they become familiar with their smell, or did I just waste a perfectly mediocre t shirt? Whatever. AT ALL COSTS!!!
Happily, I set the whole thing down at the corner where Small Cat had been nursing them earlier. Right next to their hidey hole under the shed. It’s cozy, it’s safe, and it’s so well insulated that I can always use it as a drink cooler should my fuzzchildren not take to it. Sprinkled a little cat food at the entrance to encourage exploration right as the sun was going down.
A good day. Shower, dinner, a little Horizon, satisfied at having done what I could on such short notice. I fell asleep with my windows open, listening to the occasional high-pitched squeaky mewing coming from the back yard. The first time I heard it, I went scrambling out back, worried that something was wrong. I entered the darkness in time to see Small Cat disappear under the shed, the kittens all tucked away too. Of course they did, you dummy, nothing was wrong. Kittens mew. You’re new-father worrying. Now, trying to fall asleep to crickets and kittens in the yard, I did my best not to worry as I drifted off.
This morning, my alarm went off at 6. I hit it. Opened my eyes. Glanced at my phone for a minute. Then got up and pulled on some clothes.
Wait… huh?
For the last… god I don’t even know how long… 6 months? 12? No, I think it’s been since before Vally passed… I have not woken up well. Sluggish. I’ll lay, sound asleep, for 20-30 minutes with the alarm blaring and lights on before I’m even conscious enough to hit the snooze button. Not today. Today I popped up. Still black outside. I was dressed and downstairs in time to drag out the recycling that I had forgotten about last night. Made breakfast. Fed Small Cat and changed their water.
And now, I’m trying to decode it. How? Why? Two years of trying to figure out how to get up and go with some energy, and today it finally happened.
Was that… was that the Smaller Cats?
There are other variables at play. I’ve been on the new gonna-give-me-cancer meds for a few weeks. Maybe that’s finally kicking in? I haven’t noticed a major change. No obvious and sudden burst of energy or feeling better or even reduction of other symptoms. But maybe it’s slowly working its magic?
Maybe it’s the HIIT I had done the day before? Wednesday evening I was feeling awful and decided to sprint it out. I was on the treadmill, music blaring, for 45 minutes. Started with an uncomfortably fast mile, then moved on to some minute long fast runs, then did a handful of 1/10th mile sprints at a 6 minute mile pace. Not quite all-out 100%, but not too far off. Once done, I showered, ate, and kicked my feet up, only to notice that my heart was still cruisin. I had gotten it up to 170bpm during sprints, and my usual resting rate is a concerningly slow 50bpm. Laying there, checking my watch, I was still hovering around 90, even hours after the run. Then the next morning it was still up in the 70s and 80s. Was I dying, or was this normal? Some research showed that it can be a result of your body working to recover from exercise, metabolism quickening, and sure enough I felt a little more energetic. So maybe those sprints and that energy led to my waking up properly?
Could it be having some plans to look forward to? With my two weeks off starting a week from today, I finally settled on what I’ll do with it. For a few years I would spend the time renting a cabin, throwing whatever girl I was seeing at the time in the car with me, and spending the time playing and relaxing together in someone else’s home in the middle of the woods. Then I got sick. Pandemic. Vally. Sicker still. For three years whatever minimal time I’ve taken off has been just lounging around the house, or completing projects. So when I started looking into a cabin to visit alone this year, something didn’t feel right. I was not convinced. Was this what I wanted, or was I just going through the motions? Finding somewhere to be comfortable that wasn’t home.
But then… have I been lacking comfort for the last several years? The house I’ve been cooped up in is DRIPPING with comfort. I’ve decked every corner out to be as comfortable as possible. I’m drowning in comfort. Is more of it really an escape at this point?
And then, inspiration. One of those lightbulb moments where I have an idea and immediately know that it’s exactly right. I went out and bought a bike carrier for my manly mazda trailer hitch. Pulled the old bike down from its perch hanging in the shed. It had been there, unridden, since I moved in. Longer. I hadn’t ridden it since the fated C&O canal towpath trip. That miserable outing where I rode 180 miles on a low-carb diet in roughly 48 hours. The one where the bike seat did some heavy damage to my underside. The adventure I swore I would never attempt again.
I’m gonna do it again. Only bigger.
The Great Allegheny Passage, or GAP trail, was a path that started in Pittsburg and made its way down towards the MD border. I remember reading about the efforts being made to connect it to the C&O Canal towpath when planning for my adventure some 15 years ago. Well, they finished it. They connect now.
I’m going to Pittsburg.
While I don’t have firm details yet, the plan is to rent a vehicle, load it up with my bike and supplies, and take it up into PA. Spend an evening exploring the city, crash at a hotel somewhere, and then jump into saddle and start riding the next morning. This time I’m going to learn from the lessons of before. I bought the gold standard of saddles and am working it in a bit now before I set off. I’m going to take my time, give myself much longer than I need, so I can stop and explore small towns on the way, grab a bite, maybe even check in to a hotel in Cumberland or Harpers Ferry for an evening to wash the gross off. I’m going to pack some extra warm gear and gloves this time so I’m not shivering all night and well into the morning ride. And I’m going to pack LOTS of carbs. OH MY GOD all the carbs.
Mostly, I’m gonna break the pattern of comfort. Work too hard pedaling for several days. Sleep in the fresh air and not on a comfy mattress. Watch the leaves whiz by instead of worrying about what needs to be done around the house or when my check-out time is supposed to be. I haven’t any idea how far I’ll go or how long it’ll take. 4 days? 5? A week? The two paths combined are around 330 miles. Pittsburgh to DC. Or maybe less, if I decide I don’t want to go that far. Brother is on call to come fetch me when I call it. And if he falls through, there’s nothing stopping me from chaining my bike to a tree and calling an uber. Coming back for the bike later.
It’s been exciting. I’m excited for the adventure. Maybe that’s what’s got me out of bed today?
Or, is all of that me trying to ignore the obvious? There are kittens in my yard, and I feel responsible for them. For something other than myself. It’s been 22 months since my best friend died and this is the first time since then that I’ve felt like something needs me. Relies on me, to some degree. Like I’m playing an important role in a life that isn’t my own.
Yikes. Tears welling. That struck a nerve.
My dad does this, to an extent. Seeks out damsels that he can rescue, one after the next. A serial damsel rescuer, to the point that once they’re not a damsel anymore he moves on. So much so that it’s fucked up both his marriages and his relationship with his kids and he still doesn’t seem to recognize it. Am I doing that? Is this me finding self worth in being needed?
But then, that’s normal isn’t it? That’s being a part of a community. A fundamental part of being human, yours truly notwithstanding. Surely, wanting to be close enough to others that you can be important to them isn’t an unusual or bad thing, right? The problem with dad is that this is his ONLY motivation. To save. Once saved, he either starts making up new problems for the person that he can save them from or he moves on to someone else. He’s looking at others to serve a purpose for him, not looking at others hoping he can serve them.
Is… have I been swinging the pendulum too far in the other direction? Am I isolating and resisting playing that role for others in a subconscious attempt to avoid becoming my father and his wholly egocentric approach to relationships?
I’m not convinced that’s the case yet, but I don’t know that I can fully rule it out either.
Regardless, I was in a good spot mentally and physically. Making progress. Then Vally passed and with her left the one living thing that needed me. I fell off. Health issues. Groggily and sleepily trudging through one day after the next, seeking a solution. Then Smaller Cats show up in my yard and I wake up with some energy the next day. Perhaps the solution is a purpose outside of myself. Perhaps it’s the being so isolated that’s finally gotten to me over the last couple years.
Perhaps the universe sends us exactly what we need, even when we didn’t know we needed it.
Those cats may or may not take to their home. In a couple months they’ll be grown and either rescued out or wandering off into the neighborhood on their own. I’m well aware that this is not a permanent solution. But it may very well be a lesson. Several fluffy, mewing, adorable little lessons.
At all costs.
-M
