A Toad Joins The Menagerie

It seems as if two kittens, two dogs, and (between my mother's feeders and mine) about twelve cups of homemade hummingbird nectar a day wasn't enough.
 
For my mother's 92nd birthday, our handyman gave her a tiny toad or frog. I don't know the difference and, at the moment, I don't care. Mom was absolutely thrilled. One free and rather nondescript amphibian completely shaded the new TV my brother, sisters, and I pitched in to buy her for her bedroom. At her request, I might add, not that I'm salty about that.

Like any tech savvy lady, she headed her walker straight for the computer to research the little guy's needs. 
  
Terrarium. Check. Fine spray mister. Check. Small clay pot to make a little hidey hole. Mom decided her spare pots were too big. I managed to find a tiny one under my kitchen sink. Mom promptly took a hammer to it. 

I guess I'm not getting it back. 

Silly me, I'd envisioned her laying the pot on its side. At that Mom showed me some pictures she'd found on the internet. These showed the pot turned upside down with a rounded entrance cut into the side. I admit they were cute like little Hobbit houses. We turned to look at her handiwork. Her hammer blow had busted out a jagged triangular piece of clay. Hairline cracks suggested it wouldn't be prudent to hit it again.

She was disappointed. But after studying it for a moment, I told her it made the habitat look like she had a badass toad living there. 

The water dish was replaced six times before she settled on a lid possessing the perfect depth. Not too deep but just enough for him to sit in easily. The website further claimed the frog needed dirt from the area where it was found.

Fresh, loamy soil from the creek bank will have to do. The next requirement was living moss. Who wrote this stuff? And how do they know? Did amphibian pollsters go pond to pond?

It took me a bit but I found green moss growing under her outside water faucet.

Job well done...I'm ready to stamp the project finished.

Then she tells me, "the article said he'll only eat insects that are still alive. It has this graph and a toad his size needs about 3 bugs a day. Nothing with a hard shell so, I think, that lets out ladybugs and such. Oh, it also says that the back legs of crickets have to be removed. Something about them causing a blockage in his digestive system."

I suggest ordering live insects off the internet or buying some at a local pet store. She laughs like I've made the funniest joke. 

"Why pay for bugs when we've 34 acres filled with them? It shouldn't be hard. You could try checking piles of animal poop to find flies."

I stare at her in disbelief but she seems completely serious. I also know if I don't do it, she'll be out there scrambling around, with her walker no less, That leaves me to hunt out perfect dietal tidbits with which to tempt, what sounds to me, a very picky amphibian.

Outside, armed with long tweezers and a plastic baggie, I begin my search. Unfortunately, the trillions of bugs that live here must have been listening at the window. It seems they've all dispersed and gone into hiding. Not a single bee is droning. The ants have taken it a step further by sticking Go away, nobody's home signs on their hills. Reluctantly, I check the piles of doo-doo my dogs have left conveniently around but not one fly is decorating them.

It seemed to take forever until I finally capture the only three bugs either too inattentive or lackadaisical to heed the alert. One fly type thing, another bug I don't recognize, and a grasshopper.

Believe me when I say it's hard to catch flying/jumping insects with tweezers. However, I refuse to touch them with bare hands. I'm sweating by the time I hand the baggie over into Mom's waiting hands.

I suspect my grin is more than a little hysterical as I tell her, "Here. I don't know if grasshopper legs have to be removed like a cricket's. Your call." 

On that note, I head home. It's only a few steps as my place is right next door. The heat has made me slow as I'm about halfway there when it hits me. I'm going to have to go through this every stupid day until fall. 

As much as I'm hating this internet site Mom has been reading with all the passion of a proselyte, it has given one piece of advice with which I heartily agree.

Amphibians should be released back into the wild while the weather is still warm. This will give them some time to dig a hole for hibernation.

Here in southern Missouri, this means I'll be wearing a bug hunter cap along with all my other hats until the end of September or early October. Locally, the first really cold day hits  Halloween. As a child, I was convinced this was Mother Nature's way of messing with trick-or-treaters.

By that time, I figure I'll be maniacally singing Ugly Bug Ball while fancy dancing with the fleas. It's either that or I'll turn into one of them like Kafka's Gregor in Metamorphosis. Hmm, between those two options I think I'll stick to my party pants.

The phone's ringing as I shut the door behind me. 

"Robin," Mom exclaims excitedly, "I've been reading some more and the males have a bluish tint to their necks while a female's neck is the same color as the rest of its body."

She pauses with all the drama of an expecting mother's baby reveal. Pink confetti seems to spill through the airwaves along with her voice, "You have a little sister! Oh, and next time? You better remove any legs. They're too hard for me to pull off."

Touche, Mom, I hang up. She's managed to insult me and turn me into a butcher for her pet - all in the same breath.

It's all summer magic at the farm.

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Ever Have One of Those Mornings?

                    Stepping into the kitchen this morning, I'm shocked to see I forgot to set up the coffeepot last night. It's an integral part of my 'heading to bed' ritual. It goes hand-in-hand with brushing my teeth. I do it so all I have to do upon rising is push a button. 

Scratching the side of my left knee, I pick up the carafe and step/stumble over the dog as I turn to the sink. I swear he wasn't there a second ago. His normally limpid eyes are filled with reproach. In his mind, I should be feeding him the moment I get up. Having to fix the coffee is a change in routine that is messing with both of us.

I get the pot going and quickly feed the pets.

I scratch the back of my neck.

I decide there should be enough time to start a load of laundry before the pot finishes brewing. I stuff dirty clothes inside, turn the machine on, and add liquid detergent. 

I stand there, squinting down into the tub as it fills with soapy water. Was that something glinting among the clothes? It disappears as the machine begins to agitate. 

I dismiss it as a figment of an under-caffinated mind.

I scratch my hip as the phone rings.

"Hi," I answer. Politely, I might add.

"You haven't had your coffee," My mother says accusingly and then hangs up on me. It's amazing how she can tell, with only one word, if coffee has socialized me for the day or not.

  She refuses to talk to me before I have a caffeine hit. I love (sarcasm here) how she makes it sound like I'm some addict that can't function without a morning cup of joe. Until my eyes have been opened with a coffee bean and water stimulate, she claims, I'm unable to carry on a sensible conversation. She also won't ride in a car with me until I've got at least 2 cups of caffeine flowing through my veins.

I scratch my thigh.

After pouring a steaming cup, I doctor it with a drop of milk and head to the shower. Naked, I find several new, red patches of broken out and bumpy skin. You see, the little slice of Eden I live on is bountiful in poison ivy, shumac, and oak. I find six new six chigger bites in a place I'd rather they not be.

I scratch at them. I sneeze as Queen Anne's Lace is currently blooming and I'm allergic. 

 Once clean, I look in the mirror and try telling myself I look rather fetching painted pink with Calamine lotion. I compound this lie by adding I'm much more Pink Panther and less Pepto Bismal Monster.

 The lotion does not stop the itching.

The tone for the morning has been set. So much so that, later, when putting fresh sheets on the bed, I stub my baby toe on the leg of the bed frame. And it hurts. My luck it's broken. I can see the tissue swelling and know I'll be limping for a few days.

I believe I hear the distant echo of bed frame designers everywhere  laughing sadistically.

I'm scratching and sipping coffee as my morning ends with the outbreak of WWIII.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me explain that these canine and feline hostilities are rooted in the fact I live out in the boonies and bought a new car last March.

 Stay with me here. 

Who knew that somewhere, somehow, someone decided it would be a good idea to use a soy based coating on new engine wires.

That's right. Just like in the Princess Bride, a R.O.U.S. (rodent of unusual size) took it upon itself to have a wire snack. Its gnawing caused over three hundred dollars worth of damage.

 Everyone said I needed a cat. I don't do things halfway.

So, last week, I took in two kittens. 

Here is Kif, the dog, seeing Calico Andie for the first time. As the internet suggested, I let the dog and kittens get to know each other through closed doors. When the dog is inside, the kittens stay in the guest bathroom. They sniff at one another through the space at the bottom of the door.

  As you can see, one swipe of Kif's Gene Simmons-esque tongue could drown a tiny kitty.

I call this one, Marley because, I think, she looks like gray, marled wool. I find I have to repeat this a lot. I guess it was a bad name choice as, evidently, most think her name is a drug reference.
 It is not.

This morning, before I've ingested my normal pot or two of coffee, I discover the kittens have Houdini-it out of the bathroom. 

Canine and feline sleeping peacefully. 

So cute. So precious.

I start singing the Beatles, "All together now."

Either my singing or grabbing the camera wakes them up. And, all h...heck breaks loose. At first, Kif frantically wags his tail. He thinks it's playtime and he's been desperately wanting them to play with him.

However, the kittens snub him. Marley rather rudely puts her hind leg over her neck and starts grooming. I tell her that, at the very least, she could have turned her back before washing those bits and pieces.

 Kif's feelings are hurt. He responds by barking and attempts to jump up on the tea cart. 

Backs arching, the kittens hiss and spit with adorable ferocity.  Which, understandably, Kif doesn't take seriously. I didn't either until Andie makes this weird growling sound that causes the hair on the back of my neck to prickle. 

Andie and Marley reward them for picking them up out of canine reach by puncturing my skin with forty tiny but razor sharp claws.

 I yelp. This inspires Kif to repeatedly jump against my side. I'm almost knocked over by the ramming force of fifty, sturdy pounds. 

I'm done trying to referee. I'm tired of scratching.

  Poor Kif is put outside. I tell him that, when the kittens are old enough to look after themselves, they will take their turn at being banished outside for misbehaving.

 Right now, the kitties are too little to be outside where hawks, owls, and turkey vultures patrol the skies looking for tasty little morsels. Yet, Kif is a pampered pooch and it's too hot to leave him out during the heat of the day. It's not like he doesn't have shade trees, a pond, and a spring fed creek to keep him cool. No, he stubbornly stays on the deck. He stares longingly inside and, somehow, manages to make me worry he'll get heatstroke.

I scratch as I reconsider living in the country. 

I reconsider being a 'pet' person.

I think I need a more robust coffee bean.

Oh, and when transferring wet laundry to the dryer, I found my reading glasses. I guess they slipped off my nose when I was loading the washer earlier and that's what I'd seen glinting among the clothes.

 All this and I haven't even been up for three hours.

REMULLINS

author of paranormal romance

Keep up with what I'm working on at

remullins.com 

 

Separate title novella written for Kindle worlds.

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Another peek outside my writing window

Another peek outside my writing window

In the past year and a half, I've had the pleasure of seeing many wonders outside my writing window. I often find myself saying, "oh"  or 'ah' and have come to realize how many intonations the words have.

Since I'm a terrible photographer and often too slow to grab the camera in the first place, these pictures barely represent all the wildlife I've seen. There's a beautiful red fox that is quite camera shy, but I'm determined to get his picture one day.

I added this next photo, taken last winter, of my sons standing by the creek in order to show its normal size. Note the bank is mostly grassy.

Then on April 29th, the entire area was flooded by torrential rainfall. Water completely covered the concrete picnic table. The swollen creek also crept, way too close for comfort, up toward my house. 

 

 The force of rushing water was so noisy it sounded like a waterfall right outside my window. The power of it took out our footbridge, which had stood for over half a century. It also swept in deposits of rock and left them here and there along the creek bank. 
The size of some of the stones washed in is unbelievable.

The road to the east and the low water bridge to the west were completely covered with raging floodwater. We were unable to leave home for several days.

So, how many variations of "ah" did you experience while looking at my pictures?

R.E.Mullins: author of romantic paranormal.  

check out my webpage for upcoming releases and buylinks.

remullins.com