I’ve seen baby elk here, too. Those babies are the size of a year-old deer.
Well-meaning people sometimes find a hidden fawn and, assuming it is orphaned, take it home with them. This is the wrong thing to do. The fawn’s mother is almost always close by and, once the humans leave, she will return for her baby. It’s best, if you should ever come across a hidden fawn, to leave it alone. Don’t touch it. Just leave the area quickly and quietly.
A second set of fawns was born nearby that year, although I was not lucky enough to see them until they were older. Perhaps the twins were Nature’s way of making up for the young deer who died the year before of hair-loss syndrome.
Fawn
One day I found a snake skin in the woods. The skin of a snake does not grow as the snake grows, so when the snake has outgrown its skin, it sheds the outer layer. This happens many times over a snake’s lifetime.
I found the skin of a garter snake, about sixteen inches long. It was intact, including the head. I had never seen a snake skin outside of a museum, so I was excited to have such a treasure. The brittle paper-thin tube looked exactly like a hollow snake.
After the old skin has been sloughed off, the snake’s new skin is smooth and colorful. When I look at all the wrinkles I’ve accumulated on my face as I age, I think the snakes may have the right idea.
I didn’t want to keep the snake skin in the house because I feared Molly might attack it, so I displayed it on a small shelf in Carl’s workshop.
I decided from the start not to feed the wild animals. I didn’t want them to become tame, which would make them more vulnerable during hunting season, and I thought it was best for them not to get dependent on humans for their food.
However, one winter we had particularly severe weather. Normally it snows here once or twice each winter, the snow lasts a couple of days, and then we return to our normal rainy winter weather. That year, it snowed often, and the temperatures were so cold that the snow didn’t melt.
The deer began to seem desperate in their foraging and started eating plants around the house that they had never touched before. They grew so thin that I could clearly see their ribs.
By then, I knew that there are state regulations against feeding deer, but those rules were to discourage the practice of “baiting,” where food is regularly left in the same place, to encourage the deer to come there so that they are easily hunted. Feeding them to help them through a harsh winter seemed okay. I went to the local feed store and purchased a forty-pound bag of cracked corn. “Going to feed some deer?” the clerk asked.
“Yes.” I wondered if he was supposed to report anyone who fed wild deer.
“You aren’t the only one. Lots of people are taking pity on them this year.”
I was glad to hear that. Back home, I put out a tin washtub filled with cracked corn, and the deer lost no time in finding it. I continued to keep it filled until the weather improved, when I let the deer fend for themselves again.
Without intending to, I feed two of the does year-round. They have learned to stand on their hind feet, crane their necks up, and lick the sunflower seeds out of the bird feeders! It is quite a balancing act, and I’m sure they expend more energy getting those seeds than the seeds provide when they’re eaten.
Kevin mounted the feeders on taller poles to discourage those deer, but they can still reach the seed. If the feeders were any higher, I wouldn’t be able to refill them. I also planted flowering shrubs around the base of the feeders, thinking that would force the deer to stay back. Instead, they ate the shrubs.
One day when I was making applesauce, I looked at the pile of apple peels and cores in my sink and thought what a treat they would be for the deer. It seemed wasteful to let them rot in my garbage can when they could provide nourishment for the deer, so I gathered up all the apple peels and scattered them outside. Later I saw the deer discover the treat and when I checked the next morning, every piece was gone.
Since then, I always give the deer lettuce cores, the ends of carrots, and watermelon rinds. I throw the produce in a different area each time so that the deer don’t return to a specific place for their treats. I want them to come across it in the natural course of their grazing so they don’t associate it with humans.
Man is the principal enemy of all wild creatures. If I can shift the balance a bit by leaving a few fruits and vegetables for the deer to find, I’m happy to do it.
My Life Changed Forever
Not every chapter in my life has had a happy ending. Sometimes tragedy strikes, and there’s nothing we can do to prevent it.
Carl was born with a faulty heart valve. It did not cause a problem until he was in his fifties, and when it did, he treated the symptoms for a long time with medication. Eventually his condition became serious, and surgery was the only hope of correcting it. He was an excellent candidate for heart surgery—slender, physically fit (except for the heart problem), and he had never smoked. The cardiologist felt confident that the surgery would give Carl many additional years of a productive life.
We entered the hospital feeling optimistic, and I stayed with him while he was prepped for surgery. This included being washed with an antiseptic. When it was time for the nurse to take him into surgery, I asked if it was okay to kiss him.
It was. He was hooked up to a heart monitor, and I joked that we would make the monitor jump. I gave him a quick good-luck kiss.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
I spent the next eight hours in a waiting room. My daughter, Anne, and her husband, Kevin, waited with me. Three times, a nurse called me from surgery to give me an update. First the surgeon tried to repair the faulty valve. When the repair didn’t work, he replaced the valve. Finally—finally!—I got a call that the new valve was working, they were sewing Carl back up, and I could see him in the recovery room in about half an hour.
What joy! Relief flooded through me as I hugged Anne and Kevin and told them the happy news.
Since we’d been too anxious all day to eat, we decided to stop at the hospital cafeteria for a quick lunch before heading to the recovery room. I had just put a sandwich on my tray when I heard my name being paged. I was asked to report to the Intensive Care recovery room.
I left Anne and Kevin to deal with our food, and rushed to the elevator. A nurse met me with devastating news. “Something went terribly wrong,” she told me. “We’ve coded him, and it doesn’t look good.” She showed me where to wait, and I asked her to page Anne and Kevin. They arrived almost immediately, and we clung to one another. In less than ten minutes, we had gone from relief and joy to the most intense fear I’ve ever felt.
Soon the doctor came out. As soon as I saw his face, I knew. “I’m sorry,” he said. “A hole burst in his aorta, and we couldn’t save him.”
After forty-eight years of marriage to my dearest friend, he was gone.
I had been living an ideal life and now, suddenly, that life had changed drastically and would never again be the same.
As I endured the months of deep grief, I had to make decisions. I chose to stay in my log cabin in the woods. I feel close to Carl here, in the dream home that we built together, and I hoped that the peacefulness of my surroundings would help restore tranquility to my heart. Besides, I told my family, I can’t move because who would take care of Mr. Stray?
I sold the motor home. I cherish my memories of the many trips we made to schools, libraries, and conferences, but I knew I would not drive it cross-country alone. I wept as the dealer drove it out of my driveway. I had removed the custom license plate, BKS4KDS (Books For Kids), and it now hangs on the wall in my bathroom. My entire home is filled with mementos of happy times, even the bathrooms.
Carl’s workshop presented more of a challenge. From the day we moved in, the workshop had been filled with the antique musical instruments that he restored. Old sheet music, much of which belonged to my grandmother, hangs on the walls.
“Listen to this,” Ca
rl would say as he cranked a vintage cob organ or pumped a 1920s player piano. Music floated above the workbench, and the room was alive with purpose.
When Carl died, he had several projects under way, including an expensive music box that he had agreed to restore for a museum. He had taken it completely apart and left the pieces spread across the workbench, intending to begin the restoration while he recovered from heart surgery. I looked at all those parts and dreaded calling the museum that owned the music box.
For many years, we had belonged to the local chapter of AMICA, Automatic Musical Instrument Collectors Association, and our good friends in that group came to my rescue. Ron Babb took all the pieces of the music box home with him. He told me that Carl had once helped him restore that same type of music box, so he knew exactly what to do. Ron not only got the music box working, he delivered it to the museum for me.
Mark Smithberg completed another of Carl’s unfinished projects, and Kurt Morrison helped sort through the contents of shelves and drawers. One by one, the instruments left. After I gave the extra piano strings, bolts of felt, tools, and other supplies to these helpful friends, I was left with an empty workshop. Now the walls enclosed only memories.
One day I stood in the silent, barren room with tears dripping down my cheeks and questions tumbling in my mind. What should I do with this space?
I didn’t need another bedroom or any additional living space, but I couldn’t bear to think that the room would go unused. I had turned the heat off when the last instrument left, and now the cold seeped through my sweater and into my bones. How could I make Carl’s workshop a cheerful place again? How do I rebuild my life?
As I recalled the many happy times we’d had in that room, an image of Willie flashed across my mind, and I smiled as I thought of the beagle sleeping on the cold concrete floor, underneath his warm blanket. Then I remembered how hard it had been to tame Mama’s wild kittens, and the organ pipe Carl had used to trick the third kitten into the carrier.
A seed of an idea took root in these memories. From my involvement with animal rescue groups, I knew there is a constant need for foster homes for rescued animals. Shelters always have animals who need individual socialization, or a quiet place to recover from surgery or who, for myriad other reasons, would benefit from staying temporarily in a foster home. I dried my tears, and decided to turn the piano workshop into a foster home for cats.
Despite my happy memories of Willie, and the fact that I’ve always had a dog, I limited my foster efforts to cats. I used to volunteer at adoption events in a local shopping mall where I helped display and talk about shelter animals who were ready for adoption. I’d had to give up that volunteer activity when weakness from post-polio syndrome made it difficult for me to carry and set up the cat cages and to handle the large dogs. Most abandoned and rescued dogs are big. When taken to a new place, they get excited, and, sometimes, unruly.
I contacted Susan at Pasado’s Safe Haven and offered to take a foster cat. Two days later, Edgar arrived. I had never seen such a terrified animal. A black cat with big yellow eyes, Edgar had been at the Kitty City sanctuary for two weeks. Despite the efforts of volunteers, he hid all the time and didn’t eat. Edgar was afraid of everything and everyone.
“He is not adoptable as he is now,” I was told. “We hope you’ll be able to help him relax and learn to trust people.”
As soon as we let him out of the carrier, Edgar squeezed underneath Carl’s workbench and refused to come out. For days, I spent hours each day lying on my stomach beside the workbench, talking softly and trying to coax him out. I put dried salmon and canned tuna and other treats next to him. He cowered against the back wall and stared at me.
When I was out of the room, he came out to eat and use the litter box, but he scurried back to his hiding place whenever I returned. I took a radio to the cat room and left it on low volume for a couple of hours each day, hoping he’d get used to normal household sounds. I brought a book with me and sat by the workbench to read so that he’d get used to my presence and not feel threatened. I talked to him often, but he gave no sign that he was listening.
Edgar
One morning when Edgar had been with me about two weeks, I went into his room and saw him sitting on top of a cupboard. Instead of leaping down and hiding, as he always had before, he remained where I could see him. A few days later, he waited on the floor while I put fresh food in his bowl.
Finally the day came when he let me pet him. A few days after that, I was sitting in the chair one afternoon, reading, when Edgar came and stood beside me, looking up. I realized he was thinking about jumping into my lap.
I set the book down. “Come on, Edgar,” I said, patting my knees. “Get up here.”
He jumped into my lap. I stroked his back, and soon he began to purr. I felt like cheering! The sound of a cat purring is a happy sound under any circumstances. Knowing Edgar’s background, the purr was especially welcome.
Once he decided he was safe, Edgar blossomed. He began to play with his toys, batting the catnip mice around and leaping after the feather-on-a-stick. He let me pick him up. He followed me around when I cleaned his room.
I introduced him to Lucy, thinking he would be more adoptable if I could say he got along with my dog. First I put a baby gate in the doorway so that Lucy and Edgar could see each other but still be separated. After a couple of days of letting them eye one another through the gate’s plastic mesh, I let Lucy into the cat room. She acted a little scared of Edgar, and he ignored her at first. Soon they sniffed noses and from then on, they were pals. Lucy wagged her tail whenever she saw him, and Edgar would try to rub up against her. Sometimes they curled up together in Edgar’s bed and had a nap.
Molly wanted no part of it. She had decided long ago, first with Buddy and then with Chester, that she would not tolerate the addition of any more cats to the household. When she saw Edgar through the baby gate, her tail whipped back and forth, and she hissed at him. Many times when I’d reenter the main part of the house from the cat room, I’d find Molly standing next to the door with her fur puffed up, clearly outraged by my disloyalty.
Except for when there was another cat in the house, Molly was a sweet, shy cat who never caused a bit of trouble. I had promised myself I would not adopt any of the foster cats because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to continue as a foster parent. Since Edgar was not going to stay permanently, I decided Molly did not need to adjust to him, and I simply kept them apart.
I sometimes shut Molly in a bedroom and let Edgar explore the whole house. He was a curious cat who jumped up on all the furniture and poked his nose into every corner. Every morning I had to hunt for the toys I’d left out the night before. During the night, he batted them behind cupboards, under the workbench, and beneath the recycle bin.
Whenever I had guests, I asked them to spend a few minutes in the cat room with Edgar so that he’d get used to other people. Since all of my friends are animal lovers, they were happy to oblige. Slowly Edgar learned to trust other people and eventually my friends could hold him and pet him. Two of my grandkids visited while Edgar was here and spent a lot of time playing with him. Once again, Carl’s workshop was filled with life and laughter.
Of course I fell completely in love with Edgar and wanted to keep him, but that would have defeated my purpose. Anyone who volunteers to help animals knows that you can’t keep them all. It was more important to find a loving permanent home for Edgar, and then use Carl’s workshop to foster another needy cat.
Edgar, my first foster cat, in his permanent home
with his friend Lacy
When Kitty City participated in a cat adoption event at a pet store, I took Edgar and spent the day talking to prospective adopters. A wonderful woman named Heather came in looking for a cat who would be a companion for her dog, Lacy, while she was at work. When I mentioned that Edgar got along well with my dog, she went out to her car and brought Lacy in to meet Edgar. The two animals sniffed noses and then calmly l
ooked at Heather as if to say, “Now what?”
I told her how scared Edgar had been at first, and how loving and friendly he was now. She decided he was exactly the cat she wanted. Heather filled out the adoption application, a volunteer from Pasado’s did a home visit, and a few days later Heather arrived to take Edgar home.
Edgar had been here for six months, and I felt sad to see him leave, but it was not the tender good-bye that I had anticipated. After all my bragging about how friendly he was, Edgar hid under the workbench when Heather entered the room and refused to come out! I had to lie on the floor, reach under the workbench, drag him out by one leg, and stuff him into the carrier.
First, Mama had scratched Susan after I claimed Mama was tame. Now Edgar hid from the woman who had adopted him after I’d told her how friendly he was. If this kept on, nobody would believe anything I said.
As I waved good-bye to Heather, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction that I had helped Edgar overcome his fears and find a wonderful new life. Heather sends me frequent updates and photos of him. My favorite shows Edgar and Lacy, the dog, lounging together on Heather’s bed.
That night I cleaned the cat room, washed out the litter pan, and put away the toys. (Edgar’s favorites had gone home with him.)
The next morning, a woman who lives half a mile down the road knocked on my door. “A kitten followed me home from my walk,” she said. “I have no idea where it lives. I tried to shoo it away but it kept coming. Can you take care of it?”
She had brought the kitten to me because I had called her once to tell her about Edgar, hoping she and her husband might want a cat. They didn’t, but my call had alerted her to the fact that I helped homeless animals. Once you establish that reputation, you can be sure of getting requests for help with many unwanted dogs and cats.
The adorable brown and white kitten looked a lot like Pete; I felt certain I’d be able to find a home for him. I turned the heat back on in the cat room, and Charlie moved in. I posted FOUND KITTEN signs around the neighborhood and made numerous phone calls asking if anyone knew of a lost kitten.