Are Nine Lives Enough? (Updated)

Monday July 25, 2011
9:30 pm
It's that in-between time of night. It's past dusk, but the sky is not yet completely envelopped by darkness. We trudge outside for a quick check on the horses, even though they're turned out for the night. Dave's in flip flops, and I'm in my winter-lined rubber boots-- because they're easy to pull on in a hurry.

We step out the front door with Muscade in toe. Within seconds, we hear the jackel-like cries. A pack of coyotes is yipping, and shrieking nearby. The bone-chilling sound is coming from somewhere down the hill-- though it's difficult to distinguish exactly where, and how far away (though definitely not far at all). Whenever I hear them like this, I always assume they've made a fresh kill and that they're gleefully tearing apart their prey.

I yell at Muscade to follow me "now!", and I practically shove her back in through the front door of the house. Meanwhile, Dave kneels in the driveway, coaxing the always timid Lilly out from under the car. As soon as she's within reach, he scoops her up in his arms, and we drop her off in the house as well. And then the high pitched cries stop. They stop suddenly, as though someone has muted the volume on their awful voices. We stand stock-still. We hear the distant barking of the fssive white-haired dog who guards the goat-farm down the hill. The farm is only a kilometre away, and the reassuring voice of the dog sounds much, much further off that that of the coyotes. When the coyotes fail to re-start their discussion, we stop holding our breaths, and head out to the pastures to check on the horses.

The horses have their noses buried deep within the dew-covered blades of grass. They're so intent on their eating, that they barely acknowledge our presence. But as we turn off the lights, my heart sinks. All the animals are accounted for-- except one. Zorro is nowhere to be seen. Normally, I would barely register his late-evening absence, but in the wake of what we just heard, I'm worried, and so is Dave. I start calling Zorro's name, and Dave goes back into the house in search of a flashlight. When he finally finds one (and replaces the dead batteries), we walk down the driveway, peering across the road into the black fields in search of glowing, green eyes. Nothing.

We change course and walk the length of our largest pasture, but the flashlight illuminates only weeds, and the large mounds of dirt which will soon cover the pipes leading away from our new septic tanks. We walk out to the garden, but find only undersized rainbow chard, and lush green potato plants. Still no Zorro.

We check the barn again, and Dave even climbs into the hayloft to see whether our tuxedo-cat may be in the midst of a particularily good nap on a sweet-smelling bale of our newest hay. He's not there. At my insistance, we get in the car and drive down the road. I open my window and call his name. At the corner, we turn around and drive back. Part of me is sure Zorro will be in the driveway when we pull in. But he's not.

10:30pm
If Zorro were around he would have found us by now. We call off the search for the night. As we resignedly re-enter the house, we pause in the mudroom to hug and hold Lilly. She squirms and struggles to get free-- to run out the front door. But we're not taking any chances. Tonight, Lilly's an indoor cat. All we can do for Zorro though is hope and pray that he's out hunting-- huddled in the grass somewhere, his body bunched, and ready to pounce. I hope against hope that he'll turn up on our doorstep in the morning, begging for his breakfast.

Tuesday July 26, 2011
1:30 am
I wake up as Dave peels back the blankets and gets up out of bed.
"What are you doing?" I ask groggily, though I already know why he can't sleep.
"It's hot," he says.
"Sure," I respond.

Then we hear it. It's not a pack of coyotes this time, it's a lone animal howling. Again, the goat-guard-dog down the road barks a response, but again the coyote sounds much closer. It sounds as though it could be in the bottom of our field.

Dave pulls on shorts and shoes as the coyote howls again. Then, I hear the door chime as he heads out into the night with a flashlight. He wonders around the property until swooping bats send him back inside. Still, no sign of Zorro. That's unusual. He does occasionally seem to roam, but he rarely disappears for more than an hour or so.

Dave crawls back into bed. "What if Zorro's not there in the morning?" I ask.
"He'll be there," says Dave, but I can tell he doesn't mean it. There's much tossing and turning before either of us falls back into a fitful sleep.

5:30am
Dave's alarm wakes us both. Normally, he would hit the snooze button for another 20 minutes before crawling sleepily out of bed; but despite the restless night, he's on his feet right away. I hear him walking through the house-- from window to window. Normally Zorro has a sixth sense about movement in the house. Normally he's at the picture window or the front door meowing the moment one of us is awake. A few minutes later I hear the shower spluttering and I know there's no sign of our lively little cat.

6:20am.
In the kitchen, Dave is pouring cereal, and putting his lunch together.
It's my day off, so I try to doze a bit longer before heading out to the barn to feed the horses. If Zorro's not around by then, I'll know his fate. He never misses a meal.

Then, the sound of a spoon scraping against a cereal bowl stops, and moments later I hear the front door chime. Moments later, I hear Dave walking toward the bedroom. I'm hoping against hope for good news, but I don't expect any. Suddenly, I feel a thud against my side and I open my eyes to see Zorro scrambling across the covers. I look up at Dave and he's smiling. So am I.

Dave: "I truely didn't think I'd see him again".
Me: "Me neither".
Dave: "I went around to all the windows this morning and there was no sign of him. After I got out of the shower, I checked again. When he wasn't there, I figured that was it. He's always up by the time I get out of the shower."
Me: "I know."

I grab Zorro behind the front legs and pull him close to me. He's unimpressed, but I don't care. I hold him tight for a few minutes, then Dave pulls him onto his lap and mauls him some more.

"That's it," I say, "from now on Zorro's an indoor cat." But we both know that will never be the case. As much as Zorro likes to sneak inside, he'd be miserable if he had to stay here all the time. However, I vow to force him into the house at night--every night.

Something is out there

Tuesday, March 9


The air outside is fresh and there's a pink glow in the sky as the sun sinks below the tree-tops on the other side of the dirt road. But the horses aren't admiring the sunset. They're looking in the opposite direction, toward the woods at the back of our property. Murray's giraffe-like neck is extended to its fullest, and his knobbly knees are shaking. Maggie stands slightly behind him and keeps shifting her gaze from the woods to him, and back again.


I scan the tree-line, but I don't have my glasses on, and the light is fading fast. I see nothing and hear nothing. I look over at Muscade. She's her usual self, frolicking in the pathway, trying not to trip over the soccer-sized ball she keeps tossing to herself. I figure maybe there were a few deer in the woods. I call to the horses, and try to catch Murray, but he's now pacing around the outside of his run-in shelter, still staring at the trees. This isn't his habitual game of evade-my-owner, he's just too distracted to even notice I'm there.

I decide to start with Maggie instead. She's not her usual dive-the-nose-into the halter, lets-go-eat self, but I do manage to grab her. As we head to the gate, Murray moves in close behind her. I manage to keep him from rushing the gate, but he's clearly anxious at being left behind. The usually quiet Maggie is jigging, and turning, trying to keep her eyes fixed on the spot where they've seen, or sensed something. It's all I can do to hang onto her and she turns from Murray, to the woods, and back again, with every step. When we get close to the barn, she practically barels me over to get inside, then she yanks at the lead line at every passing window so she can see Murray-- who's now whinnying desperately.


Maggie squeezes past me, into her stall, and immediately presses her nose against the window to lock her gaze on Murray's anxious body. He's pacing, and whinnying and still staring intently at the tree-line. Maggie maintains her vigil without even bothering to sniff at her pile of hay.


I have no problem catching Murray this time; he's still oblivious to me though, and I have to stand on my tip-toes to lift the halter over his ears. His eyes are wide, his nostrils flared, his knees shaking. He snorts loudly before I lead him through the gate, and he's uncharacteristically tugging at the lead line. He seems torn between wanting to head to the barn, and not wanting to turn his back toward whatever's out there.


When we make it to the barn, Maggie is swinging her head above her stall door, nickering softly to him. I'm shocked to see that she still hasn't noticed her hay. With Murray in his stall, the two of them turn to stare out the back windows. I bring their grain. Maggie doesn't try to shove her head in the bucket as I enter her stall, in fact it actually takes her about 30 seconds to move to her feed tub. As for Murray, he will only sprint to his feed tub long enough to take one bite, then he moves off to the other side of his stall to chew-- the side furthest from the tree line.

Even though Maggie eats her grain, she's not at all interested in the hay. Both horses are pacing their stalls, looking worried. A chill runs up my spine. I call to Muscade who's outside. I lock her in the feed room while I finish my chores. I don't know what's out there, but both horses sense something, and it's something more threatening than deer. Dusk arrives as I head back to the house. I stand still and listen and look for signs of whatever may be out there, but I guess my senses just aren't as acute. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up though, so I urge Muscade inside, and rush to turn on all the lights.

Two hours later 8:30 pm
Dave makes it home from a late night at work. We go to the barn together to check on the horses. They've settled somewhat, but are still agitated, pausing between bites of hay to listen, or look out the windows. Dave says there's a large brush fire burning just a couple of kilometres from here. Perhaps that's it, Murray has always been very, very nervous of smoke and fire. The only problem with that theory is that the fire isn't burning in the same direction as they're looking.