There's no question that Murray outranks Maggie in our three-horse-herd. He's less bossy than he used to be, but he still spends much of his days herding her from hay pile to hay pile, or forcing her to keep him company in the run-in shed while he naps. Overall Maggie doesn't seem to mind, but lately she has found a way to exert a bit of revenge.
Early one October Morning:
It's a morning like any other. As I walk into the feed room to prepare the grain, the horses begin their "feed me" rituals. Jaava pins her ears, shakes her head, trots around her stall, and rears several times. Maggie pins her ears and starts biting and licking the metal bars on Murray's stall wall. Murray stands patiently, but his nostrils quiver as he emits his "I'm hungry" noise. It's a whisper-like, high-pitched, not-at-all-masculine whinny.
Murray gets the most grain, and he's a slow eater, so he always gets fed first. I walk into his stall with a bucket of crumbly, soaked beet pulp in one hand, and a bucket of dry, hard, green pellets in the other. Murray spins around and follows excitedly as I walk toward the feed tub in the back corner of his stall. When he's halfway there, and at the point closest to Maggie's door, she stretches her head and neck close to him, then exhales abruptly through her nose to let out a sharp, loud snort. It's the noise horses make when they sense danger.
Murray, who's paranoid on the best of days, wastes no time in reacting to this call-to-arms. He abandons his breakfast, leaps sideways, sprints out the backdoor of his stall, and takes up an alert position in the centre of his paddock. His head is raised high. His ears are pricked, and his eyes scan the horizon for the invading army of enemies.
I turn back to Maggie to see if I can figure out what's caused this state of high anxiety. But she doesn't have the wide-eyed gaze of an anxious, spooked horse. The only thing she's staring at is me, and my buckets of grain. She shakes her head at me imploringly, rattling the long braids of her mane, so I give a shrug and go about dishing out the rest of the morning meal.
Murray, however, is determined not to be caught off guard. He stands outside for a few minutes, then eventually trots back into his stall. He picks at his breakfast distractedly, turning to look out his door between mouthfuls.
I forget about the incident until the same thing happens again a few days later. Just as Murray turns to follow me to his feed tub, Maggie again lets out a loud, urgent snort, and the whole scenario repeats itself. I start to wonder whether perhaps Maggie is frightening Murray on purpose.
Then, a few days after that, on a warm, sunny morning, it happens again, though in a different context. This time, the horses are out together in the larger paddock. I'm in the riding ring below, driving our truck around, and around, and around, in an effort to drag the ring and smooth the footing. I look up at the paddock and smile when I see Murray laying down for a snooze in a pile of hay. With his legs tucked under his body, he rests his chin on the ground, and closes his eyes. Maggie stands nearby to "guard" him. It's a peaceful scene.
The peace doesn't last long. After a few minutes, Maggie steps in even closer to the unsuspecting, dozing Murray. She then stretches out her head, closes her mouth, and snorts loudly through her nose. Murray's head snaps up instantly. Then, for dramatic effect, Maggie widens her eyes and trots two steps forward toward the fence-- purportedly staring at some immediate threat lurking beyond the treeline. Without any care for his arthritic joints, poor, old Murray leaps to his feet. The moment he does, Maggie relaxes. She turns back toward the hay pile and starts eating, as though nothing has happened. Murray simply stares perplexedly at the woods in search of a non-existent enemy. I swear there's a smirk on Maggie's face.
That was a few weeks ago. I don't know how often Maggie employs her decoy snort outside. But inside, she now gives a hearty "breakfast snort" every few days. And poor Murray falls for it every single time.
Showing posts with label hobby farm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hobby farm. Show all posts
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Disappearing Horses
Sunday April 3rd We spend most of the day mending fences and cleaning up the "storage" stalls in the barn. By 4pm, we're finished most of our work and we decide to duck out to the corner store (on the corner 11kms way).
Before we leave, I toss the bored-looking horses a couple of flakes of hay. They're barred off from the large pastures to give the ground time to firm-up and the grass time to take root. They'll thank me for this when they're munching on an abundance of lush green grass in July; but right now, they're annoyed at being cooped up in the mud-hole which is currently their paddock.
A half hour later, we're on our way back from the store. Usually, as we crest the hill, I can see the horses meandering in their paddock. Not today. I press my nose to the window to catch a glimpse of the run-in shed. Murray spends many-a-day there, with just his head sticking out, his velvety muzzle breathing in the fresh spring air. He's usually easy to see since his red coat stands out against the painted-black shed, but today I don't see him.
The paddock disappears from view for a moment as we pull into the driveway. I wonder if maybe the three of them are hiding out behind the shed, perhaps gulping down some water from the large blue bucket in the corner. But no, they're not there either. This is odd. It is possible that they're in the shed, and I simply haven't seen them, but since we got Jaava, I've never seen all three of them in the shed. If she tries to enter, Murray usually chases her out, and leaves her to stand by whichever outer wall best blocks the wind. I mean really, the shed is only 10' x 20'. It's a bit cramped for three horses-- even if one of those horses is a pony.
Dave puts the car in park and I jump out, heading toward the paddock. Still no sign of the horses-- and Jaava always whinnies in greeting when we get home. The gate's closed, so it's unlikely that they're loose. Maybe someone stole them? But we've only been gone for half an hour-- and lets be honest, as much as I love my horses, they certainly aren't the sort horse-thieves would be after....if there even are horse-thieves anymore.
I walk toward the paddock. There are no heads peering out at me....no gluttonous mares running to the fence in search of food. Finally, my boots squelching in the half-frozen grass, I reach the side of the fence and lean around so I can see inside the shed. I'm only about 10 feet away. "Hey guys", I yell, even though I still can't see any of them. Suddenly, there's the sound of a startled horse jumping in fright, and three fuzzy equines pop their heads out of the shed simultaneously. I can't believe it. All three of them have been standing there inside-- completely inside, without so much as a tail hair or a whisker poking out through the openings.
Now that they know I'm here, Murray and Maggie wade through the mud and jockey for position at the fence line, hoping that I might be there to dole out some kind of treat. Jaava hangs back warily. She knows by now that the other two will gang up on her and viciously chase her off if she tries to snatch her rightful share of anything I might have to offer. On the bright-side, it seems that as of today, even if "the big guys" aren't willing to share their food with her, they are willing to at least share their shelter. Score one for the pony.
Before we leave, I toss the bored-looking horses a couple of flakes of hay. They're barred off from the large pastures to give the ground time to firm-up and the grass time to take root. They'll thank me for this when they're munching on an abundance of lush green grass in July; but right now, they're annoyed at being cooped up in the mud-hole which is currently their paddock.
A half hour later, we're on our way back from the store. Usually, as we crest the hill, I can see the horses meandering in their paddock. Not today. I press my nose to the window to catch a glimpse of the run-in shed. Murray spends many-a-day there, with just his head sticking out, his velvety muzzle breathing in the fresh spring air. He's usually easy to see since his red coat stands out against the painted-black shed, but today I don't see him.
The paddock disappears from view for a moment as we pull into the driveway. I wonder if maybe the three of them are hiding out behind the shed, perhaps gulping down some water from the large blue bucket in the corner. But no, they're not there either. This is odd. It is possible that they're in the shed, and I simply haven't seen them, but since we got Jaava, I've never seen all three of them in the shed. If she tries to enter, Murray usually chases her out, and leaves her to stand by whichever outer wall best blocks the wind. I mean really, the shed is only 10' x 20'. It's a bit cramped for three horses-- even if one of those horses is a pony.
Dave puts the car in park and I jump out, heading toward the paddock. Still no sign of the horses-- and Jaava always whinnies in greeting when we get home. The gate's closed, so it's unlikely that they're loose. Maybe someone stole them? But we've only been gone for half an hour-- and lets be honest, as much as I love my horses, they certainly aren't the sort horse-thieves would be after....if there even are horse-thieves anymore.
I walk toward the paddock. There are no heads peering out at me....no gluttonous mares running to the fence in search of food. Finally, my boots squelching in the half-frozen grass, I reach the side of the fence and lean around so I can see inside the shed. I'm only about 10 feet away. "Hey guys", I yell, even though I still can't see any of them. Suddenly, there's the sound of a startled horse jumping in fright, and three fuzzy equines pop their heads out of the shed simultaneously. I can't believe it. All three of them have been standing there inside-- completely inside, without so much as a tail hair or a whisker poking out through the openings.
Now that they know I'm here, Murray and Maggie wade through the mud and jockey for position at the fence line, hoping that I might be there to dole out some kind of treat. Jaava hangs back warily. She knows by now that the other two will gang up on her and viciously chase her off if she tries to snatch her rightful share of anything I might have to offer. On the bright-side, it seems that as of today, even if "the big guys" aren't willing to share their food with her, they are willing to at least share their shelter. Score one for the pony.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Lilly Goes to the Vet
It's a lovely mid-autumn Tuesday morning, but as I head toward the barn, I'm full of anxiety. I'm wondering whether I'm going to be able to get Lilly to the vet for her 9:00am appointment. For weeks now, she's been showing up for morning and evening feedings. There are occasions though, especially on nice days, when she skips a meal and I might not see her for another 12 hours. Aside from that, I doubt she's ever been in a car, or a house, or any kind of confined area before. So this could be a very stressful time for her-- and us.
Before I make it to the barn, Zorro is at my feet, escorting Muscade and me to the feed room door. So far, there's no sign of Lilly. I put Zorro's food in his dish, then before I can return the lid to the plastic tub, I hear Lilly's raspy, lounge-singer-like meow in the isle. I'm relieved, but now I have to calculate my next move carefully. I figure I have one shot to get the timid, easily-spooked creature into the cat carrier. If I mess it up, she'll likely disappear into one of her well-chosen hiding spots for hours.
I rattle a dish full of food as I walk into the tack room where Lilly usually takes her meals. Last night, I had the foresight to pull the cat carrier into the centre of the room and prop its door open with a plastic container. So now, instead of placing the food dish the corner of the room by the door, I slide it into the cat carrier. Lilly (who always seems famished) is halfway in before she senses a ruse and tries to wriggle back out through the door. She's too late though. I've got one hand behind her bum, and the other on the carrier's door. I slam the door closed, but don't latch it. Then in a final act of cruelty, I reach in and remove the bait. Lilly's not allowed to eat breakfast before her surgery.
Lilly emits a desperate, pleading meow from the carrier, but she doesn't growl or hiss or spit. I still have an hour or so before I actually have to leave for the vet's so I move the carrier into the car where Lilly will be safe from the curious noses and paws of both Muscade and Zorro. When I finish my chores, I risk a glance into the car. There's no more meowing. Instead, Lilly is curled up into a tight ball. She seems to be sleeping.
During the 20 minute drive to the vet's, Lilly is silent. When I can, I stretch my fingers through the metal door of the carrier, and she rubs happily against them. She actually seems less-timid, and more comfortable than normal.
In the waiting room, she finds her voice again and serenades the staff with her raspy call. Still though, she's much less anxious than I expected, and she purrs when I reach in to pet her (so much for our wild, untamed cat). Since both Dave and I will be out for most of the evening, we decide to leave her at the clinic for the night.
Later that Afternoon
The phone rings. The number on the caller ID says "Fundy Vet". I answer.
"Hi, this is Dr. Eye calling from Fundy veterinary".
"Oh hi"
"I wanted to let you know that Lilly is fine."
"Oh good"
"but.."
"But?"
"Well, (pause) you don't know anything about Lilly's history do you? How old she is? whether she's had kittens before? whether she's ever been sick?
"No, she just turned up here this spring".
"That's what I thought. Well, she is ok, but we had a bit of a complication during the surgery. We found something rather odd."
She went on to explain that when they opened her up, they found what they thought was her uterus, but it wasn't. It was a sack that was blocking her uterus and it was full of a fluid that looked like chocolate milk (her words, not mine). The sack could be full of infection. It could contain a dead fetus. It could be just about anything. They really had no idea. In her 30+ years of practice, Dr. Eye had never seen anything like it before, nor had the other vet at the clinic who has been practising for just about as long. They were both baffled.
Needless to say, this "complication" meant the surgery lasted considerably longer than usual because they had to remove the strange sack as well. They also took a sample of the fluid to check it for infection. Kindly, Dr. Eye said they wouldn't charge me for any of this, but if I didn't mind, they'd like to prescribe some extra antibiotics for Lilly as a precaution in case any of the foul fluid had leaked into her body. I readily agree.
The next morning, I return to the vet to pick up Lilly. She's attained celebrity status. I tell the receptionist who I am, and that I'm there to pick up Lilly-- the cat with the strange fluid sack.
Her response: "that was so odd yesterday, we all took turns going in to take a look. Afterwards we all kicked ourselves because no one thought to take a picture of it."
Curious myself, I ask a few questions about the odd growth, and she proceeds to draw a rough diagram of how it had looked. In the meantime, another staff member gently hands me Lilly's carrier. She tells me Lilly is very friendly and has just finished her breakfast. Aside from her shaved belly, she looks pretty good-- no sign of stress whatsoever.
Lilly is under strict orders not to run, jump, hunt, leap, or fight until the long incision on her belly has healed. Unfortunately, she doesn't take orders well, so we confine her to the mud room for her 3 day convalescence-- another first for our outdoor barn cat.
She settles in well, and seems to love the attention being lavished upon her. She doesn't even mind my occasional prodding at her incision. And she swallows her medication without complaint. The only problem is that despite her disposable litter box, she prefers to pee on gloves, boots, hats, or anything else that gets left on the floor.
By the end of the week, her incision begins to heal, and the vet calls to say that test results show "the fluid" wasn't some kind of deadly infection, so we decide to let Lilly back outside again. She's a much different cat now though, and not just because she's missing a few internal parts. She's still meek and timid, but when she's feeling brave enough, she rubs against our legs, begging to be cuddled and held. And she hangs around in plain sight much more often.
January 2011
Lilly's mostly white face is no longer gaunt and skeletal. It's round and jolly looking, as is her ever expanding belly (at least we know she can't be pregnant).
She has created a den for herself in the hayloft, and that's where she can be found if she's not out hunting.
She no longer picks fights with Zorro, but they're far from friends. In fact, he seems to think he owns the place, and he now delights in tormenting poor Lilly. He stalks her and plots random attacks which leave her cowering in corners and under cars. She doesn't fight back, she just flattens her ears, closes her eyes, tucks her head between her front paws and makes herself as small as possible. Thankfully, Lilly is as agile as a tightrope walker and most of the time she escapes by leaping speedily and gracefully to her hayloft sanctuary. Luckily for her, Zorro is clumsy, hesitant, and uncomfortable in the rafters, so he rarely follows.
Before I make it to the barn, Zorro is at my feet, escorting Muscade and me to the feed room door. So far, there's no sign of Lilly. I put Zorro's food in his dish, then before I can return the lid to the plastic tub, I hear Lilly's raspy, lounge-singer-like meow in the isle. I'm relieved, but now I have to calculate my next move carefully. I figure I have one shot to get the timid, easily-spooked creature into the cat carrier. If I mess it up, she'll likely disappear into one of her well-chosen hiding spots for hours.
I rattle a dish full of food as I walk into the tack room where Lilly usually takes her meals. Last night, I had the foresight to pull the cat carrier into the centre of the room and prop its door open with a plastic container. So now, instead of placing the food dish the corner of the room by the door, I slide it into the cat carrier. Lilly (who always seems famished) is halfway in before she senses a ruse and tries to wriggle back out through the door. She's too late though. I've got one hand behind her bum, and the other on the carrier's door. I slam the door closed, but don't latch it. Then in a final act of cruelty, I reach in and remove the bait. Lilly's not allowed to eat breakfast before her surgery.
Lilly emits a desperate, pleading meow from the carrier, but she doesn't growl or hiss or spit. I still have an hour or so before I actually have to leave for the vet's so I move the carrier into the car where Lilly will be safe from the curious noses and paws of both Muscade and Zorro. When I finish my chores, I risk a glance into the car. There's no more meowing. Instead, Lilly is curled up into a tight ball. She seems to be sleeping.
During the 20 minute drive to the vet's, Lilly is silent. When I can, I stretch my fingers through the metal door of the carrier, and she rubs happily against them. She actually seems less-timid, and more comfortable than normal.
In the waiting room, she finds her voice again and serenades the staff with her raspy call. Still though, she's much less anxious than I expected, and she purrs when I reach in to pet her (so much for our wild, untamed cat). Since both Dave and I will be out for most of the evening, we decide to leave her at the clinic for the night.
Later that Afternoon
The phone rings. The number on the caller ID says "Fundy Vet". I answer.
"Hi, this is Dr. Eye calling from Fundy veterinary".
"Oh hi"
"I wanted to let you know that Lilly is fine."
"Oh good"
"but.."
"But?"
"Well, (pause) you don't know anything about Lilly's history do you? How old she is? whether she's had kittens before? whether she's ever been sick?
"No, she just turned up here this spring".
"That's what I thought. Well, she is ok, but we had a bit of a complication during the surgery. We found something rather odd."
She went on to explain that when they opened her up, they found what they thought was her uterus, but it wasn't. It was a sack that was blocking her uterus and it was full of a fluid that looked like chocolate milk (her words, not mine). The sack could be full of infection. It could contain a dead fetus. It could be just about anything. They really had no idea. In her 30+ years of practice, Dr. Eye had never seen anything like it before, nor had the other vet at the clinic who has been practising for just about as long. They were both baffled.
Needless to say, this "complication" meant the surgery lasted considerably longer than usual because they had to remove the strange sack as well. They also took a sample of the fluid to check it for infection. Kindly, Dr. Eye said they wouldn't charge me for any of this, but if I didn't mind, they'd like to prescribe some extra antibiotics for Lilly as a precaution in case any of the foul fluid had leaked into her body. I readily agree.
The next morning, I return to the vet to pick up Lilly. She's attained celebrity status. I tell the receptionist who I am, and that I'm there to pick up Lilly-- the cat with the strange fluid sack.
Her response: "that was so odd yesterday, we all took turns going in to take a look. Afterwards we all kicked ourselves because no one thought to take a picture of it."
Curious myself, I ask a few questions about the odd growth, and she proceeds to draw a rough diagram of how it had looked. In the meantime, another staff member gently hands me Lilly's carrier. She tells me Lilly is very friendly and has just finished her breakfast. Aside from her shaved belly, she looks pretty good-- no sign of stress whatsoever.
Lilly is under strict orders not to run, jump, hunt, leap, or fight until the long incision on her belly has healed. Unfortunately, she doesn't take orders well, so we confine her to the mud room for her 3 day convalescence-- another first for our outdoor barn cat.
She settles in well, and seems to love the attention being lavished upon her. She doesn't even mind my occasional prodding at her incision. And she swallows her medication without complaint. The only problem is that despite her disposable litter box, she prefers to pee on gloves, boots, hats, or anything else that gets left on the floor.
By the end of the week, her incision begins to heal, and the vet calls to say that test results show "the fluid" wasn't some kind of deadly infection, so we decide to let Lilly back outside again. She's a much different cat now though, and not just because she's missing a few internal parts. She's still meek and timid, but when she's feeling brave enough, she rubs against our legs, begging to be cuddled and held. And she hangs around in plain sight much more often.
January 2011
Lilly's mostly white face is no longer gaunt and skeletal. It's round and jolly looking, as is her ever expanding belly (at least we know she can't be pregnant).
She has created a den for herself in the hayloft, and that's where she can be found if she's not out hunting.
She no longer picks fights with Zorro, but they're far from friends. In fact, he seems to think he owns the place, and he now delights in tormenting poor Lilly. He stalks her and plots random attacks which leave her cowering in corners and under cars. She doesn't fight back, she just flattens her ears, closes her eyes, tucks her head between her front paws and makes herself as small as possible. Thankfully, Lilly is as agile as a tightrope walker and most of the time she escapes by leaping speedily and gracefully to her hayloft sanctuary. Luckily for her, Zorro is clumsy, hesitant, and uncomfortable in the rafters, so he rarely follows.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Little Miss Lilly
When we got Zorro, our plan was to get two barn cats. It didn't take long for the second cat to appear-- or should I say "reappear".
We caught our first glimpse of Lilly in mid April, just a day after my initial encounter with the tom cat-- "Tomlin". She was skittish, timid, and completely wild. Nonetheless, we hoped she'd keep prowling, making meals of any enterprising mice who might think they could live the life of luxury in the feed room.
There seemed to be several amorous encounters between Lilly and Tomlin, and we braced ourselves for a litter of kittens. But the balls of fluff, with their sad little mews never appeared. And by mid-summer, Lilly's own appearances on the farm were brief and rare.
So, after sighting a few rice-sized brown dots in the feed room, we gave up on our feral cats and sought out a barn cat of our own. Our search turned up Zorro. And the day we brought him home is the day the Lilly-cat came back (see my earlier blog entry for that night's adventures).
*****************************************
Late August 2010
It's been about a week since Zorro arrived, and I think we've seen Lilly streak by somewhere on the property every single day. Finally, one day I walk into the feed room to prepare the horses' grain. Zorro quickly jumps on top of the narrow, four foot high door. He has many different meows, but for now, he uses his high-pitched, kitten-like, almost cute "mew" to entice me into dropping a handful of cat food into his plastic dish. As the dry kibbles fall, covering a fading portrait of a too-happy-looking fish, I hear another meow-- a raspy, and desperate sounding noise.
I peek into the isle of the barn and see Lilly tentatively making her way toward us, emboldened by hunger. I make the decision then and there. We are keeping her. And if we're going to keep her, we're going to feed her. As Zorro violently shoves his nose into his dish, I reach into the container of cat food and grab a small handful. I hold out my hand and move slowly toward Lilly. She's too frightened, and makes a dash for the great outdoors. She hides behind a pile of lumber, so I drop the food on top and leave. A few minutes later, I see her nervously sitting on top of the boards, scarfing down the food as quickly as she can. The slightest movement or noise sends her scurrying for cover.
For the next couple of days, that's how it is. Lilly shows up for most of Zorro's twice-a-day feedings, but she keeps her distance, waiting for me to drop a few triangles of food somewhere that offers her an unobstructed view of her surroundings and a quick getaway.
Then, one evening, she comes toward me with slightly more confidence. She's actually under my feet as I bring the food dish toward her. This time I put it in the tack room. I set it down and then back away a foot or two. Even though I'm there, Lilly devours her dinner. I slowly reach my hand toward her. She jerks in fright as my fingers make contact with her down-soft fur, but she keeps her nose pressed into the food dish. I start patting her head and back. Every single time my hand touches her, she twitches as though she's been shocked. Then, finally, she starts to purr.
As Lilly eats, I take my first close-up look at her. Her face is gaunt, almost skeletal. There's a yellow-brown crust in the corner of her sunken, red-rimmed eyes. Her pink nose is marred by a fresh, 1/2 inch long, red scab--probably the result of an unfriendly encounter with Zorro She's thin and looks unwell, but her coat is shiny, clean, and unbelievably soft.
A few days later, I make an an appointment for Lilly to be spayed and vaccinated, though I have no idea how I'll manage to get this shy, timid cat into the car and off to the vet. I've got two weeks to work on it though
In the meantime, I make a point of gently reaching out to Lilly each time she dashes to the barn in search of a free meal. She seems to enjoy the pats and scratches she gets, and often rewards me with her loud, engine-like purr. She's bold enough now that she supplements her meagre diet by climbing into Murray's feed tub when he's outside, and eating whatever beet pulp he leaves behind-- even if I'm standing or working in the barn.
Her interactions with Dave and I are still very tentative, and any too-quick movements send her scurrying for the door, or leaping toward the rafters, but she's slowly becoming part of the family.
After a few weeks, it's finally time to see the vet-- and time to find out whether wild Lilly can be coaxed into a cat carrier and transported 20 minutes down the road without sending too much fur flying through the air.
To be continued...
We caught our first glimpse of Lilly in mid April, just a day after my initial encounter with the tom cat-- "Tomlin". She was skittish, timid, and completely wild. Nonetheless, we hoped she'd keep prowling, making meals of any enterprising mice who might think they could live the life of luxury in the feed room.
There seemed to be several amorous encounters between Lilly and Tomlin, and we braced ourselves for a litter of kittens. But the balls of fluff, with their sad little mews never appeared. And by mid-summer, Lilly's own appearances on the farm were brief and rare.
So, after sighting a few rice-sized brown dots in the feed room, we gave up on our feral cats and sought out a barn cat of our own. Our search turned up Zorro. And the day we brought him home is the day the Lilly-cat came back (see my earlier blog entry for that night's adventures).
*****************************************
Late August 2010
It's been about a week since Zorro arrived, and I think we've seen Lilly streak by somewhere on the property every single day. Finally, one day I walk into the feed room to prepare the horses' grain. Zorro quickly jumps on top of the narrow, four foot high door. He has many different meows, but for now, he uses his high-pitched, kitten-like, almost cute "mew" to entice me into dropping a handful of cat food into his plastic dish. As the dry kibbles fall, covering a fading portrait of a too-happy-looking fish, I hear another meow-- a raspy, and desperate sounding noise.
I peek into the isle of the barn and see Lilly tentatively making her way toward us, emboldened by hunger. I make the decision then and there. We are keeping her. And if we're going to keep her, we're going to feed her. As Zorro violently shoves his nose into his dish, I reach into the container of cat food and grab a small handful. I hold out my hand and move slowly toward Lilly. She's too frightened, and makes a dash for the great outdoors. She hides behind a pile of lumber, so I drop the food on top and leave. A few minutes later, I see her nervously sitting on top of the boards, scarfing down the food as quickly as she can. The slightest movement or noise sends her scurrying for cover.
For the next couple of days, that's how it is. Lilly shows up for most of Zorro's twice-a-day feedings, but she keeps her distance, waiting for me to drop a few triangles of food somewhere that offers her an unobstructed view of her surroundings and a quick getaway.
Then, one evening, she comes toward me with slightly more confidence. She's actually under my feet as I bring the food dish toward her. This time I put it in the tack room. I set it down and then back away a foot or two. Even though I'm there, Lilly devours her dinner. I slowly reach my hand toward her. She jerks in fright as my fingers make contact with her down-soft fur, but she keeps her nose pressed into the food dish. I start patting her head and back. Every single time my hand touches her, she twitches as though she's been shocked. Then, finally, she starts to purr.
As Lilly eats, I take my first close-up look at her. Her face is gaunt, almost skeletal. There's a yellow-brown crust in the corner of her sunken, red-rimmed eyes. Her pink nose is marred by a fresh, 1/2 inch long, red scab--probably the result of an unfriendly encounter with Zorro She's thin and looks unwell, but her coat is shiny, clean, and unbelievably soft.
A few days later, I make an an appointment for Lilly to be spayed and vaccinated, though I have no idea how I'll manage to get this shy, timid cat into the car and off to the vet. I've got two weeks to work on it though
In the meantime, I make a point of gently reaching out to Lilly each time she dashes to the barn in search of a free meal. She seems to enjoy the pats and scratches she gets, and often rewards me with her loud, engine-like purr. She's bold enough now that she supplements her meagre diet by climbing into Murray's feed tub when he's outside, and eating whatever beet pulp he leaves behind-- even if I'm standing or working in the barn.
Her interactions with Dave and I are still very tentative, and any too-quick movements send her scurrying for the door, or leaping toward the rafters, but she's slowly becoming part of the family.
After a few weeks, it's finally time to see the vet-- and time to find out whether wild Lilly can be coaxed into a cat carrier and transported 20 minutes down the road without sending too much fur flying through the air.
To be continued...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)