Critters

I Got the Gardening Bug

We can safely say winter is over now – finally! So again I think the same thing as last year, “I’m only going to buy a few plants to put in containers on the deck.” Sure I will. Why am I skeptical? Because I get into the plant store and I can’t help myself. I buy up loads of color knowing most of them won’t survive from the hail storms, gophers, deer and grasshoppers.

But this year I’m committed to spreading beauty all around our property. Before I head out to the store, I do my research and pray for divine intervention. I’m determined the deer won’t get the best of me this year. But deer resistant plants don’t mean deer-proof. The graceful critters are beautiful to watch but they munch their way through my garden like Godzilla beating a path across town.

I’ve got to give the plants credit, however. After the wildfire, spunky survivor daylilies wrangled their way through the toasted ground to blossom despite the destruction. Their glorious orange blossoms burst forth like a busty woman breaking out of her bodice. Every year they were marvelous to look at swaying gently with the breeze. (The lilies, not the busty women.)

But horrors! As I walked out to the deck to gaze upon my beautiful lilies, I was met with the sight of naked stalks. Every blossom was gone, sheared off at the top with only a pair of petals helplessly strewn on the ground. The deer. It had to be the deer! The rabbits couldn’t reach that far up. Or could they?

Then there’s the grasshoppers. They march in formation, little machete mouths chomping through the poor defenseless plants I prayed would live to be grownups. A few even found their way onto the deck and attacked the potted flowers, carving lacy holes in leaves that ended up looking like fishnet stockings.

Every year I have hope this will be the season my flowers have a fighting chance. Surely they deserve to survive and give pleasure to all who visit. They tip their heads up at me with beautiful sunny smiles, but I choke back tears knowing they are doomed. Won’t I ever learn?

Digging in the dirt is an inherited addiction. Descended from a farming family, there was always something growing around our house (in addition to six towheaded kids). My Mom has a green thumb and unparalleled talent at rooting overgrown plants. They thrive under her care and consider it the best gig in town. My dad grew up picking bugs off the cauliflower plants and tying up the leaves to protect them from the sun. My brother grows gigantic plants and can’t bear to part with them when he runs out of room. His siblings are tired of babysitting.

While I’m not inclined to pick bugs off plants, there are weeds I do battle with. Not the skimpy, weak little root systems that give up without a fight. These are the dastardly growths with roots a foot long. They hang on with a concrete grip. They taunt me with every tug until the leaves give way and leave behind foot long roots that will grow back another day. I imagine them slowly reappearing, creeping along the ground and spreading across my manicured flower bed at night. Straight from the movie, Little Shop of Horrors, they wind their way up and crawl towards our bedroom window whining “Feed me, Seymour!”

Pray for me. I can’t help myself. Soon I’ll be back at the store for another load of flowers — and a couple bottles of deer spray.

Creepy Crawly Kiddie Critters

My middle son was a soft-spoken little guy who never made a fuss. He loved to go outside and walk around on our back deck looking through the fence, up at the trees and down at the yard. He pointed to birds. He talked to squirrels. He didn’t miss a thing.

I kept an eye on him out on the deck. With a baby in my arms, I looked out the window and saw he was pointing towards the house — his little mouth forming words.

“Bug Mom, bug” he said as I opened the window. “Bug, mom, bug.” He was so calm that at first I didn’t think much of it. But he wouldn’t stop. His husky voice got more excited and compelled me to hurry out to where he stood, right up against the house.

“What have you got there, honey?”

“BIG bug Mom!”

“No! No! Get away!” I said as he reached up towards a huge, hairy tarantula, about the size of my hand. It inched it’s way towards my little angel. Panicked, I pulled him away, fearing the thing would jump.

Now I know that tarantulas aren’t poisonous. But don’t go stroking their little tummies and then rub your eyes. The hairs on their stomach can make soft tissue swell up. “They” say tarantulas are one of the least dangerous spiders and their bite is only like a bee sting. Yep, I can see its little mouth pincers now, clamping onto the end of a tiny finger.

Rescue him I did. The monster crawled away back up the side of the house. I’m sure my son doesn’t remember it. Trauma has a way of erasing itself from our memories. I know that’s not what I wrote in this article.

I still replay this scene in my head, thankful I got out there before my son grabbed the thing. He liked to play with critters but hopefully never another tarantula.

Ants in the Pants

That episode ended without incident, unlike the next. The kids were out playing in the yard, scrambling up the hill, then rolling back down till they got dizzy. I was around the front of the house when I heard screams. Huge gobs of adrenaline kicked in, so I bounded like a deer around the corner of the house. There was my little guy with swarms of red ants crawling all over him — his pants, shoes and sweatshirt.

What to do? What to do? Not wasting time, I struggled to pull the sweatshirt up over his head. Then to my horror it got stuck on his head. (He had a big head.) So my screaming child, who couldn’t see and probably now couldn’t breathe, danced around trying to escape the bites. He lost his footing on the hill and down he went. I finally got the sweatshirt off. Then I tackled his pants. It took a hose to wash off the rest of the ants still crawling over his little body.

Talk about trauma! My poor child! It was like he’d had a bad nightmare — shaking, sobbing, not wanting me to let him go. It took hours to calm him down. Another trauma I prayed he’d forget. I certainly didn’t.

The Mouth Breather

At two years old, I found this same little sweetheart sitting on the couch with toys strewn around him. I heard him from way across the room, making a noise like the Snuffleupagus on Sesame Street. He looked up at me with those big blue eyes and an expression that said, “Help me!”

“What’s the matter?

“Snuffle, snuffle.”

He kept trying to breathe, then pointed to his nose so I looked. I saw a big grey thing stuck up in one of his nostrils. (No, it wasn’t what you think.) I tried to pull it out but it wouldn’t budge and I didn’t want to push it in even further.

He snuffled like someone with a bad cold. He was holding one of his favorite toys, the Hulk. The Hulk was missing a head. You guessed it! He had ripped the head off and shoved it up his nose. Then the toy took over, swelling up from the moisture in his nose.

You remember the Hulk, don’t you? Bruce Banner was a scientist on the run from the U.S. Government. He turned into a monster whenever he got angry. Then he swelled up and went on a rampage.

But in the hands of a toddler, he didn’t stand a chance. A quick trip to the doctor’s office and we had my little sweetie breathing freely again, even without Navage, the world’s only nose cleaner!

Being a mom to three young ‘uns has been a wild ride! But it’s nothing compared what my folks went through with five under the age of five at one point. By the time number six came along, we kids had a few adventures under our belts. Stay tuned!

Colorado Dinosaur Bones

We got the heck outta town a few weeks ago and drove up to see the Dinosaur National Monument. We spent a few hours (and $25.00 entrance fee) cozying up to a collection of dinosaur bones embedded in the side of a rock face. The National Monument and the Dinosaur Quarry is located near Vernal, Utah at the border of Colorado and Utah.

Both me and my Mom have always been fascinated by geology and what can be found within the rocks that cover our earth. Mom jokes that she’s almost as old as the dinosaur bones. But far from it. She’s such a kidder!

It’s fascinating that creatures that large roamed the earth, but when you get close to the bones, you get a sense as to the size. It’s also very interesting to read the story of the paleontologist, Earl Douglas, who stumbled over bones projecting out of the rocks, which led him to start digging in 1909. President Woodrow Wilson made the area an official national monument in 1915. Read more about the Dinosaur Monument history.

The interesting thing is, all these bones were found piled up on top of one another and embedded in the rock. It makes you wonder how that happened. Well, they believe the dinosaurs died in a flooded riverbed which washed the bodies and bones to an area where their bodies stacked up in one spot. That’s why this was such a great discovery!

And they’re still finding more bones! In the summer of 2019, paleontologists found a Stegosaurus femur, three intact teeth and countless other fossils. Read all about these latest discoveries.

We were glad to find the Quarry Museum air-conditioned, but they do require you to be masked in order to enter. It can get pretty toasty in the summer, so bring a hat and water if you decide to hike the trails at the Monument.

It does leave you with a sense of awe that creatures like this lived in our neck of the woods, so to speak. And if you’re hankering to see more fossils and dinosaur bones, you can also visit Garden Park Fossil Area near Canyon City, Colorado.

The Bigger the Fur Balls the Better

Animals are funny. Never thought I’d say this, but they seem like they’re almost human.

We are step-parents to my daughter’s dog, Penny, a lovely chocolate lab. She’s won our hearts, but that doesn’t mean she’s got us wrapped around her finger (or paw).

Take feeding time for example. We have a routine where we let her out for her morning relief before filling her food dish. She’s barely finished her business outside when she makes a mad dash up onto the deck, through the door and over to her food bowl. You’ve never seen such unbridled enthusiasm! She’s panting hard, rearing up on her hind legs and bouncing around the kitchen like a baby goat. Then she gobbles down her food, navigating her way around the plastic maze in her bowl designed to slow down the gulping action.

She knows a few words quite well: treat, food, dinner, time to eat, and outside are the primary ones. She also knows “rope” which refers to the knotted rag rope she chews on, wrestles with, and drags all over the house. To her credit, she also knows the words sit, wait, stay, and lay down.

Oh, and it’s a big deal when someone pulls in the driveway or she hears the doorbell. What a ruckus! This summer I was on an HGTV kick. There was a commercial every ten minutes that featured a doorbell. I would grab the remote and mute the volume to keep her from launching into another dramatic home protection response. It’s great to have a dog around for protective purposes, but I wanted to spare her (and me) the drama of false alarms.

It amazes me how much Penny understands and displays human-like behaviors. She’s a consummate beggar and is picky about the person on whom she showers her attention. That would be my husband, Doug. But food trumps all. When he finishes his meal and there’s no more to be had, if I’m still eating she moves right over to me. She sits there, focused like a laser beam on each bite I take. Her head tilts and her eyebrows twist. If I look over at her, she wags her tail. The tail wagging speed is commensurate with the likelihood of accessing food. If I move to get up from the table, she goes into hyperdrive and follows the plate (not me) over to the counter.

When she does something worthy of a T.R.E.A.T., I put it down on the floor and she knows enough to wait. She sits there staring at the morsels, then ever so slowly tilts her head and looks up at me with those big brown eyes under bushy eyebrows with a pleading expression. You can almost hear her thinking, “Please ma’am, can I have some more?”

I swear she has an alarm clock in her belly. She knows she gets fed in the morning after her trip outside, so I can understand that. But her evening feeding instincts are mind boggling. She’ll come trotting over to me and when I try to pet her, she’ll veer away in the direction of her food dish. This gets repeated a few times, just to make sure her purpose is clear. This act can start about 3 pm. When I get her drift, I look down at her and say, “No, it’s not time yet.” Then she snorts, sneezes, circles around a few times and plops herself down at my feet to wait.

Her feeding time is anytime from 4pm on. At 4pm on the button, she signals it’s that special time (in case I had forgotten). As I move toward the food bowl and say, “Alright, alright!” the bouncing and panting begins. (I wish my kids had been that enthusiastic when they came to the dinner table!)

Her food bowl is designed like a plastic maze with corridors where the food accumulates as I pour it in. This “slow feeder bowl” is supposed to slow down the eating process and minimize gulping. I’d hate to think how fast she’d eat if the maze wasn’t there. It’s all gone in a matter of minutes. My daughter put a sign on the dog food container that says, “Penny has been fed. Don’t let her fool you!” It’s designed to prevent others in the household from taking pity on her and thinking she’d not yet been fed. The sign also says “morning” on one side and “night” on the other, so we can avoid falling prey to her oh-so-persuasive doggie charms. We flip the sign over to signify what time of the day she’s already been fed.

I’ve always been a cat person so being adoptive parents to my daughter’s dog was a new adventure. She is a sweetheart who follows me from room to room and settles down at my feet to nap. She’s easily pleased. Food and love are all she craves. We can do no wrong in her eyes. Now I understand the adage about trying to be the person your dog thinks you are.

Then there’s our cat, Snickers. She rarely interacts with Penny because she’s better, ya know. She’s really in charge and just puts up with the interloper. Occasionally, Penny will get a little too close, causing a quick response from Snickers, the princess. There’s hissing, batting of paws and (if looks could kill) an expression of pure contempt. I call it the Garfield look.

Snickers makes it clear when she’s hungry too. We’ve indulged her and it shows. Her pudgy tummy and apron swings back and forth as she trots down the hallway to her napping spot. At the end of the day, she hops up on our bed, makes a few quick loops around the perimeter and settles in next to my husband. During the night though, I feel a hot, furry body snuggled up next to me, which is nearly impossible to nudge out of the way. (It’s not my husband, silly.) She sleeps close most of the night unless she jumps to the floor and makes that awful hacking sound of an emerging fur ball. Do I get up in the middle of the night to clean up the mess? Nope. But we tread carefully in the morning.

Speaking of fur, we get a “two-fer” between cat and dog hair. Of course, I could clean more often. But why do that when cat hair gets deposited in little wet fur balls on the carpet and dog hair rolls down the hallway like tumbling tumbleweeds? It’s so much easier to just pick them up and put them in the trash. Why do all that vacuuming?

I’m afraid we’re hooked on having a dog and a cat, but my husband talks of us getting a horse or two. I say, the bigger the fur balls, the better!

Cats Gone Crazy

There I was, wrapping gifts on my bed with plastic bags, wrapping paper, boxes and ribbons laying around. Both cats were in the room and they were having a heyday playing with the paper clippings and plastic wrappers.

(My cats as kittens)

It was a beautiful summer day and I had both the big windows open looking out over the distant hills and the street below. The breeze fluttered through and made for a very calm and peaceful afternoon.

But then it happened. Missy got herself tangled up in a plastic bag and it freaked her out! She tore around on the bed trying to get the bag off, then leapt to the floor and did laps around the bedroom. The bag sailed behind her like a piece of unfurled boat canvas. I tried to no avail to catch her. She was too fast for me and as much as I tried, she eluded my grasp, darting around the bed, under the dresser and over the headboard.

That wasn’t all! Our other cat, Fuzzy, saw Missy’s turmoil and tore off after her. I don’t know why she freaked out too, but emotions must be just as catchy in animals as they are with humans.

So now I had TWO cats streaking around the bedroom in circles! They were becoming more frantic by the minute and it seemed like this went on for ages! I ran to the bedroom door and slammed it shut to keep them from getting out, which seemed to make them even more panicky. Before I could catch either one of them, Missy leapt towards the window. She flew straight through the screen and sailed out into the open air. Two stories up. Then, Fuzzy jumped right out after her!

Two cats sailed out into the wild blue yonder with nothing below to catch them but grass. I ran to the window to see if they were okay and when I looked down, the cats were nowhere to be seen.

However, below stood a stunned couple standing stock still, looking up at me as I looked down at them. Their mouths were wide open, then they burst into laughter. Doubled over and barely able to breathe, the woman said, “That’s the funniest thing we’ve ever seen! Cats flying out of a window — it isn’t something you see everyday!”

It was pretty funny when I think back on it. Fortunately the cats were okay and I was able to corral them back into the house. They were shaken, panting hard and scared as the dickens! It’ll teach me to leave plastic bags lying around where they can get into them. I should resort to something less tempting — either that or shut my windows!

Critter Capers at Edith Wolford’s Cabin

Friends couldn’t believe I would leave my clean, spacious condo in town and move to an old, tiny log cabin way back in the woods.

“One winter out there and you’ll beg to come back,” they said. “Think of the work just to keep it clean. You’ll cut off a toe; you’ve never chopped wood in your life. And what about the bugs and the bears?!?”

They were right about the bugs.

They crawled up out of the drainpipe, cornering me as I scooted to the back of the tub. I grabbed the shampoo and tried to inflict a swift and sudsy death. Desperately, I shoved the soap with one toe and prayed the darned thing wouldn’t hop. Down it went into the depths of dank and rusted drainpipes. But my sense of security was shattered — no longer could I shower with my eyes closed.

It didn’t stop in the bathroom. The cats dropped three-legged colorless crickets on the top of my bed, and I’d watch in horror as they hopped in circles. (The crickets, not the cats.) From then on, any twitch or tickle I felt as I slept became imagined insects crawling over the covers and up to my face.

The drama didn’t stop inside the four walls. Outside, crows would swoop in and invade the pines, watching and waiting for a chance to dive-bomb my cats. Flickers drilled their jackhammer ears into bug infested logs on the sides of my home. The most dastardly among them made straight for the metal leaving me frustrated and furious as I raced for the door and watched from below.

You’d think that leaving the door open to let in the breeze would be a welcoming sight but it ruined relationships. After a triangle-headed alligator lizard walked in and under the feet of a friend, she joined the ranks of those who declined my invitations. They said, “It’s too far of a drive. Find me on Facebook.”

But there were furry little fellows who filled the void. Black squirrels and grey squirrels kept me company all day and into the night. They chewed a hole through the logs and got into the attic. I’d lay in my bed and hear them over my head, munching away on the wood and the wires.

Snakes hid in the walls between drywall and logs, crawling out from behind a south facing window and sunning themselves on the ledge by our door. They slithered from under the heat runs, discouraging my efforts to clean up the mouse droppings. After months at the cabin with no snakes in sight, I’d hoped they’d moved on. Then neighbors discovered a nest in their attic and threw 18 of them, wiggling and twisting, over the fence and into my yard.

It’s years since that fateful day when we moved to the cabin. Each morning I open the door, breathe in piney fresh air and count the bugs, the birds and my blessings. I wouldn’t have traded it for anything!

How I Got My Horse Fix on Poncha Pass

I’ve been horse crazy since I was a kid. With long blonde hair, I pretended to be a Palomino. And my bedroom was full of plastic horse figurines. They were collectables, ya know.

When we went to our Camp as kids, my sisters and I would gallop stick horses through the pines, whinnying and tossing our manes. We’d even snort, paw the ground and rear up on our hind legs. I found my horse fix any way I could get it!

That’s why it was such a treat when my sister, during a recent family reunion, asked me to go horseback riding. We drove up to Poncha Pass near Salida, Colorado and pulled in at Granite Mountain Outfitters. A nice lady named Sue is the owner.

It’s been years since I’ve ridden. In fact, the last time it was mosquito season and we herded cows through the sage and all over the ranch. I couldn’t sit down for days.

Anyway, we told them about our riding experience and my sister was paired with a quarter horse named LeRoy. I ended up with Houdini…

…a mule.

Now, before you go and get all judgmental on me, you should know that Houdini was one talented critter, fully capable of opening any gate. In fact, we were told that Houdini recently opened seven gates and let out so many cattle it took hours to round them all up.

So I swung into the saddle and sat proudly upon my mule.

And off we went with our personable guide, Andrew.

Just us and the great outdoors! We rode through meadows with wildflowers, tall stands of aspen and an old logging camp. No stress and no noise.

Except for my mule. He liked to groan. He did it trudging up the hills and he did it when “nature called.” No braying. No snorting. Just groaning.

But he was sure-footed as a goat.

When we got to the mountain top, our guide took pictures of us from every angle.

Then my sister’s horse took a selfie.

On our way down, there was more groaning. This time it was from me.

“Um, Andrew? How much longer till we’re back at the ranch?”

Bones in my bottom were competing for attention with the spectacular scenery. The late afternoon sun lit up a few deer butts on a distant hill, like spotlights in the sage.

Everything glowed. I wanted to bottle it.

Then all at once, our two and a half hours were over. I dismounted my mighty steed and dropped to the ground with legs quivering like jello.

It was one of the most memorable rides of my life. The good folks at Granite Mountain Outfitters gave is a little piece of heaven that day.

I got my horse fix — on a mule.

And I tossed my mane a little as we drove away.

What Went Thump in the Night

One of the best parts of going to Camp was sleeping in the big bunkbeds Grandpa built into the walls of the cabin. But one night we had more excitement than we bargained for!

There were two big beds downstairs and two upstairs, along with a couple of twin sized. Those beds were so big you could have one heckuva slumber party in them. They also made great trampolines!

One night we girls decided to sleep in the upstairs bunkbed. As the sun started to set, we climbed the stairs into the dusky room lined with knotty pine paneling. The bed was built into the corner of the room and took up two walls. We clambered on in but rather than sleep, we launched into telling our scariest ghost stories.

Mom, Dad and the boys were trying to sleep downstairs. We must have been making a lot of noise, because Mom yelled up to us. “You girls stop talking or I’m going to have to send your Father up there!”

So we quieted down, laying still and silent for a while, listening to each other breathe.

Then we heard the noise!

Scratching and thumping, it would go on for a few seconds, then it would stop. Did it come from the closet or inside the walls?

“Did you hear that?”

“Uh yeah. Did you do it?”

“Um, no!”

We weren’t sure WHERE it was coming from, but we didn’t like it one bit!

We started yelling, “Daddy, there’s something up here!” Dad came bounding up the stairs. He shined a flashlight all around the room trying to see where the sound was coming from.

By then we were screaming, “The picture! The picture! It’s over there!”

We pointed towards the picture on the far wall. It was jumping around. It lifted and fell like it had a life of its own. And it DID!

By now the boys had run up the stairs to see what was going on. Still more screaming from us girls but the boys were louder. “Get it Dad! Get it!”

Dad grabbed a broom and lifted a corner of the picture frame up and away from the wall. Down crashed the picture…

…and out flew a bat!

It fluttered back and forth around the room, darting here and there, ducking and out-maneuvering Dad’s broom. Now ALL of us were screaming, jumping up and down and flailing our arms to fight off the softball-sized creature. Dad tried to hit it, but he kept missing. That bat was quick!

Finally Dad opened the door which led to the roof, hoping the bat would find its way out. After a few more laps around the room and a few more swats with the broom, the bat flew out into the night.

“We’re so glad you got rid of that thing!” said a sister.

“We should have kept it, Dad!” said a brother.

Once the glass from the broken picture was swept up, back to bed we went. It took us a long time to settle down after that. We were scared at first, but now we were giggling.

Mom didn’t think it was so funny. “Settle down girls,” she yelled up at us. Then Dad added one of his famous phrases, “You kids go to sleep now. Tomorrow’s another day!”