***
July was taken up with replacing the steps to the kitchen sliding doors with a cedar deck. Though I'd been campaigning for the deck since we'd moved in, Ben would have waited until he'd done a new budget if he hadn't tripped over a protruding nail in the rickety top step, fallen into a rose bush and achieved an intimate, painful acquaintance with several thorns.
The deck was ten by twenty feet with a low railing and two broad, sturdy steps down to the lawn. We put a small table and a couple of deck chairs out there so we could enjoy the late afternoon and evening sunlight when the front veranda, facing east, was in shadow. Soon the deck became a snoozing place for three lumps of fur; one small, dark and tiger-striped, one slightly larger and sprawled like a grey and white floor mop, and one big pure white lump which snored. They had discovered that the deck was the ultimate in convenience; they could hear a can-opener in the kitchen, see if anyone came down the drive and keep track of Ben in the garden all at the same time.
Next to the deck was a cedar shrub, twenty feet high and eight feet thick. Dozens of sparrows and house finches lived in it, supplied by the bird feeder Ben had hung under the eaves nearby. The branches were thick and almost impenetrable but too unstable for the cats to climb, though George gave plenty of thought to trying. The shrub seemed a safe place for birds until a Cooper's hawk swooped out of the sky and snatched a sparrow off a branch.
Ben and I were having breakfast and noticed nothing until the hawk mistook the sliding doors for open space and ricocheted off the glass. The sparrow escaped, losing only a few feathers. The hawk landed on the far side of the deck, upright but stunned, right between two sleeping cats.
George sat up on his haunches, eye to eye with the hawk, barely six inches from that lethal curved beak. Henry, two feet away, was struggling to his feet, a startled expression on his face.
Ben, noting the size and strength of the hawk's beak and claws, did his own pouncing. He ran across the deck and swept George up in his arms. The hawk, frightened into fast recovery, flew over the railing toward the meadow. Henry galloped after it while George sat and blinked. The action happened much faster than it takes to tell, and perhaps he thought he was dreaming. Henry, needless to say, didn't catch the hawk.
"He only chased it because he knew he couldn't catch it," I said.
Ben began picking up sparrow feathers. "George is a born hunter; Henry only does it for show."
"And because his mother told him he was supposed to."
After that, Henry sometimes pretended to hunt prey, to please George, but he galumphed along so clumsily on his big feet that the bird or mouse he was after was long gone by the time he was ready to pounce.
Soon the hunters became the hunted, the target of one of the most vicious and indomitable predators in the world. The fleas were back. In force.
When George and Henry began to scratch and chew themselves and a pinprick on my ankle proved to be a tiny black speck chewing on me, I knew I was in for weeks of torture and unbearable itching. I moaned to Ben and gazed out the window at the hot August day, praying for snow and a couple of weeks of below zero temperatures. "I don't understand why Nicky isn't getting bitten."
"There may be something about the chemical make-up of his skin that repels the fleas," Ben suggested.
"I'd say it was because they can't find their way through that thick fur."
Getting an ordinary comb through Nicky's fur was like trying to get a rake through a fifty-year-old growth of blackberry brambles. It was almost as bad using a flea comb on Henry's long fur. After I'd tugged for two or three minutes, he'd belt me with one of his big paws and do his disappearing act.
I hurried off to Mora Bay to see Jerry, hoping science had found an answer for fleas. He raved about some new stuff that could be given to the cats once a month. The idea was that the blood or moisture sucked from the cats would render the fleas' eggs infertile. Fleas would still bite the cats and me, but at least they wouldn't produce thousands more to leap at us from carpet and furniture.
"I'm tempted to try it," I told him, "but there'll be problems. George will throw up. I'll have to put Henry in the cat carrier and bring him to you for his injections or pills. Much as I hate fleas, I'm not sure this is going to work."
"No pills, no injections," he said. "It's a tasteless liquid you mix in with their food. They'll never even know it's there."
"Would it work on me?"
Jerry laughed, sure I was kidding. But I wasn't. The last time I'd researched fleas, I was horrified to learn that one flea can lay eight hundred eggs. An egg can remain dormant for months but, when conditions are right, it can develop into an adult flea in as little as eighteen days.
I said, "The human race may blow itself off the face of the earth, but fleas exhibit such tenacity for life I'm sure they'll survive forever."
I bought a six-month supply of Jerry's wonderful new flea killer and came home. That evening, as I walked into the living room, a flea leapt off the carpet and bit me on the ankle.
"Ben," I said, "I know this is going to mess up your budget again, but Pied Piper is the only solution. We have to get rid of the fleas and eggs that are already in the house. Only then will this other stuff work."
"Okay. I know you're all suffering." He sighed. "We can take the animals and spend the day on the beach."
"I think I could bear that. We'll take a picnic lunch for everybody. And by the way, I've thought of a possible name for the farm. Flea Circus."
He didn't bother even commenting on that one.
When I went to the kitchen at ten to make a pot of tea, a masked face – a small furry one – was peering through the sliding door.
"Ben, there's a raccoon on the deck."
He dashed in from the living room. "This is the first time I've seen one close up. Maybe they hide under the deck for safety. Nicky's too big to crawl under there."
I wanted to say that Nicky was such a wimp he'd run from any animal that didn't purr at him, but Ben was getting sensitive to my comments about his guard dog.
"I wonder if putting dog kibbles out for them would keep them away from the garbage can," he said. "They're probably hungry."
"You didn't tell me they'd been at the garbage can."
"It's only happened the last three nights. I found out they can get the lid off even when it's weighted down with bricks."
"I don't think you should encourage them. They might start killing the chickens."
"If I feed them all the time, they won't need to bother the chickens. Or the garbage cans."
"What if they go after George or Henry? They're much stronger than a cat and just as fast."
"Ginna's right, you worry too much," Ben said. "George and Henry are exceptionally bright cats. They know better than to bother a raccoon. Besides, I'd like to watch the raccoons and see what they do."
Ben put a dish of kibble on the deck for the raccoons. We sat quietly at the kitchen table and after a few moments, three young ones joined their mother on the deck. When the kibble was gone, all four sat in a row at the glass door and stared in at us.
"They look like a band about to sing for their supper."
"They're cute little guys," said St. Francis. "I'll give them more food. I'd better put some water out, too."
"Fine. Just don't ask me to treat them for fleas."
XIX - The Royal Infirmary
Ben's ploy of feeding the raccoons worked well; we had no further trouble with garbage cans. But he finally had to admit that Nicky would never learn to chase deer. After we harvested the last of the vegetables, delivered them to the supermarket in Mora Bay, and put the pool to bed, Ben decided to build a deer-proof fence around the garden.
I thought this was a waste of time. Our two years on the farm would be over in early spring and if we weren't here to plant a garden, why bother with a fence? But I kept my thoughts to myself and repeated my well-used mantra: whatever we spent on the farm would add to its value.
Building the new fence inv
olved ripping out the old one, deepening the post holes and cementing in taller posts, then stringing wire to a height of eight feet. Nicky, intrigued by our activity, seemed to think he should fill the holes for us. Sometimes we had to dig out a hole two or three times before we got the post in.
When the job was done, Ben hefted two leftover bags of cement into the wheelbarrow. Henry, who'd been lying in the grass, supervising, hopped up and sat on them.
Ben knelt and petted him. "What do you think, Henry? Should I give sculpture a try? Do I have time?"
Henry rubbed his nose against Ben's.
"Okay, I will." Ben looked at me. "Henry's suited to island life, isn't he? Not only does he refuse to hunt, he's artistic, too. Very eccentric cat."
October was lovely, the earth at that quiescent stage between full ripeness and the beginning of decay. We all slowed to match its pace and wandered around the farm and down to the beach or lazed in mellow sunshine. Even rejection slips from magazine editors didn't lessen my joy in golden maple leaves and cobalt skies. I merely printed off new copies of my stories and mailed them to other magazines. The days passed like amber beads on a string and I savored each one, knowing that next fall I'd be enjoying fall colors and cobalt skies in Victoria.
One evening toward the end of the month, Ben and I prepared for the next morning's jaunt to the animal clinic with George. His Imperial Fussiness had to have his teeth cleaned and, judging by what this had cost the year before, the procedure probably included gold fillings, not to mention having his gums rebuilt, his whiskers waxed and the hair in his ears curled.
George was not allowed to have food or drink after midnight, so Ben went around dumping water dishes, wiping up the moisture in the bathtub, hiding cat food and locking doors.
I fell asleep at eleven, exhausted from just thinking about putting George in the cat carrier, but was wakened at two-thirty by Henry. "What do you want, you miserable bundle of fur?"
After much thought and three minutes of licking his left hind leg, he decided he wanted to go out. George wanted to go out, too, but I couldn't allow that in case he drank water from puddles in the orchard. I locked George in Ben's den and opened the back door for Henry.
Five minutes later Henry sat at the deck door, pawing the glass and looking pitiful. I invited him to enter. He gave his right hind leg a good wash and finally did me the favor of strolling in. Assuming that Henry might want to go out again, I left George in the den. The less I had to do when roused from a deep sleep the better.
I went to the kitchen to get a glass of milk and discovered Ben had dumped the water out of a burnt pan that was meant to be soaking, but had left both cat food dishes, full of water, in the sink. Since he knew George could easily jump onto the kitchen counter and might drink the forbidden water, I was puzzled. But, at that hour, I was rarely able to do more than put one foot in front of the other so I dumped the water out and gave up trying to understand his logic.
When I was back in bed, Henry immediately jumped on my chest, settled down, and rumbled like a motor boat. Within seconds Ben began to snore.
I don't mind other people snoring – provided I can't hear it – but in spite of a dozen pokes with my elbow, Ben went on being noisy. I collected my sleeping bag and pillow and bedded down on the couch. I was immediately joined by Henry, who thumped heavily onto my chest again, kneading and purring. By now I was wide awake. After what seemed like hours, I started to plot a new short story and fell asleep at once.
At three minutes after four, Ben wandered into the living room, waking me up.
"Why is George locked in my den?" he asked.
I could have said a great deal about logic, and about people who snore and also ask dumb questions at four in the morning, but I restrained myself.
"I can't let one cat out and in and keep the other cat in unless I hang onto him with both hands which means I don't have any hands left to open doors."
"Huh?"
I rolled over and feigned sleep.
The Houseboy felt sorry for George and let him out of the den before he went back to bed. His Magnificence immediately joined Henry and me, plumping down on my thighs and hanging on with his claws. At least he didn't purr. About five, I noticed snow flakes drifting down. After a wistful moment of regret for the end of autumn, I tried to decide whether the snow was Good because it would freeze fleas to death or Bad because it might interfere with driving. Then I drifted off.
At five-thirty Henry signified his desire to go out again by sticking his claws in one of the stereo speakers. Startled, I leapt off the couch, dislodging George. I locked the King in my studio and Henry outside and crawled, muttering, back into the sleeping bag.
When George was shut in the studio, he was too far away for his loud complaining to keep me awake. But ten minutes later, Henry jumped from the veranda to the window sill three feet from my head, clawed at the glass and yowled.
I let Henry in. He said he wanted food. I gave him food. He decided he didn't want it.
I knew why. His mouth was infected again, although it had been only a month since his teeth were cleaned and two of them pulled. The night before, he'd tried to eat some soft food, the human equivalent of a lettuce leaf, and cried with pain. He was extremely hungry by this time and kept asking why I insisted on dishing out food that bit him. He wasn't impressed by the news that veterinarians aren't up and about in the middle of the night.
Strangely enough, it was soon six a.m. I knew that if I managed to fall sleep again, I'd never hear the alarm and would therefore miss George's seven-thirty appointment at the clinic. So I got up, brushed my teeth and washed some dishes while George cried in the studio. I felt so guilty about shutting him in that it came out as anger and I yelled down the hall, "Be quiet, you spoiled streak of stripes – if you think life is tough now, wait an hour!" I'm sure it didn't make him feel any better and it only made me feel worse.
At twenty to seven, I tiptoed loudly into the bedroom, waking up Ben. At ten after seven, he sneaked the cat carrier into the hall, causing Henry to panic. Since all the doors were shut, he was reduced to trying to claw his way through the thermal pane glass to the deck. George, snarling at this latest infringement of his dignity, was popped into the cage and we departed into the chilly dawn.
"It's really cold this morning," Ben complained.
"There was snow during the night."
"You must have dreamt it. We never get snow this early."
I held my tongue.
At the clinic, we signed George in, removed his red collar and handed him to a young attendant. When she told him he was incredibly gorgeous, he kicked her and tried to dive back into the cat carrier. Her soothing manner masked a businesslike grip, however, and George was carted off. It was the Houseboy's turn to feel guilty.
"The poor old King! He's going to be locked in one of those hospital cages until after lunch. I wish Jerry could have scheduled the surgery for this morning."
Back home, I waited until nine, when Jerry's office opened, then phoned to make an appointment for Henry. The receptionist said, "We have a cancellation. Can you get here in 20 minutes?" It took desperate determination to get Henry, howling in protest and wielding all eight legs and 200 claws, into the cat carrier.
"Henry," I pleaded, "we aren't being mean to you. I'm sorry to do this, but the vet has to look at your mouth and get rid of the pain. We think you're wonderful and adorable and all the rest of it."
Ben grunted.
Henry wailed.
When we got to the vet's office, Jerry examined Henry and said, "He's only got one tiny little red patch on his gum." He gave the cat a shot of antibiotic and us a lecture on the multiple dangers of letting cats go outside, and recommended a blood test.
I carried Henry to the cat cage and he leapt in all by himself, hunched down and looked at me imploringly.
"Can we get the test done now?" I asked. "I don't think we'll be able to get him back in the carrier again if we go home and let him out."
&n
bsp; By ten we were at the clinic and Henry was carried away to the lab. Ben wanted to go in the back and visit George, who was in a cage, waiting for his operation, and no doubt fuming and dreaming up punishments for us.
"Don't do that," I said. "He'll think you've come to take him home and he'll be even unhappier when you walk away and leave him there."
Fifteen minutes later, when the attendant brought Henry back from the lab and put him in the carrier, I approached the desk to pay for the lab tests, which the last time had cost $30.
With a sweet smile, the receptionist said, "That will be $140.00, please." Ben moaned. The lab technician came out and explained in ten-syllable words the procedures she'd carried out. Ben looked in his wallet, shook his head and reached for his check book.
Three miles from home, we saw Nicky trotting along the road, wearing his usual Samoyed grin.
"I thought you shut him in the house," Ben said.
"Well, I meant to, but I must have forgotten."
Ben stopped the car and I got out and opened the back door. "Nicky, you're a bad boy. Get in here this minute." He obligingly hopped onto the back seat beside the cat carrier and sat on his blanket, looking pleased with himself. I reached back and patted him. Henry squirmed restlessly in the carrier and hissed.
When we pulled into the driveway, there was Nicky sitting on the back steps. As soon as the car stopped, he came running to meet us.
Ben stared at the Nicky in the back seat. "If that's our Nicky in the yard, then who is this?"
"I don't know. But I guess we'd better take him back where we found him." Our own Nicky had already demonstrated the Samoyed wandering tendency.
"I'll do it," Ben said. "You take Henry and our Nicky inside."
Henry was delighted to be home again. He demanded food. He refused food. My load of guilt was growing by the minute. Ben came back and made coffee and I inhaled two cups nonstop.
At three-thirty, Jerry phoned to say George had had a tooth out and, though he was high on pain-killer, he'd be ready to come home by six. At one minute after the hour we arrived at the clinic to collect him, this time having made sure Nicky was locked in the house.
While George was held for ransom somewhere in the labyrinth of mysterious corridors, the receptionist presented a bill for $311.27. Ben, looking grim, handed over his VISA card. An attendant brought George out and popped him in the carrier.
On the way home, I comforted Ben. "Think of all the advantages we have. We're tired and the budget is blown but we have a bed to sleep in and three cuddly, furry companions to reduce our level of stress and improve our health."
During the next minute or two, I discovered that Ben hadn't forgotten one word of what he learned in the armed services about swearing.
George was definitely high. He fell off furniture and staggered into things. The anaesthetic had enlarged his pupils and he couldn't see in bright light. He snarled when approached and yelled when touched. He seemed unsure of who he was, where he was or what he meant to do next.
Henry was still woozy on antibiotic and his right hind leg kept collapsing at the most inopportune times, such as when he tried to get up on a kitchen chair. He put his front paws on the chair cushion and tried to heave his rear end up, but his hind leg gave way and he slid all the way under the chair on his back, still clinging to the cushion with his front paws. He retracted the claws, fell to the floor, got up and staggered drunkenly away.
At ten p.m. Ben's brother, David, phoned from Moose Jaw to say that he'd found a nursing home with a vacancy and that their mother could move in the following week if only he could talk her into it. There was much discussion about Edith's intense repugnance for such places and her refusal to admit she needed care. Giddy with exhaustion, I stopped just short of suggesting that with all the experience Ben and I had gained in just one day with the cats, we could take the cat carrier to Moose Jaw and it would all be over in five minutes.