Feathered Guests

A good Saturday morning to all! Today, the sun shines with only a few wispy clouds dotting the sky. I want to tell you about a little adventure we had on our yard last week. The tale proves that your feet don’t need to carry you past the gatepost to create lifelong memories.

The COVID Pandemic has slowed the world, and though not a pleasant experience, it has taught us to appreciate the simpler pleasures. Like the little duck, we named Griffin, that wandered onto our lawn last week.

At first, we were surprised by the proximity to which we could approach Griffin. We reasoned he must belong to a local. Tanya put a shout out on social media, but no owner came forward.

There were some guesses as to what type of duck, and the gender. Know-it-All Google had the answer. A comparison of photos led to the conclusion that our guest was a Muscovy.  No one had the stomach to physically check for gender, so we relied on an online list of observed behaviors that indicated it was a dude.

Now, Muscovy ducks dine on mice, snakes, and other vermin, so in my books that makes Griffin a hero. We all agreed Griffin was welcome to stay.

Griffin chose the area under the treehouse and our kids happily tended to his needs.

Just make yourself comfortable, Griffin. Need anything?

 

Um . . . I’m no expert on drinking from a frisbee, but wouldn’t the water stay in better if you leave your feet out?

 

How about a bucket, is that better?

Homemade duck bath, equals one happy fowl.

 

Meanwhile, in the front yard, this poor baby needed saving. Reuntited with a chirping Mother Robin moments after this was taken.

That night we camped in the wilds of our backyard, and when I awoke and exited the tent, Griffin was under the treehouse, standing guard.

Well, for us older folks, and perhaps just us Canucks, the whole story ended like an episode of the Littlest Hobo.  The next day we woke to find Griffen had moved on. Perhaps to brighten the day for another COVID weary family.

 

When a Hippo hollers!

When a hippo hollers, does anyone listen? I mean really pay attention to what it’s saying. All we hear is, “Rrrrrr! Rrrrr!” like a faulty chainsaw trying to start. Which, with our negative perspective, we immediately assume translates to, “Kill! Kill!”

But what if this massive barge of flesh is actually saying, “Hey friend, I have this here piece of canoe stuck in my gums, can you help a fellow mammal out?”

Happy Saturday, everyone! I live in a pretty rural area, with plenty of wildlife (hippos don’t like snow, so I’m marked ‘safe’ from them). I do, however, enjoy the company of many fur-bearing friends, so I’ve posted a few photos with some captions of what they most certainly are thinking. Enjoy!

 

“Frank! It’s the paparazzi again! I TOLD you to find a different lawn!”

 

“Everyone, freeze! Pray it doesn’t think we’re made of chocolate!”

 

“MOM! Come here QUICK! It’s a two legged walking stick! Ewwww! Bring a leaf and squish it pleeeaaasssee!” 

 

“You smell like ketchup, mustard, onions, lettuce, tomato, kaiser bun,  and . . . oh my gosh!”

 

“No dummy, we DO NOT eat noodles or know kung-fu!”

A final encore . . .

“We’re LOST AGAIN, aren’t we Tom? How many times do I have to tell you to ask for directions!”

A Haircut Too Far!

Okay, so let’s find a large cardboard box to climb into and imagine it’s the DeLorean from Back To The Future. Those of you with artistic tendencies may opt for detailing the exterior to mimic the real thing. That’s fine with me.

Now, we’ll set the dial for the not-so-distant date of yesterday! Twenty-four hours ago, my COVID19 hairstyle resembled a shave brush. Yes, it grows straight up and out.

Enough was enough and on a recent trip to town, I had Tanya pick up hair clippers.

About an hour later, seated on a lawn chair on the back deck, with pedestal mirror in hand, I commenced my first-ever self-propelled haircut. Now, this skull rug is no stranger to the clippers, but they’re usually handled by a professional.

I shrugged off the clipper guides and went bare blade. Who cares in this new reality? It could be two moons before my next shearing.

I dug in deep and soon clumps of hair, with far too much gray, tumble weeded across the deck, entangling any unfortunate insect that crossed its path.

Our youngest daughter came out to observe and uttered the words every father “wants” to hear. “Dad, you look creepy!”

A courageous youngster, she pushed her disgust aside and offered to help, which I took gratefully. She worked the back, but eventually proclaimed it hopeless and suggested Tanya finish the job.

I must say the pruning was most liberating! I swear I’ve developed a sixth sense; I mean, I can feel everything! The last time I was this bald, my behind was wrapped in diapers.

My head is now an organic weather satellite, at one with the jet streams. I’m certain that no butterfly can pass above without my detection.

Proud of the newly acquired ability, I went to peacock my new look to our oldest. If I’d entered her room with my nose cut off, her face would have betrayed less horror.

Humbled, I exited quickly, but not before I heard her whisper these words to her classmates on Zoom. “My Dad just cut his hair and it’s frightening!”

Oh well, hair grows back and I’m saving on shampoo.

In the meantime, I’m grateful to the professional folks at North Shore Construction for gifting me with the perfect shame saver.

Creepy!

The remedy!

Smile for the Day. It’s going to be Okay.

“Bambi! Look! It’s the paparazzi again! I TOLD you that we should have gone somewhere else to eat!”

Today is a Good Day!

Today is good, today I got up with the moon still smiling down, as it prepared to hand the sky over to the sun.  The characters were exactly as I’d left them, frozen in place for almost twenty-four hours. The relief on their faces was evident while they stretched muscles and loosened stiff joints. Yes, I allow them to stretch before we resume.

“Much better than yesterday,” Danne Stromgren, the main actor, declares. “You must have knocked out all of that dirt Mister Sandman stuffed between your ears.”

My finger traces an earlobe before I can stop it, checking for sand, just in case. I smile at the star of the show, he’s prone to fits of man-diva.  I can’t blame him on this one, however. This time the griping is justified. Yesterday was a scrambled dog’s breakfast. Here’s a brief replay of what happened.

Time warp to yesterday . . .

Computer on, coffee on the immediate left, within easy grasp, oxygenating greenery to the right, fingers at the ready . . . now type!

abcdebbacon! . . . Hungry! No . . . try again. abc! . . . Hey, is that a cobweb on the corner of the kitchen ceiling?

Sip coffee, ouch! Hot! Sniff oxygenating plant, better! Brain is giving me a dial tone only. Try some research . . . that’s it, type in ‘wild west, turn of the century’ . . . no, stop fingers!

Ooh, soo ugly, yet fascinating! Wingspan of up to six feet? Hmmm . . . take a lot of batter to coat those. Grab some cereal would ya and get back to work! No, Cheerios won’t cut it, left over chicken in fridge. Yum, now I’m good. Whoa! The clock is running down. Kids will be up soon. 

Dannne . . . whoops, Danne said, “You . . .” Aggh!!  “You . . .” YMCA! It’s fun to stay at the YMCA! Just go with it for a moment, that’s right, tap those fingers on the kitchen table you call a writer’s nook. 

“Dad, what’s for breakfast? I’m hungry!”

(sigh) Return oxygenating plant to windowsill . . . drink up cold coffee . . . close down portal to the nineteenth century Klondike . . . no saving required.

“Here you go.”

“Ewww! What’s that?”

“My white flag.”