Although we’ve been through what seems like epoch weeks of dark and threatening skies shedding showers like triggered fire suppression systems, most of us are doing just fine when we can see through the fog.
The area around our cabin has the usual group of critters hangin’ in the ‘hood and we were finally lucky enough to watch the birth of a moose calf just across our driveway a few weeks ago.
Things have changed a bit now that we have squeegeed past solstice and the pucker bush weeds are reaching the heights of a miniature forest.
Early spring infant rabbits have graduated to exploring the toolies on their own and the first pheasant hatchlings have matured enough to start practicing their flight skills.
Sounds nice, doesn’t it?
Well, maybe, not so much.
While the moose mammas are satisfied with their young’uns, several of nature’s male creatures roaming near our abode have, once again, become saturated with an overdose of summertime testosterone.
The worst horndogs are the wild rooster pheasants. These idiots are repeating their insufferable behavior of hurling put-down insults at each other starting at around two in the morning. The screeches seem to come from behind every hunk of pucker-bush there is to lurk beneath.
The feather-bound twits have egos bigger than a politician with a campaign fund the size of our gross national product and a repertoire of invectives that would make the crew of a fish processor blanch.
Things really fire up when they figure out who is the weed-hugging weenie and who’s sporting enough steel cajónes to take it to an exposed arena. In our case it’s near or on the cabin’s deck.
The combatants’ timing is impeccable. All I need to do is turn on some quiet jazz, fire up the computer, start a column and, wham! It’s a biker gang yard brawl just outside the door.
Example: A while back, I had just settled down to take my first sip of morning coffee when a bird bellow bounced off the window behind me echoing an indelicate inquiry that translated into, “Hey! You starin’ at me ya crooked beaked $#*^@b+?”
The unexpected and piercing inquest initiated a significant spill of simmering Kona blend that parboiled my ‘puter mouse and nearly impacted a hypersensitive personal area that would have resulted in me speaking in high soprano for month.
I was not amused and decided to arbitrate the confrontation by adding both antagonists to the freezer.
I’ve cooled off a bit and am now bellowing in return hoping the brighter ones will figure out that it would be much healthier to stage their cage fights on someone else’s property, Especially, if the cabin’s Sasquatch is going show up with a couple of loads of #6 shot to settle the dispute.
On a gentler note, the bunny population has relaxed a bit.
I normally don’t give a squat about the critters, if they stay out of the garden. When they don’t, they are delicious especially served with sauteed carrots and various side dishes of the veggies they were attempting to purloin.
By the way, if you think they are timid wild creatures that just hop around being endearing, you are dead wrong.
Case in point: Last week, as the gray fingers of dawn probed over the Grewingk Glacier, I stepped out of the cabin to let our goofball pup depressurize her pipes and caught a glimpse of an altercation on the edge of the gulch’s alders.
Two hares, one huge, the other a healthy-looking female, were facing each other in what looked to be a pending throw down. The long-ears were getting up in each other’s muzzles like they had mating issues. He was up for it. She thought he had the sex appeal of bear scat.
I recognized the big guy by his torn right ear. He had a rep for being mean and his nickname, Thumper, wasn’t because he was cute. She, on the other hand was sleek, attractive and had the reflexes of a lynx.
The bout didn’t last long after she landed an excellent left uppercut to his snout followed by a low spinning blow that probably put a significant hurt on his breeding career.
Things have been quiet since Harezilla had his personal bells rung. Hopefully, he’ll remember that the next time he approaches an unreceptive female too aggressively because the object of his affection may just turn him into stew meat.
I hope the rest of the summer stays this laid back and, to be truthful, I don’t care who rumbles with whom as long as they don’t do it my under my window while I’m deep in a deadline zone and holding a lava hot mug of java in my hand.
Nick can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com if he isn’t prowling around trying to track down flower pots and sundry yard tools redistributed during last week’s Saturday night windstorm.
