For the chicken the egg demands involvement,
but for
the pig bacon demands total commitment. John Price
I.
How to Cook A Raccoon
As the clock rang at 5:00AM Lettie nudged her husband out of bed. He stepped onto a Persian style rug worn raw to the color of the warp. One smudged blue wall in the bedroom had a hole in it where the handle of the door was punched through. Lettie had put duct tape over it to keep out the bats that fell into the wall. She walked quietly to the big kitchen, passing the tiny room where the two girls slept on a three quarters bed. There she started water for coffee and put a chunk of the mystery meat from the county food bank into a pan. She sliced off some bread, and when the meat was hot, added a of couple duck eggs. Blessing the food bank for the five pounds of butter they got every month, she slavered the toast. About the time Jake had put on his postal uniform his breakfast was done.
Lettie watched her husband as he spaded his way through breakfast. After three years of college and conflict, her dotty mother had found the last straw. Jake appeared in Lettie’s life just as the pressure at home became unbearable, so the girl had quit to marry and follow this raggedy eccentric through whatever world he created. They’d gone to Alaska, ricocheted down to California, and finally landed in this tiny shack, sans insulation, short on cash, and long on faith that they could provide for the two children they’d hatched.
It had been raining for much of February and while the ducks were happy, that old shack of a house now had a pond underneath. On the warmer nights the frogs would begin mating at about midnight providing background music for sleep. Whoever built the place was either a drunk or deficient of a carpenter’s square and you could see the cock-eyed angles at every joint. The front of the house was on pier blocks, but they’d likely run out so the bedrooms sat on the hard pan dirt. But the place was dry inside and warm when the little heater was working, and it had been very cheap.
Turning her attention back to Jake and his vacant dishes, Lettie saw him rushing for his coat.
“He’s always late. Every day he’s late,” were her thoughts, but she swallowed the feeling and said,
“I’m making apple and raisin pie tonight.”
“Sounds good,” was the retort from Jake followed by a muttered, “Don’t yell at the pie crust.”
She winced and waving at him as he exited said,
“Have a good one. Don’t take any wooden envelopes,” as he scuttled out the door. Watching him skid down the gravel in that old Ford wagon she secretly hoped he’d squash the guinea hen, the one that guggled so hideously and chased car wheels. Then she turned to her boots. Peeking back at the still sleeping kids, Lettie slipped them on, grabbed a pail and went to the goat barn.
Nanto and Starlet, both tiny-eared La Mancha goats, gave Lettie that sideways sly look goats have. The thing about goats is that they have personality. Goats have opinions, plenty of them. And a goat knows what a good joke is. Eating your rose buds is a goat joke. So is nipping the top off your newly planted redwood trees. A goat can do either in just a few seconds. All you need to do is let the gate fall open just a trice too much. And blink. Poof!, no roses. On the other hand, if you want to snuggle with something warm and sweet smelling, a hand raised goat on a bed of straw will do nicely. They know how to meditate, goats do. They don’t mind if you hang out with them and get mellow. Goats are really good company. Except for the part about the roses.
Climbing onto the milking stand Nanto let down her toothsome, rich milk as Lettie massaged her bag. Within fifteen minutes she had three quarts along with the warm goat cuddle that started her day well. They were enjoying alfalfa hay as she stumbled back to the house, mud sucking at her boots.
Days had a simple rhythm in the valley. The animals were fed, food cooked, kids played in the mini-small living room when it rained. There was an afternoon nap with the girls giggling quietly and then at four the husband returned for dinner. The foods provided by the food bank included too much white flour, enough white corn syrup to keep a ton of bees alive, canned stringy chickens, and two big blocks of that stick-to-the-teeth processed cheese. The family bought most meat on the hoof, bidding at the Mendocino livestock auction for worn out sheep and the occasional pig. A sheep ate alfalfa and goat grain for a few weeks to make it healthy, then it would be killed simply, skinned, and sliced up on the dinner table into freezer packages. Lettie ground much of the meat, stewed and baked more, and served the chops, hind legs, and liver with fancy recipes she found in the Joy of Cooking. The summer’s garden had filled the freezer with kale, quartered tomatoes, root crops, and purple beans. There were chicken and duck eggs, and an occasional goose egg that produced a whole omelet. Combined with locally scavenged fruits and nuts, and an occasional exchange with a neighbor, the family ate well.
Lettie’s ducks had made their nests up on the forested hill amongst the pack rat mounds and huge, round pits dug by ancient Indians. In the summer the ducks came downhill to rejoice in the kids’ plastic pool. Chairs were set around for watching the splashing, honking, and mating of the deliriously happy fowl. This amusement and lying on the lawn watching the night sky were the best entertainments. Their TV hadn’t survived the move to the country (stubborn resistance from Lettie had left it behind) so festivity came at random to their daily life.
Lately something had been stealing the duck eggs. With the nests set behind trees there was protection for animal thieves. These rich eggs being an essential part of the late winter diet, it was necessary to find the culprit. So Stoutheart the dog was put to his work. After the evening meal of mutton patties and chopped kale, the dog took his place tied to a corner downhill from the ducks and the family fell to sleep. Lettie dreamed of lush, spring gardens, her husband muttered “stop that” in scary dreams unknown, and the little girls dreamed of Legos the size of milk crates. Later, well into the night Stoutheart began his bold complaining. The yelp had a strident “this is not a pack rat” sound. As he continued she woke Jake, and they pulled on coats and boots. Jake grabbed his old twenty-two and loaded it, Lettie turned on the Coleman lantern, and both stepped out onto squishy, rain-soaked ground.
Crazy-rowdy with a scent, Stoutheart tugged at the rope as he continued obsessive barking.
“Let him off,” Lettie whispered to Jake in spite of the ruckus.
“We need to stay close as he runs,” Jake returned as he removed the rope from the dog.
After a few useless circles, the dog scurried half-way up the hill and they could hear snarling mixed with howling. The couple puffed behind the dog to find he’d treed an intimidating raccoon --- one with big teeth and a willingness to defend himself.
“Wow!” was about all Lettie had to say.
“It’s huge. Must be a male,” Jake said and cocked the twenty-two. “Stand back.”
It all happened pretty fast with great commotion, much sliding on wet leaves, Jake and Leticia yelling, the dog jumping and barking, and frightful bright-eyed growling by the heroic beast. He climbed higher up the tree while Stoutheart danced and careened. Fear shriveled Lettie while it magnified Jake. Finally he aimed and fired a shot. Badly wounded the raccoon dropped near his feet. With a finishing shot the creature stopped breathing, the dog stopped barking, and Lettie gasped, repeating her first comment,
“Wow!”
Holding the coon by one leg Jake carried it downhill while he remarked on it’s heft. Lettie fetched an old bath scale so that they could weigh the beast.
Jake said, “Eighteen pounds. That is a big male.” After which he took it to the back porch, laid it out, then went for his hunting knife.
Lettie shined the lantern on the big, beautiful raccoon. His fur was thick for the winter and his tail was blackly ringed. She smelled his strong, acrid scent, not too different from skunk, and remembered the nights that smell had drifted through the window. Stoutheart, too, needed to sniff his approval. The dog stood panting next to her and while he recalled the chase, Lettie admired the powerful and able beast that until now had lived amongst them without their knowledge.
“So much more clever than us,” she mused, “and so well equipped for this scatter of forest and houses. And while we scrabble about with our cars and county food, those beautiful hands and sharp incisors are all it has for a good life.”
Heavy boots on the old porch landing brought her back to the loss of her own food --- ducks eggs and ducklings stolen, breakfasts made thin by these same raccoon hands.
“So, skin it,” she said.
In half an hour the raccoon had become a carcass for the stew pot and a pelt of lush fur.
The next morning there was the problem of cooking. Up to this point Lettie had only the one cookbook. She was always amazed at how thorough this book was. The center section had many pages on methods and ingredients which she had read and memorized. When she opened the book, sure enough, raccoon was listed on page 454. Here is the recipe verbatim:
“Skin, clean, and soak overnight: 1 raccoon in salt water.
Scrape off all fat inside and out. Blanch (page 132), for 45 minutes.
Add: 2 tablespoons baking soda and continue to cook uncovered for 5 minutes. Drain and wash in warm water.
Put in cold water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer 15 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Stuff the raccoon with Bread Dressing, (page 456). Bake covered, about 45 minutes, uncover and bake 15 minutes longer before serving.”
The meat, though still tough after all that preparation, had a taste between turkey and beef. While she wouldn’t chase down raccoons for cuisine, it was palatable and settled well in their stomachs.
As it turned out there was another advantage to taking out this busy raccoon. Coons are bright animals. They thrive in cities, living in the sewers of San Francisco and Manhattan. It’s the largest mammal after man to live free in urban areas. You may deduce that a lot of things have been learned and passed down to raccoon children. Among them is the awareness of murder amongst the clan.
Jake hammered the pelt to the side of the old house.
“Like a sign,” he said. “We kill raccoons --- stay away.” And it worked. Long after the recipe in the “Joy” had been followed and the meat had been consumed, the pelt hung there. It weathered in the rain and sun, but somehow retained either the look or scent of raccoon death. No other raccoon wandered through Lettie’s meager plot. Ducks slept peacefully, chickens didn’t worry, and Stoutheart experienced a succession of dull seasons.
Many years later as Lettie found herself no longer hard scrabble she’d toss the meaty remains of a dinner out into the forest at the side of her fancy, new house. Possums and raccoons, even bears lived in her neighborhood, and she knew the bits wouldn’t last the night.
She’d think, “An offering for all the raccoons and gratitude for the dinners one provided.”
Lettie watched her husband as he spaded his way through breakfast. After three years of college and conflict, her dotty mother had found the last straw. Jake appeared in Lettie’s life just as the pressure at home became unbearable, so the girl had quit to marry and follow this raggedy eccentric through whatever world he created. They’d gone to Alaska, ricocheted down to California, and finally landed in this tiny shack, sans insulation, short on cash, and long on faith that they could provide for the two children they’d hatched.
It had been raining for much of February and while the ducks were happy, that old shack of a house now had a pond underneath. On the warmer nights the frogs would begin mating at about midnight providing background music for sleep. Whoever built the place was either a drunk or deficient of a carpenter’s square and you could see the cock-eyed angles at every joint. The front of the house was on pier blocks, but they’d likely run out so the bedrooms sat on the hard pan dirt. But the place was dry inside and warm when the little heater was working, and it had been very cheap.
Turning her attention back to Jake and his vacant dishes, Lettie saw him rushing for his coat.
“He’s always late. Every day he’s late,” were her thoughts, but she swallowed the feeling and said,
“I’m making apple and raisin pie tonight.”
“Sounds good,” was the retort from Jake followed by a muttered, “Don’t yell at the pie crust.”
She winced and waving at him as he exited said,
“Have a good one. Don’t take any wooden envelopes,” as he scuttled out the door. Watching him skid down the gravel in that old Ford wagon she secretly hoped he’d squash the guinea hen, the one that guggled so hideously and chased car wheels. Then she turned to her boots. Peeking back at the still sleeping kids, Lettie slipped them on, grabbed a pail and went to the goat barn.
Nanto and Starlet, both tiny-eared La Mancha goats, gave Lettie that sideways sly look goats have. The thing about goats is that they have personality. Goats have opinions, plenty of them. And a goat knows what a good joke is. Eating your rose buds is a goat joke. So is nipping the top off your newly planted redwood trees. A goat can do either in just a few seconds. All you need to do is let the gate fall open just a trice too much. And blink. Poof!, no roses. On the other hand, if you want to snuggle with something warm and sweet smelling, a hand raised goat on a bed of straw will do nicely. They know how to meditate, goats do. They don’t mind if you hang out with them and get mellow. Goats are really good company. Except for the part about the roses.
Climbing onto the milking stand Nanto let down her toothsome, rich milk as Lettie massaged her bag. Within fifteen minutes she had three quarts along with the warm goat cuddle that started her day well. They were enjoying alfalfa hay as she stumbled back to the house, mud sucking at her boots.
Days had a simple rhythm in the valley. The animals were fed, food cooked, kids played in the mini-small living room when it rained. There was an afternoon nap with the girls giggling quietly and then at four the husband returned for dinner. The foods provided by the food bank included too much white flour, enough white corn syrup to keep a ton of bees alive, canned stringy chickens, and two big blocks of that stick-to-the-teeth processed cheese. The family bought most meat on the hoof, bidding at the Mendocino livestock auction for worn out sheep and the occasional pig. A sheep ate alfalfa and goat grain for a few weeks to make it healthy, then it would be killed simply, skinned, and sliced up on the dinner table into freezer packages. Lettie ground much of the meat, stewed and baked more, and served the chops, hind legs, and liver with fancy recipes she found in the Joy of Cooking. The summer’s garden had filled the freezer with kale, quartered tomatoes, root crops, and purple beans. There were chicken and duck eggs, and an occasional goose egg that produced a whole omelet. Combined with locally scavenged fruits and nuts, and an occasional exchange with a neighbor, the family ate well.
Lettie’s ducks had made their nests up on the forested hill amongst the pack rat mounds and huge, round pits dug by ancient Indians. In the summer the ducks came downhill to rejoice in the kids’ plastic pool. Chairs were set around for watching the splashing, honking, and mating of the deliriously happy fowl. This amusement and lying on the lawn watching the night sky were the best entertainments. Their TV hadn’t survived the move to the country (stubborn resistance from Lettie had left it behind) so festivity came at random to their daily life.
Lately something had been stealing the duck eggs. With the nests set behind trees there was protection for animal thieves. These rich eggs being an essential part of the late winter diet, it was necessary to find the culprit. So Stoutheart the dog was put to his work. After the evening meal of mutton patties and chopped kale, the dog took his place tied to a corner downhill from the ducks and the family fell to sleep. Lettie dreamed of lush, spring gardens, her husband muttered “stop that” in scary dreams unknown, and the little girls dreamed of Legos the size of milk crates. Later, well into the night Stoutheart began his bold complaining. The yelp had a strident “this is not a pack rat” sound. As he continued she woke Jake, and they pulled on coats and boots. Jake grabbed his old twenty-two and loaded it, Lettie turned on the Coleman lantern, and both stepped out onto squishy, rain-soaked ground.
Crazy-rowdy with a scent, Stoutheart tugged at the rope as he continued obsessive barking.
“Let him off,” Lettie whispered to Jake in spite of the ruckus.
“We need to stay close as he runs,” Jake returned as he removed the rope from the dog.
After a few useless circles, the dog scurried half-way up the hill and they could hear snarling mixed with howling. The couple puffed behind the dog to find he’d treed an intimidating raccoon --- one with big teeth and a willingness to defend himself.
“Wow!” was about all Lettie had to say.
“It’s huge. Must be a male,” Jake said and cocked the twenty-two. “Stand back.”
It all happened pretty fast with great commotion, much sliding on wet leaves, Jake and Leticia yelling, the dog jumping and barking, and frightful bright-eyed growling by the heroic beast. He climbed higher up the tree while Stoutheart danced and careened. Fear shriveled Lettie while it magnified Jake. Finally he aimed and fired a shot. Badly wounded the raccoon dropped near his feet. With a finishing shot the creature stopped breathing, the dog stopped barking, and Lettie gasped, repeating her first comment,
“Wow!”
Holding the coon by one leg Jake carried it downhill while he remarked on it’s heft. Lettie fetched an old bath scale so that they could weigh the beast.
Jake said, “Eighteen pounds. That is a big male.” After which he took it to the back porch, laid it out, then went for his hunting knife.
Lettie shined the lantern on the big, beautiful raccoon. His fur was thick for the winter and his tail was blackly ringed. She smelled his strong, acrid scent, not too different from skunk, and remembered the nights that smell had drifted through the window. Stoutheart, too, needed to sniff his approval. The dog stood panting next to her and while he recalled the chase, Lettie admired the powerful and able beast that until now had lived amongst them without their knowledge.
“So much more clever than us,” she mused, “and so well equipped for this scatter of forest and houses. And while we scrabble about with our cars and county food, those beautiful hands and sharp incisors are all it has for a good life.”
Heavy boots on the old porch landing brought her back to the loss of her own food --- ducks eggs and ducklings stolen, breakfasts made thin by these same raccoon hands.
“So, skin it,” she said.
In half an hour the raccoon had become a carcass for the stew pot and a pelt of lush fur.
The next morning there was the problem of cooking. Up to this point Lettie had only the one cookbook. She was always amazed at how thorough this book was. The center section had many pages on methods and ingredients which she had read and memorized. When she opened the book, sure enough, raccoon was listed on page 454. Here is the recipe verbatim:
“Skin, clean, and soak overnight: 1 raccoon in salt water.
Scrape off all fat inside and out. Blanch (page 132), for 45 minutes.
Add: 2 tablespoons baking soda and continue to cook uncovered for 5 minutes. Drain and wash in warm water.
Put in cold water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer 15 minutes. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Stuff the raccoon with Bread Dressing, (page 456). Bake covered, about 45 minutes, uncover and bake 15 minutes longer before serving.”
The meat, though still tough after all that preparation, had a taste between turkey and beef. While she wouldn’t chase down raccoons for cuisine, it was palatable and settled well in their stomachs.
As it turned out there was another advantage to taking out this busy raccoon. Coons are bright animals. They thrive in cities, living in the sewers of San Francisco and Manhattan. It’s the largest mammal after man to live free in urban areas. You may deduce that a lot of things have been learned and passed down to raccoon children. Among them is the awareness of murder amongst the clan.
Jake hammered the pelt to the side of the old house.
“Like a sign,” he said. “We kill raccoons --- stay away.” And it worked. Long after the recipe in the “Joy” had been followed and the meat had been consumed, the pelt hung there. It weathered in the rain and sun, but somehow retained either the look or scent of raccoon death. No other raccoon wandered through Lettie’s meager plot. Ducks slept peacefully, chickens didn’t worry, and Stoutheart experienced a succession of dull seasons.
Many years later as Lettie found herself no longer hard scrabble she’d toss the meaty remains of a dinner out into the forest at the side of her fancy, new house. Possums and raccoons, even bears lived in her neighborhood, and she knew the bits wouldn’t last the night.
She’d think, “An offering for all the raccoons and gratitude for the dinners one provided.”
II.
I worry about people today.
Seems like if they can’t have a cable connection, a smart phone, and eat
out regularly they think they’re poor. Kids wear designer clothes, seem to have
more spending money then their parents, and now there’s a whole industry trying
to sell them things I couldn’t afford as an adult.
I was poor for years, but I didn’t give poverty much
thought. Perhaps I was too busy
inventing ways to make life better using what we had or maybe my friends were
in the same bucket. So before this
deteriorates into a litany about how I got along as well as how folks today
don’t have as many complaints as they think, I’d better tell a story.
I’m an old hippie.
What I mean is that I was there in the beginning, with the first flower,
before Janis was anything but a funny looking girl with an amazing voice, back
there in the dark ages when everyone on Haight Street smiled at you. I’ve got a few pics put away of myself in
dresses I made that were covered with swirling colors, hats with ragged feathers,
barefoot and straggle-haired. People
are still wearing this stuff, but mostly they buy it at stores for mucho bucks
instead of trolling St. Vincent de Paul.
I was accidentally in the right place at the right time, but unlike some
lucky Wellesley drop-outs, I had no money but just a whole lot of imagination
for comfort.
1966 landed me in Berkeley.
By then I was married, but we won’t go into all that. At least I don’t think so. I had about five pieces of furniture by the
time the first kid was born. Most of
the furniture could have been found in a 1905 Montgomery Wards catalog, today
the stuff is called antiques, but then it was just cheap stuff no one
wanted.
The first house I bought was sandwiched between a train
switching yard and a Chevron refinery.
It was a nice little house with the finest river bottom soil I’ve ever
seen. You could just turn it over with
a spoon, drop in a seed, and get a squash.
With a shovel and a hoe I taught myself to garden and filled in by gleaning
windfalls from the Mexican neighborhood I lived in. Prickly pear cactus, figs, quinces, crabapples ---- these strange
foods were also antiques, and I jammed, jellied, and canned the lot to amend
our diet.
At night the flames of the refinery smoked against the loom
of San Francisco lights while the train cars bumped as they connected. When the sulphurous smudge was cast out at
3:00AM your throat would go raw and you’d stuck your nose in the pillow. Did I mention that I had two children in
this place? Two kids, one very pretty
cat named Coriander, a dog who had been added at the birth of my second, three
cages of rabbits, and a couple of guinea pigs.
And a husband. All that stuff.
I’m not sure why the house was originally there. Must have been built in the oughts or teens,
before the twenties. It was part of a
plain row of the same with nice big back yards with peach trees and passion
vines similar to mine. The floors were
all old linoleum, the heater was a small oil one that didn’t do too badly, and
the bath tub held two people on it’s much painted claw feet. Nearby was a huge piece of fallow land used
for impromptu ball games that was stitched with paths towards the little market
owned by a Chinese family. I would put
one kid on my back, drag the other by the hand, and walk around town shopping
for dinner, saying “hello” to all the colors of people in my neighborhood. Eventually the few acres at the end of the
street was sold to a Baptist church who put up a huge sign followed by low rent
apartments that quickly filled. The
night I saw a guy walking around with a long gun I decided it was time to move
and I went back to the land.
Northern California now grows some of the most delicious
buds you can imagine. I see that a
house I sold in 1978 is now on the market for over half a million. I wonder if the place I owned before that is
still standing? Really, it was a shack,
a sad shelter from the winter rains. I
suspected that the carpenter who built it either lost his t-square or was drunk
during construction as nothing quite fit together. The front of the house was on pier blocks, but I guess they ran
out as the bedrooms sad down right on the mud.
This made it convenient for the termites who riddled it. The attic was property of bats. Nice little home. The flat on which it squatted had been scraped clean of anything
resembling topsoil, so gardening was my first experience with solid clay, a
problem I’ve managed to repeat through my gardening career.
The kitchen was big and so was the bath. They nearly equaled in size that of the two
mini bedrooms and that other small space we credited with being a living
room. From the front door you stepped
into a bog, from the back down to mud.
Mid winter when the frogs were mating, the pond beneath the house croaked. But on summer nights we spread a blanket and
all of us searched the skies for anomalies.
Those are there, you know. After
the bats left the attic, we’d see stuff.
Lights moved in ways that had no logic.
Don’t let them fool you, we’re not alone. We just don’t know what the heck that stuff is.
As the spring warmed that hillside behind the house sprouted
waves of wild flowers --- Mariposa lilies, shooting stars, poppies, and that
wild, red fern that hid itself in deep woods.
Colors marched across the hill until the summer burnt everything brown,
then the madrone peeled it’s orange bark and dropped leaves, reversing the fall
to suit the dryness of a California hot season. It’s always the native vegetation that’s the most beautiful. All the flowers I’ve tended have never
equaled a square yard of a wild California hill.
This land, so disrespected by the dozer and carpenter, had
been a haunt for Pomo indians before they were tossed aside. There were dished out places, now supporting
big trees, but obviously used for water collection. Someone with free time might have hunted for implements. But me, I only found toys. Pack rats lived under the trees, building
leaf mounds. I tore one apart out of curiosity
and found Leggos, pop-beads, and a shiny whistle. Why there were such hoards, I’ll never know.
III.
The Sad Story of One-Eyed Clyde
He had an aristocratic, combative background, Clyde did. His clan hailed from Argentina, a large and bold breed with light, striped back feathers, neck feathers in abundance that were thin and iridescent black, and tail feathers curling grandly level with his neck and dropping towards his feet. The beauty of this great cock was matched only by his noble bearing. He surveyed his world alertly, missing nothing, ready for anything, fast and furious. He was Arnold Schwarzenegger crossed with Mikhail Baryshnikov poultry style.
Clyde had been ready to fight to the end. Graced with pointed talons a full three inches long, he and the rooster who’d conquered him had fought in a fast tearing of flesh, arguing for the ten lovely pullets who sought their attention. He was prepared to fight again and lose his life to anoint these healthy fine hens with his seed. But it was not to be so.
Lettie got to the chicken pen at 6:30 on a mild Tuesday morning. The sun was still not peeking over the southern hill yet she saw the splay of lost feathers. First she suspected a fox but then saw Clyde hunkered in a corner, dripping blood.
“Oh, poor guy. He’s gone and blinded you. Let’s get you out of that pen.” Clyde was insulted by her poor-little-baby tone, her mothering manner. His nobility offended, he rushed about as she corralled him with a board, sorting him from the poultry that would remain in the big pen. Hearing the click of the latch locking him out, he looked over his shoulder and refused to leave the familiarity of the chicken wire. The clucking of the ladies dominated his thoughts and actions, agitating his blood and propelling him against the wire, scratching toward the winner. That other rooster was no bigger than he, no bolder, no stronger, and had simply, in the crush of the moment had a lucky break --- one that had changed Clyde’s life forever. For a week or two Clyde had kept close to that compound, hoping for the re-entrance that would change the balance of things.
Lettie worried about the big rooster. She scattered feed in a path through the back yard, luring him away from the pen. “This way, Clyde” she called “Food, straw, come this way. Chk, chk.” She made clucking sounds seducing him into his freedom, showing him the large spaces of acres. Clyde scorned acres without hens, but as time flapped along he met the other rejects and lost fellows on the farm. Barnaby, the guinea cock, was smaller than him, and had a mouth on him. He tossed himself about, aiming at shoes and car wheels without no sense of self preservation. Flying up in the trees he commenced the most offensive, discordant sound ever heard in poultrydom. But Barnaby was one of the denizens of Clyde’s new found freedom. Clyde scorned and continued his explorations.
There were a few other creatures inhabiting the hillside that Lettie never saw. A male raccoon as large as a lynx haunted the compost heap. Clyde avoided him as he did the random possum and the pack rats with their leaf homes up in the woods. The humans knew of the pack rats since they were stealing Leggos and pop-it beads from the kids. In an afternoon woodland foray the family had stumbled over a high mound of leaves, obviously an intentional construction. Picking it apart with a stick revealed a cache of shiny and colorful items pilfered from the yard. Other critters lurking the hills were evil jays, very fearsome red tailed hawks, and great hovering buzzards who arrived in groups, attracted by the offal from Lettie’s butchery. Through the months Clyde rebuilt his pride and learned the ways of the free, adapting with a growing enjoyment of his liberty yet never straying far from those daily distributions of cracked corn and scraps on the compost.
For Clyde, Stoutheart was another matter. This ugly yet friendly character was a mutt, the random result of many generations with no pedigree. His coat was terrier, the face indeterminate, his legs the wrong size for his body, and a tail straight out of a long line of German Shepherds who had sent it down to him with no consideration for his smaller size and flawed body. Stoutheart was a funny looking dog with no breeding and no training. His love of sheep had found him permanently at the end of a rope, lonely and alert, but comforted by a large, safe doghouse filled with soft, insulating straw. And it was to this dog with his protective house and his friendly manner that Clyde turned as the winter waned cold.
It was early in the evening on the night of the first frost that Clyde and Stoutheart became friends. Clyde had pecked lightly at his own dinner and hunted for better fare --- a slow green caterpillar never to fledge to a brown moth, an earthworm deluded by a leaking hose bib into surfacing only to be plucked, and a wobbling dung beetle, found not to be at all tasty due to it’s unpleasant love of manure. He had hunted his way around to the front yard and as he got there Stoutheart whined a bit, then wagged his tail slowly and seductively, with a drifting of fur, like a branch covered in delicious army worms cleaning bare the leaves.
Stoutheart lay on the ground, seeming more diminutive, tail now still, and smiling at Clyde. Prancing towards this odd dog, Clyde snuffed the fur with that meaty scent reminiscent of rich middens, then confident of his height and fierce talons, he gently pecked at Stoutheart’s ear. The dog only smiled and offered the other ear. Small creatures had been annoying that ear and it occurred to him that Clyde could be a tender, plucking the nasty mites that pestered him He inclined his head towards a dish filled with chunky, tasty kibble. Clyde, inflamed with superiority, pecked into the dish, selecting only the smaller pieces. Who would want those huge chunks, sweet smelling but too big to eat? Having satisfied his craw, Clyde bent his backward knees and sat. He tentatively pecked a bit from the fur and finding no resistance, closed his eyes and slept.
The next morning Lettie came to refresh the kibble, carrying in her other hand a rasher of cracked corn for Clyde. Stunned she yelled “Ronny, come see this. Ronny, come out quick.” Her husband, still in a mustard colored terry cloth robe and unraveling slipper socks, opened the front door. Lettie said “These two are sleeping in the dog house! Clyde and Stoutheart are sleeping together.” With the noise the embarrassed rooster had flapped back to the yard while the mutt waited for his morning feed.
“So this is what happens to barnyard rejects” Ronny quipped.
And it was so. Not exactly lions and lambs, but certainly this was a broader spread for biology with a dog and a chicken becoming companions.
The slovenly mutt was not without charm. He was gentle with the rooster, whom he considered to be his personal pet. Clyde was allowed his pompous glory even though Stoutheart could have used him as a snack. But the symbiotic relationship of this odd couple served both parties and eventually the carnal needs of both outcasts manifested. Lettie missed the first attempts at mating, but eventually, brooding at the window on a muddy day she saw the entire peculiar show. Clyde started it all by standing on Stoutheart’s back. Beginning with some gentle pecking he accomplished the poultry version of a caress. Then he ruffled and flapped, stepping his two legs side to side and eventually buried that tiny part of himself previously reserved for the insemination of chicken eggs, deep into Stoutheart’s fur. Throwing his head back there was a spasm, and that was followed with a tall, rich crowing, a resonant expression of a rooster’s pure pleasure.
Stoutheart bore all this well, amused by both the oddness and theatrical nature of the act. He waited until Clyde had settled back to the ground, expecting to finalize with a short nap. Quietly Stoutheart licked his own raw looking, pink penis and then, after some very delicate scrunching into position, plunged it into rooster feathers. Being somewhat larger then the rooster, he was humped up uncomfortably but effectively, and vibrating his hind end found his own gratification on the bird. Having briefly but happily been a sexual being, he lay down next to Clyde and napped. And so the relationship had truly started.
Lettie eventually observed it all. The clandestine matings within the dog house, the sudden hops aboard in the middle of the yard, she watched it and learned. Brooding on the need that all animals have for companionship and sexual expression, she logged the knowledge as it resurfaced in future barnyard affairs. Sheep and goat, donkey and steer, all animals when isolated from their own kind seemed to find solace in relationships with different species and when need necessary, different classes of the animal kingdom. At this point Lettie hadn’t even noted that both creatures were also both male. But for her this would later become an genuine explanation for the range (and much less peculiar) variations of human sexual behavior. As much as creatures need friends, they also need sexual partners. “We all get lonely.” Lettie pondered.
So with a pleasingly established relationship, Clyde and Stoutheart clung together through changes of seasons. Humans moved in and out of the neighborhood. The raccoon problem was solved by Stoutheart’s instinctive skill. The slugs and caterpillars were faithfully subdued by Clyde. And eventually a change came about that trembled the ground beneath these two lovers in a way the California earthquakes never could.
In mid summer, while the last begging cries of the mockingbirds were sounding through the nights and the un-watered fields were parching with heat, a lady moved into the house adjacent to Lettie. “Adjacent” in the country meant that a full acre and a small irrigation canal separated them, but nevertheless, Stoutheart knew a new human had arrived and along with that human came a dog. The smell of a nearby canine had subtly changed his feelings about Clyde much as the proximity of a fellow aristocrat would adjust the attitude of an esthete married to a gypsy. He was attuning himself for a change and the potential of meeting another male dog.
“Get the blazes out of here” screamed Lettie, adding a few obscenities since no one was in sight. Then, just as the last shout was out, Marcia ran up the lane, out of breath. Tilting her chin down, and peering upwards like Princess Diana, Marcia said “He’s mine. This is Horace.”
“Good, god, I’m sorry. I worry about the chickens and ducks. Loose dogs can be a big problem.”
Marcia, smiled, turned around and waved saying “I’ll see you later”.
Lettie and Ronny became friends with Marcia and Glenn. Like the animals, it was necessary to befriend neighbors when living at the end of a country road. Here were two dropped-out hippie couples, delighted for company in an island of pastures and forest. On Saturday nights in the summer they gathered the children and cooked chicken outdoors on Glenn’s grill. Marcia shared her recipe for eggplant Parmigiana and Lettie identified the mystery shrubs in Marcia’s yard. They also got to know the young, flossed out setter Horace, as untrained as Stoutheart, but with line breeding as a bird dog. As the relationship between the humans wove pleasant, the future of Clyde, the bold and beautiful, became precipitous.
To reciprocate for the evenings over the fire pit and the nights of Creature Features on a black and white TV, Lettie and Ronny suggested card games. “We can play at the long library table, I’ll bake oatmeal cookies --- the ones with nuts, raisins and chocolate chips --- and we have a big jug of Cribari burgundy.” Lettie’s house was warmed by a central box stove, as they burned oak and madrone woods for their heat. Marcia’s was heated with a small electric wall heater, which meant, not much at all. The big table next to the wood stove was a winter joy. Simple amusement in a big warm room was frequently laced with the cynical torts of the men, the recipe chatter of the women, and interrupted by the pleadings and questions of the children. All was peaceful until the night Marcia brought along that perky, nosy bird dog along.
It was early autumn and the Western Orioles had finished their seasonal work. In the spring they had knitted their nesting pouches with colored silk threads that Lettie had left out on a log. Two broods had been hatched and despite repeated attempts by several cats and the local raptors, they had managed to send several young spotty birds onto adulthood. The rainbow nest remained in the live oak tree hanging above the house and Lettie was coveted it.
Just after dinner on a warm, still night Marcia and Glenn came to play cards, followed by Horace. Dogs not being welcome in the house, he loped towards the goat yard, hoping to race the goats about. With the door of the house being shut and the goat yard being
insurmountable he turned to the back yard. There in their accustomed area was Stoutheart on his rope and Clyde with his freedom. A group of adult geese screeched warnings. The big red dog wasn’t welcomed and if he came close would be pinched in the belly and on the tail by these territorial birds. So he swerved from the geese and walked towards Stoutheart in the manner appropriate for newly meeting dogs. For weeks each dog had been aware of the other, hoping of a meeting. After the customary ducking of the submissive one (this being Stoutheart who was confined by a tether), they proceeded to the sniffing. Stoutheart rendered his hind section for olfaction then the big red turned and allowed a nose inspection. Horace made an indifferent tail wag, and Stoutheart expressed joy with a great twisting and bouncing of a tail nearly as long as his body. Then Horace did whatever dogs do to invite another for a run in the woods. Sadly, Stoutheart had to decline. He was on a rope. That’s when Horace began to look about for more play and it was at this point, having manifested as alpha dog, he spied Clyde.
Now this handsome rooster had been hatched by Lettie in an incubator. He had broken from a turquoise colored egg, just one of the colors laid by his breed. Hand fed and hand raised, his only exposure to life had included a few humans, an assortment of domesticated poultry, some wild mammals, and the singular dog. Stoutheart, being a dog whose only weaknesses were freedom and sheep, had remained his constant and kindly companion for a couple of years. And that was Clyde’s whole history when the big red Horace stepped into his yard.
Stoutheart himself had rarely seen another dog. Not since he had been tied down, so long ago he couldn’t quite remember, had there been an opportunity to strut his canine. He had been city raised where there’d been wonderful opportunities to pack up for the chase or to roll in delicious rot. But after that incident with the sheep farmer, where he’d been returned with the admonition “If I see this dog again, I’ll shoot him” he’d led his life on a rope. Once Lettie had taken pity and brought him into the house where he’s promptly lifted his leg on the antique treadle Singer. Forgetful of her reasoning she’d let him off the rope a time or two, wanting to give him opportunity for romping, but he’d split for the road faster than she could run. So for his own safety, he was confined. He normally did is job very well, as he was the barking protector of livestock and family.
However, here at the front of Stoutheart’s, stood a large, beautiful, red and friendly creature that smelled not of chicken feed or wild berries, but totally identifiable as one of his own kind. What a joy it was for him, what ebullient happiness resounded in his nose and through his flanks. Stoutheart slobbered with joy, his tail was in helicopter rotation, and he jumped constantly. It was as though you, a human, isolated amongst chimps and turtles for many years, had suddenly found another person, any person, there in your face. Language, size, color and sex would be of no matter. Communication and friendship would be your only object.
Meanwhile there was Clyde, who having been befriended by a dog early in his youth, was soothed by the familiarity of the visitor. Yes, it was another dog. Did he fear?, of course not. His only dog experiences had been warm ones. To Clyde dogs were for cuddles, warmth, and occasionally sexual release, so his enthusiasm for the newcomer was large. Clyde included himself as one of a threesome of the sniffing, bluffing, bragging animals. Watching the interplay between the canines Clyde made an imitative effort --- turn this way, step like that. He crowed a few time, his own imitation of barking. Not receiving sufficient notice, he strutted and flapped his wings, something that had brought him much attention amongst the ladies. But for all Clyde’s charming efforts, all his happiness for the visit, the big red was slowly awakening to the fact that Clyde was a bird. It had feathers, it smelled like corn, and it was really big, unlike other birds Horace had known. Yet it was still a bird and the deep instincts bred by centuries of hunters all through England and Ireland began to surface.
Perched between friendliness and instinct, the Red Setter began to waver. He attempted to form a pack with Stoutheart, who was eager but quite unable. Having failed at that Horace barked at Clyde. Clyde shook his wings and started to run about. Then there began a great deal of chasing, with Clyde shedding feathers, Stoutheart straining to the end of his tether, and Horace leaping freely with his eyes filled by the great rooster. And there was much chaotic barking married with rooster sounds as Clyde went “arrgggghhhh!” and “eeeekkk!!” or the rooster equivalent of such.
Back in the house the cheap burgundy had been well poured. The children were in bed, the fire was toasty, and there was some immoderate hooting and hollering as Marcia or Ronny won a hand. “Very copacetic” said Glenn. “Beat this.” Following that were shrieks and much laughing so that the ruckus in the farmyard was no more noticeable than the winter wind blowing through the live oak outside the window. Glenn continued “Pass the cookies. I like the chocolate chips with the oatmeal.”
Somewhere in the rushing about Clyde realized that this wasn’t fun. Horace had briefly chomped a wing in his jaws, and although a shake had dislodged it, he was aiming at another bite. Clyde flew up (six feet high for a few moments was his limit) and landed by Stoutheart for support. But the tied dog, faithless and no longer interested, only sought to stir up more play with Horace. He had determined that the red dog was his friend and now the silly chicken was of no matter to him. And that’s when the scene turned to true violence, an episode of murder without remorse aided by a false-hearted Stoutheart. There was crunching and blood, feathers strewn about, and a generally disgusting result for what began as play.
It was well past 1:00AM when Marcia and Glenn fumbled the door handle, walking (or maybe stumbling) onto the gravel of the lane. “Horace, sweetie” yelled Marcia, and the big red arrived in that ever fresh way a happy bird dog has of celebrating his deeds. The guests went home, lights were turned off, the farmyard was quiet.
In the morning, Lettie began by milking the two goats followed by feeding the chickens. She carried the dog’s ration and a can of cracked corn to the dog house and it was then she found the carnage. Opalescent tail feathers, small pointed red feathers, feathers of cream with fine black stripes all lay in the chaos. In the middle was Clyde, limp and inelegant. Lettie had never given the other rooster a name. He and all his lady friends were known just as chickens, having no distinctive personalities. But Clyde with his peculiar friendship and the freedom to strut his stuff outside the house, had been the source of many dinner table jokes as well as pride for his owners.
Out of respect Clyde was spared from the stew pot and given a proper burial. Lettie had saved a fistful of feathers which she wove into a wall decoration, as a memorial. Next to the weaving she hung the Oriole’s nest, dropped from the tree with a single rifle shot. The evening card games continued but Marcia was invited to leave Horace at home as the sight of him brought sadness and worries about the rest of the stock. It’s a sad story, but as Clyde always said in his best moments, “Cur-cu-cu-cu-rooooooo!
No comments:
Post a Comment