Thursday, September 14, 2006, 07:06

Gettin' Outta Dodge

At first it was only one. A lone goose, flying south.

Then a day or two later, it was a flock of geese flying south.

And then another flock.

And another.

"Have you seen all the geese flying south?" Randy remarked early one evening when were out in the yard and yet another flock was flying over.

"Yes," I said. "I have. And it seems awfully early, too."

Randy looked up at the flock of geese. "I wonder if they know something we don't know?"

"You mean, like gettin' outta Dodge while the gettin' is good?" I asked. "Like rats abandoning a sinking ship?"

"Something like that," Randy said.

I don't really remember the geese leaving quite this early in previous years. Perhaps, though, they are merely leaving early because of the low water supply, just as most of the other birds around here left early for what I assume was the same reason.

Either way, hearing the mournful honking of the geese and seeing them flying overhead makes me feel sad. Migrating geese are a sure sign that summer is over.

Looking outside Wednesday, though, you wouldn't think the end of summer was so near. Bright sunshine. Deep blue sky. Warm. A brilliant, gorgeous, jewel of a day. The kind of day you wished would stick around for a month or two.

The kind of day that when I was coming back from interviewing one of the state's four Teachers of the Year and I saw my sister-in-law and great-nephew out for a walk, enjoying the warmth and the sunshine, I had to stop and get out of my little truck and visit with them for a couple of minutes.

The kind of day that I didn't mind sitting outside on a hard, plastic chair, waiting for a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new museum dedicated to science and technology and built by the generous $1.9 million donation of a 95-year-old man who was involved with inventing the flight data recorder and who designed heart valves for Dr. Christiaan Barnard.

The kind of day when you really hope you won't see any more geese flying over.

LeAnn R. Ralph

Tuesday, September 12, 2006, 07:20

One Tough Cookie

I was sitting by the table around noon on Sunday, putting together some letters to send out about our church dinner on Sept. 24 when I looked out the window in time to see my little black kitty cat, Juliette, trotting in the driveway with a chipmunk in her mouth.

"Oh, goodie," I said to my husband, Randy. "Juliette has a chipmunk."

I went outside.

"Hi, Juliette!" I said.

Juliette looked up at me. "Meow!" she said.

Of course, when Juliette opened her mouth to say 'hello' she dropped the chipmunk.

It was, I saw, a baby chipmunk.

And it was still alive.

I grabbed the scruff of Juliette's neck.

"Run!" I said.

The baby chipmunk started making his way toward the trees. That's when Charlie spied him.

"NO!" I shouted. "Sit! Stay! RANDY COME OUT HERE!"

My husband came out of the house on the run.

"It's a baby chipmunk," I said.

"Sit! Stay!" he told Charlie. He slowly and carefully shepherded the chipmunk toward the trees.

The little guy climbed a tree, I let go of Juliette, and after that, Randy spent a couple of minutes chasing Juliette around to throw her off the scent.

Unfortunately, it didn't work.

After I had gone back in the house and started on my letters again, I looked up in time to see Charlie with the baby chipmunk.

I knew if Charlie had hold of the little thing, that was the end for the chipmunk. There was no way, I knew, that Charlie had not delivered the killing bite. Charlie is the friendliest, happiest-go-lucky dog in the world. But he is also a hunter.

"Great," I said. "Charlie has the chipmunk now."

When Randy went outside, Charlie dropped the chipmunk. Randy bent over to look at him and then picked up the unfortunate creature by the tail, carried him over to the bank and tossed him into the bushes.

If only the little guy had gotten out on a small twig where Juliette couldn't reach him, I knew he would still be alive now. But obviously he hadn't gotten out on a twig. And obviously Juliette had climbed the tree to get him. And obviously Charlie had been waiting below.

Wouldn't you just know it. I thought the baby chipmunk would be safe once he had climbed the tree, but he wasn't. And now he was dead.

I don't really know why I was so worried about a baby chipmunk, except that he was awfully cute, and he WAS just a baby, plus we seem to not have very many chipmunks around here. Several large bulls snakes and/or pine snakes live behind the rocks in the bank across the road, and I think they might have something to do with the lack of chipmunks.

Feeling absolutely rotten that I hadn't done more to save the baby chipmunk's life, I went back to my letters. A few minutes later, I looked up -- and who should I see trotting across the yard but Juliette -- with the baby chipmunk in her mouth.

"Well," I said, "for crying out loud. Juliette went and found the poor little thing."

I knew the chipmunk was dead, though, so what was the use of going out to rescue him again?

A few minutes later, I finished my letters and decided I ought to go outside and make sure that the horses had enough water. It was a gray, cloudy, misty day, and I didn't think the horses would be out of water. You never know, though, with a thing like that, and it doesn't hurt to check.

As soon as I walked out the door, I saw the four cats sitting in a circle in the east side yard by the bird feeder.

I went over to investigate.

And couldn't believe my eyes.

The baby chipmunk was sitting in the middle of four cats -- and he was still alive!

I ran back to the house.

"The baby chipmunk is still alive!" I said to Randy as I grabbed my leather haying gloves and ran back outside.

"Shoo-shoo!" I said to the cats. I bent over and picked up the tiny creature, put him in the palm of one hand and covered him with the other.

The poor little baby sat still for a moment, then he hid his head underneath my thumb in the space between my thumb and forefinger.

Just then, Randy came outside with his leather welding gloves on.

"We have to find someplace where the cats can't get him again," I said.

Randy thought for a moment. "Let's take him up in the pines," he said.

We crossed the road, climbed the bank and went up into the big pines.

"But where can we put him?" I said.

"Follow me," Randy said. "Remember the brush pile from when we trimmed some trees?"

At the edge of the pines is a brush pile made up of twigs and branches.

When we reached the brush pile, Randy cleared a small opening in the bottom.

I set the baby chipmunk by the brush pile. He hesitated for a second, then he scurried to the pile and burrowed underneath the twigs and branches.

"He'll be safe there," I said. "The cats won't be able to get a hold of him in there."

I have no idea if the baby chipmunk ultimately survived his ordeal of being captured by a cat, then a dog, then given up for dead and thrown over the bank, then being captured by a cat again and then sitting in a circle of four adult cats who were taking turns nudging him with their paws -- not to mention me picking him up and carrying him across the road.

But I certainly can say one thing for him -- that baby chipmunk was one tough little cookie.

More Work -- I started a new job on Monday. Part-time staff reporter for a local newspaper. Started out at full tilt, too. A feature story on a new marketing campaign started by the Chamber of Commerce and a school board meeting in the evening. Both stories needed to be sent to the newspaper Tuesday morning. One thing about being a writer is that it is a solitary occupation. Working for the newspaper will get me out and about more.

LeAnn R. Ralph