Arthur almost gets a squirrel

Arthur just might be able to catch a squirrel, if it is a baby squirrel.

I found that out this morning.

Mark and I were sitting at our kitchen table after breakfast where we have a view of our driveway and the garden and woods beside our house. Mark was reading the news on his iPad and I was playing Lumosity, trying to keep my wits sharp, and not doing a very good job at it.

“Arthur doesn’t even see that squirrel,” Mark said. Arthur, who was in the near vicinity of a squirrel on the driveway. He never allows a squirrel to be in the yard without a chase. If he’s inside looking out at the squirrels, who scavenge bird-feeder droppings on our front porch, he starts barking. “Do you want to get the squirrel?” I’ll say. And Arthur races for the front door, taking the turns around the staircase on three legs. He’s never going to catch a squirrel, but he doesn’t know that.

This morning, I couldn’t see Arthur on the driveway from where I sat, but I could hear him barking. I stood up, went to the door, and saw this baby squirrel on our wind wall post.

“Oh no. Arthur’s got the squirrel trapped,”I said. I thought it was cute because I never believed for a minute this would end with a satisfying result for Arthur, but he was revved up by the chase.

I did what I always do, reached for my camera, stepped outside, and started shooting.

This clearly wasn’t good enough for Arthur. He was going in.

So close. Just not….quite….close….enough.

Meanwhile, the assumed parent squirrel could only wait and hope as he or she watched from a nearby tree.

Arthur darted in and around the post trying to find a way to access the squirrel. Clearly this baby was terrified.

That’s enough, I thought. I’ve got to get Arthur away.

Easier said than done. There was no way this undisciplined little canine was going to come when I called. I was afraid to approach the squirrel for fear it would panic and get itself into a more vulnerable position. That was exactly what happened.

It jumped to the bushes, fell to the ground, back to the bushes, back on the post, then repeated with Arthur inches behind it. Finally the squirrel gave up on the post and tried to make a run for it. Arthur chased it behind the bushes beside the house. The squirrel passed by a tree that could have saved it, and continued on to the porch with Arthur and me, my camera dangling from the strap around my neck, in hot pursuit.

Arthur had the little guy cornered against the wall of the porch. And I could see all the games we played with his toy squirrel had trained him well for the darting, pawing, and biting he was attempting.

I didn’t think, but merely reacted when it looked like Arthur had his prey. I lunged for Arthur and landed full force on my bad knee on the cold hard concrete, banging the lens of my camera against the concrete in the process. But I bought the squirrel enough time to make it to the boxwood bushes where the chase continued. I watched helplessly, sitting on the cold concrete, yelling for Mark.

Mark came and had no better luck than I at grabbing Arthur, but much better luck at not injuring himself during the chase. Finally, the little squirrel jumped to the tulip tree at the corner of the house and achieved relative safety. Mark helped me up and eventually managed to lure Arthur away from the hunt with pieces of cooked chicken.

I didn’t know if Arthur had injured the baby squirrel until I saw it a few minutes later with the parent.

Baby looked fine as far as I could see. Arthur was never thanked by the squirrels for his role in the valuable lesson in vigilance, awareness, and evasion. And I will be icing my knee today.

Someone’s crying

Three years ago today, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. This is the post I wrote the day after. Today I am remembering a moment towards the end of her days when she was at Hospice. I never had a lot of time to have the heart-to-heart conversation with her that I yearned for. Things were moving too fast; I was too busy with Dad, and Mom was too sick. But on this afternoon, for the minutes she was awake, I leaned over her bed and said, “I’m going to have to find a way to talk to you.” She said, “Yes, you will.” Then I cried the tears I tried so hard to hide from her. She reached up with both of her arms and cupped my face between her two hands, giving me a lifetime of gratitude and love, a million words of goodbye, in one moment I will cherish forever.

Christine M. Grote

On Thursday night I heard my mother stir and I rose from my bed on the floor in the corner of her room and hurried to her side.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she roused from the deep sleep she had been in all day.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom.”

“Someone’s crying,” she said.

In my mom’s 78 years on this planet, I imagine she heard and answered a lot of someones crying.  In the 1950s through the 1970s she was raising five children who had been born within six years, including my sister Annie who was extremely disabled.  I suspect there were a lot of times someone was crying.

Even as we grew older we were sometimes crying: me coming home from college carrying a basket of laundry when a relationship ended; a long-distance phone call to speak of a loved one who died; a conversation about one thing or the…

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Delving deeper into memories

My post yesterday sent me off on a tangent about memory.

I wrote about what I do remember on the day of my first confession, but there is a lot missing that I do not remember about that event.

I have no memory of my actual first confession, at least not one that stands out from other confessions I made during my childhood. I have lumped all my experiences of Catholic penance into one image of kneeling in a small dark room, hearing a small window-sized barrier slide open and a priest’s voice. I can’t remember what the various priests said over the course of my confessions.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” I seem to have successfully retained as my appropriate response. I don’t remember the multitude of offenses I confessed to. I do remember there were big sins and smaller sins which fell into the two categories of venial and another name I can’t recall. I also didn’t remember if venial referred to the bigger sins like murder and theft until I Googled it. “According to Roman Catholicism, a venial sin (meaning “forgivable” sin) is a lesser sin that does not result in a complete separation from God and eternal damnation,” (Wikipedia). Maybe that’s why I don’t recall the name for the really big sins. I only committed smaller sins like fighting with a sibling or telling a white lie. If there is such a thing.

I also remember sitting on a hard pew and praying the Our Fathers and Hail Marys I was assigned as penance.

On the day of my first confession, I have no idea what happened afterwards. Did I go back to my own school? Did I go home? How did I get there? It’s a complete black hole. I don’t remember telling my mother what had happened, although I’m sure I did. And most importantly, I don’t remember her response. I wish I could.

I read recently that we can delve deeper into our memories and bring back details. I’ve never made a conscious effort to do so, and don’t exactly know how. Although I have to admit that I had to concentrate to bring back details for the scenes in my memoirs. But most of those were easily accessible. I suspect a little Googling might lend some guidance.

I get a little scared when I think about uncovering memories I haven’t sifted and sorted through as an adult. I don’t really know if it’s possible. If I tried, either I would discover things I had forgotten, taking me back to a time and place that no longer exists, or I would resurface empty-handed. Either way, it is a little unsettling to think about.

You’ll be the first to know.

 

 

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