Duckling Voyeurism

Who knew that moving to the prairie would bring out the voyeur in me, but so it has turned out. I am addicted to baby ducks and am frequently seen slamming on my van brakes, apparently quite randomly, but in reality I am only observing another little family. Yesterday I went out driving for the purpose of finding as many ducklings to photograph as possible. Since I had my sister's camera and all....

However, while many people would be glad to be photographed by such a distinguished photographer as myself, it turns out that as a species ducks don't care much for portraiture. Stupid ducks. It didn't help that when I spotted a family I had to stop the car, put it in park, unbuckle, turn on the camera, take the lens cap off, open the door, shove dogs back inside, and dash over to the edge of the road. All simultaneously. By the time I got there, the ducks were on the other side of the pond sticking their little duck tongues out at me.



This is the best shot I've gotten so far of little ducklings motor boating across the water. They are so light that when they are scared they almost run across the top of the pond.


An example of the rare Duck Dachshund.



These ducklings had gotten separated from the family group above.


A parting shot.

Death in the Long Grass

Yesterday my mom and sister came out to go for a Sabbath nature ride. Not my sister Noni, the other one, the one with black and white fur. Noni was unable to join us because she had company, but I was consoled from the lack of her company by the presence of her camera. It was almost as if she were with us, only I didn't have to share lens time.

We drove around for a while, but the dogs were finding the business of riding slightly less than inspiring and were bugging to get out. We went to Writing Rock park thinking no one would be there, but someone was having a barbecue and I felt it likely that they wouldn't think three stinky, crazy dogs were an asset to the process.

After a brief break to take some pictures from the summit of one of the highest hills around that area, I got back into the car, nearly deafened from the high-pitched whining.

"It stinks in here!"

"Open the windows!"

"I'm bored!"

Clearly, a break was needed ASAP, so I drove just down the road before stopping to let the dogs out. As soon as I did, Jackie, the Beautiful Border Collie, climbed onto my lap so she could be the first one out. Not to be outfoxed by that fiendish black and white usurper, Finley wormed his way up too, until Jackie was fully on top of him in some sort of canine, well, dog pile.

I opened the door, ruing my decision to wear shorts as a torrent of sharp-clawed hounds poured over my lap and out the door. Poor Jackie was torn between her desire to dash madly over the countryside and her devotion to duty. That would be the duty of herding poor Finley's enticing ears. She compromised by running in short bursts before circling back and crashing with a business-like air into Finley's side.






I think at night, when Finley lies sleeping, his paws twitching and eager whimpers coming from his muzzle, that he's dreaming about his life pre-Jacqueline Hyde. Back when he could run freely, his ears waving in carefree abandon over fields of prairie grass.Now all he has the heart to do is plod along while Jackie stalks with grim determination by his side. There will be no fluffy ear-waving on her watch. No, SIR!

When it was time to go, Jackie leaped into the car, tongue lolling, and a happy grin on her face. There's nothing so smug as a border collie who knows she has done her job and done it well. Poor Finley. He wishes she'd get a new hobby!

Mom was particularly fond of the view where we stopped and had me take a picture. It is very pretty here in the summer, nice and green with rolling hills and a constantly changing sky. But she was saying something about mosquitoes the size of Percherons.


Here are a few other photos that I took yesterday.

Westby Burning

Last night, after dropping my mom and the kids off post-swim trip, Laura and I were startled to see that a rather large change was taking place in downtown Westby. We'd heard that afternoon that someone had purchased two of the abandoned buildings and was planning to tear them down, but when we turned onto the main street we discovered they weren't wasting any time about it!
A large crowd, by Westby standards, was gathered to watch the demolition of part of the town's history. One building was in flames and the other was being ripped apart by a large tractor. From an unemotional standpoint, it was about time that something was done with the buildings. They were safety hazards full of rusted metal, broken glass, rotted wood, and feral cats. When I first visited the town I remember being surprised that they were allowed to sit there in that condition when there were foolish kids around town that could get injured there (read: Devon).

But in the year that I've lived here, I've come to better understand why things are left as they are for so long. Hard to explain, but I'll do my best. I moved several times in childhood, as did my grandparents during my parents' growing up years. We never had a PLACE, a homespot that cradled our family's history, at least not like if we'd all grown up in the same town, generation after generation.

As a result, we carry our memories with us. We lug around old movies, slides, photo albums, and mementos of times that have long since passed. But here people's memories are still standing in buildings where their family and friends, many of them gone forever, laughed, moved, and lived. As long as the buildings stand, crumbling and moldering though they may be, the memories live, too.



So last night, as the tractor ripped large chunks off of the old Chevy dealership, Randy didn't see a safety hazard going down, he saw his grandfather, who had built the building. He saw his boyhood, in the 60's Cold War era, during which the basement was the town fallout shelter. It was his history, his memories being demolished.






And as Irene, an incredibly spry 99 year-old woman, watched the old cafe burning, it wasn't some random building that had outlived its usefulness and must fall to progress. It was her girlhood, the young, beautiful woman she used to be, the people she loved, and the town she grew up in.

Now, I'm not arguing against progress. I like it as much as the next person. But I freely admit that there is no way any outsider can truly understand how much these old landmarks mean to this community. And I think it's important to acknowledge that, and not minimize the sadness that "progress" can sometimes bring.

That said, I think it was cool how the flames reflected in the doors of the post office across the street, giving the appearance of a raging inferno directly behind oblivious spectators.

Swimming at Skjermo

Yesterday we took the kids on the first swimming trip of the year. (excepting my microscopic foray into Polar Bear Club territory). It's already July, but this is the first time any rational adult has been moved to take them because the weather has been to cold and rainy. But the last 2 days of June saw us with our first heat wave, with temperatures all the way up into the 90's.

That's not impressive by California standards, and usually it's not that impressive out here either, but this time there had been no build up. It climbed 20 degrees from one day to the next and everybody felt it. The first day of the heat wave we were all too busy to go swimming so we made plans to go the next evening.

However, as is typical of our family, we were a day late and a dollar short to the party. By the time we left, the heat wave had broken and a refreshing breeze had picked up. Less inspirational as swimming weather, but we were determined to have our fun anyway.

Around 6:00 at night Montana time, we all piled into the car and headed to the nearby lake that Laura and I had spent time camping at last summer during our brief foray into homelessness. It's a really nice lake and was already filling up with 4th of July traffic, but the people were nice and everyone had a great time.

All we brought for swimming fun was a leaky inner tube, a creaky Grandma/Mom, and a whiny English Springer Spaniel that didn't really want to swim, but didn't really want me swimming without him. In case he had to rescue me or something. Eye-roll! But the friendly lake people had a raft and paddle boat that they shared with the kids. I went for an extremely short trip since Finley found it a very suspicious and dangerous undertaking and was pulling my mom into the lake in order to get to me.




I tried to get a fun photo of the kids jumping with carefree abandon into the lake, but my trigger finger was off, and they absolutely refused to stay suspended in air to give me a better chance. All I got was a series of images of them right before they jumped, right after they went in the water, or in Damon's case, as he sat in the air. I give up on them as models!

I tried to join my mom as she chatted up the nice people loaning the kids their equipment. Finley and I went over there and had introductions all round, but after a moment one of the ladies crinkled her nose up and said, "Where's that skunk smell coming from?" Sigh. Being the mother of Nimrod, the Mighty Skunk Hunter is a lonely life.

If you saw a blinding white flash in the sky last night, it wasn't a UFO, it was the combined whiteness of mine and my mom's pasty legs. I tried to take a picture, but it doesn't do us justice. The camera compensated for the lack of color as if it was sure, in its little computer-chip heart, that there was no biological source known to man for legs of that color and there must be a mistake somewhere.


After a suitable length of time in the eyes of the adults, and like two seconds in the eyes of the kids, we packed up and headed home. It was nice to take a break from the unending round of work that claims my attention so much of the time. I may have to do it again!

Alfred Hitchcock's "The Bird"

For those of you who don't know, Alfred Hitchcock was a famous director of suspense thrillers over a career spanning a half century. One of his most famous films (at least to me, since it's one of the only ones I've seen) was the 1963 film "The Birds". In the movie, birds of all species suddenly mass and attack humans for no good reason. And only in one spot on the Pacific Coast. Don't ask me why I was allowed to see it, since I am very sensitive to horror or suspense, to the point where I don't even watch commercials for scary movies, but I was, and now look with narrowed gaze at any large gathering of birds.

Don't get me wrong, I like birds in general, but there's the odd one that can strike terror in my heart. We now have such a one.

The bird that Laura so innocently welcomed into our home only 2 1/2 weeks ago(note to self: many scary movies begin this way...next time be afraid, be very afraid) has become a Japanese-city consuming behemoth, at least in terms of appetite size and emotional neediness.

She can fly and catch her own bugs, if only when her security humans are nearby, and we have done the proper thing and released her back into the wild. Several times per day, in fact. Soon we hear the inevitable cry, "Peep! Peep! Peep!" She waits in the tree outside the door and flies down onto the head of whomever happens to set foot outside. If we try to leave, she flies onto the van. If we go for a walk, she walks down the driveway after us. No matter where we are, we can hear her constant peeping.

To further complicate matters, there is one mammal on the property that finds all of this absolutely entrancing. Poppy, our orange tabby, slightly alien in appearance, but a vicious hunter underneath, would like nothing better than to be the one at the door when the bird decides to land on someone.

When I take the bird hunting flies in the house, I'll often look down and see a little orange moon-face watching with lip-smacking interest. Always discreet, and upon discovery, with an air of studied disinterest as if she was passing through and happened to sit under the bird by merest accident. But I am not fooled.

Maybe it's only the fantasy of a desperate mind, but I *think* the bird is getting a little wilder and independent these past few days. I hope so! I don't want to bird-sit for 8 months this winter if she decides that flying south for the winter is too much of a bother for a bird of such discerning tastes.

Get me outta this stinkin' fresh air!

No Thanks on Your Help With the Title Selection

Both Noni and my mom had helpful little suggestions for this post's title. Noni suggested the alliterative title, "Blood....in the Bathroom". My mom's was even cheerier. She wanted "Rest in Pieces", because by the time they do the rabies testing on the dog, it won't necessarily be quite as intact as it started out. Thanks for the offers of help. I'll have my people get back to you if I decide to use your ideas. Don't call me, I'll call you.

It all happened this way....

Laura decided to start a dog walking business. She lined up a job, picked up her first client, a fat little Westie, and stopped off at my parents' house to let me know she was headed out. Very responsible. Only problem was my parents' very aggressive-with-other-dogs 130 pound German Shepherd was right by the door. Terribly excited by a close-up look at that enticing little bit of white fluff, she lunged at the latched storm door, burst it open, and hurtled down the driveway at the Westie.

I was right behind, but she'd already latched on by the time I got there. Immediately calculating the risks, I thrust my two hands into the Shepherd's mouth and tried to pry her jaws open. Her grip was too strong, and it took several tries before I caught her right at a moment when she shifted slightly to get a better grip. Meanwhile, Laura was screaming, and the menfolk were rapidly approaching.

Only seconds had gone by, though it seemed an eternity at the time. The Shepherd was taken and chained in the back yard. I took a moment to run in and rinse my hands and clamp on some toilet paper, then dashed back out to take care of poor little Muffins. She had 3 puncture wounds readily apparent, though the vet found 5 total, and was bloody.

I took her in my parents' house to try to clean her up before presenting her to the owners that had sent her trustingly off about 8 minutes before, but have you ever tried to clean bright red blood off of a Westie? Didn't go so well, let me tell you. I finally gave up and took her over. She was rushed down to Williston to the vet, but she'll be fine, which I'm VERY thankful for.

Hannah, the German Shepherd was not so lucky, since it was immediately decided to have her put down. My mom and I took her in, and I stayed with her while the sedatives took effect. I didn't feel bad because she had to be put down, because she truly wasn't a safe dog to keep, but anytime you have to face death in an up-close-and-personal way, you can't help but feel how unnatural it really is. It was never God's plan that we should have to experience the separation of death, and I look forward to the time when that ugly intruder will no longer be a part of our lives.

Laura had a very hard time with the intense tragedy that so quickly overwhelmed her pastoral attempts at entrepreneurship. One minute she's walking a cute little dog, the next it's on the way to the ER, and another dog is on its way to the electric chair. Hard for anyone, but she is now doing better at accepting that it really wasn't her fault.

Oh, and as to what happened to me, I go into the clinic tomorrow to get a tetanus shot, then I wait the almost certain clear result of the rabies test to determine whether I need those shots as well. I have 2 punctures on my fingers and some slicing cuts on some of the others. It could have been a lot worse, and Hannah never intended to bite me; what else can happen when you shove your hands down the throat of an attacking behemoth? My hands are a tad sore however, and I am realizing how much they are actually good for. Quite a lot, really!

(If you felt like it, you could take a moment and note the different sizes of my two middle fingers.)

Driveway Ducklings

One of the first duck families I saw this year.

Last summer I saw one set of ducklings. The rest stayed safely hidden away in the towering grasses and reeds of the prairie sloughs. This year everything is different. As has been mentioned a time or two, this has been a somewhat dampish spring and the water is high. One additional result of all this water is the grass has never been able to keep pace with the rise of the water. Sloughs that were mere puddles choked with reeds before are large, glassy pools.

The ducks nest anyway, and their babies are finally hatching in the last couple of weeks. I suppose it is bad news for the ducklings, because they're much more exposed to predators this year, but it's been such fun for me to watch all of them. The first family I saw was right at dusk and all I could make out was the silhouette of the world's first dachshund duck. It had a normal size duck head, but its body stretched out behind is a good extra foot. Since then, I have seen baby water fowl of every variety. Except maybe coots. They've had a hard time of it.

Coots nest by raking together pond flotsam, and while there was LOTS of that this year, there were no reeds to shelter their fragile structures from the wild winds. I know of one determined coot that's rebuilt her nest about 10 times now. I hope she succeeds in the end, because she's certainly put in the effort!

My most favority part of all this is a cluster of baby ducks that hatched in the swamp alongside my own driveway. They are so cute, but I do have to keep Ferocious Finley, the Duck Destroyer inside most of the time now. I don't need him proudly retrieving a bunch of little dead ducklings and expecting me to be happy! I would be very cranky.