Suburban safari

Did you know a group of skunks is called a Surfeit? An overabundance of things. Other names, according to the Wild West Web, include an “Array” (referring to how families sleep in a den) and a “Stench,” which seems rather rude if not oafishly obvious.

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This is what went through my mind when I saw the low-slung mass of fur crossing the road ahead of me. I slowed, frantically checking my mirrors to determine whether the car following closely behind had noticed my caution. Then I stopped, completely, while continuing to monitor the rearview mirror for signs that the driver reflected in it would try to inch around me.

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My inner voice hammered loudly in my head: Where are the caution flashers? Switch on the flashers!

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I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first: at a distance, it seemed to be some strange kind of fur snake, but up close, I could tell it was a mama skunk slowly bringing a train of six kits across the abnormally unbusy two-lane road.

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Which is why I felt mostly safe coming to a full stop so as to let the animals cross to the other side.

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I saw the other driver relax when the parade I was witnessing finally processed past the edge of my bumper and into his field of vision.

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I could tell from his expression he’d never seen anything like this either, and he was no longer perplexed by my maneuvering.

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I haven’t always been so lucky. Well, I have been lucky, but the Gaze of raccoons that wandered into the path of my car late one night in the summer of 1991 left their mark on my psyche forever.

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Truly, every bump I’ve felt under a tire after catching a glimpse of a hop-toad or a chipmunk, or a zig-zagging squirrel in the glare of my headlights has etched themselves indelibly on my soul.

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Which is probably why I’ve tried to think about all of the other wildlife encounters I’ve witnessed (joyfully) while on my “commuter safari.”

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The turtle I helped cross the road near school.

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The pair of rabbits that seemed to greet each other in the crosswalk in town.

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The fox twins playing near an alleyway in the city.

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The moose, moseying in the median somewhere on I-95.

Oh, and I nearly forgot the red-tailed hawk that dropped its dinner - a furry little package I assumed was a field rodent - on my windshield as I cruised home one evening on 787. … probably slipped my mind because I felt bad for the mouse.

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Finally, there was the solo white-tailed deer that leapt straight up, landing safely and soundly on a rock ledge six or seven feet above the sheer slate wall that bordered the roadway. At the time – the fall of 2018 – it seemed miraculous.

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Of course, it’s not a marvel … it’s just multiplication.

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As we meander around and carve new pathways into nature, nature has no choice to meet us on the road.

Baby, sit

The puppy is still cute.

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In the 21 days we’ve known him, he’s spent about nine of them asleep.

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But now his wide-awake hours are expanding exponentially.

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He barks at his toys when he’s happy. He barks when the cat won’t play with him. He barks in his sleep. Otherwise, he quietly studies us as if he were a mad scientist in a past life.

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The things we need to pay attention to include:

Poo on the carpet.

Pee on the woodstove plate.

Piranha puppy teeth on electronics charging cords.

Juggling the knowledge that our “feral” cat will just as soon eviscerate him for merely gazing upon her beautiful face, while our super sweet, loveable cat – the one with the fast parasympathetic nervous system – will resign herself to his use of her as an unwitting lounge chair with barely a me-OWW.

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We have been working on our consistency.

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We clean up his mistakes without comment.

We praise his triumphs with excitement and treats.

We replace the things he shouldn’t chew on with things that are his to tear to pieces.

And we remove him from the cat and bring him to the furnishings where he’s allowed to languish.

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Our repetitive interventions are beginning to feel like a workout.

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But I don’t remember ever loving any puppy this much. I’m sure I must have, I’d just forgotten the feeling that comes over you when a bundle of fluff high-steps into the room like a miniature pony, grabs his favorite toy, and then drags it around the room in zoom-y-circles until he abruptly collapses into a faux nap on the rug.

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He hasn’t learned his name. Or how to beg. Or the names of words we hope he will one day love: Like “dinner,” and “walk,” and “treat,” and “outside.”

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The only word we’re confident he knows is “sit.”

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I can see it register in his eyes as he looks up at me as I mouth the word, and he lowers his haunches.

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I hand over the treat to his soft mouth.

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I hung a set of bells on the door that leads into the fenced backyard, and of his own volition, he has begun to ring them when he needs or wants to go out.

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We were hoping he’d be a dog-door candidate, since we have one, and the last few animals would rather have a root canal than let a door flap swap them on the backside.

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He’s halfway there. We let him out the bell door, and he lets himself back inside by the flap.

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It occurs to me that he may be training us, as we always get up to lurch over him with a humorously macabre sounding “You rang?”

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Perhaps it’s just the timing. We are ready to welcome this mini multiplier of uncomplicated joy because so much around us has felt like unnecessary hardship.

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This pup is a breath of fresh air.

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Even the long-suffering cat, who has met all of his shenanigans with soft paws and softer squawks, has shown she has a sense of humor, too. Last night, while we were chilling out on the couch, Kitty just walked right on over and sat smack dab on top of him.

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I swear, she was smiling.

Some like it hot

Some like it hot.

Not me, though. I live for layers. Sweaters, sweatshirts, long sleeves? It’s possible that my semi-annual wardrobe “change-over” - where I drag the summer tote bin from the closet and swap the clothes inside with the winter togs from my dresser - is almost too subtle to be noticed as having taken place at all by the other folks who live in my household.

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“Oh look, mom is wearing her summer parka,” scoffs my son, to which my daughter laughingly responds: “I win the pool! I said we’d see the summer scarves just before the fourth of July.”

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“If she were to go where the weather suits her clothes, she’d have to live in the ice box,” rejoins my husband. “Hey, do we have any Popsicles left?”

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My eyes float into a standard upward gaze before their lids flutter back down and squeeze tightly closed. “You laugh, but it’s hard to go from the weather-lessness of the house, the outdoor world’s over, to the arctic chill of the indoors world.”

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Thing is, I’m not sure how to gauge this heatwave. I can barely compare it to my childhood. I don’t know if I can really trust my memories of the winters being snowier or the summers having fewer days of swelter.

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I do remember my mother joking about how I’d stay in the water until my teeth would chatter and my lips would turn blue. My kids can hardly remember a pool that didn’t feel like bathwater.

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Somehow, I feel like I’ve managed to adapt.

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I have adopted the verbiage I’ve gleaned from television weather people, pointing at a blank screen that only the viewers at home can see, explaining about the stubbornness of heat domes and how the sibling rivalry between El Nino and La Nina can make it all seem worse.

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I heed the warnings.

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I wake earlier to complete shortened runs; I walk slower in the shadows of trees and sprint through the streaks of sunlight. I drink more water. I draw the curtains during the day and do my gardening at night.

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Anything seems possible if you have no better options.

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The weather records allege Troy’s most extreme temperature - 108ºF -  occurred nearly 100 years ago on July 22, 1926. I can only imagine how they must have coped without the modern wonder and widespread usage of portable air conditioning units. I picture horse-drawn carriages delivering ice cut from the river in winter and stored in an ice house until summer. But I have no one to ask who might remember the experience first-hand.

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Comparison from memory doesn’t do us any favors.

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A part of me worries we don’t really suffer enough, not with the comfort of modern conveniences adding infinitely to the making of our modern dilemma.

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We adapt to the discomfort like slow-cooked toads.

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It seems we’re all waiting with bated breath for Mother Nature to finally have had enough of our shenanigans and make good on the promise to crank the wheel and turn this car around.