Chipmunk Cheeks and Sunshine Streaks

Late in the afternoon, when the sun splashed across the front of the house, the Englishman noticed our chipmunk sitting at the corner.  

We have enjoyed watching this chipmunk and even have a small, silver plated pedestal dish that we leave on the driveway with sunflower seed offerings.  It was perfect for the chipmunk who looked quite healthy with sleek brown fur over a fluffy white underbelly.  

Last year we realized, accidentally, that the chipmunk traveled frequently in the old black flexible tube that once connected to the downspout, carrying excessive water away from the house. We planned to unearth it but now felt obligated to leave it be.

The chipmunk basked in the sunlight, his back protected by the stone of our house and he had easy access to his man-made tunnel.  His face was a picture of pleasure and his eyes winked and blinked as he fought off an afternoon nap.  After many minutes, we stepped away from the front windows and in the time we were gone, the chipmunk performed his disappearing act.

Doggie Style

Groomers come and groomers go and when they do, we scramble to find a suitable one for our three pack.  Last year, the groomer we used would not take Chase because he was 15 years old.  The other two dogs were still within an acceptable age group but we took an “all or none” stance.  

Surprised at the age discrimination, we decided it was time to seek out a new grooming source.  This led to the discovery of The Fetch House in downtown Madison.  

Close to home, they had an entire day set aside to groom senior dogs and they did such a good job with Chase.  The Englishman took the day off work to make sure that Chase received the royal treatment.  A new haircut and nail trim removed years from him and gave him an extra bounce in his step when I returned home at the end of the day.

                                  

My face may be white

but my heart is pure gold
There is no shame
in growing old.”
- Unknown

Nobody Owns a Cat

There are a couple of cats without collars in the neighborhood.  A big fluffy gray tabby and one midnight black beauty.  They roam freely, brazenly crossing property lines with a distinct disdain for the dogs confined to each area. They have patterns: in the early hours of the morning, they enjoy grooming on my front walkway, in full view of our floor to ceiling windows and our three dogs.  In the late afternoon, they hunt the birds feeding in our backyard leaving trace evidence in the form of downy feathers.  In inclement weather, a glimpse of a shadow disappearing beneath the shed is evidence of a hiding space.

The cats know their freedom, recognize the limitations of the neighborhood dogs and taunt them with this knowledge.  Abby was sunning herself on the back deck while I enjoyed the spring afternoon and a cup of tea.  Tiny white petals sprinkled around us, caught in the gentle breeze from the Bradford pear trees.  The neighbor dogs sounded the alarm:  a cat was on the grounds.  Abby leapt to her feet and pushed her nose through the wire strands of deck.  A black cat crept among the daffodils.  Abby barked and snorted and kicked her hind legs.  I pretended to open the back gate and the cat moved to the next yard with deliberate casualness.  I stroked Abby’s head and praised her for vanquishing the cat. 

A few moments passed and the neighbor dogs began their cat calls again.  Abby pressed her nose against the gate, widened her eyes and violently barked, clanking the black metal bars of her barricade.  I approached her and looked toward the ground.  Nothing.  I then followed Abby’s gaze slightly upward:  two glittering emerald green eyes stared boldly at Abby.  The black cat was perched atop the garden pergola with an equal height to the top of the deck.

According to Lilian Jackson Braun, “Dogs have their day but cats have 365.”  It was clear to both Abby and me that the cat had this day. 

Zut Alors! A Mouse in the House

It was a dismal rain-soaked afternoon when the Englishman and I arrived in Versailles.  A quick walk from the train station brought us to the extravagant palace gates and cobblestone entrance. A stroll through the manicured gardens was out of the question so we headed directly into the palace.  Wandering through lavish rooms and grand halls was everything I had dreamed it would be.  Black and white tile was worn over the years and I carefully stepped along feeling grooves and other imperfections.  Old glass in the windows created a wavy view of the grounds as rain dotted the outside in streaky tears. We noticed a sign for the Restaurant Angelina and discovered a fancy full-service tea room.  

We were seated within thirty minutes and I took a photograph of my husband which had multiple stories woven within.  On the surface, the photograph was a small celebration of our wedding anniversary.  Five years and we were enjoying an afternoon tea in France.  At this moment we were blissfully unaware that in a few hours we would be in the middle of "les gilets jaunes" riots in Paris. Just out of the frame, to my left was a table of cheerful French ladies enjoying lunch.  Behind that table was an American couple who were finishing their meal with a cafetiere of coffee.  Directly behind my husband was the older rumpled French couple who had fascinated us with their antics that started with the maître d’.

The gentleman was impatient and did not enjoy the wait for a table.  He frequently left his wife and roamed the restaurant searching for empty tables which he would then point out to the maître d’.  They were soon escorted to their table and we were seated a short time later.  The Englishman insisted that they were probably quite wealthy, even aristocratic in spite of their appearance.  As the American couple settled the bill and rose to leave, I could see the aristocrats studying the neighboring table.  As soon as the couple had left the room, the older woman darted to the table and inspected the food remnants and shook the coffee pot, hoping for leftovers.  Shocked, I relayed this to my husband and realized that the group of French ladies had also noticed.  We were all gossiping about the aristocrats in our own respective languages.  The aristocrats departed and  suddenly a mouse scurried from it's hiding place beneath their table!  The French ladies laughed and pointed and made sure that we also saw the tiny mouse.  The Englishman decided that it was a direct descendant of the Palace of Versailles and I was simply happy to finally be able to use my Little Mermaid French in a sentence.  Zut alors!

We departed for the train station under the cover of my tiny umbrella.  As dusk approached, the Palace lights reflected off the lingering raindrops creating a magical December in France.