The Day of the Deer

It started small. Two hours earlier, I had dumped my usual daily ration of whole-kernel corn, an old aluminum 3-pound coffee can full, into the discarded tire I use as a deer feeder. As I wandered into the kitchen to begin dinner preparations, I saw two deer warily approaching the feeder. They had seen movement at the window, and were unsure whether it was safe; but I could see their noses working as they scented food, and shortly their heads were ears-deep in the tire.

Amused, I started my dinner preparations, pausing frequently to watch the pair pigging out. I actually became concerned, remembering the Game Warden had warned me that corn is not a natural deer food and those unaccustomed to it tend to bloat, even fatally. (Really? Around here, field corn is the main crop farmers, hunting camps, and the Game Commission itself plant. It’s more natural for the local deer to eat corn than acorns.) Finally, the two moved off, but only about twenty yards up the trail, where they lay down to digest their feast.

I’d barely turned from putting my dish in the oven, when I saw the next stage in the drama. A third deer had showed up, and the two original ones were up and confronting her over the feeder. “Our food!” “No one was eating it when I arrived. You two were bedded down in the woods.” There was a little jostling and head-tossing, then suddenly all three were peacefully sharing the feeder.

As I was smiling at this, two more deer caught my eye, headed for the salt block, another old tire across the driveway from the porch, less than thirty yards from my kitchen window. That made five, the most deer I usually see in my yard at once. These two were bigger and blockier than the other three, and I had little doubt I was looking at bucks this time. Who knows, one might be the 8-point that left one big, beautiful antler shed in the feeder last week.

Once in awhile one would come alert, perhaps feeling the weight of my gaze upon him, and meet my eyes through the glass. Despite the fact that they normally spook easily once the lights go on in the house, clearly showing my human features, they were undisturbed this magic evening.

Nor did it end there. My newly-plowed driveway proved the easiest place for them to walk. The next thing I knew, more deer showed up, drifting through the woods, taking the places of the bucks who sauntered along my driveway, ignoring my gaping face at the window five yards away. I did a quick count, then another, then another, as I spotted more deer. Some were nuzzling the feeder, a couple at the salt block, a few younger ones even frisking and playing. Their elders, those that had lived through at least one Pennsylvania winter before, did not waste their energy. They nibbled at the plowed areas for the grass that had been exposed, or pawed snow off the leaf-duff at the woods’ edge, searching for nuts, roots, and bulbs.

Twelve, I said to myself, straining my eyes in the rapidly-darkening twilight. The back yard was full of dark, moving shapes, the window light occasionally highlighting the white of a chest or rump. The snow provided an eerie backdrop to the dark ghosts, a moving photograph negative.

The oven timer went off, and Maggi showed up, asking if I’d seen the three deer in the front yard, gleaning seed from under the bird feeders. I almost laughed, wondering if they were part of the herd that gathered on the opposite side of the house, or if I could claim fifteen deer in my yard that snowy January evening.

As we ate, I could think only of the big, bulky wild creatures, moving silently, breath steaming, dark eyes alert in the gloaming. Unafraid, going about their normal lives, aware that I was observing them, but suspending their usual fear for a magic half-hour between day and night.

A Theory of Feline Elective Identity

            Albert Einstein warned us never to overlook the trivial cases. Therefore, when I noticed that, whenever I call one of my cats, the other cats come running, I figured I might be on to something.

            It is, after all, well known that cats don’t come when called. It is practically a Law of Nature. In fact, many experts have suggested that, in consequence, there is no point in naming a cat. This corollary has become equally well-known and accepted.

            However, people persist in naming cats. Human beings like to name things. It satisfies their deep-seated need for order. Even a creature that will not respond to a name must be named. This has given me an opportunity to make a series of observations.

            Cats do come when called; but the circumstances of the summons provide them the incentive. Specialists who train cats for TV and movies have long known that cats can learn tricks, but must be rewarded every time. Even outside of the movie studio, cats quickly learn that certain responses to certain human behaviours result in food. For instance, just the fact that I am in the kitchen tells the cats that food may be forthcoming. Speaking certain words in certain tones of voice will indeed result in the cats coming to me. These words include their names. ANY of their names. If I call one cat, any within earshot will usually respond, if I am in the kitchen. The presence of cooking aromas, whirr of the can opener, or clink of cutlery will also work. The words “breakfast,” “lunch,” “dinner,” “food,” “chicken,” “tuna,” and especially, “OOPS,” summon the cats as surely as their names.

            If I stand by a closed door and call, that’s another summons they will answer. They want their human to perform its door-opening function. Holding out the cat brush while calling is another sure summons. Again, it doesn’t matter what name is called. In addition to their names, I have used “Sweetheart,” “Fluffy Britches,” “Fatso,” “Fur Factory,” and less printable names, with no effect on the response.

            When secondary triggers are absent, calling the name does not work. The original Law goes back into effect. The most obvious indication of this is the experiment of letting the cats out onto the screened porch. They responded to my call when I opened the door to let them out, but if I subsequently open the door to call them in, no summoning word will work. The cats will come in only when it is their decision to do so.

            This behaviour is key to what I call the Theory of Feline Elective Identity. Any names we give cats are just meaningless sounds to them. They do learn words, but only such words as are associated with desirable rewards, and more as sounds, not actual words. This is a real clue to feline psychology: Do they have names for themselves? If not, why not? I believe they are intelligent enough to separate themselves from others and from their environment and have a strong sense of self-identity, even self-awareness. This is so much a part of the cat personality that they have no need for any name or designation other than their eternal, instinctive “I am.” Cats think in concepts, not words, since they have no words; a very advanced modality of intelligence, most experts agree. They already have an unshakable concept of identity, and need no other name.

            The sounds they learn as a summons from their human always are associated with a reward, and directly stimulate the cat’s essential core of identity. At the moment of response, that reward is the most important thing in the cat’s life. In a very real sense, the cat IS the word that summons it to the reward. Therefore, the cat’s identity depends on circumstances, changing from moment to moment as the cat weighs the desirability of offered rewards.

            Since humans equate “a summoning word” with “a name,” we can conclude that a cat’s name changes according to circumstances. It can be the name we give it, a nickname, another pet’s name, a human’s name, food-related words, or sounds, such as bells, can-openers, rattling treat-tins, and exclamations of “OOPS!”

            There it is, the Theory of Feline Elective Identity. As with any theory, observations and experiments are ongoing. The field shows promise, and further study is indicated.

@*#%, Spring!

            While other people curse the snow and long for spring, I have mixed feelings. On the one hand: fly fishing, geocaching, barbecuing, lazy days on the porch swing, being able to drive Potter County roads without studded tires, emergency gear, constant prayer and tranquilizers. On the other, heat, humidity, sweating, allergies, yard work, being enslaved to lawn mowing and gardening, and bugs, bugs, bugs.

            I love gardens. I hate gardening. The first thing I’d do if I ever won the lottery is, hire a full-time yard work person. I’d just lounge on the porch, say, “Roll that area for a croquet court. And do something about the erosion out front. When that’s done, get the garden ready. This year, I want two varieties of slicing tomatoes, early strawberries, butter-crunch lettuce, and lots of herbs.” I’d warn him/her to never start mowing before 10 a.m. I’d instruct him/her to plant a dozen apple trees at the edge of the woods, additional evergreens on the east border, and to surround the flowering shrubs with deer fence come fall. With no budget constraints, I’d never be without crocuses due to deer and squirrel depredation.

            But this is a dream. The reality was getting out for my first yard work yesterday. The ground was soft from rain. In truth, the roads are hub-deep mud in places. I don’t know where the rocks go that underlie the ¼ inch of topsoil everywhere else, but those quagmires they call roads certainly have nothing as solid as rocks for traction as far down as a straining, wheel-spinning pick-up truck can dig. Anywhere else, you can hop up and down on a shovel and its tip penetrates a quarter inch, hits rock, and starts to curl. Therefore, digging even the shallowest hole around here means swinging a pick. The 100-plus bulbs I planted 4 inches deep last fall took all afternoon with a pick, working my hands bloody. Planting trees, however small, is an all-day job, and requires a wheelbarrow full of store-bought dirt. After all, the roots can hardly establish themselves with broken rocks jammed all around them. That’s what came out of the hole, so you need to buy dirt to refill it. This summer I’m determined to renovate the old weed garden into an herb/vegetable garden; to spare my aging joints in the long run, I want to build a retaining wall so I can reach my pot-herbs along the edge without kneeling. That’s 70 feet of trench to pour a footer. Despairing of doing that by hand with a pick, I asked my neighbor for the loan of his backhoe. He doesn’t seem to understand the difference between a footer for a knee-high block wall and one for a structure. I do NOT need it four feet deep and can’t handle concrete work of that magnitude.

            But yesterday was a fairly simple task: to fertilize the trees of my privacy planting. I use Jobe’s Evergreen Tree Food Stakes. If you’ve used them, you know they work well, but pounding them in with the little plastic cap does not work even in normal soil. They end up powdered. So, I make a hole first, then put them in. In our soil, I use a wrecking bar, pounding the pointy end into the ground by whacking the upper, curved, end with a sledgehammer. When I hit a rock, rotating the wrecking bar a quarter-turn usually either finds an edge of the rock or a fracture point to break it. After several repetitions of this, the hole is about 6 inches deep, and I wriggle the wrecking bar to extract it from the soil, leaving a hole the perfect size for a tree stake. The evergreen row has trees 2 to 5 years old that require 2 or 3 stakes each. This took me over two hours and I ended up sweaty (despite a temperature in the 40’s and a light drizzle) and, later, aching.

            Funny thing. It didn’t seem that long. There’s a certain satisfaction to be had from finishing a task like that, too. It’s actually kind of enjoyable in a tedious, exhausting way. But the thing about yard work is, it’s never done. Not in the sense of finished, over, complete, no more to do. As I worked, I was thinking about the spaces where three trees died that need to be replaced before I can move on to Phase II of the privacy planting. I noticed the winter’s debris that will take a full day to clean up before I can mow the first time this year. Oh, and I can’t mow at all with the plow on the tractor and not the mower deck. Will I ever get around to buying fill dirt to level the erosion channels that keep me from mowing the whole front yard, or to re-contour the deep dip in the driveway? What can be done about the cracked concrete pad in front of the garage? Should I buy stone for the drip lines under the house eaves? When and with what money can I get that garden wall done?

            That is why I hate gardening. It’s painstaking, boring, heavy work at a time of year when I have zero energy because I am not heat-tolerant. If I procrastinate it, it not only doesn’t go away, it grows into a bigger job. And there’s always more of it. I can never look at my yard with satisfaction, and say, “It’s done. Now I can kick back and enjoy it.” It’s never done. I may be able to take a day off from it now and then, but a garden makes me feel fettered to it, never able to escape working long enough to actually rest. Those long, hot summer days are mostly filled with me dragging my protesting body through 12 hours of hard work.

            Small wonder that, as other people smile and embrace the summer culture of flip-flops and shorts, I am growling, “C’mon, winter! The sooner the better!”