Stories
THE SANCTUARY TREE
Were you to walk through Sabrina’s and my home to its end, you would find yourself in our ‘animal room.’ This is where injured, orphaned, or diseased critters are in-taken and housed until we’re sure they can be moved to outside cages prior to release.
If you step outside that room, there is a small patio, and you would notice a one-story tall dense evergreen of uncertain species growing close thereby. But, like I did for several years, you would dismiss it as ‘just another tree.’ This is justifiable in that on our property there are many others, larger and far more imposing than this little guy.
One day something happened that proved to me how special this tree is. What I’m about to relate happened in the course of one second. I had just set foot out of the animal room to the patio when I heard a screaming shoot past my ear. A small bird flying for its life. Overtop of this screech, a second presence flew so close to my head, I felt the after-draft of its large wing. A Coopers hawk. The wren made it to safety in the density of the evergreen’s boughs, a density the hawk could not penetrate. The hawk was forced to veer off, frustrated at having a meal stolen from it by the sanctuary tree. One second… life in the wild often hangs on such narrow integers.
I first learned of sanctuary trees some years back during a savage several days of rain here in Roanoke. Rivers swelled, over-ran their banks, and carved out the dirt that for decades had anchored large trees. Many trees did not survive the undermining including one massive Chestnut. This tree contained many nests, and for decade after decade, birds of the same species built homes and raised their families there. It came crashing down scattering baby birds everywhere. The bird in question was a Black-Crowned Heron.
A young married couple called us; told us ‘there are millions of baby birds flopping around on the ground!” with parents circling frantically, unable to re-nest their off-spring given the loss of the tree. The couple bought them to us. They were young, newly-wed, and poor [we had to give them money for gas as they made multiple trips to us that day with more victims.] But there was no question where their hearts lay.
A baby Black-Crested Heron is eighteen inches tall with a three inch beak, and a readiness to use it. They stabbed at our eyes. We donned protective glasses and gloves, sutured wounds, straightened and splinted fractured limbs and sent them on to the Wildlife Center of Virginia. Sabrina saved twelve of the thirteen victims bought to us. That was my first exposure to the existence of such a thing as a Sanctuary Tree.
Without question, there are many other trees on our property, great soaring things with protective canopies many stories off the ground. But our newly-released birds feed near the patio; they are immature and not yet capable of the explosive, full-powered flight needed to reach those canopies and safety. This little tree sits not ten feet from where they feed, giving them that extra sliver of time to perhaps escape predation.
In the wild, sanctuary – safety or defense – takes many forms: cover or camouflage; branches, burrows, bowers or brambles; and as a part of that overall defense, this little tree, hour after hour, every night and every day looks after his wards.
GROUNDHOGS AND BANANAS
It’s a reasonable question to ask: Why do groundhogs [a native American animal] love a tropical fruit, bananas? [Trust me, they do.] Why to monarch butterflies [the only winged non-birds to migrate] set forth on a trip which lasts longer than their lifespan? [They begin the journey, their off-spring finish it.] Never having made the first part of the trip, the off-spring nevertheless know precisely where to fly next year. Flying fish quiver their tales seventy times a second and can soar over two hundred yards. Why? How? Migratory birds fly to many places, guided – we are told - by magnetic lines of force around the earth. How does each species know – often without their parents to instruct them - which of these lines to follow? Why do some birds mate only for a season, others, for life. [They never say, ‘I do,’ but they do.]
Sabrina and I have two house finches who set up housekeeping in a little nest in our garage one story down. One day, she and I looked out the patio door and saw these two flying madly, crazed, making a frantic sound we’d never heard before. Sabrina took one look, sized up the situation immediately, and went running down to the garage. A huge black snake was about to swallow their babies; nothing the parents could do. The parents raced back into the garage in time to see us hook the snake and drop him safely over a far-distant fence. The two parents had come to Sabrina for help.
Another time, we were told a story of a Bluebird nest with babies attacked by a hawk. Without hesitation, the mom and dad flew out to contest this threat. Was it a suicide mission or an attempt to ‘mob’ [confuse] the predator into flight? We’ll never know. The worst case scenario is – had the parents sacrificed themselves - Bluebirds raise several broods each season, and the first brood, now grown, help with the raising of the newly born.
It is a commonplace here for curmudgeonly Bluebirds to peck on the window of our animal room when their mealworms run out. “Hey! How about a little service!” But how about this: my office sits on the second floor, far from their feeders. But the other day, Bluebirds started showing up outside my office window. They would scowl in at me and peck impatiently on my window. Funny thing is: I have no feeders up there. So why were they there? I called Sabrina on intercom. She said, “They’re there to tell you they’re out of mealworms down here.” I said, “No way!” She said, “I’ll go check their bowls and refill them if empty.” Within five minutes, all the blues were gone, down eating the worms she had laid out for them. I tell you, son, never in my life have I met a person with instincts for animals like that woman!
But, you think you’ve got problems?! Sabrina and I have problems.
I guess I should give you some background. We have a bird that makes a nest in my toolbox twice each year. The toolbox is in the garage. In order to allow the bird access to its nest without leaving the garage door open twenty-four-seven, I cut a small hole in the top of the door.
A while back, one of our cars started acting up. Off to the garage for a diagnostic survey. Sabrina left the car with the mechanic. She returned some time later to find the entire staff in an uproar. Laughing. At us.
“This is a first,” the mechanic said. “A motor failure due to peanuts.”
My wife stood there shaking her head. “Peanuts.”
The mechanic, still laughing, bent down a picked up a cardboard box 1/3 full of unshelled nuts. “Peanuts.” There were about 6 pounds of nuts in the box.
We went home and checked the other cars. In one, we found about six more pounds stacked neatly on the little shelves within the motor. Interestingly, the peanuts were found in the Land Rover and the Range Rover, not in the old jeep or even more ancient pick-up truck.
Now, we don’t store nuts in the garage, so the squirrel or squirrels are taking nuts from the other side of the house where we feed our wildlife, bringing them – lots of them – around the house, climbing the garage door through the bird hole and caching them in our cars. For winter. But only into the expensive car. Leave it to us to have snobby squirrels!
Like I said, you think you’ve got problems?! Oh well, two good things came of it: the car now runs like it used to, and we’ve recovered twelve pounds of peanuts. Sheesh!
I often think God must sit, His jaw cradled in His hand, smiling at us trying to unravel the immensities and intricacies of His creation. Every now and then, He must smile and acknowledge, “Well done” knowing full well, the most insightful discovery but scratches the surface. As for me, I know a lot about wildlife, but just enough to know that I know nothing.
There’s magic all around us, but you’ve got to look for it. Even more than that, you must believe you’ll find it.
MILLIGRAM
Sometimes, being a ‘rehabber’ puts you in interesting situations.
We had been provided the challenge of raising a 7.5 gram flying squirrel. Seven grams is somewhat small. A nickel weighs five grams. Heaven’s little emissary. He could stand – all four feet, on the last segment of my thumb. We set a ‘mush bowl’ in front of her – a baby food jar lid with baby cereal. She stared at it in horror. As tiny as she was, it would be like me putting you in front of a swimming pool full of porridge and say, “Dig in! Don’t fall in!” Even now, fully grown, her foot is not as big as my fingernail. We named her ‘Milligram.’
Herself and I were sitting on the porch one evening. Sabrina was reading from the ‘Squirrel Manual.’ “We have to teach Milligram how to fly.”
“Who ‘we’?”
“‘We’ we.”
I stared at my wife. “We’re a little short of expertise here, aren’t we?”
Flying squirrels, of course, don’t fly; they glide. They have redundant skin on their sides, from forelegs to rear legs that expand into a plane when they stretch their legs. Their tail is flat, unlike the full tubular shape of a grey squirrel’s tail. It serves as an air-foil or rudder.
Sabrina went on to explain that a flying squirrel that cannot fly cannot be released into the wild, and since the rehabber’s prime directive is to release, Herself and I were in a bit of a bind; this was not a chore we could sidestep. We were duty bound to teach Milligram to do a thing we could not do.
So down to the squirrel room we go.
The book said to put the flyer up on a high shelf, back off, slap your chest and call her name.
Sabrina put Milligram on a shelf, stepped away, and tapped her chest. “Come, Milligram! Come!”
Millie looked at Sabrina then stared down at the floor which must have seemed the equivalent of an eighteen story drop. She looked back at Sabrina. She twisted her head cynically as if to say, “Look, lady, I may be tiny, but I’m not stupid!”
Sabrina is very fearful. She doesn’t want to hurt her baby. I had an idea. “Let me put on an apron, hold it wide and you toss her to me.”
Okay. Sabrina backed off about four feet cupping little Milligram in her two cupped hands, took a large step for me and deposited Millie gently into my apron. I looked at her. “Honey, that wasn’t a flight, that was a deposit.” She knew this, of course, but she couldn’t stand the idea of injuring the baby. The longest recorded glide of a flying squirrel is 300 feet, so we had a long way to go. “You’ve got to step back about six feet and toss her into the pocket I make with the apron. Sabrina backed up, her face fearful. She took another huge step towards me and dropped Milligram into my apron once again. She looked at me hopefully. I shook my head.
“Okay, okay, I’ll throw her. But I’m not going to watch.” She backs up, closes her eyes tightly. I spread my apron and stare down at it so I can make a quick adjustment to catch her. Out of my upper vision, I sense her hands upsweeping. I focus on my apron. No Milligram. I look at Sabrina, her eyes still closed, her arms still outstretched. “Did she make it?” she said. Milligram was slowly swinging by one paw from one of Sabrina’s fingers, gently to and fro. I swear she looked relieved.
I took Sabrina aside for a husband-wife chat. I said to her, “Look, lass, this falls under the “Boomerang Theory of life.” She looked at me. “You know, if you want your boomerang to come back, first you’ve got to throw it! If you want ‘Milli’ to fly, it is a prerequisite to let go! It’s a good lesson for life.”
She continued to stare at me. “Look,” I say, “It’s like buttoning a shirt [why I used this simile with a squirrel, I’m not sure.] “If you don’t get the first button right, it makes no difference how perfectly you do the rest of them. Same thing here, no let go, no fly.” She stared at me.
Okay, one more try. Sabrina backed up, closed eyes and swooped her hands. I spread the apron wide. Milligram grabbed at Sabrina’s hands, missed and ended up in a pile of blankets beside me. Now, she looked annoyed. It was clear to me: here endeth the lesson for today, and all subsequent days. I love that little one, but if she is to learn to fly, she’ll have to teach herself!
[She did!}
LAW AND ORDER
Sometimes I feel like I’m Commander-in-Chief of Camp Krazy.
I arrive at work; 7 AM. Maybe a half hour later, I get a call from Sabrina. She’s out of breath. “Gahv! Gahv! Have we ever had some excitement around here this morning! A dog fight!”
But, wait a minute. Let me not get the plow in front of the horse. The story will mean nothing unless I tell you about one of our cats, Ozmitron [or ‘Oz.’]
Oz is colored orange and white, a cat of typical size with a most unusual coat. It’s not fur; it’s hair; long hair. Were you able to attach a handle to him, Oz would make the perfect dust-mop. This is the same mane he brings to Sabrina each morning for a brushing. It is this brushing which has created a most unusual depth of connectedness between he and she; a connectedness we had not fully appreciated.
Another thing Oz does, the significance of which we did not detect: he likes to spend most of his day on the stairs which lead from the kitchen to the cellar. If Sabrina or I use those stairs, we have to go around him; in fact, even our Dobermans step over him. Oz does not move. Stubborn. Head-strong. We missed that significance, until, that is, the morning of the dogfight.
Owning a few dogs, Sabrina and I are used to little scraps, a snap, a growl, and it’s over.
As Sabrina continued to explain, this morning’s aggression was serious; one or both of the contenders was going to get badly hurt. So, picture this: two large dogs going at each other with homicidal intent, the rest of the pack in full throat, this close to joining in; my Sabrina pulling at two collars to break up the chaos, while pushing would-be participants out of the way.
Then, over all the fray, Sabrina hears, “Budda, budda, budda,” - a running across the floor?- and out of nowhere, something orange and white flashes past her vision, and lands on the dogs! Screaming, biting, and clawing maniacally on their backs… It was Oz, who’d busted through the stair cat-door in a rage, coming to help his momma!
Then, not wishing to be Dobie-Brunch, Oz leaped mightily away, running in mid-air. He hit the hardwood floor and discovered something long ignored by historians: be it hasty, strategic, or otherwise, any retreat ultimately hinges on traction, A fact which receives short-shrift, or no shrift, in history. He landed on hardwood floors. He kept running, but now his speed equaled five ‘budda’s’ for every inch of linear progress. By the time he hit carpet, Oz was already in ‘passing gear’ and disappeared as if into another dimension. But, the dogfight was still on. Oz did a U-turn and jumped back into the fray hissing, spitting, clawing, and biting, only to flee once again. But still the fight continued. As crazy as it sounds, over the barking, for the third time, Oz was in the middle of the melee like a lioness attacking jackals! He was giving those two dogs the business end of a hissy-fit.
Then the fight broke up, the dogs were kenneled, and Oz retired to the stairs uninjured, licking his coat calmly. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, no, it’s Ozmitron the avenger! Although out-weighed and out-dogged, he was not out-Oz’ed, thus, he had the advantage. I suspect Oz is going to ‘live large’ for the next few months, thanks to his momma’s gratitude. Sabrina, no doubt, would have prevailed over the dogs, but it never hurts to have a little help, even if it comes in small orange and white packages.
Oz still maintains his redoubt on the cellar stairs; we and the Dobies must still make our way around or over him. The Dobies walk quietly now. There is new a law-enforcement presence in our home. To the Dobies, Oz seems to warn: check your guns at the saloon, boys, no fighting in my jurisdiction.
There’s a new sheriff in town…
Sheriff Dustmop.
BURGLAR AND OZ
Sometime back a lady walked into her back yard and thought she saw something; something very small, orange, and white; something not moving. Maybe a dead mouse? It proved to be a one-day-old kitten, umbilical cord still attached. How he gotten there? Who is to say? Since Sabrina and I not only do wildlife rescue, but have raised creatures as small as six grams, we were asked to try and raise him.
Two weeks later, a school bus not routinely used was called into service. As the driver entered that bus, he thought he heard a weak meowing. Investigating, he found a dead momma cat and a teeny, malnourished, tri-colored kitten trying to get milk from a mother who would never produce again. This sick, malnourished two-week-old baby too was sent to us.
Sabrina worked her magic, and these two creatures who had no prayer not only survived their beginnings, but thrived.
The orange male was a dream [orange male cats are reputed to have the best feline dispositions.] We named him ‘Oz.’ Big mistake.
The tri-colored baby did well but stayed small. We took her to our cat-vet, who determined the little one was a Munchkin variant; a cat who would, even in adulthood, never be more than half the size of a regular cat, but lacking the genetic defects of a true Munchkin. We named her ‘Mitzy’ [AKA ‘Burglar.’ This because she kept stealing things off the counter, pens, bills, car keys, prescriptions; never have found them. Imagine: you call your physician and tell him ‘My cat stole my prescriptions.” Yeah, that’ll fly.] So we nick-named her ‘Burglar.’ Mistake number two. You never name a pet you may have to give up.
We kept them for two and a half months, the normal time interval for fostering, but facts are facts: “We don’t have room for two more cats, Gahv, even though they’re so sweet.” Since they were now old enough and healthy enough for adoption, we returned them to the Roanoke Valley VSPCA, and asked the wonderful folks there to find a good home for both of them; they were not to be separated. During their time here, they got along famously, playing and sleeping together, and grooming each other. They had no idea they weren’t siblings. I had my doubts Sabrina could ever go through with giving them up; I’d seen the way she looked at them. Several days later, the RVSPCA called to say they had found a great owner for the pair; she would be there first thing in the morning
That night I awakened to Sabrina crying in her sleep. I knew why. At 6:00 AM, she was on the phone telling them if anything – anything - went wrong with the adoption, she wanted Oz and Burglar [Mitsy] back; the deal was off. We got a call about four hours later telling us the strangest thing: yes, the woman had arrived, but only wanted one of the two.
Sabrina rushed to the RVSPCA building, walked in to an office and asked for Burglar and Oz. Under the desk was a cardboard box containing the two. They had not stirred since being put there. But, upon hearing ‘mommy’s voice, two little heads, one orange, one black and caramel, popped up. One of the staff of the RVSPCA smiled, “They know they’re going home.”
They were ours again.
Oz has developed a long, soft, angora-like coat; he’s his own blanket and pillow; a walking dust-mop. He joins me in the workshop and then presents to his mother with his coat full of sawdust. She eyes me accusingly. “And just what have you been doing to my baby?” I just shrug; I’m no match for static electricity.
Only hard-core animal lovers will understand what follows: none of our pets have just one name, ie, ‘Mitsy’ = ‘Burglar’. Oz is a species of cat – little known- an ‘Ozmatron’; and the means by which we have come to love him is, of course, ‘Ozmosis.’
The ‘Burglar’ has heart attacks. She sees one of us coming and drops promptly on her side; ‘resuscitation’ comes in the form of a belly rub. Sabrina and I are the victims of a previously undescribed condition: OBD [Obsessive Burglar Disorder.] We have both refused treatment.
Something went wrong with their adoption, but went very, very right for us.
‘SMIDGE’
I have withheld telling this story for about six months. The occasion of my reticence is I didn’t know if he would survive the winter.
Smidge. Smidge Garvin. The last of the groundhogs bought to us last season. Too late to join any other g-hogs we were rehabbing, this smaller-than-usual guy had to go it alone. So it was with great trepidation we set him in an outside pen, fully enclosed, with 24” of dirt in it to hibernate in safety.
But what a winter it was! Not a day went by we didn’t stare out at that cage and worry the little guy wouldn’t make it. Then, as Spring began to slowly depose Winter, it seemed to Sabrina that the surface of the dirt in the cage was scuffed. [G-hogs will briefly break hibernation, come into the sunlight, then return to their burrow.] Could it be that he had survived? We put some fresh hay in the cage so he could re-line his burrow. It disappeared. Once the weather broke, we opened his cage, but still, we never saw him.
Then we thought we detected a subtle trail to a nearby raised cage, so we put food out. Still, no sign. Then, one day as Sabrina knelt down to set food and water for him, she felt a brush on her ankle. There was the Smidge-miester! He grabbed a carrot, sat down on Sabrina’s foot, and began a contented munching. She put out a tentative hand to pet him. Ever mindful of the duties a sovereign owes the lower orders, this he permitted. [She had bought him food after all.] For the next few days, all went well; we bought food, he ate, we scratched his ears.]
Then, sometimes he would appear; sometimes not. Had he changed burrows? Yes. We found his new home about ten feet from our front porch under the shelf of a large bay window. Much celebration at the Garvins’ that day; oxen were fattened; brewskies uncorked. [Okay, it was ice tea and a few potato chips, but you get the point.]
One stay Sabrina came storming through the house. “The deer are eating my new geraniums off the front porch!” Rascally deer!
Later, I noticed our munchkin cat, Burglar, staring fixedly out the glass storm door. I moved close to see what had so captured her attention. Next to the glass on the outside sat Smidge, studying her. But what was he eating? A stalk of geranium. Oh well, it’s the price you pay.
THE SANCTUARY TREE
Were you to walk through Sabrina’s and my home to its end, you would find yourself in our ‘animal room.’ This is where injured, orphaned, or diseased critters are in-taken and housed until we’re sure they can be moved to outside cages prior to release.
If you step outside that room, there is a small patio, and you would notice a one-story tall dense evergreen of uncertain species growing close thereby. But, like I did for several years, you would dismiss it as ‘just another tree.’ This is justifiable in that on our property there are many others, larger and far more imposing than this little guy.
One day something happened that proved to me how special this tree is. What I’m about to relate happened in the course of one second. I had just set foot out of the animal room to the patio when I heard a screaming shoot past my ear. A small bird flying for its life. Overtop of this screech, a second presence flew so close to my head, I felt the after-draft of its large wing. A Coopers hawk. The wren made it to safety in the density of the evergreen’s boughs, a density the hawk could not penetrate. The hawk was forced to veer off, frustrated at having a meal stolen from it by the sanctuary tree. One second… life in the wild often hangs on such narrow integers.
I first learned of sanctuary trees some years back during a savage several days of rain here in Roanoke. Rivers swelled, over-ran their banks, and carved out the dirt that for decades had anchored large trees. Many trees did not survive the undermining including one massive Chestnut. This tree contained many nests, and for decade after decade, birds of the same species built homes and raised their families there. It came crashing down scattering baby birds everywhere. The bird in question was a Black-Crowned Heron.
A young married couple called us; told us ‘there are millions of baby birds flopping around on the ground!” with parents circling frantically, unable to re-nest their off-spring given the loss of the tree. The couple bought them to us. They were young, newly-wed, and poor [we had to give them money for gas as they made multiple trips to us that day with more victims.] But there was no question where their hearts lay.
A baby Black-Crested Heron is eighteen inches tall with a three inch beak, and a readiness to use it. They stabbed at our eyes. We donned protective glasses and gloves, sutured wounds, straightened and splinted fractured limbs and sent them on to the Wildlife Center of Virginia. Sabrina saved twelve of the thirteen victims bought to us. That was my first exposure to the existence of such a thing as a Sanctuary Tree.
Without question, there are many other trees on our property, great soaring things with protective canopies many stories off the ground. But our newly-released birds feed near the patio; they are immature and not yet capable of the explosive, full-powered flight needed to reach those canopies and safety. This little tree sits not ten feet from where they feed, giving them that extra sliver of time to perhaps escape predation.
In the wild, sanctuary – safety or defense – takes many forms: cover or camouflage; branches, burrows, bowers or brambles; and as a part of that overall defense, this little tree, hour after hour, every night and every day looks after his wards.
KITTENS
In the world of kittens, as in all other worlds, there is sorrow and joy, delight and tragedy. Kittens come packaged in an astonishing variety of color: grays and whites, blacks and oranges, peppered with patches and accents and wisps. They are adorable in their awkward bow-legged galloping, their mock-fighting and their stalking. Their eyes are yellow or green or blue or mix-them-up.
Mother cats vary in their diligence; some are patient, others quick-tempered. Momma, the dame of five kittens with us now, teaches her charges survival skills, and from a high perch in the room, patiently oversees their play. By her cleaning them, the kittens learn to clean themselves. [Although, early on, they – like human children - don’t assign personal hygiene a very high priority.] Momma is interesting too, in this: she doesn’t play or purr. Tamed by parenting too early in life, perhaps she doesn’t know how. Raising her brood is the only life she knows. I hope her seriousness won’t keep her from being adopted. That would be poor recompense for her single-mindedness. [Note: written after this article: Momma was adopted by a wonderful woman!]
The instinct to mother varies. Some, like Momma, will readily adopt babies not her own. Others will have no part of an orphan unless you put it in with her babies - away from mom - let their scents mix, then mom can’t distinguish hers from others. Cats don’t count too well.
Kittens’ personalities are as varied as their coats. Permit me a few introductions from our personal Hall of Fame:
Freight-train: small of caliber, high of velocity, nine ounces of attitude and ready to rumble! You take food into the room, she comes tearing at you. [It’s rather like being attacked by a sugar-plum, but still, the thought is there.] She was a `tortoise’-colored feral cat, the lone survivor of her family. Ferals - raised in the wild - are savage eaters. Freight-train was no exception. With food on the plate, she snorted defiance and pushed everyone aside: our other kittens, cats, dogs, me... She would clamp a forearm across the plate so no one could get near it, while she wolfed down chunks of cat food. Not all ‘alphas’ are male. She had a butterfly pattern on her forehead. Butterflies are symbolic of new life.
Yen: a snow-white Siamese; ten weeks old and already a regal presence.
Patch, an orange tabby kitten, has the record for the sweetest disposition so far. Abandoned in an alley, Patch came to us with one eye half out of his head. No one is certain why. Black and scabbed over, the eye was grotesque. It was our job as foster-parents to put ointment on that eye four times a day. He came to us on Friday, surgery to remove the eye set for Monday. On Sunday, Patch’s eye fell out of the socket. It dangled there. Flopping into his dish, it soon became caked with food and kitty litter. I was at work. You better believe I got a phone call. Sabrina got him to a vet, the eye was removed and the socket sewn shut.
Patch Garvin couldn’t have cared less. Now one-eyed, he spends his days an accomplished loafer, sleeping, insisting on being set on our shoulder and rubbed, or just chasing butterflies.
Patch Garvin adjusted beautifully to his loss, and turned out to be one of the most endearing kittens of my widening acquaintance. In the morning, Sabrina would come tearing out of the bedroom in simulated horror. “Patch is after me, Gahv!!” I’d come around the corner, and Patch would be up on his hind legs, front legs extended, doing `The Monster Mash.’ For reasons unknown, male orange tabbies are said to possess the warmest personalities of all cats. Patch adopted me. His first night with us, I sat in my chair, he slept atop my shoulder. Every so often he’d reach out and put a paw gently on my mouth. So, my shoulders pinned firmly to the mat, so to speak, I decided we’d keep him. This paw-to-mouth gesture conveys such a trusting intimacy. When something loves us so much, how can we help but love it in return?
Sometimes we get the cast-off animals too late: a mom [Spook] and three babies. Spook was so desperately sick [temperature 106 when we picked her up] she could not tend her youngsters. So we fed them. They were all sneezing and hacking. The two older ones got stronger; but Baby, the runt... Sabrina noticed it first of course. We gave him fluids, we gave him medicine, we tried to keep him warm. His cry got weaker, he grew cold and began to stare through us. “Oh God, Gahv, he’s not going to make it! About one AM, before turning in, I went check on him. No change.
The next morning, I felt Sabrina leave the bed. It was too early for her to be getting up; I knew where she was going. I went with her. She knelt down before the covered box which held the small family, and she paused. “I’ll look,” I said. Two kittens were nursing. Mom, now clear-eyed and fever-broken, held her paw protectively, futilely over little Baby who died in the night, too weak of wing for the journey. Sabrina saved three; lost one. Mourning and thanksgiving held hands. Later Spook hopped up on Sabrina’s lap - the first time she’d done that - as if to say, `Thank you for helping my babies when I could not.’
Before I wrap up this piece, a few more comments on mothering. We have two dogs: Onyx and Ginger. Kittens terrify Ginger, but they seem to set Onyx’s head in a puzzle: she wants to mother them, but they sure are strange looking puppies, and she’s noticed they don’t bark all that well. Sabrina thinks it’s instinct combined with the fact Onyx has never had a litter of her own. Sometimes we take a kitten or two out on the patio. Sabrina and I relax, watch the pond or wait for the hummingbirds, with their nervous agility, to come to call. The kittens explore. But everywhere they go, there’s Onyx, this lumbering black brontosaurus committed to maternity. She gives an affectionate lick that sends them rolling. If you saw a three-foot tongue, wet and fleshy coming at you, would you characterize it as affection or assault? The kittens stare up and her and seem to think: I wanted a Mommy but my heavens!!
We do an experiment. We’re out in the back yard: little Patch, Onyx and Ginger. Sabrina and I walk away from them and call Onyx and Ginger. Ginger comes to us. Onyx stands there and whines; looks from us to Patch to us. We call again. She takes three reluctant steps, torn between obedience and instinct. She looks back at Patch. Mothering.
Looking back over the last few months, I am persuaded of this: helping animals is Sabrina’s best destiny, her true passion. She has found what we all seek: to be in love with what we do, for when it’s all said and done, that is the foundation of happiness. More than mere happiness, it engages the full array of her emotions: hope and loss, joy and suffering, each necessary for the other to be. Her entourage follows her through the house attached to her like barnacles to a boat-bottom. Sabrina’s sense of time is lost; the moments no longer tumble by, but are magically suspended, and later there’s a yearning to return to what you were doing and recapture that bliss. That’s the emotional resonance between your soul and your goal. That’s how you know when you’re doing your proper work.
There is a wise prayer: Make me a blessing to someone today. So, to Sabrina’s many babies, she is just that. Every day. But blessings are subtle things, often reciprocal. Examined closely, it’s often difficult to distinguish between the giver and the recipient, and in the trackless mystery of Heaven’s mind, there may be no difference at all.
THE DOG ON THE ROAD
This story was told to me by a friend. It’s Bible-readin’, pulpit-poundin’ true; it happened to their son.
Recently, let’s call him ‘Bret’, had been hired to drive a beer delivery truck. The hard economy made him glad to have any job; one he fully intended to keep. Running a long two-lane highway in far Western Virginia, he drives a large single-axle truck hundreds of miles a day. The sun is about to announce itself over the tops of the mountains; his day is just beginning.
Something catches his eye. Off on the side of the road, a puppy, holding up his right paw, looking straight at him…
He pulls over. The pup is covered with ticks and nettles. Bret takes some time to clean him up as best he can. Pours him some water; leaves his lunch, a sandwich. Then Bret has to leave. Company policy; very strict: No Passengers.
He sets the puppy carefully on the shoulder of the road, out of harm’s way, he hopes. Bret utters a brief prayer for the little one, curses the company’s policy, climbs back in his truck. ‘Sure I would take him with me; but that policy!’ Bret is young; jobs are hard to find.
As he puts the truck in gear, he looks back to be sure the pup is safe. No dog in sight. Gone.
Sighing, Bret released the clutch, the, suddenly slams on the brakes. There’s the puppy, sitting in front of the truck, right paw raised, blocking the truck.
Some do-gooder in the company reported Bret bringing the pup home. He was called in to see the boss. Turns out the boss is an animal-lover. Guess who has a new, loving home? Guess who didn’t get fired? Guess who has a new ‘driving-buddy’ as they make their many stops around Western Virginia?
Yup.
Were you to walk through Sabrina’s and my home to its end, you would find yourself in our ‘animal room.’ This is where injured, orphaned, or diseased critters are in-taken and housed until we’re sure they can be moved to outside cages prior to release.
If you step outside that room, there is a small patio, and you would notice a one-story tall dense evergreen of uncertain species growing close thereby. But, like I did for several years, you would dismiss it as ‘just another tree.’ This is justifiable in that on our property there are many others, larger and far more imposing than this little guy.
One day something happened that proved to me how special this tree is. What I’m about to relate happened in the course of one second. I had just set foot out of the animal room to the patio when I heard a screaming shoot past my ear. A small bird flying for its life. Overtop of this screech, a second presence flew so close to my head, I felt the after-draft of its large wing. A Coopers hawk. The wren made it to safety in the density of the evergreen’s boughs, a density the hawk could not penetrate. The hawk was forced to veer off, frustrated at having a meal stolen from it by the sanctuary tree. One second… life in the wild often hangs on such narrow integers.
I first learned of sanctuary trees some years back during a savage several days of rain here in Roanoke. Rivers swelled, over-ran their banks, and carved out the dirt that for decades had anchored large trees. Many trees did not survive the undermining including one massive Chestnut. This tree contained many nests, and for decade after decade, birds of the same species built homes and raised their families there. It came crashing down scattering baby birds everywhere. The bird in question was a Black-Crowned Heron.
A young married couple called us; told us ‘there are millions of baby birds flopping around on the ground!” with parents circling frantically, unable to re-nest their off-spring given the loss of the tree. The couple bought them to us. They were young, newly-wed, and poor [we had to give them money for gas as they made multiple trips to us that day with more victims.] But there was no question where their hearts lay.
A baby Black-Crested Heron is eighteen inches tall with a three inch beak, and a readiness to use it. They stabbed at our eyes. We donned protective glasses and gloves, sutured wounds, straightened and splinted fractured limbs and sent them on to the Wildlife Center of Virginia. Sabrina saved twelve of the thirteen victims bought to us. That was my first exposure to the existence of such a thing as a Sanctuary Tree.
Without question, there are many other trees on our property, great soaring things with protective canopies many stories off the ground. But our newly-released birds feed near the patio; they are immature and not yet capable of the explosive, full-powered flight needed to reach those canopies and safety. This little tree sits not ten feet from where they feed, giving them that extra sliver of time to perhaps escape predation.
In the wild, sanctuary – safety or defense – takes many forms: cover or camouflage; branches, burrows, bowers or brambles; and as a part of that overall defense, this little tree, hour after hour, every night and every day looks after his wards.
GROUNDHOGS AND BANANAS
It’s a reasonable question to ask: Why do groundhogs [a native American animal] love a tropical fruit, bananas? [Trust me, they do.] Why to monarch butterflies [the only winged non-birds to migrate] set forth on a trip which lasts longer than their lifespan? [They begin the journey, their off-spring finish it.] Never having made the first part of the trip, the off-spring nevertheless know precisely where to fly next year. Flying fish quiver their tales seventy times a second and can soar over two hundred yards. Why? How? Migratory birds fly to many places, guided – we are told - by magnetic lines of force around the earth. How does each species know – often without their parents to instruct them - which of these lines to follow? Why do some birds mate only for a season, others, for life. [They never say, ‘I do,’ but they do.]
Sabrina and I have two house finches who set up housekeeping in a little nest in our garage one story down. One day, she and I looked out the patio door and saw these two flying madly, crazed, making a frantic sound we’d never heard before. Sabrina took one look, sized up the situation immediately, and went running down to the garage. A huge black snake was about to swallow their babies; nothing the parents could do. The parents raced back into the garage in time to see us hook the snake and drop him safely over a far-distant fence. The two parents had come to Sabrina for help.
Another time, we were told a story of a Bluebird nest with babies attacked by a hawk. Without hesitation, the mom and dad flew out to contest this threat. Was it a suicide mission or an attempt to ‘mob’ [confuse] the predator into flight? We’ll never know. The worst case scenario is – had the parents sacrificed themselves - Bluebirds raise several broods each season, and the first brood, now grown, help with the raising of the newly born.
It is a commonplace here for curmudgeonly Bluebirds to peck on the window of our animal room when their mealworms run out. “Hey! How about a little service!” But how about this: my office sits on the second floor, far from their feeders. But the other day, Bluebirds started showing up outside my office window. They would scowl in at me and peck impatiently on my window. Funny thing is: I have no feeders up there. So why were they there? I called Sabrina on intercom. She said, “They’re there to tell you they’re out of mealworms down here.” I said, “No way!” She said, “I’ll go check their bowls and refill them if empty.” Within five minutes, all the blues were gone, down eating the worms she had laid out for them. I tell you, son, never in my life have I met a person with instincts for animals like that woman!
But, you think you’ve got problems?! Sabrina and I have problems.
I guess I should give you some background. We have a bird that makes a nest in my toolbox twice each year. The toolbox is in the garage. In order to allow the bird access to its nest without leaving the garage door open twenty-four-seven, I cut a small hole in the top of the door.
A while back, one of our cars started acting up. Off to the garage for a diagnostic survey. Sabrina left the car with the mechanic. She returned some time later to find the entire staff in an uproar. Laughing. At us.
“This is a first,” the mechanic said. “A motor failure due to peanuts.”
My wife stood there shaking her head. “Peanuts.”
The mechanic, still laughing, bent down a picked up a cardboard box 1/3 full of unshelled nuts. “Peanuts.” There were about 6 pounds of nuts in the box.
We went home and checked the other cars. In one, we found about six more pounds stacked neatly on the little shelves within the motor. Interestingly, the peanuts were found in the Land Rover and the Range Rover, not in the old jeep or even more ancient pick-up truck.
Now, we don’t store nuts in the garage, so the squirrel or squirrels are taking nuts from the other side of the house where we feed our wildlife, bringing them – lots of them – around the house, climbing the garage door through the bird hole and caching them in our cars. For winter. But only into the expensive car. Leave it to us to have snobby squirrels!
Like I said, you think you’ve got problems?! Oh well, two good things came of it: the car now runs like it used to, and we’ve recovered twelve pounds of peanuts. Sheesh!
I often think God must sit, His jaw cradled in His hand, smiling at us trying to unravel the immensities and intricacies of His creation. Every now and then, He must smile and acknowledge, “Well done” knowing full well, the most insightful discovery but scratches the surface. As for me, I know a lot about wildlife, but just enough to know that I know nothing.
There’s magic all around us, but you’ve got to look for it. Even more than that, you must believe you’ll find it.
MILLIGRAM
Sometimes, being a ‘rehabber’ puts you in interesting situations.
We had been provided the challenge of raising a 7.5 gram flying squirrel. Seven grams is somewhat small. A nickel weighs five grams. Heaven’s little emissary. He could stand – all four feet, on the last segment of my thumb. We set a ‘mush bowl’ in front of her – a baby food jar lid with baby cereal. She stared at it in horror. As tiny as she was, it would be like me putting you in front of a swimming pool full of porridge and say, “Dig in! Don’t fall in!” Even now, fully grown, her foot is not as big as my fingernail. We named her ‘Milligram.’
Herself and I were sitting on the porch one evening. Sabrina was reading from the ‘Squirrel Manual.’ “We have to teach Milligram how to fly.”
“Who ‘we’?”
“‘We’ we.”
I stared at my wife. “We’re a little short of expertise here, aren’t we?”
Flying squirrels, of course, don’t fly; they glide. They have redundant skin on their sides, from forelegs to rear legs that expand into a plane when they stretch their legs. Their tail is flat, unlike the full tubular shape of a grey squirrel’s tail. It serves as an air-foil or rudder.
Sabrina went on to explain that a flying squirrel that cannot fly cannot be released into the wild, and since the rehabber’s prime directive is to release, Herself and I were in a bit of a bind; this was not a chore we could sidestep. We were duty bound to teach Milligram to do a thing we could not do.
So down to the squirrel room we go.
The book said to put the flyer up on a high shelf, back off, slap your chest and call her name.
Sabrina put Milligram on a shelf, stepped away, and tapped her chest. “Come, Milligram! Come!”
Millie looked at Sabrina then stared down at the floor which must have seemed the equivalent of an eighteen story drop. She looked back at Sabrina. She twisted her head cynically as if to say, “Look, lady, I may be tiny, but I’m not stupid!”
Sabrina is very fearful. She doesn’t want to hurt her baby. I had an idea. “Let me put on an apron, hold it wide and you toss her to me.”
Okay. Sabrina backed off about four feet cupping little Milligram in her two cupped hands, took a large step for me and deposited Millie gently into my apron. I looked at her. “Honey, that wasn’t a flight, that was a deposit.” She knew this, of course, but she couldn’t stand the idea of injuring the baby. The longest recorded glide of a flying squirrel is 300 feet, so we had a long way to go. “You’ve got to step back about six feet and toss her into the pocket I make with the apron. Sabrina backed up, her face fearful. She took another huge step towards me and dropped Milligram into my apron once again. She looked at me hopefully. I shook my head.
“Okay, okay, I’ll throw her. But I’m not going to watch.” She backs up, closes her eyes tightly. I spread my apron and stare down at it so I can make a quick adjustment to catch her. Out of my upper vision, I sense her hands upsweeping. I focus on my apron. No Milligram. I look at Sabrina, her eyes still closed, her arms still outstretched. “Did she make it?” she said. Milligram was slowly swinging by one paw from one of Sabrina’s fingers, gently to and fro. I swear she looked relieved.
I took Sabrina aside for a husband-wife chat. I said to her, “Look, lass, this falls under the “Boomerang Theory of life.” She looked at me. “You know, if you want your boomerang to come back, first you’ve got to throw it! If you want ‘Milli’ to fly, it is a prerequisite to let go! It’s a good lesson for life.”
She continued to stare at me. “Look,” I say, “It’s like buttoning a shirt [why I used this simile with a squirrel, I’m not sure.] “If you don’t get the first button right, it makes no difference how perfectly you do the rest of them. Same thing here, no let go, no fly.” She stared at me.
Okay, one more try. Sabrina backed up, closed eyes and swooped her hands. I spread the apron wide. Milligram grabbed at Sabrina’s hands, missed and ended up in a pile of blankets beside me. Now, she looked annoyed. It was clear to me: here endeth the lesson for today, and all subsequent days. I love that little one, but if she is to learn to fly, she’ll have to teach herself!
[She did!}
LAW AND ORDER
Sometimes I feel like I’m Commander-in-Chief of Camp Krazy.
I arrive at work; 7 AM. Maybe a half hour later, I get a call from Sabrina. She’s out of breath. “Gahv! Gahv! Have we ever had some excitement around here this morning! A dog fight!”
But, wait a minute. Let me not get the plow in front of the horse. The story will mean nothing unless I tell you about one of our cats, Ozmitron [or ‘Oz.’]
Oz is colored orange and white, a cat of typical size with a most unusual coat. It’s not fur; it’s hair; long hair. Were you able to attach a handle to him, Oz would make the perfect dust-mop. This is the same mane he brings to Sabrina each morning for a brushing. It is this brushing which has created a most unusual depth of connectedness between he and she; a connectedness we had not fully appreciated.
Another thing Oz does, the significance of which we did not detect: he likes to spend most of his day on the stairs which lead from the kitchen to the cellar. If Sabrina or I use those stairs, we have to go around him; in fact, even our Dobermans step over him. Oz does not move. Stubborn. Head-strong. We missed that significance, until, that is, the morning of the dogfight.
Owning a few dogs, Sabrina and I are used to little scraps, a snap, a growl, and it’s over.
As Sabrina continued to explain, this morning’s aggression was serious; one or both of the contenders was going to get badly hurt. So, picture this: two large dogs going at each other with homicidal intent, the rest of the pack in full throat, this close to joining in; my Sabrina pulling at two collars to break up the chaos, while pushing would-be participants out of the way.
Then, over all the fray, Sabrina hears, “Budda, budda, budda,” - a running across the floor?- and out of nowhere, something orange and white flashes past her vision, and lands on the dogs! Screaming, biting, and clawing maniacally on their backs… It was Oz, who’d busted through the stair cat-door in a rage, coming to help his momma!
Then, not wishing to be Dobie-Brunch, Oz leaped mightily away, running in mid-air. He hit the hardwood floor and discovered something long ignored by historians: be it hasty, strategic, or otherwise, any retreat ultimately hinges on traction, A fact which receives short-shrift, or no shrift, in history. He landed on hardwood floors. He kept running, but now his speed equaled five ‘budda’s’ for every inch of linear progress. By the time he hit carpet, Oz was already in ‘passing gear’ and disappeared as if into another dimension. But, the dogfight was still on. Oz did a U-turn and jumped back into the fray hissing, spitting, clawing, and biting, only to flee once again. But still the fight continued. As crazy as it sounds, over the barking, for the third time, Oz was in the middle of the melee like a lioness attacking jackals! He was giving those two dogs the business end of a hissy-fit.
Then the fight broke up, the dogs were kenneled, and Oz retired to the stairs uninjured, licking his coat calmly. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, no, it’s Ozmitron the avenger! Although out-weighed and out-dogged, he was not out-Oz’ed, thus, he had the advantage. I suspect Oz is going to ‘live large’ for the next few months, thanks to his momma’s gratitude. Sabrina, no doubt, would have prevailed over the dogs, but it never hurts to have a little help, even if it comes in small orange and white packages.
Oz still maintains his redoubt on the cellar stairs; we and the Dobies must still make our way around or over him. The Dobies walk quietly now. There is new a law-enforcement presence in our home. To the Dobies, Oz seems to warn: check your guns at the saloon, boys, no fighting in my jurisdiction.
There’s a new sheriff in town…
Sheriff Dustmop.
BURGLAR AND OZ
Sometime back a lady walked into her back yard and thought she saw something; something very small, orange, and white; something not moving. Maybe a dead mouse? It proved to be a one-day-old kitten, umbilical cord still attached. How he gotten there? Who is to say? Since Sabrina and I not only do wildlife rescue, but have raised creatures as small as six grams, we were asked to try and raise him.
Two weeks later, a school bus not routinely used was called into service. As the driver entered that bus, he thought he heard a weak meowing. Investigating, he found a dead momma cat and a teeny, malnourished, tri-colored kitten trying to get milk from a mother who would never produce again. This sick, malnourished two-week-old baby too was sent to us.
Sabrina worked her magic, and these two creatures who had no prayer not only survived their beginnings, but thrived.
The orange male was a dream [orange male cats are reputed to have the best feline dispositions.] We named him ‘Oz.’ Big mistake.
The tri-colored baby did well but stayed small. We took her to our cat-vet, who determined the little one was a Munchkin variant; a cat who would, even in adulthood, never be more than half the size of a regular cat, but lacking the genetic defects of a true Munchkin. We named her ‘Mitzy’ [AKA ‘Burglar.’ This because she kept stealing things off the counter, pens, bills, car keys, prescriptions; never have found them. Imagine: you call your physician and tell him ‘My cat stole my prescriptions.” Yeah, that’ll fly.] So we nick-named her ‘Burglar.’ Mistake number two. You never name a pet you may have to give up.
We kept them for two and a half months, the normal time interval for fostering, but facts are facts: “We don’t have room for two more cats, Gahv, even though they’re so sweet.” Since they were now old enough and healthy enough for adoption, we returned them to the Roanoke Valley VSPCA, and asked the wonderful folks there to find a good home for both of them; they were not to be separated. During their time here, they got along famously, playing and sleeping together, and grooming each other. They had no idea they weren’t siblings. I had my doubts Sabrina could ever go through with giving them up; I’d seen the way she looked at them. Several days later, the RVSPCA called to say they had found a great owner for the pair; she would be there first thing in the morning
That night I awakened to Sabrina crying in her sleep. I knew why. At 6:00 AM, she was on the phone telling them if anything – anything - went wrong with the adoption, she wanted Oz and Burglar [Mitsy] back; the deal was off. We got a call about four hours later telling us the strangest thing: yes, the woman had arrived, but only wanted one of the two.
Sabrina rushed to the RVSPCA building, walked in to an office and asked for Burglar and Oz. Under the desk was a cardboard box containing the two. They had not stirred since being put there. But, upon hearing ‘mommy’s voice, two little heads, one orange, one black and caramel, popped up. One of the staff of the RVSPCA smiled, “They know they’re going home.”
They were ours again.
Oz has developed a long, soft, angora-like coat; he’s his own blanket and pillow; a walking dust-mop. He joins me in the workshop and then presents to his mother with his coat full of sawdust. She eyes me accusingly. “And just what have you been doing to my baby?” I just shrug; I’m no match for static electricity.
Only hard-core animal lovers will understand what follows: none of our pets have just one name, ie, ‘Mitsy’ = ‘Burglar’. Oz is a species of cat – little known- an ‘Ozmatron’; and the means by which we have come to love him is, of course, ‘Ozmosis.’
The ‘Burglar’ has heart attacks. She sees one of us coming and drops promptly on her side; ‘resuscitation’ comes in the form of a belly rub. Sabrina and I are the victims of a previously undescribed condition: OBD [Obsessive Burglar Disorder.] We have both refused treatment.
Something went wrong with their adoption, but went very, very right for us.
‘SMIDGE’
I have withheld telling this story for about six months. The occasion of my reticence is I didn’t know if he would survive the winter.
Smidge. Smidge Garvin. The last of the groundhogs bought to us last season. Too late to join any other g-hogs we were rehabbing, this smaller-than-usual guy had to go it alone. So it was with great trepidation we set him in an outside pen, fully enclosed, with 24” of dirt in it to hibernate in safety.
But what a winter it was! Not a day went by we didn’t stare out at that cage and worry the little guy wouldn’t make it. Then, as Spring began to slowly depose Winter, it seemed to Sabrina that the surface of the dirt in the cage was scuffed. [G-hogs will briefly break hibernation, come into the sunlight, then return to their burrow.] Could it be that he had survived? We put some fresh hay in the cage so he could re-line his burrow. It disappeared. Once the weather broke, we opened his cage, but still, we never saw him.
Then we thought we detected a subtle trail to a nearby raised cage, so we put food out. Still, no sign. Then, one day as Sabrina knelt down to set food and water for him, she felt a brush on her ankle. There was the Smidge-miester! He grabbed a carrot, sat down on Sabrina’s foot, and began a contented munching. She put out a tentative hand to pet him. Ever mindful of the duties a sovereign owes the lower orders, this he permitted. [She had bought him food after all.] For the next few days, all went well; we bought food, he ate, we scratched his ears.]
Then, sometimes he would appear; sometimes not. Had he changed burrows? Yes. We found his new home about ten feet from our front porch under the shelf of a large bay window. Much celebration at the Garvins’ that day; oxen were fattened; brewskies uncorked. [Okay, it was ice tea and a few potato chips, but you get the point.]
One stay Sabrina came storming through the house. “The deer are eating my new geraniums off the front porch!” Rascally deer!
Later, I noticed our munchkin cat, Burglar, staring fixedly out the glass storm door. I moved close to see what had so captured her attention. Next to the glass on the outside sat Smidge, studying her. But what was he eating? A stalk of geranium. Oh well, it’s the price you pay.
THE SANCTUARY TREE
Were you to walk through Sabrina’s and my home to its end, you would find yourself in our ‘animal room.’ This is where injured, orphaned, or diseased critters are in-taken and housed until we’re sure they can be moved to outside cages prior to release.
If you step outside that room, there is a small patio, and you would notice a one-story tall dense evergreen of uncertain species growing close thereby. But, like I did for several years, you would dismiss it as ‘just another tree.’ This is justifiable in that on our property there are many others, larger and far more imposing than this little guy.
One day something happened that proved to me how special this tree is. What I’m about to relate happened in the course of one second. I had just set foot out of the animal room to the patio when I heard a screaming shoot past my ear. A small bird flying for its life. Overtop of this screech, a second presence flew so close to my head, I felt the after-draft of its large wing. A Coopers hawk. The wren made it to safety in the density of the evergreen’s boughs, a density the hawk could not penetrate. The hawk was forced to veer off, frustrated at having a meal stolen from it by the sanctuary tree. One second… life in the wild often hangs on such narrow integers.
I first learned of sanctuary trees some years back during a savage several days of rain here in Roanoke. Rivers swelled, over-ran their banks, and carved out the dirt that for decades had anchored large trees. Many trees did not survive the undermining including one massive Chestnut. This tree contained many nests, and for decade after decade, birds of the same species built homes and raised their families there. It came crashing down scattering baby birds everywhere. The bird in question was a Black-Crowned Heron.
A young married couple called us; told us ‘there are millions of baby birds flopping around on the ground!” with parents circling frantically, unable to re-nest their off-spring given the loss of the tree. The couple bought them to us. They were young, newly-wed, and poor [we had to give them money for gas as they made multiple trips to us that day with more victims.] But there was no question where their hearts lay.
A baby Black-Crested Heron is eighteen inches tall with a three inch beak, and a readiness to use it. They stabbed at our eyes. We donned protective glasses and gloves, sutured wounds, straightened and splinted fractured limbs and sent them on to the Wildlife Center of Virginia. Sabrina saved twelve of the thirteen victims bought to us. That was my first exposure to the existence of such a thing as a Sanctuary Tree.
Without question, there are many other trees on our property, great soaring things with protective canopies many stories off the ground. But our newly-released birds feed near the patio; they are immature and not yet capable of the explosive, full-powered flight needed to reach those canopies and safety. This little tree sits not ten feet from where they feed, giving them that extra sliver of time to perhaps escape predation.
In the wild, sanctuary – safety or defense – takes many forms: cover or camouflage; branches, burrows, bowers or brambles; and as a part of that overall defense, this little tree, hour after hour, every night and every day looks after his wards.
KITTENS
In the world of kittens, as in all other worlds, there is sorrow and joy, delight and tragedy. Kittens come packaged in an astonishing variety of color: grays and whites, blacks and oranges, peppered with patches and accents and wisps. They are adorable in their awkward bow-legged galloping, their mock-fighting and their stalking. Their eyes are yellow or green or blue or mix-them-up.
Mother cats vary in their diligence; some are patient, others quick-tempered. Momma, the dame of five kittens with us now, teaches her charges survival skills, and from a high perch in the room, patiently oversees their play. By her cleaning them, the kittens learn to clean themselves. [Although, early on, they – like human children - don’t assign personal hygiene a very high priority.] Momma is interesting too, in this: she doesn’t play or purr. Tamed by parenting too early in life, perhaps she doesn’t know how. Raising her brood is the only life she knows. I hope her seriousness won’t keep her from being adopted. That would be poor recompense for her single-mindedness. [Note: written after this article: Momma was adopted by a wonderful woman!]
The instinct to mother varies. Some, like Momma, will readily adopt babies not her own. Others will have no part of an orphan unless you put it in with her babies - away from mom - let their scents mix, then mom can’t distinguish hers from others. Cats don’t count too well.
Kittens’ personalities are as varied as their coats. Permit me a few introductions from our personal Hall of Fame:
Freight-train: small of caliber, high of velocity, nine ounces of attitude and ready to rumble! You take food into the room, she comes tearing at you. [It’s rather like being attacked by a sugar-plum, but still, the thought is there.] She was a `tortoise’-colored feral cat, the lone survivor of her family. Ferals - raised in the wild - are savage eaters. Freight-train was no exception. With food on the plate, she snorted defiance and pushed everyone aside: our other kittens, cats, dogs, me... She would clamp a forearm across the plate so no one could get near it, while she wolfed down chunks of cat food. Not all ‘alphas’ are male. She had a butterfly pattern on her forehead. Butterflies are symbolic of new life.
Yen: a snow-white Siamese; ten weeks old and already a regal presence.
Patch, an orange tabby kitten, has the record for the sweetest disposition so far. Abandoned in an alley, Patch came to us with one eye half out of his head. No one is certain why. Black and scabbed over, the eye was grotesque. It was our job as foster-parents to put ointment on that eye four times a day. He came to us on Friday, surgery to remove the eye set for Monday. On Sunday, Patch’s eye fell out of the socket. It dangled there. Flopping into his dish, it soon became caked with food and kitty litter. I was at work. You better believe I got a phone call. Sabrina got him to a vet, the eye was removed and the socket sewn shut.
Patch Garvin couldn’t have cared less. Now one-eyed, he spends his days an accomplished loafer, sleeping, insisting on being set on our shoulder and rubbed, or just chasing butterflies.
Patch Garvin adjusted beautifully to his loss, and turned out to be one of the most endearing kittens of my widening acquaintance. In the morning, Sabrina would come tearing out of the bedroom in simulated horror. “Patch is after me, Gahv!!” I’d come around the corner, and Patch would be up on his hind legs, front legs extended, doing `The Monster Mash.’ For reasons unknown, male orange tabbies are said to possess the warmest personalities of all cats. Patch adopted me. His first night with us, I sat in my chair, he slept atop my shoulder. Every so often he’d reach out and put a paw gently on my mouth. So, my shoulders pinned firmly to the mat, so to speak, I decided we’d keep him. This paw-to-mouth gesture conveys such a trusting intimacy. When something loves us so much, how can we help but love it in return?
Sometimes we get the cast-off animals too late: a mom [Spook] and three babies. Spook was so desperately sick [temperature 106 when we picked her up] she could not tend her youngsters. So we fed them. They were all sneezing and hacking. The two older ones got stronger; but Baby, the runt... Sabrina noticed it first of course. We gave him fluids, we gave him medicine, we tried to keep him warm. His cry got weaker, he grew cold and began to stare through us. “Oh God, Gahv, he’s not going to make it! About one AM, before turning in, I went check on him. No change.
The next morning, I felt Sabrina leave the bed. It was too early for her to be getting up; I knew where she was going. I went with her. She knelt down before the covered box which held the small family, and she paused. “I’ll look,” I said. Two kittens were nursing. Mom, now clear-eyed and fever-broken, held her paw protectively, futilely over little Baby who died in the night, too weak of wing for the journey. Sabrina saved three; lost one. Mourning and thanksgiving held hands. Later Spook hopped up on Sabrina’s lap - the first time she’d done that - as if to say, `Thank you for helping my babies when I could not.’
Before I wrap up this piece, a few more comments on mothering. We have two dogs: Onyx and Ginger. Kittens terrify Ginger, but they seem to set Onyx’s head in a puzzle: she wants to mother them, but they sure are strange looking puppies, and she’s noticed they don’t bark all that well. Sabrina thinks it’s instinct combined with the fact Onyx has never had a litter of her own. Sometimes we take a kitten or two out on the patio. Sabrina and I relax, watch the pond or wait for the hummingbirds, with their nervous agility, to come to call. The kittens explore. But everywhere they go, there’s Onyx, this lumbering black brontosaurus committed to maternity. She gives an affectionate lick that sends them rolling. If you saw a three-foot tongue, wet and fleshy coming at you, would you characterize it as affection or assault? The kittens stare up and her and seem to think: I wanted a Mommy but my heavens!!
We do an experiment. We’re out in the back yard: little Patch, Onyx and Ginger. Sabrina and I walk away from them and call Onyx and Ginger. Ginger comes to us. Onyx stands there and whines; looks from us to Patch to us. We call again. She takes three reluctant steps, torn between obedience and instinct. She looks back at Patch. Mothering.
Looking back over the last few months, I am persuaded of this: helping animals is Sabrina’s best destiny, her true passion. She has found what we all seek: to be in love with what we do, for when it’s all said and done, that is the foundation of happiness. More than mere happiness, it engages the full array of her emotions: hope and loss, joy and suffering, each necessary for the other to be. Her entourage follows her through the house attached to her like barnacles to a boat-bottom. Sabrina’s sense of time is lost; the moments no longer tumble by, but are magically suspended, and later there’s a yearning to return to what you were doing and recapture that bliss. That’s the emotional resonance between your soul and your goal. That’s how you know when you’re doing your proper work.
There is a wise prayer: Make me a blessing to someone today. So, to Sabrina’s many babies, she is just that. Every day. But blessings are subtle things, often reciprocal. Examined closely, it’s often difficult to distinguish between the giver and the recipient, and in the trackless mystery of Heaven’s mind, there may be no difference at all.
THE DOG ON THE ROAD
This story was told to me by a friend. It’s Bible-readin’, pulpit-poundin’ true; it happened to their son.
Recently, let’s call him ‘Bret’, had been hired to drive a beer delivery truck. The hard economy made him glad to have any job; one he fully intended to keep. Running a long two-lane highway in far Western Virginia, he drives a large single-axle truck hundreds of miles a day. The sun is about to announce itself over the tops of the mountains; his day is just beginning.
Something catches his eye. Off on the side of the road, a puppy, holding up his right paw, looking straight at him…
He pulls over. The pup is covered with ticks and nettles. Bret takes some time to clean him up as best he can. Pours him some water; leaves his lunch, a sandwich. Then Bret has to leave. Company policy; very strict: No Passengers.
He sets the puppy carefully on the shoulder of the road, out of harm’s way, he hopes. Bret utters a brief prayer for the little one, curses the company’s policy, climbs back in his truck. ‘Sure I would take him with me; but that policy!’ Bret is young; jobs are hard to find.
As he puts the truck in gear, he looks back to be sure the pup is safe. No dog in sight. Gone.
Sighing, Bret released the clutch, the, suddenly slams on the brakes. There’s the puppy, sitting in front of the truck, right paw raised, blocking the truck.
Some do-gooder in the company reported Bret bringing the pup home. He was called in to see the boss. Turns out the boss is an animal-lover. Guess who has a new, loving home? Guess who didn’t get fired? Guess who has a new ‘driving-buddy’ as they make their many stops around Western Virginia?
Yup.
