Two more cats orphaned through a recent vacancy on my street necessitated my increasing the daily ration of food for these visitors to my deck by two bowls. Now there are three little food bowls there because the original orphan, Mr. Smudge, at tuxedo cat with half a mustache and a completely bad attitude toward his fellow cats, refuses to share a single morsel from his bowl. To Mr. Smudge’s chagrin, the two new orphans visit every evening. I cannot close my heart to their begging eyes, and—God help me—they have radar for a softhearted sucker, namely me.
Three little bowls of food and one big tub of fresh water pose a definite draw for every other creature in my semi-rural neighborhood, but that’s all right. We are under serious drought conditions and the normal food sources for the wildlife are quickly dwindling from the lack of water and hotter than hell temperatures that signify the new normal in my area of California. My late-night visitors include raccoons, opossums and the occasional skunk, all of whom have no idea what stealth means. They make quite a racket climbing up on my deck, and that always alerts me to take a peek at them through my sliding glass door.
I usually put the cat food out just before sunset so Mr. Smudge and the orphans will consume it all before the wildlife begin their nightly rounds. Recently, the two new orphans arrived late, so I dutifully put a scoop in their bowls and left them to it. A half an hour later I decided to go sit on the deck to enjoy the warm evening and night sky. From my chair across from the food bowls and water tub I noticed the newbies had not finished eating, so I watched them enjoy their meals.
Something rustled the dry leaves near the steps. I looked, expecting another cat. A small skunk waddled up with an attitude of being the landowner with full rights to my deck. This creature bypassed the surprised cats and made a beeline to the nearest bowl. The surprised cats, including Mr. Smudge who is not as brave as he thinks, quickly exited, although my resident cat named Baby Girl remained lounging upon the deck railing. She simply observed the skunk, decided it was of no concern to her, and stretched herself out to watch the show.
Here I was, frozen in my chair with the skunk’s aromatic artillery pointing directly at me. I could clearly see in the light every detail of her below-the-tail anatomy that indicated it was a female. I was amazed she seemed not to notice me. Her concern at that moment was obtaining sustenance and nothing more. Regardless, I knew better than to make a movement that would produce a sound that would startle her and cause her to fire at me. Twenty minutes passed with me frozen to my chair staring at her fluffy tail with her big strands of black and white hair shooting off in all directions while she crunched down on every morsel with her giant sharp teeth. I had no idea skunks had such long sharp canines. I imagined those teeth could inflict serious damage should she decided to bite me. So I sat. I stayed silent. I watched her. I even laughed a little (silently of course) as she gorged herself. I named her Miss Le Pew, (gee, I wonder where I got that) because everybody needs to have a name.
When she finally emptied bowl #1 and quenched her thirst at the water tub, I felt relieved that she had finished and I expected her to leave. No such luck. She moved over to bowl #2 and her crunching began anew.
From her perch on the railing and finding the skunk boring, Baby Girl decided to stretch her legs. Her weight shook the deck when she landed. Miss Le Pew literally flew up a few inches, flipped around in mid-air until her feet again met the deck, and stared at Baby Girl, her skunk fur fluffed up and her silly tail poised to release her ammo. Cat and skunk regarded each other tensely.
Uh-oh… I braced for the inevitable.
The cat judged Miss Le Pew as just another mild annoyance in her otherwise happy life. She slowly turned away from the visitor and stretched out a few feet away where she continued to observe from a safe distance. Miss Le Pew decided it was safe enough to return to her feast at bowl #2.
In all of this, the skunk still seemed unaware of my presence, although I could not conceive how she missed me, a big human sitting in a plastic outdoor chair. But I was getting sore from sitting frozen for so long, so I began to slowly and quietly shift in my seat while watching the creature. She paid no attention to me. It was as if I was not there at all. So, still in caution mode, I quietly left my chair while her meal kept her occupied. I tiptoed to the other end of the deck and observed her from there, wishing she would finish and go away. She finally consumed the contents of bowl #2 and drank a second helping of water.
Okay… now she’s going to leave.
Wrong! There was just enough left in bowl #3 to tempt her. She went for it. I sighed impatiently.
With nothing else to do but review my situation, it occurred to me the only time Miss Le Pew indicated awareness of her fellow beings was when my resident cat jumped down from the railing and shook the deck.
I experimented, first by talking and then by whistling. No response.
Then I thought about the fact her eyes are in a position a little toward each side of her face, not facing forward. Why hadn’t she seen me all that time when I was in her side vision view?
I concluded poor Miss Le Pew was deaf and suffered bad eyesight. She had nothing else to depend upon but her sense of smell and touch, plus her instincts. It was a mystery how she managed to survive this long. Obviously, she had been sneaking up on the deck to eat the leftovers many times before this, which explained my first impression of her considering herself the landowner when she casually entered my deck as if she’d done it a hundred times.
Eventually, she finished devouring every crumb and took a few more drinks of water for the road. As she disappeared into the darkness, I found myself admiring her courage and resourcefulness, her God-given ability to adapt despite her sensory limitations.
Miss Le Pew, you are a miracle.
Write a comment