Joanne's parents lived in East Los Angeles during World War II. A number of cats and dogs came into their lives. Joanne was fond of them all, but she established a special rapport with a female cat named Scuttle. Joanne was Scuttle's special person. That's not always comfortable.
Scuttle turned up pregnant, as female cats often do, and chose the family linen closet as her place to deliver. Joanne was attracted to the closet by Scuttles noises. She found the cat in mid-delivery and Scuttle promptly grabbed her hand with both paws. She took a forefinger in her mouth, but didn't bite hard, just held it. When Joanne tried to withdraw, Scuttle bit down a little harder. The cat just wanted the girl there in her time of need.
Scuttle delivered a litter of kittens. A little time passed and the family decided to visit their mining claim on Paiute Mountain. With the gasoline rationing during the war, trips to the mountain were very rare, only twice a year.
The cabin had been shut up for quite a while. Whatever the mice could get into, they had gotten into it. Fortunately, the Heysers had brought along fresh provisions. They got the cabin opened up, a fire going in the fire place to take the chill off, and eventually the entire family went to bed.
That's when Scuttle came into her own. There were mice all over the cabin. They had multiplied during the war years. As far as Scuttle was concerned, it was a kitty cat heaven. All night long she busied herself. People heard her. Scramble-scratch-scramble-scratch-squeak-squeak-THUMP!
The next morning all of Scuttle's babies lay on their backs, their kitten bellies distended and stretched to the fullest. They were so full of mice they couldn't eat. Not only that, every member of the family had a dead mouse on their pillow. Once her babies had enough and she was full, she didn't see why she shouldn't share the bounty. Everyone had a mouse on their pillow, except Joanne. She had three.
It isn't always comfortable being a cat's special person.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Life's Mysteries
Joanne and I were married by a Unitarian minister in June, 1956. After the ceremony we borrowed her parents' GMC 3/4-ton and their poodle, Bobo, and set off to the cabin for our honeymoon. I think her parents insisted we take Bobo because they wanted someone on the expedition who had some sense.
Everything went according to plan except we forgot Bobo's dog food. He had to settle for leftovers. He liked the stew and the spaghetti, but he drew the line at beans. One night we put spaghetti and beans in a big mixing bowl. He ate all the spaghetti and licked the bowl clean – but he left every bean. But he had licked each bean dry. I still don't know how he did that. One of life's mysteries.
Another great mystery is some peoples' sense of timing. What was it that could prompt Joanne's first cousin Bill to show up with a friend to do some hunting while we were on our honeymoon? Alternatively, what could have prompted us to have our honeymoon just when he and his friend wanted to go hunting?
Bill and his friend hiked around for a while and stayed the night. They left early next morning. And it was OK. It was fine. Joanne and I have been married 53 years and counting, and I reckon that we have spent almost 18 of those years in bed together. From that standpoint, one night out of 18 years isn't that big of a deal. Besides, we really needed someone to help us eat those beans.
Everything went according to plan except we forgot Bobo's dog food. He had to settle for leftovers. He liked the stew and the spaghetti, but he drew the line at beans. One night we put spaghetti and beans in a big mixing bowl. He ate all the spaghetti and licked the bowl clean – but he left every bean. But he had licked each bean dry. I still don't know how he did that. One of life's mysteries.
Another great mystery is some peoples' sense of timing. What was it that could prompt Joanne's first cousin Bill to show up with a friend to do some hunting while we were on our honeymoon? Alternatively, what could have prompted us to have our honeymoon just when he and his friend wanted to go hunting?
Bill and his friend hiked around for a while and stayed the night. They left early next morning. And it was OK. It was fine. Joanne and I have been married 53 years and counting, and I reckon that we have spent almost 18 of those years in bed together. From that standpoint, one night out of 18 years isn't that big of a deal. Besides, we really needed someone to help us eat those beans.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Vaca Mexicana
Vaca Mexicana
©Ken Harris, 2008
In 1956 or 57 my wife and I lived in a Hollywood apartment and attended universities. We were both working very hard and welcomed the opportunity to take a brief vacation whenever we could. Usually we went to Joanne’s the cabin. Usually we took Bobo, a poodle, with us. He was supposed to keep us out of trouble.
Bobo was very intelligent and could learn anything in five minutes. However, he could forget anything he wanted in ten minutes. He also put his own spin on his orders of the day. “Don’t get on the couch” meant “Don't let anyone see you on the coucn." But he was pleasant company even with his faults.
On this particular occasion we had finished supper in the cabin and the three of us went for a walk to the meadow several hundred yards to the north. We gingerly crawled through a rusty barbed wire fence surrounding the pasture and noted the sign of many cattle. The meadow was part of the Bureau of Land Management domain and overgrazing seemed to be a part of their policy.
We came across the herd. There were a lot of them. Mexican cows, some with twisty horns, all of them lean. A few had extravagant brands on their hips. None of them looked like Elsie, the Bordens cow. The herd bull stood to the far side of the herd and ignored us. He didn’t look like Elmer, either. His disinterest in us was his only redeeming trait that I could see.
We stayed clear of the herd and tried to keep within running distance of the fence. It was just as well we had, for Bobo found a calf. He immediately tried to play a game with the calf, something named “I chase you around.” The calf cried, “Mama!”
The old lady showed up immediately. As soon as she saw Bobo and us her expression changed from exasperation to menace. She was a strawberry road cow, so lean you could count her ribs, and she had long, twisty, glinting horns. The right horn would have gone in my navel and out my nose.
We called for Bobo, quietly. “Bobo.” Then firmly. “Bobo!” Then desperately. “BOBO!!!”
By this time the cow had decided which of us she wanted to gore first and she began to move. So did we. I beat Joanne to the fence by several yards at once demonstrating speed and lack of gallantry. Bobo, delighted that we had joined in the game, yapped and barked even harder. He never understood the danger we all faced. And so long as he could outrun us, I guess he didn't face any real danger.
The calf ran away from all the noise and confusion and the cow followed. And that’s all of the story. Nothing bad really happened. Except I remember thinking the next morning as I shaved, “This is ridiculous. I shouldn't get grey at 23.”
©Ken Harris, 2008
In 1956 or 57 my wife and I lived in a Hollywood apartment and attended universities. We were both working very hard and welcomed the opportunity to take a brief vacation whenever we could. Usually we went to Joanne’s the cabin. Usually we took Bobo, a poodle, with us. He was supposed to keep us out of trouble.
Bobo was very intelligent and could learn anything in five minutes. However, he could forget anything he wanted in ten minutes. He also put his own spin on his orders of the day. “Don’t get on the couch” meant “Don't let anyone see you on the coucn." But he was pleasant company even with his faults.
On this particular occasion we had finished supper in the cabin and the three of us went for a walk to the meadow several hundred yards to the north. We gingerly crawled through a rusty barbed wire fence surrounding the pasture and noted the sign of many cattle. The meadow was part of the Bureau of Land Management domain and overgrazing seemed to be a part of their policy.
We came across the herd. There were a lot of them. Mexican cows, some with twisty horns, all of them lean. A few had extravagant brands on their hips. None of them looked like Elsie, the Bordens cow. The herd bull stood to the far side of the herd and ignored us. He didn’t look like Elmer, either. His disinterest in us was his only redeeming trait that I could see.
We stayed clear of the herd and tried to keep within running distance of the fence. It was just as well we had, for Bobo found a calf. He immediately tried to play a game with the calf, something named “I chase you around.” The calf cried, “Mama!”
The old lady showed up immediately. As soon as she saw Bobo and us her expression changed from exasperation to menace. She was a strawberry road cow, so lean you could count her ribs, and she had long, twisty, glinting horns. The right horn would have gone in my navel and out my nose.
We called for Bobo, quietly. “Bobo.” Then firmly. “Bobo!” Then desperately. “BOBO!!!”
By this time the cow had decided which of us she wanted to gore first and she began to move. So did we. I beat Joanne to the fence by several yards at once demonstrating speed and lack of gallantry. Bobo, delighted that we had joined in the game, yapped and barked even harder. He never understood the danger we all faced. And so long as he could outrun us, I guess he didn't face any real danger.
The calf ran away from all the noise and confusion and the cow followed. And that’s all of the story. Nothing bad really happened. Except I remember thinking the next morning as I shaved, “This is ridiculous. I shouldn't get grey at 23.”
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Dead Bull
One summer when I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, who knows, around 1950, there was a fire guard up at the Ranger Station. Two people I was googoo over were the fire guard and Nita Williams. The fire guard said he’d love to have some cow horns. I said, “Well, there’s bound to be some around here somewhere. I’ll keep an eye open.”
A little later Mom and I were over at the Kings and I was talking about how I would love to find some cow horns. Frank said he’d heard there was a dead bull up Chilson Creek a ways. Shouldn’t be much more than a mile or so.
So I walked up the canyon, up the creek, but I didn’t come to it. I went back to the cabin and said I couldn’t find it, so Mom said she’d walk up with me. She said maybe I didn’t go far enough. So we walked further up the canyon and, lo and behold, we came to a big bull lying there that had a nice set of horns. We looked at him and then we looked up and about two hundred feet further there was another bull lying there dead. There was blood on its nose, the eyes were still in it and the yellowjackets were just starting to come. There was a little tiny slit in the stomach skin where somebody had been pulling on it. Mother and I looked at each other. We didn’t say a word. We turned around and we took off at the run. Whoever shot that bull was still there. Later on we kidded that we needed to put a notice up at the Post Office. “Whoever shot the bull up in Chilson Canyon, we didn’t see you.”
For a while there was a Post Office at the saw mill when it was active. Anna Horne, Oakley’s wife, was the Post Mistress. Since they went back and forth all the time, it was the Post Office for a few years. And then there was the summer the vegetable truck came up. The guy would come up on one day of the week, say a Thursday. He’d bring the mail and he’d take orders for fresh vegetables. We’d order meat and buy vegetables whenever he came up, so it got to be a place where everybody met. I saw Louie the Indian after not having seen him for years and years down at the vegetable truck.
In fact, that’s where I got the letter that snared Ken Harris. Because Zoanne and I had been up there for a week and a letter came to me from Ken and he said, among other things, “I’m putting it in writing. Will you marry me?” After that he was caught. In those days they had, what did they call it when you begged off after asking someone to marry you? Breach of promise?
We hunted a lot. Most every day somebody went out hunting. Fritz and I used to hunt quail because if you went up to the Squaw Pocket Mine on the edge of the meadow during the day, especially in the morning. Quail would come down from high up in the hills where they nested down to the meadow where they could hide in the grass and get water. We knew enough about the mountain quail calls to know what they were talking about. As they moved down in a covey, you could hear one over here talking and anther over there talking, and you could tell that they were moving along. Now if something spooked them, you could immediately tell that, too. So what we’d do is we’d try to figure out where they were coming down and we’d hide in ambush. As soon as they came in sight, we’d try to shoot two or three, just whatever we needed.
I used to take the .22 and go up to the willows. They had “willow caves.” They’d go back four or five feet and I used to chase them into the caves. I never, ever got a quail that way.
A little later Mom and I were over at the Kings and I was talking about how I would love to find some cow horns. Frank said he’d heard there was a dead bull up Chilson Creek a ways. Shouldn’t be much more than a mile or so.
So I walked up the canyon, up the creek, but I didn’t come to it. I went back to the cabin and said I couldn’t find it, so Mom said she’d walk up with me. She said maybe I didn’t go far enough. So we walked further up the canyon and, lo and behold, we came to a big bull lying there that had a nice set of horns. We looked at him and then we looked up and about two hundred feet further there was another bull lying there dead. There was blood on its nose, the eyes were still in it and the yellowjackets were just starting to come. There was a little tiny slit in the stomach skin where somebody had been pulling on it. Mother and I looked at each other. We didn’t say a word. We turned around and we took off at the run. Whoever shot that bull was still there. Later on we kidded that we needed to put a notice up at the Post Office. “Whoever shot the bull up in Chilson Canyon, we didn’t see you.”
For a while there was a Post Office at the saw mill when it was active. Anna Horne, Oakley’s wife, was the Post Mistress. Since they went back and forth all the time, it was the Post Office for a few years. And then there was the summer the vegetable truck came up. The guy would come up on one day of the week, say a Thursday. He’d bring the mail and he’d take orders for fresh vegetables. We’d order meat and buy vegetables whenever he came up, so it got to be a place where everybody met. I saw Louie the Indian after not having seen him for years and years down at the vegetable truck.
In fact, that’s where I got the letter that snared Ken Harris. Because Zoanne and I had been up there for a week and a letter came to me from Ken and he said, among other things, “I’m putting it in writing. Will you marry me?” After that he was caught. In those days they had, what did they call it when you begged off after asking someone to marry you? Breach of promise?
We hunted a lot. Most every day somebody went out hunting. Fritz and I used to hunt quail because if you went up to the Squaw Pocket Mine on the edge of the meadow during the day, especially in the morning. Quail would come down from high up in the hills where they nested down to the meadow where they could hide in the grass and get water. We knew enough about the mountain quail calls to know what they were talking about. As they moved down in a covey, you could hear one over here talking and anther over there talking, and you could tell that they were moving along. Now if something spooked them, you could immediately tell that, too. So what we’d do is we’d try to figure out where they were coming down and we’d hide in ambush. As soon as they came in sight, we’d try to shoot two or three, just whatever we needed.
I used to take the .22 and go up to the willows. They had “willow caves.” They’d go back four or five feet and I used to chase them into the caves. I never, ever got a quail that way.
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