Category Archives: Ginny’s Ark

It’s been one of those days.

I haven’t worked out for two months (since my back injury) and now that the weather is warming up, I need to get back to business. Therefore, I started working out again this week. Today is my second day, and I’ll admit, I’m sore. Nevertheless, I’m a devoted sort, so off to the gym I went. I’ve discovered that I don’t feel whole when my body gets into that sleepy state that comes with non-use, and frankly, I have to keep in shape, like it or not, for my Boston Teaching Job this summer. Resting on my physical laurels just doesn’t gel with my self-image, interferes with my ability to play hard, and leaves me cranky, so in order to feel good, I need a daily dose of sweat and (sigh) soreness.

 

Anyway, I’d already dropped my kids off to school, cleaned my car, and dropped off some videos at the rental store, and now, at 9:45 I was knocking myself out in a step class. Suddenly, the receptionist came and motioned me out of the class. She said I had an emergency call from my husband. I needed to call him back right away.

 

Now, my first thought, whenever there’s an emergency, is that my husband has chopped off a hand. I know that he’s off turning wood on a huge lathe or working with his chain saw to carve something. So, it makes sense that one wrong move might take a finger or two. (And let me point out here that his fingers are important to keep. In addition to their being required for his dexterity for work (and for filling out his gloves) they are rather vital to my long-term happiness, though I am too delicate to go into detail). But I figured that if he was calling, he must still have his hand, considering he dialed and all. So perhaps some other awful tragedy has occurred. We recently sold our business and there are some delicate legal issues brewing. It could be that. Or, maybe something happened to one of our children. Eek.

 

Now, my mind was swimming with the tragic possibilities. I hustled into the hall, panting and sweaty, anxious to call back.

 

My husband said, “We have an emergency.”

 

“What?” I ask tepidly.

 

“The animals have escaped. I got a call from the woman who owns the lumberyard down the road and she said they are walking down the road, headed out to the highway (which is not really a highway, just a real road). We need to get out there right away. “

 

“How does she know they’re ours?”

 

“She recognizes Dixie, so she called Eric (who sold us this pregnant horse) and whoever answered at his house told her we bought him, so she called us.” The woman happens to have our number because we have bought lumber from their yard. Small world.

 

I stood there trying to imagine how she could recognizes our horse. I don’t know if I could distinguish Dixie from another chestnut mare if I saw her in some other pasture. She is not all that unique a looking horse.

 

We were silent on the phone. He is an hour away apprenticing at a woodworkers shop. I am an hour away at the health club. The question hangs in the air. Who goes?

Of course, I offer to take off and take care of it. The fact is, I am the one who wanted these animals, and when they’re trouble, I feel obligated to be the one put out. And, my husband’s activity today is more important than mine. While his practicing woodturning isn’t a job or a responsibility, it’s a part of the recipe we’re baking to make his happiness soufflé. Therefore, the time I afford him to follow his heart is precious. Not to mention that it makes me the “good” spouse and earns me some brownie points. And face it, I only had ten minutes left of class. I decided to qualify the call as a rescue mission, because to be perfectly honest, I was tired.

 

So I hopped into the car and sailed down the highway to go to our land to find the wayward livestock.

 

As I drove, I thought about how our emergencies now a days are a far cry from what they used to be. There was a time when an urgent call meant a dozen parents and crying kids were standing at the door of FLEX, livid, because a teacher didn’t show up for their birthday party. I would have to stop my day, go teach, and face a lot of fury in the process, then, there would be the aftereffects and having to deal with the employee etc… etc….

I sighed with happiness, just thinking of how my problems today are problems that make you laugh rather than cry.

 

So, I drive up to the land, and there, standing passively in the pasture, are my innocent animals. They have that Eddy Haskel “aren’t I innocent” look. I don’t trust them far as I can throw them, which isn’t an inch considering they weight 800 pounds each!

 

I feed them, but they barely touch their grain, a sure sign that they have been up to no good. If they aren’t hungry, they’ve been out eating grass somewhere. But how did they get back in the pasture?

 

Looking for answers, I drove to the lumberyard. The woman told me that when she last saw the animals, they were headed down the highway. She called because she didn’t want them to get hit by a truck. One thing was for sure, she didn’t put them back. She did comment that they had gotten into some hay and grain of the neighbor farmer, and he wasn’t very happy about that. As I talked to her, I couldn’t help but notice she is old and lacks expression, her voice almost monotone. It was like talking to one of those humorless farmers holding a pitchfork on a hallmark card, meant to make you laugh. I stifled my smiles.

 

I asked if it was possible the animals she spotted roaming weren’t ours, considering they were tucked neatly in their pasture when I arrived. I checked the fence for a downed section but all seemed in order.

 

She shrugged and said, “Well, maybe so. It was three horses, a donkey and a goat. They were all together like some mismatched family out for a stroll.”

 

OK. So that HAD to be our mischievous devils. I mean, who else has a clump of animals that fit that very description. I thanked her for the call, and left. I drove away, imagining my livestock strolling leisurely about the county. Eesh.  

 

So, however they got returned is a mystery. Obviously, I owe some neighbor a favor. I will find out who did the good deed in time, and then, when the season begins, I’ll drown the good do-bees in blueberries as a thank-you. Maybe I’ll get lucky and one of their cows will wander into my driveway so I can return the favor. Just in case, I’ll start studying the livestock nearby so I know what animals belongs to what farm.

 

In the meantime, I have my eye on my sly, roaming four-legged friends. They can’t fool me, no mater how innocently they stare. I went back to check on them one more time and gave them a piece of my mind.

 

“I’m pissed at all of you. You dragged me out of a workout class, I’ll have you know.”

They blink as if they don’t give a damn.

“Well, you may not care now, but every pound I don’t lose because I skipped my workout is a pound that you will have to tote around when we ride, so you’re going to pay for your folly in the long run.”

They snort and paw the ground. Ha. That got ’em.

    

Now, I’m home, my day all out of sync and my schedule muddled. I have homework to do, but I can’t seem to focus. At least the horses are fed, and I can eat lunch without guilt (thanks to the workout). I even gained a brownie point with the hubby since I took responsibility for today’s dilemma – which always comes in handy, ya know.

 

So, the day isn’t a total waste.  In fact, there’s no reason  a donkey, a goat and three horses should have all the fun, taking a stroll in this perfect weather. I might just take a walk too and forget about my homework till tomorrow. Why not. 

   Ever since the birth of our baby bunnies, I have been looking to see if the mother goes to visit them. It has been three weeks. I have yet to see her anywhere near the box, and let me tell you, I am sneaky about trying to catch her being a “good mother”. I go out at all hours of the day. Sometimes at night. She is always sitting still along side the box, acting totally uninterested. I bark at her to go inside and take care of her babies.

    She just stares at me as if to say, “Mind your own business.”

    Every two days or so since I discovered their existence, I have taken a small plastic spatula and moved some of the shavings aside to see if they have survived. Disturbed from their slumber, they scurry back under the warmth of the fuzz gathered there and I am cover them up again, delighted because they are alive. All three.

     A week ago, I discovered they had grown hair. One is pitch black with a white stripe down his back and face (we will call him skunk, of course). One is white with black dots and the other white with grey dots. Their ears are the size of my thumbnail. Their bodies stretch out long and bunch back up like a slinky. They even have that perfect white tuff at the rear that only rabbits (and playboy bunnies) have.

    Today, they opened their eyes. ( I stuck my digital camera in the box and took the shot hoping I had aimed at something. . . and this isn’t a case of photographic “red eye” , in case you are wondering. Nope. This particular bunny has pink eyes – thanks to me, he might be temporarily blind now, thanks to the flash in their dark, cozy world, but I couldn’t resist trying to capture them this young.) They are more active now, scurrying around in that box without my needing to disturb them to prove they are alive. They are gaining in size and look healthy. I guess we are the proud owners of FIVE bunnies now, and  I expect they will emerge from the box any day to start exploring the world.

   We need a bigger cage!

    I still haven’t seen the mother near them, but obviously, she must attend to this brood sometime. Perhaps she stays outside because she is standing guard the nesting box. She might act aloof to throw off predators. Should this be the case, my feelings are hurt. I am hardly a predator – I am the favored snack lady who comes baring carrots, cabbage and pepper almost daily! You’d think she would share the secret of her newborns with me, if no one else. Well, she has proven a good mother, despite our rough misunderstanding at first, and all my shouting at her, so I won’t complain.

     Spring is easing forth. The weather is glorious (58 today) and the sun is shining. A few dogwoods are blooming, and daffodils are beginning to open up all over the mountain. It is fun to celebrate this season with new life in the family – fuzzy, adorable, tender little bunnies that will be just old enough to give away by Easter (bite my tongue!)     

   If certainly feels like spring.

   I can’t describe my relief that our bunnies are healthy and growing steadily. It is nice to get some verification that we are good at this sort of thing. We have a pregnant horse, remember, due in only two months!

   I watch Dixie getting bigger everyday, her eyes growing a bit sluggish and her feet dragging. She doesn’t eat as much as she did (no room inside for anything more than that colt, I’m guessing.) But she is gentle with me. Sweet.  I am anxious about the big day to come when we will welcome another new life to our family – this one too big to hide under shavings.

    I promise, this time, I will not shout at the mother, or be so presumptuous as to think I can tell how to do the job right.

    We mothers don’t need counsel. We act on instinct. And we stick together. One and all. 

   

    I spent this morning standing in my driveway, whispering a mantra. “Be a good mother. Be a good mother. Be a good mother.”

    I was not talking to myself. I was talking to our bunny, Bun Buns. She just gave birth to what appears to be three, snuggly, raw skinned, pink blobs. This is her third set of babies. None have survived.

    I have been making excuses for her. The first time, I didn’t even know we had babies until one (dead) was dragged outside of the wooden box and left exposed under the water bottle.    

   Days prior, my daughter had told me she thought something was inside the box, and whispered excitedly, “Maybe it is babies!”

    I explained that was impossible. We had two male bunnies, or so I thought. I was mortified to learn differently. We discovered several other babies in the wooden nesting box, all dead, and, disgustingly enough, half eaten. But it looked as if they had survived a few days.  I chalked their demise up to the fact that I didn’t supply proper bedding materials and I hadn’t removed the male. I heard somewhere that the male will kill a litter if left confined with them. Jealousy, I guess. The gnawed edges of the sadly discarded baby confirmed this theory.

    I apologized to my daughter for not responding to her early speculation, and began to watch the bunnies more carefully. I was pretty sure that if our rabbits procreated once, it was only a matter of time until they would do so again. Next time, I planned to be ready.

   I bought nesting materials and was careful to cover the cage to protect it from the elements, but several weeks later, I discovered babies again, already cold and still. We had been laying concrete for a hot tub, and the cage had been moved that very day. The nesting box appeared to be wedged against the side of the cage, prohibiting entry. I insisted that the reason the babies were dead was the mother couldn’t get inside to care for her brood, but my husband shook his head and said he was pretty sure she could have gotten in if she wanted to. I eyed the male with accusation, but couldn’t prove anything.                 

      We removed the dead babies, cleaned out the cage and refilled it with fresh shavings. I did not tell my daughter about the litter. She would have been inconsolable, and because I could protect her from the disappointment, I did.

    After that, I started watching the cage carefully. I moved the rabbits to the front of our cabin so that each time I came or went, I could do a spot check.

    This morning, I left to take my daughter to school and the cage was litter-less. When I returned, three babies were inside the nesting box, snuggled deep into the pile of shavings and clumps of shed fur.  I instantly removed the male to a second cage, thrilled to see the babies alive burrowed deep into the warm nesting box. Now, all things were in order for success, or so I thought. But, Bun Buns wouldn’t go inside to care for the newborns. I waited patiently, but it appeared she had no intention of going into that box.

     She had blood on her nose and the back of her tail, and I noted some bloody fur in the box too. It made me think of giving birth to my own children. It is a painful thing, childbirth, but it is filled with so much joy the pain doesn’t matter. It occurred to me that Bun Buns probably didn’t feel “joy”, and as such, giving birth is probably an uncomfortable nuisance.  She might even associate pain and discomfort to the nesting box, which further convinces her to steer clear of it. Still, instinct does prevail, or so it is supposed to, so I spent the morning watching, waiting for her to change her mind, hop inside and begin feeding her offspring.

    I sat on the gravel of the driveway with a cup of coffee for over an hour. The babies are cute, curling over each other as they seek warmth and nourishment. Guests are coming to visit tomorrow and I have so much to do it was hard to justify my compelling desire to sit and observe. But, I did, and I feel as if that hour will be my most productive of the day, because it encompassed everything I value in life right now – taking time to witness life, observe and relish it.  Unfortunately, the longer I sat, the more disappointed I grew.

   Bun Buns never went back into the nesting box. I actually shoved her inside once, but she promptly jumped out as if I was trying to hurt her. Perhaps being saddled with three needy babies feels like a punishment to her. Nevertheless, I prayed she would take responsibility this time.

     This is why I began the mantra, “Be a good mother. Be a good mother.”

     Don’t get me wrong. I really rather not be responsible for three more bunnies. There is the hassle of a larger cage, and separating the males and the females all so we don’t get overrun with bunnies overnight. Yet still, I desperately want them to survive. These are my daughter’s pets and I want her to experience the wonder of life. I want her to learn about responsibility and decision-making – those poignant lessons that are learned from this sort of memorable childhood experience.

     She will come home from school in a few hours and I am evidently aware that this afternoon will begin with delight, but might end in heartbreak. These bunnies will no doubt survive a day or so, but not much longer if Bun Buns doesn’t return to the nest. I could just avoid mentioning the babies to my daughter, who will probably pass the cage without a glance. Then, I can wait until tomorrow to see what happens. But, I won’t. I’ve decided not to sweep the truth away a second time. 

     I can’t protect my daughter from the harsh realities of nature. I can only explain possible problems, and help her to understand those things that are beyond our control. I can console her if the beloved baby bunnies die, and hopefully, she will learn something from that as well. Together, we will have to discuss what to do with a pet that seems enable to follow through on her motherhood responsibilities. Letting a rabbit conceive time and again, when we know the outcome is bleak, would be unfair, no matter how desperately my daughter longs for little bunnies to care for.

    With luck, the babies will survive. Bun Buns will suddenly have a change of heart or instinct will override her belligerence and she will return to the nest.  Then, we can watch our pink blobs grow hair and long ears, watch their eyes open and give them names like Fluffy, Thumper, or Snowball.

   I guess there is a lesson to be learned no matter what happens. In the meantime, I will continue to whisper my mantra in hopes that it will influence the outcome for the best.

   “Be a good mother. Be a good mother. Be a good mother.”

     Looking at Bun Buns leisurely sitting outside the nesting box, I have doubts the mantra is working. I am compelled to yell. “Be a good mother! I will if you will.”

    But, the truth is, I will, even if she won’t. I hope our new bunnies survive, but I am prepared to tenderly wipe away my daughter’s tears if they don’t. That is what being a good mother is all about after all, facing the difficult tasks of parenting, the awkward or uncomfortable things, even when you dread it.   

     I do not need a mantra to remember it.