Camouflage art, come to life

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, an artist named Bev Doolittle suddenly exploded in popularity on the art scene.

Her paintings are beyond cool. Mostly western-themed, she specializes in "camouflage art," such as her most famous painting called "Pintos":

Or here's one called "Doubled Back":

I mention her work because the other day, we saw our very own Bev Doolittle scenario.

This is a small grove of black hawthorn trees we have on the edge of our property.

We were walking on the road when I noticed something unusual in the rocks at the base of the trees.

Here's a closeup.

Camouflage art, come to life. I see how Bev Doolittle gets her inspiration.

Dream big, I always say

I noticed our neighbor's cat in our pasture the other morning, focusing on something.

This section of pasture appears to be a rich hunting ground, and we often see our neighbor's cats making short work of voles and mice. But this time the cat was looking a little beyond a small rock outcrop. She seemed nervous, too.

But whatever she was stalking certainly had her attention.

Interestingly, a couple of turkeys walked past just about then. It seemed the cat and the turkeys completely ignored each other, though to be fair those huge (by comparison) turkeys could be why the cat appeared nervous.

Turkey: "Hey, watcha doing?" Cat: "Shut up. Shut up!"

I finally saw what the cat was focusing on: a couple of male pheasants.

Well, that's ambitious. Those pheasants are nearly as big as the cat. Dream big, I always say.

Another turkey walked by the pheasant. Can you imagine the conversation? Turkey: "Pssst. Hey Charlie, the cat is after you." Pheasant: "Thanks, Hank. Let him try."

Pheasant: "I seeee you!"

Cat: "Nuts. The jig is up. Retreat!"

Ah, kitty drama.

Cat vs. magpies vs. vole

Early one morning, Don looked out our kitchen window and saw one of the neighbor's cats in our pasture.

This is nothing unusual, as the pasture appears to be rich hunting grounds for the cats. Frankly they're welcome to take all the mice they want.

But what caught Don's attention wasn't the cat per se, but the proximity of the cat to a pair of magpies (only one of which I could capture in the same frame as the cat).

"Look how close together they are," he commented. We watched as the mapgies stalked around the disgruntled-looking cat.

But soon it became apparent there was more to this little drama than met the eye.

Can you see what the magpie sees?

Let me enlarge it for you.

That's a vole on the left, right in front of the magpie.

Sadly the vole knew exactly what lay in store for it. There was no escaping the magpie's beak; and if there was, the cat was right there to finish it off.

Meanwhile, look at the cat's expression. We missed the opening scenes of this drama, but we speculate it's the cat who flushed out the vole, and then the magpies took over. The cat wisely knew it would be dangerous to try and attack the magpies, and he looks very annoyed that his breakfast was stolen.

I don't know if the vole was injured by this point, but it hardly mattered. It was doomed. Magpies are vicious killers.

Here's the second magpie, moving in for the kill.

A direct attack on the vole wasn't long in coming.

At this point the vole (located between the two magpies) was still alive.

But the magpies kept flipping it around, doubtless injuring it more with each flip.

I felt very sorry for the vole, let me tell you.

It was hard to tell, but it seemed this was the killer blow.

Victory dance?

With the vole dead, it was never clear if or how the magpies shared the feast. I suspect there was no sharing. Magpies don't have that much altruism in their shrunken little hearts.

After the magpies had departed with their loot, the cat hung around a bit longer, no doubt hoping for another vole to show up.

Interestingly, long after the cat had departed, we noticed a lot of magpies hanging around the same general vicinity. Must be a lot of voles up there.

Just a little slice of life in north Idaho. Or in the case of the vole, a slice of death. Ain't nature grand?

Happy Birthday, Older Daughter!

Okay, make that happy belated birthday, Older Daughter. It's ironic I should put up an update on Younger Daughter yesterday, on Older Daughter's birthday, but I simply had a brain fart.

Anyway, yesterday was Older Daughter's 26th birthday.

She's our Christmas baby, a blessed gift.

For her birthday, we framed a pretty photo of her cat Frumpkin and sent it to her. She hung the picture right above Frumpkin's cat tree. The juxtaposition was great.

Happy Birthday, honey!

Sometimes a veterinarian isn't necessary

We've had some grim moments this week.

A few days ago, Don shot our barn cat. This little lady adopted us shortly after we arrived in Idaho 13 years ago. At the time, she was presumably a young cat but of an unknown age, and for all these years she was Don's faithful companion in the shop. He's doctored her for a few things over the years, but advancing age and a lack of teeth meant it was almost impossible for her to get any nutrition, no matter how much Don tried to alter the consistency, presentation, and variety of food. Essentially she was starving.

When I suggested we take her into the vet to have her put down, he disagreed. She's lived virtually her whole life on the farm. To suddenly get bundled into a box and driven somewhere strange would be more traumatic than to take care of the matter himself. As he put it, sometimes it's the kindest thing you can do for an old friend. Choosing the right moment when the cat didn't see it coming, he put her out of her misery. Then he came back inside and wrapped me in a hug for a long, long time.

Then yesterday, our new neighbors (who inherited two horses with the property) called in alarm, asking which vet we could recommend. They were concerned one of the horses had a broken leg. Don first called another neighbor D., who is a horse expert. While waiting for D. to arrive, we walked over and looked at the horse, who was right at our fence line.

It was unmistakable. This beautiful animal clearly had a horribly broken right foreleg. She stood trembling and breathing heavily in her pain. No one saw how she had attained such an injury, but a horse with a broken leg is pretty hopeless.

When D. came over, he had a .45 strapped to his hip. He and Don went over to the neighbor's pasture and consulted with them, then gave the horse a fast checkup and confirmed she had broken her leg in three places. Calling a vet wasn't necessary.

D. haltered the other (healthy) horse and put her in the barn (out of sight). Then he asked the grieving neighbors to go into their house. Don stayed with D. because, as he told me later, he wanted to see how putting down a large animal humanely was done.

I came into the house and told Younger Daughter not to be surprised when she heard a gunshot, which came within minutes.

Meanwhile I called around until I found someone with a backhoe to dig a hole sufficiently large to bury the horse.

No need to call a vet in hopeless circumstances, especially when there are good men like Don and D. who unshirkingly do what must be done.

Barking cat

Here's an extraordinary video clip of a barking cat. At first I was inclined to think it was faked, until the cat changed from barking to meowing toward the end. Amazing!

"Barking? What are you talking about? I've been meowing the whole time..."

Why I Sometimes Get Behind on my Emails....

Our cat, Hopi. King of the keyboard.