Our family recently returned from our summer vacation in Cape Cod. As we’d hoped, it was a lovely, fun-filled, restful get-away. We’re very grateful to escape from the ordinary in a beautiful, beloved spot, doing as much, or as little, as we please.
And what a delight it is, at the end of that time, to be home.
Compared with our little rental cottage, our house feels immense. There is no sparkling view of Cape Cod Bay, but I can gaze out from every window on scenes I find satisfying in a different way: the muted green and gold landscapes of home.
Since our dog departed this earthly life in July 2022, I’ve become more attuned to the other creatures that share our home turf. Now that Kiko no longer patrols the territory, they’re clearly more at ease. Upon returning after time away, I eagerly look for the non-human friends I’m getting to know.
Among the first sounds of my Northern Virginia morning are those of a couple of wrens. One typically calls out boldly from the railing above our front porch. As he tweet-tweets, he looks to be filled with gusto, bursting with boldness, jumping abruptly this was and that. From a nearby tree comes a buzzing, warbling response. In our side yard under the pines, the mourning doves are foraging quietly below the feeders. All pearl-gray patience and propriety, they glide along like demure, hoop-skirted ladies, unexpectedly clad in sassy, fuchsia-colored shoes. I hate to catch them by surprise, because they fly off with such a loud commotion of fluttering feathers. At the feeders, there’s a constant coming and going of house finches, sparrows, chickadees and titmice. The red-bellied woodpecker swoops in periodically with a flourish and a squawk. A congregation of cardinals is always present, from just before dawn to well past dusk. They cluster at the feeders, perch in the pine branches, and amble along the ground, like convivial regulars in their local pub. Touches of bright yellow flash in the sunlight, as goldfinches feast merrily on the heads of Black-Eyed Susans by the back porch. Crows survey their domain from atop the highest branches of our old maples.
The gray squirrels are the most numerous and omnipresent of the furry creatures. Rarely do I peer out any window and not see at least one or two. We have so many squirrels. I noticed a bunch of slightly smaller, younger ones, for the first time this spring. (Mama squirrels are doting mothers, and they keep their young well sheltered until they’ve grown nearly to adult size.) They clatter round and round the tree trunks in frenzied games of chase, they leap heroically from branch to branch. In a group of exuberant acrobats, one little guy stands out like an Olympic gymnast. We often see him twirling his little body around a branch as though mastering a routine on the parallel bars. He hangs by his toes like a trapeze artist. He back-flips off a tree trunk and sticks the landing.
For a couple of months or so now, we have not seen Bobbie, the bob-tailed squirrel we began noticing in 2020. (I first dubbed her Bob, then noticed later that she was a nursing mother.) Where her tail should be, she had only a fuzzy stump; it appeared that it had been pulled off, either by a predator or in an accident. But Bobbie didn’t let it bother her. She made up for her lack of tail with an extra doze of chutzpa, and my goodness, could she jump. She became a local celebrity, a familiar sight to all our nearby neighbors. We’re sad to think she’s no longer with us. But the squirrel community may feel otherwise, as Bobbie was one fiery gal. Often, when we saw a squirrel making a fast exit from the feeding grounds, it was likely because Bobbie was in determined and aggressive pursuit. I expect she lives on through her progeny, as she apparently was a mother to several broods.
Bobbie will certainly live on, vividly, in our memories, as well as in neighborhood lore.
Next up: Deer, Foxes and Raccoons