Country Roads
Stories abound all around the subject of our abundant rainfall this winter.
Most articles and photos reflect how uncontrolled invasions of water have wrecked havoc on human habitation. Less reported are the stories of what happens to a number of animals dependent upon pasture and a sheltered dry place to rest.
In some ways the recent storms reminded all of us of the fires. One of the differences between rain and fire is that open fields near water ways become uninhabitable during successive downpours; yet are havens of safety as a firestorm approaches.
Our February deluge created a serious problem for our neighbor closer to the flood plain along Lytton Station Road. Patti owns six mini horses, who usually live in peace and safety on their field of green grass, returning to a well-equipped, cozy barn every evening.
The phone call came around eight o’clock in the morning, when Patti found her horses belly deep in water, shivering and sodden.
“Can I bring the horses up to your farm? The water is up to my house!”
My daughter Sarah, who takes care of Patti’s horses when she is on vacation, hurried down to help walk them up. The minis looked like they had been in a monsoon. We put our two sheep in their small pen, adjacent to the larger grassy yard which they had vacated in favor of their equine guests, who resembled small buffalo more than small horses with long drooping wet tails and manes.
Posey, our ewe lamb with excellent vision, situated herself at the gate between her and the horses, content to observe them all day. Patrick, our wether lamb without sight, ignored the situation, bleating a few times while walking in circles fairly often. He does that when he is experiencing any change he senses by smell or sound.
The following few days were amazingly uneventful, even enjoyable as the grandchildren loved being with the small horses, though wishing they had brushes to smooth matted manes, backs and tails of the friendly animals.
There were only one or two glitches which we didn’t foresee: the first occurred near midnight, when Sarah could hear the mini horses poking around beneath her bedroom window. A sudden loud swooshing sound occurred which she recognized as a broken irrigation pipe. Since neither of us knows how to turn off the well (something we really need to learn!) other family members had to be summoned. The broken pipe was sawed and capped so we were able to have water the next day.
Well, that next day they broke a second pipe so it was sawed and capped, but that one was discovered during daylight.
Meanwhile, (there’s usually a meanwhile), the sump pump was working under the house, attempting to diminish at least a foot of water collecting and rising. A trap door in the side of the house allows access for man and machine when necessary.
At some point, our orange cat (George) decided that the five hairy beasts were a threat to his livelihood and, in a panic, jumped through the trap door and disappeared into the darkness.
Sarah and I thought he was somewhere cat paddling in a foot of water. He wouldn’t last long. We loved our kitty. We encouraged him to change direction and come out. He heard us, meowed, but wouldn’t come.
I drove to the hardware store to obtain advice from my favorite hardware advisor. He knows everything about gate latches, light bulbs, flashlight batteries and how to cut through a house vent to make a hole large enough to allow a kitty to be free. He told me I had to puncture the screen with a screwdriver and pound it with a hammer to start a bigger hole. Then I can saw the screen and hope to encourage George to exit.
“Cats don’t always know what’s best for them,” my advisor said. Upon returning home, I went inside with my tools ready to break open a house vent.
“Meow!” said an orange cat in the kitchen.
George! He was dry as a stick. Even his little paws were dry.
If George could talk, he would share the fact there must be a board above the water under the house, allowing access to a dry place for a cat to hide. He merely has to make a sharp left turn.
Oh, the wonder of animals.
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.
