And Then There Were Four; the addition of a cactus wren

                                       And Then There Were Four; the addition of a cactus wren

 

There’s a bird sitting in my planter, inside my house on the window sill in the south facing window.

The planter is home to a  three-year-old basil plant, a gift from Claire, and a one-year-old mint, which is attempting to overtake everything else; basil and bird. 

 

Mint is like that.

 

But the bird, a cactus wren, is oblivious to the overtures of the mint.

She’s the newest addition to the home and the least demanding; barely a breath, she is, in the little planter on the windowsill in my tiny home.

 

Po, the little pooch, is enamored with her. Every time the wren shakes her feathers, every twenty minutes or so, he perks up. 

 

“What’s that? There it is again! I wanna see, wanna, see, wanna see see see.” His tail wags and his muscles are taught. For five minutes he is earnest. Then he gets cuddly against my thigh until the next feather fluffing kerfuffle.

 

I have let Po sniff at her but he doesn’t get to explore, not to his heart’s content. Po is a cross species lover. Give him a cat, a dog, a human, and apparently a bird, and he’s the happiest dog on Earth. Come one, come all, a rated G orgy!  Po is a little codependent but I forgive him that. He has no idea how fruitless it all is, no idea at all how relationships like these often end. It’s not his fault. As far as he is concerned, a heart is a heart is a heart. And he loves them all.

 

Hanna found the winged creature this morning on our walk. Po stayed home because there was an inch of snow on the ground and it was 20 degrees outside. Hanna’s furry feet tolerate those conditions far better than Po’s tiny toes do, so he stayed home. A mile into the walk Hanna nearly pulled my shoulder out of it’s socket. She jerked at the end of her lead as if she saw a rabbit; sudden, explosive, focused. But it wasn’t a rabbit. It was a cactus wren, this cactus wren, “ Henny Penny Wren” who fits precisely perfectly inside my goose down coat pocket and cannot escape if I zip it up halfway. Left unzipped, she slips easily, deliberately out of the pocket and flies, but barely, two feet off the ground for about eight feet, becoming, once again, a delectable, enticing treat for one Great Pyrenees who doesn’t know any better.

 

At home I can see that Miss Wren has one eye that cannot focus. The iris and pupil leer at the ground, slipping under the lower eyelid while the other eye is large, (though truly itty bitty,) yellow, and round, wary, curious, attentive, perfectly midline.

 

It is a head injury from which she suffers. That’s what this non-medical professional, head injury expert concludes. And Henny Penny Wren could possibly survive it but not on her own in 20 degree weather.  Or, the injury could kill her. It’s a crap shoot. It’s too early to tell. She needs a little time. And, having carried her home in my half-zipped pocket I have signed-up to give her that time, to lead her forward or witness her demise.

 

I’m good at both.

 

You don’t want to know how good I am at both.

 

The moon is waning. Soon, in just a few days, we will have our first New Moon of 2022. The air is crisp, frigid. Another storm is coming. Hanna is outside yelling at the coyotes to stay away, every few minutes springing to her feet and warning them off. “My house. My person. My little dog.” And now, “My bird! You’ll have to go through me to get to them.” That dog is serious. Serious as a prairie blizzard; a flash flood; a ten year drought; COVID-19.

 

Living where I do, I never know what to expect, what one day will or will not bring. We weren’t expecting a wren but here she is none-the-less. And not the lesser of all the heart beings that share this little space, we, expectant, watch her breathe, eyes closed, snuggled in to the basil and mint, warm, at least.

It is the least I can do, provide a little heat.

 

“Come on, Po, let’s go to bed. Nothing more to be done here today. We’ve done what we can, for good or bad. Let’s see what the morning brings.”  Fire glowing in the wood stove, we head upstairs.

 

“My house. My person. My dog. My bird!” Hanna yells from the porch. If it’s up to her, in the morning to come, we will all be alive and well when the sun breaks through the storm.

 

Oh that it were all up to her, all of it.

Update: She seems stronger this morning. She is more active and alert. Now is preferring the succulent pot that Hilda gave me. Hanna and Po are cool critters with her.

                                              Another choice spot, a slipper plant from Hilda.

                                                    “Lemme see!”

                                                        “Be Nice!”