The duck flinched first
The elements made sport of me today. In midafternoon I decided to try for an early walk. In process of putting Emma out to tend to business before we set out I stepped onto the back porch. And a mighty crack of thunder pealed out.
So I decided the time wasn’t propitious. I waited an hour or two. Then let Emma, who by this time was eager to go for her walk, out the back door.
Only to discover it was raining. She didn’t even want to leave the porch.
Somehow Emma has discovered in rainwater caustic properties, not found in water which is properly lying down, such as we find in ditches and rivers, which threaten to dissolve her broad Lab butt. Despite the fact that she rejoices in soaking in running water up to her wildebeest neck.
I may give the impression, in my account of her foibles and phobias, that Emma is a timid person. She’s not. She just had a rough puppyhood that left scars. And in fact I still seem to recall she didn’t especially fear loud noises when she came to us. I suspect a neighbor, accidentally or on purpose, shot a bottle rocket or something similar at her, possibly scorched her and definitely traumatized her.
Anyway, I was fixing to be grateful that the thunder had warned us away from walking earlier, except that it turned out to be a solo shot, whereas once we got fairly embarked on the ditch it started to flash and crack and rumble like the Bowling Alley of the Gods.
As every schoolchild knows, the Hairy Thunder-Deities Jove and Jehovah enjoy a friendly rivalry. But if you know the respective mythologies you also know that both hate to lose, and neither is above working out his anger issues on hapless random mortals. So I was a bit trepidatious.
Still, I persevered. As I may have mentioned Emma’s a lot less fearful of rain and thunder when we’re out walking. Unless either or both start to get really overt, in which case she seems to decide Daddy’s protective magic isn’t measuring up. Which is true enough, as far as it goes.
Of course she’s not alone. Human kids, not just chronologically speaking, show similar behaviors when confronted with something they really, really want to do. Like the child who balks at mowing the lawn if there’s a cloud in the sky, certain she’ll be fried by lightning, but can’t see why a long-anticipated day at the beach ought be postponed for a mere Force Four hurricane.
Anyway … the southeastern Nature Center field was full of these small purple flowers, that made it look as if the lush green was overlaid with a mauve mist about a foot to eighteen inches high. I don’t know if the Forest Service planted that or it’s a weed. Pretty, in any event.
Heading north along the ditch I encountered a handsome woman of early middle age coming the other way, and a duck standing to one side of the path looking doubtful as to prospects. Emma and I stepped to one side, yielding right-of-way as is our practice. The woman stepped to one side as well.
For a moment we all froze. It was a true New Mexican standoff. I could almost hear the Ennio Morricone trumpet solo playing in the background.
The duck broke the tension by flying off into the trees that screen the ditch from the field. “Somebody had to make a commitment,” the woman remarked as we passed each other.
Walking on, I saw swallows flying and a bird whose long slender tail and sickle wings made me suspect it was a kestrel. Or, pardon me: Killer Parrot.
Although I admit that it is cool to write that: killer parrot. Although what could compare to the awesomeness if I were able to write, killer penguins? Nothing, of course. Nothing could.
Also later on I saw flying over the ditch a stubby-bodied, big-winged raptor, probably one of our fine local owls.
For some reason the Sandia Mountains looked unusually close at hand. I’m guessing it had to do with wind and rain scrubbing the air, plus the fact that some of the ridges and hills that jut from the main range were brought into relief by fog and rain in the valleys between them and the main peaks. Usually the mountains just looks like a monolithic grey wall.
It turned out to be an evening for curious encounters, mostly of the human variety. A bit surprising, giving the threatening sky and even more threatening thunder. But it only rained a little, and lightly, and while it was pretty thickly humid, the air was cool and occasional breezes did a lot to keep it from turning slam-in-the-head-with-a-cast-iron-skillet unpleasant as muggy days can. Actually, I really enjoy a nice, lightly rainy, cool summer evening.
On our way back a skinny, exceedingly pleasant family group – mom and dad in their thirties, ten or eleven year old boy dressed only in shorts, a five year old sister – emerged on the ditch from a yard to the east. For some inexplicable reason the little girl chose to announce her arrival on the ditchbank by letting fly a couple of shrieks that could penetrate Chobham armor.
To avoid causing alarm I took Emma across a convenient footbridge to the west bank. As we went by the parents hailed me.
“Do you know anything about turtles and tortoises?” the father asked.
Happens I do. A bit. They showed me an animal about six or seven inches long; from the stumpy legs and high-arched shell I guessed it was likely a desert tortoise, and said so.
It turned out they had found it wandering in the yard and decided to see if it wanted to return to the water. It quite manifestly did not, turning and waddling purposefully back up onto the dirt roach road whenever they started it promptingly down the weed-grown bank.
I explained it was almost certainly a tortoise, and didn’t need to be in the water. It’d be quite happy back in their yard, eating bugs and snails. “It’s not,” I pointed out, “as if it needs wide-open range to roam in.”
The mother mentioned, somewhat nervously, they had a dog. I told them tortoises had ways of coming to terms with dogs. Obligingly the beast, which the little boy had picked up and was holding on its back, withdrew into its shell. “They have pretty good defenses,” I said, reinforcing the tortoise’s emphatic statement. “Also they have pretty vigorous means of showing their resentment if dogs try to bother them anyway.” By which I meant giving Fido a brisk nip on the snoot, although it seemed a bit cold-blooded to put it that way. They were all awfully sweet and earnest.
“Are you kidding?” the boy, who had tow hair cropped close to his head, sang out. “Our dog’s afraid of our cat.”
“Well, there you go,” I said.
Somewhere in this exchange a jogging woman’s loose dog ran up on Emma, who spun around and growled at it. She seemed as engaged by the conversation as I was. Of course, she probably thought one of the harmless and cheerful family group was going to whip out a Micro-UZI and fire us up. She always thinks that.
In any event the stray dog was startled and sensible enough to back quickly away from the large unfriendly black dog, and its mistress spoke to it pretty sharply. They went on their way without further incident.
It turned out that it was the mother of the family unit who had for some reason been convinced the beast was a turtle. She remained skeptical. “Our only turtles are red-eared sliders,” the father said, correctly pointing out that this creature clearly wasn’t one of those.
“Actually, we’ve got snapping turtles and soft-shelled turtles, too,” I said, and I hope I sounded friendly enough to overcome the innate discourtesy of contradicting him. Wish I’d put it another way; oh, well. I mean, he’s right that we do have red-eared sliders. “And this isn’t either of those, either.”
“He bit me,” the little girl announced happily, holding the tortoise out toward me in both hands, which like her brother’s were encased in enormous yellow rubber dishwashing gloves like fireman’s gauntlets. The tortoise had emerged from its shell and seemed to peer at me like a pet hamster.
For some reason the parental units weren’t distressed by the fact she’d been bitten. Gods know the girl could emit sufficient noise to let the universe know if she was actually hurt or scared. What exactly had prompted her to produce her earlier demonstrations of sonic destructo-power I’ve no idea; I suppose she’s only waiting to meet the age requirements for Professior Xavier’s Home for Wayward Boys and Girls.
“Does it have red eyes?” I asked, playing my trump card.
“Yes it does,” Dad said.
“It’s probably a male desert tortoise, then.” I found one in my own front yard, years ago. It spent a winter bunkered in a spare aquarium, declining all but a tiny bit of food and water. I’d let it loose on the RGNC grounds proper in the spring.
At last that seemed to satisfy Mom’s doubts that the hapless creature might really be a turtle in imminent danger of desiccation if they didn’t pitch it immediately back in the water. Where it likely would’ve sunk like a rock. They thanked me, and bade me a cheerful farewell. I returned it and Emma Dog and I walked on.
We’d gone maybe twenty yards when I heard them call. They were heading through the gate into their big backyard, presumably to put the tortoise the hell back in the yard where it was perfectly happy in the first place, and had called out to smile and wave a final good-bye. I returned it. Really lovely people.
As we walked back along the final, tree-lined stretch we were accosted from the far bank by a most ferocious beast. It was white, about eleven inches long inclusive of tail, and about six inches tall. I think it was one of your indomitable little terriers, or terrier crosses. It wanted us to know we were in big trouble, and should fear. I told it we were duly terrified.
Fortunately it didn’t choose to come running across a nearby footbridge and press the issue. I’m really not entirely sure Emma thinks those little bitty mop-dogs really are dogs. I don’t want to find out, especially.
Then I almost gave myself cardiac arrest standing in line at the Smith’s checkout on North Fourth, when I suddenly realized my Palm was no longer in my shirt pocket! Fortunately, as I walked out to the car (working myself into quite a state) I realized I’d zipped it away in my water-bottle carrier when it commenced to rain.
So ended another cheerful summer-evening adventure in Albuquerque’s North Valley.
Updated 10/30/2008 1:08:03 AM: Inexplicable spelling error (dirt roach?) corrected.
Tags: Birding, desert tortoise, Emma!, killer penguins, mutant powers, New Mexican standoff
August 18th, 2008 at 10:27 pm
[...] they were the World’s Nicest Family. My loyal blog readers might recall them from an earlier post (it had Emma in it, so people may have actually read it): the folks with the Tortoise [...]