Jenmenke

Road Warrior

Animals

Goodbye Beloved & Evil Pokie Cat

May 20-something, 2008 – June 20, 2011

I’ve been trying to write this post for weeks now. I can’t believe it’s been almost a month since she died. In some ways, this has been my hardest animal loss because it was so unexpected and final. Most of our cats just disappear. We never know if they will show up again or not. So we hope and search. Not knowing is always hard, but we’ve had cats go missing for a month and show up again, so it’s easy to be hopeful. Not so with Pokie. We found her in the grass shortly after arriving home one evening. There were no marks on her — she looked like she was sleeping — and yet she was gone. The only thing we can guess is that she somehow was hit by the car as we came home. To say that is devastating doesn’t even come close to the heartache.

Pokie was my kitty. And I don’t even officially like cats. I raised this little, evil, naughty kitty from the time I unwittingly volunteered to take her into our family.

It started innocently enough. Rakel, a friend who had given me a kitty or two before from her parent’s farm asked my kids (while I was conveniently not present) if we were up for a new kitty. After much nagging, I agreed. We had recently been in a bad stretch of losing cats to coyotes back in 2008 and Ollie The Black Cat needed a friend. We picked Pokie up on the last day of school in 2008. I knocked on Rakel’s door and was presented with this:

To say she was little was an understatement. She wasn’t weaned. She was being fed with a bottle. And she needed to be manually pooped and peed. For those of you who don’t know what that means, consider yourselves among the lucky ones. Suffice to say, you do not want to have a kitty this little. My vision of a garage kitty was quickly dashed. And, by the time Pokie was able to poop and pee on her own, I had so much time invested, she was like my own gold bouillon stash. I didn’t let her outside out of my sight for almost a year. No Pokie-McNugget for the coyotes this time, no siree.

And in the meantime, I fell in love with her.

I was most worried about Lola being mean to her. As you may already know, Lola is not known for her “patience” with other animals. Her nickname is Cujo.

I shouldn’t have worried.

Lola became her mommy. And she stayed Lola’s baby long after she was mine.

Tthey always stayed special friends, despite Pokies feisty temperament.

Sometimes it didn’t work out so well for Pokie

Ollie the Black Cat was never as enamored.

We kept trying to get them to cuddle up. But it never really stuck.

I have so, so many pictures of Pokie! Every single one makes me smile.

Pokie started as a sweety kitty who was carried around by everyone. And evolved into a sweety cat who was carried around by everyone and promptly dropped as she hissed and growled until you finally set her down.

It couldn’t have been because of external circumstances.

Could it?

Perhaps you can’t tell by this picture, but this was called the Pokie-Burrito Treatment as performed by Morgan.

The kids would chase her down, catch her and roll her up in a blanket infant-swaddlesque. Then they’d set her upright in various places around the house and take her pictures. In this one, I’m pretty sure she was growling as she stared me down, imploring me to release her.

Or maybe she was just plotting our deaths.

She was loveably evil.

You never knew where you might find her.

Early on, in the absence of Lola to cuddle up with, she invented amazingly cute places to sleep.

When we brought her to my parent’s in Hayward we found her on a high table, drinking out of the watering can fountain.

Later, as she grew older and eviler, you might be packing to go skiing, reach in to your bag to move something around and

W H A M !

A claw would come out of the dark and skewer your hand, scaring you half to death.

Or you might open the drawer to get out a new garbage bag and…

S C R E A M at the top of your lungs when something moved inside the drawer.

She took to stalking our old barn cats, terrorizing Fat Londa daily. I have no pictures of that. Just know that Fat Londa is our first cat. She (he) is 14 years old and has about 9 BB’s in her (his) head from the time Dave accidentally shot her (him), thinking she (he) was a raccoon. At the very least, Fat Londa deserves respect from the youngens’ around here and Pokie did not comply.

I do have this picture of her bugging Ollie.

Pokie was Ollie’s worst nightmare. I don’t think Ollie misses her.

I do. I miss her evilness. I miss her fur balls. I miss her so much.

In the garden, in the office, even (don’t tell Dave) in my bed.

Goodbye my beloved and evil Pokie Cat.

A Clarification

It’s not often that I post a retraction to a previous post. However, that little bit about the cats walking on my bread dough… I think I would have gotten away with it if Jane hadn’t tattled on me. I will admit that I included it for the thrill of a cheap laugh.

That isn’t to say it wasn’t true.

Oh no, no, no, no. It was true. And it’s a real problem. These damn cats of mine are a real damn problem. Mostly it’s the evil Pokie

This cat simply needs to be outside. She’s just looking for trouble all the time

And if it isn’t the fish — which she has hunted all through the house as I try to hide it from her, it’s the other cat Ollie

And if it isn’t the fish or Ollie, it’s anything in the sink. Notably anything in the sink soaking in water

(first I run get the camera. THEN I scream and smack her. –Just so we are clear. I don’t want you to think I actually allow this kind of shenanigans. However with cats, correct me if I am wrong, but it seems to make no difference? Oh. Except for when I use the ScatMat. But I’m rarely that prepared.)

This one sort of freaked me out. I still don’t know how she got in there.

Scared me to death…

And this is a stunt that both cats like to pull

Pokie and Paper – Large

I know I should just kick her outside. The problem is that I have a vested interest in the life of this cat. We have a tendency to “lose” cats. They simply disappear never to be seen again. My gut tells me they are disappearing into the mouths of coyotes and I couldn’t have that. Not with this one. I spent far too much time when she was a baby, feeding her with a baby bottle and wiping her butt to feed her to the local pack.

She’s just always stalking around the house making problems — the latest of which is my rising bread dough. Like the fish, for which I finally settled on a glass fronted cabinet, I have devised a cat-proof bread solution:

it’s the barrier method.

And for the record, I never gave Jeanette any cat-deflated loaves.

(That honor went to Chris.)

RIP Ringo the Chinchilla

I hate “RIP.”

It seems so callous. And yet.

I bow to convention.

Something you won’t see very often from me. I could only do it in the context of Chin, because I know he wouldn’t mind. We never once called him ‘Ringo’ even though that was his name.

He was Chin.

Original, I know.

I’d like to give you the dates of Chin’s life, but alas, I do not know them.

He was an enigma.

Not really. I just don’t know them.

He was the easiest of pets. The sweetest of pets. The most easy-going of pets. I sing the praises of chinchillas!

He didn’t make noise, didn’t smell (unless his cage was going on month two without cleaning, and even then it was IT and not HIM), didn’t bite (ever! not even once!), never made waves, got along with everyone (the cats, the dogs, even Dave!).

The most trouble he ever gave me was that one time he jumped into the uncovered heating duct when we were finishing off the bonus room. Yes, that was some trouble.

I spent about six hours tracing his movements throughout the addition knowing that with one false jump he was gone for good. Well, unless I was willing to dismantle our actual furnace and even then it was not guaranteed.

We left trails of raisins (his favorite). Hoping to lure him out.

I sat, unmoving, with a fishing net in my hands as he popped his head out of the hole in the floor only to disappear if I so much as moved a muscle.

It was then that I knew Chin had an agenda beyond his exercise wheel.

It was to bust out.

To be free.

But I had promised not to set him free like I did with Scooter the spotted fancy mouse and — I don’t remember the names of– the bunnies. There is just something I can hardly stand about an animal in a cage. And I rationalize that two days of freedom during a Minnesota summer before being killed by a hawk or a raccoon or a fox or a coyote or a — god forbid — house cat is better than years in a cage at the Menkes.

But I promised.

So I didn’t.

And I came to love that stupid chinchilla. And he came to love us (I think. Course, it all could have been a big act…). Though I know in that tiny peanut of a brain he was always just scheming his way back down into that mecca of heating and cooling pipes.

Sadly, we had to put him to sleep last weekend after feeding him with a syringe for over a week. He finally stopped accepting it and we were too sad to let nature take its course since he was obviously in a lot of pain. (His teeth grew outward which prevented them from being worn down by chewing like they should’ve naturally. Without that opposition, the roots of the teeth started to grow backwards and into his lower jaw and eye socket area. Not good.)

It all happened really fast.

And I still stop by his cage to give him a raisin or a scratch.

But he’s not there. And we will miss him.

(that’s me. aren’t I so cute? I’ve been using this amazing skin cream and my wrinkles are gone!)

No, actually it’s my darling niece Megan, who also loved Chinny. Hi Megan!

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Happy First Day of Autumn

Happy Boxelder Bug Day

All of the photos here were taken on September 22nd. The first day of Fall for most. Boxelder Bug Day for me.

I hate Boxelder Bugs. They are benign, yes. But their tendency to buzz around and land on anything drives me batty. Their need to cluster into ungodly hordes many layers deep disgusts me. Really. It just totally grosses me out.

They are supposed to be cyclical. As in, “It’s a bad year for Boxelder Bugs.” Presumably then, you might be treated to a few years worth of “they aren’t too bad” years. But no. Not where I live. They are bad every year. The Asian Beetles, too, though they have yet to come out in force.

Every year I say, “It’s a bad year for Boxelder Bugs.” And it’s true. It is.

If having the exterior of the house crawling with live bugs isn’t bad enough, hundreds make it IN to the house every day, with each opening and shutting of the front or back door. There have been days where we have blocked off the front door entirely because it was too covered with bugs to use. But you gotta get in and out of the house somehow. I suspect that many come in all tangled up in my hair. Now there’s a pleasant thought.

As I sat down to write this earlier today, this is what happened: (I apologize for the horrible photos. That bug was moving fast. And, I have a hard time focusing on my stupid black cat)

 

By the end of the flurry and before I could set the camera down, she had shredded the document. It was all very funny until I realized it was the voting ballot I was suppose to submit.

I don’t really have much more to say on the subject. I just wanted the chance to give you the heebie jeebies like I have.

Murder at the Menkes: A Henhouse Whodunit.

So you all know about my rooster woes, right? The fact that I have five chickens crowded into a small fenced area, due to the existence of a single, renegade rooster living on the outside?

I’ve had about my fill of roosters fighting to the death, so these guys will remain separated until I can solve the problem. The solution, naturally, is that I plan to kill the crazy rooster and have him stuffed. Of course. Who wouldn’t, right?

Apparently no one would.

But that’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.

The only problem right now is that we just can’t come to a clear agreement on how to actually go about the killing of him. I suspect that is our lame excuse for avoiding it all together. I mean, really. Who wants to kill anything in cold blood?

Not me.

And also, apparently, not Dave.

Hunting is far more sporting. It’s another thing entirely to walk out there with sole the intention of catching him and killing him. Just like that. No sporting chance.

I know, because I have tried. And, I’ve always ended up watering the sunflowers instead.

Go figure. I must like the guy on some level.

Did I tell you he flew off the roof and tried to get me in the face the other day?

Well he did. And I’m still somewhat amused by him.

Oh, we’ve talked and talked the killing to death (get it? to death?) and we’re no where nearer to an answer than we were a month ago. It has to be as quick as possible. No suffering:

  • death by drowning
  • death by carbon monoxide
  • death by wringing of neck
  • death by .22
  • death by slitting of throat
  • death by Lola

OK, Lola is out. That would definitely involve terror and therefore suffering.

Anyway. We were out of town for the last several days (hence no updates in the last week) and I hadn’t checked on the chickens since I got back. I had Charlie run out there last night to ascertain that all was well. Why I would trust either of my kids to such a task, I have no idea. Remember, these are the same kids that didn’t notice a dead hen, despite their assurance to me that they had counted them, for over a week. When I went out there, all I found were some ribs and a wing.

However, since I could hear both the loud and shrill crazy crow of The Chieftain, and the gargled, strangling sound of the immature Chicken Little rooster, I figured Charlie was right.

That was last night.

This morning, as I was laying in bed, I heard a disturbing sound. It was a distinct bird like call, chicken in nature, that was neither the young rooster or the crazy rooster’s crow.

It chilled me to the very bone.

A third rooster? Surely not!

After dropping the kids off, I went out back to check things out. What I found was very disturbing indeed:

Murder in the Hen House.

Now, at first glance, this was maybe not such a bad thing, since it brought me down to one rooster, albeit a very mean and flight-aided one. I wondered, “Did these four hens rise up against the rooster and kill him? Was that what I heard this morning? His death throes?” I mean, you should see these hens. They are HUGE! It is certainly possible that one of them could have over-powered their oppressor.

Could it have been Miss Scarlet, in the Chicken Run, with the Watermelon Rind?

Or maybe Mrs. Peacock, in the Coop, with the Wooden Perch.

Who could it be.

Who could it be…

And then, I started really looking at these hens. And I’m like “that is one big, effin’ hen.”

Wait a minute… Could that one be a rooster? Nooooo. Please no!

Yes!

No!

YES!

I know the answer, because two hours later, with one of two known roosters dead, I heard a new crow. I think it’s this one:

Oh my GOSH! Is that BLOOD on his neck?

I think it IS! This is just like CSI! If I could just zoom in and enhance it a bit, using thermal imagery technology…

I don’t think that’s barbecue sauce. But it’s odd, because I did not see any blood on Chicken Little. So I went back to check him over again. I still didn’t see any blood, but I did see this

Could it be a clue? A post-mortem fingerprint? Hidden away under his wing awaiting my detection?

It will have to be sent out for DNA analysis, of course. Until then, the two striped suspects are under surveillance. At this point in the investigation, the evidence is inconclusive, but off the record, I think we have our killer. One of these days he’ll make a mistake and I’ll be there with the cuffs.

And now, this afternoon, after studying them a bit more, I’m actually thinking that BOTH the barred rocks (the striped ones) might be fricken’ roosters! They are both ridiculously large. And upon further inspection, I notice both of them have ever-so-slight knobs where spurs should be.

Seriously. This is truly insane. Hatcheries are between 90 and 95 percent accurate at sexing chicks. And I get three roosters out five “sexed pullets” in random assorted batch?

After that epiphany, I opened the door between the two coops and figured, “go ahead, fight to the death. I care not.”

That was six hours ago and they are still voluntarily segregated. I think it is worth noting that I still haven’t gotten a single egg from these “hens.” So it would be premature to say I have —  not counting the recently departed white rooster — three roosters and two hens –because who’s to say they aren’t ALL roosters? Time will tell.

Is this God’s way of telling me I should give up on raising chickens? In the last 2 years, I have had no less than NINE roosters, when my intention was to have ZERO.

How’m I doing so far?

Rooster Round-Up

No, this post is not about Dave.

But I bet he wishes it was.

I have lost track of the many, many roosters that God has bestowed on me for safe keeping. That last sentence seriously escaped my typing fingers without a blush. It was only after it was on the screen in front of me, that I realize how ridiculous it sounds.

NO CHICKEN HAS EVER BEEN SAFE WITH ME. (Just ask Lola)

So let’s try that again:

I have lost track of the many, many roosters that God has burdened me with.

There. Much better.

But there should be a celestial limit placed on the number of mean roosters one person is dealt. Because I have had my share.

None rival The Chieftain, though. He scares the poop out of me.

He has now taken to attacking us. It’s all very traumatic. I’m going to try to get some actions shots tomorrow. Time is of the essence. Something tells me he’s not long for this world…

So, I had to, of course, separate this guy from the chicks when I brought them home in April. They are still separated. I had actually opened the door between their two pens late last week. I can’t tell you when I’ve laughed so hard, watching this ridiculous rooster, coo and carry on for the hens in the adjoining pen. Nothing — NOTHING — he could do would convince them to come over to the dark side.

So I shut the door a couple hours later.

About 5pm that very night I heard an awful noise: The garbled crowing of a young rooster.

I confess that right up until I heard the sound with my own ears, I had continued to talk myself into the idea that this white chicken could possibly be a hen:

I know. It was dumb.

But get this: I swear it is true. I got these at a local store that sold individual “heavy layer pullets” (that’s rural-ese for “hens only”). I went late in the season (since I wasn’t expecting Lola to kill my last two chickens in early April). I planned to get 3 or 4, but there were only five left, so I took them all. My only concern was the leggy blond one. “Do you think that might be a rooster,” I asked? “No, no, no,” said the shop keeper. “These’re all pullets,” he exclaimed!

“I been ’round the block a few times pardner,” said I, “And I know them chicken hatcheries can make mistakes!”

“Worry not,” he reiterated, “This is a hen!” Hen, my ass…

It is little consolation that I was right. Oh, I do love being right. But not this time.

So that explains the Mexican standoff the other day with the door open. And now I’ve got to figure out what to do. The Chieftain is a serious problem, and not just because he is a mean, MFing rooster that has emblazoned my legs with scars, but because he FLIES. He files EVERYWHERE.

I took my life into my hands to bring you these up close and personal pictures. Yes, I could have put the telephoto lens on, but that would have required a trip back to the house.

I have given up going out at night to put him into the coop and locking him in safe for several reasons:

  1. Because I forget
  2. Because I don’t care
  3. Because he is scary

At night chickens go into a chicken-trance and become very docile. Not him. You can pick him up, no problem, but he totally freaks out once you have him. So he roosts on the top of the fence. He’s been doing it since Memorial Day and is still alive to crow about it. Who am I to mess with his success?

But, if I do tempt fate and put the two roosters together in the big pen where The Chief now resides solo, he will teach this new flock how to fly out. And they will fly out and into the mouth of the ravenous Lola GSP.

And, then the cycle will repeat itself again: Desperate for eggs, I will unwittingly buy young roosters on Craig’s List, masquerading as hens by unscrupulous sellers, get rid of them and buy young pullets in the spring, only to be killed by Lola in late summer.

Make me stop writing now. This is depressing. I miss Sarge. He was the best rooster ever:

Immortalized and stuffed and now standing guard in my kitchen.

Make Way for Little Ducklings

Our Friday Adventure

I finally, finally finished cleaning the pool cover the other day. I had sopped off the dead worms and green algae well over a month ago, but I’d never finished. I like to scrub it all off so that when it rains on the cover I can just run that water into the pool without it being all dirty and gross. Usually that entails lots of towels and brushes. It’s a HORRIBLE job.

And don’t let this photo fool you. The child-labor thing was a once-in-a-lifetime event, taken back in 2008. I have never been able to duplicate it.

However, last year, I bought a fairly cheap little power washer. I’ve never had one of those before. Actually, to be honest, I gave it to Dave for Father’s Day. It’s a little trick of mine. I give gifts to people close to me that I want for myself. Then I try to tell them how much they will love it. When left idle for a week or so, I pounce on it and make it my own. The power washer was a brilliant gift. I went to town last year! And really, before you rise to Dave’s defense, consider that all my projects were like extra gifts to him. Really, it’s true. I was a busy beaver. (though I can’t find the pictures of the teak furniture I tackled with it to show you. oh well)

I haven’t used it much since last spring. I’d already gotten onto the pool cover in about 3 inches of water (which turns into about two feet of water once you step onto it and sink down, pulling all the surrounding water to the deepest point) and used a carwashing brush to scrub the whole thing, when I finally remembered we had a power washer. Duh.

I used the cover pump to pump the dirty water off and the power washer to direct it there. A totally new approach that ended up taking just as much time. But you know what I’m realizing?

WHO CARES?

My point is that the entire time I was doing this, I kept hearing this “bird”; first from one direction, then from another. I actually set down my tools on occasion to try to spot this “peeping” bird in the nearby trees. I never found it. Then, with about about a four foot radius left to clean, Charlie (out of school and bored) suddenly showed up and said “need some help?” Both kids are famous for showing up with ten minutes left of a two hour project, willing to help…

Lola, the dog, was all fired up about something in the area where the pool cover rolls up and finally Charlie says, “Mom, there are DUCKS in here!” So the entire time I was looking in the trees for the “bird” it was actually ducklings right under my feet as I stood on the diving board with the power washer. I seriously don’t know how I could have missed them.

Never did I see a mother duck, so I figured they had been abandoned. So, we set about fixing up a nice little home for them in an old rabbit hutch until we could figure something better out. I was thinking how funny it was, since a good friend had recently called to ask how to take care of a duckling. I told him how easy it was and then hung up thinking “Man, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with that!” And here I was suddenly with not one or two, but NINE of them!

Charlie and I spent about an hour bringing the hutch down from the barn, outfitting it with a pond and rocks, a little kennel for shelter, food, bedding… And right about the time we were done, sure enough, a frantic Mallard mom starts circling overhead honking her head off. The ducklings went MENTAL trying to get out.

Moral conflict.

Should we let them out? Will she land? If she does, will she accept them? Oh! The angst!

I was thankful it was Charlie with me and not Morgan. Morgan would steal a baby AWAY from it’s mama if it meant she could keep it. Charlie was all torn up because the babies wanted out. So we undid all our hard work and they scurried away into the deep grass.

I watched for a long time, but never saw the mom come down. I was bummed because I wanted to capture it on camera and present a complete and happy ending to our story. But I can offer you this:

No cat has showed up with a baby duck.

That’s a happy ending, isn’t it?