10 minute read
The Crow, by Patricia Hemingway
By Patricia Hemingway
Ilive among crows. They fly in asynchronous formation through the fifty-foot redwoods that stand in great beauty beside a row of tiny apartments. This is the spot I love: the least accessible area of this large senior complex. I am a widower who seeks privacy.
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In the midst of the city, this redwood grove is my sanctuary. The trees create a zone of protection from the fleet of tiny black and white cars known as the “Geek Squad,” set loose upon the neighborhood by a big box electronics store. A member of the Squad sometimes pounds on my front door while I am poaching an egg.
I send the young wizard away, informing him that I have no interest in modern electronics. I do not add, for I doubt he would take the time to listen, that my wife played for twenty years in a symphony orchestra. I am left with a stack of LP records and a turntable.
I wake up to the caw, caw of the crows. They navigate in wide swoops from the top of one great tree to the next. Their squawks pierce the air, obscuring the hum of the nearby freeway. I know their conversations as I know the notes of my wife’s Beethoven collection.
One late morning, a staccato of insistent cries breaks open my solitude. I step onto the porch and look up at the sound. A crow is caught, helpless, in a tangle of twine wrapped around a redwood branch. Somewhere in my mind I imagine a kite losing its way.
The screeches grip me. I run back inside to find the emergency number provided by management. I punch in each digit. A voice responds by requesting my apartment number and I blurt out, “A crow is trapped in the tree.”
“Is this an emergency?” the voice responds in a dry monotone.
There is silence on the other end of the line. From mine, the sound of labored breathing.
Click.
Within minutes a much younger man than I appears on the lawn. He has a wild look around his eyes and his front teeth are missing. If I had not been so desperate I would have retreated into my apartment and locked the door.
The man stands still before me. He senses my alarm and looks upward to the crow. “I’ll be right back,” are his only words, implying that I should stay where I am.
As my stomach contracts, my wife’s dying breaths break open inside me. I am at her bedside, blind, as tears drip from my chin and I cling to the chrome stand that holds the morphine drip. “It won’t be long now,” the nurse whispers.
I hear the man’s footsteps in the grass. He has a six-foot ladder over one shoulder and a professional, long-handled clipper in his opposite hand. Opening the ladder directly beneath the crow, he climbs to the top step and stretches his arm straight up, extending the clipper like a steeple.
“Don’t you bite me,” he croons. His arm remains steady as it nears the knot. The crow quiets. The man continues to speak in a soft voice as he snips at the twine.
I marvel at his ability to maintain his balance and hold the heavy clipper aloft with such precision. A miracle worker, disguised in a mask of madness.
As the man cuts, the crow begins to descend, still bound by the twine. It makes its body limp as it slides closer and closer to two human beings.
I clasp the twine and look directly into the bird’s black eyes. It stares back at me. As it is lowered onto the grass, the crow lies as still as death.
With the last few gentle cuts, the twine no longer binds the bird’s feet. The maintenance man and I step back, and the crow shivers for a moment before it flies to a high redwood branch that sways with the morning breeze.
As it caw-caws down to us I feel a sense of wonder, like being present at a birthing.
With an economy of movement the maintenance man folds up the ladder and collects the clipper and is about to walk away.
I remain in the spot where human and bird connected. My mind is clear and open, a half smile is on my lips.
When I am able to move, I walk to my patio, pick up the lawn chair, carry it back to the spot and sit down. I notice only that the light has changed. That the treetops whisper in their swaying.
Neighbors pass by me on the way to their cars, walking their dogs, going wherever people go. From time to time, I wave to them. The crows provide the chorus and ride the wind.
By Ranch Staff, Et Al
Wendy’s Story
This past April The Ranch was contacted by a man that claimed he needed to move back to Canada the first of May and couldn’t
take his dog. He went on to brag about how much money he had spent on training this dog and maintaining her vet care. Because The Ranch was very full we wouldn’t be able to accept the dog before he moved. Following Ranch policy we suggested he post the dog on social media to see if he could find a home, at the very least a foster situation until the Ranch had room. He ignored that suggestion and instead said it would be sad to see her living on the street. Later he claimed the dog had originally been adopted from the Ranch, however our database showed no record of Wendy or this man as an adopter.
Ranch personnel discussed the situation and felt certain this man was lying about the dog being a Ranch dog, but on the off chance he was telling the truth we decided to accept the dog. We let him know of our decision and, as we do with all dogs placed by people with the means, strongly suggested that he make a monthly donation to support Wendy while she was in the shelter. He didn’t respond to this request but he immediately brought Wendy to the Ranch.
This beautiful dog was so confused and sad when she arrived. Dulce, our Ranch manager, asked him for a donation to support Wendy and he went off on her. It was the most threatening moment anyone had ever experienced at the Ranch. He got right in Dulce’s face and started yelling at her, accusing her of trying to bilk him. Dulce walked up to the Ranch casita to call for assistance then she turned around just in time to see this man get into his car and quickly drive off. Wendy had been with him by the car and she started to give chase. Immediately all Ranch hands went to find Wendy and luckily she was hiding in some trees rather than follow him to the highway. Everyone was extremely shaken-up by this run-in, but happy that Wendy was safe.
Due to the unusual hostility of the encounter The Ranch posted this experience on social media along with a photo of the man and a video one of our staff had managed to take of him driving off with Wendy chasing him. We immediately started getting calls from people who knew him. They pretty much confirmed our opinion that this guy was unbalanced, cruel and stingy.
We also found out that he had a Mexican wife, Mary, whom he had thrown out on the street a few months earlier. She had badly wanted to take Wendy with her, but he refused and she only had enough money for a bus ticket to Mexico City to join her family. When Mary heard Wendy was at The Ranch she called us sobbing. She gave us more info about what led to Wendy’s abandonment and that began our quest to get Wendy to Mexico City. Many in our community who knew Mary and her love for Wendy donated to make the reunion happen and several Ranch managers donated the balance. We wanted Wendy in a loving home! We booked a flight to Mexico City for Dulce to accompany Wendy and the reunion with Mary was so heartwarming. A small crowd at the airport gathered as they saw Wendy’s pure joy after being reunited with the woman who had cared for her. No one else knew the story, but they could tell it was a special moment indeed.
If you would like to volunteer or learn more about The Ranch contact us at adoptaranchdog@outlook.com or donate by visiting our website at Theranchchapala.com.
By Scott Jones
I Thought I Was Going To Live Alone
Imoved to the countryside near Sansai, eight miles out of Chi-
angmai. When I step outside to my kitchen and teak deck, I never know what creatures from the neighborhood or nearby marsh are currently visiting (or have visited and left their excremental calling cards). Chickens, ducks, geese, scrappy dogs, two black cats from Hell, mice and their large cousins, a miniature vagrant horse, spiders a bit smaller than the horse but much faster, or an infinite number of ants, times two, give or take a million (or billion).
One day I emerge, sans spectacles, to find a large, dark pile of poop in the middle of the floor. As I reach for the paper towels, sponge and cleaner, the poop hops out of the kitchen and off the deck. Toad. Size XXL. Hopefully it likes ants.
The toad (or toads) has (or have) become a permanent resident (s). Moments after removing one toad from its home in my tool bin and gently setting it in the bamboo stand near the deck, another toad magically appears. Perhaps I should have kissed her (or him) in hopes of creating a beautiful (or handsome) princess (or prince). I introduce the two toads in the bamboo so they’d happily hop off into the sunset (the marsh) holding hands. (Paws? Toes? Suction cups? What do toads hold?) One of them (he or she) is back in the bin the next day, safely hidden under hammers, spanners and sponges. Maybe the other one (she or he) has a separate apartment somewhere in my bungalow. I’ve given them the androgynous name of Tony (or Toni) until I can’t find them together again and determine their sex. (Turn them over? Operate? Check their laundry?) I suspect they’ve taken up residence with me, a friendly Farang, instead of neighboring Thai families where they’d probably be stuffed, skewered or stir-fried. When I return late in the evening, Toni is normally up and out waiting for me. Some men come home to a stunning, naked woman lounging on a bearskin rug or doing the dishes. I come home to a naked toad squatting on the tile floor or sitting in the sink. It’s definitely better than coming home to a wart-ridden wife who looks like a toad, who will not leave without a legal battle, large amounts of cash and the deed to your house, and who you cannot fling into the marsh, stuff, skewer or stir-fry. Toni likes to wear my shoes but only needs one at a time. I cannot fathom climbing into the stench of my riding boot, especially risking the chance of a foot the size of a tourist bus in my face. I put on a shirt and feel a wet spot in the sleeve. Toad. Toni’s in love with me. As I leave home to ride into town, I grab my jacket, jump on the bike, reach into the pocket, but do not feel keys—I feel toad. Since Toni’s confident she’s not going to be dinner, she obviously wants me to take her out for dinner.
Scott Jones
