I woke to the alarm. My Taller Half informed me in a not-too-happy tone that I had left the television on last night.

I didn’t. I didn’t watch tv last night.

It’s on Minecraft, MTH replied.

I played Minecraft once with the son of some dear friends. He was small and adorable and incredibly skilled at the game. I wasn’t any of those things. He’s a teenager now.

It was the dog or the cats.

I walked to the living room and found the tv on some channel that was streaming Minecraft or playing a recording of a streaming session. It was an accident, I assumed. A cat jumping from one piece of furniture to another landed on the remote or knocked it on the floor and the dog stepped on it. How it got to that channel is a mystery. My mind began to ponder which ones would enjoy Minecraft. Do they play games at night or watch their favorite shows? If so, they manage to turn the tv off before we wake up most of the time. Fanciful, yes, but we live in a house where one cat and our dog can open doors. Little would surprise me.

But I didn’t have time to think about it. Work would start in about half an hour. The water will be off today. Last week, some men from the City of Pixley donned fluorescent yellow vests and walked the neighborhood with door hangers, letting us know they would be working on the pipes today, the water would be off, and we would be on a boil water order afterward. Joy.

Tallboy, our door-opening cat, sat at the window looking despondent. Perhaps he knows about the water problems, or he is sad he couldn’t finish watching Minecraft. Or maybe he’s just thinking ordinary cat thoughts, looking for birds, imagining stalking his prey. I wish I knew the thoughts that our cats and dog entertain, but I guess I never will. They hold fast to their secrets.

I was in the middle of a Teams meeting yesterday when I heard a thump at the front door and saw it open a few inches. My Taller Half was asleep in the bedroom. Maybe a delivery person left a package? I stared at the door, then realized if I didn’t get up and shut it, our cats would go exploring. I ran to the door, opened it a few more inches, and in strode Linus. No human was in sight. I returned to my meeting.

Linus is a long, handsome black cat. He moves like a panther, his regal bearing spoiled only by two top teeth that occasionally catch on his lip, changing the panther into a goofy vampire. He moves with confidence when he’s comfortable, but he’s skittish in certain areas of the house. Then, he moves slowly, tentatively, swinging his head back and forth to look for sudden movement. MTH thinks he sees spirits, perhaps of pets long gone. I told him that the only spirit in our house is the Holy One, and I doubt Linus is seeing Him.

To explain the door, I have to go back before I met MTH, about seven years ago when Minnie, a 60-pound Lab mix, found her forever home. Minnie had been in three rescues and one animal control facility across two states before she came to us. It was love at first sight. My youngest son and daughter took turns trying to burn the energy out of her. She was a big pup in a small apartment, so we had to work to keep her busy. My daughter decided to teach her to do tricks, and she was a good trainer. The most impressive trick was teaching Minnie how to open doors. We had lever handles in the apartment, and once she learned to swat at the handles with her paw, her weight would do the rest and open the door. We were amused … until we had to start locking our bedroom doors to keep her out.

One day, my son and I were watching a movie, and Minnie was being a pest, so we shut her in his bedroom. Those doors swung inward, so her pushes couldn’t work … which is why we were surprised a few minutes later when she came trotting out to pester us.

“You must not have closed the door well,” I told my son.

He took her back to the room, closed the door, and we both sat, listening, waiting. Sure enough, within a minute, we heard the door and out trotted Minnie. We eventually witnessed her technique. She stands on her hind legs, the door handle between her front paws. She then moves the handle down and starts backing up. We were amazed, amused, and disturbed. Minnie now had the run of the house.

When I bought the house in Pixley, the doors were flimsy, so I replaced the three exterior doors, adding new deadbolts and handles. I might be living in Pixley, but I was leaving a big city, and I was going to live alone for the first time in my life. I preferred the look of the lever handles, and Minnie wasn’t strong enough to open a heavy exterior door, so I wasn’t concerned about Minnie becoming an escape artist. Besides, I always use the deadbolt.

A few months after I moved to Pixley, I had to drive across the state for a doctor’s appointment. It was a three-hour drive and a time change, and I was nervous about arriving on time, so I left myself plenty of time. About half an hour after I left, my neighbor called me.

Did you leave Minnie outside?

No, of course not!

Well, she’s outside now.

I couldn’t leave Minnie outside, so I turned the car around and arrived home 30 minutes later to find Minnie sitting in the driveway, waiting for me. The front door was locked, but I walked around to the back and found the door open. I must not have turned the deadbolt all the way.

After locking Minnie safely inside and checking all the doors, I headed back down the highway and made it to my appointment with seconds to spare.

Fast forward through a hurricane, a wedding, and a bunch of cats, and MTH and I were in front of our house enjoying the afternoon. Minnie was with us, as was Linus, one of the two cats that insist on spending some time outdoors. Most of our cats were ferals who were adopted by MTH. He is a cat whisperer. It’s who he is, what he did before he and I married. Most of the cats are content to stay indoors, but Linus likes to stretch out on the walkway, soaking up the sun. Minnie decided that she wanted to go inside, probably to find some unattended cat food to eat, so she batted at the handle and pushed. Linus watched her, fascinated.

Later, we laughed when we saw Linus batting at the lever of the front door when he wanted to go outside. He could never pull the door open, but it was a handy signal. Sometimes, he’d hop on a chair near the door, trying to figure out how to open the handle himself, but he just couldn’t pull the door open. He then started swatting the handle when he wanted to come in. It scared me the first time, hearing someone trying the handle of the door, but then it became amusing.

Life in Pixley has made me less cautious. I still deadbolt the door when we’re home … most of the time. But sometimes, I forget. One time, I heard the handle move and saw the door open, and I gasped. But when I rounded the couch to approach the front door, in strutted Linus. I must not have closed it well. It must have been partly open. Yesterday, I learned better. The door was shut, but he managed to slap the lever down while throwing his considerable weight at the door. Thud!

I imagine he will teach our other cats and a couple of neighborhood cats who like to hang out here to open doors. We have the cool kids’ house when it comes to animals because of MTH, the big, scary man with the big, soft heart. He will leave a bit of food out for a feral cat and make a warm box for strays to sleep in when the temps drop below freezing. We’ve already spied a possum at the door, helping himself to the cat food. Eventually, it might be a coyote or a bobcat, I warn him. Then where will we be?

As I was finishing writing the last sentence, I heard the lever handle move. I locked the deadbolt this time, so I went to open the door. In trotted Linus followed by a local feral cat with a huge appetite and a bad attitude. We call him Sam. He will come in the house a few feet just to see what inside is like, but he heads back out as soon as we bring the food. Sam likes to hiss and swat at me and Minnie, especially if we’re not quick enough with the vittles. Great. Now he has learned from Linus the magical secret of the door. It will be just like Animal Farm soon, with the animals running the show. As I watch my beloved get breakfast for all the assorted creatures before we enjoyed our own, I realize that perhaps they already are.

The long drive back from our church isn’t quite as scenic as most of the drives to our north. There are a few vistas that are very pretty, but mostly, the scenery is made of small businesses, small farms, rural homes and mobile homes. We pass at least five Dollar Generals and a prison. There’s a high school right next to a water treatment plant, and sometimes we contemplate how awful it must be for those practicing sports in the hotter months of the year. There are no sweeping emerald fields or hills full of cattle and the occasional horse or donkey. The piney woods along the route were devastated by the Very Big Storm, and though the wooded areas still stand, many are being cleared in the name of “progress.”

We pass a few small homesteads with a scattering of cows or goats … and the occasional errant pig. Not far past Stinky High School, there is a small stretch of wetlands, and on one particular branch sticking up from the water … a victim of the Very Big Storm, I suspect … sit three turtles. We pass them so quickly, I can’t identify the type — possibly sliders or red-belly turtles. There are always three. They are not very large, though two of them are larger, one is smaller. Since we first noticed them, we check every time we pass, and every time we pass, they are there in that exact spot, sunning themselves.

Their position seems so permanent, it is as if they had been glued there. My Taller Half suggested they might be animatronic turtles, something snatched or escaped from the House of Mouse. We enjoy concocting fanciful explanations for ordinary things. We will probably name them one day.

With the subdivisions planned all along the highway to the beach, we fear one day the small farms, homesteads, and wetlands will be gone. Some of the areas fall within protected lands, so not all of it will disappear, but we mourn the loss of the farms, wetlands, and forests that come with the inevitable encroachment of humans.

One of the things that drew MTH and me together was the shared memory of driving for miles and miles with the heady perfume of orange blossoms in the air. We remember our beloved state before strip malls and McMansions and planned communities. We cherish those memories and planted satsumas, Meyer lemons, and ruby red grapefruit on our property so that maybe we’ll have a reminder of those days every spring. We’ll continue to appreciate the three turtles and be grateful they are there.

With apologies to James Taylor

We spend a lot of time on the road. Because I am usually the passenger, I get to spend more time taking in the sights. My Taller Half usually drives and manages the music, when we can find a good station. We like to take country roads whenever we have a chance. There’s something lovely about a red clay road flanked by emerald pastures, seen from a lonely two-lane blacktop dappled by sunlight filtering through the trees.

When we are on a deadline, we take the larger roads and highways. Lately, we’ve noticed an increase in roadkill. We’re not sure why. When we went to the Big City a few days ago, MTH mentioned the problem. “Let’s make a bet. I bet we see seven roadkill animals before we turn off this road.”

I was baffled. I tried to calculate roadkill per mile based on recent experience. I had nothing. “Okay.”

For the rest of that stretch of road, we watched the pavement. I would rather have looked at the cows, horses, goats, and donkeys in the fields on either side. On that route, we pass a particular plot of wetland surrounded by trees, and usually the trees are covered in cattle egrets. We took a break from the death tally to consider the birds.

MTH asked, “How many birds do you think we will see?” He is one of the most observant people I have ever met. I never do well in these games.

“Forty-five.

“Forty-five? Be serious!”

When we passed the wetland area, there was not a single white bird in sight. It was early, and there’s a landfill across the street.

“They must be at breakfast,” MTH said. I never did find out how many he would have guessed, but it would not have been zero, I’m sure.

Our conversation meandered as it does. “Didn’t you tell me the actor who played Aragorn ate roadkill?” I asked. MTH knows more facts about music or movies and things related than anyone I know.

When we got to the end of the road, there were six bona fide flattened animals. There was a seventh mass of something that was questionable, but it was a beautiful morning, so I gave it to him.

Both MTH and I love animals. We mourn for those who don’t make it across the road. We’ll stop to help turtles across the road if we can do it safely. Once, MTH passed a beautiful cat, recently hit on the side of the road not far from some houses. He stopped to check on it, but it was no longer alive. He didn’t want the owner to come home and find him after many cars had hit him, so he moved the kitty to rest in a place in the grass by the butt end of a guard railing, where he thought they would find their pet in a less gruesome state. He still talks about that cat: a large, lovely orange and white male, a type we call a Creamsicle cat after MTH’s favorite ice cream bar. We’ve even discussed ways to reduce the problem. I suggested the counting was a bit gruesome.

MTH said, “Until Frith grants the ability to all of His creatures to avoid hrududus when crossing roads, the counting will have to continue.” I read Watership Down in eighth grade. I remember there were rabbits, I liked it, and it was sad. He remembers all.

These little observation games pass the time and steer the conversation away from politics or COVID or other equally mournful or agitating things. I prefer counting the cars, er, hrududus on the highway from the overpass or guessing how many days without an accident at the lumber mill — both of which require taking a country road. The traffic is lighter, the views are better, and the lumber mill smells much better than the landfill!

Afterword

Hours after I finished writing this, MTH was driving home and watched in horror as a young Creamsicle male cat of about 10 weeks dashed in front of an oncoming car. The driver didn’t stop to check on the animal. Maybe the driver didn’t even notice, though the cat wasn’t very small. MTH turned around and pulled over to check on the poor kitten. It was clear from the condition of the kitten’s head that he died quickly. Not knowing where the kitten lived, he grabbed a pair of exam gloves, the kind he uses when he fills up the car, and a couple of cardboard boxes. He scooped the little guy up and brought him home. We gave him a private burial and a name — Cinnamon. There were tears. I said a prayer for peace and comfort for the kitten’s family and for my gruff, tender-hearted beloved to the heavenly Father who feeds the birds of the air and clothes the grass of the field. It was the best we could do.

Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do when an animal runs out in front of your car. I understand that. But we see cars speed down our little neighborhood road like it’s a highway. People rushing to work, people rushing home from work, people movers taking folks without cars to medical appointments, even the neighborhood school bus. There are animals here — cats, dogs, occasionally deer. Once a neighbor caught a bobcat on his deer cam. That same neighbor has a precious little girl about four years old. When you travel those neighborhood streets, country roads, and highways, please drive carefully. Keep your eyes on the road and not your phone. Keep your speed at a reasonable rate. The life you save may be your own. Or a child’s. Or a beloved pet’s.

Rest in Peace, Cinnamon.

For the bliss of the animals lies in this, that, on their lower level, they shadow the bliss of those–few at any moment on the earth–who do not ‘look before and after, and pine for what is not,’ but live in the holy carelessness of the eternal now.

George MacDonald

A few weeks ago, the family with the hens moved away. I know the husband had a new job that was really good, so I hope they found a bigger place on a quieter road where their little boy and the hens will be safe from traffic. There are new renters in the house now, but we haven’t met them yet. We do miss Betty White and the gang, though. The other neighbor’s Manx, whose name is Little Boy but whom I’ve begun to call Eddie Haskell, still shows up at the door as if to say, “Hello, Mrs. Cleaver. Can Wally and the Beaver come out and play?” The song birds are out in force, and it’s time to start filling the hummingbird feeder again. But there was something very comical and just a little terrifying about the hens storming across the street in search of a snack. They will be missed.