Cato's Republic

My neighborhood

Mustard in a vineyard outside St. Helena in the Napa Valley.

Just before the storm. A flock of wild turkeys were walking along this road the day before.

7:13 a.m. in Congress Valley, Napa. Further down the road, I braked for a coyote.

Teeth, a habit

"Tomorrow would mean the end of my mouth as I knew it…..My mouth had done wrong, and deserves chastisement. My mouth has bad habits – it drinks and it smokes and it swears. Like the hands of Humbert Humbert, my mouth has hurt too many people. It has lied and falsely promised. It has kissed insincerely, incautiously, intemperately…" by Martin Amis in "Experience"

My old Arabian mare, Ella, was off her feed. The vet came out with his rasp in an effort to file down her teeth, so her bite would be a bit more effective. Instead he found one tooth hanging by a thread. One hundred and fifty dollars later, it was extricated. She still has trouble eating and needs a professional equine dentist. I have not paid off the first vet bill, so it waits.

Six months later, in another equine incident, this time on my side, Teddy shifted his head too quickly, whacking my mouth upwards with his own. My front tooth broke. I heard, rather than felt, the crunch, as the tooth is dead to me.

It died during an experiment in driving heavy equipment and chewing tobacco at the same time. It wasn't that I couldn't do both, it was that hanging over the side of the dozer heaving (I had no small reaction to the chewing tobacco) almost lost me my life and the tooth……I won't explain. What I was up to at the time was inexplicable. I've never done the girlish thing. For the life of me, I cannot think why I couldn't stick to the whole feminine path. Maybe I wouldn't be in the fix I am in now.

The dentist shot an X-ray that appeared on a screen in front of me at head height. There it was, like a ghost, a crack in my front tooth, unseen to the naked eye. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and told me I had broken it. This was it, the dentist said, I would lose it. I would have a huge gapping hole in my mouth when I smiled.

As a child, I'd had a million surgeries in an effort to move the teeth growing in the roof of my mouth. I'd been sent to the cruelest man in the world – the oral surgeon. When he stabbed me repeatedly in the roof of my mouth with a huge syringe, I'd bitten him so hard he'd screamed and jammed a rubber block in the back of my mouth, so I couldn't do it again.

I explained this all to my new oral surgeon. He was brisk, yet kind and reminded me that that was then and this was now, down to the topical anesthetic. Still, I made him tell me exactly where and when he would shoot me. I had him show in graphic detail how he would extricate the tooth from my gums. He drew it all out on a pad of paper for me. After the extraction, which is this Thursday, my dentist and the oral surgeon will wait until the tiny screw implanted in my bone will grow and finally heal into my mouth. As soon as the 'natural and organic' adherence is complete, they will screw in an entirely fake and color matched tooth, so I will not have to undergo the shocked stares of middleclass Californians as they confront a mouth from Deliverance.

The photo illustration is Ella's tooth scanned.

Treaties

Spider Macro,
originally uploaded by bfeil.

I have spiders all over my house. I've set rules about where they can construct webs and where they can run around. We held a meeting. We signed a contract. They are welcome in the shower. Daddy-long-legs tend to hang there. Behind the door in the bathroom, countless webs hang. Inside my closet, spiders everywhere. But, there is no running across my feet in the evening when I am reading or dropping from the skylight while I am in bed. No! The poor unfortunate who broke this rule was squashed immediately. We get along very well, me and my spiders.

Small, dark and handsome

I met Ted in the fall of 2004. He was a dark bay, with four white socks. He had a small star on his forehead and big brown eyes. At 15.2 hands, he was small, dark and handsome.

One of his prominent personality traits, readily apparent upon our first meeting, was Ted seemed unable to focus on his partner. Instead his attention was placed on everything else; small birds in bushes; wind in the trees; dogs on leashes dragging small children behind them. All these sights and sounds could send him bolting to the other side of the arena. It was almost like he had the equine equivalent of ADHD when he was engaged with another, unless it was another horse.

Along with his inability to focus came a real difficulty with forward. Many warmbloods have this problem. It could be that the cold blood part of the mixture -- the large draft horse part. But could I then attribute his inattention to the matter at hand to his thoroughbred ancestry of which there was plenty – was that the "hot part of him?

Any amount of whacking him with a whip to gain his attention and send him forward brought out his bully. He would kick out. He would buck. He would ignore you if you didn't really mean it. And all the while he would go slower and slower. It was my fear that one day he would stop dead still and never move again.

Once I managed to get him forward. It was impossible to stay in the saddle. Because of the action of his legs, the over stride, the suspended action of everything Ted; I would be thrown around like a basketball, even at rising trot. I was afraid I would be flung over the side of the saddle.

Then there was Ted's canter. It was like taking off in a rocket ship. He would launch himself into the air, head up, flying smoothly above the ground suspended. It made my heart beat faster. The first time I rode him at the canter; I started laughing and couldn't stop. What we were doing together seemed so wild and I was just so nervous.

Once I mastered the trot and the canter, I began to realize how Ted's body, his shoulders, hips and pasterns were all perfectly angled to propel him forward with balance and grace. Ted made me look good. I was a better rider. We began to make a pretty picture.

For Ted's part, he began to realize that going forward was a desirable state of being.

Photo by Lake Web Design

The nighly slaughter

pill bug,
originally uploaded by Marko_K.

I find at least 30 woodlice every night on the floor around my cottage. Just the skin left, their innards sucked dry, dessicated. They come in from the garden seeking warmth and dry land, and find instead a large number of voracious spiders ready to suck the life out of them. Even though I pick them all up, there are more the next morning. My house spiders are very satisfied. Consequently, I have no live bugs inside my house at all.

Woodlice are crustaceans and have more in common with lobsters and crabs than with insects. There are 3,500 species of woodlice in the world. They have seven pairs of legs. You probably have a few in your garden.

A high energy cutie

Luna, a one and a half year old lab mix, knows how to sit, stay, lie down and walk on a loose leash. All of these skills where "given" to her by her Pets LifeLine trainer and volunteers, who have worked with her since she was a puppy when she was thrown over the Pet's LifeLine fence and orphaned.

Pet' LifeLine trainer and volunteers teach dogs like Luna manners so they are "adoptable."

Teaching dogs to walk on a loose leash is easy using a gentle leader "collar" that fits over the muzzle and across the cheeks. Dog walkers can gently redirect the dog; so that they learn to pay attention to the person they are walking with rather than dragging them down the sidewalk.

Pet's LifeLine believes owning a dog is a responsibility that includes education for both owners and their dogs. Owners are encouraged to take classes with their dogs as a part of life-long learning.

In person, Luna is a high energy cutie.

The herbaceous cat

This morning when he came in from an all night carouse, he had wet plant odor. The top of his had smelled gingery. One sniff of his belly and I could tell had had spent time sleeping in pine needles. His paws were wet and muddy.

Some rainy days he stinks of dogs. I put him out immediately.

One summer day, he smelled like an amphibious creature. His fur was rumpled and he sported some touches of muddy goo. There is a small pond on the property. I know he goes there to hang out on warm afternoons. I have seen him swim in the horse waterers, but I thought it was by accident.

Some days, he sleeps next to my climbing rose, planted in a wine barrel. On these days, he smells like my grandmother’s bathroom, the sweet smell of her rose-scented powder, mixed with Cabernet.