One morning recently, after enjoying aromatic Kenya coffee and crunchy bacon, I opened the front door and moved out into the fresh, crisp air, noting how dark it still was at 7 a.m. Idly, I strolled to the curved side of the porch -- setting off annoyed exclamations and soft, multiple thumps. The porch swing rocked; indistinct forms shot away from all the wicker furniture and vanished into the night.
Startled, I grabbed the railing, trying to make sense of this. Moving closer, I felt the plump seat cushions; all were warm. Raccoons? Nah. Those fatties would lumber off. This, I realized, was a cattery; the creatures had created their own hotel. Not only were the comfortable chairs sheltered from cold northwest winds and rain, their location also offered a fine view of potential prey who might be careless enough to poke around this first part of the garden in search of bugs, worms and other delectables. Instantly detectable, they'd be preheated fast food snacks for this cadre of cats.
Wait a minute! One morning in midsummer I'd noticed three rumpled duck feathers at the first gate: Aha! These hunters had efficiently killed and eaten it, discarding only the quack. So many felines would make short work of any curious, exploratory mallard keen to dine on my lush Irish moss, and the bugs bunked underneath.
Come to think of it, rabbit droppings had been absent, too, from these first two gardens, for quite a while.
How long, I mused, had this been a hotel for hunters? They'd taken care NOT to claw the cushions; swinging there often, I would instantly have grasped that my furniture doubled as beds. I realized, fascinated, that these practical cats had agreed among themselves to keep their daggers sheathed. It wasn't sensible to provoke the proprietor.
I think I know why the "hotel" got started.
Last season robins had built their nest high atop the triple-arched clematis wire-wall that framed this first garden. I'd found it curious that the nesting pair hadn't chosen the 80-foot blue spruce adjoining the huge, porch-facing structure, but, opting for a clear view, had anchored their roomy roost right at the apex of the trellis. Various cats had made numerous attempts to ascend that sheer vertical face; it had proven too daunting.
They'd found themselves entangled in an impenetrable thicket of crisscrossing vines, and effectively blinded by billions of blanketing leaves. The frantic father bird, constantly aware of how close the cat-of-the-day was, would scream insults and dive at unprotected feline rear ends, praying vine-y obstacles would prove he'd chosen right.
It was certainly a harrowing six weeks. When the kids were finally fledged, the exhausted male parent must have opted for a vasectomy.
The cats, annoyed, had chosen an easier, more efficient way to hunt.
I've named them. "Soprano" had come to the door some weeks earlier, meowing insistently for admittance for an hour, mystifying me; he'd finally stalked off, disgusted. "Rip-Torn" (wearing ragged ears), "Fergy" (don't ask), "Bent" (whose tail pokes oddly), and occasionally, "Potbelly" (who might have a family to feed, soon), make up this motley crew. My bed-and-breakfast nook, situated so conveniently amid ducky natural attractions, had proven irresistible. Only idiots turn down cushy beds, a great view, and hot, fresh meals.
Each morning I wonder if the felines, having been found out, will continue to snooze there. No worries. Daily, as I come outside to retrieve the paper, I hear beds being efficiently evacuated by at least four stealthy hunters.
Should I remove the cushions? Or not?
It's still reasonable outside...
Hmmm...
Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She will write throughout the winter, and can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at dblair@voyager.net. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at http://blogs.record-eagle.com.
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