Rustic Prints 5

This framed print of cows and a stream defines the word bucolic, a word with Greek roots meaning “cowherd” and “cow.” Bucolic has a synonym in pastoral, a word having multiple layers of significance relating to “pastors,” or “shepherds.” I suppose that one of my most important memories of growing up on a farm in Indiana is the peaceful sight of soft-eyed cows wading in sparkling creeks on sultry summer afternoons.

Framed Rustic Print of Cows and a Brook

That sight was repeated around every bend of a country road. When I was a youngster, most farms were far smaller than they are today, and they were diversified in old-fashioned ways that now seem quaint. By diversified, I mean that farms raised crops but a wider variety of crops than they now raise and that farms raised livestock—which many farms no longer raise. I recall fences. Lots and lots of fences. They were necessary to discourage cows and pigs and sheep from straying into the gravel roads. I recall hardwood trees amid the fences bordering the edges of fields; today, most of those trees have been removed to enable huge farm machines to till the soil as close to the edge of the roads as possible. I recall chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys, and guinea hens, some of which did stray into the gravel roads. … but most cars and trucks traveled at slower speeds back then, and most drivers were more alert to the possibility of encountering chickens in the way.

Oh, such courteous and civilized drivers as there were in those days! Friendly drivers, who waved at you, and you waved back. Kind drivers, who left a respectful distance between their front bumpers and your back bumper. … but I digress.

When my family drove anywhere, our car passed several creeks, often ornamented with cows, which I have always considered especially sculptural. The bodies of cows are graceful, and their tranquil eyes can melt the hardest hearts.

A chore that I enjoyed was encouraging the dairy cows to come to the barn for milking in the evening. I think back to summer evenings steeped in a golden haze. I strode to the east of the barn along a curving dusty path that the cows had made. To both sides were meadow plants, which, in the heat of the day, had the fragrance of a rich tea. I found the Holsteins gathered in the shade of an oak. Chewing their cud and casually switching their tails at flies, they looked at me expectantly. Soon, the lead cow, who had assumed the dignified station of leading the rest, came toward the serpentine path on which I stood waiting. One by one, the other cows fell into line in an order that they recognized among themselves. I brought up the rear. As the cows and I walked back toward the barn, I gazed ahead. The black-and-white hips of the cows gently swayed from side to side, and I heard the muffled beat of hooves in the thin dust. When the parade reached its destination, my father guided the pets into their stalls, and the milking began. I used the word pets just now because my father treated his dairy cows as pets, and they were as coddled and affectionate as dogs.

Accordingly, whenever I see this rustic print, all such reminiscences—and more—flow back to me. No wonder I appreciate such illustrations from earlier eras!

My Friend Kiko (Last Installment in This Series)

Kiko chose my house. He had visited my neighbor’s home and had considered living there, but, ultimately, he preferred my place. On a spectacular spring morning, I held open the kitchen door while the orange and white cat padded confidently inside.

Kiko, Who Remained a Kitten Throughout a Long Life

Kiko was grown but still kittenish. He had a positive outlook toward everything, except moving, as I later discovered. He felt reassured that he had made the right decision in selecting me as his “owner.” He played and purred, purred and played, all day long, and, in the evenings, he snuggled in my lap for a snooze while I watched the news.

Whenever he stood by the kitchen door, I let him out. Whenever he wanted back in, he waited patiently on the small porch beyond the doorway until I chanced to see him there.

Kiko was a fierce hunter of snakes. Even though he was a small cat, he scaled my tall privacy fence each day and prowled the neighborhood searching for garter snakes. Whenever he caught one, he brought it back to my fenced yard. With the dead snake drooping from his mouth, he shinnied and clawed his way to the top of the boards. Then he always confronted a problem. As he squeezed through the gap between the arrow-shaped tops of two boards and sprang to the ground, the snake caught in the gap and slipped from his jaws. He looked up at his prize, pondered ways to retrieve it, stared to one side in puzzlement, and shook his head. Forgetting the loss of the snake, he skipped merrily onto the porch and tarried there. When I graciously opened the door and he strode into my house, I checked the fence, and—sure enough!—a deceased serpent festooned it! My duty was to dispose of the reptile before the neighbors saw it and wondered why I had draped it over the top of my fence.

Kiko was easy to care for and great fun! In return, he gave his fullest affection. How many times when I was sad did he spring to my lap and cheer me? How many days when I was busy did he startle me by skittering across the hardwood floor in a wild dash that made me laugh? He was my steadfast companion and friend.

My Oil Pastel Drawing of Kiko in a Wicker Chair

When I moved to a different house far away, Kiko reacted in a manner that I could never have predicted. When I set him on the floor of our new home, he trembled with fear. I turned to other tasks. I thought that he simply needed time to explore and to adjust on his own. After an hour or two, I could not find him.

I searched high and low, but there was no sign of Kiko. That night, I could hardly sleep. I racked my brain trying to think of a place where he could be hiding.

The next morning, I bent over the washing machine to check the connections and noticed a hole through the underside of the cabinets above the dryer. Aha! I opened the doors, and there was Kiko curled into a small ball inside the cabinet! When I removed him, he purred.

After spending his first night in a cabinet above the dryer, Kiko accepted his new home and never returned to the hiding place. He was his happy-go-lucky self again.

The only difference of opinion that he and I ever had was over whether he should be given a bath. I tried … once! My scratches healed after about a week.

Kiko lived a long life. Toward the end, his kidneys began to fail. I delayed euthanasia for as long as I felt I could in good conscience, but the end had to come. I cried a lot when I buried Kiko with his favorite toys. 

My Friend Ginger

“How much is that doggie in the window?” sang Patti Page in the U.S. and Lita Roza in the U.K. in popular recordings in 1953. For me, Ginger was that doggie in the window. She was in a litter of chocolate brown pups for sale in the pet store where a friend of mine had entered to buy a bag of cat food. I was waiting in the car when my friend came out and said I should go in to see the cute puppies. Rather reluctantly, I entered the store. I exited with Ginger.

She was THE cutest pup I had ever seen, and she grew up to be THE snazziest dog! With elegant strands fringing her ears and tail, with dainty feet and nose, with classy bearing, Ginger was chic and smart and uptown.

My Photograph of Ginger in Her Younger Years

In her childhood, Ginger went everywhere with me. She was so small that she fit in the pocket of my overcoat that first winter. In a year before airport security tightened, she waited with me in the lobby when my brother was flying in for a visit. Everyone wanted to know her breed. I had no answer, as Ginger was a stunning cross of several breeds.

Ginger enjoyed several snowy days in a holiday resort filled with Christmas shoppers in the narrow streets lined with cheerful shops. “What an adorable puppy!” strangers exclaimed. “What breed is she?” They gently patted her velvet ears, then back she would go in my coat pocket.

During her girlhood, I taught Ginger valuable lessons. She learned to play dead, roll over, walk on her hind legs, speak, jump through a hoop, chase her tail, and stay—all on my command. She willingly demonstrated her extensive knowledge of the subjects I have named. But there was one lesson she refused to learn. Ginger would not come. When I said, “Stay,” she sat in place and smiled slightly. When I said, “Come,” she closed her mouth and glanced regally to one side, as if to say, “If you think I would demean myself to obey you, you have another think coming!” After some seconds, she would stand and walk haughtily away.

Many a time, I wished that she would come on command, but she always disdainfully declined. Her scorn was queenly. She had made up her royal mind, and I learned to respect her wishes. A dog of Ginger’s regal demeanor could not be forced to acquiesce. Hadn’t she already done more than enough to be on such friendly terms with a commoner like me?

In her womanhood, Ginger was inclined to be flighty. A knock at the door would send her into a paroxysm of barking. Afterward, she needed many minutes to calm herself down. She also developed an operatic voice. At times of her choosing, she howled. I called these performances her “arias.” Naturally, she always selected her melodies from the French repertoire.

« Que c’est beau! Vous chantez comme un oiseau, mon cher ami! »

(“How beautiful! You sing like a bird, my dear friend!”) I often exclaimed, but Ginger regretted my pronunciation’s defects.

Whenever I handed her a treat to eat, Ginger would gracefully accept it with her doll-like teeth. She would not be as coarse as other dogs that snatched the food from my hand, sometimes nipping me. No, Ginger was ever elegant, deft, refined.

Ginger Melting Hearts

The delicate dog that she was, Ginger did not live as long as I would have liked. Toward the end, she knew she was dying. She turned her long-lashed eyes toward me, as it to say she would avoid death if she could, if only to keep me company. When I buried her beside the graves of my other pets, her body reclined upon the soft pillow she had loved.

My Friend Prissy

When Prissy came into my life, I was not sure how well she would blend with Ramesses, my only other cat at the time. Prissy remained in a cage for a few hours while Ramesses growled at her. When he finally stalked off, I released Prissy so that she could explore her new home.

Her markings were striking: four white feet and a shiny black coat. At first, Prissy was aloof, but, soon enough, she adopted me as her friend. Every night, she leaped onto the bed and snuggled on the blanket that covered my feet. I felt her adjust her own feet beneath her several times before she was content that each paw was in the perfect place. Purring ensued, and I drifted off to sleep.

Prissy Posing for a Snapshot

But Prissy had an annoying habit. If, by accident, I had left a plastic bag anywhere on the floor of the bedroom, she made the bag her toy at precisely 2:00 a.m. As I was always sound asleep when the irritating game began, I do not know what her initial move was. I suspect she quietly jumped down from the bed to assure herself that there indeed was a plastic bag in the room. Next, she may have taken several steps away from the prey. I picture her turning to confront her quarry. She may have spent several minutes planning her attack. Suddenly, she ran and pounced! Smack, smack, smack! Her paws pummeled the plastic! And I was wide awake!

I always told myself, “Go back to sleep. It’s only Prissy with a plastic bag.” A few moments of stillness helped me to sink back toward dreamland, then smack, smack, smack! She was at it again! Viciously hammering the plastic and pushing the bag around the floor! Irked beyond measure, I flew from the bed, grabbed the bag, stuffed it in the wastebasket, climbed back in bed, jerked the blanket up to my chin, and tried to sleep. Tried. Tried. Tried. No go.

At 2:15 a.m., I sipped a cup of coffee in the kitchen while Prissy looked up at me with her friendly eyes. How could I long be mad at such a gorgeous cat?

I took seriously the warnings that cat collars should be of the breakaway style, so that cats could easily escape whenever the collars snagged on furniture or shrubs. Prissy wore a fashionable blue breakaway collar.

I lived in the city, and the cats were permitted in the back yard, which was surrounded by a privacy fence. One day, I discovered that the gate had been left open by mistake. Ramesses was in the house, but Prissy had been in the yard. I searched for her, but she was gone.

I sank into a frenzy of despair. I routinely scoured the neighborhood and shouted her name until I was a nuisance. I posted pictures of her. After two weeks, I had come to the realization that I probably would never see her again. I missed her terribly. Whenever I emptied the plastic bags after shopping, I thought of her.

Holding a cup of coffee, I was staring absent-mindedly through the kitchen window, and I saw Prissy limping up the driveway to the house. I flung down the cup and raced to her. I gathered her in my arms, and she purred. She had lost weight. Worst of all, one of her front legs was thrust through her breakaway collar, which had not broken away! She was forced to walk on three legs because she could not remove the other leg from the collar. I tore it from her and threw it in the trash. She was mightily relieved to have the use of all four legs again.

My Sumi-e Painting of Prissy

For years after almost losing Prissy, I treasured her. I gave her plastic bags to play with, but, before going to bed, I made sure they were out of reach. Prissy moved with me to a new home, and she adjusted well to her new surroundings. She was my constant companion and was never lost again.

Prissy lived to a ripe old age. Whenever I remember her, I think how much she gladdened my heart.