Summer Song

The American calendar tells me it’s Father’s Day, and also that it’s the second day of summer (I rather like Bruce Charlton’s view on the timing of the seasons). I’m not clear on how many churches have resumed holding public worship services, but for those who are open for bidness today, I’m sure Father’s Day sermons will follow the time-honored American tradition of devoting most of the message to telling the fathers what inept doofuses they are, challenging them to man up, and lashing them with pronouncements about what husbandly headship and wifely submission do NOT mean. For years, I’ve wondered why any father would willingly attend these services, knowing what’s coming.

***

It’s been three weeks since we last saw our barn cat, Harlan. As I mentioned to William James Tychonievich, Harlan  has in the past gone off on rambles for as long as a week at a time, but never this long. We have called and called, and I have taken Jinx on some long walks, scouring the woods and fields, but no sign of him. We know that he has ingratiated himself with some of the local farmers because we’ve heard tales of what a sweet cat he is, so right now, we’re trying to take comfort in convincing ourselves that he’s annoyed by Jinx’s arrival (Harlan was very close to our beloved Bonnie) and that he’s simply packed up and relocated. The not knowing, though, is a dark presence hanging over the farm. If any of you are inclined to pray for an old yellow cat, please do.

This coming Independence Day would be eight years since he appeared here at the farm. We still had laying hens at the time, and their coop was elevated about three feet off the ground on stilts. I kept a feeder and a waterer suspended from the bottom of the coop so that they dangled beneath, safe from sun and rain. That particular July 4th, I went outside the open the coop door and let the girls out, and I saw a little yellow ball of fur and a little gray one beneath the coop. Two kittens, and they were eating the chicken feed crumbles. I went and got a dish of half & half to see if they would drink it, and the yellow one did. The gray one, very skittish, ran into the woods, and we never saw her again except one or two brief glimpses. The little yeller feller took right up with us, though, and I spent that afternoon reading outside with him draped around my neck like a scarf. Bonnie was very interested in him, and bonded with him pretty quickly.

My wife named him Harlan because she remarked one day that when sprawled in the grass, he looked like a bowl of fried chicken. This led to a chat about Colonel Harlan Sanders, the founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken (who would certainly be un-personed these days, if he were still alive), and Mrs. Orr dubbed him Harlan. He used to lie in wait for Bonnie to come trotting past, at which time he would leap from hiding and do a perfect handspring off her back, cartwheeling into the air and then running away, ears laid back and eyes as wild as Rasputin’s. It annoyed Bonnie, but she carried no grudges. Harlan would also get a bad case of what we call “the epizootics,” where he would leap straight up into the air for no reason, and then act as if some invisible beast were chasing him around the yard, trying to stomp him to death. He would usually end up clamoring up a tree and hanging there, looking as if the hounds of hell were after him. Then in a moment, he would come down, start grooming himself, and glance at us as if to say, “Gotta problem?”

We miss the little fellow. We pray he’s safe and peaceful wherever he is.

***

Jinx, on the other hand, remains his usual hyper-goofy, life-gobbling self. We walked last evening and enjoyed seeing the splashes of color provided by the chicory and sweet peas, and Jinx was fascinated by the hawks soaring overhead; I don’t think I’ve ever seen another dog so sky-aware.

I looked up at the country cemetery we walk past every day, and saw that a funeral home canopy was erected over a fresh grave. “Let’s go take a look,” I said. Jinx was wary, having been stung by the electric fence now ringing the graveyard. I opened the wooden gate and stepped through, and Jinx followed with exquisite slowness. Once inside and unstung, he perked up and trotted among the headstones, flushing a few doves from their resting spots.

At the new grave site, I noted the names on the stones nearby and tried to guess which family had suffered the loss. Jinx made his way over and nosed around the large mound of soil covered by a gray tarp. Then he stepped onto the other, smaller tarp next to the mound. This one lay flat on the ground.

The instant Jinx was in the middle of the tarp, it began to sink in the middle, and I watched as Jinx was lowered into the grave the tarp had been covering. His eyes went wide, his ears went back, and he began scrambling. Circus music began playing in my head, and I grabbed for the dog’s collar. I snagged it and pulled him to me just before the whole thing would have gone six feet under. We lay under the canopy for a minute, both of us panting, then Jinx jumped up and ran off to explore something else. I managed to pull the edges of the tarp out of the grave and pull them taut and secure them under the metal bar that had been holding them flat before Jinx busted his move. The graveside service will be sometime today, and I hope we left no trace of our accidental desecration.

At this rate, Jinx will either hasten my demise or will see me hauled before a magistrate. I’ve told him this several times. The thing about spotted dogs is that they possess a remarkable placidity in the face of accusation and upbraiding. He is at this moment sleeping in the shade beneath my wife’s car. Just a few yards from the large stone pot he emptied of twenty pounds of potting soil with his restless and devious paws. His sleep is sound. I wonder if he dreams of calliopes? I wonder if a flagon of Rhenish would cure him of his lawless antics? I wonder if he wants to help me clean out the barn later this afternoon?

~ S.K. Orr