Nov. ’09-Leaves lie limp and lifeless on the lawn. Curling, dried and weary from hanging onto Maple Tree. Hammock Hangout is refuge for YooHoo Chicken and the flock. Hawken’s tire sandbox’s ply-board lid has slid and 1/2 the sand is saturated from rain. A toy dump truck awaits a warm, sunny day. I lift the latch on the dog kennel and the geese feast on beets, squash, pancake and venison sausage gone bad. I admire the sheep that weren’t sold as fatteners. Wooly whisps whip in the weather. Quietly they have their hopeful gazes fixed on my face. I smile for they are so pretty with intent dark eyes. There’s an assortment of sheep breeds . Suffock have black heads and black legs and a white body. Corriedale are completely white.  Many are short and stocky, a few are dainty and short sheep. There’s one castrated male, also known as a whether-that is my short term pet. Every time I puff up and tell myself I won’t have any that I select as special. He’s a character that bellies up to the sheep bar and orders a cold one and sprawls out and promptly urinates in the manger full of grain. It’s a game to tell him ,”You need to back up or you’ll get stuck!” He’s black with white splotches painted on his face. He manuevers the front part of his body under the board and lounges in the manger beckoning me to rub his face and twist his curls, as he pretends to protest. It always has been a wrestling match with my thoughts about selling animals or sending them to slaughter. I am certain these animals couldn’t be loved or enjoyed anywhere more than their home here.  I trip on a twine string that I left lie on the  loose hay on the concrete barn floor. A deluge of cats descend on me toppled  as I’m toppled in the hay. Skinny Kitty, Punkin’ kitty, Purrty Kitty and more orange, tiger and white felines are vying for my affection and ability to take the lid off the garbage can that holds the coveted meal. I toss the wood chunk that  is required to somewhat ration the Meow Mix Cat Food. Some mornings the wood block  is on the lid and there’s a cat  clamboring to get out after a night of gluttony. Spose that would be me not looking if any cats are slid down inside the garbage pail before the lid goes back on.  I walk down the road with my  brown Carhart coat hood up. I look in the Showroom for the dear, deer mouse.  Chelsea Golden had mentioned to me that when her and her husband Ben were picking up the artwork they had @ last Open house, that she’d had company while they loaded their truck. I brightened when I heard it was our deer mouse watching them.  Tom just laughs and says, “It’s so Sue, we have a trapping supply business and I have to watch that customers don’t try to get rid of the mouse or let Sammy Cat in for fear she’d eat your pet mouse!”   Tommy’s been taking the canoe to check his traps daily. It warms my heart to see my man strap on his waders and immerse himself with the rythms of nature. Trapping ignites the fire that can decrease when so caught up in the work world. He brings muskrat gifts home to the Shack and gently lays them across the orange recliner chair and the tattered springless sofa. A harem of cats have called him Sugar Daddy the last days. Their tails flick in anticipation of muskrat entrails that they are served.  They are gathered @ the base of the rickety steps of the Shack. Snuffy is black and white and is leader of the group. I knock on the door in the evening dusk. Kitty’s meow and plead for more snacks to be slung to their gaping mouths. Tom and Hawken had a busy afternoon baling round bales. Now it’s trapping time and skinning. “Come in!” I slowly inch the door open and melt into the scene. I shut the door to keep the woodstove heat in and the cats out. Tom’s in his brown long underwear shirt and jeans. Our son is smiling a mile wide. I sink deep into the gaps. It’s surreal as I feel the ancient ties to the animals, land and family. Hawken is hugging 2 mushrats. Just immersed and rubbing his round face with eyes closed across their limp bodies. Then he’s moving muskrat after muskrat and now he’s on the floor with them.  Tom had caught 10 muskrats this bountiful day.  He’s not caught a coon yet. He feels this is because the coon are holed up in the cornfields.  A challenging year for all of us farmers, to get the crops harvested. Hawken’s  just feeling the magic mood and loving the feel of  the soft pelts. Tom hands him a cattle brush and Hawken just brushes the pelt and gets it prepared and gives it “pretty hair.”  There’s Sammer Cat-just a giving ‘er! Non-stop kneading her front paws while she’s in kitty trance land. She’s not been this way since she lived in the house. Just working the couch pillow over and releasing the endorphins in her kitty brain through her paws and feeling the warmth of muskrat love, me and 2 punkin’ heads.

Trap a mushie,

Sue Roskos