One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  My only concern about the cats is when I’m told about the shots of insulin that come with each feeding. Pumpkin, the old tabby, has developed diabetes. He’s lived in the barn for most of his life. He’s excruciatingly timid and is comfortable only around Mom. He often bolts under the furniture whenever Dad or I enter the room. Petting him will be a challenge for me, let alone injecting his back with shots of insulin twice a day.

  “You shouldn’t have a problem. Just wait till he’s eating, then lightly pinch some of his loose skin and get the tip of the needle in there, and he won’t even notice.” As Mom explains the procedure, I’m peering at Pumpkin. He returns my skeptical gaze. “But be gentle. Your Dad’s obviously my human soulmate, but Pumpkin, he’s my feline soulmate.”

  With everyone fed and the medications put away, Mom steps into the living room, where Titan is savouring his post-supper nap. He’s flaked out on his blanket, the tip of his pink tongue protruding from the edge of his mouth. His eyes are closed. Mom slowly bends down to her knees.

  “If you rub just the right spot of his back or belly, right around here, and then stop, he’ll actually give you a big smile. Won’t you, boy? Yes, you will.” She’s scratching Titan’s furry back with both hands like a masseuse. He stretches out his hind legs. Then she stops suddenly. Titan tilts his head lazily in her direction. “Oh, come on, Titan, don’t you want me to keep going? Give me a smile.”

  He gapes at her and lets his head flop back down on the mat.

  “I guess it’s because you’re here,” says Mom, disconcertedly. “Hopefully he’ll smile for you when you’re alone. I swear it’ll work after you feed him.”

  I nod but omit these last few instructions from the list. I leave Mom lying on the floor beside Titan, still working for a smile.

  I don’t see Mom again until she pops her head into my room. It’s late. I’m reading in bed.

  “I just want to let you know, you shouldn’t use the upstairs toilet while we’re gone.”

  “What do you mean? It was working fine an hour ago.”

  “I know, but I just remembered to clean it before bed so it would be nice and fresh for you, but I’m tired and I accidentally flushed the rag down the toilet. I think it’s stuck somewhere.”

  “You flushed the rag down the toilet . . . while you were cleaning it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Good question. I’m not entirely sure either. But it happened somehow. Anyway, I’ll let you sleep. Nighty-night.”

  I should take the time to find my list of instructions. Remembering not to use the upstairs toilet because Mom has lost a rag down the pipe is important. But when I overhear her waking Dad to tell him the same mystifying news, I’m confident that, after reviewing the event for the second time — and likely a third time in the morning when Dad tells me again at breakfast — copying it onto my list would be just plain gratuitous.

  Ten minutes later I’m asleep. Another knock on the door wakes me.

  “Oh, sorry, Iain.” Mom opens the door a crack and again pokes her head in. “I was lying in bed and just remembered there’s one more thing I want to tell you.”

  “Shoot,” I sputter, lying flat on my stomach.

  “I’m not sure if you know, but I’ve made a little bed for Pumpkin above Titan’s doghouse. I used some old carpet and a fluffy towel. And I’ve been trying for weeks to get him to feel comfortable and sleep there. He was finally starting to get used it. I’ve been feeding him and giving him his shot there every morning. It’s actually quite cute because —”

  “Mom, is this just an adorable fable or do I need to know something?”

  “Right, sorry. Well, yesterday and today I found a single egg in Pumpkin’s bed and no Pumpkin. It’s so frustrating. I guess one of the chickens has found the bed and is laying its eggs in there. It’s spooked Pumpkin, though. So please just try and keep your eye on the situation because I don’t want to be worrying about Pumpkin while I’m away.”

  “Done.”

  “It’s so annoying because he was getting so used to sleeping there and it was warm and I wasn’t worrying about him trying to find somewhere to sleep and —”

  “Okay. Thanks, Mom,” I sigh. “Night.”

  “Oh, right. Nighty-night.”

  The next morning is steeped in tension. It always is the morning of a trip. Mom and Dad rush around the house packing last-minute things, watering neglected plants, changing soiled litter boxes, polishing scuffed shoes. Dad also takes a few minutes, the way he always does before a trip, to say goodbye to the sheep in the barn. Mom uses that time to tell her favourite plants how healthy they are, touching their leaves and branches, telling them she’ll be back soon.

  After packing their bags into the trunk, Mom and Dad bid a final adieu to the cats and dogs, each receiving a pat and a personalized message. As we start down the lane I’m startled when Dad, buckled into the passenger seat, turns and asks me to stop the car. I slam on the brakes. Once we’re in, he never wants to stop the car on the way to the airport. He’d be content to arrive there a couple of days before departure, just to be safe.

  “Hold on a minute,” he says, ducking out of the car door.

  “What did you forget?”

  But he’s out before he can answer. I watch him in the rear-view mirror walking back towards the house. He steps softly, as if he doesn’t want to wake the apple trees.

  “Maybe he dropped something on the driveway,” says Mom. “By the way, I read that the rain’s supposed to continue all week; the umbrellas are by the side door if you need one. I even dug out the more masculine one for you, so it’s there as well.”

  “I thought so,” Dad announces, stepping back into the car, fastening his seatbelt. “The red-winged blackbirds have arrived. First time I’ve seen them this year. There were about four of them by the hanging feeders.” He removes his glasses and wipes off the rain with his shirt.

  “That’s so exciting,” says Mom, turning in her seat. “I knew I could hear more birds this morning.”

  As we drive away I’m adjusting the radio, hoping to find some traffic reports. Dad turns, pointing back at the house and the birds. Mom joins him, on her knees, peering out of the window.

  When I return from the airport, the house is still and quiet. All the animals, even the cats, are outside. A nice book seems appropriate. I doubt you could find more suitable conditions for reading. I hope to do a lot of it. I discover that Dad has set one aside for me; he’s left it by my computer. It’s E. B. White’s collection of essays, One Man’s Meat. I take it to the living room and lie down on the couch, my head resting on a pillow. Dad’s stuck a note to the cover: Was going to take this on the plane, but Mom and I thought you might like it.

  I open it to the page he’s marked. The essay is entitled “Spring.” It comes with a subheading: “Notes on springtime and on anything else of an intoxicating nature that comes to mind.” It was written in April 1941.

  Considering the dramatic shifts of the past seventy-plus years and the ways in which the world has changed, I wonder how many notes regarding daily life written in the spring of 1941 will still be relevant today. I’m able to read only a couple of pages before my eyelids start to slip shut. It was an early morning, and these conditions are also pretty good for napping. But the last lines I read before my eyes close are released from the page, swimming around in my thoughts untethered, until I fall asleep: The day of days when spring at last holds up her face to be kissed, deliberate and unabashed. On that day no wind blows either in the hills or in the mind, no chill finds the bone. It is a day that can come only in a northern climate, where there has been a long background of frigidity, a long deficiency of sun.

  The next morning is bright and warm. I’m up earlier than usual. My first task is to open a few of the window
s that have been shut tight all winter. After my breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, I’m sweeping up some dog fur when I spot the umbrellas hanging by the door. I won’t need one today. The rain has left overnight. One is slightly larger and has a blue background with yellow stars. The other is smaller, compact; it’s maroon with varying breeds of horses and ponies printed on the nylon. I can’t be sure which one Mom has left specifically for me — neither screams masculinity. I grab my wool jacket from underneath the blue umbrella and step into my rubber boots.

  Dad was right. The birds are back. This morning it’s not just the red-winged blackbirds that are out but also the finches, chickadees, and blue jays, among others I don’t recognize. They’ve gathered at Dad’s hanging feeders in droves and are singing louder than I remember.

  The ground is soft, clay-like, and squishes under my boots. The careless snow has left behind puddles freckled across the yard. The grass is yellow and fledgling. Spring has made smells relevant again. Here at the farm smells become pungent and stale in the heat of the summer, fade with the light in autumn, and are made sterile in the frozen temperatures of winter. They are reborn in spring. I’m immediately presented with a rich cast of scents to choose from, some more appealing than others. The chicken coop, for example, offers an aroma that is equal in strength and vileness. I pull up my jacket over my nose and stay just long enough to collect the freshly laid eggs and pass along my cordial regards to the hens.

  I bring the eggs inside for a wash. I’m followed by Titan, who’s followed by Pumpkin. We are a three-creature train. Once inside they flop down together, only inches apart, on Titan’s blanket. Pumpkin purrs his gravelly, laborious purr. Titan exhales lavishly through his nose. Mom swears that the two ageing animals are best friends and that Pumpkin won’t sleep out in the open unless Titan is close by. She says that Pumpkin will sit and meow by the front door if Titan is waiting there, until someone lets his mate in.

  They aren’t just lying together now. Pumpkin is spooning his much larger pal.

  All day I’ve been finding notes from Mom around the house. Most I skim once, maybe twice, if only to ensure that I understand her thought. But I find one in the fridge worth reading over a few times. It’s stuck to the front of the cheese keeper. Try not to give Pumpkin any of the Danish blue or Stilton cheese . . . Both give him awful gas. I appreciate how she wrote try. The temptation just might be too strong.

  Another reminds me that there is a full tank of propane on the barbecue and to use up any of the meat in the freezer. This seems like a good idea. The afternoon has kept the morning’s promise of sun and warmth. I head out to the verandah with a couple of frozen sausages and my book. I don’t just cook on the verandah but stay outside to eat. Afterwards I read in my chair until it gets too dark to see.

  Again I wake early from a restful sleep. I carry two buckets of water out to the barn for the sheep. There won’t be many days left of carrying water; it will soon be warm enough to set up the automatic watering system again. A quick head count reveals that one ewe is missing. I find her in the neighbouring barn. She is lying on the ground, exhausted. Beside her is a single lamb.

  The lamb is tiny, wet, and shivering. I take a handful of straw and rub along its rib cage and limbs to dry its body and increase circulation. The mother gradually stands and stomps the ground forcefully, telling me she’s got it under control. I drop the straw and step back but continue to watch. The ewe moves in and nudges the lamb with her head, encouraging it to stand. The lamb’s legs look two sizes too big for its body. It takes a few tries before it can successfully get on its feet. Once it does, walking doesn’t seem so hard, and the lamb stumbles around the pen, searching instinctually for its mother’s teat, its long tail wagging furiously.

  The rest of the flock are unconcerned about the new arrival. They’re hungry, waiting for breakfast. I fill the metal feeder with their morning provender. They eagerly gather around my legs, pushing to get closer. I cut the twine and take a few minutes to break up the hay. The lambs that were born earlier are still too young to eat hay. They circle the adults, gambolling about. They’re young children chasing one another at a family barbecue, running around the picnic table. They run and jump just for the sake of running and jumping; they have energy to burn. It won’t last much longer, maybe another couple of weeks. The oldest lamb, the one with tiny horns sprouting above his ears, has already outgrown this playful activity and has joined the others pushing about at the feeder. He’s not eating the hay but stands alongside the older sheep.

  It’s now, watching the sheep eat, that I recall for the first time a chat I had with my friend Bob in Toronto. It happened right around this time of year. He was telling me that spring doesn’t exist anymore, at least not as a distinct season. “It’s just a few weeks of rain while everyone looks forward to summer.”

  Bob is right. I spent the last four years in the city, where spring has lost much of its authority and has been relegated to a backup role, meant only to shepherd winter out through the front door and hold it open for summer. But spring is still a legitimate season at the farm.

  From the barn I stroll across the field to the duck pen. I have some bread for the ducks and stale crackers for the chickens and Lucius, if he’s around. The ducks emerge in ordered panic, quacking, waddling out of their hut with renewed interest in the yard. They find the muddy puddle water instantly and dive in like the first beachgoers of the year. I bet the ducks would have left their feathery coats hanging inside if they could. It’s still too cold for the unadventurous hens, though. They’ll wait for another few weeks before venturing out of the coop to dig around in the muck, hoping to unearth unsuspecting worms and bugs. I toss them their crackers along with an apple core for dessert.

  I am outside tucking into my own lunch, a tomato and cheese sandwich. Again the rain has stayed away. I haven’t had to call anyone for assistance, not the vet or a neighbour or my brother. Not even Grandma. Nor have I received any calls; no one asking how I’m doing or what I’ve been up to, or if I’m short on money, or if I’m feeling guilty about not working, or if I’m looking for a new job yet, or how I can possibly fill whole days alone at the farm, or why my beard is so long. Apart from pleading with Pumpkin, trying to convince him that we’re out of Danish blue as he stands meowing at the fridge, I’ve barely spoken in three days.

  I’ve brought a can of beer outside with me. Dad stocked up Little Blue before they left. It might be a little early, I know, but with the sheep enjoying their hay and the ducks making use of the muddy water, I’m inclined to join in. I lean back, resting my head against the wall of the shed, and crack my beer open. Today’s the first day I haven’t worn my coat outside.

  I will be picking up Mom and Dad early tomorrow morning. Their flight lands sometime around 9 a.m. But for now, I’m still alone. Alone but not lonely. Directly to my left, Titan and Pumpkin are locked in a lazy horizontal embrace. To my right, Lucius, who has been hidden for most of the winter, is pecking around in the dirt, chirping his brassy chirp. I’m again taken aback by his sharp features. My God, he’s a revolting creature. But I don’t shoo him away as I would have last summer. He might as well stay.

  I’m sitting on the wooden stoop under the clothesline, facing the sun, sipping my beer. I can see one of the other cats, I think Harry Snugs or maybe Little Miss, strutting across the metal roof of the barn. When I finish this one, I’ll go back inside for another and drink it here, where I drank my first.

  Thirteen

  Catching Up

  IT'S JUST AFTER 8 A.M., EARLY, I know, to be eating sardines directly from the can. I’m using a plastic straw as a one-pronged fork. I was lured to the kitchen the way I usually am, by the promise of coffee. I drank a cup while flinging open the cupboards and fridge, seeking out a pairing for my drink. I had plenty of options — fruit, cereal, toast — but I felt like trying something different, something offbeat, and went for the ca
nned sardines instead. As soon as I pried open the can and saw those little heads and tails crowded together in a row, I regretted my decision. There’s a reason toast and cereal are mainstays of breakfast. I straggle into the living room, fish in hand, in search of the paper.

  “Don’t distract me; I’m writing a letter.” Mom’s parked at the table, still wearing her slippers and pyjamas. Her short hair is askew, cowlicked on both side and back. Layers of sticky notes, cards, and envelopes are laid out in front of her like a paper feast. Her computer is open. “I’ve been meaning to write it for weeks. It’s a thank-you letter and needs to be sent today. Dad said he’d mail it for me as soon as I finish.” She pauses for a dramatic sip of her coffee. “It should have been done weeks ago. And now I’m stuck.”

  “What are you stuck on?”

  “I’m trying to word a section about what you’ve been up to.”

  “What? Why am I showing up in your thank-you letter?’

  “It’s also a catch-up letter.”

  “But surely you can leave me out.”

  “I honestly don’t mind putting you in.”

  “No, seriously, I’m happier to be left out. Just drop me, move on to the next section.”

  From somewhere in his study, Dad clears his throat. “If I’m in the letter, then Iain should be too.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” agrees Mom, sounding vindicated. She starts drumming her pencil on the table.

  “That’s not true! No one needs to be caught up on me. There’s nothing to be caught up on.”

  “Sure there is. You’ve been back home for a year now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I just have to figure out how to word it.”

  “You’ll figure it out; you always do,” calls Dad. “Iain, let your mom write her own letter.”