He got on the bed before I covered it with the dog blanket, and I decided to let him be. He’s very snug under there, and it’s a cold night. Sometime after midnight he will bestir himself and come up to press himself against me as close as he can. Without opening my eyes, I reach behind me and pat him to let him know I know. Usually, he purrs. Eli’s on the floor sleeping against the French doors and snoring like the big bear he resembles.
We’re in the teeth of winter now. The actual temperature is -5F but the wind chill is -15F to -25F, which means the wind sweeps away your body heat at a rapid clip, and flesh freezes in mere minutes. In this bitter cold both animals and humans are suffering. Although we got our power back, not everyone did, and outside in this dangerous weather, there are people working hard to protect the rest of us, restoring power and operating community shelters.
I’m watching the turkeys this morning from my warm, comfortable vantage point on top of the hill, looking down into the woods. We have a flock1 of nineteen this year, somewhat smaller than usual, but always fascinating.
After the deer had finished their morning graze, the turkeys came down from their roosts and spread themselves among the three spots where we have put out seed. As I watched, I saw my one-footed friend—who has been with us for several years now—sit down by himself in the snow, fifteen feet removed from the rest of the flock as they fed. He knew he could not compete with the rough and tumble of the flock’s drive for food. My heart broke for him, because even though the others do seem to look out for him generally, the nature of turkeys seems querulous and wholly intent on individual survival. I told myself he would be able to eat when the rest had finished, but wished I could go out to give him his own little stash. He looked cold and lonely.
As I watched, one of the other turkeys broke off from the flock and walked over to him, nudging him gently. He got up, and together they walked to the pile of seeds, and, shielded by his friend, the injured turkey joined the others and began to feed. For the remainder of breakfast time, the limpy guy ate with all the others.
If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.
The turkeys are still here, and have been joined by squirrels, junkos, and chickadees. I know from long observation that today, instead of marching off on their usual trek, the turkeys will stay close by, puffing up their down coats, and sitting on logs somewhere out of the wind, preferably under bushes or brush piles. And they will all have eaten enough to fuel their bodies against the cold.
So, who wants to discuss how animals don’t practice altruism?
Yesterday was a curiously lost day. It was a little bit worrying to realize how much I depend upon technology, and how lost I was without it.
It was a busy day for us, however. There were branches hanging heavily with snow needing to be brushed off or beaten with a broom to keep them from breaking. There was the driveway to clear, along with the two foot high barricade of ice from the snowplow. And there were fallen branches to remove and add to the growing bonfire pile, all to the cheerful accompaniment of playful dogs.
But once we had done what could be done, we came inside to a strangely silent house.
At one point, cold, but too grubby and unshowered to go anywhere other than the hardware store, I just drove around, charging my phone and listening to music, while my exhausted husband napped. The snow was beautiful in the sunshine.
Later, despite my hair—which made me look as if I’d just been released from the local asylum—we went to a nearby restaurant for wifi, and by mutual consent, put Dry January on the ash heap of history. We met our favorite neighbors there, by chance. They had also been caught in the clutches of Dry January, and had thrown it over the night before, when their tree took out everyone’s power line. We traded anxieties about frozen pipes, spoiled food, and what to do if there was still no power on Sunday. They, too, have a pair of big sweet dogs, which we agreed tends to make you unpopular with hotel management. Our conversation was interrupted by several recorded phone calls from the power company, dangling hope with laughable vagueness.
Nevertheless, on the way home, parked alongside the road to our house was an armada of utility trucks, and the big tree that had been leaning perilously on the main lines was gone. The dogs greeted us as if we’d been gone a month, even though it had been little more than an hour. The house was ridiculously dark and growing cold, so we settled into a very early bed, with dogs and the gas fireplace to keep us warm, buckets of snow on the hearth, downloaded movies, and a decanter of Irish whisky.
This morning, the heat is on; hot coffee was waiting when I got up at 3:30; and my computer is up and running. In a little while I will reload the dishwasher and finish restoring the kitchen to its normal cheerful order. Most important: we will be able to watch the Packers game this afternoon.
As with so many life experiences, we have come away with an important lesson learned.
January is no time to give up alcohol.
***
The cioppino I made last night has now reached 55 degrees. My philosophy is that I will pay a great deal of money NOT to get food poisoning. Must be thrown away, right?
Please advise. 😎
J.F. Riordan 