As Victoria and I enter the third week of our isolation at Borah Borah, with Briggs, The Official Dog of Elán, we are mindful of the toll this is taking on many throughout the world, and each of you is truly in our thoughts and prayers.
Despite the challenges, social distancing in the sticks has its mirthful moments. Dog discipline has broken down completely, and Briggs is now, more or less, a feral dog. He rolls in the mud, comes into the cabin with big hunks of dirt in his mouth, and occasionally disappears into the forest, only to emerge much later, full of burrs and prickly sticks.
His return to his wolf origins is not wholly complete, however. He still prefers naps on a comfy couch, with his head resting on a pillow, and he waits patiently for the leftover bits of chicken parmesan. His more pedestrian ventures outdoors consist of him scratching at the French doors, venturing all of two feet out to the deck, and plopping down unceremoniously for a blissful snooze, unaware of the chaos in which most of humanity is embroiled.
Being at least in part a dog of leisure, Briggs has developed the ability to open the French doors when it's time to come in for a slurp of water or a pat on the head. Isolation-addled as we are, both Victoria and I have grown somewhat lax in monitoring the open door situation. This might serve one well in certain places, but a couple of days ago, Briggs' carelessness and our inattention led to the unauthorized entry of this scoundrel.
Despite the challenges, social distancing in the sticks has its mirthful moments. Dog discipline has broken down completely, and Briggs is now, more or less, a feral dog. He rolls in the mud, comes into the cabin with big hunks of dirt in his mouth, and occasionally disappears into the forest, only to emerge much later, full of burrs and prickly sticks.
His return to his wolf origins is not wholly complete, however. He still prefers naps on a comfy couch, with his head resting on a pillow, and he waits patiently for the leftover bits of chicken parmesan. His more pedestrian ventures outdoors consist of him scratching at the French doors, venturing all of two feet out to the deck, and plopping down unceremoniously for a blissful snooze, unaware of the chaos in which most of humanity is embroiled.
Being at least in part a dog of leisure, Briggs has developed the ability to open the French doors when it's time to come in for a slurp of water or a pat on the head. Isolation-addled as we are, both Victoria and I have grown somewhat lax in monitoring the open door situation. This might serve one well in certain places, but a couple of days ago, Briggs' carelessness and our inattention led to the unauthorized entry of this scoundrel.
Sitting at the table, eyes focused on my laptop, I became aware of a fluttering motion at my two o'clock. "Egads! It's a bird! More specifically, a goldfinch (scientific name: spinus tristus). How in the name of all that is Holy does one catch a bird in a cabin with 22' tall ceilings?"
I don't know if it was my military training that kicked in, or if some glimmer of my Neanderthal ancestry was awakened, but I grabbed a cashmere throw, tossed it over the wee finch, and captured him. Determining that he was too small to roast, I gently held him in my hand, took him outside, and released him.
No finches were seen here the rest of the day, presumably having been warned by this little fellow that the cabin was an ominous, dangerous place. I mean, think of it...being captured by a being 2,000 times your size and living to tell the tale (tail?).
Well, business at Elán has not been totally quiet, so we made the decision that we had to return to our suburban Chicago headquarters to pick up some client files yesterday. It was a quick turnaround...we got in late on Tuesday and determined that we would return early on Wednesday, April 1. After a somewhat fitful night of sleep, we awoke the next morning to prepare for our return to Borah Borah. After a couple of strong cups of coffee (Is there any other kind?), I repaired to the shower. Now, I don't mind sharing with you that it's a nice shower. Multiple shower heads, lovely tile, and perfect acoustics to engage in a morning aria, exercising my fine baritone voice.
I was concluding the 17th chorus of a famous classical work--"Eighty-two bottles of beer on the wall, eighty-two..." when Victoria burst into the bathroom, and proclaimed breathlessly, " There's a HUGE bird on the top of the window in the living room!" She gestured wildly, indicating an animal roughly the size of a condor." I was momentarily surprised, but quickly realized that it was April first. I gave her a wry look, and she said forcefully, "This is not an April Fool's joke!" I sprang from the shower forthwith, realizing that maybe she wasn't joshing me, and grabbed a towel (Egyptian cotton, soft and absorbent). Hastily drying off, I reached for a robe, when she exhorted me, "You're going to need to get dressed." Uh oh. This was serious.
Ugh. I dried off--kind of--and tossed on a pair of jeans, a relatively sporty looking shirt, and a pair of slippers. Descending the stairs, I expected to see...what...perhaps a re-animated pterodactyl? As with the goldfinch, the fluttering gave it away...thankfully, it was not a pterodactyl. It was a starling that had flown in (you guessed it...) through the patio door that Briggs had pushed open. Once again summoning my primal hunting instincts, I grabbed a fluffy towel from the guest bathroom and tossed it over the starling. Almost.
"Yikes! This will take every bit of my martial skills to effect a victory." I picked up the towel, took careful aim, and SUCCESS! The starling was subdued, taken gently in hand, and released into the suburban jungle.
It all seems rather extraordinary to me. We do not make a habit of allowing wild birds into our homes, yet it happened twice in the span of three days. They say these things come in threes. We have talked to Briggs, The Official Dog of Elán, and are hopeful that he understands the gravity of the situation. Nonetheless, I'm worried about the neighborhood turkey vultures....
Stay well.
-Mike
I don't know if it was my military training that kicked in, or if some glimmer of my Neanderthal ancestry was awakened, but I grabbed a cashmere throw, tossed it over the wee finch, and captured him. Determining that he was too small to roast, I gently held him in my hand, took him outside, and released him.
No finches were seen here the rest of the day, presumably having been warned by this little fellow that the cabin was an ominous, dangerous place. I mean, think of it...being captured by a being 2,000 times your size and living to tell the tale (tail?).
Well, business at Elán has not been totally quiet, so we made the decision that we had to return to our suburban Chicago headquarters to pick up some client files yesterday. It was a quick turnaround...we got in late on Tuesday and determined that we would return early on Wednesday, April 1. After a somewhat fitful night of sleep, we awoke the next morning to prepare for our return to Borah Borah. After a couple of strong cups of coffee (Is there any other kind?), I repaired to the shower. Now, I don't mind sharing with you that it's a nice shower. Multiple shower heads, lovely tile, and perfect acoustics to engage in a morning aria, exercising my fine baritone voice.
I was concluding the 17th chorus of a famous classical work--"Eighty-two bottles of beer on the wall, eighty-two..." when Victoria burst into the bathroom, and proclaimed breathlessly, " There's a HUGE bird on the top of the window in the living room!" She gestured wildly, indicating an animal roughly the size of a condor." I was momentarily surprised, but quickly realized that it was April first. I gave her a wry look, and she said forcefully, "This is not an April Fool's joke!" I sprang from the shower forthwith, realizing that maybe she wasn't joshing me, and grabbed a towel (Egyptian cotton, soft and absorbent). Hastily drying off, I reached for a robe, when she exhorted me, "You're going to need to get dressed." Uh oh. This was serious.
Ugh. I dried off--kind of--and tossed on a pair of jeans, a relatively sporty looking shirt, and a pair of slippers. Descending the stairs, I expected to see...what...perhaps a re-animated pterodactyl? As with the goldfinch, the fluttering gave it away...thankfully, it was not a pterodactyl. It was a starling that had flown in (you guessed it...) through the patio door that Briggs had pushed open. Once again summoning my primal hunting instincts, I grabbed a fluffy towel from the guest bathroom and tossed it over the starling. Almost.
"Yikes! This will take every bit of my martial skills to effect a victory." I picked up the towel, took careful aim, and SUCCESS! The starling was subdued, taken gently in hand, and released into the suburban jungle.
It all seems rather extraordinary to me. We do not make a habit of allowing wild birds into our homes, yet it happened twice in the span of three days. They say these things come in threes. We have talked to Briggs, The Official Dog of Elán, and are hopeful that he understands the gravity of the situation. Nonetheless, I'm worried about the neighborhood turkey vultures....
Stay well.
-Mike