Call of the wild
In the same way that water beckons boys to skip rocks across it, the outdoors called constantly to the orange Maine Coon cat I used to own. He would sit on the windowsill, tail twitching, ears alert, and turn to look at me with yearning in his yellow eyes. Yam never knew when I might relent and let him out, so he pressed his hope upon me with unwavering ardor.
On a chilly but sunny March morning, I too felt a call to escape our four walls. I grabbed coat and cat and went into the backyard, cat brush in hand. I wiggled down and set Yam on the grass. He purred immediately. I began pulling the comb though his long hair with an amazing steel-toothed thing called a Furminator, which penetrates the thick undercoat. Soon, I had a golden mountain of fur beside us, enough to represent an entire other cat. Using the tool is like eating a bag of potato chips, so I would have been more than happy to keep at it, but Yam had had enough. He took off across the yard, and so I leaned back on elbows to enjoy the sun on my cheeks. Overhead, birds called to one another, males to females I assumed, as they carried on nature’s age-old ritual of seduction and assessment. In the naked tree branches, I spotted the beginnings of nests, or perhaps what was left from last year.
At this time of year, my mother would scatter remnants of yarn, dryer lint, even hair from her own brush across the yard for the birds to weave into the linings of their nests. In north Georgia where I grew up, winters weren’t harsh, but nevertheless when the season began to release its icy grasp, my mother just had to get outside. With my two brothers and me in tow—and my father if he couldn’t find a fix-it project to claim—she would head for the woods. We owned property 30 miles outside of town, about 100 hilly acres of massive pines and hardwoods bisected by a pristine stream. Like a rambunctious child, she would soon have a stick in hand. We poked at leaf mats and the fungi spiraling up the trees. We turned over rocks as we meandered, with no destination or goal other than to fill our lungs as one cannot inside.
What is it that clicks within the human spirit when the days become longer, driving us to the place of big sky or cathedral forest? For one thing, I believe that our senses are starved. Don’t we all savor the sweet crunch of acorns underfoot? The smell of moist soil? Surely we all want to pick up sticks and pry up soggy layers of leaves to see the pale green shoots of wildflowers working its way up to the sun. For another, we seem to seek confirmation that once again life has begun to renew itself, that buds stir, that tree canopies will return.
Spring also brings us yet another chance to realize the potential of a new year or to right the wrongs we may have pondered during winter’s confinement. As the modern world increasingly encroaches upon the natural world, for some of us, our time to embrace it may feel short and thus more precious.
As for Yam and his spring fever, he eventually circled back to me and, with equal yearning in his eyes, demanded to be let inside. I left his fur scattered on the grass, partially for the birds, partially because I assumed the wind would carry it off.
That afternoon, I answered the doorbell to find Mr. Wilson, the man who cuts my grass, looking worried.
“Mizz Carter,” he said. “I was just in your backyard.”
At the sound of the pitch of his voice, my daughter joined me at the door.
“Well, ma’am,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that a hawk done got your cat.”
My daughter and I laughed, then quickly explained the wonders of the Furminator. While doing so Yam wandered over to the doorway as if to confirm. Mr. Wilson looked relieved. I have never seen hawks in our neighborhood—only Canada geese and the occasional duck—but Mr. Wilson would know if there were hawks about. Perhaps somewhere nearby there is a hawk’s nest lined with downy fur of orange tint where next spring little round eggs will stir on schedule, in their own answer to nature’s call.