The birds were coming in droves on an early afternoon on a perfect spring day in April. A number of species were in their woodland back yard year round, but this particular spring there were ones that Allene had not seen before. She sat on the top step of the staircase from the sunroom, which led down to the small landing and into the yard. She was tucked away so that the birds could not see her. She clicked away with her Canon camera, capturing the resident Cardinals, Carolina Wrens and Chickadees at the various feeders in the yard. The lawn was a lush green. She snapped a few shots of the Mourning Doves. They were eating the seed off of the ground under the big green feeder that hung from the wooden post in the middle of the yard. A squirrel was seated on the corn feeder that was mounted on one of the big trees. She got a few pictures of him as well. There were two Downy Woodpeckers on the suet feeders. A large Brown Thrasher flew out from under the large Azalea bush and landed on the small green feeder on a metal pole. The Eastern Goldfinches were on the thistle socks, bickering and arguing about which spot belonged to whom. Allene was happily clicking away at all of the avian activity when suddenly she spotted a bright blue bird on the ground under the feeder. She knew that it was not one of the Bluebirds who nested in the house on the tree at the left-hand side of the yard. This was a smaller bird. It was a much brighter blue and did not have an orange and white chest. Four more of the birds flew in and joined the one on the ground. A fifth one landed on the big green feeder. She sat mesmerized by the beautiful bright creatures on the floor of the woodland below her.
Her husband sat in the sunroom watching golf on television. It was Masters Sunday, which was a national holiday as far as he was concerned. Allene locked the lens and snapped on the cover. She stood up, stretched and stepped inside. “Who’s winning?” Allene asked. “Reed’s still in the lead. McIlroy is fading, but Spieth is making a charge,” her husband answered. He might as well have been speaking Martian. She had no idea who neither Reed nor McIlroy were, although she had heard of Spieth. But her husband was happy and that was all that mattered.
She walked into the kitchen and looked up the bright bluebirds in the Birds of North America book. They were Indigo Buntings, migrating north for the summer. Tilley came in and stretched first her front and then her back legs, doing what Allene referred to as “doggie yoga.” Tilley was their whippet that they had rescued in January. She had quirks and issues but was adjusting well with time. According to Tilley’s paperwork, this particular Sunday was her fourth birthday. “Come on, Tilley, do you want to go outside? Let’s go outside!” said Allene. The dog danced around and then ran down the steps to the back door. Allene followed her downstairs, opened the door and let the dog out. She shut the door behind them and walked out onto the back patio.
Her husband took another sip of his Tom Collins when he heard a loud scream from the back yard. “Tommy! Tommy! Get out here!” Allene was yelling. He jumped up and threw open the sunroom door. “What’s the matter?” he asked. Allene was jumping and waving her arms up and down, crying hysterically. “She’s got a squirrel! She’s got a squirrel! Come get it away from her!” Tilley was prancing up the yard proudly toward Allene with her prize in her mouth. Thomas Brooks burst out laughing. Tilley dropped the squirrel beside Allene, sat down and looked proudly up at her. Allene let out another blood-curdling scream. Thomas grabbed the rail to the steps and doubled over with laughter. It was the funniest thing he had ever seen. “It’s not funny, you asshole!” Allene shrieked. “Get down here!” He went back into the sunroom, grabbed his drink and forgot all about The Masters. “Tommeee!” Allene screamed again. He opened the door and through his laughter managed to say, “Yes, dear?” “She’s got blood all over her,” Allene cried. “Bring a couple of old towels!”
He opened the drawer in the kitchen, grabbed a couple of dishcloths, wet one and went downstairs. Allene was near hyperventilation. “It’s… laying…over… there,” she gasped. “It’s… still… moving. Go… see… if you…can…resuscitate… it!” Thomas Brooks walked over and peered at the poor lifeless creature lying on its back. There would be no resuscitating today. “I’m sorry, honey, but he’s waiting for you on the Rainbow Bridge,” he said. “Ohhhhhh!” howled Allene, sobbing. Thomas began laughing again, bending double and leaning over the patio wall. Allene began slapping him on the arm. “You’re a mean man!” she said, laughing between her sobs. “It’s not funny!”
“I’m sorry but it is. She brought you a birthday gift.”
“It’s not my birthday, it’s hers! Will you go bury it before she grabs it again?”
Thomas reached inside the patio door and grabbed his work gloves from the shelf. He picked the lifeless little rodent up by the tail, went to the tool shed, grabbed his shovel and went down into the back yard. He dug a hole deep enough where the squirrel would not be disturbed, laid him out flat inside and covered him back up. He placed leaves over the little grave and put a good sized rock on top of it. He then crossed himself, said a quick little prayer and walked back to the shed. He put the shovel back in its place, closed the door and walked back up the hill, still laughing and shaking his head.
“I think it bit her” said Allene. “Look at her chin.”
“Yeah, he nailed her pretty good.”
“I’ll clean her up. You go on back to your golf game.”
“No, I’ll clean her.”
Thomas began wiping the blood from Tilley’s chin and neck. “You brought down good dishcloths?” Allene fairly shouted.
“You said to bring towels. I grabbed the first ones I could find.”
“So you didn’t think to bring the old ratty ones from the laundry room?’
“No, I was in a hurry to get down here. I knew you were in distress.”
“Men!”
He wiped Tilley down, wet the cloth again with the garden hose and wiped her a second time. He then rubbed her down with the dry dishcloth. Tilley then trotted down to the middle of the yard, sat down and surveyed the landscape intently. “Look at that,” said Thomas. “She’s had a taste of it. She’s a huntress now.”
“Do squirrels carry rabies?”
“They can, but she’s had her rabies shots.”
“Come on, Tilley, let’s go inside.”
The dog ignored her. She was surveying her realm for more prey. “Tilley! Come on inside!” shouted Allene. The dog turned and looked at her. She stood up and came to the back door, but not before she stopped for one last gaze into the yard. Thomas started laughing again. “Oh, great,” said Allene. “I hope she doesn’t start bringing things inside.”
“I can’t believe you brought the good dishcloths out,” she said, putting them in the trashcan.
“I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?”
“No, probably not.”
“You want a drink?”
“Yes, I think I need one.”
Thomas went upstairs and filled his empty Collins glass with ice. He placed it into the freezer and then pulled a big tumbler out of the cabinet. He filled it with ice and poured it half full of Crown Royal and half full of Canada Dry. He sat it on the counter for his wife. He then made himself another Tom Collins with coconut water. He took the glass out of the freezer and poured the concoction over the ice. He took a long sip and laughed again at the image in his mind of Allene screaming and waving her arms while Tilley pranced proudly toward her with a dead squirrel in her mouth. He walked out into the sunroom and sat down on the sofa, chuckling.
Allene came out and sat down next to him. “Who’s winning now?” she asked. “Still Patrick Reed,” said Thomas.
“How is Spieth doing?”
“He’s tearing up the back nine. But he’s running out of holes.”
Again, Thomas might as well have been speaking Martian.
“Thank you for burying the squirrel, honey.”
“You’re welcome. He deserved a proper burial.”
Thomas looked at Allene and started laughing again. “You should have seen yourself,” he said.
“Do you think the neighbors heard me yelling?”
“I’m sure they heard you all the way over in Monroe. You were wailing like a banshee. And you called me a name.”
“Well, you deserved it. You were laughing like a hyena.”
Thomas Brooks leaned over and kissed his wife on the top of the head.
“I think I got a picture of it earlier sitting at the corn feeder,” said Allene. “She jumped halfway up the tree, chased the poor little thing into a bush and came out with it in her mouth.”
“And brought it to you as a gift. A gift of spring.”
“I can’t believe you used the good dishcloths.”
Thomas laughed again and then turned his attention back to the television and the proceedings that were going on some one hundred and twenty five miles to the east.