Wildlife : Wild Life
It is cold now in the ravine, colder still where neither morning nor afternoon sun filter through to the ground. The ground, in fact, is in the process of freezing up. Night-time temperatures dip to well below freezing levels, leaving hard frost decorating rooftops of houses surrounding the ravine. At the sides of the creek, just where the water touches the sloping banks ice is beginning to creep into semi-permanence, albeit still slight-white in presence.
Those areas of the ravine where the sun is able to warm up the trail see the ground moist and slippery in the release of night-time frost. All the fallen leaves have now been reduced to crumble-status, far removed from the glory of their pre-release brilliance. The mounded leaf pack is now an amalgam of crisp brown-grey, and the crinkled leaves invite our dogs' curiosity. They too are garbed, like us, against the bitter cold. And they linger here and there, sniffing furiously.
As we ascend yet another hill we focus on movement ahead. There, just before us, in the now bare branches of an old apple tree, two rose-breasted grosbeaks. It has been years since we've seen these delightful birds. Many years ago when we lived in another part of this city we often saw flocks of yellow grosbeaks come to our backyard feeder. Where we lived then appeared to be a regular flyway for migrating birds.
As we forge on, other sounds are revealed beside those of the chickadees flitting about. Button stalks on ahead as usual. She is black and her bright red sweater makes her very visible. Well behind us totters apricot-coloured Riley in his navy blue coat, stodgily making his way along the path. We stand momentarily halfway between both of them, our progress arrested by the light, high voices of children.
Soon we see a small brightly-clad form approaching, screeching delight to her companions at the sight of a small dog, briefly arrested in motion as Button stands quietly to contemplate the dual charge of two little girls. One wears a bright yellow cloche, the other has a hoodie over her head; both in winter jackets and boots. The boots of the smaller child twinkle an on-off red light as she hurdles forward. The little girls try to capture Button and she smoothly eludes them.
At fourteen years of age, Button isn't in the market for child-adulation, but the children offer it regardless, insistent that it is their right as bright little beings to enjoy nature to its fullest and nature has offered up to them, not only a woodland setting but a small dog trotting along a path ripe for their delectation. Button is wily and eludes them. Their complaints at her lack of co-operation are muted when they espie Riley, and they proceed enthusiastically past us toward a far more tolerant little dog only 7 years old.
Trailing behind them indulgently - not calling out to them to cease and desist for the strange dogs may bite them, as would a mother - is an exceedingly tall, somewhat stooped old man. His deeply wrinkled face forms a smile to our greeting, and he pulls his dark cap closer over his exposed ears. To my remark that he has a handful, he responds that they're good little girls, causing him no trouble at all. Sisters, one considerably larger than the other. The tiny one, it transpires, is older by a full year than the one that hulks over her.
Probably half Inuit, the grandfather figures, indicating the large round-cheeked little girl attempting to entice Riley's attention away from her smaller sister who is hunkered down and protectively encircling our puzzled little dog. Riley patiently receives their attention, their strokes and blandishments, and accommodates them by dutifully licking cheeks. They shriek their delight. We make to move on and say our good-byes, and they voice their disappointment.
Later, when we've completed our circuit, there is the old man and the two little girls, far from where we first saw them, which was one-third the way of our entire walk, ascending the hill leading to the street we live on. I remark to the man that the little girls have done well, on their sturdy little legs, side-stepping tree roots and rocks, in the process enjoying fresh cold air and exercising their bodies. Yes, he responds, telling me he is trying to recall when he was 3 and 4 whether he had the physical stamina to enjoy a walk like that.
He wants to stand and talk, as we emerge from the trails onto the street. We've never seen him before, but in the brief time we talk, he introduces one topic after another; the careless manner in which mothers nowadays permit their young children to play on the street without their mother's presence; the make-up of modern families with half-brothers and -sisters. The education system being stretched to accommodate African-centred alternate schools. Bad enough, he says, French and English and Roman Catholic separations.
The disappearance of smoke-stack industries in Ontario; the state of our health care system and the scarcity of family doctors. He tells us about one family living on his street where the children are left to fend for themselves, their mother a nurse. He's certain she travels to work at a local hospital, signs in for the day, then makes herself scarce, returning home before returning much later to sign out. One of these days, he says, he'll follow her and find out for certain.
He talks about immigrants, those who don't want to work, others who must work at jobs that don't reflect their professional and educational backgrounds. An anomaly; a Lebanese man he met who worked at laying out paving bricks so he asked the man why he wasn't working in a diner; the response being that he hated cooking. He appears willing to talk forever. The two little girls are hunched down over a sewer grate, happily tossing pebbles and dirt into it to hear the magical sound as they hit water.
No, we decide, he isn't a bigot, his opinions are too well balanced. Just someone who really could use the presence of a neighbourhood pub or barber shop where he could sit around with his peers and relieve himself of his point of view.
Those areas of the ravine where the sun is able to warm up the trail see the ground moist and slippery in the release of night-time frost. All the fallen leaves have now been reduced to crumble-status, far removed from the glory of their pre-release brilliance. The mounded leaf pack is now an amalgam of crisp brown-grey, and the crinkled leaves invite our dogs' curiosity. They too are garbed, like us, against the bitter cold. And they linger here and there, sniffing furiously.
As we ascend yet another hill we focus on movement ahead. There, just before us, in the now bare branches of an old apple tree, two rose-breasted grosbeaks. It has been years since we've seen these delightful birds. Many years ago when we lived in another part of this city we often saw flocks of yellow grosbeaks come to our backyard feeder. Where we lived then appeared to be a regular flyway for migrating birds.
As we forge on, other sounds are revealed beside those of the chickadees flitting about. Button stalks on ahead as usual. She is black and her bright red sweater makes her very visible. Well behind us totters apricot-coloured Riley in his navy blue coat, stodgily making his way along the path. We stand momentarily halfway between both of them, our progress arrested by the light, high voices of children.
Soon we see a small brightly-clad form approaching, screeching delight to her companions at the sight of a small dog, briefly arrested in motion as Button stands quietly to contemplate the dual charge of two little girls. One wears a bright yellow cloche, the other has a hoodie over her head; both in winter jackets and boots. The boots of the smaller child twinkle an on-off red light as she hurdles forward. The little girls try to capture Button and she smoothly eludes them.
At fourteen years of age, Button isn't in the market for child-adulation, but the children offer it regardless, insistent that it is their right as bright little beings to enjoy nature to its fullest and nature has offered up to them, not only a woodland setting but a small dog trotting along a path ripe for their delectation. Button is wily and eludes them. Their complaints at her lack of co-operation are muted when they espie Riley, and they proceed enthusiastically past us toward a far more tolerant little dog only 7 years old.
Trailing behind them indulgently - not calling out to them to cease and desist for the strange dogs may bite them, as would a mother - is an exceedingly tall, somewhat stooped old man. His deeply wrinkled face forms a smile to our greeting, and he pulls his dark cap closer over his exposed ears. To my remark that he has a handful, he responds that they're good little girls, causing him no trouble at all. Sisters, one considerably larger than the other. The tiny one, it transpires, is older by a full year than the one that hulks over her.
Probably half Inuit, the grandfather figures, indicating the large round-cheeked little girl attempting to entice Riley's attention away from her smaller sister who is hunkered down and protectively encircling our puzzled little dog. Riley patiently receives their attention, their strokes and blandishments, and accommodates them by dutifully licking cheeks. They shriek their delight. We make to move on and say our good-byes, and they voice their disappointment.
Later, when we've completed our circuit, there is the old man and the two little girls, far from where we first saw them, which was one-third the way of our entire walk, ascending the hill leading to the street we live on. I remark to the man that the little girls have done well, on their sturdy little legs, side-stepping tree roots and rocks, in the process enjoying fresh cold air and exercising their bodies. Yes, he responds, telling me he is trying to recall when he was 3 and 4 whether he had the physical stamina to enjoy a walk like that.
He wants to stand and talk, as we emerge from the trails onto the street. We've never seen him before, but in the brief time we talk, he introduces one topic after another; the careless manner in which mothers nowadays permit their young children to play on the street without their mother's presence; the make-up of modern families with half-brothers and -sisters. The education system being stretched to accommodate African-centred alternate schools. Bad enough, he says, French and English and Roman Catholic separations.
The disappearance of smoke-stack industries in Ontario; the state of our health care system and the scarcity of family doctors. He tells us about one family living on his street where the children are left to fend for themselves, their mother a nurse. He's certain she travels to work at a local hospital, signs in for the day, then makes herself scarce, returning home before returning much later to sign out. One of these days, he says, he'll follow her and find out for certain.
He talks about immigrants, those who don't want to work, others who must work at jobs that don't reflect their professional and educational backgrounds. An anomaly; a Lebanese man he met who worked at laying out paving bricks so he asked the man why he wasn't working in a diner; the response being that he hated cooking. He appears willing to talk forever. The two little girls are hunched down over a sewer grate, happily tossing pebbles and dirt into it to hear the magical sound as they hit water.
No, we decide, he isn't a bigot, his opinions are too well balanced. Just someone who really could use the presence of a neighbourhood pub or barber shop where he could sit around with his peers and relieve himself of his point of view.
Labels: Animal Stories, Companions, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 5:18 PM
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