I am indebted to Grethe-Maria Fox who inspired this conversation.
I've seen her before - many times. I recognize her. I know who she
is. Writing
Conversations For
Transformation
in the
Cowboy Cottage
sitting at my table gazing through the picture window onto the cattle
pasture, I see her appearing out of nowhere, walking deliberately,
stealthily, her head close to the ground. I assume she's tracking
scents of her prey: gophers, mice, rabbits, whatever she can make a
meal of. The property owner's cats strolling into the pasture stay out
of her way when she's around. Very smart.
I never try to approach her. I prefer to simply watch her. The last
thing I want to do is disturb her and then she'll run off. So I remain
silent and motionless when she comes by, honoring her visit and the
privilege
she affords me by coming here, by being close to me and by allowing me
to be close to her.
When she sees me she stops and looks directly into my eyes, unblinking.
She puts every bit of her attention into her stare, every ounce of her
energy into her presence. When she looks into my eyes like this, it's
as if the entire pasture itself is looking into my eyes.
No, when she looks into my eyes like this, it's as if the entire
universe is looking into my eyes.
And now here she is, caught unceremoniously in this raccoon trap. If
anything looks out of place, a fox in a raccoon trap is the epitome of
what looks out of place. A family of raccoons has decimated the fish
population in the pond. In order to trap the miscreant raccoons so they
may be safely transported away from the area, traps are baited with pet
food. An unsuspecting raccoon enters a trap typically at night,
irreversibly closing its door in the process. Only this time, it's not
a raccoon lured by the bait - it's her.
Who knows why. Perhaps the gophers hear her coming and bolt. Perhaps
the mice hear her too and quickly put out the word to all the other
rodent field dwellers, telling them to hide. Perhaps the rabbits drum a
tap-tap code on the walls of their warrens which sends a
warning when their sentry sees her on the prowl. However the alarm is
sounded, her element of surprise is lost. All of her usual sources of
dinner have gotten out of her way, underground if possible, so the lure
of the bait in the trap gets the better of her natural sense of self
preservation and survival, and she throws caution to the wind. Now
she's incongruously enclosed in a mesh cage not much larger than her
body. She's unable to turn around, unable to escape, yet much to my
relief she's completely unharmed.
As I approach she bares her razor sharp teeth. There's not one
iota of doubt in my mind about the threat of her grimace. She
speaks to me in a feral tongue comprising growl and
hiss. I don't need an
interpreter
who can translate Fox to tell me she's saying "If you so
much as lay a finger on me I'll rip your flesh off.".
Obliging her I keep my distance, yet continue watching her, touched by
all her glorious wildness - spellbound, fascinated.
There's nothing which wants and needs doing more in this moment than
setting her free. The door of the trap opens with a simple latch that
only works from the outside. The mesh of the trap is small enough to
prevent her biting any fingers reaching over to spring the latch.
Although she continues to loudly threaten shredded flesh to anyone who
comes near, there's actually nothing to be concerned about, given how
well enclosed she is. Yet I already know she's more concerned with
getting out of her predicament than she is with drawing blood.
That turns out to be an understatement. As soon as the trap door
opens, she flies out of there and heads at speed as far
away from the trap as she can get, kicking up dust as her frantic
feet tear across the pasture to freedom. Then, just as she's about to
disappear over the crest of the hill, inexplicably she stops in her
tracks, turns around, sits up on her haunches, and looks into my eyes
one last time. No, the entire universe looks into my eyes one last
time.
And then she's gone, and I'm left standing here, still spellbound,
still fascinated, the trap now lying askew on its side, knocked over by
the force of her exit, empty.
Some time soon on a
hot sultry summer evening
when I'm writing
Conversations For
Transformation
here in the
Cowboy Cottage,
sitting at my table gazing through the picture window onto the cattle
pasture, she'll appear again out of nowhere, walking deliberately,
stealthily, her head close to the ground. Then she'll stop and stand
stock still, looking into my eyes, the entire universe looking into my
eyes.