Ages ago when our children were small and we were living in our first little house, we raised an assortment of small animals in a little barn that Irving had constructed in the backyard. There he kept fancy pigeons, and we had a duck, and banty hens and a rooster, and a few rabbits. We thought apart from the interest that Irving had in animals and birds that it would be good for the children to become familiar with the presence of animals. 

 

Once, a dog got into the backyard and frightened our Pekin duck, chasing after it, until the duck finally flew onto the roof. After we'd got rid of the dog, shooing him out of the backyard, Irving got out a ladder and lifted our poor duck off the roof, only marginally the worse for wear, mostly through panic.

 

 

It was an experience I had with one of the rabbits, tiny Dutch rabbits that sealed my dislike for cats. I had been fussing with one of the rabbits on the lawn, when right before me and before my astonishment turned to action, a cat snapped up the tiny rabbit and sped off with it. I was left angry and upset, but unable to do anything to save the little rabbit.

 

Here, in the house we've lived in for the past thirty years, I came across the ravaged body of an immature rabbit one day, laying in the front garden. We had seen rabbits about from time to time and thought how fortunate we were to have such lovely neighbours in an urban setting. But cats are fierce predators and nature has designed them to kill, though I very much doubt they eat their kills.

 

Last night when we went up to bed, Irving opened the front door and shouted at a  neighbourhood cat that was crouching in wait on our porch, amidst the peanuts. His shout frightened the cat and it ran off, just as the rabbit that visits our porch continually was approaching, causing it to be alerted so it hopped away as well, to return later with, I hope, a heightened awareness of the potential of danger.

 

 

We had decided on a relatively light meal for dinner last night, an antidote to the meal the night before that we had eaten too much of. And in light of the fact that Friday night dinners are always on the heavy side. So a fresh vegetable salad and a creamy fish chowder fit the bill very nicely. There's nothing quite as uncomfortable as the indigestion one suffers after having over-indulged in our favourite pastime... 

 

I decided to bake butter tarts after breakfast. They're a favourite for both of us. Irving likes them runny and I like them with a stiffer texture, so we compromise; they're not quite either. This time I used nutmeg along with vanilla flavouring when I was making up the filling, so they'll taste just slightly different.

 

Today turned out bright and beautiful, just a touch of wind, and with a high temperature of -5C, milder than it has been of late. Jackie and Jillie have gone through their orange booties, so they're now sporting black ones; not as colourful, but they certainly do the trick of keeping their pads from filling with packed ice and snow.

 

We found the forest trails as readily negotiable as yesterday with the added bonus that a lighter wind prevailed. And the sun beamed beneficently through the forest canopy once we gained the spine of the ravine, shining radiantly through the bare tree branches, illuminating the forest brilliantly. 

 

Arriving back home later, I contemplated the garden, buried deep under the winter snowpack. And wondered how long it would take this year for it to eventually melt and reveal the sleeping garden. And what the spring result will inevitably be when the sun warms the soil as the frost creeps out of it and wakens the bulbs awaiting the opportunity to strut their stuff...