Operation: Make a Butterfly

Sweet Mother of Pearl. What is that? That's my happy solution in the trying-to-grow-a -butterfly saga. Last Saturday, snow was on the Texas weather menu and caterpillars don't do well in possible freezing temps. I couldn't bring it in and I was fresh out of teeny-tiny parkas. Duct tape and a faucet cover sufficed nicely. And the elevation in property value...priceless.

I discovered Jay or Jaynette on Friday, April 6th. The little orange and black striped 'cat' was rippling along the siding. I thought- aw, wouldn't it be neat if it were about to make a chrysalis. Bingo.

About an hour later I found it in the "J" position, hence the original name. Apparently, this is butterfly lingo in the Entomologist world. The best I can tell from fuzzy pics on butterfly sites, is that it is some type of Fritillary.

Butterflies are treasures at my house. I love to watch them dance through my property bringing Spring on their wings. Last year, I had a Monarch hatch from my porch railing and I let the Milkweed re-seed itself.

I'll keep posting updated pics as he/she develops. Hopefully, I will be on hand for the unveiling.

This is just an hour after noticing it wandering about.

This was on Wednesday the 11th.

Feathers Were Flying: A Tale of Almost Tragedy

Oil and Vinegar. Shake them together and they combine to make a fab salad dressing. I can say, with surety, that you don't get the same results when shaking together a kitty and a hummingbird.

Yesterday dawned bright, albeit, very chilly. About mid-morning, while I was about my weekend chores, I bopped down the hall into the kitchen. Finch, my striped kitty, was hovering over something on the throw-rug (sometimes throwed-up on rug). This is usually where he and his sissie, Enoki, come to spit out their awesome buggy prey so that I might 'ooh and aah' repeatedly. I also murmur silly statements to them, alluding to the greatness of their hunting abilities.

I started to say- "Oh, Finchers, what a good kittles. Such a mighty hunter". Huh?! It's newly Spring. Nothing in the Bugworld has had a chance to grow that large...NOOOOOOOOO. Finch has a hummingbird. I begin to scream hysterically, as I am seeing one of my favorite things in the process of eating another one of my favorite things.

Of course, wrong. Wrong to scream. Finch streaks down the hall, with bird in mouth, and disappears under the bed like a rabbit down a hole. I hit the floor next to the bed, still doing my best impression of Linda Blair. He spits out, what I think is, the poor little carcass. I gather it gently in my hands, all the while weeping and wailing- "I'm sorry birdie, Oh, poor little girl"- over and over again. I'm, now, sobbing in meltdown mode.(don't ya love being pre-menopausal?)

I start to inspect the catspit soaked little body. Astonishingly, she flies out of my hand and begins to orbit, wildly, about the room. I get all the Furkids out of the bedroom, closed the door and shut off all light sources. She finally landed on the wall vent. I gingerly plucked her- oh, such a rapid tiny heartbeat. But it was beating. I held her for a few seconds, hoping to see if she was leaving any blood trailing on my fingers. Amazingly, there was none! I went outside and opened my hand. The little girl whirred, strongly, off into the sky. I thought I would never see her again, as she would probably go off and die. A casualty of 'kitties doing what kitties are wired to do'.

Well, I am happy- ecstatic- to show you a picture taken just three hours later. Daniella, named after the Biblical Daniel, was sitting fluffing in 'her' tree. I know it's her because of the white markings on her wings. Apparently, she had landed on the patio string-lights, near where Finch was napping. She didn't see him until it was too late. I found feathers and scratch marks where Finch got at her after knocking her off the wire. I also know that she doesn't come near the patio anymore, and Finch can't get to the tree. She's there, right now, trying to plump up against the 40º (Spring!!) temperature. But about the temperature- that's another story, entirely.

Daniella: "The Survivor"

Finch: "The Lion"

Fluttered By

This bush was all aflutter this afternoon. It's the last wildflower left on my land. A very busy hub at Insect International Airport. Honeybees, wasps, several types of butterflies- all were landing and departing with great precision. The air traffic controller was doing a fine job on this sunny day.

Surprise In The Sky

Strange things are happin' here in the country. Large mushroom shapes rising, ethereally, out of the treeline in the early morning glory.

I just wanted a cup of motivating java. But it was jolt of "What the..." that got me moving, instead. Looking out the kitchen window was a bit different from the norm. I hadn't even put on my glasses, and I had no trouble spotting the "what's wrong with this picture?" scenario. I ran (yes, actually) to get my robe, glasses, Birkenstocks, and camera. Thankfully, all in one room. In just the seconds it took to get these items, the balloon had risen high in the crisp, clear Autumn sky. The heating system blasts could be heard going off, adding height at a breath-taking rate. I don't know if they had had trouble and needed to land, or if they launched from the parking lot ½-mile up the road. Either way, it was quite a sight to behold. And off they flew into the wild, bluest-of-blue yonder.

Lions and Tigers and Goats, oh my.

It was a hot, quiet afternoon and I was holed-up inside having just come home from work. The quiet part was changed instantly by a knock on the door. The furkids (still need to introduce them) erupted into their "I'm going to eat you/pet my tummy" canine opera. Still haven't posted that "my dog eats every third salesman, the second one just left" sign on the front door, yet. The salesman stated he was selling great steaks at very reasonable prices. I don't buy meat from the back of trucks in August in Texas, I tell him. He nervously laughs and says "no, we take orders and bring it out to you". I wondered why he was fidgeting and as I followed the glance he made over his shoulder, the reason became apparent. Buddy the goat had followed him from the neighbor's house.

We now, ironically, have unpackaged meat on the hoof chasing a meat salesman. The rather burly manly-man says in a voice that was, by now squeaking, "I don't do goats, make him go away". Buddy, at that precise moment, happily clip-clops up the stairs and onto the porch. He wanted to play with the nice man, like he does with his human 'Daddy' at home. I have watched Buddy and his Dad play and charge each other with lowered heads, without ever once striking each other. However, cheap-steak man knows nothing of this ritual and sees himself about to become goat chow. I grabbed Buddy's horn and let the man make a hurried dash for his truck. I, evilly (who ME), let go of said goat horn. Did you know that a goat can outrun a salesman; even if the salesman is given a headstart?

The man would have made a promising football player (or ballerina)- the moves he made were executed with style and grace. Both arms stretched out fully in front, with fingers widely splayed trying to fend off the wildly bouncing demon goat. All the while, his cute butt (hey, it was) was stuck fully out the opposite way. To his credit, no girlie-scream was ever emitted while he did the goat dance- the only sound heard was me snorting the held back laughter. He dived into the passenger side of the truck, slammed the door and thereby, saved his own meat so to speak. I escorted Buddy safely home, all the while chuckling and murmuring thanks to him for the delightful respite he provided on a hot August day in Texas.