Pattern Interrupted
“Immerse yourself in nature unplugged,” our hostess said.
Perfect. We obediently brought books, bikes, and a boat to as she said, “kick it old school.”
No work. No pups. No chores.
No one to welcome us home.
Pattern interrupted.
Being greeted by our Boone and Lucy is rote. Safe and expected. They float in our Coddington orbit. No matter who is there, they always are.
And they expect us too. Intuitively, a spry, alert Boone knows exactly when nose-to-fence to greet my car. While old lady lumpy Lucy chooses her more convenient post near the front door. She is no spring chicken. She knows it’s fewer steps to unconditional love.
Sometimes, it is their mere presence that’s a win for me. The voiceless and simple unabashed work of being a pet. Warmth curled at my feet. The reward is infinite.
The companionship is medicinal. Therapeutic. They bring multifaceted talent — a sounding block, clean-up crew, exercise buddy, shoulder to cry on, buffer, protector, dance partner, movie mate. For some like my Molly, it is a furry beast to snuggle. While I love a good cuddle, I also like simply knowing. The jingle of a collar, the clockwork bark at William the mailman, or a splashy lap lap lap of a good sip of water.
Our pups are a precious predictability.
I miss them.
Our refuge this week may be lacking in labs, but it is prolific in its own wild kingdom. Just beyond our dock, Harold the great heron perches. His stately stature is steady as he too fishes for dinner. I was initially shocked by the abrupt prehistoric peal erupting from his great beak, a sound so misaligned with his majestic beauty. But I’ve come to expect it. I know what comes next as he takes flight and his massive wingspan swoosh swoosh swooshes past us.
George the catfish, I know you are down there you bottom dweller, and your uniqueness is not lost on me. I’m not sure I understand you, your thick whiskers or wide mouth, but in your own way, you are heavenly handsome. We’d love to invite you for dinner
.
And then there’s Carmie.
When we first met, he scared the living shit out of me.
Had I not yelped, he might not have even known I was there — it was his underside that greeted us.
Get rid of him, I insisted. I might have said kill. It was my first instinct.
An oft incorrect first instinct. I dramatically released words like poisonous, brown, recluse, die, hate — terms I pretended to believe. Assumptions to which I jumped. I was wrong.
Wes knew better. Give him a chance. He is not harmful. He is a good spider.
That was four days ago. I have slowly learned to appreciate his craft, his purpose. And now I can’t imagine our little lake adventure without him. I’ve grown to expect him, his beauty, and his silken magical zig zaggedy wonder.
He’s become a friend. Our pet. Our protector. Our fascinating web architect.
Carmie.
It is us who entered his orb. Not the other way around. His position rarely changes, though I know he travels about. In fact this morning we fed him the cane cricket (aka jumping spider who I think should be named Ichabod Cane) who glared at me from the bathroom sink. Wes came to my rescue and tossed the villain into Carmie’s lair, interrupting his patterned web, if only for a short while.
(“Much obliged,” I imagine Carmie quietly thought to himself as we later walked by.)
Magic ensued as we marveled. He deftly descended to fetch the naughty spotted Ichabod. With one fell swoop, Carmie hoisted him back to home base, ground zero, the bullseye, his workshop, wrapping and spinning. Repairing his orb from the impact. We wait. And watch. In wonder. The cricket converts to days’ worth of dinner for our arachnid avenger.
It has been pure entertainment. Unexpected beauty.
Sorry, Ichabod. But you know, food chain and all….
What would I do if I had eight thin long exquisite crafty legs?
I think I’d clean and organize and rearrange my home, do my job more efficiently (“many hands”…. surely this applies to all limbs), maybe run four marathons, write some beautiful stuff, shop for food, protect my lovelies, make us dinner. And just be my beautiful self hanging out in my quiet web.
Carmie sets before me a good example.
“No WiFi” our hostess proudly stated.
No need. This has been just what the doctor ordered.
Pattern interrupted.