Paw Prints from Heaven

“Who’s your buddy?” I asked my husband on Valentine’s Day, 1994.

A young male tabby sat in our driveway, watching Ray chop down an oleander bush that made him break out in a rash every time he brushed against it. The tabby had appeared seemingly out of no where, and yet there was something familiar about him. For that story, read Celebrating Buddy.

On June 18, 2013, at age 22, Buddy had a stroke and took his last breath. Despite his age, his passing caught me by surprise. I wasn’t ready for him to die. There were things we still needed to do together. Like take another nap in the sun. Lie on our backs in the grass while gazing up at the puffy white clouds dotting the summer blue sky. Stroll down the driveway to inspect the frogs that lived in the drain pipe. Those type of things that Buddy enjoyed.

But there was one thing I still needed to do, for me. And I never did it. I kept putting it off because I was caught up in my obsession to finish writing a novel that ultimately got shelved anyway. Caught up in problems that belonged to others because I was asked for help. Caught up in the upside down, sing-song world of Attention Deficit Disorder, which amounts to over-committing and spreading myself too thin.

What did I put off? What did I keep telling myself that there was time…I’d get to it later?

Lover's Lane for Raccoons

Our backyard is now the Official Lover's Lane for raccoons. They are courting and fornicating like rabbits! Never saw that in the seven years they’ve been hanging around our home, so I guess that means our yard is now the number one safe place to raise babies.

The raccoons born last year are now on their own, and show up after dark for their supper. They huddle by my porch door and peek in through the windows, looking for me. Last night Herman was nose to nose with one who was craning his neck to look around his royal floofy-ness to find me. When I stepped outside with a bowl full of kibble, the youngster stood on his back legs and walked toward me with his paws outstretched.

He clearly recalled the cookies I gave him the night before. So after I tossed the kibble onto the lawn, I went back inside for a few more cookies. He was waiting expectantly by the door.

Helen the Blind Baby Raccoon

I love raccoons almost as much as I love cats. For the past seven years my yard has been used by raccoons to raise their families and escape the sometimes dangerous heat of Mid-South summers. I provide a couple kid-size pools, dog food, treats, and in return, they respect my trash bin and drive away poisonous snakes.

My relationship with the raccoons has always been positive. They know me and I know them well enough to name them. Sometimes during the harsh days of summer I will find several of them waiting for me on the porch. When I step outside with a bin of dog kibble, they gather around my feet and "escort" me down the slope to the back of my yard that butts up against a tree-lined creek. There I scatter kibble on the grass and also in the pool for those who enjoy eating and bathing at the same time.

Every year when the mother's bring their babies to my yard, the real show begins. My neighbors on either side invite their friends to watch the tiny brown balls of fluff as they follow their mom's around the yard, eating kibble and other snacks donated by neighbors. Throughout the summer into fall, the babies learn to trust me, and by early winter, when they are old enough to be on their own, they continue to return, as taught by their mothers. And, as Mother Nature intends, they soon bring their babies to my yard...and the cycle continues.

The most memorable raccoon of them all is a baby I named Helen. I discovered she was both blind and deaf when I approached with food and her siblings ran for the woods, and she did not. I could slide food right under her nose, and she had no idea I was there. Her nose was in perfect working order, however. She loved peanut butter sandwiches.

Often I saw her sitting by the kiddie pool, where the critters got their water, eating kibble…alone. The size of a basketball, she would have been easy pickings for a dog or whatever to kill her. When I spied a stray yellow lab eating kibble by the pool, I knew time was running out. I had to do something.

Operation Winter Cat Shelter - Part Two

 

Jesse demonstrates tub house

Providing shelter for my formerly stray outdoor cats is a priority for me. As I mentioned in Part One, I put aside items throughout the year that I think will come in handy for the shelters. I make two sets: one inside my fenced yard where Chauncie Marie lives, and the other overlooking the open yard where a larger fur family of 5 resides. Let me preface the following by saying up front: It ain't pretty, but it does the job.

We begin by framing the back patio with extra large construction tarps, ceiling to floor. The north winds are strong, and create a whole lotta misery for me and the cats when they tear down tarp walls in the middle of the night. We now buy the kind with grommets and both tie and nail them into place. We also anchor the bottom with cider blocks, also tied into place.

Operation Winter Cat Shelter - Part One

It's never too early to set up winter housing for your outside pets.

This time of year is crazy, weather-wise. November in the Mid-South means sunny skies and temperatures in the high 60s, but it will descend to freezing at night. December, January, February become progressively colder. I find it impossible to enjoy the snuggy warmth of my bed when I know my outside cats are miserable. Therefore, I plan ahead. Items most people throw away, I put aside for my cat shelters. They will never win an award from Architectural Digest, but my kitty camps do the job they're meant to: Protect my outside ex-strays from the elements, and hopefully keep them healthy.

I have two yards. One is fenced, the other is open across the back of our home. The fenced yard is the preferred domain of ex-stray tabby, Chauncie Marie.

She had a feral attitude when she arrived in 2007. In 2012 we had a break-through. Yes, it took 5 years for her to trust me, but now she invites body massages and cuddles. This summer she seemed curious about entering my home, so I let her in to see how she would do. Well! She behaved better than some of my indoor brats <pointed glare at those who will remain nameless.> However, Opie doesn't like Chauncie when she's outside and boy, he sure didn't like her any better in his kitchen.

After Opie made it clear she would not be invited to join his indoor gang, Chauncie returned outside. Never fear. I created a cozy kitty camp for her as follows:

Jingle Free Sleep

Last Sunday morning, my dear husband complained that our year-old tabby had kept him awake.

Not because Dori loves to chew our toes and has an impressive bite for such tiny teeth. Rather, he claimed the bell on her collar jingled non-stop throughout the night.

The same bell she's worn since May.

I've been married a long time. I knew better than to suggest the giant chocolate bar he ate an hour before bedtime could have been a contributing factor to his insomnia.

And true -- Dori loves to jingle. She has developed a hippy-hop-jog type-of-walk to make the bell accompany her every step. She doesn't simply walk into a room. She prances. She gallops!

There are times when I must physically search the house to find the whereabouts of my other cats, but never Dori. If I listen, a sweet tinkling tone will tell me she's upstairs in my office or the cat apartment, or maybe in the sun room playing with her toys.

At Ray's request I removed Dori's collar at bedtime. I'm all about keeping the mood in my house relatively calm -- as calm as I can with 6 furry drama queens in residence. Notice I didn't include my giant chocolate bar-eating husband as the 7th.

Again. I've been married a long time.

So now Dori is jingle-free from 10:00 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. Initially she freaked out. She pranced, she whirled, she galloped, she leaped tall cat trees at a single bound -- all without sound.

In clear distress, she ran to me as if to ask whether something was wrong with her. I showed her the collar and shook it so she could hear the bell. And then I placed the collar by her breakfast bowl, ready to be slipped over her head in the morning.

But then...

Sometime in the night, long after my dear husband was fast asleep, I heard the sweet soft tinkling tone of a jingle bell being swatted by a tiny paw across the kitchen floor.

The sound continued far into the night.

Click to read Life Should Be All About Ringing Your Bell

Remembering Elizabeth Howe: Accused Salem Witch

Three hundred and twenty one years ago today, July 19, 1692, my ancestor Elizabeth Howe, was accused of witchcraft and hung during the Salem Witch Trials. She was 57 years old at the time, married to a blind man and the mother of six daughters.

The transcripts of the trial have held my interest for most of my life, long before my father and sister became interested in genealogy and discovered our family connection to Elizabeth Howe. When I was in school, the books I read confused me with their liberal use of Puritan phrasing, so I relied heavily on the simple captions beneath the drawings for my information. My initial interest centered on the “fact” that there were real witches who were discovered and sent to hell by hanging. I was a Dark Shadow’s fan at the time, so I was seriously into vampires and witches, and all things paranormal.

My family vacationed in New England around that time and we made Salem, Massachusetts one of our stops. Unfortunately it was during late summer when the town was thick with tourists and storms were plentiful. My dad decided to opt out of exploring the touristy side of Salem, but I have a clear memory of rolling down the car window despite the rain, and staring up at the “witch statue” as we passed the Salem Witch Museum. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered the statue was of Roger Conant, Salem’s founder.

Salem Witch Trial Museum

Through the years my interest in the witch trials shifted from fascination with “real witches” to what horrors those falsely accused went through. The Puritans believed the devil was out to destroy them specifically, and their fight against him was one of individual religious responsibility. But what stood out in my mind was that most of the accusers of these men and women, were my age. Children! Children accusing adults of something horrific enough to end their lives!

A ten-year-old girl from the Perley family was Elizabeth’s main accuser, testifying that she felt pricked as if with pins when she saw Elizabeth, which caused her to have fits. The child’s parents didn’t believe their daughter at first, but records state they took her to “several doctors” all of whom said she had been was invaded by evil. There doesn’t seem to be further reference to what was wrong with the Perley girl, but clearly she was sick because over the next three years she “pined away to skin and bones”, and died.

Five more girls, ages 11, 12, 17, 19 and 21, came forward to support the Perley girl’s accusations against Elizabeth. The twelve year old, Ann Putnam, must have enjoyed the attention tremendously because her name appears over 400 times in the court documents and she is reported to have accused nineteen people of witchcraft, eleven of which she saw hung.

Ann Putnam putting on a show

Elizabeth was arrested on May 28, 1692 charged with “Sundry Acts of Witch-craft.” The warrant reads as follows:

To the Constable of Topsfield Your are in theyre Majestyes Names hereby Required to Apprehend & bring before us Elizabeth Howe the wife of James Howe if Topsfeild Husbandman on Tuesday next being the thirty first day of may about Ten of the Clock forenoone att the house: of Leut Nathaniell Ingersollsof Salem Village, Whoe stande Charged w’th Sundry Acts of Witch-craft done or Committed on the bodyes of Mary Walcott, Abigaill Williams & others of Salem Village, to theyr great hurt, in order to hir examination, Relating to the above s’d premises. & hereof you are nott to fayle. Dat’d. Salem. May. 28th. 1692/ In obedience to this warrant I have appreend [r] ed Elizabeth Howe the wife of Jems how on the 29th of may 1692 and have brought har unto the house of leftenant nathaniell engleson according too to the warrant as attested by me Ephraim Wildes constabell For the town of Topsfelld. Dated May 31st 1692.

Elizabeth was taken from her home to Boston where she was “bound with cords and irons for months, and subjected to insulting, unending examinations while prison officials and the jury assigned to her trial searched her for witch marks.” She was permitted the occasional visit from her daughters and blind husband who brought her “country butter, clean linen and comfort.”

Chaos in the courtroom

When her trial began on May 28th, chaos prevailed in the courtroom with her “afflicted” accusers throwing themselves on the ground with hysterical fits. Witness Samuel Parris wrote:

When Elizabeth Howe was brought in for examination Mercy Lewis and Mary Walcott, two of her main accusers, fell into a fit. She was accused by Mary of pinching and choking her in the month of May. Ann Putnam added her accusations to these by saying she had been hurt three times by Howe. When asked how she pled to the charges made against her, Elizabeth Howe boldly responded, “If it was the last moment I was to live, God knows I am innocent of any thing of this nature”.

Only three witnesses spoke on Elizabeth’s behalf, a minister, a family friend and her father-in-law, but the performance of her accusers far outweighed their voices and she was found guilty.

Public execution was considered the most severe punishment in Puritan Massachusetts, and convicted witches Elizabeth Howe, Rebecca Nurse (her sister-in-law), Sarah Good, Sarah Wildes and Susanna Martin were hanged on July 19, 1692 and buried in a crevice on Gallows Hill.

Photograph taken at the Salem Witch Trials Memorial located next to Old Burying Point Cemetery.

But what happened to the families of these accused witches? In 1709, the daughters of Elizabeth Howe joined a petition requesting their good names be restored, and to be financially compensated for their losses during the trials. In 1711 records show approximately 598 pounds was distributed among 22 survivors.

In today’s market, that would be approximately $913 or roughly $41.50 per person.