Looking out my backdoor: Looking for love in all the wrong places

He’s not feral. I assume the stranger is a him. He’s not a rack of bones. He yowled around beneath my bedroom windows three nights before I glimpsed him in his white coat with yellow patches. Voice like a diesel tractor with defective brakes.

I know why he’s hanging out in the neighborhood. Janet, my next door neighbor, just a few feet over that-away, brought five felines (all fixed) with her when she and Tom moved here from Washington a few months ago to become more-or-less permanent residents. This intruder sniffs the presence of these fur-lined new-comers, tucked into their beds asleep like good little kitties.

Now and then, when I open my door, I catch a glimpse as this hair-ball spitting, night-prowling, sleep-robber streaks from my yard, shooshes around the corner into Janet’s yard. Looking for love or looking for a brawl?

Blame sleep deprivation and a stray cat on my devolvement into fantasy. That and meddling friends.

When Crin and Kathy in Victoria, on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, heard about my trip to Durango via imagination with stationary bike, they jumped on the idea and invited me to a brown-bag lunch with appropriate social distancing in Crin’s backyard at her big Victorian house in the city.

Together we set the day and the time. Since neither friend wanted to cook, we chose drive-through take-out. I placed my order: hamburger with mustard, fries with ketchup and a vanilla malt, double thick.

I rigged my bike, named Rocinante, with a huge umbrella, purple with red gecko print, against the elements, took off in plenty of time, which is to say no time.

One nice thing about a virtual road trip is one may eliminate traffic, pit stops, diesel fumes, road construction, up-hills, down-hills stray cattle and border crossings.

As I mounted Rocinante and pedaled along my chosen route I felt like Champion from “The Triplets of Belleville,” a must-see film if you haven’t yet. From time to time I checked in to let my friends know my progress.

When I attached water wings for crossing the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I let them know it was almost time to go pick up the greasy food.

Crin warned me that men with jackhammers were tearing up one side of her street so be careful of potholes.

When I left the water and wheeled through the park on the island, pedaling down the street to Crin’s house, Kathy said, “I can hear you singing at the top of your lungs and that is strange because I know you don’t sing.” “I’m wearing my mask,” I replied. “Even I can sing behind a mask.”

We had a fun visit, munching and slurping and talking over and around one another, agreed that our next visit MUST be in real time.

I pushed “delete” and found myself home, examining my bucket garden. Much as I’d like to blame the yowling, howling feline and lack of sleep, in honesty, the fault is all mine — I forgot to mark my buckets. So I have to wait for plants to appear, to mature to a height I can identify.

One is undoubtedly, undeniably squash, but how did the bean seed get into the squash bucket. I planted beans with corn in flower pots on the other side of the patio. Three emerging green stuffs look similar, perhaps parsnips and turnips and a mystery. Is that Swiss chard? This one is either beets or weeds. Others yet to be identified.

And I report my first failures. Potato and sweet potato, rotted in their respective graves. I got tired of waiting so dug my fingers into the dirt.

Ick.

Despite yawns of a size to lock my jaws, I hope to sleep through and or despite, the cat-erwauling.

If only he were bilingual, I could explain to him that he is at the wrong address, the cat-house next door is full, no room at the inn, please go home and let me sleep.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].