We're Going To Need A Bigger Litter Box

*** continued from previous post ***


We spent the rest of the afternoon reading, dozing, and watching the never ending stream of wildlife parade in front of our window and in the wallow down below. Mom was curled in the bay window seat, (told you!), and I was futzing with the computer, stumbling around da netz. For future reference here is a solid piece of advice: Some things on the interwebs can't be unseen.

You'll thank me later.

Sitting there I was struck by how bizarre our world has become. Here I was, for all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere, a moose freeway not 5 yards from my window, yet I was still able to make a call on my cell phone, and with the click of a URL catch up on my LOLcats. (Will that poor walrus EVER find his bucket? I hope so. The theft of his most treasured possession breaks my heart. At least they didn't get his cellular.) I purposely gave a wide birth to any and all news. This was vacation. If the Apocalypse happened while we were away I'm sure someone would fill us in on the details.

I believe I told you before of my 'cuteness' threshold - about 5 minutes on a good day. You know that your Mother, tragically, has no such inhibitor in her brain chemistry. Therefore each new addition to the 'ol waterhole demanded an intense scrutinization and comparison of colorings, head shape, dewlap, height, solidity and speculated political persuasion.
Protip: All moose are rabid liberals. Although the bulls have a natural tendency to be fiscally conservative.

I didn't mind this litany of beastie specifications the first . . . oh, I don't know, seven million times, but I had trouble mustering enthusiasm as the day wore on. Not so for your Mother, who was becoming enamored - nay, smitten I say, smitten! - with all things moosey. I politely reminded her of the devil-moose that had us trapped on the roadway not 24 hours previous, but in a textbook case of 'Stockholm Syndrome' your mom was now a moose apologist, defending the beasts actions as 'natural' - whatever in the Hell that means. I didn't mind. She could give her heart to the Alces Alces while we were at Hidden Valley. The thing that I was afraid of - and you know this was a distinct possibility - was that once I got home I would be required to build a HUGE litterbox, and a garden shed to house the moosechow. Quit laughing. You know I'm right.

So, that's the way the afternoon went. Examining moose as they traipsed hither and yon around the Lodge and the wallow.

"Oh . . . come look! Another baby moose! This one's even smaller than the last, and it has a lighter hue to its coat."

"Adorable," I said, from the bed where I had stretched out with the computer.

Mom put the binoculars down. "You're not even looking."

"I'm sorry sweetie, it’s just that - and don't take this wrong - I've seen close to a dozen of the little guys this morning. Is this one really so different?"

Mom raised the binoculars back to her eyes. "Well, this one has a patch of hair missing from its leg."

I failed to see how this was justification for excitement. "Tell you what, if you see one tap dancing or riding a unicycle let me know."

Mom, for some reason, ignored me. She's been doing that a lot lately. Like the last twenty-five years or so.

"What do they call baby moose?” Mom asked. "Are they calves?"

"I believe," I said, peering over the computer screen, "that it depends on the gender."
"What, like colts or fillies?"

"Something like that, although I believe that female baby moose are called 'Brenda', while the males are known as 'Hank'."

"Hmmm . . . I'm going to buy a book on moose when we get home."


*** the journey continues ***