Day 57

What do the creatures think of this Corona-induced lockdown? I wonder.

We’ve been observing for weeks the activity of stalks, cranes, kingfisher, parrots, finches, and a barn owl, to name a few of our daily visitors. We’ve noticed them, but have they noticed us doing things differently to before?

The rat over the road in the empty house has noticed. He’s celebrating the missed routine visits from Pestkil. He looks like he’s having a field day, busying himself running back and forth across their yard, flaunting his freedom, until a stray cat comes looking for a snack.

Our own domestic creatures have noticed too. Now that we work from home, have leisure-time at home, and sleep at home they have 24/7 companionship. And so it was with surprise, that at 3am last night, A’s FatCat woke me up, mewing at the bedroom door. We don’t ordinarily allow cats into our bedroom. For one, the dog would not approve. Secondly, the cats normally sleep with the teens, who would remain fast asleep if a herd of wildebeest stampeded through their bedrooms, let alone if a cat decides to have a ‘mad minute’. But it seems like the FatCat’s become accustomed to round-the-clock company, so she wants in, and whilst I don’t have the patience for early morning cat antics, I sort of feel sorry for her, so in she comes.

I barely get any sleep last night, due to cat kneading, cat purring, cat checking for comfortable spots on the bed, including my head. Bloody cats.

“She’s ruined my day today” I complain, bleary eyed, this morning.

“So?” Replies D. Good point, I think. It’s not like anyone will notice.

One of our neighbours in the bay tells us he has pet stingrays. As D and I pass his dock, predictably, as we do at the same time every evening during our walk with the reluctant dog, our friendly neighbour will also be predictably perched in the same spot at the end of his dock, feet dangling, leaning towards the water, as if he might fall if he were given the gentlest of pushes. His hands outstretched either side of him, a cold beer in one hand, a bag of defrosted squid pieces in the other. “I’ve named the male Sam, and the female Sheila” he proudly announces this evening, while D and I pause to let the dog catch up, “We’re hoping for stingray babies.”

“Maybe you can charge an entry fee to see the family” says D.

“S’what I’m hopin’” says the neighbour.

As our dog finally catches up with us, two little dogs rush down from their beach house, frantically barking with all the ferocity of a couple of wiener hot dogs. They make a beeline for us, and home in on their targets, until they come to within two feet, then run off in the other direction, terrified. Our dog looks at them, with an expression on her face, as if to say “really?”

We carry on with our beach walk, and approach a couple of cranes, a white crested male perusing a black female. Perhaps they’re hoping for grey babies, I ponder. 

We count several starfish along the shoreline, red ones, orange ones, some smaller, some fat. we see a Boxfish catch a crab, and fight to devour it. I didn’t know fish ate crabs, I think. How reckless. The crab wields his pincers at his attacker, and breaks free, newly disabled with one arm less.

A flock of birds fly overhead, out to sea, away from a looming black cloud behind them. This place is abundant with wildlife, I think. But they were always here, getting on with their lives, in their fish-eat-crab world. These creatures haven’t noticed anything much has changed. It’s just us that stopped, and took the time to notice.