Apologies to Better Poets

Picture, if you will, an early morning in September—so early, in fact, that the sun has the good sense to still be in bed. I am sleeping, and while it’s not visions of sugar plums dancing in my head, I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming of something pleasant—artisanal lemon curd perhaps-- when suddenly there comes a zapping, then the sound of some elk yapping, yapping as the fence is zapping, zapping her on her greedy nose.

I stir. I smile. I roll back over to sleep.

What is this, a fairy tale? Of course, I can’t go back to sleep! I get up and turn on the backyard floodlights and squint out into the gloom. As best as my sleep-smeared, wondering eyes can see, the fence seems to be intact. Just in case it isn’t, Abby the Crabby Tabby, AKA Stone Cold Killer, brushes past me, out into the pre-dawn hours to patrol. I’m pretty sure Abby is convinced that someday, given the right conditions, she will catch an elk. Size doesn’t matter much to Abby, she once left a dead grouse on my doorstep—as a present, I presume, not a threat. At least I hope so. Mulling that over, I return to bed.

Not to sleep, because of course now I’m worried about both the state of my fence and the safety of my ridiculous cat. I rise, make tea and wait for the sun to drag its lazy self above the skyline so I can go out and inspect my fence line.

Two cups in and dawn arrives “as slender as a bridge*.” I take my tea and wander out on the deck to survey my kingdom-- in time to discover a small herd of elk just outside my partially downed fence. The first wave of the attack has stripped the upper strand from its insulators along a 20-foot length of fence and the elk are just outside the fallen boundary, looking for all the world as though the second wave is going to be less a Charge of the Light Brigade and more of a “Hey, Mikey!” attack— “I’m not going to touch it, you touch it...Let’s get Mikey.”

Fortunately for me, Mikey is a bit reluctant and I have enough time to mount a counter defense. There is--and I say this with pride—no creative use of language. No swearing, no shoe throwing, and property values remained stable; two cups of tea have given me ample time to assemble a suitable ensemble. Acceptably attired—well, except for the snow boots. Don’t judge me-- I politely invite the elk to vacate my property, restring my fence—after remembering to first unplug it from the power source—and feed the cats breakfast.

Six hours later it occurs to me that I haven’t plugged the electric fence back in.