Fealty Part Two: Phil the Pheasant

 Phil is—quite literally—the cock of the walk. Or block, if we had one. He struts and strums and flaps around the neighborhood, minding all the business. When the neighbor was unceremoniously returning a couple of this season’s renegade hens to the coop Phil came rushing up to voice his displeasure. In some ways, he functions as a free-range rooster for his penned harem.

Sir Phil, shaking off after His Royal dirt bath

Having spent three summers in the near proximity of peasants, Phil has grown accustomed to our ways. The lawnmower is something to be tolerated, not feared. The dogs of the neighborhood mostly ignore him and I worried that he might not be situationally aware of the hazard visiting dogs bring.

Millie, hugging Devin

When I was dog-sitting my grand-dog Millie—a beautiful golden retriever—she found Phil’s presence in my yard intrusive and flushed him and his fancy tail feathers to the nearest tree. Fortunately for Phil, Millie is a lover, not a fighter. My hope is he learned something from their encounter, but I worry.

Phil is very pretty. When the sunlight illuminates his breast feathers they glow an iridescent copper. He has an interesting pattern of dotted and striped feathers, and a bright red head. He’s also very “pretty.” He gets confounded by new experiences. For example: Phil loves corn on the cob. Last year when dining al fresco, I tossed my corn cobs out to the edge of the lawn where Phil was keeping watch. He enjoyed them so much that I started giving him his own ear to enjoy. Last week I found fresh corn on sale, four ears for a dollar. They were heavily picked over, with only a couple of sorry, naked ears is the bin. Perfect for Phil, I thought and tossed them in my cart.

I soon discover though, that when tossing a fresh ear of corn to Phil I had to make sure that the new ear landed between him and the old cob—otherwise he’d run straight to the old cob, discover it was picked clean and give me a look of total disdain and a scolding wing-flap.  Apparently, it’s not nice to “fool” Sir Phil. There is a particular standard of service he’s become accustomed to and nothing less will do. 

I shall endeavor to perfect my aim, Good Sir.

Fealty

This is Phil.

 

Phil is what my dad Willis once would have referred to as “Chiney Pheasant” –I assume he meant it as short for “Chinese Pheasant.”  I have no idea what type of pheasant Phil is—I’d call him a Shiny Pheasant because he’s very beautiful—and feel vaguely uncomfortable calling him anything other than "Phil". Or Phil the Pheasant. Or My Good Sir, because Phil has the air of one accustomed to Finer Things.

Phil showed up one spring about three years ago, slipping in and out of my hedge row like a spy on a mission. My neighbors and I compared notes, probably assuring ourselves that we *had* actually seen what we’d thought we had seen. Over that first summer we had other random sightings of him, but by September he was gone.

The following spring, Phil showed up outside the neighbor’s hen house and laid claim to the handful of renegade hens that had—quite literally—flown the coop. Hope may spring eternal but such star-crossed love was not meant to be. One by one, the renegade hens were reduced to sorry collection of feathers.

Phil, however, was made of sterner stuff. He not only survived the Things That Go Bump in the Night, but kept up his wistful vigil on the other side of the chicken wire. Perhaps his broken heart did make him more susceptible, late that second summer Phil went missing for a few days and when he returned, one of my neighbors reported that Phil looked as though he might have tangled with an inept predator. (Pretty sure Abby Cat wasn’t to blame so you can stop thinking that. She also wishes to inform you that she is anything but inept.)

Once again, when fall arrived Phil disappeared. I was worried that he wouldn’t survive the winter, but spring brought him back coop-side, fatter and sassier than ever. Having proven himself to be a character in his own right, he deserved a name.
I dubbed him Phil. It fits.

 

Your Other Left

I am--- somewhat--directionally challenged. When I am traveling somewhere I’ve never been before, I prefer that driving directions not be given with North/South/East/West.  “Turn east on 286th Street SW” gives me a headache. Could you please just say turn left? How hard is that?

To be clear, I’m very comfortable when the directions advise “Head East on US Highway 12” or “Take I-5 North,” but for block by block instructions I’m going to need to hear left/right. 

Sometimes, I’ll need my co-pilot/navigator to say “Turn Right. No, your OTHER Right,” because I was raised by a left-handed mother and even though I am not left-handed—I do a lot of things as left hand dominate. (My story. Sticking to it.)

I come by this handicap/superpower honestly. Both of my parents were unable to agree on how directions work. My mom was raised on the wheat plains of Kansas, where directions where always straight forward. Like literally straight forward. In Kansas, you could see where you were headed, even if it was two counties over.

My dad, on the other hand, was born and raised in the Big Bottom Valley. His people were from “the hills and hollers” of West Virginia and must have felt very at home when they reached this end of Lewis County, with all it’s secretive nooks and crannies. Some of my dad’s people still refer to places like “Notellum Crick,” or “That Mountain Where Junior Got Chased by That Cougar,” and expect that you will know where they are referring to without their having to use the geographically given name.

So, from my mother I have inherited my left hand as my “right/correct hand.” And from my father I have inherited my inability to give directions with out some sort of story attached. As you can imagine, this makes car trips with me “highly entertaining.” 

No worries though. I subscribe to the Columbus Theory of Navigation, which is to say that the world is round-- and even if you miss your turn, you just keep going. Sooner or later, you’ll get there. 

Probably.

Either way, you’ll have an adventure.

It's always a good day when you can quote
The Princess Bride

 

Someone Has to Say It

It might as well be me...

So-- is it hot enough for you?

So glad we got that out of the way. Because, yes, it IS hot enough for me—too hot. Anything over 100 and I wilt. And whine. And lay around with a cold washcloth across my forehead.

How hot was it? I don’t mean temperature wise—I mean in things observed. Did you fry any eggs on any sidewalks? Melt any shoes to the pavement? 

Some observations I made this week:

It was so hot the leaves on my alder tree curdled.

It was so hot some of my more delicate plants had to live under umbrellas. 

It was so hot my AC struggled to keep up; don’t even get me started on my poor, over-worked ice maker. 

 

Yes. Flip Flops.
Because that's how I roll.

Over the weekend—in an effort to stay cool-- we drove over Skate Creek to Mt Rainier. 20 miles out of Packwood saw a 20 degree drop in temperature—and it was still 80 degrees! The Nisqually River was rocking and rolling; not only was the water glacier-melt Gray—it was glacier-melt Taupe, on its way to glacier-melt Chocolate Milk. On a side note, I really think I missed my calling as a person who names paint colors.

Nisqually River Taupe
Picture courtesy of Mt Rainier National Park

The Pacific Northwest is not accustomed to 100* plus heat. I hope you all are finding ways to survive the heat. Sooner or later, Arizona will realize their weather is missing and come get it. In the interim, STAY HYDRATED.