The other day my husband and I were mesmerized as we watched the cat eyeing a baby rabbit munching on some grass blades. The cat slinked and slithered on its belly, dragging one long bony leg at a time across the lawn toward its prey, stopping whenever the little bunny would turn one eye its way. The game continued for several tense minutes, my heart palpitating and the cat salivating at the mere thought of coming in for the kill. And then – action slowdown – the cat, lying in wait, appeared to have entirely forgotten why it was there and actually started to doze. Needless to say, bunny got away. Catnap anyone?
So while my back porch flowers are thriving under the lazy, watchful eye of my tabby (who has lately made its home in a child’s stroller left there by some visitors), my bucket of magnificently blooming petunias on our front stoop has been set upon, literally, by a rabbit. With blatant chutzpah, it munched down to bare stems – and before I became wise to its sneaky and ravenous ways, the frisky mammal had already devoured a potful of blossoming zinnias. Hmm…maybe we can get the cat to curl up next to Peter Cottontail.
Actually, I have thought about transplanting my feline friend from the back to the front premises. I once watched the cat chase a rabbit in a heated race that would have put a champion marathoner to shame. I almost felt sorry for the rabbit. Yet somehow, without the swing, the stroller, and the privacy (which the cat seems to cherish almost as much as we do), I doubt I stand a chance this side of the Ramapo Mountains.
If there is one thing I can count on week in and week out, it is the utter serenity of a Friday night, when Shabbos reaches its apex of holiness – when man, child, cat and bird alike are in dreamland, and woman (finally done with tidying up) lingers to bathe in the light cast by the last of her flickering flames.
As I luxuriate in the tranquil ambiance and contemplate surrendering to the lure of my crisp, cool bed sheets, I perceive on cue the clear-as-a-bell glorious sound of the night bird right outside our window. Dominant in its perch while the rest of the bird population is out for the count, this marvel of a creature pierces the still night air, trilling its little heart out.
Not to attempt to eclipse the artistry of Wordsworth – who memorably wrote, “O nightingale! thou surely art a creature of ebullient heart; These notes of thine, they pierce and pierce, Tumultuous harmony and fierce…” – but the last time I tuned in, it sounded to my ears as though one of God’s wondrous creations was warbling its own rendition of Shir HaShirim.
By now the astute reader has no doubt deduced that despite having to put up with the rabbit that loves my petunias to death, the groundhog that devours the dandelions and weeds (not a bad thing if it didn’t also have a yen for burrowing several feet into our turf), and the cat that goes crazy over my homemade gefilte fish, I wouldn’t trade places with any city dweller. For life hath no joy as being witness to the beauty of nature at its burgeoning best.