A couple of years ago, I was knee deep in a conversation I didn’t want to have. My granddaughter was trying to talk me into to saying yes to something I never intended to allow. There was an element of danger involved, like all the things she wants to do. I was trying but failing to make a point, to explain without explaining how the world is full of ugly acting people who mean you harm. Of course, I think you’re capable of walking miles upon miles to a grocery store to purchase chocolate. It’s not about your abilities. It’s about all the other people and the nefarious things they’re capable of doing to you. My daughter-in-law stepped in to help me. “You remember what I told you about tricky people, right? Do we like tricky people? No, we don’t. Anytime we feel like someone is trying to be tricky, what do we do? Yes, we run and yell and scream and kick and bite.” It’s a heartbreaking lesson to teach a child, certainly not what I want to chat about today. It reminded me, this scene, how there are many things in life that seem one way when they’re really the polar opposite. Darn those tricky things.
When I was a kid, most people I knew who lived in the country didn’t have fancy flowerbeds. We just kept our weeds mowed at the same height and called it a day. It’s no wonder I was a sucker for picking wildflowers. My favorites were the buttercups. That’s what we called them, anyway. My plant identifier app says they’re Evening Primrose. With delicate white petals framed in Pepto-Bismol pink, they are beautiful little flowers that dot the pastures of Texas. Patches of them grew behind my father’s commercial building in downtown Seagoville, along the ditch next to Wade’s Dry Cleaners. I would come home nearly every spring or summer evening with a yellow nose stained by their pollen centers. Back at the house, I would wander our acreage looking for anything that had produced a flower, quick to add it to my bouquet before daddy’s tractor took them to that great flower shop in the sky.
One minute, I was creating nosegay history. Weeds with purple blooms, add those. Dandelions, add those. Wait – is that baby’s breath? Must add…OUCH! Later, as my mom soaked me in a bath full of Epsom salts, I learned what a run in with a Bull Nettle felt like. It didn’t seem fair that dainty little flowers and fuzzy, pale green leaves (that look a lot like Dusty Miller to a kid) could cause welts that sting for hours. That’s when I learned that nature is tricky. We are major animal lovers over here in this neck of the woods. Cats are our favorites. My specialty is feral reconditioning. I made that term up. I’m just good at working with the feral kittens until they melt like butter in my lap. Once I thought older ferals couldn’t be domesticated, but I’m in the process of conducting experiments that seem to be producing contradictory results. That’s my fancy way of tell-ing you we have a 5th cat now. BonBon is a year old and living inside with us, even though she was never touched by a person until recently. It’s a slow go, but it is going, nonetheless. She can be touched. She does purr. Still, this hobby of mine is not without some major cons.
Cats carry a bacteria in their mouths called Pasteurella multocida. They also carry bartonella henselae (cat scratch fever, yo), and toxoplasma gondii. These don’t cause a single problem to a cat owner, provided you aren’t bitten. One-third of all cat bites end in surgery, especially the Pasteurella multocida variety. That bacteria easily slides on into your blood system and becomes septic if left untreated. Feral kittens are about the most adorable little things you’re ever seen with the floofy floof hairs and the saucer eyes and the cotton candy pink tongues. Once, I surrendered two kittens to our city shelter. I had rehabilitated them but was unsuccessful in finding homes before leaving for a big trip. They were adopted the same day I took them to the shelter. But, as I was signing my life away, a shelter employee said, “They haven’t scratched or bitten you, right?” “Oh, no, of course not,” I said, sliding my ravaged hand across the paper to sign my name. They were just kitten scratches from playtime. Still, anytime I feel my heart race while gazing at a tiny feral kitten, I wonder if my number is up. Will I get bitten this time? Darn those little furry tricksters.
Saltwater taffy is tricky. How dare it taste so bland. Sunshine is tricky. What feels so good on the skin burns so badly. Ocean water is tricky, so calming to the soul yet stinging to the eyes. Kiwi is tricky, it’s elephant skin giving way to a skittles-like candy interior. Perhaps love is the trickiest of all. What elevates your heart to sing can also break it in half. Still, better to be tricked than to never feel at all. But tricky people? Ain’t nobody got time for that.
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