Theo and Woody the Woodpecker

 We decide on a whim to visit the Peace Valley Park in Pennsylvania and join a weekly guided morning walk that takes us over a bridge, beside a lake and along a trail. You feel as if you're being absorbed into nature. 

Our guide is Kelly, a naturalist. I confide in Theo as we're walking along that I feel as if I'm deaf and blind to the nature that surrounds us. I see it, but I can't really see it. Kelly points to some of the earliest buds that have arrived with spring--lovely pink flowers--that sit on a nearby branch. I would have walked by and missed them.

Kelly points to the tiniest flowers, native flowers, on the ground along the trail that I would have passed by and never noticed. She talks about them--their name, the fact that these perennials bloom around this time every April. 

Mallard ducks swim by us in Galena Lake. We stop, and I have to squint to see them at all. To notice them. They are swimming in the distance. Two or three of them. I hear nothing. I imagine the water is lapping around them as they glide through. 

Way out into the lake, we see what first appear to be only rocks jutting out from the water. And then, with Kelly's guidance, we see turtles sunbathing on the rocks. 

We spot a sun bathing turtle closer by:

 

All the things we don't notice. All the things we don't know. For example, Kelly refers to David Attenborough's (a world famous biologist and natural historian) discovery that in nature plants and insects use different kinds of signals to communicate with each other: chemical signals, electrical signals and even vibrations. For example, a flower will let a bee know whether it has any pollen or nectar available or if the bee should fly by and try another flower. I never knew the flower was telling the bee anything. I assumed it was a hit or miss situation. 

The group moves slowly along. Kelly stops so we can look around us and feel the peace that emanates from the trees. We've been carrying Theo with us, but now he's itching to get down and explore so we let the group of hikers move ahead of us as we deliberately lag behind. 

We are following a trail and give Theo strict instructions to stay on the trail. Do not wander off. As we're explaining to Theo why it's important to respect the forest around us (ie. don't trample on the flowers and plants), sawdust or pieces of bark begin to float down from a nearby tree. 

We look up. I see nothing, but Kelly has doubled back and easily explains that we are witnessing a woodpecker building his home, meticulously widening the hole that he will live in. The floating things in the air are a kind of tree shavings.

As I'm wondering to myself--gosh, is he there--Woody the Woodpecker, Theo leaps from the ground and latches onto the very tree that Woody has claimed as his own. I am astonished that Theo, listening to the conversation, has no trouble spotting the Woodpecker, no trouble deciding that he wants to climb that tree.

"Wait," I cry out.

Theo reaches out his front right paw, eager to hitch his way up. His gaze is laser focused on the top branches. I wonder if Theo can sniff Woody from where he is. With lightning speed Theo advances up the tree--one feet up, two feet up. He pauses.

"Theo, what are you doing?"

Theo doesn't answer. He never answers. Cats have this way of becoming insulated in their world. Once they make a decision, come hell or high water, they are going to follow through.

I used to watch Chuckie do the same thing. He'd be lounging around outside, spot a squirrel, and no matter what happened next . . . if I lunged towards him, called out his name to stop, it was as if he couldn't hear me. 

I pray for a miracle. I have several fears. Theo will engage in a territorial fight with Woody. Or he will climb up, change his mind, and be stuck up there. 

Suddenly, more tree chips float down, seemingly aimed directly at Theo's face. I can't believe what I see--Theo stops and uses his right paw to swipe at his face, his eyes. He blinks several times. Woody has amazingly good aim.

"Theo," I whisper.

He begins his slow descent down the tree--half climbing, half sliding. His front paws hold him in place as he allows himself to slip down. Then he jumps. 

It's at moments like these that I am torn--should I hug him or kill him?

"Theo." I am disappointed in his behavior. But feeling sorry that he's struggling to clean the sawdust out of his eye.

"I only wanted to sniff him, mom." 

Am I being played by a gangster?