The Buzzinator

Now that the Buzzcat has settled happily (so far, anyway — I’ve learned that happiness is a fleeting thing with him) outside during the day, he’s established a routine. Mostly I don’t know what it is, but for part of each day he stations himself out by the garden. He sits in the tall grasses, looking like a completely non-interested cat statue, until suddenly he pounces on an unsuspecting vole and wham, the nearly sightless little creature is no more.

This is all bad news for the vole but a richly mixed blessing for us.

Voles share in the garden bounty in a big way. They are especially fond of potatoes but are perfectly happy munching on any other garden yummie before the spuds appear. We are pleased that nature in the form of Buzz is keeping the vole population down.

But as the Buzzer parades the sad results of his prowess before the working farmers, or leaves a dispatched vole on the kitchen porch for guests and sisters alike to admire, I’m tallying the likelihood of roundworm revenge in his gut. With each kill the chance for an infection rises.

I am not eager to restage the discover-the-roundworms-pill-the-cat drama that seems inevitable.

And we might as well plant a neon sign that flashes “Ticks welcome here” over Buzz’s head. Several hours of sitting quietly in tall grass is an invitation no tick worth its Lyme Disease would dream of passing up.

This kind of thinking drags me further into the I-hate-outdoor-cats mire. As Buzz roams the property, a possible brush with poison ivy becomes more certain. And where does he insist on sleeping? (The locking out thing didn’t work, by the way. The let-me-in-screech works perfectly well at my door.)

The idea of human control over nature is a huge joke. We keep forgetting the punchline, though, so we appear doomed to tell it to ourselves over and over.

I know I don’t/can’t control the Bob-cat, or vole consumption, or ticks or poison ivy. Life will chug along merrily, no matter how much I try to engineer one outcome or another.

But something inside me just keeps driving down that road. The tree in Eden must have had a sign posted beside it: “Eat here — take control of the Universe!” We’ve been munching ever since, in spite of the poor results.

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