Izzy Bird, winter's faint melancholy
some shameless self-promotion, part x in a series

Izzy Bird, November, maybe?

Isabella is still in the cabin in Estes Park. Much like us right now, time is doing weird things.

“We have lost count of time, and can only agree on the fact that the date is somewhere near the end of November. Our life has settled down into serenity, and our singular and enforced partnership is very pleasant. We might be three men living together, but for the unvarying courtesy and consideration which they show to me.”

Keeping the house functional is work that never stops. And, despite the addition of the elk, the three are still hungry.

“The men are so easy to live with; they never fuss, or grumble, or sigh, or make trouble of anything. It would amuse you to come into our wretched little kitchen before our disgracefully late breakfast, and find Mr Kavan busy at the stove frying venison, myself washing the supper dishes, and Mr Buchan drying them, or both the men busy at the stove while I sweep the floor.”

On Saturday, the men shot a deer but for reasons that are unclear, left it in the place until the next day. When they got there, they found nothing but the hind legs.* They followed some tracks that they thought would lead them to something else they could shoot and eat, but, instead, “came quite carelessly upon a large mountain lion, which, however, took itself out of their reach before they were sufficiently recovered from their surprise to fire at it.

“These lions, which are really a species of puma, are bloodthirsty as well as cowardly. Lately, one got into a sheepfold in the canyon … and killed 30 sheep, sucking the blood from their throats.”

Tomorrow: a guest arrives.

 

* Honestly? I’m not a hunter and this seems unwise even to me.

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