Years ago, our first dog, Phoebe, had a best friend, and her name was Socks. Socks was a Border Collie belonging to our good friends, Celia and Phil, who, for a time, lived just a couple of miles away from us in Vermont, but now live much too far away, in Cardiff, Wales.

When Phoebe and Socks first met, they were both young dogs (maybe a year old?) and they had boundless energy. In standard doggie fashion, whatever one did, the other had to do, too.

I’m sure Socks has had many adventures in her life, but the one that touched us directly is the time she and her family came for New Year’s Eve, probably 12 years ago. Typically, it was one of the coldest nights of the year, but we braved the below-zero temperatures to go outside and light off a few traditional fireworks. Poor Socks was terrified of their booming and crackling, and she bolted somewhere into the night woods.

We searched for her until at least 2 am. Then Socks’ family went home and we all had a fitful night of worry.

We woke up the next morning, feeling sad. What a way to start the new year. We checked in with Celia and Phil throughout the morning, searched the woods near our house, drove up and down the road, called her name. No sign of her.

Sometime in the mid-afternoon, as we moped in front of the wood stove, feeling lonely for Socks and feeling terrible that we’d had anything to do with her disappearance, we heard two forepaws hit the back door. And then we saw her smiling face in the window. We shouted, threw open the door to let her in, and ran for the phone. She had spent the night in 20-degree-below-zero temperatures, and she seemed fine. We assume she’d dug herself a little pit in the snow, curled herself around her nose, and napped the night away, happy to be away from those awful fireworks.

When Celia and Phil decided to move back to the UK, they knew they couldn’t leave Socks in the states, so they made the difficult decision to ship her across the ocean and put her in the required six-month quarantine.

It was a good thing they did, because that gave them a bonus 10 years with Socks. Years during which Socks welcomed two more gorgeous little girls to the family, as well as bunnies, Maddie the dog, and probably several other furry friends. Years of walks in the park across the street, and lolling sunny days in the back garden. Years of cuddles with her growing family.

I last saw Socks a couple of years ago, when I went to London and made a two-day excursion to Cardiff for a visit. She seemed aged then, but she was still moving around pretty well. We had already lost Phoebe by then, so it was bittersweet to see Socks still up and around, but certainly more sweet than bitter. I took this picture on that visit.

Today, Celia wrote to say that Socks had died this morning, peacefully, in the garden behind the house. She lived a good, long life, with a family who truly loved her. She had about the happiest of dog lives you can imagine. And we miss her.

And I’ll be waiting for the sound of those paws hitting the door.

I had a strange day the other day. It was my birthday, but that’s not what made it strange. At last I don’t think so.

I came out of the house around 11 am and found two chickadees on the driveway beside my car. One was clearly dead. The other was possibly injured. As I slowly approached and wondered what in the wide world could have happened to these two on a clear, sunny day on my driveway, the dog bounded ahead to investigate. He nosed the closer (obviously dead) one first, then moved a couple feet away to the other one. The live chickadee withstood the snuffling for a few seconds, then flew off into the woods bordering our driveway. He (she?) didn’t look injured to me.

All I can guess is that the two were flying together and one (or both?) struck the side of my car and one died and one was stunned. Or, one struck the car and died and its partner flew down to the gravel near it and wondered what to do.

I have no idea what happened, but it made me sad and thoughtful. I put gloves on, picked up the dead bird, and took it into the woods.

And that’s how the strange day began.

A few minutes later, I was in my car, headed south to meet M for lunch in town. A mile or two down the road, I saw a flash of reddish brown and saw a bird (large, flying just off the ground) come out of the woods and head straight into my car. BAM! Feathers flew. I didn’t see a bird emerge, but, since I didn’t see a body on the road behind me, I assumed it had flown off quickly.

By then I was feeling a bit nervy. And worried.

Not a minute later, as I continued on, a woodchuck dove out from under the brush on the other side of the road and, you guessed it, straight at my car. I cringed as I saw it coming. There was no way I was going to miss it. I felt a bump, and then I saw it run off into the woods.

Now I was pretty terrified. Animals were hurling themselves at my car. I drove slooowly the rest of the way into down, white knuckles on the steering wheel, eyes skimming every surface, looking for wildlife. When I made it to town, I looked under my car. Nothing was there. I felt some small relief that at least I wasn’t carrying around any poor animals, and I still had hopes that the big, red bird and woodchuck were perhaps bruised but okay.

It wasn’t until hours later that I discovered the bird, firmly lodged in the front grille of my car — a partridge, we later determined. Why no one signaled to me as I drove around town to tell me there was a dead bird fixed to the front of my car, I don’t know. I like to think I would have said something if I had seen it on someone else’s car.

So, I was sad that I had killed this beautiful bird. And I was sad that I had driven around that afternoon with it. And I was sad that I discovered it when H was there to see it. And I was sad that I had to pull it out of the grille and find a spot for it in the woods and, so, had had to handle two dead birds on a single day. On my birthday.

Later that evening, as we drove south on the highway for dinner, a small rock was launched from the the wheels of the pickup truck ahead of us and crashed into our windshield. Even though it was an inanimate object, I just knew this rock had a mind of its own and had it in for me. It was pre-determined that it was going to hit and crack my windshield. I began to wonder if my car (or maybe I) was exerting some sort of gravitational pull on the light objects I passed by.

So, what was going on? The rational part of me has tried to explain away the animals by reminding myself that its early spring and animals are on the move. And the moon was a day away from being full, which is also an active time for wildlife. There’s also the fact of coincidence. Sometimes truly random events line up in a seemingly meaningful, alarming way.

But there’s that niggling part of me that can’t stop wondering what was going on. Was something — someone — trying to get my attention? I wish I knew.

Some from my thoughtful friend, Cindy:

And some from mother nature:

My first two birthday gifts from Hyla and Michael are perfect. They both made me giggle.

Hyla was literally vibrating when she handed me this one in its wrapping paper, she was so excited for me to see it (and then she immediately swiped it so she could continue reading it):

How could I have forgotten to include in yesterday’s post that I have, in fact, seen a handful of northward-flying geese in the last week? Just a few, but I know they’re on their way.

I’m trying not to think about the three we heard, and then saw, a week ago, flying south. Are they confused, or am I?