Dam Pond

Here in the black hole just outside Harmony Grove sits a dam pond and next to the Dam Pond sits our house.
Inside our house is my sweet Sven, Tuna a thug of a cat in a tuxedo and Grandma Meow Moses, a dainty, ancient, fireball of a feline, who lives in an assisted living apartment downstairs in Suite 1A.
Other than the ongoing war between Tuna and Grandma, life here is a dream.
But then one day, what began as a single battle between one hard-working beaver with a stick in his mouth damming up the culvert under the driveway and my sweet Sven, soon escalated to an all-out war between that beaver and his sticks, a couple felled trees, his wife, my husband, Tuna, a fence, and me.
Today, three months later, Dam Pond has transitioned into a peaceful little beaver sanctuary.
Sven, Tuna and I did not throw our hands in the air, wave a white flag and retreat.
On the contrary.

We were sitting on our back deck waiting for Ward and June's next dastardly move when we realized those beavers did not give a shit. We doubted they ever knew they were in a war.
It was as if we were not even there.
Nothing exists to the two rodents with overbites and slap happy tails, other than each other.
They are in a romance, like that Captain and Tennille song about Muskrats.
This was a little disconcerting to the two of us since we lived here first in our own little love story, going on thirty years. We felt as though we should have some say as to what goes on around these parts.
But truth be told, we do not.
We missed the last board meeting.
Guilty as charged, we never attended any.
It was Hunter and his mighty bark that called all the shots. He is the one who shouted, "Nay," when nay needed to be shouted.
Now that he is living his dream, sitting upon the stuffing of several hundred unstuffed animals missing their squeakers, surrounded by Dingo-Dyno Stix loaded with butter, when he is not outside running, jumping and barking in the afterlife, is why the Cleaver family of beavers waltzed in and dammed the place up.
Sven and I are pacifists.
Tuna is not.
But we are doing what we can to keep bullets from flying.
We set our cushions on top of the picnic table out back, plant our butts upon the cushions, place our feet on the bench and we watch, The Leave it to Beaver, show, most evenings.
It is quite entertaining, although there are already reruns.
Mr. Cleaver is always on the go.
Mrs. Cleaver is a high maintenance, high society type of a gal.
He paddles his way over the scum and through the muck to bring her whatever she points at from the bank of their den, which is near the pier on the same side of the pond as our house.
He already has a winter stash of branches built up under the pier and another den on the other side of it.
Sven thinks that maybe they are staying in their summer home and will move down the way when the frost moves in.
Frogs croak in the late afternoons.
"They sure aren't like the chorus frogs," said Sven. "They sound more like old men grumbling."
"I bet they are bitching about the beavers," I said.
But that is no matter to the Cleavers.
They only have eyes for each other and are oblivious to all of their neighbors.
It is not just us they chose to ignore.
That makes the rejection a little less hurtful.
But here is the awkward part of this story.
You see, before Hunter decided he had had enough of this universe and left me standing there with a clay paw print and a tube of his ashes, he told me he wanted to eternally rest in his favorite part of the pond.
At the time of his departure, I was too distraught to part with what was left of my old friend.
And now I am getting the call to hurl his remains off the pier into what is now, a beaver crossing.
I am not sure how he would feel about this.
Sven says it is up to me.
Tuna said, "Toss him in. He'll haunt them."
And Grandma said, "Who?"


For more Millie and Sven beaver adventure stories click above on The Cleaver Family.

Thanks for reading.

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