Adventures with Animals

I'm back!

2011-12-19T10:27:00.003-05:00

Sorry for my absence: life has a way of pulling nasty tricks on us, thus shutting down the normalcy of everyday work. My response to the shock that came my way was to focus on the solution, to the ignorance of everything else, including my blog.

But I'm up and running again. One of the nasty things biting at my ankles like an annoying chihuahua was Death. I hate Death, the Grand Ruiner of all things.

In just a matter of a few months I lost several friends. Death broke into my home and took away several cats: Little Eggie, Bonnie the Bitch, and Maggie--all old felines but still helpless in the grip of the Grim Reaper.

Within a few weeks I had to invite unforgiving Death into my home and put to sleep the first of a number of aging pot-bellied pigs. First, he took Chico, a good-natured soul who could not keep weight on and simply deteriorated with each passing day. Then, Lowell, my first swiney friend who I bought for $50 back in 1994, looked at me with a pitiful face, a face begging me to take him from this life of aging misery and into a space of nothingness. With the nothingness came freedom from discomfort and pain. So, much to my own misery, I accommodated his request: I had him put to sleep.

This past Saturday I had Annie Louise sent into Death's skeletal arms. She, too, was old and had lost complete control of her back end. Death gladly took her despite my trying to hold on and extend her life.

As I grow old, so do my pets. What began as a farm housing fourteen pot-bellied pigs, now remains a home for my last seven, with Pauly, another elderly fellow, already knocking at Death's door. Every morning and evening and sometimes during the day, Pauly loses his balance, falls over and waits for me to come right him. He is much appreciative. But as he grows thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker, I realize he's not going to be able to sustain himself much longer. I expect him to live no longer than about two weeks. However, I promised him and myself that I would not let him suffer. And I won't.

I am sorry that I had to come back to my blog with such a sad, despairing tale, but Death is a part of life on a farm, not a farm for butchering animals but one for allowing them to live each's life to his or her natural end. Though Little Eggie, Bonnie, Maggie, Chico, Lowell, and Annie had good, full lives here and appreciated the good life on the Balliet farm, they didn't fear Death as I did. In fact, I feel they welcomed the monster. Behind the horrid face of Death lay calm and peace, and freedom from pain. And though Death took each one in slightly different ways, they suffered no fear because I was with each one at the Moment. I became the strength whereby they could say "Good-bye" without apprehension.

Death cannot intimidate or scare when someone is whispering "I Love You" in the dying animal's ear. In that moment, Death loses all his strength, his ferociousness--his mystery.

Convoy

2011-04-12T13:04:00.003-04:00

“We’ve got ourselves a convoy!” I imagined Stewie thinking as I glanced at the S-Team gearing up for more mischief.

Stevie, my four-month-old Yorkshire farm pig, galloped out of the barn with Stewie, my Irish wolfhound pup, right behind him--up the pig’s rear end, pawing his back, and play-biting his flag-ears.

What a couple of goofy bed-fellows I have in these two animals: one a scruffy-haired, kinda droopy-lipped sight-hound of seven months and his best pal and confidant, Stevie, a white, smooth-bristled, pig—each weighing close to a hundred pounds. The two inseparables, both in their youth and fascination with this world relatively new to both, crave the outdoors and all the curiosities it has to offer, from the spring grass-shoots to the grubs emerging from their winter sleep, from the cats lurking beneath each bush and guarding atop each tree limb, from the horses neighing in the pasture to my planting elephant ears in the gardens. Everything lures their curiosity.

Stevie is Stewie’s mentor. The other day I watched from the kitchen window as Stewie concentrated on Stevie’s rooting technique. With such intensity that I have never seen in my hound before, Stewie watched as Stevie plowed up the muddy back yard. Stewie must have been thinking, as he saw Stevie bury his face, up to his eyes, into the ground, “Hm-m-m-m, must be food underground. I want some too. Should I be helping?” Since Stewie is not used to plowing earth with his nose, he didn’t exactly know how to get at the treasure beneath the soil, but he was learning how to adjust for his lack of a snout roto-rooter.

I watched as Stewie analyzed Stevie’s nose-plowing methods, and then suddenly, Stewie’s ears perked, and he looked at the ground in front of him. He sniffed, looked at Stevie, whose eyes were the only part of his face visible (the rest being covered by mud), and began to dig furiously with his front paws. He scratched and threw the dirt through his hind legs. Ground flew four feet into the air, and all the while he gaged his success with Stevie’s. Stewie was digging faster and deeper than was Stevie, but Stewie didn’t know what he was digging for.

And I? Well, it wasn’t bad enough that Stevie was plowing six-inch ridges into my backyard. (Incidentally, I take pride in my landscape design and beautiful tropical-looking gardens. This activity wasn’t enhancing the outdoor décor.) The two were in league together, against me and my landscaping. If I didn’t stop the partners in crime, my yard would look like the work of an excavator gone toxic.

Out the door I flew, shouting, “Stevie! Stewie! Stop it!” Stewie looked up as if to say, “What’s bugging you?” but Stevie, so intent on his digging, paid me no attention. So, I tromped into the muddy hole behind him and began to push on his rump. It’s not easy trying to move a hundred pound cylinder on legs out of an enticing mudhole. After ten minutes of yelling and coaxing, and with my shoes Frankenstein-heavy with caked mud, Stevie finally walked off into the woods where he can root until he collapses, for all I care. My gardens, however, are off limits.

Stewie had stopped digging when he saw how upset I was. And when Stevie trotted off into the woods with Stewie close behind, I muttered to myself, “Yep, we got ourselves a convoy.”

Remembering Claudia

2011-03-03T18:14:00.003-05:00

Claudia

Sweetest Welsh corgi in Wisconsin,
Our Claudia—Mare’s and mine.

Tales of Claudia throughout her life:
Geese-chasing,
River-walking,
Snow-nose plowing
Claudia.

Loved her walks with momma.
Loved watching the neighbor, Joey-dog.
Loved her family felines, Spotty and Meg.
Loved her food: meat chopped each night.

Roar of the blender:
Made Claudia dance,
Made Claudia talk-bark,
Made Claudia smile
With lips stretched from the West coast to the East coast of her face.

But this little corgi went to heaven,
And this little Mare stayed at home.
And this little Claudia will have no more roast beef.
And this little Claudia won’t come home.

Her bark is silenced.
Her dance has
ended.

But her memory lives
Beyond.
In all of us who knew her.
And loved her:
Looking out upon the river,
Laughing at the geese—

Her geese.
Her river.
Her Wisconsin snowfields.

Her life laced with love
Of the land
And her lady.

Ice Storm

2011-02-02T12:26:00.007-05:00

Ice Storm

Diamond-encrusted, sparkling saturation, mirrored forest--storm of ice.

Ice-queen beauty--impenetrable, frosty-glared, hard-hearted.
Master artisan, Nature--tools of cold and water.

Quiet calm of the ice-fringed forest.
Squirrel-tails balancing on frosty limbs,
Scamper-sliding, slip-clinging, across the rime.

Crystalline woods wearing clear-crackled branches;
Like a brittle old woman: thick spectacles piercing from cropped white hair.
Trees captured in a glass-blower’s art like flies caught in lucid amber.

Frost-whiskered world.

The Eyes Have It

2011-01-13T08:01:00.018-05:00

What does it mean when a dog sits before his owner, looks into her face, and stares? Is this an act of submission, pure canine concentration, or some act of contrition? Within a dog's intense stare lies a universe of psychological musings, more convoluted, more unfathomable than to be understood by the average folk.

Let's start to analyze this phenomenon of a dog's stare, not from the experience of a dog trainer, which I am not, but just from general impressions I have gained as a human companion and from being at the receiving end of this behavior.

As I prepare my dinner plate, the dog suddenly awakens from his death-sleep that not even a cat soaring past on Mercurian feet can arouse. Suddenly, his keen ears detect, like submariner radar, the salt shaker's teensy-weensy sound flavoring his human's plate of food. Stewie, on high alert, sits up as I sneak past him with the repast I had been dreaming of since breakfast. Alas, the dog has discovered my delectable possession--a plateful of spaghetti-- and he is determined to commandeer it much as he has my sofa.

As I arrive at the couch, the dog stepping on the back of my heels, I shout, for the thousandth time in the day, "NO, Stewie! NO! Get away! This is mine, not yours!" I remind him. "You had your dinner!" But my yelling, my insults, my whimpers, my begging, do absolutely nothing to distract my Irish wolfhound puppy from wanting my meal.

My elbows out to the side like an airplane's wings, I dip and whirl around, balancing my plate of food, all to avoid the canine nose that has honed in, as on a target, on my plate. Then, I drop into the sofa seat and begin to wolf my food before the real wolf can steal it.

Suddenly, it happens--very deliberately and decidedly. The silence is palpable. I look up, my chin stained with sauce, and I sit back, entirely mesmerized by what's going on before me.

My fork drops into my plate, and I stare, enchanted. My dog is sitting squarely before me: calm, quiet, and intent.

He cocks his head, looks at my brimming plate, then looks back at me. And I am held, spell-bound, by his gaze, by his deliberateness, by his cool. What is he thinking? Why isn't he after me? Why has he stopped pestering me for my dinner? Has he discovered that bullying me is useless? Has he devised another, more devious method of acquiring my spaghetti, one that has never been fathomed by any human or beast?

He holds my gaze--staring, staring deep, straight into my soul. I cannot eat--appetite quelled--for the eyes hold me, have me in a spell like that of some time-wise sorcerer, one against which I cannot summon strength.

Then, the hound with the magical eyes, casts the last straw.

He blinks.

I stare.

He tilts his head and blinks again.

I wince. I feel weakness in my legs. Am I having an attack of some kind?

Then, he blinks twice, the eyes holding me steady.

Such pitiful, hungry eyes.

Head cocked to the other side, he blinks again.

Poor thing--so downtrodden, famished--poor starving animal. All he ever gets to eat is that dry, cardboard-looking kibble.

He blinks once, and then the sides of his mouth pouf out--very lightly, such a small pouf of air as to barely snuff a candle.

But it's there, the icing to the blink.

Almost unconsciously I place my plate of pasta on the floor--my offering to this soul of poverty and deprivation, my benefaction to the paltry one.

For a split-second more, Stewie holds my gaze, and then, when he figures the plate is his, he dives into it.

In seconds the plate is licked clean. And in seconds I realize that Stewie has out-witted me and that I have lost round two.

My Holly Berry

2011-01-10T09:39:00.006-05:00

I've buried yet another cat this morning. Holly Berry, a probable drop-off several years ago, came to our farm scared of the world and people. I had discovered her staked out in the garage hiding, alternately, under the Rover and Edgar's vet truck. In the beginning, I caught mere glimpses of her retreating hind end; she was, at least, partially feral, or had been badly treated by humans. Despite what must have been lousy experiences with the human race, she attempted to communicate with me. Every time I went outside, which is primarily through the garage, a loud "meow" sounded. Understanding cat language as well as I do, I knew she was testing me out--to see whether I'd respond in like fashion to her conversation. So, I hunched down and meowed back. She talked; I talked. Holly howled; I howled. In a short time, I transitioned to English, which she obviously didn't understand, so I howled in the voice she was accustomed to, only yelling in words.
"WHA-A-AT'S THE MA-A-ATER? WHA-A-AT ARE YOU HOLLARI-I-I-ING ABOUT? YOU'RE ALWAYS HOLLARI-I-I-ING!" I called to the little gray and white cat.
Then she replied in an equally loud voice from her hiding place beneath the truck, "RE-O-O-OW!! RE-O-O-OW! RE-O-O-OW!"
Eventually, through mutual conversation and food offerings, Holly, named after her "hollaring" talent, became a good friend. At Christmas I added "Berry" to her name, just for the hell of it, and "Holly Berry" stuck, then, for the rest of the seasons.
The garage was her home, and I had a cat apartment readied for her to escape the wind and cold. One early spring morning after Edgar had left on his veterinary calls, I rushed through the garage toward the barn where chores awaited. I didn't hear or see Holly--strange. Holly was always in the garage--it was her home. This day, however, she was visibly and audibly absent. I looked up into the rafters, under the Rover, inside the cat apartment. I called and hollared, "HOLLY!" until I was blue. No Holly. Then I searched just beyond the garage: in the gardens, in the barn--everywhere. No Holly. I was worried, but I had had other barn cats that would take a vacation for a few days, though Holly had never left her garage before this.
In the evening Edgar came home, and we began to feed everyone. Suddenly, there sat Holly, awaiting supper, in the garage.
"HOLLY!" I hollared.
"RE-O-O-O-OW!" she yelled back.
No other explanation existed for her garage-absence for an entire day other than she had crawled up underneath Edgar's truck during the night or early morning and had ridden along on all his vet calls in the undercarriage, perhaps where the spare tire hung. And when Edgar pulled into the garage, she knew she was home and hopped down. I broached the subject to Edgar, who laughed and said that he had been flying at seventy mph on 78, and that she had to have been freezing under there going at that speed.
So, Holly Berry, in her short lifetime, was well-traveled, at least for a day.
Holly Berry remained a shy, vocal cat for the next couple of years, but when I rescued two mother kittens and their babies from a Philadelphia kill-shelter this spring, she gravitated to the barn loft. And even though I fed wet food, supplied free-choice dry, and water up there, Holly didn't thrive. We'd talk when I brought her and the other "loft" cats dinner, but she just didn't seem as happy. It as her choice to abandon her garage; I didn't force her into the barn, though the barn loft, with its bales of stacked hay, was inviting to a cat.
Then, a few days ago Holly Berry walked over to me as I was feeding the cats in the barn. She said in a feeble voice, "Ow, . . . ow." I knew something was really wrong and scooped her in my arms and ran to the house.
"Her gums are almost white," I said. She was having trouble breathing, her chest heaving with each breath.
"Yeah. They are really blanched," Edgar said.
"Leukemia?" I said.
"Good chance. I thought we tested her, and I know she's vaccinated," he said. "Well, let's give her fluids, put her on antibiotics, and hope for the best."
But hope neither did her nor us any good. The evening before she died, I held her, talked to her, and she nudged my hand. She was comfortable--for being that close to death. I told her how much she meant to me, and she meowed in a frail voice the same to me.
And this morning she was gone--my Holly Berry.

Contest: Help Fight Pet Cancer Jan 10 to Mar. 20

2011-01-10T09:08:00.007-05:00

Pig Placement Network needs loads of votes in the Animal Rescue Site Challenge with Petfinder.com. to win a sizeable amount of money, which is all going toward pot-bellied pig medical research. Those of you following and participating in Luke Robinson's fight against canine and pet cancer research can fully appreciate that pot-bellies are also plagued by cancer. Pig Placement Network has been involved with several universities studying pet pig liver cancer--a pig's nemesis. I also introduced Luke Robinson to Susan Magidson, the key figure in the fight against pot-belly pig cancers, so that, together, they and the universities can pull their research. If you have a pet with cancer, know that these two groups, 2 Million Dogs and Pig Placement Network are working to discover causes of and treatments for the disease, and know, thereby, that their work always helps humans, as well. Please vote each day for PPN in this contest: Click on http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/clickToGive/sheltershallenge.faces?siteId=3. This contest runs everyday, starting today, until March 20. Thanks for your time; I know it's precious.

Cheese Gas

2011-01-05T16:36:00.005-05:00

Stewie, at four months of age and at 63 pounds, has commandeered the household. When I crash onto the sofa in the evening, newly bathed and moisturized in anticipation of a new "Bones" show, the dog races, eighty miles an hour, into my lap, his spiney-white teeth gaping from a maw targeting my cheese snack. In seconds the hairy tank commandeers my sofa-sanctuary and my food, which rolls helplessly onto the carpet where it picks up the latest cat hair. Then he pounces on it, gives it a couple of bites, and it's down the hatch.

I'm furious in my helplessness. No canine should expect to confiscate my property without a fight; however, my only defense is to leap to my feet brandishing my index finger-gun accompanied by the "rat-tat-tatting" of a few choice word-weapons. "NO!!! OFF!!! STEWIE, . . .NO!!!!" But Stewie is a stalwart force--as determined as any infantryman with new boots from LL Bean--and his motivation is fierce: he's a hungry puppy and seizing my Velveeta is essential to his survival.

Within minutes of the attack, I am grounded--literally--curled up, whining, in a fetal position on the carpet while the victor reigns from the sofa with a smug mug. He burps cheese gas like Jabba the Hut, and I reach, in defeat, for a lap blanket to protect my naked legs. My empty bowels growl as I try to ignore the Stew King hovering over me, and my skin reacts in hives from the wool in the carpet. While our four-month-old puppy has won this battle, I have vowed not to lose the war.

Tomorrow night I'm going to bring out the big guns: cauliflower snacks.

Books on Horseback

2010-12-31T15:35:00.004-05:00

Bo was gracious enough to stand still--even though Stewie was stalking him--as I describe my books to viewers here. It's not often that my horse is calm, I look good, and Edgar is free to videotape my riding, so, this morning I decided at the spur of the moment to tape this video for my author page on Amazon.com.

Unlike Obama, I have no handy teleprompter--that's why a couple of "aah's" and "uh's." But, considering that I decided to do the video at the last minute and without any preparation, it's not too bad. What you see is what you get; it's always that way with me. Thanks for watching and listening. And check out my books at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. I've made a New Year's resolution to vigorously promote the books I have out there in order to reinvigorate my platform. And over the year I've made promises to reader fans that another book would be coming out soon. With the economy appearing to surge, I'm hoping my animal books will, too, and that readers will have their fill of my writing. I've got three mss. ready, everyone! Thanks for all your support through 2010, and I hope everyone has a healthy and happy new year.

Thankful for Animals

2010-12-23T09:03:00.007-05:00

Imagine a world without animals, be it without pets, livestock, or wildlife. How would we comparatively dull humans entertain ourselves?

I like going to sleep knowing that my pets are safe, warm, and cozy in their barn stalls and that they will be well-rested the next day to make me laugh and to cuddle alongside me. Likewise, I know that while I sleep, the raccoons are just awakening and stepping outside their holes for a night of play, hunting, and general ruckus. I think about the fact that while we sleep, on the other side of the world in Africa and India, rare wild beasts--ones I'll never see in my lifetime--are emerging from their dens, nests, and coral holes from where they will announce the morning and begin their day hunting food and guarding their young.

Without animals, we would all wake up, not to the singing and chirping of the birds, but to tree branches quaking, squeaking eerily in the wind. And the movement of the trees would be the only activity catching our attention. I can't imagine waking up without seeing the squirrels chasing each other, leaping from one branch to another. Mornings would resemble death where nothing but silence reigned?

I often imagine the wild places on Earth, devoid of human control--merely under the auspices and dominance of animals--in places so remote that hardly a human intrudes on the natural setting. Without humans shaping all to serve their needs, the wild and the animals within such a world must prosper, without fear of slaughter or the hunt. Though the prey-predator relationship exists, a world without human interlopers is ideal; it it natural.

This Christmas I am grateful to know that animals are a part of my world--whether or not that world is unseen by me or other people. Of course, my own pets have made me who I am--have formed my honest personality. My horses carry me, mostly willingly, for rides around the farm and to a few parks, and I appreciate that, too. My pigs I love because they are determined to do things they feel are important, regardless of my needs. Pigs can divorce themselves from the human condition, and for that I admire them.

This Christmas we should all be thankful for our pets who love us unconditionally and for the wildlife that entertain in much more subtle ways. Life is good because of our pets and the life flitting, scampering, and calling beyond our windows. They are our most valuable gifts this Christmas season.

Merry Christmas!

The Stew Master

2010-12-09T17:08:00.005-05:00

Stewie is now thirteen weeks old and forty pounds. Named after Stewie Gilligan Griffin of "Family Guy's" precocious baby, Stewie the dog hardly resembles the football-headed cartoon infant. About the only thing the two have in common is that they pee and poop themselves at the drop of a glove.
I have to admit that he's a pretty nice dog, but he's already a bit spoiled, having all kinds of stuffed toys, a Weatherbetta dog coat, big smoked bones, treats, and a lot of loving. If only all dogs could end up with nice homes--the world would be so much warmer, more civilized. The human world, after all, defines itself, really, by the manner in which it treats creatures it considers beneath it. What a fine place ours would be if everyone extended charity and kindness to the animals. In such a world no cats, horses, or pot-bellies would suffer, and neither would the wildlife.
This afternoon I bought Stewie a big cow bone (sorry, vegans), and I brought his big dog bed into the kitchen while I put away the rest of the groceries. Well, as you all can see in the video, I have my right hand in a half cast after having a re-fix on a carpal tunnel surgery that scarred down. This time I didn't paint the downstairs bathroom a week after surgery; instead, I'm taking care of this hand and only doing the exercises I'm supposed to do.
So, fishing around in the cabinet above the refrigerator trying to get a box of quart-sized freezer bags, I used a tongs to grasp the box because my right hand is "off." All of a sudden this heavy tray came flying out of the cabinet. I ducked, but the tray crashed onto poor Stewie, who, for a change, was minding his own business, intent on his boney. A high-pitched yelp pierced the air, and out he ran, me on his heels apologizing profusely.
He darted into his crate, his right leg raised, and the look he was giving me was one of pure remorse.
"No, no, Stewie," I said, reaching into the cage. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm so sorry. Mommy has a bum hand right now. Come here, and let me see your leg." Slowly he emerged from the crate. He avoided looking at me. Poor thing--probably thought he was being punished for chewing what he thought was his own bone. Believe me--we haven't used corporal punishment on him, but he had to have thought he committed a crime of colossal canine crapola.
I quickly summoned Edgar to check his leg, biting my fingernails through the examination. He pronounced him just fine, and I sighed relief.
This evening Stewie's back to chewing on his boney in the living room.
I like Stewie because he's rather quiet for a puppy. I especially like that he doesn't jump on us. And he hasn't sniffed my crotch yet, which is always a good quality in a dog. He runs beside me around the woods and is being fairly kind to the barn cats and the pigs as they roam through their days. He's just a pleasant fellow, and we really like him.
As usual I don't simply call him "Stewie." His other nicknames include "Gooey Stewie, " "Stew Master," Stew Man," and "Stew Bird." And when he pees on the floor, he's "Dammit Stewie!",

Buttons and Thread Tell a Story

2010-12-06T18:21:00.006-05:00

A few days ago I decided to de-clutter the extra bedroom that serves as my craft, gift-wrapping, and art room. I was trashing anything I hadn’t used in the past two years: oodles of fake rose buds and plastic vases I used for the graduation party for my Ph. D. Then I tossed a box full of leftover pieces of fabric for sewing my own dresses (yeah—do you believe that?), and I threw out some out-dated violin lesson books. Likewise, a movie projector and screen went to the dumpster as well as a bunch of ancient medicines and vitamin bottles.
Only a few hundred boxes remained for sifting when I discovered an older, medium-sized box. Inside, amongst a bunch of multi-colored spools of thread sat a small rectangular box. I opened it and gasped. It was a box of buttons—all different kinds—sitting amongst the thread: all from one of my Grandma Eckensberger’s dress factories. Forty-year-old buttons nestled amongst forty-year-old thread. A tear dribbled down my cheek: it was my Gramma who taught me how to sew.
The box of buttons and thread, uncannily, still had the odor distinctive of Grandma’s factories in Allentown, Pennsylvana—a smelly mélange of rolls and rolls of fabric, piles of lint, puddles of sewing machine oil, and clouds of steam from the pressing machines. The box oozed the essence of my childhood because I worked in my Grandma’s dress factory from the age of fourteen, along with all the women who ran the single-needle and merrow machines, the button fasteners, and the pressers, to the age of 21. I mastered a myriad of jobs, first as a finishing girl, one who trimmed the extra strings from the dresses. Then, after I proved my responsibility as a trim girl, I pinned the size and designer tags on the dresses along with bagging each in plastic. By the time I was 21 years old, I was an expert at the single-needle machine, which I learned to “drive” at the age of sixteen.
At that time my grandmother sat me down at one of the single-needle machines and showed me how to thread and untangle a clog of “cotton” under the foot plate. When she pressed the foot-pedal, the machine roared into action, the needle a mere blur as she expertly slid a long piece of fabric under the foot. Those factory sewing machines were monsters: tough, frenetic devourers of fabric and thread, monstrosities with insatiable appetites. The first time I stepped on the foot pedal that drove the needle, I thought it was going to suck my hand right with it, so fast it went. It was frightening for this teenager, but I’d be damned if it’d get the better of me.
But it did: twice. Two times I sewed my left thumb. And when the needle slammed into the bone of the digit, and the machine ground abruptly to a halt, I sat there, eyes wide: no pain--only shock and disbelief. My thumb sat there like a disembodied thing--skewered upon the needle. The lady at the machine next to me heard the loud “thuck!” and knew I had sewn my thumb. “Don’t move!” she warned. “Just take the wheel with you other hand and raise the needle out of your thumb.” And, at the age of sixteen, that’s exactly what I did—very deliberately, very carefully. Then, staring at the hole in my hand, I got up and went to the office for a band aid. I did finish working that day, even though by day’s end, my thumb was thumping.
I worked in my grandmother’s dress factory every summer through my college years. The women asked to start by seven in the morning so that they could be out of the building and in their gardens by three in the afternoon. These ladies were not much different from me—some needed the money for extras, some to live. I needed the job for extra cash and as a reminder. Much as I complained some days, my father always said, “Keep at it—you’ll appreciate your college education even more.” And I did: I didn’t want to be forever sitting in front of a machine for eight hours a day in a building where the fluorescent lights hummed drearily overhead. It wasn’t hard work; it was just endlessly boring.
And as much as the work was tiresome, I enjoyed the camaraderie of the women. They talked and sang to the radios blaring as the machines around them buzzed and roared—pulling, chewing the fabric through--gathering, stitching pieces together, basting, and hemming yards and yards of fabric. The women laughed and told jokes, sucking lifesavers and chewing gum as they directed the cloth beneath the needles. I remember having the utmost respect for the zipper setters. Most everyone was on piece-rate: the more pieces you did, the more money you made. But the zipper setters were the queens of the factory—could set a full zipper into a dress in less than three minutes. They did it perfectly. A zipper setter was considered an expert seamstress and made a good buck in the process.
These women weren’t simply workers to my grandmother. They were “her girls” as she often referred to them. She bought them sodas at lunch, and they brought her gifts from their kitchens. Gramma often joked and worked on the machines alongside them when one called in sick. She wasn’t simply their employer; she was their friend and partner in the skill of manufacturing beautiful clothing. At the end of the day after everyone had punched out, I would wait with Gramma until the truck came to take the day’s dresses to New York. And, finally, we got into the car and went home.

I looked at the buttons and spools of thread again. I stirred the buttons with my index finger: plain buttons, ones with crystal centers, metal ones. Once again the aroma of Gramma’s dress factory wafted into the air—even after forty years of storage.
And I wiped away another tear. Gramma was dead--since 1984. And it almost seemed that with her died the dress factories, too. Their skeletal remains are intact all over town: the empty factories sit vacant where once they had housed thriving dress factories. Over the years, our government and private enterprise have sent most factory jobs and others overseas--mostly to avoid the high cost of labor unions. I know from several conversations I had had with Gramma that the unions had drained her almost poor. And even though, years ago, I belonged to a teacher’s union, I felt strong-armed into joining. If a teacher didn’t belong, the union and its members ostracized him or her.
The buttons and thread spoke to me: What had happened to industrial America? Where were the factory jobs that anyone—high schoolers, college kids, middle-class men and women—could get thirty or forty years ago? Where had they all gone? And what part of the American soul had they taken with them? Today, workers hardly take pride in their work. So many don’t care; they just want to make the most money while expending the least amount of effort in the shortest time. And pride in one’s work is extinct, as well.
And what of the products we buy today? We know that stuff made in China is often of poor quality. We covet items—rare ones—that say, “Made in the USA.” Where have all the factories gone? And will we ever get back those jobs that embody the American work ethic and pride? The unions put the factories out of business, and by doing that, they put America out of business.

My Gramma was not rich, even though she owned several dress factories in her lifetime. She was a business woman, a hard worker, as were her “girls.” “Her girls” were the best ones in all the shops in Allentown, and she loved “her girls.”
I whisked away another tear as I stashed the box of buttons alongside the thread and put them on a high shelf. I would keep these—in remembrance—of Gramma and of America.

Make Your Own Bird Suet

2010-12-06T10:28:00.004-05:00

We all take special care of our cats, dogs, bird, horses, and pot-bellies during the winter months. Freezing temps and lack of running water and plentiful food, however, is hard on wildlife as well. People like to feed the birds, but who wants to spend tons of money on these suet cakes? Well, you can make your own cakes--all at one time--ones that'll last you for most of the winter. It's easy!

Ingredients: big can of Crisco or lard; big can of cheap peanut butter (preferably crunchy style); medium-sized bag of corn meal (at grocery store in baking section); large bag of bird seed with sunflower seeds included; saran wrap; and freezer bag.

Put equal amounts of Crisco or lard and peanut butter (you don't need to measure--just guestimate) in a huge pot. Add a whole lot of seed and mix those three ingredients. Next, pour in corn meal until the whole thing stirs fairly hard. See if you can form a square without your fingers sticking to the whole mess. When the mess stirs and sounds gritty and has become stiffer, you're finished. Add more corn meal if when you try to make a cake, it really sticks to your fingers. It will, ultimately, be sticky, but you can flour or coat your fingers in corn meal to prevent a big mess.

Making the suet patties: On your kitchen counter tear out a bunch small sheets of saran wrap. Take a few spoonfuls and mold the stuff into a square. Then place the square on a plate and pour more corn meal over it, turning it around so that there's corn meal on each side and the edges. Fold up the saran wrap around it.

Form all the patties, wrap them up, and store in freezer in a gallon freezer bag. If you have a suet holder from a store, just reuse that. Or, you can simply put the suet in a crack of a tree, on a branch, or on a stump--if you don't have dogs. The simplest is to first purchase a regular suet square from a Home Depot and use the wire container for your homemade suet.

You'll have many hours of enjoyment watching the birds eating your own suet cakes, and you'll feel better knowing you're helping the wildlife stay warm while you are saving money at the same time. And the birds love this homemade recipe much more than the store-bought stuff.

Remembering Harley

2010-11-29T07:53:00.009-05:00

Sheryl, my trusty friend and supporter of all things piggish, has a penchant for lost and neglected pot-bellied pigs--as do I. If there is a pig nearby who needs help in the form of transport to a pig sanctuary, being rescued from a neglectful home, or protecting a pig in an abusive situation, Sheryl comes forward to help.
Such was the case when, through the grapevine, she learned, some five or six years ago, that a family was just "sick and tired" of their pet pig, and if someone didn't adopt him, he would be put to sleep.

Some people, especially ones that aren't too bright, adopt these pigs with only their one weak brain cell in gear. "Oh, boy!" they believe, "How cool to get a pig. I'll do it!" That's as far as they can reason. They do no research and fling themselves headlong into porcine ownership, not prepared for the consequences: that a pet who is smarter than its owner can easily control people and can rule the home; that a smart pet does not bolster a stupid person's sense of self-esteem; that the more intelligent pig will manipulate the human to its existential needs and drive the human to furious frustration. Despite the difference in intelligence, drive, and motivation, eventually the pig will lose--he or she, at the hands of the imbecile, will become grossly overweight, crippled, or blind; he or she will end up in a shelter, or he or she may be abused because the human possesses no insight to train and respect the instincts of a pet pig. Though a normally intelligent person enjoys the company of a pet whose smarts allow the two to "converse" and spend mutually beneficial time together, a pet pig in the company of a dolt always spells "DISASTER" for the pig.

So, one winter day Sheryl asked me to go along to rescue and possibly adopt this young yearling pig whose owners couldn't control him. We stepped into the house, and it was clear that we were dealing with a mother and older son who shared at least two flacid brain cells. After getting a few nebulous answers to some very important questions about his age, behavior, and breeding, Sheryl looked at me. This pig, Harley, was in a no-win situation; he needed a worthy home. So, Sheryl offered to give him the home every pig deserves.
On the way to her house, the pint-sized Harley sat in my lap in the passenger seat of the SUV. He was such a small, young pig--about as big as a wooden magazine rack. He wasn't a baby--more of a pre-teen. As Sheryl drove, I cradled Harley in my arms and assured him he would have an excellent home. He stared, looking out, his snout up against the window, and enjoyed the car ride and the snow-covered trees and sounds of traffic. When we stopped to turn left at a traffic light, another car pulled up on our right. Though our windows were closed, Harley and I both happened to look over just as the other driver looked at us. Meeting the gaze of a pig, the woman did a double-take. Her flabbergasted expression said, "What! A pig in a car! Sitting on a woman's lap!" The woman's mouth gaped in a wide grin; she turned to her passenger; and the other woman leaned forward to check out the spectacle. The light changed, and the three of us turned, Sheryl and I laughing at the confounded driver we left behind.
So, Harley came to Sheryl's home where he became one of a family of two other pigs: Porkchop and Forrest. The three tolerated each other initially and then became on and off friends and rivals in a relationship that always remained a power struggle. As do horses, cats, fish, and many other species, animals work out a pecking order amongst themselves. Harley, being the newcomer, was relegated to "underpig" and quickly learned to acquiesce to the other two. Lucky for him, Sheryl privileged all three pigs equally--no one was more loved or valued than the other.
Harley delighted in his new indoor home. In fact, since he was the "low" pig in the herd, Sheryl gave him his own room so that he wouldn't be picked on when she wasn't home. At night after she came home from work, the three pigs ate from their separate dishes, each sitting next to the other as they received their favorite treat of the day: a cream-filled Vienna Finger.
For the next five years, Harley, Porkchop, and Forrest were true "bros". On crispy mornings after breakfast, they burst through the doggie door into the backyard--always in search of a tasty morsel hiding in the grass. Each evening after dinner and the cookie, Porkchop and Forrest claimed the sofa and chair while Harley cuddled up with Sheryl on the living room floor to watch TV. He lay down beside her leaning his heft into her, the two--human and pig-- stretched out on the carpet. Porkchop and Forrest "owned" the furniture, but once in awhile when the others were outside, Shery called him to join her in the overstuffed sofa where he soaked up a long belly rub.

Yesterday, after eating breakfast, Harley died suddenly. Though Edgar was rushing to try to save him, it was too late. He died far too young, but he died, comforted, in Sheryl's arms.
We buried Harley here at our farm alongside our own pigs: Lucille, Miss Piggy, Sniffer, Arnold, and Ashley.
Harley rests in peace in our pasture of dreams.

Suzie the Warthog--The Sleeping Beauty

2010-11-16T09:43:00.002-05:00

Once Carol had cleaned up Suzie's attempts at a closet makeover, she decided to take a well-deserved nap. Suzie was still asleep in her leather chair when Carol hung up the last of her work shirts and headed toward the bedroom. Very quietly, so as not to disturb Suzie, Carol slipped under the covers and began to doze off.

The next minute the bed shook under seismic shocks resembling that of Mt. St. Helens. Carol exclaimed, her eyes wide, "What in the world?" But the only reply was a high-pitched, singular grunt--coming from right beside her.

Suzie had leaped into the bed.

"Oh, Suzie," Carol whispered with a smirk. "You did have a rough day cleaning up Mommy's closet. And you need an even bigger nap now, huh?"

Suzie turned to look at her human mom's head peeking above the covers, and she uttered a sharp, agreeable squeal.

Carol patted Suzie's back as the warthog squirmed to get comfortable in the bed covers. She arranged her legs beneath herself, leaned up against Carol's body, and settled her snout into the soft comforter--the sheets of which smelled just like Carol's perfume. Carol stroked the thin, soft hairs of Suzie's mane, and coaxed her wild pig, "Go to sleep, Suzie. Go to sleep."

And Suzie closed her eyes, let out a long, heavy sigh, and was soon breathing deeply in sleep.

Suiey the Warthog--The Closet Organizer

2010-11-16T07:49:00.009-05:00

Those who do not share their homes with a warthog may just not understand that, as housekeepers, warthogs tend to have OCD--Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My friend, Carol, of The Tusk and Bristle Pig Sanctuary, certainly can attest to the fact that warthogs fashion fastidious domiciles.

When Carol went outside a few days ago to feed her sanctuary pigs, Suzie the Warthog, who is living inside with Carol and her husband for the winter (Suzie's bristley coat is much too thin to keep her toasty outside in the winter elements), offered her housecleaning and organizational skills.

First, she sauntered into the bathroom, sniffing the edges of the toilet and sink with her keen nose--checking for any noxious odors. She stuck her head in the shower, gave it the sniff-test, and declared all satisfactory. The loo must have met Suzie's approval, for, in seconds. Suzie whipped right around and trotted furiously down the hallway toward Carol's closet--the clothes closet would stand the real inspection, for sure.

According to Suzie. Carol's closet needed a serious makeover, and no one was better equipped to handle the job than she, a fussy African warthog. She set to work with a vengeance, picking up a smelly, discarded sock and placing it inside a shoe, which she tossed under a chair. At the back of the immense, walk-in closet lay a couple of extra pillows, which Suzie easily dispatched to the middle of the floor--they would make a good bed after she had finished rearranging everything. And a blue-plaid work shirt definitely didn't belong hanging so high with its shirtails nearly touching the ground. That would have to become more easily accessible because workshirts needed to stay handy. So, Suzy pulled the shirt to the floor and nosed it alongside the pillows. Then she grabbed the next few shirts in the line-up and tore those off their hangars, too. There--that was better--one didn't need to stand on tip-toe to reach the shirts.

Suzie wasn't particularly discouraged by the chair taking up space in the closet. She rammed it with her hard head onto its side atop the pillows, and then turned to the cubbyholes holding stacks of neatly-folded jeans. They, too, would have to come down, Suzie decided--to a more easily accessible area of the room. Afterall, what was the sense of having a closet full of clothes if they were always out of reach?

In less than 45 minutes, Suzie had "organized" Carol's closet so that all the accessories--shoes, jewelry box, scarves, farm boots and other work clothes--became much handier. Silly humans--putting stuff so far out of reach.

Later that afternoon, after Carol had come in from doing chores, she noticed Suzie spread out, asleep in her leather chair. "Boy, Suzie," Carol laughed, "You think you had a rough day?"

Suzie's eye cracked open, she stretched, and yawned. Cleaning up a human's messy, unorganized closet was, indeed, tiring work, but sometimes a warthog just hds to do what she had to do.

Sometimes No Sleep is the Best Sleep

2010-11-09T08:09:00.008-05:00

I'm so screwed up because of the time change.
It was only nine o'clock last night when I climbed the "woody mountain" to bed, but I had had enough of the screaming TV and Edgar's jumping up and out of his chair every time Stewie had that cross-eyd "I might hafta pee" look in his eye. I had had Stewie's daytime pee duty; Edgar had the night-time shift. I needed some peace and relaxation.
Before I climbed into the sack, I opened a bedroom window, and a soft cool air escorted me to the chamber where I pulled back the casing and slipped inside, the crispness of the sheets and their clean smell enveloping my body as I sank into the feather bed. I inhaled a deep breath from the fresh cool pouring through the window and pulled the comforter up to my chin.
And I fell sleep.
In the middle of the night, I opened an eye--one o'clock. Edgar was fast asleep beside me. Toasty under the body-heat layer beneath the blanket, I tasted the night air and sighed--Mother Nature's luxurious gift.
My instinct was to fall back to sleep, but I didn't want to. Having had four hours of sleep, I lay there enjoying the scent and the sounds of the night streaming through the window: the misty coolness of the night cradling my head, the sounds of the wind brushing over the tree branches. I lay back and looked out the 31 windows in our bedroom--something many people had said, when we were building the bedroom addition, we would rue. But I haven't regretted making our bedroom so open to the outside, though I admit it is a bit frightening in an electrical storm.
From our bedr0om I could faintly see the outline of the barn and indoor riding arena where most of my animals were sleeping. How quiet the barn was, asleep with its four horses, seven pot-bellied pigs, Donnie the Duck, and the myriad cats. Complete calm surrounded all those animals as they slept in their pens and stalls.
Sometimes, especially in spring when the raccoons and opossums awaken from their half-sleep, they wake me up with their galloping around the deck surrounding the bedroom. They chase each other up and down the trees, land hard on the deck, which to them must be like a mini-racetrack, and they screech and yell at each other--all in fun--but in the middle of the night. Even though we're awakened by the ruckus, it's entertainment of a different sort: Mother Nature doing her thing while the human world sleeps.
So, last night with that cool air lofting over us, I stayed awake simply enjoying the nighttime. I enjoyed this treat until sometime after 4 AM when Mother Nature's night fingers finally massaged me back to sleep.
In the scheme of things, this was only a moment in time: my time and nature's time. Yet those few hours breathing in and feeling nature's calm coolness was priceless. It was worth, many times over, the sleep I did without.

The Softness of the Rain

2010-11-04T08:39:00.009-04:00

The day is soft,

Today I feel no tenseness in the air. The TV is off, Edgar off to work, all animals fed and resting in the calm that reigns under the padding of the rain. On not a very cold, razor-skin cold day that is typical for November, the air sliding in through my open window feels mild, mind-moist--comfortable.

As I write this entry, our new pup, Stewie, plays quietly on his bed, a prelude to cozying into a nap. Donnie the duck, no doubt, is paddling silently around his kiddie pool in his barn stall. Lately when I visit Donnie, he babbles in a strange language. His peeping has morphed into hoarse, duck-like squawks. My baby is growing up.

Should anyone tip-toe into our barn habitated by myriad cats, Donnie, four horses, and seven pot-bellies, he or she could savor the silence--especially in today's rain-cushion. Everyone is at peace--only rest on the mind. That's what is so settling about, so comforting about living with livestock and other animals: as long as they are well fed, sheltered, and in good company, be it animal or human, their world is at ease.

Imagine, in contrast, a room with so many people. What a cacophony of discussion and competition: rehashing workaday woes, bragging about each's gifted children, retelling efforts of multi-tasking, trips to the grocery store and the casino, talking of engines, cars, or the latest technological devices--arguing politics.

Unfortunately, I'd guess that we humans are not content most of the time. We sometimes feel uncomfortable under the umbrella of a soft rain like this. For many of us, the rain is a hindrance, a nuisance to our tasks. We need; we want; we seek; and we converse until we drop, dead-tense, into bed at night. We fail to hear the silence of the rain.

But today I'm embracing this gift of the padding mistlets--the soft sounds of silence. The rain has made me more malleable in mind and more sensitive--this rain that reflects a muffled-melody on a blanket of leaves: background music for my sleeping pup and my thoughts.

My Tribute to Amos the Wonder Pig

2010-10-27T12:48:00.007-04:00

Amos the Wonder Pig has died.

And a little bit of me has died with him.

Anyone who does not have a pet pig may find my reaction to the news of his death as over-reaction, but I can't account for the disconnect that non-pig people may feel. That's out of my control. All I know is how empty I feel right now because I will never again enjoy his many talents and his perennial smile. I'm sitting here writing this tribute to Amos, tears running down my face, because, though he wasn't my own pot-bellied pig, I always felt, in some strange way, that he was mine; he and I had "talked" numerous times, and I felt privileged that he let me shae his company on occasion. He had pigsonality beyond any of my own fourteen pigs, even my own Lowell.

During many fall open houses at Susan and Richard Magidson's Ross Mill Farm, Jeannie Watson and her husband, Geoff, brought Amos, along with his brother, Pilot, and sister, Frosty, to the festivities. Amos entertained us all, just as he had on many occasions and for many years--we pig enthusiasts. After the contests were over and Amos had walked away with his share of the blue ribbons, I sat beside him, petting him and rubbing his belly--telling him how marvelous and talented he was. He could do all kinds of things, usually only attributed to one of the human species: toss a kiddie basketball through its hoop; act the magician by pulling a bouquet of flowers from a hat (to the "ooing" and "aahing" of the spectators). But his most incredible talent was his ability to spell.

Yes, Amos could, indeed, spell people's names. Jeannie taught Amos to spell when he was much younger. She showed him large flashcards with letters, and he associated the sound of the letter with the shape put before him. His ability to spell any name was fascinating--almost unbelievable--and one could only believe it after having witnessed it in person.

I remember the first time I met Amos at one of those parties. Amos' human dad and he came dressed alike--both wearing a candy-striped T-shirt, both wearing a red whirly-bird cap--one of those with a propeller on top (see the photo with this post). When I saw these two together, side by side, I laughed so hard I almost peed myself. In his happy garb Amos participated in all the games: snagging the pretzel on a string; winning the watermelon-eating contest; and bobbing for apples.

Amos the Wonder Pig wasn't just locally known. He was known all over New York and much of the East Coast. He had even appeared as a guest on one of the late night talk shows. I'm not sure if it was Johnny Carson or not, but it was a big-name show similar to Carson's. There, he bowled the audience over with his spelling ability and other talents.

Amos was a ham in the best sense of the word: he had a gift for entertaining, for making people laugh, for promoting pigs as not just animals to be eaten but as intelligent, sensitive beings who have much more to offer the world than existing to be food. Amos, the spokespig for pigs worldwide, spread the word that a pig can be so much more than pork on a fork. He spread the word to many, many people and children who watched him perform that a pet pig is intelligent, grateful, loyal and entirely capable of loving and being loved by his human companions. Thank you, Amos, for restoring pigs' reputation to what it should be, rather than to what most people think.

My deepest condolences go out to the Watsons, Pilot, and Frosty, for they have lost their dear friend and family member And my condolences to those of you who had never met or seen this incredible pig, whether on TV or in person.

My Amos. I will never forget you. I will never forget your happy smile.

Helpless Animals--Ignorant People

2010-10-27T10:45:00.004-04:00

How can this world be so filled with ignorant people? After all these years dealing with animals, animal rescues, teaching high school and college, and speaking about my books to crowds, I still can't fathom the ignorance of some people--it just blows me away.

Here's a good case in point:

Right now there are a bunch of feral cats roaming around a trailer park--the Ramsey Mobile Home Park in Fairview Township in York County--that's south central PA. Two humane groups, Please Don't Litter (PDL) and PAWS (a 30 year old non-profit animal rescue organization that has spayed or neutered 10,000 felines in eight PA counties since 2004) have been shut down in their efforts to trap, spay, neuter, and release TO A DIFFERENT LOCATION the feral cats roaming the trailer park. In addition, these organizations are funded, not by taxpayer dollars, but by private funding.

The owner/managers of this Ramsey Trailer Park will no longer admit the two humane organizations into the park to continue the TNR program. Instead, and without good reason, they are trapping the cats themselves and taking them to the York County SPCA where they are being killed.

Yeah--makes no sense does it. This is classic human behavior fired by ignorance. Someone managing the trailer park hates cats. You know them: 250 pound men, many hunters, who, when they see a cat crossing the road, drive their 3/4 ton pick-up right at them. Then, when they feel the bump beneath their wheels, they shout, "GOTCHA!" It's machissmo at its finest: a 200 something pound man driving over a five pound cat. Wow, what a guy!

It's that kind of mentality we're dealing with here, folks. And the rest of us sensible people who recognize that PDL and PAWS were doing right by these animals must stand idly by and allow the ignoramuses to their cruel deeds. I don't think so.

Nothing dictates that we have to walk away from these poor cats. Please, I urge you to take two minutes to call these numbers and voice your disgust about this situation.
1. Call the York County SPCA t 717-764-6109 and ask them to not accept any more feral cats from the W R Ramsey Mobile Home Park. Tell them that a Trap and Neuter program had been active in the park but were told to stop.
2. Call the W R Ramsey Property Rental at 717-774-1970 and tell them to stop trapping and transporting the feral cats to the York County shelter where they are being euthanized at the expense of taxpayer dollars. Tell them to allow PDL and PAWS, backed by private funding, onto the property to continue with the trap and release program.

The ignorance behind this kind of human behavior is absolutely mind-boggling. The park had two groups trapping, neutering, and vaccinating the cats and then relocating them to neighboring areas--not even the trailer park. And these groups set up feeding stations and shelters for the cats, too, so no one has to worry about feeding them or their reproducing. So, what's the problem?

I don't know what the problem is with the owners of the Ramsey Trailer Park, but in a few minutes I'm going to call and find out! I'm angry and ashamed at the ignorance of some people. I urge everyone to make two phone calls on behalf of these homeless cats--two minutes. Let's out an end to such unnecessary cruelty and stupidity.

Our New Puppy--Stewie

2010-10-26T09:57:00.012-04:00

In a matter of a few hours, my life has been turned upside down because of a being who, himself, is lying upside down, fast asleep, in the kitchen. His name is Stewie, and he is my husband's combination Christmas and birthday present: a puppy. He doesn't look it yet, because he's only seven weeks old, but he's aspiring to be an Irish wolfhound.

This all came about while we were watching Animal Planet's "Dogs 101" a few weeks ago. Throughout the show, which included the Basenji, the Sheltie, and others, a ten minute segment featured the Irish wolfhound, a breed of dog that we had enjoyed twice before in our life together. Many years ago we had adopted our first IW, an Alpo research dog named Diane, and, after she died, we bought Abby from a local breeder. After Abby died, we didn't have a dog for probably fifteen years. I had my hands full with all my cats, horses, and a herd of pot-bellies. What would I want a dog for, right?

Well, when the Irish wolfhound segment of the show came on, I observed my husband. I have to admit that through the other featured dogs, he merely watched with interest, turning back to his magazine throughout. But when the IW came on, he began to smile like a jackass eating stickers--memories of our other two dogs flooding his brain, no doubt. That smile would spell trouble. For that segment he continued to smile like a fool. When he told me the next day he wanted an IW for his birthday, I headed to the Internet to look for a suitable IW companion. I tried rescue groups and Petfinder.com, and one IW was up for adoption but hated cats. I couldn't get that one. And there were no other IW's that needed rescuing. So, I turned to a breeder.

Stewie, named so after my favorite cartoon character from "Family Guy," arrived last night. Edgar prefers to call him Stuart Franklin for royalty's sake. When we picked him out of the car, we were shocked and pleased that he peed and pooed the moment his huge feet hit the ground, and we praised him grandly. In the house, he took to Edgar like a fly on manure, and soon they were both rolling around on the kitchen floor--our cats slinking past the dishwasher and wondering what kind of strange creature he was. After playing with him, feeding him, and taking him out for a final pee and poo (I much prefer the word "shit" but am trying to be politically correct here), we put him into his nicely bedded crate for the night.

Then all hell broke loose.

All alone in a crate in the corner of the room, Stewie began to howl and mewl in the most pitiful voice. My latent maternal instinct caused me to shoot up from the sofa and run to quiet his tears, but Edgar warned me to let him go--he'd soon stop. At the cacophony, the house cats flew into the garden room where they disappeared.

And the ghostly, baleful sounds from the kitchen continued: for sure the Halloween banshee had arrived early.

Edgar and I stared at each other. What should we do? We only knew rudimentary stuff about crating dogs. Were we doing it correctly? Should we continue to let him cry until he fell asleep? Did he need a night light? We only knew how to take care of kittens, cats, pigs, raccoons, and horses. This puppy was something fairly new to us, having gone through this fifteen years ago.

Finally, Edgar said, "Guess we need to go to bed so that he gives up. He hears the TV going and wants to be with us. Gotta go to bed." So, at eight o'clock--barely dusk--we turned off the television and the rest of the lights and headed upstairs serenaded by the sounds of Stewie's whimpers.

I don't think little Stewie slept much last night because he is sleeping now and already had two other naps this morning. In between naps, I take him out for his constitution, which, I might add, he's more knowledgable about than is Congress. When I bring him inside, he laps some water along with puppy kibble, which looks and smells about as tasteful as a pile of clumped sawdust; he pads around the kitchen, sniffs a brave cat, and tastes the floor. Then he retreats to his crate for another nap.

And, as I said, my life has turned upside down: not for this moment while I'm writing here, but in general, I suspect. My cats creep around as though they're waiting for a ghost to flitter past at any moment. Edgar is out on vet calls, but I feel as though I must be on-guard--ready to sweep the pup outside the moment he wakes up--before he shits-poos in front of the refrigerator. Likewise, last night he had already found the cats' self-feeder, so now that is up on the kitchen counter alongside a box of chocolate chip cookies. Already I'm planning for my doctor's appointment this afternoon. Do I change first then take him out for his peeing event? Do I take him out fifteen minutes or more before I leave to drive the half hour for the appointment? What if he doesn't pee in those fifteen minutes? Can a dog owner make a dog pee on command? Do I rub something to make him pee--his ear, his hindy? I could offer him a litter box and see what happens? Perhaps I should put him in the dog run we set up in the grassy area behind the house. My brain is rife with questions on puppy care. The easiest would be to just wait for Edgar to come home to do the potty thing.

Now that's a good idea. Afterall, Stewie is Edgar's puppy. If he wants to share a puppy's love, he should share some of the chaos, too, right?

Yea-ah-ah!

Stay tuned for more on the continuing Saga of Stewie.

Oh, Donnie Boy

2010-10-21T07:48:00.009-04:00

Oh Donnie boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow'

'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Donnie boy, oh Donnie boy, I love you so.

Donnie, the duckling we rescued over a month ago from the Walnutport Canal where, at one and a quarter ounces, he crouched alone and shivering at pathside, has grown into a very classy-looking duck. Though he doesn't resemble the standard mallard, we believe he may be a hybrid of a mallard and something else--possibly a diving duck of some kind.

Watching Donnie grow into duckhood was fun: in the beginning his beak color rivaled that of a bus. Now it is all a satiny black, a perfect match for his sleek, patent-leather feathers. His eyes are partially fringed with white, as is the top of his beak, and matches his white wing tips and white breast--a brilliant tuxedo duck.

Our duck is chic, except for his legs, which I always thought to be a bit thick. Even as a duckling, the sturdiest, most substantial part of him was his legs, out-fitted with the biggest, most orange feet the goddess could divine. He was a bruiser-baby.

Now Donnie is an adolescent, but he doesn't do any of the raucous things teenage boys do: drooling after females, fast driving, playing video games, and experimenting with booze and such. No. He seems to be a sensible guy, though he is obsessed with his swimming pool. Like a teenager, he doesn't want to associate with his human mom anymore. I remember when he swam after me in our swimming pool and when he ran after me through the house. No more--he's too cool for that now. Despite his more independent nature, his voice hasn't changed yet: he's still peeping even though I've been giving him quacking lessons. No one must know that I quack to him every morning while mucking horse stalls (he's living in the barn in an empty horse stall). Perhaps soon he'll catch on, but his ignorance in the quacking category is understandable considering he doesn't have any other ducks from which to learn the correct vocalizations. He literally doesn't know what a duck sounds like.

And for that reason and others I feel empathy for him. Edgar and I have been debating for some time whether to take him back to the Walnutport Canal and set him free. We both agree he needs to go back to the wild, but the question we're asking is "When?" If we take him now, will he know what to look for to eat since he only knows to find his sustenance in a little bowl beside his nest. On the canal there will be no bowls of duck food awaiting him. The biggest detraction from freeing him onto the Canal, however, is the onset of winter. Once the frost hits and the vegetation shrivels, what little plants and insects he may have learned to feed on will all be dead. I can't bear the thought of his starving to death.

So, for now and probably for the entire winter, Donnie will stay with us--unless he is offered a nice home with people who keep ducks as pets. I'm just worried that the longer he is protected, sheltered, and fed, the harder it will be for him to adjust to the wild in spring. Will his instincts allow him to search for appropriate food out there; will he know that fox and coy dogs are enemies and that he should fly away; will he even be able to fly once he tries? So many questions I have, but I cannot find many sure-proof, reassuring answers.

What I do know is that I have raised a rare, beautiful creature and that he will be safe and happy with us through the winter. In spring we're probably going to try to see safely into the wild--somewhere where predators are few. When the last of the snow has melted, we'll probably take Donnie to the Canal and allow him to walk away from us and toward the water he so loves. There he'll have other ducks to play with, to teach him to nibble on plant shoots emerging along the water's edge. I hope they'll be kind enough to take my ingenuous duck under their wings and teach him to be wary of predators and how to feed under water. I hope they'll teach him how to use his wings. And if they don't, I hope his real mother--Mother Nature--will give him hints on duck behavior, behavior that will allow him to live a long, fruitful life.

As Donnie's human mom I will dread and be glad when that day of freedom comes, just like a mom sending her kid off to college. Before we set him free, perhaps I will paint one of his sturdy legs with a ring of bright red nail polish so that when I visit him, I'll be able to pick my cadillac duck out of the avian crowd. And I wonder if he'll remember me. I wonder if he'll swim over to me and quack--not peep--a warm greeting.

Fighting Cancer One Step at a Time

2010-10-18T17:10:00.000-04:00

Fighting Cancer One Step at a Time

Pig Sanctuary in Up-State New York Saves Farm Pig

2010-10-18T17:05:00.000-04:00

Pig Sanctuary in Up-State New York Saves Farm Pig

Our Greatest Fear This Halloween

2010-10-12T14:44:00.002-04:00

Halloween, with its haunted woods and houses, eerily glowing jack o’ lanterns, and spooky “Thriller” sounds raising goosebumps on arms around the world, has nothing on most people’s greatest fear. No ghost, no witch, no scream in the night compares to our most brain-chilling fear: cancer.

Cancer is the scourge that haunts daily. It lurks; it hides; it waits. It grows in silence. And, then, when we least suspect it, it appears, its blanched incisors bared, its lips stretched into a sneer unlike any other. It catches us—helpless--in its Grendel-like clutches, and we believe ourselves helpless: cowering, pleading, praying the bite will only sting, that the apparition will flit--a nightmare--into the night. But once this ghost appears, it doesn’t disappear overnight. This fear is real. This is one horror that won’t leave without a fight.

Cancer has hurt everyone at one time or another. Not many of us have escaped its jaws, which clench, grind, and chew us up—physically and emotionally. Whether one of us has fought the monster off or has struggled to wrestle it from a relative or a pet, we have all known its hurt, its devastation, its oppression. In whatever way each one of us has been hurt by this torment, our only way to come away victorious is to fight until the pestilence is finally silenced.

That fight is being waged by a soldier of incredible courage and determination. His name is Luke Robinson, and he has sacrificed the last two and a half years of his life for his war against canine cancer. As a memorial to his Great Pyrenees, Malcolm, who died of bone cancer in 2006, Luke first began his sucker-punch to cancer during his 2,000 mile trek from Austin, Texas to Boston, Massachusetts. He and his two other Great Pyrenees, Murphy and Hudson, won the first battle against cancer finishing the walk on June 19, 2010. During that arduous trip in which they often stayed overnight in a tent alongside the road in hot and freezing temperatures, Luke remained staunch against his invisible adversary-- memories of his beloved Malcolm spurring him on. Luke’s trip was not only personally cathartic, but its mission sounded the bugle to others. Once he had peoples’ attention, he turned to the world of research. He awakened the veterinary world to renewed interest against this scourge in the form of the most powerful ally: charitable donations and sponsorships that would help make further studies and research possible.

This November 7, 2010 Luke, never one for a mere sneak attack, is launching an even more aggressive campaign in his 2 Million Dog walk. People across the United States are joining his war against cancer by walking by themselves or with their dogs in twelve cities across the nation: Atlanta, Auburn, WA; Boston; Cincinnati; Edinboro, PA; Fairborn, OH; Fort Collins, CO; New Milford, CT; Pittsburgh; Poughkeepsie, NY; Richmond, VA; and Seattle. And those not living near any of the participating cities are waging their personal battle in a virtual walk--walking those two miles around their neighborhoods and parks. And some, who are not able to walk at all are donating even as little as $5 for weapons or to boost morale for those walking soldiers.

Luke is asking everyone to donate or raise whatever monies he or she can to support research against canine cancer and for studies in comparative oncology so that, finally, people can drop this scourge to its knees. If one would like to participate at any of the twelve battleground cities around the U.S., he or she is encouraged to walk there, with or without a dog, for two miles. Registry is online for each particular city, and full instructions and contacts are at each site, as well. If one cannot walk in one of the cities on the list, he or she can still join the battle in the virtual walk by registering at http://www.2milliondogs.org/ and at that site creating his or her own fundraising page, which can then be posted to Facebook or MySpace.

People can also join the fight by donating a portion of the proceeds from any event: yard sales, wine-tasting parties, raffles, small auctions, or any profitable event. As well, businesses may send a percentage of profits from goods sold. Any monies collected from such events can be donated through the website, http://www.2milliondogs.org/ and clicking on the “Donations” tab or by contacting Ginger at Ginger@2milliondogs.org.

And here’s another way to get involved. If you buy your dog food at http://www.dogisgood.com/ and enter coupon code “FB#2”, you will get 10% off your order, and Dog Is Good will donate 15% of your total order to 2 Million Dogs (sale items and Never Walk Alone T’s not included). This offer is valid through November 15th, 2010.

Finally, next year’s goal at 2 Million Dogs is to stage walks against canine and pet cancers in EVERY state. If you are interested in organizing a walk in your city for November 6, 2011, please write to Ginger at Ginger@2milliondogs.orgor call her at 901-619-2286. Everyone’s efforts are needed to kill the scourge that is cancer.

www.2milliondogs.org
http://www.2dogs2000miles.org/
Ginger@2Milliondogs.org
901-619-2286

The Dining Spectacular at The Tusk and Bristle

2010-09-30T15:33:00.007-04:00

So, little did I realize while Carol Eiswald, owners of The Tusk and Bristle Pig Sanctuary, was showing us their animals last Sunday that her husband had another treat awaiting us.
Up to this point I thought our visit couldn’t possibly get any more entertaining, what with Suzy the warthog nuzzling me with her soft nose and with the beardies snouting in on everything. Just when I thought I had experienced the best of the best, the Eiswalds put a bigger, grander maneuver into action.
I must say: both Edgar and I were stricken still as moss by the sight.
Before even Edgar or I could hear the droning of an ATV hauling a mini-manure spreader-like contraption behind it, the pigs heard it and recognized it immediately as their ticket to food heaven. That’s right. Though the Eiswalds have a couple of ATV’s, the pigs know the sound of the particular one that delivers their afternoon produce from the local grocery stores.

Four days a week Jim makes produce runs to four different large chain grocery stores. Sometimes he’s driving in two-foot drifts; other times he’s racing to pick up the next load of donated produce before it wilts and begins rotting in the summer’s heat. Either way, the round trip turns out to be 75 miles. But when he rolls into the driveway, most of the pigs sense he is carrying a load of goodies. After the Eiswalds go through the produce to make sure no plastic or other inedible material is amongst the food, they load it into buckets, taking a couple of bucketsful and dumping the produce into the ATV’s spreader. Then, Jim climbs into the ATV and enters the pens.
And the pigs begin to assemble like church-goers on their way to communion.

Edgar and I stood transfixed as Jim shouted from his ATV, “Here we go! Watch them come and get it!”
It was a show unmatched by any in Las Vegas. Before Jim came with the produce wagon, we had been standing in the middle of a several-acre pen. Suzy and the beardies were snuffling the ground, and a few pot-bellies were hanging around the area. But when Jim shouted for us to watch, it was only a few seconds before we witnessed the showstopper.
One by one a pig came into view: one from behind a tree stump, another from behind a bush, a few stepping from a Quonset hut. Taking it all in, my head was spinning like Linda Blair’s from The Exorcist. To my right marched Miranda, a huge white Yorkshire pig, and at her side high-stepped a medium-sized pot-belly pig. Farther in the distance I could make out other pigs, some with long snouts, other bristly, red-haired things, strolling toward us. To the left came another group of pot-bellies, and among them a spotted, long-haired, wattle-throated Kune-Kune, said to be the kindest miniature pig alive. I whipped around, hearing footsteps behind me, and a large black farm pig named Bohdan trotted past, eager to claim his head of lettuce or, better yet, a banana.
As nearly a hundred pigs gathered, they all headed, noses pointed into the wind, toward the ATV and its wagon spewing goodies. No fighting over competition for food ensued. There was no squabbling, bickering in pig language something like, “Get away! The apples are mine. YOU EAT THE CAULIFLOWER!” These pigs had table manners far nicer and cleaner than many humans I’ve seen eating, including myself.
For the umpteenth time that day, my hands flew to my mouth. “Look at them all!” I gasped.
“Holy cow!” Edgar said, his mouth gaping. “I never saw anything like it!”
I couldn’t help thinking about how different this pig feeding was from people feeding, say, at the local restaurant. Sometimes, when we eat out, I can hardly hear myself think, let alone carry on a decent conversation with my company. People are laughing, talking loud to each other; they’re yelling into their cell phones; kids are screaming, demanding attention; music is competing in the background; and plates and dishes are clanking; all is noise and chaos when humans gather to eat.
Not so with these pigs. I was amazed at how orderly they lined up across from each other at the line of food dropped onto the ground. I was awe-stricken at the quiet, except for the contented grunting from the farm pigs as they chose which of the produce to taste. Ordinarily, I would have expected complete confusion and battling among creatures usually thought inferior to us humans. But these pigs exhibited manners only taught by the likes of Henry Higgins. Miss Vanderbilt, herself, couldn’t have done a better job though, I must admit, the pigs had no tables upon which to put their elbows.
Time after time Jim hurried back to the barn to load up another batch of goodies, and time after time we watched in awe.
Such a complete mix of animals eating alongside each other was enough to make me think about how careful most humans are about the company they choose. But the pigs knew no discrimination. Queuing up to the “plates” were pigs huge, and alongside them were mini pot-bellies. The Russian wild boars and Eurasian boars and red boars gathered amongst the farm pigs and the Kune-Kunes. What a delight to witness.
It just wasn’t fair, I reasoned, after the pigs had eaten the last of the bananas. Some were even walking away with sweet red peppers in their mouths. It just wasn’t fair that I could only witness this once in my life, yet the Eiswalds could enjoy the spectacle every day of the week.
No—it just wasn’t fair, I decided as a pig walked past me with half a cantaloupe in his mouth. I smiled and gave Carol thumbs up--in stereo.

A Gift from Tobias

2010-09-30T11:53:00.004-04:00

Never underestimate the intelligence of a pig.
Here's a short video of our visit to The Tusk and Bristle. While we visited the pig sanctuary in up-state New York, we were accompanied on our walk amongst the pigs by Suzy the warthog and Tobias and Ellie Mae, the Bornean bearded pigs.
These three wild pigs loved our company, mine, in particular. In fact, Tobias so appreciated my belly rubs and my friendship that he presented me with a gift. Now, he couldn't go to the mall to buy me perfume or anything; he had to make do with what was available.See in the video what he gave me. Doyou detect a note of shyness as he presented me with his gift?
I don't think I ever was given a present that I appreciated more.
Tobias is my new boyfriend.

The Wonders of Warthogs

2010-09-29T15:34:00.002-04:00

Many years ago while visiting the San Diego Zoo, I had the sudden urge to jump into a wild animal pen and cozy up to the critters, who, to my mind, exuded the most vibrant personalities, curiosity, and quirkiness. I wasn’t particularly interested in the monkeys, who, between tagging each other over the boulders, hunkered down to play with themselves or scratch fleas on another’s back. But, at this particular animal pen, Edgar almost had to hold me back from jumping amidst them.
The critters inside were African warthogs.
With faces full of bristles, over-grown side-burns, and knobs and tumor-ish growths all over their faces, anyone unappreciative of porcine particulars would have thought them hideous, deformed, entirely un-handsome. But I, with my penchant for anything swiney and bristly, became immediately enthralled with them. What creative force could have dreamt up such a fantastic creature proportioned so strangely, out-fitted with a cacophony of facial structures: thinly-sparsed, stringy hair, four knife- tusks, and various shapes and sizes of “warts” that, considered together, most humans would only regard as unfashionably eclectic? If ever, during the formation of the world’s creatures, God or Goddess had a chance to flirt with surrealism, hog-architecture became that moment. To me, a warthog reflects its creator’s humorous, thoroughly extreme, side. After designing more conventional creatures, the Goddess must have yawned, taken out her Bohemian headdress, and created, to my delight, the warthog.

While Edgar strictly forbid me from climbing into the warthog’s pen that afternoon in San Diego, I had never forgotten that feeling of synchronicity between the warthogs and me, for while I had no compelling physical excesses as did they, I certainly was non-traditional in my thinking and sometimes extreme in my behavior. People, similarly, tended to be either attracted to me or repelled by me. And how fitting was their physical design for such creatures that seemed, like me, at once quirky and lovable, reflecting intelligence and inquisitiveness alongside athleticism and laziness. Their looks and their personalities matched like stilettos with a mini-dress. The odd-looking warthog seemed to teeter, as I observed them in their relationships with each other, between pushiness and acceptance, friendly nudging and bad-ass attitude. They were, at once, schoolgirls and gangsters—demure yet ruthless. They were moody: ferocious one moment, playful the next. They looked like animals yet bore (excuse the pun) human traits. They reminded me of me; therefore, I loved them.

Last Sunday I finally got my chance to converse with and experience the aura of, not only a warthog, but also a whole range of other swine species: Bornean bearded pigs, Russian wild boars, Eurasian boars, red boars, pot-bellies, and farm pigs. Amidst this swinal throng I was the Wizard of Oz’s Dorothy enjoying Munchkinland—twirling and swirling amongst the pig populace, laughing and singing amid the fantastic landscape of porkers, totally enthralled in this newly-discovered pigdom..

I was fortunate enough, years ago, to have become friends with Carol Eiswald, who, together with her husband, Jim, have their own private pig sanctuary, The Tusk and Bristle. The Internet has a way of connecting like-minded people, and pig people tend to seek each other out. Through numerous emails, Carol and I became friends. When Carol sent me photos of Suzy the warthog lying stretched out and asleep on one of their living room’s leather chairs, I knew I had to visit--my big chance to cavort with a warthog. I couldn’t wait.
Edgar and I arrived early this past Sunday morning, and Carol and I hugged at the airport as though we had known each other for a century. We drove to their sanctuary, and I was so excited to meet Suzy that, like a little kid, I could hardly stand still. I was close to peeing myself, I was so ecstatic to be in the midst of such company—human and pig. Carol finally asked if I’d like to meet Suzy.
“Are you kidding!” I said. “I have been waiting years to meet your warthog.” Y
Carol smiled, the large kid hopping at her side. Then, she pointed a finger at me. “I’m warning you; you’re going to get muddy. Suzy is in this pen over there with her cohorts, the Bornean bearded pigs, Tobias and Ellie Mae.”
We walked into the woods surrounding their home. I said, “Will they come to us?”
Carol laughed. “Oh, I’d say so. They enjoy people. The beardies can be a little rough, but all three are exceptionally sweet.”
The Eiswalds have adopted and rescued approximately 100 pigs of varying breed, and they roam their wooded property above Syracuse, New York. Miles of fencing run through the 35 acres of piney forest, some separating the more aggressive pigs from the more mild-tempered ones. I couldn’t see where one pen ended and another started because the fencing followed the natural landscape amidst the pines, hills, and brush. No rectangular pens under the scorching sun existed here. All was integrated into the environment. Except for the paths created by the food-bearing ATV’s and those used by the Eiswalds to visit their pigs several times a day, one would have thought she was simply hiking somewhere in the Poconos.
Carol and I walked through a gate, and Carol called out, “Suzy! Where are you? Soo-zy! Tobias! Ellie!” I peered through the brush for a glimpse of the wild pigs, and I didn’t have long to wait. Suddenly the bushes off to the left crackled, their branches breaking under the force of something terrific, and Suzy the warthog came galloping up to us.
My hands flew to my mouth, eyes wide open. She was beautiful! Though she was hardly larger than a spaniel, her body was solid muscle, with that sinewy look of a hardened Olympian. Yet she was petite, delicate-looking. She had tiny, goat-like feet, very nimble and quick to navigate the rocky ground. She had hardly any body hair except for a bristly mane—of sorts—that was gray and resembled a teenager’s mohawk. But it was softer, more sparse and flowy that a guy’s hair-strip. It started right behind her head, continuing over the top of her body, finally disappearing at her hind end, where it transitioned into a two-foot long bare tail tipped with a pouf of hair.
Together, Suzy’s face and its matching personality truly bowled me over. Even though I had seen warthogs before, I hadn’t seen them up close and personal. I was about to experience a lifetime of entertainment in just a few minutes. After Suzy greeted her human mom, she trotted right over to me. Suzy was no shrinking violet when it came to welcoming strangers. I squatted down to meet her, and she pushed the beardies aside, skittering to a halt right in front of me--nose to snout.
“Oh, wow!” I laughed, steadying myself against a nearby tree. I was speechless. Suzy’s enthusiasm had almost knocked me over. She continued to smell and poke my face with her petite snout--friend or foe here? she had to be thinking. I was so flattered; she thought I was just as special as I thought she was. I sensed it within her intense curiosity with me, her need to really “get in my face,” and her desire to stay, planted, at my side. Suzy liked me.
I, too, probed her face as a blind person would, for Suzy was a very tactile, palpable being. Just seeing her and observing her behavior couldn’t explain her entirely. I had to touch her face, run my hands all over jaws, snout—everywhere--feeling the flatness of what we’d call her forehead and down the length of her nose. I clasped her tiny, feminine ears and stroked her five-inch tufts or beards on either side of her jaws. She was a living work of art and her creator the most imaginative of artists. Totally awe-stricken, I felt the tiny bumps I supposed to be her “warts” that were beginning to erupt all over her nineteen-month-old face.
I gasped as Suzy snuggled my neck. She made very tiny chirping noises that sounded much like a baby raccoon’s, and those chirps were very quiet, as though she were thinking and analyzing me and talking to herself about me. I put an arm around her neck and held her close, whispering sweet something’s in her ear, and I marveled that this wild being was accepting me as a friend; she was trusting me to be kind to her. And though her eyes were smaller than those of a farm pigs’, I recognized the human element in them--even in this wild thing--that I had long ago recognized in the domestic farm pig.
Suzy didn’t have me to herself for very long. Tobias and Ellie Mae, the bearded Bornean pigs, wanted in on the deal, and they weren’t nearly as delicate as Suzy was in their greeting, even though I would not have called Suzy’s introduction all that restrained. The bearded pigs had the perfect handshake with their ten-inch snout. Together, both Ellie Mae and Tobias said “Hello” in their own way, with their long snouts sporting beards the likes of Santa. The ant-eater-like noses were checking me out everywhere: my jacket pockets, my face, my knees, my shoes. They planted dabs of snout-mud all over me, but I didn’t care. They were hardly content to sniff my face and have it returned with a simple hug and pat on the head. No--the beardeds were as athletic and lithe as Suzy, but even though one was a female, the overall impression I had was that they were not nearly as feminine and soft-hearted as Suzy. Even Ellie Mae was pushy, nosing my arm as I tried desperately to take Suzy’s and Tobias’ pictures. Every time I thought I had a good portrait shot of one of them, one of the beardies nudged my arm and ruined the picture. But they were having fun with me—probably sniffing out my own pot-bellies from home and our cats and horses, too. To them I was an interesting mélange of scents.
After the formal introductions to Suzy, Tobias, and Ellie Mae, the seven of us went on a walking tour of the sanctuary. Suzy and the beardies followed us like dogs, trotting alongside as we went from one pen to another visiting all kinds of pigs, from pot-bellies to huge farm pigs to other breeds of wild pigs. What amazed me, too, was how well all the different breeds of pigs got along together. I didn’t see any evidence of porcine racism. Of course, some were slower than others, and Suzy checked everyone out as soon as we entered another gate. But we heard very little fussing between pigs, and when we did, it qualified more as a moment of irritation than any kind of real battle.
Before we knew it, one hundred pigs trailed behind us, aside us, in front of us--some walking, others trotting. We were as much entertainment to them as they were to us. And I felt a curious sensation that I had felt once before while scuba diving in Grand Cayman. This same feeling of oneness with the pigs had gripped me before while diving with a huge school of horse-eye jack. At once, while I knew I was different from the fish, I felt as though I was accepted as one of the school. Here, too, though I knew I was different from the pigs, walking amongst them, I felt like one of the herd. On our walk through the sanctuary, there were no distinctions between humans and pigs. We were creatures simply on a hike together.
What people who are not used to the company of pigs don’t and, possibly, can’t understand is how human-like these animals are. Because pigs have the intelligence of a three-year-old child, they are able to express emotion that people can understand—“speaking” in over 32 vocalizations. They can be shrewd and are easily capable of out-thinking a dull-witted person. Readily they engage a person in play and have a sense of timing that compares to a good comedian.
What is most human-like, however, is a pig’s eye. Every person should look a pig in the eye, and that person will be forever changed. In that eye resides honesty, questioning, evaluation of the thing being seen. The eye cases a person’s motives and sums her up fairly accurately and just as quickly. The eye is kind, but like a human’s, it can be a bit suspicious until it makes a discovery either way. Long lashes border the eyelids as the eye itself turns, darts, stares, and evaluates within its socket, the whites of the eye revealing emotion itself. But if a person stares long enough into a pig’s eye, she will see an individual there in the iris, in the pupil, in the closing and opening of the lids, in the flash of the white. She will recognize an intelligent, perceptive, friendly being within the orb
She will see the human within the animal.

I will never forget my experience at Carol’s The Tusk and Bristle. Though the farm is not open to the public, I was fortunate enough to meet many of its guests, the most captivating of whom was Suzy.

Piggy Resort and Spa in Pennsylvania

2010-09-21T19:30:00.005-04:00

Many vacationers may have stayed at a Hampton Inn and Suites before, but I’m sure they’ve never been afforded the royal treatment as many pet swine have had while staying at Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa. This specialty “Ham-ton Hotel” sports spa facilities equivalent to the most luxurious of those created for humans. The guests, however, are all pigs—yes, real porkers—pot-bellied pigs that don’t put up a stink at this place.

Not only does Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa cater to the spoiled swine pet, who may be staying while his or her owner is on vacation, but this farm, located outside of Doylestown, PA, also serves as a transitional home between homelessness and acquiring a regular, long-term home with caring and informed human companions. For instance, Ross Mill’s owners, Susan and Richard Magidson, together with the organization, Pig Placement Network, offer assistance to people looking to re-home their pigs or adopt a pet pig. In addition, they supply educational information to adoptees to better serve their new porcine partners. PPN and Ross Mill Farm even help people deal with problem porcine situations in order to facilitate the pig’s staying in his or her home. For people interested in becoming a companion person for a new adult or young pig, Susan assists with easing both the human and the pig into a compatible and loving relationship.

Susan says about PPN and Ross Mill’s role in helping those wanting a pet pig, “Sometimes a person will want to adopt a pig but has no idea that pigs need to be able to play and run outdoors. Pet pigs are mostly indoor pets and use a litter box as cats do. They need careful feeding and wise snacking. Fattening goodies are unwise choices because pigs gain weight so quickly, so adopters need to know to feed a low-calorie pot-belly pig feed soaked with plenty of water. And, of course, people need to check their zoning laws and have access to good veterinary care—all before taking a pig home.” Susan says, “I try to help people with any and all problems because we want the adoption process to go as seamlessly as possible-- we want the person to feel comfortable and somewhat expert in pig care so that the pig doesn’t end up in an adoptive situation again.”

A trip to the Magidsons’ “Ham-ton Hotel” is inspiring. Outside the main lodging runs the main street-path separating the rows of single-dwelling pig homes and properties. Some swiners at Ross Mill prefer outdoor living; they’re more the camping type, but their facilities are no less attractive than those residing in the complex’s main inn. In the newly built lodge, rows upon rows of pig rooms line the perimeter of this “hotel for hogs.” Eighty of the 150 pigs housed on the property belong to Pig Placement Network and have come there after being rescued. Most all of them find themselves in a re-homing situation that, until they find that ideal human who finds them irresistible, pampers them with respect, friendship, and love.

Any visitor interested in meeting a prospective adoptee will find themselves in an atmosphere where pigs come first. From her office in the lodge, Susan networks with people needing assistance adopting or re-homing a pig. Young pigs play and sleep at her feet as Susan works, and outside her office, a few pigs walk the aisles exploring and meeting others of their own kind. Occasionally, one hears snorting and squeals from two pigs arguing over the same blanket, but in a building that houses up to 70 pigs, this is a rare event. More often one only hears quiet and an occasional contented grunt muffled beneath a quilt.

Withinbn the lodge, pet pigs visiting Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa have use of a veterinary treatment room for minor surgeries and hoof trims. Another room is the Piggy Spa where vacationing swiners enjoy scented baths, ear and eye cleansing, and even whole body massages. No luxury accommodations are too good for Ross Mill pig guests.

Ross Mill Farm Piggy Resort and Spa is in the business, not of rescuing pigs, but of re-homing pigs, vacationing pigs, dieting over-weight pigs, and providing pig-sitting services. Susan’s and Richard’s goals emphasize educating prospective pig owners in the quirks and needs of caring for a pot-belly pig so that the animal becomes appreciated and never has to be surrendered to a rescue.

Ross Mill Farm and Pig Placement Network gladly receive donations as well as supplies like blankets, dishes, soaps, cleansers, Clorox, shovels, rakes, and a supply of carrots and grapes. Check out both websites: http://www.rossmillfarm.com/ for a pictorial farm tour and http://www.pigplacementnetwork.com/.

The Truth About Rabies--Boiled Down

2010-09-16T09:30:00.001-04:00

One morning about five years ago a stray cat appeared, starved, on our front porch. He was desperately thin, with a rangy coat; he had an anxious look in his eyes. The first thought I had was that he must be incredibly hungry. So, I ran for a can of cat food, but, for some reason, he wouldn’t come near the dish. This was one frightened cat. That’s when I decided to offer him a small dollop of food from the end of my fingers. He looked at me, searched for an escape route, and backed slowly away—very leery. But I was a good human, I thought. I had to show him I was not like all the other humans he has likely come across in his life.
This was a young cat—a teenaged, skeletal-skinny feline. He trusted no human. I lowered my eyes, crouched down to his level, and held out my hand with the food low enough so that he didn’t feel threatened.
Suddenly he leaped at my fingers, grabbed the spoonful of food and with it a good chunk of my hand. I stood up, howling. In his frantic attempt to get the food, he had accidentally bitten my hand. I went inside, stopped the bleeding, and put on a band-aid.
Later in the afternoon I went searching for the cat. There, behind the house underneath a hemlock it lay dead. I scooped him up in a shovel and buried him in the woods. Poor thing—hadn’t had much of a life.
I looked at my hand and wondered.

“No. I’m certain he didn’t have rabies,” I said to my usually calm doctor. “Well, I don’t know for sure, but he was just so starved, he accidentally bit me. Yeah, I know it wasn’t the smartest thing for me to do.”
In minutes everyone around me--husband, parents, doctors—were freaking out. They were worried I might have rabies. I assured them the stray was just emaciated and hungry, that he didn’t appear to be rabid, and that it was my fault for doing a stupid thing like trying to feed him from my fingers.
My doctor talked to Edgar, and, together, they decided I should dig up the cat’s body, cut off the head, and send it to a lab to be tested.

“Where did you bury the cat?” Edgar said, a shovel in his hand. I knew what he was about to do, and I didn’t want the poor cat’s body being dug up and then decapitated.
“I’m not telling you,” I said firmly.
An argument ensued, one in which I was given a choice: send away the cat’s head or go through the series of rabies shots—those awful ones they give in the belly or something. I said, “Well, you’re not going to find the cat cause I’m not telling you, so I guess I’ll have to get the shots.”
“I can’t believe you!” my husband said.
“Yeah, well. That cat was just emaciated, maybe sick with something else. I don’t think he was rabid. But we’re not digging him up.”

So, off to the hospital we went. I was escorted to a chair within the ER, and the nurses and doctors stared at me and talked behind their masks as though I had some sort of pox or something. I stared back: they didn’t understand country life, me, or struggling felines thrown out on the street to fend for themselves. They didn’t know I was certain I hadn’t been bitten by a rabid cat. Let them stare and gossip—I didn’t care.
In a few minutes I had the first of probably around thirteen or so after-exposure anti-rabies injections—in the arms, not the belly. They were no different than allergy injections—didn’t hurt, no reactions. The worst part was the driving time to get the shot.

I never did get rabies, but my stubbornness could’ve taken my life.

Today, several years after this event, I read an article about rabies. I’ve summarized the most important facts here. These facts aren’t the usual hysterical advice garnered through the Internet. These facts have been gathered by the American Veterinary Medical Association. I’m going to keep this list salient and short.

Rabies is a virus that attacks the nerves, and then the brain of an infected animal. It is usually transmitted by a bite. One rarely can get the disease simply from having an open wound contacting a rabid animal’s saliva.
Only mammals get rabies. Birds, fish, reptiles amphibians do not. The main rabies carriers are skunks, raccoons, bats, coyotes, and foxes. The reason cats are the most risky of the domestic animals is because most cat owners usually don’t vaccinate their cats for rabies. After the cat, rabies occurs next in dogs and cattle but rarely in horses, goats, sheep, swine, and ferrets.
Rabies vaccines are available for cats, dogs, ferrets, horses, cattle, and sheep. And wildlife can be given oral vaccine.
Signs of rabies in dogs, cats, ferrets: fear, aggressive behavior, massive drooling, difficulty swallowing, staggering, and seizures.
Humans are not at high risk if they vaccinate their animals, stay out of the way of suspicious-looking wildlife, and, if bitten, submit to the rabies series treatment.
Steps to take in dealing with rabies:
Get dogs, cats, ferrets, horses, and livestock vaccinated.
Avoid letting unvaccinated animals roam free. Let unvaccinated pets enjoy playtime outside that is supervised, caged, and spay and neuter pets to prevent roaming.
Pick up garbage and other foods lying around outside—foods that may attract raccoons and other wild animals.
Don’t go near a nocturnal wild animal who is exhibiting strange, erratic behavior during the day. Call the game commissioner.
If someone is bitten by a suspicious-acting unvaccinated domestic pet or a strangely-behaving wild animal, see a physician as soon as possible, and follow his or her advice. That advice will probably be to go through the treatment program for rabies, the injections of which—from my standpoint—were no different than having a bunch of flu shots. If the animal who bit someone is a pet, officials will likely just order home quarantine for ten days.

The most significant thing anyone can do to avoid another’s contracting rabies is to vaccinate pets and livestock.

Bad Dog Days During Flight: Owners Beware!

2010-09-14T08:50:00.004-04:00

All dog owners, particularly those of bulldog-type dogs, should be aware of shipping these animals through the air. In "DVM Newsmagazine" (September 2010) the article, 'Short-nosed dog breeds more likely to die in flight' by Rachael Whitcomb, says, "Half of all dogs that died on commercial fights over the last five years were short-nosed breeds, like pugs and English bulldogs, according to the Department of Transportation."
Here's more information from that article: In a study running from 2006 to 2008, Continental Airlines had the highest number of animal deaths (53 deaths) followed by Alaska Airlines (31 deaths) and then American Airlines (23 deaths).
Two million pets are transported by air in the US each year, and in 2005, for the first time, airlines were required to file monthly pet mortality and injury reports. From 2005 to 2009 122 dog deaths occurred. Out of those 122 dog deaths, 25 were English Bulldogs and 11 were pugs. It appears that breathing problems and other genetic problems may have contributed to the Bulldogs' and pugs' dying. One should note that most of those deaths occurred while the animals were in the cargo hold rather than in the passenger cabin.
The Department of Transportation advises anyone who wishes to fly their pets to first get the animal checked out by a veterinarian.
Since Continental's 53 dog deaths, the airline had put an embargo on carrying bulldogs, pitbulls, and American Staffordshire Terriers. However, in 2009, Continental is allowing puppies of those breeds to fly in temperatures below 85 degrees.
People thinking of flying their pets should also check out Animal Airways, which offers in-flight vet services, and the average cost is $99 each way. Not too bad to insure the well-being and safety of the animal.

Part Five: Lost But Not Forgotten

2010-09-05T19:30:00.002-04:00

What the people in the cars were thinking was anyone’s guess. One thing they all did realize, however, was that there was a wild buffalo in the middle of a road with a woman dressed in a very silly outfit, yelling and gesticulating in its face. They weren’t getting out to help for no amount of money.
And what Gay was thinking as she ran after Buffy, who, then, skipped out of the road to join Scotty in Edgar’s parents’ vegetable garden, was, “Why aren’t any of these people in all these friggin’ cars helping me herd the buffalo and the steer back into their pasture? What’s the matter with everybody?” For at least fifteen minutes Gay first ran after Buffy, and Buffy, prancing lightly into the air, leaped away and galloped on tippy-toes up through the garden, mangling tomato plants and zucchini plants as she went. With Scotty right on her heels, he plunged, not nearly as light on his feet as she, clomping at a gallop, over the garden. Then, spying a particularly lush patch of grass, they both stopped to eat.
Gay was frantic, running another quarter mile to get to the patch of grass at which the two stopped. Meanwhile the cars and trucks, many of which she had noticed as she raced past them, sat stock-still. And most of the pick-ups had men in them—MEN! Why in the world wasn’t anyone helping her round up the animals? Were they afraid? She couldn’t believe no one would help, but she didn’t have much time to ponder the questions.

In an effort to keep weight gain, a hereditary trait born to most all of Pennsylvania Dutchmen and women, to a minimum, Gay had long ago taken up running. Daily she put on her sneakers and headed out along the woods where Edgar kept a mowed path for her to run and ride the horses. At last her stamina came in handy in a practical sense: for chasing down escaped animals. The main trouble was, with very little effort the two animals could bound away as soon as she ran up to them, and while their steps were three times hers, they covered more distance with less effort. Herding them on foot seemed futile: why would they ever go back into their comparatively barren pasture when all this wonderful grass was outside their pasture. The task was daunting.
By some stroke of luck, however, Gay charged up to Buffy, arms out and spitting syllables Buffy found distasteful, “Git awt! Sh—sh—sh—shh! Sh—sh—sh-shht! Sh-sh-sh-sht! Go on! Get back!” Buffy obviously didn’t liked being “shushed,” and she, with Scotty lumbering behind, finally trotted indifferently into the pasture with Edgar’s father closing the gate behind them.
When the auto audience saw the animals finally locked into their pasture, Gay got a horn-blowing ovation from the cars backed up on Cherryville Road. Drivers tooted their horns, and Gay heard a couple others cheer. Exhausted, Gay raised an arm to acknowledge their support then disappeared, acutely aware of her silly garb, behind the farmhouse until the traffic had disappeared. She locked the animals out of the pasture with the torn fencing, and that evening Edgar fixed it.
Buffy continued to leap the fence a few times a month, and each time Scotty barreled down the fence so that he could be with her. But the neighbors and travelers in this area, ones that used the road regularly, soon got used to driving slowly on that stretch of Cherryville Road where on any day Buffy could be standing in the road or out in the middle of an unfenced alfalfa field. The Balliets received many nonchalant calls from people on their way to work, “Your buffalo and steer are standing by the side of the road again. They must’ve escaped.” And then Gay and Edgar would go down to the farm and herd them back into the pasture.

Over the years of Edgar’s being a large animal veterinarian, he has had some clients finding it difficult to pay. Their resolution: give us another animal we don’t need in exchange for services. So, under these conditions we received a llama as payment. So, Edgar brought home Larry the llama, put him into the same back barn stall that Scotty and Buffy adjusted in, and in two weeks he let Larry out into the field. By now Edgar had begun supplementing the pasture grass with feeding hay morning and evening.
Larry immediately latched onto the only remaining sheep, but shortly after being let out into the pasture, he found himself the victim of two bullies: Scotty and Buffy. By then, Scotty was sporting two two and a half -feet-long pointy horns. He was a huge animal, weighing well over a ton, and he knew to use his horns to his advantage. Lar;ry had a taste of Scotty’s horns on many occasion. If Larry happened to be in Scotty’s way in the barnyard, Scotty shook his horns at Larry, and the llama scooted out of the way. Because Larry was the weakest of the animal family, he was the one the bigger animals picked on—no different from diffident kids being picked on by the school bullies.
One morning Edgar had gone across the street to the barn early in the morning to throw hay to the animals. He heard a high-pitched whining coming from the back stall. He ran, opened the door, and found Larry pinned in the corner, Scotty looming over him. Larry had sat down in a submissive posture, and Scotty was brandishing his horns in a threatening manner, warning Larry not to move or he’d give him a good poke.
Edgar yelled, Scotty turned to look, then Edgar took the pitchfork and waved it at Scotty. “Hey, ya big bastard!” Edgar yelled as all 2,000 pounds of Scotty squeezed out the barn door. “Let Larry alone!” Edgar decided then and there to get Gay another present—this one for being a wonderful, tolerant wife—a donkey.
From another client who had some trouble paying his veterinary bills, Edgar received a donkey, an animal, he had heard, likes llamas. Edgar’s reasoning for accepting the donkey was because Larry needed protecting from Scotty and Buffy. So, one day a mammoth jenny was delivered to the farm and put into the pasture with Scotty and Buffy. At this point Scotty and Buffy were the royal keepers of the jewels: the pasture. Each took turns calling all the shots and deciding pasture decorum for the one lone sheep, Lois, and Larry. Of course, Larry and Lois, had absolutely no rights in Scotty and Buffy’s pasturedom. But the tides turned immediately when Sophie, the donkey, arrived.
Sophie was a yearling when Edgar brought her to the farm as Larry’s bodyguard. Immediately the llama and donkey became good friends, and, as well, Scotty and Buffy didn’t care for the donkey, who would have no funny business and who could have cared less who thought he or she was boss of the pasture. Sophie was her own boss.
One day while Edgar was working in the barn, he heard Larry’s pitiful wailing, and, figuring Scotty was bullying him again, he ran to help. But Sophie had gotten there first. Sure enough, Scotty had Larry pinned in the corner, and he was shaking his huge horns at him. Sophie galloped into the barn and, seeing Larry cowering at Scotty’s feet, went immediately to Larry’s defense. She ran into the stall and turned around. With that Scotty turned his huge, concrete-block head toward her, and “BLAM!” her back legs shot him a double-barreled kick to the forehead.
Edgar watched, shocked. For a second Scotty just stood there, and in another second, he simply dropped to his knees. Edgar had no bell to ring as they do in the boxing matches, but for sure Sophie had knocked him out for a few seconds. Minutes later Scotty got up. Then, on shaky legs, he lumbered out the barn and headed to the pasture. Never again did he pick on Larry. Sophie had fixed his head right.

Buffy, though she didn’t pick on Larry and so didn’t get into any tussles with Sophie, busied herself leaping the fence. Her habit became so routine that Edgar decided just to let her go. Several times he watched her leap over, eat for an hour or two, and then she hopped back over the fence to be with Scotty. On the other hand, depending on Scotty’s neediness to be right alongside Buffy, he either did or didn’t plow through the fence. One time Buffy’s escape even hit the local newspapers with an article entitled, “Where the Steer and the Buffalo Roam.” Edgar spent many days fixing and re-fixing fencing.
One evening Scotty and Buffy had escaped their pasture for the last time. This time someone had called the state cops. Gay’s father and Edgar managed the herding, though dusk had already settled, and darkness was rapidly descending. Gay’s father, Ralph, was the first one on the scene: Scotty and Buffy were a half mile from the farm—still on Balliet farmland—but far from the pasture where they belonged.
When the cop car pulled up, and the officer saw Ralph, a man in his late sixties, yelling and waving his arms in Scotty’s face, the cop said, in the bravest voice he could muster, “I think he’s gonna charge.” With that he took out his revolver, and Ralph said, “What do you think you’re gonna do with that gun?”
The cop said, as Scotty watched him intently chewing grass, “He looks like he’s gonna charge. If he does, I’m gonna shoot.”
“Listen, asshole—this steer is not about to charge anybody. He’s just having a good time eating grass. Now, go find something better to do, and my son-in-law and I will get this critter back in his pasture.” Probably relieved to be dismissed from that job, the cop got back in his car and drove away. Hours later, after the sun had set, Ralph and Edgar finally got the two escapees back to their home.
That incident was the back-breaker. The phone was always ringing, “There’s a buffalo and something else really big and red-headed standing in a field without fencing.” So, Edgar arranged for Buffy to go back to the Game Preserve. Though Scotty was devastated to lose his buddy, he eventually adjusted. Buffy rejoined her old herd at the Game Preserve and began having lots of buffalo babies.

Scotty was always the pensive type, so characteristic of bovines in general. As he got older, he was content to lie in the shade under his mulberry tree and chew his cud. Lois eventually died as did Larry. Edgar had another burro given to him as payment for a vet bill, and the burro, Benji, bred Sophie, and together, they had Thumbelina. Scotty learned to accept Sophie and her entourage, but during his last years his was king of the pasture and kept mostly to himself, except for accepting hand-outs from people visiting the farm and dog biscuit treats from Edgar and his father.

Part Four: Lost But Not Forgotten

2010-09-04T16:00:00.001-04:00

In the next several months, Scotty’s horns were even larger and more spiked, but, just because he was growing into a big boy didn’t mean he was as strong in spirit. Besides Edgar’s dad talking to him, he just seemed lonely—standing alone in the middle of the pasture, the two sheep each other’s company across the field. Scotty’s loneliness precipitated another present for Gay for her birthday in May.
On her birthday of May 23, 1986, Edgar again prodded Gay to take a walk down to the old farmstead. She knew something was up—another animal of some kind, most likely. She mentally prepared herself: Could it be a kind of fowl this time? Perhaps a goose or a few ducks or maybe a swan or peacock, which Gay had hinted she’d like having?
But no feathers did this present wear.
When he opened the door to the same stall wherein he had first introduced his wife to Scotty, she gasped. It wasn’t fowl, that’s for sure. It was small, just like Scotty had been, but it was not another Scotty. It was something far more exotic with black, tightly curled hair. And behind its low-carried head, a small lump protruded on its back.
“Okay,” Gay said, staring at the creature before her, “I give up. What is it?”
“She’s a buffalo,” Edgar said, smiling as grandly as when he had shown Gay Scotty. “How do you like her?”
“A buffalo? What do we need a buffalo for? Mowing grass again?”
“As a friend for Scotty.”
“What if he doesn’t want a buffalo for a friend?”
“I think they’ll get along fine. They just have to get used to each other, you’ll see.”
“Thanks for the birthday present. Sandals would’ve been more practical.”

Buffy, too, had come from the Game Preserve where she had been part of a herd of twenty-some buffaloes. Edgar discouraged our trying to tame her—buffaloes were instinctively wild and fairly untamable. After acclimating the buffalo to the back stall for a week, Edgar decided to let her out with Scotty. The sheep were already way out in the pasture, and Scotty was in the barnyard sniffing at the last dribbles of hay. His horns were still just five-inch stubs, but he had taken over as king of the pasture. The sheep were peasants in his kingdom.
Edgar opened Buffy’s gate, and the small buffalo roared out of the stall, head down like a battering ram, and skipped down the ramp and into the barnyard where Scotty, eyes wide, took one look at her, spun around, and barrel-assed right through the barnyard gate. He ran as fast as he could to the safety of the sheep. Buffy hadn’t meant to chase him; she had only wanted to run and be free. When Buffy stopped in the barnyard to take in her surroundings, she just stood there, pawing the ground and sniffing it, evaluating her environment and the animals she would share the fields with.
Though Scotty’s initial reaction to the alien caused the destruction of the barnyard fence, once he found that Buffy was no threat, they quickly became friends. And, then, once friends, they became inseparable buddies, walking the pasture together, coming into the barn in the evening together, basking in the sunshine together. They had grown so close that they were virtually inseparable, like a couple of closely-planted sweet potatoes grown into one another.
Though buffalo may look lethargic, tankish, with hardly energy to move let alone jump a fence, they are hardly sedentary or clumsy. As Buffy got older, looking every day much more like a TV buffalo, with that big, blocky head, the small muzzle and large expanse between the black eyes, and as her hump grew larger and her rump smaller and more compact, she became more athletic as well. Now, with a Scotch Highland steer, two sheep, and a buffalo munching all day on the pasture, the grass was becoming thinner and scarcer. Suddenly the grass on the other side of the fence was looking much tastier.
Seeing the lush grass on the other side of the fence got Buffy devising her escape to greener meadows. One day, in an effortless manner, she leaped the fence. She flew through the air and over the barrier with the agility of Mikhail Baryshnikov. Seeing her hopping the fence, Scotty was, at once, both impressed and agitated; his buddy had left him. Scotty was so afraid of being left behind he backed up, put his huge head to the ground, and charged the fence where, beyond it, Buffy was gorging on the high grass. He bashed into the wooden fence, and it gave way under the bull-dozing weight of the Scotch Highland steer. Once through the fence, he and Buffy stood for hours grazing in never-before-grazed-on grass—until Edgar’s dad went for his daily walk. When he saw the fence down and the animals on the other side, he ran after them, trying to get them back into their pasture.
Knowing that far tastier grass lay just feet from their own scruffy pastures, Scotty and Buffy didn’t want any part of going back. They much preferred munching the virginal grass. Panic-stricken, Edgar’s dad ran back to the house to call his son for help, but Gay was the only one home.
“Buffy and Scotty are out of the pasture!” he yelled into the receiver.
“I’ll be right down,” Gay said. Only a week before, Gay had had liposuction done on her hips grown so large over the years she looked like a pack llama carrying two overstuffed sacks. Now, trim and slim, no longer wider than she was tall, she was recuperating at home while the bruising and pain dissipated, and her doctors had ordered her to wear a nasty-looking surgical garment. Though the doctors also ordered her to take it easy for at least two weeks, rest she would not have—not with a buffalo and a Scotch Highland on the loose.
Gay had been dutifully wearing the long-legged white surgical girdle she was to wear non-stop for at least two months, and she wasn’t about to screw up the surgery by taking it off in favor of cooler-looking duds. So, overtop the girdle, she slipped on a baggy pair of pink shorts that happened to be handy, threw on some sneakers, and bolted out the door. She ran down the driveway to the country road bordering their property, the dividing line between her in-laws’ farm and their place. She stopped dead as she saw the road backed up with traffic—a road upon which only a few cars passed every few minutes. Everywhere cars were stopped dead in each direction.
Then, feeling very much exposed and vulnerable in her white knee-reaching surgical garment with baggy shorts over top them, she ventured out into the middle of the road. Down Cherryville Road and across from the old farmstead’s house, Gay saw Buffy was standing in the middle of the road halting traffic like an employee from a PennDot road crew. The only thing she lacked was the flag, but, being a buffalo, she didn’t exactly need to get anyone’s attention. Every car was stopped dead. Buffy’s faithful partner, Scotty, stood a few yards away munching plants in the Balliets’ vegetable garden.
Forgetting all about her strange, semi-hospital-looking apparel and the fact that her doctor would’ve had a hernia knowing she was running back and forth, up and down Cherryville Road after a buffalo, Gay raced down the middle of the road toward the wild beast. While Edgar’s father held open the pasture gate for them, Gay flew at the buffalo, hooting and hollering, her arms flailing, trying to scare Buffy back into her pasture.
What the people in the cars were thinking was anyone’s guess. One thing they all did realize, however, was that there was a wild buffalo in the middle of a road with a woman dressed in a very silly outfit, yelling and gesticulating in its face. They weren’t getting out to help for no amount of money.
And what Gay was thinking as she ran after Buffy, who, then, skipped out of the road to join Scotty in Edgar’s parents’ vegetable garden, was, “Why aren’t any of these people in all these friggin’ cars helping me herd the buffalo and the steer back into their pasture? What’s the matter with everybody?” For at least fifteen minutes Gay first ran after Buffy, and Buffy, prancing lightly into the air, leaped away and galloped on tippy-toes up through the garden, mangling tomato plants and zucchini plants as she went. With Scotty right on her heels, he plunged, not nearly as light on his feet as she, clomping at a gallop, over the garden. Then, spying a particularly lush patch of grass, they both stopped to eat.
Gay was frantic, running another quarter mile to get to the patch of grass at which the two stopped. Meanwhile the cars and trucks, many of which she had noticed as she raced past them, sat stock-still. And most of the pick-ups had men in them—MEN! Why in the world wasn’t anyone helping her round up the animals? Were they afraid? She couldn’t believe no one would help, but she didn’t have much time to ponder the questions.

In an effort to keep weight gain, a hereditary trait born to most all of Pennsylvania Dutchmen and women, to a minimum, Gay had long ago taken up running. Daily she put on her sneakers and headed out along the woods where Edgar kept a mowed path for her to run and ride the horses. At last her stamina came in handy in a practical sense: for chasing down escaped animals. The main trouble was, with very little effort the two animals could bound away as soon as she ran up to them, and while their steps were three times hers, they covered more distance with less effort. Herding them on foot seemed futile: why would they ever go back into their comparatively barren pasture when all this wonderful grass was outside their pasture. The task was daunting.
By some stroke of luck, however, Gay charged up to Buffy, arms out and spitting syllables Buffy found distasteful, “Git awt! Sh—sh—sh—shh! Sh—sh—sh-shht! Sh-sh-sh-sht! Go on! Get back!” Buffy obviously didn’t liked being “shushed,” and she, with Scotty lumbering behind, finally trotted indifferently into the pasture with Edgar’s father closing the gate behind them.
When the auto audience saw the animals finally locked into their pasture, Gay got a horn-blowing ovation from the cars backed up on Cherryville Road. Drivers tooted their horns, and Gay heard a couple others cheer. Exhausted, Gay raised an arm to acknowledge their support then disappeared, acutely aware of her silly garb, behind the farmhouse until the traffic had disappeared. She locked the animals out of the pasture with the torn fencing, and that evening Edgar fixed it.
Buffy continued to leap the fence a few times a month, and each time Scotty barreled down the fence so that he could be with her. But the neighbors and travelers in this area, ones that used the road regularly, soon got used to driving slowly on that stretch of Cherryville Road where on any day Buffy could be standing in the road or out in the middle of an unfenced alfalfa field. The Balliets received many nonchalant calls from people on their way to work, “Your buffalo and steer are standing by the side of the road again. They must’ve escaped.” And then Gay and Edgar would go down to the farm and herd them back into the pasture.

Part Five coming tomorrow.

Part Three--Lost But Not Forgotten

2010-09-03T18:37:00.001-04:00

This author hopes this memorial may awaken readers to the horrific practices of animal farming and factory farming and that, together, people will demand their government pass laws to safeguard these animals who have only suffering to bear on their way to the slaughter. Each one of us must bear the shame the farmer refuses to bear, for we are of the same species, and we are the consumers that demand the farmers to raise these animals. But we can unite together by passing humane laws prohibiting farmers from treating these animals abominably.
I encourage each reader to demand our government enforce laws protecting these animals when they are born, give birth, are raised, and transported to the butcher. The least any consumer of meat can do is assure that a doomed animal is treated with respect and kindness before it is killed. Not only does the meat-eater owe this to the farm animal, but he owes it to himself as well, for if he cannot respect and protect an innocent animal, then he cannot respect himself or another human being. At the very least he should help the farm animals so that he can save himself and humanity.

The author has included here, in memory of the billions of farm animals who give their lives for the human dinner plate, one animal, the author’s own, who escaped a horrible existence and an early death.

One Who Lived to be Buried and Remembered

Species: bovine—Scotch Highland steer
Name: Scotty
Born: 1985
Died: 2005
Human companion: Edgar Balliet, III, VMD

One Christmas morning in 1985 after they had opened a few presents beneath the tree, Edgar asked his wife to go along down to his parents’ farm to feed the two sheep. The day was crisp, a thin layer of snow lay on the ground—a beautiful morning for a walk. When Gay and Edgar stopped at the barn, and Edgar began throwing hay and feeding grain to the animals, a strange sound erupted from one of the barn’s back stalls.
Gay looked questioningly at her husband, and then a huge smile erupted on his face. “Here--I have another Christmas present waiting for you.”
“Oh, boy! Let me see. What is it?” Gay said, bouncing like an excited kid.
Then he motioned to the far stall, opened the heavy door, and introduced the animal. “Gay, meet Scotty.”
Gay looked, tip-toeing to the open door, and she saw a younger version of something she didn’t recognize. The animal stood as tall as and as long as a golf cart. His head looked cow-like, but what was puzzling was his coat. The baby animal had bright, long red hair.
“What is it?” Gay said. “He looks like Sasquatch.” The calf looked at Gay and bellowed. He sounded like a baby steer.
“It’s a Scotch Highland bull calf,” he said, smiling widely. “He’s your Christmas present.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Just what I’ve always wanted. Wouldn’t a pair of snow boots have been more practical?”
“Well,” he snickered, “I really did get him because he was going to be auctioned off by the Game Preserve and probably bought for meat. Since he was born at the Game Preserve, and I’ve been his vet since he came into the world, I didn’t want to see him butchered. And, anyway, I really needed another animal at the old farm here to help keep the grass down. Two sheep don’t do the job. Hey, you remember the Scotch Highlands over at the Game Preserve—the two red, long-haired cattle? Well, those were Rosie and Brutus, Scotty’s parents. He was to be auctioned off in September, and I told Tony I wanted him. I bought him for fifty bucks, and he’s been at the preserve waiting for Christmas Day.”
Gay looked at the calf dripping with long, red dreadlocks, and said, “Hey, that was a steal. Can I feed him something?”
“Well, he’s pretty wild—not too used to people yet—been out on the range for some time and isn’t really used to being hand-fed. We can try to tame him while he’s penned up in this small stall for a couple of weeks.”
So, all bundled up in his puffy winter jacket, Edgar sidled over to the young steer with a grain scoop full of oats. He crouched down to make himself look little and unintimidating, and the calf snorted, his hot breath steaming when it hit the frigid air. Then, in a few minutes, with the smell of the oats lingering, the Scotch Highland bull calf took a couple steps closer. Minutes later he was eating from the scoop.
Though he wasn’t ready then to accept another person into his stall, he tamed up well enough in the next two weeks so that Gay could go inside and hand-feed him, too. At that time, her first reaction, as he licked the oats from the scoop, was, “Geez, he stinks. Smells sort o’ sour.”
“Yeah, cows and steers always smell that way. It’s their rumen and ‘cause they chew their cud,” Edgar said.
“Other than his bad breath, he’s kind of cute. What are we going to do with him?”
“Nothing. Let him live his life here as a pet. He’s my lawn mower for the pastures here at the farm.”
Just the year before Edgar had purchased the old Balliet farm from his parents. While his parents then became renters in the house they sold to their son, the farm was his to maintain, and that was just fine by them. Edgar and Gay had built their house across the street in a patch of woods. They also built a barn and seven horses, so having two properties to keep up was quite a task. Scotty’s helping with keeping the grass down in the pastures at the old farmstead would help with the chores.
For the first three weeks Scotty wore a calf halter so that if he escaped from the pasture, he’d be easier to catch and lead back to the barn. But it wasn’t long before his big hairy head out-grew it. By that time Edgar was fairly certain Scotty wasn’t going to try to escape the pasture, so he took off the halter.
Over the next several weeks Scotty tamed up pretty nicely. Edgar’s father visited him on nice days when Scotty was on pasture, and knowing that people always had snacks for him, Scotty trotted up to them and put out his big tongue, which, like an elephant’s trunk, wrapped itself around the tasty morsel. And from the first that tongue served as his own built-in dishrag. He used it to clean his mouth after eating, and he used the tip of it to clean the boogies from his nose. “Oh, that’s really too gross,” Gay would say as the tip of Scotty’s tongue disappeared into his nose.
“Well, he can’t very well use a Kleenex, can he?” Edgar said in defense of the little guy.
Scotty loved any snacks: lettuce leaves, carrots, apples, and even dog biscuits. And, in just a few months’ time, he was perfectly tame and friendly.
At four months old his horn buds were just starting to peep from his head. Scotch Highland cattle are known for their long horns that stretch, between the points, to four feet. At six months of age, Edgar thought it best to castrate the bull calf. So, he retrieved Scotty’s baby halter and stuffed Scotty’s head into it. It was way too small, and his red hair stuck straight out from the tightness of the out-grown halter, but Edgar popped him a little sleepy juice in order to castrate him. Though Scotty was cute and personable, keeping him as a bull might turn him into a real butthead. A few minutes later, using the Berdizo cattle castrator, Scotty was castrated.
With his manhood removed, Scotty became a more sociable animal within a few months’ time, and he definitely preferred the company of people over the two sheep in his pasture. Edgar’s dad fed him biscuits on his daily walks around the farm, and Scotty always followed behind like a pup, walking right up to him, nudging him a little from behind until Edgar, Jr. turned around, gave him a knuckle-rub to his forehead and stuffed another biscuit in his mouth.

Donnie the Duckling

2010-09-03T17:27:00.006-04:00

Oh, I'm one proud mom. The duckling my husband, Edgar, and I found while walking along the Walnutport Canal last Sunday is in love with his new mommy. And I love him back.
The more I think of it the more I believe someone may have dropped Donnie off at the canal with the best intentions: so that he could be free and cavort with other ducks. Perhaps someone who was passing by the "duck stand" at Tractor Farm and Supply decided to liberate one of the many baby ducks for sale, but the savior didn't realize that Donnie would need a mother for protection, warmth, and lessons in survival. Late summer is not the right time of year for ducklings: Donnie's presence was an aberration.
But he's safe with us.

Each time I've raised a wild creature, I've come away from the experience a more fulfilled, more energetic, more thoughtful person. I regain perspective on life and what really matters, as well a things that don't: not the gorgeous shoes at Bloomingdale's, not the Cache dress, and not the lip-smacking Southwest cheesesteak at River Walck Saloon, though it is very tasty. When people and animals spend time together, all the other, man-made, unreal stuff pales in comparison. Time spent with an animal reinstills values like trust, honesty, and self-appreciation. My pets love me for myself; therfore, I love myself.

I am so lucky to have found Donnie. He is the ducky equivalent of Li'l Ralphie, who we found in his most needy moment, too. As we have saved Li'l Ralphie and Donnie, so the kitten and the duck have saved a part of me. We have buoyed each other. They are both alive and thriving because of us, and I, at least, have another dimension, another perspective, to my already multi-faceted personality.

This duck adoption has afforded me another talent: I can speak duck language. I'm a duck whisperer. How do I know I can communicate with ducks? Well, Donnie eyes me intently when I stoop down to offer him food, which he doesn't take unless I begin to tap on the floor where the grain lies. Tap, tap, tap--my finger stumps the newspapers beside him. "Come on, Donnie," I say in a ducky whisper, and I tap some more.
He regards me, head bent to the side, concentrating. And not a second or two later, he is pecking alongside my finger. "Good boy," I say in a soft whispy voice.
In the swimming pool I act like a mother duck would: hunker down with only my head above water so that, in case he needs me, I'm right there. And, like a human kid, he swims away briefly but always, within seconds, checks in with his human to ensure that his world is okay. Then, away he goes, but never more than a foot away, and then he returns to the mother ship again.
Today when we went to the pool, I taught him how to catch dead bugs on the water's surface. Donnie has keen eyesight, for sure. I set him down about a foot from me, with the floating bug between us. Frantically, Donnie paddled back to him hu-mom, but he couldn't help noticing the bug. BAM! he hit it just like that, and then it disappeared down his throat.
"Good boy!" I whispered to him. I was so excited, but I didn't want to frighten him with loud cheering and applause. So, the afternoon we spent together in the pool-- Donnie a bit above water level standing on my right shoulder with me gliding slowly around the pool looking for dead insects.
Donnie is amazing: he's intellligent, he's fast, and he trusts me to do the right thing for him. It's pretty enlightening how, in less than a week, my own life has grown because of this little duck. Leave it to an animal to restore self-worth, trust, honesty, and goodness just when human fellowship has tried to rend these qualities worthess. Nothing refurbishes a battered soul like the uncritical friendship of an animal.

Duckling swimming in pool with his humom.MOV

2010-09-02T20:56:00.000-04:00

Part II--Lost But Not Forgotten

2010-09-02T10:29:00.002-04:00

Statistics show that 50 million cattle and calves are slaughtered in the U.S. for food each year. Each American consumes approximately 80 pounds of beef and veal. Cattle have just as mind-numbing and suffocating lives as those of dairy cows. Many of the male calves, stolen from their mothers and placed in veal crates, are never allowed to nurse from their mothers. Veal calves are forbidden to touch the ground with their feet or lick minerals from the ground because the veal farmers fear the absorption of iron may taint the ultimate product: white meat, whose cosmetic appeal comes from an animal kept anemic.
Humans would certainly not enjoy a life lived in an anemic state, and neither do veal calves, forced to live their short lives with iron-poor blood. Such calves feel weak and too tired to do little more than lie, wasted, in their compartments. Calves allowed to develop as nature intended would have energy to romp and play with pasture mates, not wither away in a tiny box The only escape veal calves find from their prison-cell is when the tops of their backs hit the ceilings. Only then are they released to the slaughter.
So, too, the piglet, born on a concrete floor to a mother deprived of straw for making a nest and unable to stand up or turn around in the farrowing crate, is viewed by the farmer as an entity to be processed, not appreciated for any inner spirit or personality. The moment he is born he begins his journey at the tender age of three weeks when he is put into a iron-barred nursery. At six months of age he is moved to a growing, then a finishing pen, and then, shortly thereafter, it’s on to the slaughterhouse. In that six-month lifespan, the pig is reduced to an aberration of what nature intended him to be. His teeth are cut out; his tail removed, and he is fattened under artificial lights in a building rife with disease. Sick with salmonella, gastric disturbances, and arthritis, all causes of overcrowding, the market pig never sees the light of day.
The pig, morphed into a monstrous version of his original self, cannot recognize any part of himself that resembles a pig: a curious, talkative, playful, ingenious, and clean animal. He is unable to muster any visage of himself as an honest, intelligent, protective, independent and happy spirit. All he has available to know himself is that which is reflected back to him in the other pigs sharing his tiny prison-pen. He sees himself in them: physical wrecks, so heavily muscled they can hardly move, with no tails, few teeth, and eyesight dimmed from lack of sun and stimulation. Sadly, he sees himself in them: lethargic, bored, dazed by their world’s lack of stimulation, neurotic, and consumed by dread--from a life so unnatural, so hard, so cold, and so unkind.
Raised as though he had a dollar sign tattooed on his back, a market hog never asks his farmer for a kind rub on the cheek, a scratch to the belly, for a pig, who possesses an uncanny degree of intelligence (pigs are as smart as a three-year-old person) understands he has been bred to be eaten, though he avoids thinking about this at all costs. A pig’s only consolation lies in the short-lived social climate created amongst his fellow doomed pigs with whom he shares a tiny box as a home--with whom he nudges and offers a friendly scratch, with whom he shares his daily meals, and with whom he communicates the same fears and regrets. When he comes of killing age at six months--at what should be the happiest, most playful time of his life--his enthusiasm for warm days and cloudless skies is literally sliced short--his neck draining his life-blood onto the floor where millions had bled before him.
Farmers deny the pig any equivalent human traits of personality, curiosity, intelligence, playfulness, sociability, and affection. Stripping the pig of individuality and feelings absolves the farmer of guilt: the guilt accrued from the mistreatment and butchering of a being that, in many ways, resembles his fellow humans. For an animal so similar to man in body mass and with organ systems characteristic of people’s, so much so that pigs sacrifice their own aortic valves for ailing humans, farmers and all those associated with this animal’s dispatching treat them no differently than a vegetable to be processed.
Chickens, too, just like pigs and steers, lead horrific, short lives in large, windowless sheds housing 25,000 broilers. Eating from trays worked by computers so that the food and drink are always at the chicken’s head height, the birds consume all day long without benefit of fresh air or sun. Packed so closely together, they are denied normal chicken habits: rolling in dust to keep parasites away, pecking the ground for grubs, insects, and sprouts. They are denied any behavior natural to a chicken: roosting in a tree, running in the outdoors, socializing with roosters and other hens. And after only one month of silent gorging, all 25,000 of them are slaughtered.
These chicken sheds are unknown to most people. Chicken farmers keep these sheds under tight wraps. Should anyone happen upon one and open the door, he’d see the sea of white animals, hear the equally shocking silence, and catch his breath at the suffocating odor. And he would be ashamed at the suffering his species has caused another.
Anyone can see these chicken sheds from the road as he takes a ride into the country. They usually are part of a farm including a nice farmhouse, a decent barn for some cattle or pigs or even horses. But in the back in a secluded area of the farm sits a long, usually green, aluminum-sided rectangular shed wherein thousands and thousands of birds languish. One should be on the lookout for these buildings--no less than huge torture chambers: long buildings with no widows, with giant fans on either end of the structures. Passing such a structure should make a person think about the feathered lives inside, lives that lack life as it was meant to be, life as it lacks any joy or freedom.
Not only do our farm animals receive no burial at all, but their bodies never can lie at peace in one piece. An animal’s body in the slaughterhouse, finds its way to a packing plant where its legs, rump, ribs, and other body parts are cut, quartered, and sectioned into manageable pieces. The pieces are then processed and packaged and distributed all over the country. One pig’s front ribs may be consumed by a family in Dallas, TX while the same pig’s back ribs may be eaten by a couple in Bangor, Maine. So, while a decent burial for a farm animal is unlikely, the idea of its finding solace somewhere as a single body is totally inconceivable. Taken to the final stage of the processing, one pig’s body, after being consumed by fifty or more people, would be expelled from those people in even more infinitely different places, finally finding their resting place in the myriad sewers and septic tanks below the many homes and apartments within many different towns and cities of many different states.

Part One--Our Farm Animals

2010-09-01T08:43:00.004-04:00

This chapter was pulled from my ms. THE CELEBRATED PET: HOW AMERICANS MEMORIALIZE THEIR ANIMAL FRIENDS because editors insisted a farm animal didn't qualify as a pet. I supposwe that's true but only because they've never been given the chance. The first two sections of this chapter are factual. The last two are factual as well but funny. I will post this chapter in aproximately four parts. Today is part one. I hope that all of you will look at your dinner plates with a bit more compassion and appreciation for the animal who sacrificed his or her life. And my personal request to all my friends is to refuse pig meat, as I have, out of respect for a species that humanity has treated with complete disregard. Thanks everyone.

Lost But Not Forgotten

Species: bovine, ovine, porcine, avian.

Names: none

Born and Died: daily

Human companions: none

Our Farm Animals

Though this book pays tribute to the dear and beloved pets that share Americans’ lives, this chapter honors those animals processed by the small farms and the factory farms. While our dearest pets who have played with us, conversed with us in hard times, and slept beside us or in our laps, deserve special tribute at their passing, the farm animals are dispatched with little empathy, understanding, or caring by humans, let alone any remembrance of their having existed at all.
This chapter pays tribute to the millions of farm animals who are maltreated, abused and tortured on their way to the slaughterhouse: the 205 million pigs killed each year for American appetites; the steers; the dairy cows; the billions of fryer chickens and egg-laying hens, as well. Americans need to honor, too, the lambs, the veal calves, the ducks, the geese, the rabbits, and the goats, all who sacrifice themselves to our dinner plates. These animals, in their journey to the slaughter, race to define themselves within their doomed group. They find a part of themselves amongst each other because that had never been allowed the opportunity to show people how charming, endearing, and affectionate they could be.

Farm animals occupy a unique and frightening place within American society. As unique beings with blood pulsing warm in their veins, they breathe and react like humans, their specialness evident in the pure magic of life itself: the complexity of cells organized to operate bodily systems, and the innate divination of instinct and desire. When a calf and mother nuzzle each other, humans remark on the emotional depth of the maternal bond. When a pig squeals for help, onlookers marvel at his brothers and sisters who come running to assist. Like humans, farm animals have feelings and sensitivities that astute humans can recognize.
Though most farm animals are mass-bred, raised, and grown; each, given the opportunity, possesses a unique personality with quirks, needs, and a desire to live life as evolution defined him. The farm animal, despite the factory farms’ reducing him or her to anonymity, is an individual; each and every one is a character, though his number be “34712” or “58703.” The numbered tags hanging from a steer or pig’s ear mean nothing to him because as he lives his days, which are numbered as well, he tries, under the poorest circumstances, to communicate, play, and nuzzle other animals bearing identification tags just like his own. He knows nothing other than to be what he is—a feeling, sensitive, discerning, and gregarious individual. The farm animal is the truest representative of an existentialist because he defines himself as he knows himself to be, not as humans have defined him as an object destined for the human dinner plate.
Many Americans view farm animals, not as individuals with species-specific needs and goals, but as they wish to see them. From the human perspective their value lies, not in their companionship, not in the conversation they could have with us, if given the chance, but only in their relationship to our taste buds--for their presentation on dinner plates everywhere, everyday, every hour, every minute. A situation in which people view a living, breathing, sensitive animal as a commodity or a thing to be consumed is frightening, not only to a minority of humans, but more so, especially, to the animals who suffer by that blurred vision. If people cannot understand or fathom other values for a farm animal other than as a producer of sirloin or rib-eye steaks or chops, then we become devalued as the intelligent, sensitive beings we have historically defined ourselves as. Our limited understanding limits ourselves as a super species.
Among all the animals humans may associate themselves with, from domestic pets, to carriage horses, to zoo animals, to miniature farm animals that can share people’s laps and pillows, the farm animals are the most unselfish of all—sacrificing themselves for human appetite. From the day they are born in the factory farm or even in the rural farm their end point to the slaughterhouse and to our plates is, from the human perspective, their only value. Farmers, despite sharing fleeting moments of sensitivity and conversation with these animals as they grow and live alongside them, deny the animal’s personality, their reaching out for attention, and their need for touch. The farmers deny the feelings of the farm animals because to admit these gentle beasts have feelings and endure suffering that would make most of us cringe would be too shameful. Denying the suffering is avoiding it. Avoiding it dismisses the shame.
One farm animal who suffers terribly during her lifetime is the dairy cow. Unlike our domestic pets who bark and meow for treats and attention, the dairy cow seldom complains she would like more time than just a day to spend with her calf. Her calf, no sooner has she given birth and licked its face dry, is whisked away after the first twenty-four hours so that the milk, meant for her baby, can be drunk by people. Then, instead of her calf suckling on its mother’s soft udder as human babies suck at their mother’s breasts, the cow stands for hours, enduring the hard, metal edges of the vacuum-robot, a sucking machine powered by computers.
Yet the dairy cow endures, deprived of her newborn which all her instincts are urging her to find and protect. She does not complain, not because she doesn’t want to call out to her calf, but because it is discouraged by a stick, a shovel, or an electric fence. Neither does she look to the dairy farmer for attention--to be stroked on her head or scratched behind an ear--because she already has felt the human’s detachment, and she can feel the numbered tag in her ear.
The dairy cow, treated as a commodity the day she fell from her mother’s womb, has only the habitualness of her life to rely on: every year having her baby taken, producing ten times more milk than that intended for her calf, bearing the dull ache of an udder with mastitis, and hobbling lame to the milking stalls. Her only relative calm is being able to stand next to and touch the nose of the next cow as their udders are sucked dry. Only the ritual, the sureness of the daily suffering, the sucking out of the udder, offers the dairy cow a perverted feeling of dead calm. The tedious, demeaning routine of dairy life becomes the only balm in the cow’s world. And so each day repeats itself, practically, predictably, habitually, until when she has ruptured herself delivering her fifth calf, she is dragged off to the slaughterhouse.

Part Four--"Puppy Up"

2010-08-28T17:45:00.001-04:00

The big, manly dog’s knack for finding himself in compromising situations didn’t end with the Halloween horror bowl. The day before Thanksgiving Day, Luke and Cindy, decided to visit relatives. Already late, they packed up the car, threw the luggage in the back of the SUV, called Malcolm and Murphy to jump in, and sped off. Pedal tromped, Luke sped down the country road when, suddenly, a road crewman waving an orange flag appeared before them.
“STOP!” Cindy shrieked.
Luke slammed on the brakes, and the SUV lurched to a grinding halt. The stop wasn’t bad enough to set off any airbags, but the jolt did displace the contents of the SUV, including the people, dogs, and luggage. Everyone, including the dogs, flew forward. One bag in the wayback whipped over the last row of seats, flew past the dogs, who had sunk their nails into the leather upholstery, and hit the back of the front seats, spilling its guts around the dogs’ feet.
Luke pulled over to the side of the road to see how the boys were when he started to howl with laughter. Cindy turned around, and she, too, began to laugh.
Pink and blue Velcro hair curlers hung haphazardly all over Malcolm’s fur. In the near car-wreck, Cindy’s cosmetics case had flown to the front and blown apart, curlers sailing everywhere. One was clinging to Malcolm’s left ear, and others hung twisted in his hair--on his shoulders, legs, and sides. During the cyclonic disaster inside the SUV, at least twenty spoolies and other curlers had found refuge in Malcolm’s long white fur.
The look on Malcolm’s face was pure surprise mixed with a tad of indignity. The thick hair on his head was standing straight up, and when he bit at a velco curler clinging to his front leg, he winced as it pulled his fur. He bit more at the curler, his ears cocked in disbelief, his forehead wrinkled, but it refused to budge. He looked flabbergasted.
Murphy’s expression was equally disarming, but he wouldn’t dare laugh at Malcolm. After Luke had freed all Malcolm’s curlers, he started back on the road, Malcolm unusually quiet the whole way.

In May of 2004, Malcolm was diagnosed with bone cancer. Luke was devastated to immobility, but Malcolm’s struggle and bravery in his fight against the disease brought Luke to a new understanding of life, a kind of spirituality he would have never predicted for himself.
Luke followed the recommendations of Malcolm’s veterinary oncologist. Shortly after receiving the horrible news, Malcolm had his right front leg amputated and finished a series of chemotherapy treatments. Malcolm responded well to both the surgery and the chemotherapy. In exactly two weeks Malcolm healed from the surgery and adapted well to his disability, which he didn’t regard as a disability at all. And life on the ranchito continued as usual.
One morning when Luke was on the front porch reading the Wall Street Journal, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Malcolm running across the street after a squirrel. To this day the image of the giant dog standing on his back legs with his one leg on the tree is burned into Luke’s memory. Malcolm, as always, proved Luke’s initial devastation and depression finally gave way to action. Luke decided to put his hi-tech and bio-tech consulting business on hold in order to spend time with Malcolm. What was important, however, was the spirit of the moment with his dog—enjoying the rest of Malcolm’s time. Life itself, beating and throbbing inside his dog and inside himself, mattered most.
Luke spent the next six months hiking and camping with Malcolm and Murphy, but he also spent time researching cancer, its causes, and its characteristics. Having been a pre-med student back in college, he had the smarts and the background to find information that might save his beloved dog. He devoted himself to researching cancer.
Luke changed in other ways, too. He admits he became more dog-like. He observed his best friend fighting the cancer with bravery only animals seem to have mastered. Perhaps, knowing they are dying, they have instincts telling them death as just another stage of life. Because Malcolm still cherished his simple needs like digging holes, and treeing squirrels, Luke came to value more simple pleasures as well. Being with his dog family and allowing Malcolm his pure pleasures was all that mattered to Luke.
Recognizing the courage with which Malcolm faced his disease made Luke embrace Malcolm’s spirit in all aspects. He called it “puppying up”—facing a challenge head-on. To “puppy up” meant to be unafraid in adversity and, regardless of what other people think, never let anything slow you down. Embrace life with fearlessness, embrace that which is truly important, simple, and pure. In meeting the challenge of Malcolm’s impending death, Luke knew he could be as stoic as his ailing dog. He and his dog would live Malcolm’s final months as all animals always live--in the purity of the moment.
“I’m going to be brave through all this,” Luke promised Malcolm one evening before bedtime. He drew the edge of the blanket around the dog beside his sofa. “Whatever time we have left, we’re going to spend together, and we’re going to play, and hike, and live each day at a time.” And Malcolm turned toward him and smiled his grand smile.
And for the next year and a half they did just that—playing, wrestling, sleeping, giving each the other’s presence and comfort.
In Malcolm’s final month when the cancer had spread to his lungs and his death was imminent, Luke made his dog-son a promise: “I’m going to live the rest of my life for you, Baby. I’m going to live it as you have: with courage and happy simplicity. And, no matter what happens, I’m making another promise to you. I’m going to tackle this cancer bastard head on.” His voice shook. “I’ll fight this thing inside you, Malcolm. I’m not going to let it beat us. I don’t know what it is I’ll do yet, but, when the time comes I’ll know. I won’t let you down, My Man.”
Malcolm died January 11, 2006.

Malcolm’s Memorial
Luke has carried on Malcolm’s tradition of “puppying up” against one of the world’s worst enemies: cancer.
On March 16, 2008, Luke, wearing a few of Malcolm’s ashes in a necklace around his neck, began the fight against canine cancer by walking, with six year old Murphy and one and a half-year-old Hudson, his two Great Pyrenees, on a 2,400 mile journey from Austin, Texas to Boston, Massachusetts. The funds raised from sponsors and businesses as well as individual donations supported the Animal Cancer Foundation, an organization researching the causes of cancer in dogs and other companion animals. An off-shoot of the study will be research comparing canine cancer to people cancer.
Luke’s journey began amid a throng of volunteers, supporters, well-wishers, and TV and radio coverage. Wishing the boys and Luke good luck, animal lovers lined the Austin streets, their dogs by their sides. Those along the street of embarkation celebrated with music, carnival food, and the free-spiritedness such a challenge births. The crowd knew in their collective heart that what was about to happen was one of the most worthy, unselfish, bravest gestures of all time: a man and his two dogs were heading into the wilderness to fight the devil.
Loaded with 25 pounds of gear and water, Murphy waited as Luke hoisted his own pack onto his back. Other necessary gear had been sent ahead along his walking route by his brothers, friends and volunteers to insure the dogs’ safety as well as Luke’s. Their equipment included a tent, packs for dogs and man, sleeping bag, hiking clothes and rain gear, dog booties, reflectors and collar lights for the dogs and much more.
Though the Big Dog, as Luke refers to himself, and his dogs carried their own energy food; health and nutritional support was driven ahead daily to stopping points along their walking route. Dropped off at predetermined sites, these necessaries included a camp stove with fuel, cooking utensils, water filters and purification tablets, plastic bags, matches, and more. The “boys” kitchen items contained collapsible bowls, dehydrated dog food, and treats. Items such as a flashlight, light sticks, sunglasses, and duct tape were only a few of the other general items they had taken along with personal and dog hygiene products: toilet paper, toothbrush, grooming kit, basic medicines, and foot powder. Finally, for emergencies, Luke had packed first aid kits for the dogs and himself: pepper spray, animal deterrent, and contact information. Among some of the most important items, however, were the GPS, computer, weather radio, and solar battery recharger.
Luke anticipated meeting some hazards like feral dog packs and crossing bridges without a walking ledge, but those dangers didn’t detract from his determination to walk the entire route. Neither did a few brushes with violent weather, including a tornado. The road from Cameron, TX to Tyler was paved with difficulties: no cell phone coverage and few towns or houses from which he could re-supply his water bottles.
At night, when they were too tired to take another step, they either camped in a grassy patch along the road or accepted offers to sleep at supporters’ homes. At times they were walking in solitude, with only an occasional blackbird cawing from a telephone pole; at other times through the towns, they had children, anxious to pet the grand Great Pyrenees, following them.
Luke’s and Murphy’s and Hudson’s journey from Austin to Boston ended June 19, 2010 amid a throng of well-wishers and supporters. This author, along with over a hundred friends who had followed Luke’s journey through his website, www.2dogs2000miles.org, helped Luke complete the last two-mile-walk into Boston. What Luke found inspiring was that, during the trip, complete strangers walked for miles alongside him, thanking him for his efforts on behalf of their pet dog or cat who had died of cancer or of a family member whose life it claimed. Veterinarians, as well as veterinary specialists and researchers in the field of animal oncology met Luke along the way, shared their research and insights, and vowed to support efforts to help eradicate cancer in pets. And wherever Luke was able, he spoke about canine cancer so that people became, not only more aware of it, but more ignited against the disease.
Many people and organizations have made donations to Luke’s fight, to his journey where each day, when he wasn’t accompanied by other people, he was speaking, in his heart, to Malcolm. No matter the time of day or night, Malcolm’s spirit was present with the threesome, walking right alongside them, urging them to “puppy up.” He kept reminding them that they weren’t alone, that millions of animals who have died from cancer were walking right behind them, in front of them, and to the side of them.
Not for a moment did they walk alone.

Readers may contribute to pet cancer research by donating through Luke’s website, www.2dogs2000miles.org.

Part Three--"Puppy Up"

2010-08-27T14:01:00.002-04:00

Of all their activities Malcolm loved camping the best. Setting out into the outdoors with backpacks and a cooler of beer, water, sandwiches, and dog food, was the ultimate good time. Malcolm loved getting down and dirty camp side, rolling in the mud alongside the river, trouncing along the river’s edge in search of mouth-sized rocks, sleeping in the bed of pine-needles under a spruce, and drying his mud-caked fur to an odiferous ripeness. Hiking in the outdoors, treeing squirrels, and watching the chipmunks and other critters of the woods freed Luke’s spirit as well as Malcolm’s. Nightime was special: in the woods beneath the stars, man and dog were one.
But they wouldn’t be one for very long because one day Luke brought home a puppy who looked just like Malcolm. “This is Murphy, Malcolm.” Malcolm, at three years old, lay next to the couch, watching, analyzing the pup, falling over his own feet as he galloped through the living room. The puppy’s frenetic activity embarrassed Malcolm, especially when he went charging into Luke’s arms, slobbering him with big kisses. Murphy would need some lessons from Malcolm as to how to foster the proper Pyrenees sense of cool and detachment—that is, if he ever wanted to earn a man’s respect.
After several months Malcolm and Murphy became good friends. Every so often, though, Malcolm had to remind the pup with a nip to his rump that he, Malcolm, was the king of the patch. When Luke brought home dog toys, Murphy began jujmping, circling, and whining until Luke gave him the present. Then, no sooner did Murphy have it in his mouth than Malcolm got up, sauntered over, and snatched the toy from him. Malcolm didn’t really want the toy; he just wanted to show Murphy that if he wanted it, he could have it. It was a macho thing.
Murphy wasn’t Malcolm’s only animal friend. One autumn evening a rat terrier Luke named Flea showed up on their doorstep. Luke offered the little ratty-looking dog a home, and Malcolm accepted his company with aplomb. Flea immediately became enamored with Malcolm’s thick furry coat, sidling next to Malcolm and burying his bald face in Malcolm’s luxurious fur. Malcolm tried to discourage the ratty mutt’s snuggling, but Flea seemed not to understand canine gestures. Malcolm soon found it easier to put up with Flea than try, without success, to dismiss him. The newborn chick, Bob, was even harder for Malcolm to tolerate. Born sickly, Luke brought him into the house where the chartreuse chick decided to take up residence in Malcolm’s fur. No chick in the world had as fluffy and as warm a nest as Bob did.
By the time Bob graduated to roosterhood, Murphy had grown almost as large as Malcolm. Still, Murphy, with much instruction from Malcolm, had adopted only a fraction of his brother’s aloofness. He continued to drool and whine whenever Luke entered the room.
As Murphy grew, he became the perfect partner for Malcolm’s rough-housing. When Malcolm and Murphy play-wrestled in the living room, the entire house shook.
“Hey, take it easy, you guys,” Luke yelled from the kitchen as the vibrations from the dog’s wrestling match rattled the windows. Luke called in a motherly voice, “Somebody’s gonna get hu-u-urt. Next thing ya know, someone’s gonna be crying. And we all know who that will be.” On cue, Murphy yipped.
Murphy had the last laugh on Malcolm one Halloween. Mark had brought home a robotic candy bowl. From the back of a bilious green bowl loomed a skeletal arm that, when the bowl was touched, pounced on the person’s hand. Luke thought it would be fun to see how his Big Baby would react to the candy bowl, so he filled it with Malcolm’s favorite biscuits.
“Come here, Poopy Face,” Luke called.
Malcolm, at six years old, and being the dog-king of Castorville hoisted himself up to inspect the candy dish. Luke snickered. “Here you go, Baby. Daddy has some tasty treats for you. Go ahead. Help yourself.”
Malcolm looked up at Luke, smiled grandly himself, and then dipped his muzzle into the dish.
“SLAP!”
All hundred and ten pounds of fur-covered muscle and guts known as Malcolm the Great, Malcolm the Fearless, Malcolm the Willful, leaped straight into the air. He came down on all fours, too, like a cat, then whipped around to see what had smacked him on the head.
Luke and Mark were howling, holding their bellies tight. “Oh, GOD! Too much!” Malcolm stared at the horrid boney arm sprung back into position above the bowl of biscuits. Then, Malcolm strode back to his corner and lay down, a look of disgust on his face.
“Oh, he’s so pissed!” Luke laughed. “Look at him—if looks could kill. Trick or treat, Malcolm. Malcolm got the trick!” he sang. Then Luke took a biscuit from the bowl, the mad hand slapping Luke’s wrist, and he offered one to Malcolm. “Go ahead, take it, Malcolm. It was only a trick.” Refusing food, even if it came from a manic toy, was not Malcolm’s style, so he gobbled it up with little fuss.

Part Two--"Puppy Up"

2010-08-26T11:06:00.001-04:00

In several weeks Malcolm and Luke became inseparable, except for the long hours when Luke was working. On weekends, he took Malcolm with him to work where the pup sat on the concrete balcony of the office and contemplated the world beyond. Luke watched Malcolm from his desk and marveled at the animal’s patience, his diligence, how he looked and analyzed his surroundings like some kind of wise man or sage—a philosopher king, of sorts.
“Let’s go, Malcolm Big Baby!” Luke called. It was time to go home. Malcolm bounced back into the office--the day of contemplation over and an evening of walking just beginning. Malcolm jumped into the car, and Luke put the top down on the convertible. Malcolm loved riding in his dad’s sports car. He sat upright in the passenger’s seat, sniffing the wind, his ears slicked back against his head. Just then over radio began playing Neil Diamond’s song, “Sweet Caroline”.
Luke grabbed an imaginary microphone and began singing, leaning into Malcolm, who turned toward him, grinning. “Where it began, . . . ” Luke crooned like Sinatra. He swung the wheel with his right hand and pointed his fist with the invisible microphone back to his mouth and continued to sing. They sped down the highway, minutes from home. When the chorus started, Luke smiled like a teenager in love and leaned in toward Malcolm again, one eye on the road, the other meeting Malcolm’s curious stare. The wind strained Malcolm’s lips, a laughing mouth. Luke bellowed above the sound of the radio, “Sweet Mal-colm. Good times never seemed so good. I’ve been inclined, To believe they never would, Oh, no, no.”
Luke stopped the car in front of their house and continued to sing into Malcolm’s face, “But now I look at the night, And it don’t seem so lonely, We fill it up with only two. And when I hurt, Hurtin’ runs off my shoulders, How can I hurt when I’m with you.” He switched off the auxiliary, climbed out, singing “Sweet Caroline’s”chorus a cappella. He opened the door for Malcolm, and the two ran to the house.
In a short time Malcolm had become Luke’s soul-mate, his son. It wasn’t long before all that “man-talk” Luke warned Malcolm about that first day turned to mush. “Sugar booger, Sweety Petey, ” Luke cooed in Malcolm’s face right before bedtime. “Is my little bitty big baby sleepy? Does Malcolm Big Baby want to sleep in daddy’s nice warm beddy tonight?”
And Luke’s stern lecture about not giving snacks and table scraps went down the same drain as his distaste for girlie language. Buying only the best for his Malcolm Big Baby, Luke brought home boxes of organic, pet health-food treats and the best, most appetizing dog food money could buy.
One morning Mark happened to walk into the kitchen just as Luke was feeding Malcolm. “Come here, Sugar Booger--my big lovey-dovey, scoopy-poopy, puppy-wuppy. Daddy has your tasty dinner. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Son. You’re thinking, ‘Oh, Daddy, please hurry. It takes too long to chew it. Please, just hurry and put it right in my belly now. Oh, Daddy, please hurry and put in my big, big belly!’”
“Like—well, that’s totally so uncool, Luke,” Mark said, his arms crossed.
Luke whipped around. “Uh-h-h, . . . .”
“Yeah, you’re really pathetic, man. You sound like a total girl.” He snickered. “All that lovey-dovey shit and daddy stuff. I don’t know what happened to my macho brother, but he’s gone!”
Luke smiled sheepishly and shirked his shoulders. “I can’t help it. He got into my brain like some kind of neural parasite—like a cranial worm. I’m all screwed up now, and it’s all his fault. I’m in lo-o-o-ove with my boy,” Luke sang. He paused and laughed. “I’ve never had a dog like him. He’s a walkin’ oxymoron. He’s so simple—loves his walks, loves digging holes, loves treeing squirrels, yet he’s adventurous and fearless, too. Last week when Cindy and I took him to the beach, he jumped into the waves and started swimming in the ocean--just like that! And he’d never seen the ocean before. The dog is brave; he’ll try anything. He’s extreme.”

When Luke wasn’t working, Malcolm was his constant companion, and for the next year the two enjoyed the same routine: long walks into the prairie every evening, Malcolm luxuriating in the breeze that rippled his fur like stroking fingers. On their journeys into the brush, Luke loved watching the growing Malcolm sniff out a mole. Digging furiously, Malcolm raced to find the tiny rodent, and he didn’t stop until he had uprooted it. And he was hell on squirrels and groundhogs, running after any that had foolishly left too much ground between it and its escape tree or hole.
Yet, just as fearless and ferocious as he was faced with a woodland creature, so was he just as fearful of the broom from which he ran terrified, skidding away and raking claw marks into the hardwood floors. So, too, it was with the vacuum cleaner, which, thanks to Luke’s manliness, he didn’t see that often. But when the dust bunnies started hopping across the living room floor, not even Luke’s machismo could resist them. Out came the long silver “bastard on wheels” as Malacom’s dad called it--the thing hell bent on sucking a big white dog into oblivion.

Months flew by and Malcolm grew like a Texan cornstalk—lengthening, widening, and getting taller overnight. And he and Luke became closer than ever, though Luke was disappointed that his big hairy brother didn’t care for snuggling.
“Come on, Malcolm Big Baby,” Luke coaxed. He patted the bed where he lay. “Come on up here. Jump up and come to beddy with daddy.” But Malcolm didn’t want to share a bed with anyone, preferring to sleep downstairs, beside the sofa.
So, Luke began sleeping on the sofa.
Pulling the blanket up around his neck, Luke found a way to feel as though Malcolm was sleeping with him. He stretched the blanket over the side of the couch so that only a sliver of it hung on the floor. Then, Luke called Malcolm, and Malcolm lay down, one paw touching the edge of the blanket. Voila! Malcolm was sleeping with Luke.
One evening Malcolm and Luke were watching CSI.
“Hey, my Big Baby,” Luke said, running his fingers through Malcolm’s thick fur.
Malcolm looked up from the side of the couch. “He’s just so irresistible,” Luke thought to himself. “And he’s all mine.” He smiled inside. Then Luke slid off the sofa and lay beside Malcolm as gunshots sounded from the television. Luke squidged himself into Malcolm’s space, and for perhaps five minutes Malcolm tolerated Luke’s nose snuggling in his ear. But when Luke started whispering sappy stuff in Malcolm’s ear, Malcolm got up and walked over to the Lazy Boy where he lay down.
Luke frowned. He said, “Okay, I get it, Malcolm. Just a bit much for your taste, huh?”
Malcolm had been living with Luke for over two years, yet he was still enthralled by his dog’s majesty, His Great White Presence, as he called him. Something as inconsequential as watching Malcolm watch the outside world still thrilled him. The dog, Luke told his co-workers, looked as though he was studying the outdoors: the critters, the bugs, the sage brush, the prairie wildflowers. He reminded Luke of the great Buddha, sitting and taking everything in, sitting for hours watching and contemplating. “I’m telling you,” he said to Gary, one of the bio-tech engineers, “it’s as if Malcolm’s thinking to himself, ‘Well, there’s a tree. Yup, there goes a car. Uh-huh, a squirrel. Here comes another car. Everything’s in order here.’”
Luke found Malcolm equally amazing at dinnertime as he slurped his food like a man—hearty and lusty—packing it into his mouth like a contestant at a food-eating competition. His unbridled enthusiasm for his dinner, his passionate appetite, his attacking the bowl awed Luke. He felt such contentment experiencing Malcolm living in the moment of food.
Malcolm’s needs were multi-fold: intense yet simple: he lived in the moment, the present, the occurring. Though his greatest pleasure was spending time with Luke, he found joy in other activities, too: digging a hole, sneaking over the fence, taking a walk, eating dinner, riding in the car, and sleeping. All these simple, everyday acts Malcolm lavished in, pouring his heart and soul into the chase or the food. Even his bedtime was punctuated with long, deep-sleeping snores.
From the beginning Luke was impressed by Malcolm’s masculinity. While Luke cooed “Daddy this” and “Malcolm Big Baby” in Malcolm’s face, Malcolm tried not to disappoint, retaining his cool, not slavering kisses all over Luke’s face nor crawling into Luke’s bed He even peed like a man.
The Machiss-piss occurred every morning. After Luke awakened Malcolm from his deep sleep, the first thing on the agenda was to relieve their bladders, so out to the backyard they both went, out of sight of the neighbors. While at their urinal tree, Luke glanced down at his man-dog and marveled at Malcolm’s masculine pose—not lifting a leg as other male dogs did, but standing on all fours, his legs spread widely. Then the full stream of pee came, large and full. Luke was proud, though a bit intimidated.
The morning pee soon became a family ritual.
Then there was Malcolm’s superman pose. One evening after Luke had had an unusually long day at work, he came downstairs to find Malcolm stretched out facing the wall with one front leg extended and braced against the wall. Luke laughed, but the dog didn’t move. “Hey, Superman!” Luke yelled. But only Malcolm’s ears moved—nothing else. His long leg stood straight out, like the Superman of the 1950’s television series, his one arm outstretched into a fist, his cape flapping in the wind.
When he wasn’t playing superman, Super Malcolm loved accompanying Luke on his golf outings. He rode alongside Luke in the golf cart, and then he watched and waited for Luke to swing at the ball, never barking or fussing while Luke took his backswing. He seemed to know that hitting a ball with a stick was very serious business, almost as serious as taking a pee.

Puppy Up--Part One

2010-08-25T16:29:00.005-04:00

This excerpt is part one of four parts. For the next three days I will post here the continuing chapter I had written on Luke Robinson's dog, Malcolm. This chapter is from my enthralling manuscript, THE CELEBERATED PET: HOW AMERICANS MEMORIALIZE THEIR ANIMAL FRIENDS. Thank you for enjoying this chapter, and I would appreciate your all signing on as followers and adding comments. Thanks a lot. Now, here begins Malcolm's story. Thanks, Luke--you are tops.

“Puppy Up”

Species: canine—Great Pyrenees

Name: Malcolm

Born: October 31, 1997

Died: January 11, 2006

Human companion: Luke Robinson

“First and foremost, we go over the rules.”
Luke plopped the roly-poly snow-white puppy on the sofa. The Great Pyrenees sat upright on the cushions, his big paws balancing his body. He grinned, his long tongue hanging from the corner of his mouth, and sat at attention.
“I’m a man,” Luke said. He bent over, hands on hips, and stared into the puppy’s round eyes. “I do things a man’s way.” Immediately the pup lay down, his chin on his paws. He looked the man in the eye. His expression said, “Okay, I’ve got the point. You’ve got a macho issue going on here, but—hey--whatever. This looks like a pretty nice joint, and I’d like to stay.”
The six-foot, chisele-faced management consultant for hi-tech and bio-tech firms lived and worked by codes of organization and self-discipline, though his personality could be as laid back as a tugboat pilot’s. The businesses for which he consulted depended on his attention to detail; the scientists demanded precision and meticulous analysis of research and data. So, too, the pup would have to learn to live by house rules, and that meant men’s rules.
Luke hitched up his jeans and pulled up a chair. The pup sat up, his huge paws balancing his chubby body, and he opened his mouth in a wide yawn.
“So, that’s what you think, huh? Not taking this lecture too seriously? Anyway, as I told you, I’m a man.” The dog grinned, his long tongue falling out of his mouth then rolling up and around his pink, leathery lips. “Don’t expect me to fuss over you as a girl would. I repeat,” he said, a finger in the dog’s face, “This is man’s territory, and I’m not going to talk to you in baby talk, fuss over you, or treat you like a sissy.”
The pup smiled.
“As long as we understand each other, we’ll get along fine. I’ll show you the routine around here, and then we’ll go for a walk,” Luke said showing him the shiny red halter and lead. “Then we’ll come back and have some dinner. But don’t expect food from the table, and there will be no begging.
“You’ll only get dog food. I won’t give you a whole lot of special treats or anything—they’re not good for you. I buy organic dog food, and you’re going to eat that, even if you don’t like it at first.
“As for my bachelor pad, here—well, I like organization, and I expect you to be a good dog. If you’re a good dog and listen, we’ll be buddies, and you’ll have a nice home here.”
He took the puppy off the sofa, patted him on the head, kicked off his boat shoes, and went into the kitchen. Minutes later he walked back into the living room. He stopped dead. Shards of leather lay scattered around the living room. In the middle of the mess lay the puppy, bits of leather shoe lace protruding from his mouth.
“What are you doing!” Luke yelled, running for the toe section of one of the shoes. He held the shoe remnant to his chest. “These cost me a hundred bucks! The pup grinned, the heel of the shoe cupped between his front legs. “A hundred frickin’ dollars.” He flopped onto the couch, the mangled shoe dangling from his hand.

Luke’s job consulting with scientists and hi-tech businesses occupied most of his time, including weekends, but it allowed him a fairly affluent lifestyle, the kind most bachelors could appreciate: a fancy car, a house filled with modern leather furniture, plasma TV’s, and a surround-sound home theatre. Though he could only spend time with his new pup evenings, he hired a pet sitter to care for him during the day so that he wouldn’t be lonely, so that he had his meals on time, and so that he had regular exercise and some human companionship. And he told the sitter to keep the pup from devouring his leather Lazy Boy.
Luke lived with his brother in Castorville, Texas, in the Alsace-Lorraine district of San Antonio. He and Mark shared a ranchito of three acres complete with ducks, chickens, a couple of horses, and some sheep. Though the backyard was fenced in so that during the day the pup couldn’t wander into dangerous territory where ranchers and farmers guarded their livestock with guns, the land beyond stretched into long horse pastures, fields of soybeans, and flat prairie. Luke made it a habit to walk his pup every evening as the sun began to set, without fear of traffic and without dread of running out of space. In Texas a person and his dog could walk forever.
Every afternoon the pup took up his post by the front gate and waited for Luke. For hours the little fellow sat, passersby stopping to pat his head and talk. He watched as all the day’s workers scuttled home, hurrying along the sidewalk, speeding past in cars and trucks. With every hour the number of pedestrians dwindled until, finally, no more passed. Dusk fell, but the pup kept his vigil behind the front gate, never tiring, but only becoming more excited, knowing his reward was imminent: his dad would be taking him for a walk.
As dusk bathed the puppy in shadow, the pet sitter set his dinner in the grass, and he ate ravenously, as most puppies do. Then he sat back down, his face and ears turned toward the direction from which he knew Luke would be coming. Suddenly, his ears pricked. He heard that lovely sound, the quiet purring of his dad’s car.
“Hey, pup!” Luke called. He pulled into the driveway. “I’ll be right there.” He ran into the house to change into hiking boots. The pup galloped to the kitchen door. In minutes Luke flew from the house and attached the lead to the pup’s harness. All the while the puppy sat like a stoic. He was shivering with anticipation but contained his enthusiasm as a man’s dog should.
When they arrived at the river 45 minutes later, Luke stopped and squatted beside his puppy. “Okay, Bud. I know I’ve taken a long time to come up with just the right name for you, but a name is very important. I wasn’t going to make that decision rashly. I had to feel you out in order to choose the one that fits you best. I’ve thought long and hard about this, and Mark and I have come to a conclusion. Your name is going to be Malcolm—of Macbeth fame. What do you think?” The pup smiled, his tongue falling from his mouth, then curling around his lips. “You’re my dog. You deserve a royal name. And something manly, too. So, it’s Malcolm.”
Malcolm stared into Luke’s eyes and smiled, his lips stretched across his face.

Brer Balliet

2010-08-18T10:27:00.003-04:00

Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby have nothing on me. This past weekend proved it when Wendy, our Cornish rex cat, decided to take a hike, and I tried rescuing her, Indian Jones-style, from a briar-patch that dwarfed that in Uncle Remus' tale.
At one o'clock on Sunday, the clouds began misting, so when I went to gather our family of cats playing outside, I couldn’t find Wendy. As usual, I got the Pet Locator and headed out on the golf cart to the end of the woods. I pulled out the arms of the receiver and pointed the device toward Wendy's favorite haunts: a circle of rocks and brush co-habitated by ground hogs and the occasional skunk, and the base of a PPL electrical tower brimming with poison ivy and thorny bushes. But the tracker revealed nothing: no beep, not even a faint tone indicating she was nearby.
I climbed back into the cart and headed onto the horse path Edgar had mowed through the three-foot-high alfalfa. When I breached the highest point in the hundred-something acre field, I stopped the cart, got out, pointed the tracker, switched it to "on," and swept it slowly in front of me. A teeny, tiny, almost imperceptible beep sounded. Wendy was another quarter mile away--probably in the distant treeline.
So, I pressed the pedal to the floor and raced off down the path, bumping and gyrating through the yard-high alfalfa until I reached the mowed wheat field. Then I sped across another tree line and soared along the edge of the sheared wheat stalks where I stopped and took another sighting. The beeping was getting louder: I was on Wendy’s trail. At the next treeline the locator went crazy, "Beep! Beep! Beep!" Wendy was close by.
Annoyed that she had wandered a half mile through thick, rain-soaked alfalfa, I spun the golf cart around, hitting a rock the size of a Frisbee. Then, taking my foot off the pedal, I jumped from the machine and headed toward the treeline. I had to hurry—the rain was coming faster.
"Wendy!" I yelled.
"Reow!" a cat voice shouted back.
"Come here right--now!"
"Re-yow!" she said, which I interpreted as "No way, Jose!"
I looked at the thicket from where her voice came. Many years ago Edgar and I had discovered this gulch during a hike. A dirt road dating from the eighteenth and nineteenth century ran through it joining the village of Kreidersville to the road leading to Dead-Man's Curve. Back then the gravel path had only been visited by Conestoga wagons and men on horseback surrounded by the lush beauty of nature. But in our more modern, dismissive times a farmer had carelessly bull-dozed the old oaks lining either side of it to make the fields more accessible. In this expansive gully lay probably fifty full-grown, rotting trees, toppled one atop another, through which brambles, briars, and poison ivy thrived. And Wendy was in the thick of it. I turned on the locator again. The beeping was becoming fainter, which meant that Wendy was probably on the move deep within the gulch. Perhaps, if I was lucky, she was heading toward home.
I jumped back into the cart, slammed the pedal to the floor, and hunched over the wheel expecting the cart to lurch forward. The motor squealed, but the cart stood still. Oh, shit! I thought. Why wasn’t it moving? Was it the rock I hit? Edgar would kill me if I wrecked the golf cart again. It had only been a month since I blew up the engine—to the tune of $600. He’d flip if I had broken it again. Much as I rocked the cart back and forth and pressed the pedal so hard I thought my foot would go through the floor, the cart wouldn’t budge.
Cursing a purple streak, I patted my pants for my cell phone, but I knew full well I had let it back home. And there was no question that I needed Edgar’s help—both to catch Wendy and to drag the cart back home. There was no other option: I'd have to walk all the way back home—an up-hill walk the entire way. With no time to lose, the shortest distance home would take me through the saturated alfalfa fields. Though the thought of getting soaked to the skin didn’t appeal, I headed, determined, into the sea of grass and towards our patch of woods.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, I got back—out of breath, but home. My good leather riding shoes squished, their edges bubbling and hissing with each step, as I walked into the living room. I was soaked—from my shoes to my riding tights to my short-sleeved polo shirt. And the rain had flattened my hair to a slick around my head. I was exhausted, but mostly pissed.
“Ya gotta help me,” I said as Edgar stared at me google-eyed, his feet propped up on the hassock, the TV blaring, "Ya gotta help me. You’re not gonna believe it, but I trashed the golf cart again.”
A frown erupted on his face. I ignored it: I had bigger problems.
“It's sitting a half mile away in the straw field below the alfalfa. I swear I didn’t do anything to it but hit a rock or something.”
The frown deepened.
“Anyway, Wendy's in the gulch and won't come to me. And I'm going to get her today if it's the last thing I do."
He rolled his eyes, turned off the set, and got up, shaking his head. "You and your cats! Why don't you just let her come back when she's ready?"
I said, "I’m afraid she might get lost in the alfalfa; you know she’s not real bright, and she hates rain and walking through wet stuff. So, she may not even come back today. And I certainly don't want her out there in that horrible gully overnight. A coy dog or something could get her."
Edgar reluctantly put on his shoes, grabbed a pair of gloves, and we headed toward the tractor. He hoisted the chains into the back of our Kabota, a farm-size tractor, and though it only seats one person inside the enclosed cab, I climbed in beside him. While Edgar scooted to the farthest edge of the seat, I managed to settle one buttock on the rest, supporting most of my weight with my left foot.
Out of the barn we went and into the rain, which had turned into a torrent. We ground down the side of the woods (going much slower than I would have liked), out the path through the alfalfa, and into the cut wheat field. Fifteen minutes seemed like an eternity when one is bouncing on one butt cheek around the inside of a tractor. We finally arrived at the defunct golf cart, which Edgar began to work on while I located Wendy once again.
“Wendy!” I called. “Come here, girl,” I called in my most sickening sweet voice. “Psst, psst, psst,” I said. “Kitty, kitty, kitty.”
“Re-Yow!” she sang. She was still in the thicket of downed trees, briars, and poison ivy.
"I'm going in!" I shouted to Edgar. And into the briar patch I dove with no more protection than my soaked riding tights and T-shirt. Angry that my cat was deliberately ignoring me, I grabbed the first thorn branch. The pricks dug into my fingers, and I yelled—a prelude of the nightmare to come.
Leaving the tracker behind, I stooped under the first bramble, the thorns erect at sight of tender human flesh. With the delicateness of a ballerina, I picked a branch between my thumb and index finger and lifted it up and away while I scooted underneath, mindful of my foot placement. The weeds and bushes beneath my feet were so twisted and tangled and thick that I couldn’t see the ground—mat-traps.
I called to Wendy, and again she answered in her uncannily loud voice. "Come on,Wendy," I said in a cloying tone. "Come to Mommy. Mommy doesn’t want to crawl after you through this briar patch. If you don’t come out of there, you’ll be sorry."
"Reow!" she yelled, her equivalent of "F--- you!"
Like a rebellious adolescent child finding herself on an unsupervised teenage adventure, Wendy was expressing her independence and her disregard for her human companion. Why had she fled to this God-forsaken place? She had no reason to leave home; we had had no disagreement that morning. I could only conclude that she came here—because it was there. Adventure had lured her to this place.
It began to pour. I was scared. If I didn’t catch her, she could get lost in the alfalfa fields. Worse yet--caught here overnight would be scary for her because vile things crawled from their holes at dusk—all to devour small, skinny, unstreet-wise felines. The very thought made me cringe.
I hunched down, pushed a viney, heavy-breathing thorny bush from my face, and stepped farther into the brambles.
"Wen-n-n-ndy!" I sang.
She meowed but sounded farther away—deeper into the gulch.
"Please don't make me come after you,” I begged. Despite the sweetness in my voice, I was getting angrier and more worried by the minute. She wasn't coming to me; in fact, she was walking away, instead of toward me.
Avoiding the briars was no big deal for a lithe, skinny cat, but a full-size human found the gulch virtually impenetrable. A cat could maneuver easily underneath the thorny thicket, but I was a Brobdingnagian in this world. I needed a machete, and even that wouldn't help all that much. I scrunched down, pushed aside another load of spiked branches and ropey, gnarly vines: I felt like a worker in the Panama Canal. I sighed heavily, stepped onto the first rotted tree and assumed a hunchback's stance.
"Damn it!" I reasoned erroneously, "If she can navigate in this mess of brambles, so can I. I can be just as stubborn as she." I plunged into the vines and thorns that had grown up around, through, and over the rotted trees that lay atop one another like Pic-Up-Stix. As I whisked away thorny branches, they seemed to become evil-animated like the plants in Alice in Wonderland. I imagined them licking their lurid green lips as this human bait passed by.
The only way I could get close to Wendy was to travel up atop the mats and vines. Thick with poison ivy and other noxious weeds, the Pennsylvania woodland quickly encased me as I stepped from one rotting tree to another. The footing was precarious as everything was rain-slippery, and I had to not only keep an eye on Wendy but I had to guard my face and arms from the maze of thorns and stickers as well as watch my footing. In another ten minutes of crawling through this cavern of brambles and brush, I found myself on a shelf of green: the ground beckoned from fifteen feet below. All along I could feel pricks tugging at my pants. Some pierced the material, and I yelped and pulled away only to become snagged by something on the other side of me. I was becoming angrier with each stab, with each plant-injection. Curses flew, but these brambles were entities without ears.
Suddenly a thorn snagged the pants around my ankle; it wasn’t letting go. There was no choice but to reach down and unhook myself. When I half-stood, my hair snagged on prickly vines overhead. I flailed at the brambles that locked onto my shirt, and my efforts to break free entangled my arms in another maze of thorns. Hopelessly caught, like a spider in a web, I balanced precariously, like a high-wire artist, suspended on a pile of rotted trees, surrounded to within an inch of my head and torso by stickers and briars—all many feet above the ground. If I slipped on the slimy logs, I would fall into a patch of briars and literally be skinned alive in the process. And only a lumber crew would be able to extricate the skeleton for proper burial. Between calling for Wendy, I listened for and returned calls from Edgar, who must have already chained the golf cart to the tractor. The gully was cave-like: dark and with an acrid odor of weeds. I couldn’t see Edgar through the brush, but every now and then I could glimpse Wendy’s white neck as she scampered ahead of me.
“I’m going to head her off,” Edgar yelled. I saw a piece of his yellow shirt and tried to direct him ahead of the cat.
“She’s heading north!” I shouted.
The brambles not only snuffed out sunlight, they muffled noise as well. Though I appreciated Edgar’s help, I knew that he would never enter the bramble-head as I had, and that bespoke his degree of sense and intelligence that far out-stripped my stubbornness. For me, this experience had morphed from protective maternal concern and duty to a competition and game of control. I would overcome; I would rise to the challenge.
Just then another flash of white skittered past. Wendy had reached the bottom of the gully. Again I pleaded with her to come to me, but she looked up then disappeared in the opposite direction, letting me alone, teetering on the log-mat above.
I was furious, In vain I tried to follow, but after 45 minutes caught in this maze of sword-vegetation, brambles poking and pulling my hair and shirt, grazing, snagging the sensitive skin on my forearms, I became so angry that I lost all sense of caring about my cat. I looked down at the arms: blood ran in two places on my left arm, and my right hand ran red, too. My good riding shirt had pulls in the material and pieces of thorn sticking from it. I had no other choice but to abandon my cause and my cat. Suspended above the gully atop the weed-encased logs, and with swirling spike-vines reaching at me from all levels, I looked around for an escape route. I had become absolutely caught in the jungle-maze of spikes and things. Droplets of rain dribbled down my eyes, and poison ivy vines swirled around my face.
What in the world was I going to do? Edgar was too far away on the other side and the outside of the gully.
I was on my own. Nearly bent double, I turned slowly around, looking for a way out. Then I saw a hole, of sorts. The brambles through its center were thinner, less dense; it was my only route out. Carefully, and prying thorns that teased my hair, snatched at my skin, my shirt, my pants, I stepped down on a mat of vine-logs. I hoped the trees beneath wouldn’t snap under my weight. I was in survival mode. So angry at my cat and so afraid of falling, I crawled over the briar patch, pushing the vines away from my face with my forearms, despite the pricks to my skin.
Finally, I made it to the bottom, but, then, I had to crawl up the thirty-foot steep sides that were mud-slick and hung over with more vines and poison ivy. But I had no choice: I had to go. So, up I went, clinging to small trees and branches and pulling my aching, bloody body up the mud-wall. At last I reached the edge of the treeline and the open alfalfa field. And then I started to cry. My arms ran with rain-blood; my hands bled, too. Though I had been caught in the worst natural setting Pennsylvania could muster, I felt as though I had just survived a week’s-long fight through a Central American rainforest.
Ironically, my emotional state had been hurt more: my cat, who I loved and cared for, expressed her complete disregard for me. I was both incensed and hurt. I stood at the edge of the gulch and sobbed.
In minutes Edgar was at my side. “Come on, let’s go. If she won’t come to you, she can just stay here.”
“DAMN HER!” I yelled between tears. “I don’t care if she rots out here with the trees. If she doesn’t appreciate me and our home, she can stay out here forever. I’m done with her!”
I limped back to the golf cart chained to the tractor. Edgar started the tractor, and I got into the cart to steer. As the rain drove hard through the sides and open windscreen, I sat hunched over, skin searing from thorn-stabs, heart aching from rejection.
We were home by three o’clock. I showered, noting the pieces of thorn and leaves swirling down the drain. I washed the blood off my arms and hands. Then, I put on something dry and turned on the TV while the rain continued to fall.
At 4:30 I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I’m going back down,” I announced.
“What? You’re nuts! I thought you were going to let her rot out there?”
“I’m not going for her sake. I’m going for mine: I want to be able to sleep tonight. If I don’t have her back home, I’ll lie awake worrying all night. I’m doing this for myself.”
This time, however, I went better equipped. I grabbed a long-sleeved jacket, the tracker, a can of Fancy Feast cat food, a hat, and heavy gloves. Out the door I went to the barn where I started up the tractor.
In fifteen minutes I was back at the gully of hell. I called for Wendy.
“Re-ow-ow-ow!” she cried. Her pleas sounded a bit more frantic, more desperate—and well she should have been. Her voice was also coming from a slightly different direction.
I put on the jacket, gloves, hat, and had the cat food in my pocket. Into the thicket I plunged, though the brambles in the treeline were not near so thick as in the gulch of toppled trees. Still, poison ivy whisked past my face as I followed Wendy’s calls.
At the angle where the treeline met the gully, someone’s property abutted. Whoever owned this area stored a trailer for hauling stuff at the very back—up against the treeline. It sounded as though Wendy was underneath the trailer.
I came out on the other side of the treeline and knelt next to the trailer. There she was, circling, stepping high with attitude. She was talking to me—obviously glad to have my company, I thought smugly.
“Hey, girl. Wanna come home now?” I said.
“Re-ow!” she said, combing the grass with her feet. She circled, looked at me, meowed some more, but she wasn’t getting close enough to be caught. Still playing games.
I summoned my sweetest voice. “Come to Mommy, Wendy. You must be hungry by now.”
Then I flicked open the tin lid of the Fancy Feast. Her head swiveled at the sound, but still maintained her ground.
“Here you go, Wendy. Some goody to eat.” And I placed a lump of the meat in the grass in front of me.
Immediately she came over and began to eat. With that, I plunked my hand over her neck, scuffing her. She screamed, and I laughed the hearty laugh of a pirate. “So, you thought you’d get the better of me, huh? Well, you didn’t because you don’t have much of a brain. HAR-HAR!”
Then I lifted her up and under my armpit, grabbed the can, and raced back to the tractor. I stepped inside with her still pinned beneath my arm, and then let her go on the floor. The tractor started with a roar, and we began the journey home. The rain pattered the windshield as I drove us up the alfalfa-filled hill.
The whole way home Wendy yelled over the sounds of the tractor. So, I just turned up the radio. Though I offered her the rest of the can of cat food, she would have none of it. I talked to her to try to calm her, but she wasn’t listening. She was probably scared of the lurching tractor, but she was probably more peeved that I had won the struggle between Woman vs. Cat. I don’t know which one was causing her to curse and complain in cat language, but I didn’t care--I had her, and she was going home where she was safe.
Most important: for Brer Balliet sleep tonight would never feel so good.

draft

7:54

Good-Bye, Patrick

2010-08-16T17:15:00.004-04:00

On August 12th, 2010, Patrick Steven PJ Landis, feline son of Terri and Steven Landis, died unexpectedly at the age of sixteen. This blog is written in tribute to this good cat--one purr-fect feline representative.

Brought home as a rescue only a month before Steve and Terri's wedding day, Patrick, a black and white kitten, beguiled, not only every human he met at the Landis' home, but also any other rescue cat brought to live alongside him.
Known as the "care-giver" in their family of felines, Patrick nurtured each new kitten, welcoming him or her into the only caring home they had ever known. Terri says, "Some of my other rescues had been abused, kicked around, and neglected, but Patrick took them under his paw. We called Patrick 'the greeter.'" From Terri's story, I could envision Patrick licking the new cat--stroking him or her along the ears with long, even tongue-massages until the nervous newcomer melted into a slavering lump of calm. Terri remarked that Patrick was unlike most cats: never threatening to others that may have been perceived him as competition. Instead, he cuddled alongside and freshened their coats to a silky sheen. "He was everyone's friend," Terri said.

I asked her whose cat he was. Terri replied, "He was our cat--he wasn't mine; he wasn't Steve's--he was Ours. Before Patrick came to live with is, Steve didn't like cats. But like any new husband out to impress, he let me have Patrick--an odd sort of marriage present. Only a few months after we had him, Steve--the cat-hater--suggested that perhaps Patrick needed another cat to keep him company. Patrick had transformed Steve into a cat afficionado. It didn't take long for Terri and Steve to offer Patrick a buddy. Because Patrick was such a good ambassador to the office of felinity, the Landises rescued many other needy cats.

So, when I spoke with Terri today, I learned many unique things about their much-missed cat named Patrick. I know him well after our conversation, and I recognize his generousness in many of my own cats as well, especially our Kenny Mayonnaise. Cats are all wonderful animals in each's special way, but Patrick exuded an extraordinary degree of acceptance-- indulgence--for which most of this species are not credited. His amiable and caring nature has rubbed off, after all these years, on the remaining Landis cats. He has nurtured them into mini-likenesses of himself.

Patrick Steven PJ Landis is gone but will not be easily forgotten. Certainly the Landises will never forget their friend and family member whose second middle name explains his specialness. "PJ" stands for "Pride and Joy."

You live on, Patrick--in our memories, in your feline brothers and sisters reflecting your tolerance.

Patrick--the good good cat.

Kenny Junior

2010-08-03T13:57:00.005-04:00

The other day when Edgar arrived at the veterinary clinic, he found a rather large cardboard box in front of the door. He got out of his truck, pried open the lid, and there sat a kitten. Beside the kitten was a dish filled with dry cat food as well as a bowl of water. And in the other corner was a capped bottle of water, just in case the kitten needed more--though I doubt he'd have been able to figure out how to unscrew the cap and pour it out. I guess the bottle was meant for the well-meaning souls at our clinic to give our adoptee more fluids when he became dry.
Anyway, our vet staff hauled the kitten and its box into the clinic and proceeded to medicate him for a snotty nose and fleas. He was given Fancy Feast and more water from his bottle and then put in a proper kennel in an area of the clinic where he could be entertained by the other clinic cats and where he could watch the goings-on of veterinary work. Later that day Edgar came home and told me someone had dropped off a kitten at the clinic. I was, of course, ecstatic even though the last thing I needed was to care for another animal, but I was a sucker for kittens. This one, Edgar said, was the color of Kenny--that beigey sort of color--like sand. "Buff" would be the proper term.
"Like Kenny?" I said, eager to meet our new addition.
"Yeah, just like Kenny," he said. "The girls have named him Felix."
"BOR-R-RING!"
"Yeah, well, " he admitted.
"He's now named "Kenny Junior," I announced. "This weekend when he's over his cold, I'll bring him up to our place so that he can meet the kittens we rescued from the Philly kill shelter. He's about the same age as they are. He needs someone to play with."
So, that weekend I brought little Kenny Junior up to our farm. He turned out to be a social butterfly, flying right over to one of the other kittens, and going nose-to-nose with him. At dinnertime, he ran over and pushed himself into the middle feline melee that forms when I put wet cat food on their plates. He was gobbling the food right alongside the others.
It's been a week since he has been here. One would never know, other than he is not black or gray, that he wasn't a brother to the four shelter kittens. They play and run over the hay bales as though they had never played before. And maybe he hadn't.
As I write this, I'm also contemplating the best middle name for Kenny Junior because "Junior" just doesn't cut it. I need to find something especially appropriate for his personality, and since he is flying around the place like a little rocket, I'm kind of thinking of a condiment that's spicey. Now old Kenny's middle name is "Mayonnaise," so what might I call kitten Kenny?
Let's see . . .. How 'bout "Kenny Adobo?" Naw, no music in that middle name. I have to be able to sing it, yell it. "Kenny Horseradish Balliet? Kenny Mustard Balliet? Kenny Cayenne Balliet? Kenny Jalapeno Balliet?"
I've got it!!!
"Kenny CHIPOTLE Balliet!"

Kenny Mayonnaise Balliet

2010-08-03T09:24:00.010-04:00

Many years ago when I was showing our plantation walking horses, Kenny, my cat, was my biggest supporter and riding critic. I'd come home after a day of teaching my eager high school students, quickly change into jeans, and head out to the barn to put in my daily training regimen in preparation for the up-coming weekend show.

Fancy and I would go through our practice paces, she flicking up her hooves in an almost perfect running walk, her head nodding with each step. The concentration coming from both of us was intense: if we had a good couple of laps around the ring, we could quit early. Ultimately, the goal was to get it right early on, not make mistakes that took a lot of correcting and, therefore, more effort and time. So, Fancy and I practiced turns, circles, stops, backing, and, most of all, squeezing out the largest overstride she could muster. Our workouts together were demanding for us both, but, if they went well, they were gratifying, too.

During these practice sessions I had only one admirer looking on: my teenaged kitten, Kenny. Every day after school when I headed out to the ring with Fancy saddled up beside me, he followed us from the barn. Then, he staked a look-out atop one of the fence posts. There he sat for as long as it took us to go through our riding routine: doing serpentines, large circles, cantering on the correct lead and coming to a dead stop, even executing a cross-canter, which a judge sometimes asked a rider to do. Whatever we did and however long we did it, Kenny watched, completely mesmerized. He sat on a fence post, no doubt evaluating, acting the part of the judge himself. I always wondered if he approved our efforts to perform the best running walk.

When Fancy and I rounded the curve past Kenny, he didn't shrink away, afraid we were going to run him over. No, he sat upright, his eyes drilling us and our exhibition. I secretly hoped he was liking what he saw because if he didn't, then it was likely the judge at that weekend's show wouldn't like what he saw either. Blasting past my attentive cat, I yelled from the saddle, "Hey, Kenny! Hey, Kenny! How're we doin'? Are we getting a foot and a half overstride?" Overstride was the length that the horse's back foot overstrode the mark made by the front foot while striding forward. A long overstride won a rider and horse major points at a show. But Kenny never said anything--just stared and evaluated our ride with silence. Evidently whatever he saw he was keeping to himself. I was performing for my cat, who, after watching us daily for all these months, had certainly developed a critical and discerning eye for good horsemanship. Another lap past my cat perched atop his post, and I hollared out, "Is this better, Kenny? It feels better! I really feel her rear end coming up under me." And Kenny sat stalwart on his post--no comment. But he was judging all the while.

When Fancy and I pulled into the center of the ring as we would do at a regular horse show, Kenny got off his fence post and came over--uncannily much like the judges do at the end of a class. But Kenny didn't have a paper and writing utensil in his paws. "What do you think, Ken-Man? Think we'll win this weekend? I think Fancy is doing an outstanding job, don't you?" And Kenny stood on the ground next to us, looked up, and meowed, which I interpreted as a resounding, "Yes!"

I got off Fancy, dropped the reins and reached down for Kenny, who, after I finished every ride, was accustomed to hopping into my arms for the walk back to the barn. Fancy walked freely beside me while Kenny draped himself along the length of my lower left arm, his chest cupped in my hand, his head facing away from me but in the direction we were walking, and his back legs draped over the side. In that quirky way he rode my arm back to the barn.

Kenny is very old now with some evidence that his kidneys aren't working real well. He's also losing his hair for some reason. But he's happy here on the farm and is living out his last years in comfort. Over the years he acquired many nicknames: "Kenny Man," which turned into a sing-songy, "Kenny May-an," which ultimately turned into a "Kenny May-o-nnaise." Yep, "Mayonnaise" was Kenny's middle name. Kenny still comes out to the riding ring to watch me, though Fancy died of old age last October and had been retired from riding for probably ten years before that. But Kenny still observes my equestrian skills on Bo and Lola. He's too large for me to carry him along my arm now, so he grudgingly walks back to the barn on his own.

Though he's not a youngster anymore, he's still my feline riding buddy, and I hope to enjoy his company a while longer as he sits ringside with those big cat eyes turned to slits--critiquing our ride, as ever.

Fight Grindadrap

2010-07-19T10:01:00.003-04:00

In an effort to help end the annual slaughter of the pilot whales in the Faroe Islands of Denmark, I have contacted the International Foundation for Animal Welfare (www.ifaw.org). This organization, in their campaign to assist whales all over the world, has been putting most of their funds toward eradicating Japanese whaling. They, too, oppose the cruel slaughter of the Faroese pilot whales and recommend that, instead of signing a petion, a concerned person can send an email or letter to the Danish Ambassador in his or her country about this annual, brutal slaughter.
If you want to address the Faroese authorities regarding pilot whaling, the e-mail address of the Foreign Department of the Faroese Government is mfa@mfa.fo; The e-mail address of the Faroese department of Fisheries and Maritime Affairs is fisk@fisk.fo.
Please take the time to write these people and defend these helpless creatures. Tell the Faroese government to end this cruel, time-worn tradition once and for all.

Uncivilized Behavior in a "Civilized" World: Grindadrap

2010-07-14T14:02:00.006-04:00

The human species can hardly call itself civilized after some members have been caught in the act of mercilessly slaughtering Calderon whales in the Faroe Islands, a province of Denmark. This stupid, barbaric tradition claims to be a necessary event staged by the Faroese people for the purpose of supplying food. Hardly do the Faroese, who have one of the highest standards of living in the European world, need to kill hundreds and hundreds of these whales for the purpose of machissmo display for the women and putting food on the table, especially when scientists have already warned them that the whale blubber is loaded with PCB's, mercury, and other environmental toxins. In fact, after the slaughter, most of the whales rot on the beach because so many are killed and not used at all for food. It's a disgusting site.
The photos of this unholy massacre will just make you sick--if you dare to look. The social, intelligent animals are herded into a shallow bay and are gaffed, their spinal columns slit, and let to bleed out. Pictures of this show the entire bay red with blood. Recently the Faorese have developed a new weapon for this battle against these innocent creatures: they put a hook down into the airsac through the whale's blowhole--all in order to hold down the creature as men knife the spine and main arteries.
This is a tradition originating from hundreds of years ago when the islanders actually needed the animal meat to survive. That is not the case today. And if these whales' bodies were really needed to provide subsistence, the barbaric method of execution far exceeds what is necessary to cause the animals' deaths.
I, along with civilized persons and conservationists national and international, are appalled by the photos of the slaughter. My suggestion is that when this event is imminent, people from around the globe get in their boats, yachts, sailing ships, canoes, rafts and dugouts, gather at the scene in the Faroe Islands, and defend these poor animals. And in defending these creatures, we will also be defending the human race and the possibility that we can, indeed, be humane, compassionate beings.
Dear Goddess--what have we become.

"Cancer Can't Keep a Good Dog Down" Calendar

2010-07-14T09:40:00.005-04:00

Luke Robinson has only begun his fight against canine and other pet cancers. During his memorial trek from Austin to Boston, which I wrote about in a previous blog, Luke walked every mile wearing a memorial T-shirt bearing the names of dogs who had passed from this awful disease. No dog was forgotten; each dog who had died "walked" on those T-shirts too with Luke and Hudson and Murphy. What a wonderful tribute to these good pets.

Now that the walk is over, the aggressive work against pet cancer begins. In addition, all should know that this also benefits all pets and humans with cancer because comparative studies are being done as well.

If you have a dog with cancer, please get involved in the research I mentioned in my previous blog. For no cost, anyone can donate a sample of his or her dog's DNA to the Canine Hereditary Cancer Consortium. Luke's team is looking for at least 2,000 samples to be studied with the latest current medical and veterinary technology to develop genetic screens, diagnostic tests, and treatments for hereditary canine cancers. If a person would like to be involved with this important study, please see instructions for taking and submitting the DNA at http://www.2dogs2000miles.org/.

The next project Luke is undertaking is the third annual "Cancer Can't Keep a Good Dog Down" calendar. Those interested in having their dog's picture and story on the calendar can enter the on-line contest as follows: send to calendar2011@2dogs2000miles.org a digital picture of a minimum 500kb resolution in a .jpg or.gif format. Then, write a 1000 character, not words, paragraph about the dog. Include the name of the dog, the human companion's name, and email address.

All entrants' pictures and stories will be posted on-line at the 2dogs2000miles website. Everyone will be able to see and read about each dog. Then, after the deadline for submissions is over, voting begins. Each vote costs a $1.00. The voting lasts for several weeks after which the money is given to three veterinary oncology programs and to Luke's newest organization, 2 Million Dogs.

So, everyone whose has had a dog die of cancer, can memorialize him or her through this contest and, depending on the votes, on the calendar for 2011.

And, anyone with a dog that currently has cancer can get involved with oncological research by providing a DNA sample.

For the contest: calendar2011@2dogs2000miles.org. Submissions end July 31, 2010.

For the DNA instructions: http://www.2dogs2000miles.org/

For any questions : erich@2dogs2000miles.org

I'd like to personally thank all my readers for participating in these two very worthwhile events. Thanks a lot. We've got to go after cancer, fight it, and beat it.

Rain

2010-07-10T11:14:00.006-04:00

Those of us in the Mid-Atlantic states who have been suffering the recent drought have awakened, refreshed and positive, this morning.

It is raining.

I took a morning walk this morning in the light, but steady, drops, and though this picture really doesn't show the little puddles on our path, those pools, so familiar in spring and late fall, were like renewed acquaintances, like friends I hadn't appreciated enough in former times.

During the past few weeks of this drought, nature carried an edge, knife-sharp, on her shoulders: the landscape turned army-drab, the Irish moss scriveled and nearly disappeared, even the trees whose roots should have been deep enough to withstand the lack of water, were drooping, their leaves curled like an old woman's back. The viney plants in the vegetable garden languished, their octogonal leaves lolling like spent tongues from their stems: panting plants. My perenial garden looked stiff, with razor-sharp leaf-edges, and even the flower petals had frizzled. All the vegetation lay brutalized in the sun and scorched air.

My cats must have felt as alien as the landscape, too, for they lay out, legs spread apart--furry stars--on the desiccated walkway. When I passed by, they regarded me with irritation. And I patted one and said, "It's not my fault." The pigs disappeared into their pens to sleep away the drought--nothing outside in the grass worth snouting around for. All the worms, fresh grass shoots and other juicy delectables in the ground had either died or scriveled to nothing. There was nothing juicy anywhere--so a pig shouldn't waste her time looking. The horses, too, were miserable in the sun-under heat coming into full furnace by ten in the morning. So, each morning after their pasture breakfast, I brought them inside to their darkened stalls where the flies couldn't suck them drier than they already felt. On went the flock of fans, after which I hauled out the hay and filled water buckets to their rims. I winced even thinking about riding Bo and Lola in such heat. The horses and I glared at each other: the heat wasn't my fault. In such conditions I cared for our animals meticulously, yet I worried. I worried about all the creatures beyond my care.

The wildlife. How were the squirrels, the spiders, the deer, the ground hogs, the fox, and the other creatures of the field and forest coping and keeping themselves alive on this devil-designed stage? Things weren't right with nature in this extreme heat and desiccation: all seemed aggravated, on edge, nervous, jittery--all of which I could only quantify through my own instincts. I believed that the unease around me resulted from the heat's ultimate threat to creatures' survival.

But this morning's walk in the rain refreshed my spirit and cleansed my worry. With the rain trickling down my face, I could feel the relief--the immense sigh in the landscape and in the animals around me. A strange peace mist-coated the air, which before had been knife-sharp with every breath. The moist air softened the atmosphere, puffed up and filed down the edges of the dried-out echinacea petals. A graceful lace rain coverlet blanketed my stone pathway and the woods beyond--assuring nature's creatures and flora that she had, indeed, not deserted them.

Words cannot truly describe the immense rush pervading everything as the rain fell. This morning's rain brought the spiders back to life--daddy-long-leggers tramping back to work from a too-long, dusty rest beneath the wimpering weeds. The grass would need more time to regenerate, but already the elephant ears looked greener, fuller, stronger--bolder. And the change in the animals' demeanor was obvious. The cats, who ordinarily flee the lightest raindrop, ran out in the steady fall, danced and spun, darted after one another, and, realizing all was going to be okay, skipped back into the house out of the wet. The potbellies came from their houses and nosed the ground in search of bugs and grubs arriving to take part in the watery communion--all was not lost, all was not dead. The horses, too, neighed from their stalls--snorting, sniffing the wetness: asking to be let outside for a rainfall massage.

Joyful: all. I stood on the stone path, the raindrops scattering on my skin, and I smiled at the puddles forming on the stones. Not for a very long time will I curse rain. Rain is the life-blood of all living things. Rain renews, refreshes, cleans, restores. And it soothes the physical and emotional self unlike any substance.

Yes, indeed: rain soothes the souls.

Memorial walk for pet cancer research.

2010-06-29T09:54:00.002-04:00

This is a pic of Luke Robinson walking his Great Pyrenees through Boston Commons during his last two miles of his memorial walk meant to bring awareness to and funds for pet cancer research. The walk, completed in honor of his dog, Malcolm, who died in 2006 of bone cancer, began on March 16, 2008 and ended in Boston, amid much media and public attention, on June 20. 2010.

Edgar, my agent, and I were just three of probably a hundred or so people whose lives have been permanently changed by cancer and who had walked those last miles. What a thrill it was to be a part of this cause that has re-interested, demanded that the veterinary community and its researchers pay more attention to cancer--not simply tolerate and mourn its presence.

I got involved with this cause during the research for my b0ok, THE CELEBRATED PET: HOW AMERICANS MEMORIALIZE THEIR ANIMAL FRIENDS. Early in 2008 I had learned of a guy who had lost his Great Pyrenees to cancer. He was embarking on a walk of over two thousand miles--in memory of him and to help eradicate the disease that took his life. I contacted him, interviewed him about a month before he was to set off on the walk with his other two Great Pyrenees, Hudson and Murphy, and wrote Malcolm's and Luke's story for my manuscript. And I became a follower of his cause, reading about his journey through the most long, grueling days, and, finally, walking the last two miles with him in Boston.

Many Americans have either read about or seen on TV this man devoted to the memory of Malcolm and his commitment to fighting this terrible disease that touches everyone of us during our lifetime. How noble a cause. I can't begin to understand the kind of determination it took to live through some of the trials he must have faced on the road. For someone lacking that degree of courage--someone such as myself, for example--such a feat is unimaginable: each day ending at a different location, friendly or not-so-friendly; safe or not-so-safe. Where would he be sleeping: by the side of a highway where, probability tells us, criminals and psychopaths have to be passing? How would he tend himself and his two big dogs on a daily basis? How would be carry all that food, his tent, his communications apparati, and products for hygiene? What problems along the road would threaten the walk, their lives, his sanity? What personal fears or obsessions would he have to face and overcome? I put myself in his place and shuddered. One thing alone would terrify me: bugs and ticks.

So much we all take for granted and would not be able or willing to do without on such an excursion: accessible, potable water for drinking and bathing, cooked food and lots of it, social gatherings with friends and family, leisure activities, simple acts like reading, snacking, sitting in a comfy chair, listening to favorite tunes, and just seeing to everyday comforts like cleanliness, temperature, general health, and ease of living. All of these became tentative, uncertain, undependable, and largely unexistent once Luke began his walk. Though he had a human support group via telephone keeping in touch and assisting him during life-threatening weather conditions, for the most part he sacrifced--for each day and hour of those two years--his own comfort and safety for the benefit of us all. That kind of selflessness probably none of us can imagine nor would be willing to tolerate even one-sixteenth of what Luke endured.

Had I undertaken such a trip, I would have had to lug such a large pack, or drag a sizeable wagon behind me--unable to do without my pillow, a personal toilet because I refuse to use the shoulder of a highway, my computer, a GPS, antacids, several changes of underwear and clothes, hats, sunglasses, sunscreen, a first aid kit, complete with a few cosmetics, bug spray, and a week's supply of donuts--to name just a few indisensable items I couldn't live without. And I would have been too lonely to have made it much past a week, despite the company of my cats. The first skin infection from a tick bite would have had me crying home for assistance, and I can't even imagine how I could have existed for two weeks without all the water I'd have needed for myself and my feline companions. And how in the world would I have carried all that food and cans of cat food with me?

What Luke accomplished is just unfathomable to me. What he sacrificed--incomprehensible. What he has done--generous, selfless--nothing less than heroic, for he conquered the odds for the sake of helping humanity and animals. Luke has helped us all because we've all been a victim of cancer in some way. Because of Luke's determination and ability to endure, he just may be the catalyst that will allow scientists to discover cancer's cause and, therefore, cure. Such strength of character must be recognized and praised.

Luke is a unique individual who continues to demonstrate the will and determination it takes to win the battle against cancer in animals and people, too. Check out his website at www.2dogs2000miles.org and donate to the cause, either by contributing your dog's DNA to the organization mentioned or by giving a monetary donation.

Thank you, Luke, for being a braver, bigger person than what I am.

Farmer Rick

2010-06-29T09:13:00.005-04:00

This is my Cornish Rex, Ricky, helping me mow Bo's pasture. Before the drought hit us here in eastern PA, we were mowing the horse pastures every week--thank goodness for the enclosed cab complete with air-conditioning and radio. Now the grass isn't growing, so mowing pastures has temporarily ceased.

Mowing grass is only one of the reasons why I haven't been writing on my blog. I had neck surgery to fuse two vertebrae, probably off-set on one of my five falls from my horse, The Bo-ster. The surgery set me back on a lot of yard work and my over-bearing garden, so when I finally recovered, I had to make up for lost time. Luckily, Farmer Rick was there to assist me.

Ricky truly is a weird cat--loves riding in my golf cart, rides at the front of the tractor cab, and is always up for adventures. In this picture he is wearing his summer collar, the transmitter that allows me to track him to the exact bush or mat of poison ivy where he is stalking a butterfly or shrew. Just a bit of information for pet lovers out there: www.petlocator.com sells tracking devices for pets, including cats. It's a handy tool when you can't find your dog or cat and can't spend a whole day searching every nook and cranny. I've been using my locator for years and can't be without it. It'll track an animal that has wandered about half a mile away, on average. It saves me a lot of time and, most of all, worry.

In addition to the surgery and catching up with chores that seems to be getting larger as we are getting older, Edgar and I drove up to Boston to walk the last two miles with Luke Robinson and his two Great Pyrenees, Hudson and Murphy. A trip to Cape Cod found us at Race Point Beach. Loads of sunbathers had gathered sand-side to soak up sun and balmy breezes, but only one crazed person was actually in the fifty-degree ocean: me. Yep, me--the only one bobbing, cringing with cold, in the waves. Edgar dutifully tried to accompany me into the sea. but when he got in up to his knees, he screamed bloody murder and yelled, "I can't stand it! I'm getting out!" And he raced back to the blanket. But I hadn't suffered a six hour drive not to enjoy my favorite summertime treat: jumping in the waves. So, I grit my teeth and went it--for at least a half hour. I provided entertainment for all the sane people lounging on the beach.

So, now that the yard work is caught up, I can be more faithful to my blog. Thanks for bearing with me and my tribulations.

Rusty Purrl

2010-06-10T15:32:00.003-04:00

It has taken me this long to get over the death of Purrl, re-named Rusty Purrl after we discovered that he was not a female, but a boy. In honor of my first raccoon, Rustle, I had re-christened him Rusty Purrl.
I was able to enjoy two weeks with Rusty Purrl, but all the while I detected that something just wasn't right about him. He walked goofy, knuckling over in the front and back feet. Then his symptoms progressed to the point that he lost his suck reflex. No matter how I tried to feed him, the KMR (milk replacer for kittens) came out his nose--the food was getting into his lungs. And while I was trying to feed him on June 3rd, his heart stopped.
I wish I had a good, happy, hearty story to tell you all about: how Rusty Purrl is climbing trees and trundling around the yard after me. I wish, more than anything, that I could have had that little raccoon to raise this summer and set free into the wild in September because raising a raccoon is nothing less than enthralling. I was given a very special opportunity, but things just didn't work out, despite our best efforts and best medicines.
Rusty Purrl died, probably from canine distemper transmitted in utero. But in the short time I had him, he made me realize how precious life is and how tenuous it is, too. In those two weeks, a tiny raccoon kit came to trust me enough to fall asleep in my arms. Though Rusty Purrl died, he gave me some very special moments, and I hope I was able to give him the same.

Purrl--Part Six

2010-05-19T11:42:00.002-04:00

My raccoon kit has her suck reflex back, making it entirely easier to feed her. She downs half a bottle in just a few minutes. And she loves her nest I made her in the kitchen with that sack loaded with grain that can be heated in the microwave. I wrap it in a towel so as not to burn her.

Today after her second feeding, I recommended she stretch her legs and take a walk around the kitchen. On this tiny, springy legs, she maneuvered herself, trembling as she crawled across the tiled floor. When her nose hit the garbage can, she started hollering, screeching bloody murder. I ran over, saw that she was safe and told her so. She immediately calmed down and began another lap around the kitchen.

What a difference inher attitude and appearance since the night we rescued her from the exhaust pipe of the bathroom fan. She's perky, her skin is a lot looser on her--not dried onto her body--and she has started to act normal. In fact, I can say that she appears normal altogether--as in what is normal for a raccoon. She loves to snuggle in a person's neck, and her nose inspecting my skin never fails to give me goosebumps.

All in all--I'm enjoying raising Purrl. I can't wait to take her outside and show her how to climb a tree. But that must wait a few more weeks. Right now I just want to insure her good health, which she seems to have now.

Thanks for listening. And I will get back to you on Louie Jay.

Purrl Pics--Part Five

2010-05-18T13:35:00.001-04:00

Purrl Pics--Part Four

2010-05-18T13:32:00.004-04:00

Purrl Survives the Night--Part Three

2010-05-18T13:08:00.007-04:00

I rushed downstairs early this morning to check my raccoon kit.

He was sleeping soundly atop his towels. I was ecstatic to see that he had made it through the night. Perhaps we hadn't rescued him too late at all.

"Come on," I cooed. "You need your breakfast."

I put the titty bottle in the microwave as he crawled up to my neck, my other hand stabilizing his tiny butt. After thirty seconds, I took out the bottle and put the nipple to his lips. Though he didn't open his mouth on his own, the jaw moved with more suppleness--not as dried shut as last night. I pried open his mouth, inserted the nipple and squirted the fluid into his mouth. This time, the mouth opened and closed, almost as though he was trying to chew. I remembered that with Rustle, I squirted once and paused to let him swallow and get his bearings on being force-fed. Then, I squirted again and waited. It took a while to feed Rustle this way, but at least I hadn't overwhelmed him with the process.

Coffee in hand, Edgar came over to watch the nursing routine. I looked up and smiled grandly. He said, "Some birthday present, huh? You always said you wanted to raise another raccoon, and here you have him. Hey, we didn't check to see what sex it is." So, I held the kit while Edgar checked under the tail. "I believe we have a little female here."

"Oh," I said. "Well, then I can't call her ''Rustlelina' then. I've been thinking: let's name her Purrl, after Purrlicue (Purrlicue was our twenty-year-old cat that died last year). The kit was calling to us with not quite a purr but with more like a chirping, twittering sound, but it sort of sounded like a purr. But I'd like to honor Purrl, too, by naming this raccoon after her.

Edgar smiled. "Purrl it is." He watched me giving Purrl her bottle. "You're in heaven, aren't you. Well, again, you've got your work cut out for you. Looks like this is going to be The Summer of Purrl."

If it's anything like The Summer of Rustle, we're all in for a treat."

"You betcha!" I said.

Purr Lives--Part Two

2010-05-18T12:42:00.003-04:00

I whisked the raccoon kit downstairs, opened the freezer, and took out the tin of KMR or Kitten Milk Replacer. I sifted through another cabinet and found a new pet bottle still inside its original container. Then, I got out a shaker for making mixed drinks, read the directions and proceeded to make the kit a long-overdue supper.

As I was mixing the KMR with water, I noticed how the kit almost looked dried up. His fur was icky, and his skin seemed almost adhered to his body--like no space between the skin and the body proper. He was extrememly dehydrated. His attitude revealed his lack of moisture, too, because he acted as though he couldn't see, and it didn't help that one eye was pasted shut with eye matter. So, even before I tried to feed him, I got paper towels, wet them with warm water, and began stroking him all over. My towels rapidly turned yellow--probably from his sitting in his own waste for such a long time. I think the washing also helped stimulate him back to reality a bit, for he began to move his head slightly, almost as though he was analyzing his surroundings.

I out the KMR solution into a bottle and put it to his mouth. When I had done that with my first raccoon kit, he immediately began sucking on it. This kit, however, was in dire shape: he didn't even know that there was a nipple bottle at his lips and that milk was running down his chin.

A chill went through my body: had I only thought, when I first heard the noise in the fan, that some critter needed rescuing, he might not be so worn out and dehydrated. The kit may have lost his suck reflex. Losing a suck reflex is not a good prognosis for a baby animal. Still, I was determined he should have liquids.

I put a fingernail between his upper and lower jaw and pried the lower jaw loose. It was like a creaky chest that hadn't been opened for years. When I had it open, I stuck in the nipple and squirted the good milk into his mouth. It dribbled out the side and down his chest.

I was worried. Was he so far gone that he couldn't even swallow? This wasn't looking good. "Edgar! He needs fluids. He's all dried up--can't even drink anything."

Edgar went for the fluids and gave him five cc's under the skin in two places. I had already washed his eyes and put opthalmic ointment in them. But I had to try to get him to participate in the feeding. I could jam as much liquid into his mouth as possible, but if he couldn't swallow, all my attempts at saving him would be lost.

I warmed the KMR in the microwave, put the nipple to his lips--nothing. He just hung limp in my hands: too far gone. I cursed myself for ignoring his cries the previous day. I tried again--squirting the liquid into the back of his mouth. This time I saw his mouth move, and as another squirt went into him, a tiny, broad tongue lapped at the juice. He wasn't sucking, but he was licking the fluid.

For an hour I worked with him, Edgar helping to steady him in my arms. His head was almost as long as his body, and he kept twisting it away from me as though he didn't like bing forced to drink. After half the bottle was empty, I squeezed his belly: it was taut.

I held him against my chest, and he made a feeble attempt to crawl up to my neck. I helped him--shades of Rustle dancing through my head--and he made it to my hairline where he burrowed his head. While he lay on my shoulder, with one hand steadying him, I made him a nice raccoon nest out of a cardboard box and towels. Then I heated in the microwave a sack of birdseed that people use on sore body parts and wrapped it in a towel.

I put him in the box on top of the heated pouch, and he fell right to sleep. My only worry was that we had rescued him too late and that he wouldn't survive the night.

Precious Purrl--Part One

2010-05-18T11:54:00.003-04:00

No one could have given me a more precious birthday present. Sent from the insightful goddess in the clouds, I received my gift with open arms and a gigantuan smile. To hell with diamonds, donuts, dollars, and any other gift starting with a "d". This was a moment to cherish. My prize is sitting in the kitchen right now, and I pass by it every few minutes just to stop and stare--and to marvel.

Last night I had disrobed before taking my evening shower. Again this chirping noise was coming from the ceiling fan--for the second night. I stood, naked, underneath it, squinting at the grates but could detect nothing. I yelled, "Hey! Who's up there? You're not supposed to be in our attic." No answer. So, I turned to step in the shower. But, just as I opened the door, the sound twittered even louder. There was no mistake: a wild animal was up in the ceiling fan. I could not fathom how an animal could have gotten into the fan, but regardless of my perplexity, something was definitely up there.

"Edgar!" I yelled, stark-standing in the archway of the living room. "Some animal is caught in the ceiling fan! We have to save it." He rolled his eyes and dislodged himself from his comfy, over-sized chair.

He said, "How am I going to walk in the attic because of all the insulation we had blown in there?"

"Use boards," I said. "Place one board, crawl on it, place another, walk on it, and pick up the first one and lay that one down--like we did for Lowell when we took him to the TV station. (Lowell refused to walk on slippery tile, so we had to lay sections of carpeting down before him as he walked on stage).

While I got dressed again, Edgar drove to the farm, retrieved two boards, and with my help, hoisted himself and the boards into the attic. But when Edgar got to the guts of the ceiling fan, all he found was a closed metal box with a three-inch tube going from it to the wall of the house. Out of breath, Edgar backed out of the attic. We re-grouped in the bathroom, staring up at the ceiling fan from which issued the sounds of desperate chirping. "The poor thing," I said. "I've been hearing that noise yesterday and this evening, but I never thought that an animal could be trapped up there. Yeah, I thought a critter was in the attic, but I didn't think it was caught there. I'm certain it can't get out: why would it stay in that one place for two days--just chirping all the time?

We developed a new plan: get a ladder and remove the fan from the bathroom. I raced downstairs for a ladder while Edgar found the right-sized screwdriver. As he removed the facing of the fan, held on by two long screws, I stood ready with a cardboard box and Edgar's heavy work gloves. We didn't know if, when he took off the cover, what kind of animal--young or adult--would drop out of the ceiling. I held the box like a fireman with a net.

Carefully, Edgar drew away the cover. I held the box underneath it, but nothing fell out. I lowered the box. "What the hell? Where is it?" After dismantling the electric wires, Edgar poked his bare hand into the fan's guts, but he found nothing. Yet the chirping was louder.

He said, getting off the ladder, "I'm gonna have to get a wrench to pull off the fan gizmo. It's definitely in there somewhere, but I don't see it." Minutes later the fan was off. Still, no animal.

I took Edgar's place on the ladder, which I had repositioned, and there, in the exhaust pipe, I could see a body on the other side of the plastic flapper or valve that opens when the fan works. How in the world an animal got inside that three-inch pipe, we may never know. But it was there and had been there for at least two days, perhaps even more. "It's behind this thing!" I yelled. I can only push it a little--not enough room to get it out. You'll have to pull out that flapper-thingy."

So, Edgar crawled up the ladder, pulled the flap out of the tube In that instant, a little head appeared.

It was a raccoon kit!

Edgar laughed as he took it out of the pipe and handed it to me. "I can't believe it! Right around the same time as we rescued Rustle--this time in May of 2005. How's that for a birthday present! You've got another raccoon to raise."

I was speechless with joy. I don't remember who I was telling recently about the summer of 2005 when I raised a baby raccoon. I told them it was the best summer ever and explained how I and Rustle played games on the front porch, went for golf cart rides, and how he helped me do chores by riding around on the back of my neck all day--even in the stifling-hot weather. I had told the person that I'd give anything to be able to do it all over again.

And now I had my chance!

Chico

2010-05-14T10:36:00.007-04:00

Chico was one of the pigs we rescued about three years ago, he and his roomie, Sniffer. Sniffer, however, was with us for only six months before we found him dead one afternoon in his house. Just that morning Sniffer had eaten his usual big breakfast. Hours later he would be dead.

I've never witnessed such complete gratefulness as I have from these two pigs. A couple was divorcing, and the two pigs actually belonged to the wife. They were her pets, said the husband, but when she moved out in spring, she left the pigs behind, leaving her husband, who never wanted them in the first place, in charge of their care. Typical of couples splitting, animals left behind are often neglected, as were these two.

The day we arrived to see these pigs in need of a new home, we had to reach them with a four-wheel-drive truck. Right away I doubted that the husband had made the daily trek up the windy steep path--especially in winter--in order to feed and water them. I was right in my assumption. The two pigs were deathly thin and up to their shins in mud and manure. Inside their enclosure not one weed grew. Probably as soon as a green shoot peeked through the ground, the pigs gobbled it up before it could grow; they were starving. On top of a hill where I'm sure they suffered winter's blasts, ice storms, and snowstorms, these pigs existed on next to nothing.

I was shocked at first sight of the animals--so skinny, so cake-scaled with dirt. The one who appeared to be mostly white underneath all the mud, had a prolapsed rectum--typical of an animal that has been starved; the digestive system tries to work and keep things moving, but there's nothing to push out but one's own guts. And it wasn't bad enough that there was nothing for the pigs to eat inside their pen. What was worse was that there was no water--not even a bowl for water.

I was so angry with the husband and the wife, who had left months ago and with no regard for her pets, but for Edgar's sake and the pigs, I kept quiet, except for, "We'll take them."

I gave them water and cut some grasses growing tall just beyond their pen so that they could at least have dinner before we picked them up the next day.

We brought them home to our pig paradise where porcine people are treated with respect and cared for as they should be. I was really concerned about the white one's prolapsed rectum, but Edgar assured me that as soon as it had some real food passing through the gut, it would disappear inside where it belonged. For as much neglect as these pigs endured for at least what had to be several months, I was awe-stricken by how accepting they were of me. When I got close to scrape the mud from their hides, they voiced objections but didn't run away or try to bite me. After all that people had done to them, they didn't resent my species. But I expected that eaction because the pig is Goddess's magnanimous animal-child.

Forgiveness is a trait common to pot-bellied pigs. They don't hold a grudge as my cats do and dogs. And it's not that they don't have stellar memories, because they're highly intelligent. Perhaps their intelligence allows them to realize goodness in another being, even though she may be a human. Walking around in their field of grass, the pigs knew somehow that someone had been instrumental in giving them a new life.

These days Chico lives a good life here with our other ten pot-bellies. He's healthy: his little butt-hole crawled back inside where it belonged, which is always a good thing. Chico spends his days walking the patch in search of goodies: dandelions, poison ivy leaves, and acorns. He tolerates my digging the dirt out of his eyes and grunts his appr9val and gratitude. One thing I know for sure: Chico is happy here.

And I am happy to have him as part of my pig family.

Happy Mother's Day to Mom's of Pets

2010-05-09T13:44:00.004-04:00

My agent sent me a Happy Mother's Day email, even though I don't have human kids. My "kids" have four legs; they are humans in fur clothing, except for the fish in their scales. Her note rekindled memories of all the things human moms remind, threaten, and warn their kids about during their younger years. For example, I distinctly remember my mother warning me to wear clean underwear in case I was in a car accident. Silly, huh? What difference did clean undies make if my head was hanging on by a string. Then, as a teenager, I got the, "So, if your friend jumped over a cliff, you'd jump, too? I just couldn't say "Yes" to that question, not if I had one ounce of brain cells. My mother's comeback would be, "Well, then, why would you even think of doing blah, blah, blah?" Ah, yes: mothers' proverbs.

As a mother of different species of animals, I have my own warnings, threats, and pet--no pun intended--phrases I use to keep them safe or feeling silly or guilty. I'm breaking them down into "cat"egories for you because different species require different warnings, tones of voice, and expectations.

For the cats:
1. If you don't come into the house right now, I'm not calling you again. Then, you're gonna be stuck out all night. You'll be so-o-o-orry.
2. Don't eat so fast: you're gonna barf.
3. NO! Don't barf on the rug! Go into the kitchen.
4. Take this medicine; it's good for you.
5. Okay, Sucky Face: I'll give you five minutes on my neck.
6. Lyla! Off my pillow!
7. No fighting!
8. Could you please lie somewhere else other than on the computer keyboard?
8. What beautiful pussies!

For the pigs:
1. Lowell, get up! Get UP! Don't pee on your blanket!
2. My Lowell.
3. Out of the garden, Skippy. Yes, you! Yes, I do see you in the flowers. You're a pig, and, no matter how still you stand, I can still see you. Out of the garden! NOW!
4. Out of the pachysandra, Skippy. Yes, you! Don't look shocked. Is there another 'Skippy' around here?
5. Let's check your belly for ticks. Roll over. There is one! HOLD STILL!!
6. It's okay. Mommy's here.
7. No, you don't smell pork roast.
8. Don't eat so fast; you're gonna barf.
9. Good little piggies stay home.

For the horses:

1. Stop bullying Lola before she kicks you into the middle of next week.
2. You never listen: one of these days you're gonna get hurt.
3. You never listen: one of these days I'm gonna get hurt.
4. No running in the barn.
5. Whoa! Damn it!
6. Bite me, and it'll be your last bite.
7. What a handsome horsey.

To all the animals:
Sleep tight: Don't let the stinkbugs bite.

To all mothers of animals. Every day is mother's day: taking the bad with the good. But the good our animals brings us is worth every irritation, cleaning chore, and unending vigilance. We are the luckiest of moms. Happy Mother's Day!

two more winners in peacock-naming contest

2010-05-03T09:54:00.002-04:00

Today is the deadline for naming the winners of the peacock-naming contest. Stella Dora Von Swineburg has won with her names for the females: Apeagail and Ashpea. But I need one more name for the male bird yet. Then, I'll have all four: Cindy Sproles' "Peater," and Stella's "Apeagail" and "Ashpea."

I just need one more perfect one with "pea" in the name for the other male bird. If I get no response by the end of the day, I might have to come up with something myself.

Thanks to everyone who participated in the contest. We still do not have the birds yet--are arguing over where to situate the pen--but when we get them, I'll let you know and post pics.

And I have yet to talk with Louie Jay's mom yet to see how he is doing with his new wheels. That will likely be my next post. Thanks, again.

mammals in a mal mood

2010-04-25T14:05:00.004-04:00

So much for alliteration: "mammals in a mal mood." But it's true. Today, April 25, is just one of those icky, cold and damp days when the cats, horses, and pigs and I just stare, scowling, at each other. We are all irritated by the weather and its stifling effect on leisure activity in the great outdoors. The cats can't prowl the woods. If they do, they risk returning home dripping with raindrops collected from the bushes and undergrowth. The pigs can't stand to get even their feet wet, let alone risk water on their backs, so they are hunkered down in their houses--all eleven of them--probably getting on each others' nerves. The horses don't mind this kind of weather too much, but they're still bored because Edgar and (I (their major form of entertainment) aren't outside tending the fruit trees, the greenhouse, racing the golf cart back and forth from our farm to the farm across the street. So, for the equines, there's not much to watch--only stare at the vehicles swishing past on Cherryville Road.

Edgar's on emergency call this weekend, so he's incapable of truly enjoying the day, regardless of the weather. He went out at one AM last night to tend a horse with colic, but today, so far, there has been no emergencies. Still, we can't go anywhere--like for a visit to NYC--for fear of being interrupted with an emergency. We must stay in the area.

I realize we need rainy days for growing crops, gardens, grass, etc., but I am irritated by a wasted day like this: not much rain, just dreary, coldish, and not enough moisture to be productive. Yet it's yucky enough to keep me indoors--even inside I have goose-bumps. The house cats have taken their seventy-eighth lap around the house--through the kitchen, down into the living room, back out and through the office where I'm composing this post. And they glare at me as thought it's my fault the weather is too bad for them to go outside. I never get any breaks. Elliot passes by, scowling, and I yell, "I can't help it! It's not my fault." Then, he disappears around the corner, trying to find something interesting to do.

One thing, however. This weather is affording me some time to write another post on my blog. I am waiting to hear from Louie Jay's mom so that I can write a follow-up to his story. I heard he's all set up with his new set of wheels, and he's wearing himself out flying around the backyard with them. As soon as I find out more information, I'll have another story for you.

So, have a good day. Stay warm and dry.

one winner of peacock-naming contest

2010-04-14T14:12:00.004-04:00

This was a tough decision, and I really liked all the jewel names like amethyst, and alexandrite, but I tend to name all my animals people names because, to me, my animals are like little people. I purposely didn't give that hint in the beginning. So, what really appealed to me was using the prefix "pea" with another syllable to form a human name. Therefore, Cindy Sproles won with her "Peater."

So, I still need three more names using "pea" somewhere in the name and with it forming a human name.

Okay, so the contest is still on. Nah--I'm not wild about "Peabody." The "pea" can also be in the middle or end of the name, too.

I know: I'm fussy. But I'm going to have to be calling these birds by these names for a bunch of years. I need to like them.

Create away! Deadline is May 3, 2010. Thanks. Congrats to Cindy Sproles, too. Thanks, Cindy.

Eastern Horse Expo

2010-04-14T12:53:00.003-04:00

Hi, everyone,

Before I put on another blog about Louie Jay, I wanted to tell you what a good time Edgar and I had at the Eastern Horse Expo in Agricultural Hall at the Allentown Fairgrounds this past weekend. It's always fun to be in the company of like-minded people, and we were--all horse nuts. My husband and I had a booth there both for his veterinary practice, E.J. Balliet and Associates, whose patients are mostly horses, and for promoting and selling my books. I met many of Edgar's clients, sold and signed a bunch of books, and watched some live horse demonstrations put on by Willow Brook Farms on training horses with the Parelli Horsemanship method. It's always a good thing to be able to better communicate with your horse, and that's exactly what the Parelli method teaches. Other booths at the expo showed or sold tack, horse trailers, and even cremation services, which have been available for years for small animal owners, but which have only begun to serve those persons who need to dispose of a dear, but very large, pet, in a way that is respectful of the animal and agreeable to the owner.

I look forward to seeing an even bigger horse expo in fall and urge everyone--even those without horses--to sit ringside and learn the tricks that make horse ownership such a pleasure as well as a challenge.

Louie Jay--Part I

2010-03-28T18:37:00.001-04:00

When the phone rang in the Slocumb’s living room, Nancy dragged herself to it on wobbly legs. Since her favorite pot-bellied pig, Alton Louie, had died the day before, December 7th 2009, she just couldn’t get herself off the sofa--blown into a catatonic depression. Her best friend was gone. Alton and she had carried on many an intelligent conversation while Nancy networked on the computer or did the household accounting chores. She would ask him what snack he felt like eating, and he responded with a quick grunt that signified a strawberry would be fantastic. And Nancy popped the juicy morsel into Alton’s mouth while he munched, open-mouthed, a giant smile on his face. The memories, so happy and now so sad, flooded over her.
And the space where Alton Louie always lay in the living room was deafeningly empty.
“Hello?” she answered. She couldn’t have cared less who was on the other line.
“Nan?” her good friend said. “You okay?” Chrissy knew Alton had lost his battle with cancer and that the loss had thrown her friend into a funk, but, though Chrissy wanted to comfort Nan in person, the four-hour driving distance made a personal visit impossible.
“Hi, Chrissy,” Nan said. “I still can’t function very well. This one hit me hard.”
“I know—Alton was your fave—it was bound to hit you like a truckload of concrete. I wish I could be there. Look, I just came across an ad on Craig’s list. There’s a pot-bellied piglet for sale here in New Jersey—at some breeder. This pig is the last of the litter, and the ad says the piglet may have a broken leg. But the guy still wants $250 for her. Who would pay that kind of money for a pig with a problem? I thought I’d run it past you. What do you think?”
“Oh, I think it’s just too early, Chrissy. My Alton’s only been gone a day, and I’m still upset. I need time—a lot of time--to adjust to life without Altie.”
Chrissy said, “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. I’m just worried about this piglet, though. You’re the only person I know who would care for her properly.”
“Like I said--I don’t think I can handle that right now, Chrissy,” Nan said. Then they said good-bye and hung up.
Nancy plopped back on the sofa and stared at Alton’s spot beside the TV. If Chrissy was worried about the injured piglet, then there was certainly something real to be concerned about because Chrissy wasn’t a drama queen. What would, ultimately, happen to a piglet with a broken leg—a pig that probably no one would want as a pet? Would she ever get a home, especially since the breeder wants to be paid for her? And, if someone bought her purely out of pity, would they be able to have enough money to fix the leg properly? Nancy thought about the little pig for some time, and then she called Chrissy for the breeder’s number.
By the end of the day, Nancy had spoken with Earl of Earl’s Pot-Bellied Pig Farm in southwest New Jersey. He said it was true, as Chrissy had said, that the female pig probably had a broken leg—most likely sat on and smashed by the mother. Earl also said the mother had actually kicked the little pig out of the nest at four days old but that he brought the piglet into his house and out of the cold. He was feeding her calf manna, antibiotics, and other supplements because she was so frail. Then, he finally said, “Oh, and she doesn’t seem to have a tail.”
Before she could even check herself, Nancy said, “I want her. Please don’t sell her to anyone else before I’m able to get up there from Virginia.”
“Well, I don’t know ma’am. My business is sellin’ pigs. If anyone else calls, . . .”
“Look, I’ll give you three hundred dollars for her, then.”
Earl was suspicious. “Lady, why do you want this crippled pig so bad?” He thought perhaps she was with an animal rights group that might have heard bad things about his animal breeding business. He’d heard about how rescue centers and animal adoption agencies hassled breeders all the time. “Naw, I don’t think I even want to sell her anymore.” He had to discourage this one, or he might find himself in a peck of trouble.
Nancy said, “Please, Mister. No one else is going to want or properly take care of a pig with a broken leg. And you don’t know—if you do manage to sell her to someone else—whether they are going to do right by her or, God forbid, butcher her for meat or, more likely, just get tired of having a pig that is a lot of trouble or an embarrassment. I don’t care about any of that. I just want to give this animal a good life. I’ll even provide you with references and friends who know how I keep my animals. They’ll vouch for the care I give them all. Please. Just hold her until my husband and I can get up there this weekend.”
Earl detected honesty in her voice. And who else was going to pay another fifty bucks for a messed-up piglet? “Okay, lady. I’ll hold her until Sunday. But it you don’t pick her up by then, she goes back on Craig’s list.”

Dennis and Nancy Slocumb arrived late morning at Earl’s pig farm on Sunday, December 17th. Earl walked from his house with four dogs howling and jumping alongside him. Though his place wasn’t a palace for pigs, it wasn’t too bad. At least it was clean, and it was obvious that Earl loved his animals. Earl motioned them into a little side room built onto the main house. There in a large Tupperware box sat a tiny three-week piglet up t her hocks in her own waste. The odor coming from the box was over-powering, and the piglet was thin, her skin scaley. She sat with her back to them.
Nancy’s heart sank. She wanted to pick her up and hold her right away, but she knew a piglet wouldn’t like a stranger hoisting her into the air, and a pig scream could tear an eardrum. So, Nancy just sat beside the plastic box and petted the pig’s back. Nancy looked at her husband, who was standing over her shoulder, and she knew he wasn’t excited about the whole situation. This would be a huge commitment that would last the lifetime of the pig—at least fifteen years, and this piglet wasn’t even a normal pig. This one stank like a sewer; she couldn’t walk right and had obvious medical issues; and she had only a nubbin for a tail.
“You sure you want to do this, Nan?” Dennis said.
Earl stood at the door ready to bolt if one of them declared themselves with an animal rescue league.
Just then the little piglet twisted around on her hind end and looked up at Nancy. Nancy said, “Yes, Den. I want her. I have to take her. Alton sent her to us—to keep us going. I can feel it.”
Earl sighed relief. “Ma’am, when her mother threw her out of the nest, I brought her in for bottle feeding. She can’t get around very well with that broken leg, but maybe it can be fixed.” Earl’s look softened. “And I can’t take $300 from ya. Just give me $250. I can tell you’ll give her a good home.”
“She’ll get the best home,” Nan assured him. Then Dennis brought in a cardboard box, lifted the squealing piglet inside, and walked with her to the car.
For the next four hours’ ride to her new home in Alexandria, Virginia, the Slocombs heard little piggy grunts and squeaks coming from the seat of the car. “She knows; somehow she knows,” Nan said to Dennis, “that she’s in good hands. We all just need time to adjust. First thing tomorrow when we go to the vet, I’m going to get her thoroughly checked out—X-rays, the whole bit. For tonight, I’m just going to feed her pot-bellied pig food. I think she stinks so much because he was feeding her stuff for calves. She probably had a bellyache the whole time.”
The little pig spent the night in an upstairs bedroom inside her traveling box inside another large dog crate. Earlier she had gobbled up a bowlful of pig chow, and she had a water dish as well as a low-edged litter pan—better for getting into with a broken leg. The next morning at the vet hospital, Dr. Wilbers turned the protesting piglet round and round on the examining table, and the din from the pig’s screams was ear-splitting. Nancy had to cup her ears, the shrieking was so intense and high-pitched. Then, Dr. Wilbers took him into the back for a couple of X-rays of his hips and legs. The whole time Nancy could hear her piglet squealing somewhere in the far corners of the vet hospital. In a few minutes the vet entered the exam room with the pig in his arms.
After he was finished examining the pig, Dr. Wilbers said, “Well, first, Nancy--you got yourself a little boar here. He’s not a girl.”
Nancy was stunned. “But the breeder said he was a girl!”
“NOT,” the vet repeated. “He’s got fairly major problems with his backend. Nothing’s broken—he was born deformed. Looks like nature formed him properly from the head to his mid-section and then decided she didn’t have time for the rest of him. His right leg is missing most of its bones and ligaments and is incapable of touching the ground--he can’t use it at all. It’s like from the knee down nothing formed correctly.”
Nancy’s heart sank.
Wilbers continued, “Now, the left leg: he can support himself on this leg, but the hip joint doesn’t work well, causing the left leg to pivot when he puts weight on it. And what should be a hoof is more like one toe.” The vet put the piglet on the floor, and he ran-hopped to the door like a rabbit looking for escape. “See, he can run, but he has to muster everything he’s got to be able to do it.” As if on cue, the piglet sat down and looked around at them. “See, even that little bit of exercise tired him out.”
Nancy bent down to pat the pig’s back, and he squeaked as if to say, “Don’t touch me!” If anyone could understand pig language, it was Nancy, having many years of conversations with her Alton. “I don’t think he likes me yet,” she said. “He doesn’t trust people--and I understand why.”
“Well, he’s healthy otherwise, though his anus is also a bit screwed up. But, it works, as you have seen already. He can get himself into a litter box, and, thanks to that left leg, he can get himself around well enough. But the right one is of no use to him.”
“What about his tail?”
“What tail? He’s got a nub where his tail should be. The most likely cause of these deformities is in-breeding. Even his color is weird: he’s all black except his back legs, which are white—almost like the normal black color stopped at his back end. Ya know, I’ve seen so many of these breeders go at this breeding business haphazardly. They breed mother to son and then that daughter to the same son and so on until the offspring are all screwed up. Then, the poor animal and some generous person such as yourself have to deal with all the problems. It’s a shame. I don’t know of anyone else other than you who would go to the trouble to take care of such an animal. Even his own mother didn’t want him.”
“Well, he’s my responsibility now. I love him already, although he obviously doesn’t love me yet. But he will. He can get around good enough, but I’m already thinking of having a set of wheels made for him so that he can run around.”
“That would be a great idea—just so that he can run and play without getting exhausted. He’d only wear it to go outside; otherwise, his left leg would work for him in the house—for normal activity.” Dr. Wilbers thought a while. “I believe the name of a company that makes carts for handicapped animals is K-9 Cart Company—somewhere around, I think, Oxford, Maryland. Its run by a vet by the name of Dr. Parkes. He fits all kinds of animals for wheels. I remember he fitted a rabbit, guinea pig, cats, dogs. Before you leave, I’ll give you the contact information. But let’s get this little guy castrated now. That’ll get rid of some of the stink, too.”
That evening little Louie Jay Slocumb arrived home tired from his long day at the veterinarian. Nancy named the piglet Louie in memory of Alton, whose middle name was Louie. And “Jay” was her husband’s middle name. Louie Jay gobbled his dinner, hopped over to go to the bathroom, and dived into his nest for a deep night’s sleep.
The next morning Louie Jay squealed for his breakfast. He ate his pig food, and while he ate, Nancy stroked him along his back so that he would get used to her touch and her smell. She knew all about training a piglet to respect and love a person. Her proof was her Alton, who grew to admire her during his lifetime. And, as she had done with her other pigs, after he was finished eating, she put his harness on and led him outside so he could go to the bathroom. Training Louie to love her would take time and patience. First, he needed to learn to trust people.
Nancy found it a bit strange at first having a piglet hopping and pivoting on one back leg as Louie did, but she could deal with it as long as Louie could, and Dennis had already set up a plywood ramp from the house to the back yard. There were many things to consider for her piglet, who was only disabled in his body but not in his mind. One thing was that she knew she’d have to keep Louie slim so that when he got to normal adult size that leg could still support him. Otherwise, he’d be prone to arthritis, and he could have other debilitating problems that could shorten his lifespan of twenty years.
Louie’s first few days at the Slocumbs were trying: he was bathed, which really got his ire up. He screamed like a banshee through the whole bath, but Nancy wasn’t about to give in. He thought for sure she would give up, completely frightened by his roaring and barking. But she didn’t. After the bath Nancy thought he looked fresh and more comfortable in his new skin because his bristles sparkled like patent leather.
Later that day while Nancy was busy in the kitchen, she heard a thump. She ran to check Louie and discovered him struggling to his feet alongside the fireplace hearth. He must have climbed onto the hearth, succeeded, but failed miserably when he tried to step down. Losing his balance, he fell head over his three heels and landed on his snout on the carpet.
A time later Louie had a run-in with the Slocumb’s Maltese terrier, Maggie--a mal-tempered, seven-year-old matriarch of a pooch who characteristically bullied any other animals on the property. She especially detested pigs, and, at sight of Louie, she attacked him with all of her six maniacal pounds--barking and snapping at the piglet. But Louie would have none of it. He set back upon Maggie, snapping and biting as well, only with more fury than even Maggie could muster. And when a pig bites, he doesn’t let go. With Louie attached to Maggie’s tail, the Maltese flew through the house, yelping and gurgling, until Louie released his grip. She ran, her tail between her legs. Louie would have no more hassles from Maggie again.
Those first few weeks acclimating to Louie Jay were tough, on both the piglet and Nancy. Though Nancy loved him at first sight, he still didn’t love her back. He considered her a hindrance, an irritation: she wanted to play with him too much, she monopolized the conversation, she bossed him around and made him do things he didn’t want to. He would have none of her. More than anything, he relished time outside by himself where he would spin, run, and dash about in the grass.
He loved to play by himself. He liked to be by himself. So, whenever Nancy tried to pick him up, he shrieked, warning her to put him down, “Right now, before I freak out” he seemed to say in his piggy language. And though she held him tight to her, he continued to protest--whining and barking in pig language that he was thoroughly irritated and wanted to be let alone.
Luckily for little Louie Jay, Nancy was a pig-person. She knew that only time would allow Louie to trust her and become her best friend. She realized that for an animal as intelligent as a pig, a person needs to prove her loyalty. She had no problem with that. She was in it for the haul. She’d need lots of understanding and diligence. She would need to be tougher than even Louie could be—for his own good. This was an obvious case of “tough love,” the love part of which she already had covered.
Part Two of Louie Jay coming soon with pictures.

The Emotional Lives of Farm Animals video

2010-03-28T16:11:00.003-04:00

The welfare and well-being of farm animals has always been a concern of mine. When I explain to meat-raising farmers that they owe their animals kindness, a clean and social physical environment, and a safe way of being transported and then killed in the slaughterhouse, they look at me as though I'm nuts. But doesn't it make perfectly good common sense for a farmer to treat the animals he exploits for his and his family's livelihood and for his and other persons' food with as much kindness, happiness, and safe treatment as one can? When I talk to farmers, they shift uncomfortably and explain that the cost is too high to treat a steer or pig destined for the slaughter in such a way as to ensure its health, safety, and contentment. But I tell them that the cost to not be humane is much higher. I try to explain that providing the animals with decent and kind living conditions can only serve to enhance the farmer's own sense of what real value is: the profit line or the ethical treatment of animals plus a decent profit. I try to make my discussion real and avoid the extreme argument of suggesting he switch over to raising vegetables or get into another business other than animal husbandry. Extreme tactics only serve to alienate. I can help the animals better if I ask in moderation and according to reason.

So, I ask Farmer Everyman, "If raising and slaughtering animals provides you and your wife and kids with a nice life, don't you think you owe these animals, many of whom are slaughtered at six months of age, as nice and as natural a life as you can provide? That's a reasonable plan, don't you think? " My ideas is do-able, right? Allow animals time to socialize with each other outside every day. Let them play. Allow them to sleep and enjoy the sun on their backs outside in a barnyard kept reasonably clean. Allow them to lead the most natural, happy animal life possible until their doomsday. And when that day comes, don't load them into double decker, tractor trailers for days' shipping. Transport them in uncrowded trucks out of nasty weather. And kill them in the most humane way--in such a way that they don't realize they have premonition of their imminent death. Isn't it only right that you do this for the animals you raise and who provide you with a decent living?"

Please view the following video on the emotional lives of farm animals. It's a wonderful, telling documentary--not depressing--but very enlightening. After seeing this video, you just might want to curl up and cuddle a cow or a pig, instead of your dog or cat.
http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/the-emotional-world-of-farm-animals/ =

Suzy the warthog--Part V

2010-03-14T17:14:00.002-04:00

Says Suzy the warthog,

"Winter is such a positive boar--I loathe it. Except for my rooting box. I just love all the lovely colors of the balls--reminds me of my beautiful New Guinea impatiens. I play for an hour until I tire whence I retire to my mother's bed or my favorite chair. Warthogs know how to while away the winter willies, I say."

Suzy the warthhog--Part IV

2010-03-14T17:08:00.003-04:00

Says Suzy the warthog:

"My dear mother knows how to occupy my time during the winter. She has bought me a rooting box in which I can exercise and toss balls to and fro. Winter is such a bore (or is it "boar"?) that I can't bear to have a moment without something to do, for warthogs are such Type A pigles. I say, I believe I've created a portmanteau for 'pig' and 'peoples': 'pigles.' Warthogs are so BRILLIANT."

Suzy the Warthog--Part III

2010-03-14T17:03:00.002-04:00

Says Suzy the warthhog:

"Summertime makes me giddy. If I can't find a patch of flowers to complement my beautiful skin, then I often have to plant my own. This year while I perused the backyard, I found the most delightful pots. I have decided to plant New Guinea impatiens, for, living in the United States has left me slightly homesick for flowers of my homeland. They shall provide me undying comfort through the long, hazy summers of New York."

Suzy the Warthog--Part II

2010-03-14T16:54:00.003-04:00

Says Suzy on brilliant summer days,

"I do so love the warm weather. But I am simply not content to lie about on the grass. It's much too cold for my delicate skin, and I can't bear the thought of insects touching my hide.

"What I truly enjoy are flowers! Flowers of every kind: geraniums, tulips, peonies, and grand roses. My favorites, however, are purple petunias, against which my coat looks so rich."

Suzy the warthog--Part I

2010-03-14T11:26:00.004-04:00

Pig people stick together. They sniff each other out, are simpy hog-wild for the company of other pig persons.

I am one of those people. I seek out others who appreciate porcine personality, porkish passion, and pig perspicacity.

We pig enthusiasts belong to a cult that admires flat noses resembling electrical outlets, sympathetic tendencies, and gourmands.

In my search for piggish people like myself, I have met and become friends with a wonderful, creative, fun pig person named Carol Eiswald of The Tusk and Bristle Farm in New York state. But Carol doesn't simply devote her energy to the more simple pet pig such as the pot-belly. She's a hard-core pig fanatic. She has as companions at least one bearded Borneo pig and--Ta-Ta-a-a!--a true, blue warthog named Suzy.

Suzy enjoys living outside when it's warm, and she is able to dig holes in the yard with her ample snout. In cold weather, however Suzy lives indoors with Carol. While she has her own quarters within Carol's home, she prefers to spend her afternoon snoozing between the sheets in Carol's bed.

I've received numerous emails over the past year from Carol--all describing stories about Suzy. Suzy the warthog can be a love-bug, a busy-body, a brute, a comedianne, and a perpetrator of naughty deeds.

My readers deserve to learn and see a bit of what one animal, a domesticated wild animal has up her tusk. So, with Carol's permission, I am posting pictures of Miss Suzy, Warthog of the Year.

Spring Has Sprung

2010-03-02T17:38:00.004-05:00

"C'mon, Pussies!" I yelled opening wide the front door. Elliot and Li'l Ralphie galloped to the threshold and put on the brakes as the cool, invigorating air whipped past their whiskers. The overwhelming smell-mix of moisture-laden ground with rich-crisp air joined the sounds of crows scolding cats beneath the birdfeeders. The forces of nature beckoned the kittens beyond the gates of their familiar home.

Elliot put one paw on the porch, Li'l Ralphie, cautious, right behind as if to say, "Go ahead, Elliot. Don't be afraid--just go; I'm right behind you." With trepidation and for the first time in their lives, they entered the great outdoors.

Cautiously the kittens strode in slo-mo across the deck. Lyla squeaked through the door opening, too, just before I closed it. Evelyn, however, more the homey type, just peeked outside and turned her back on it--not in the least impressed.

I wasn't going to let my kittens, with their first taste of the woods and the other cats, explore unattended, so I sat down on a step and observed them. Their unadulterated awe at the outside resembled kids upon discovering their first Christmas tree all adorned with glitter and gleam. The kittens' faces were rapt, fixed on all and everything at once. Once assured that I would stay--just in case they ran into trouble--they became more bold, running to the edge of the deck where beyond loomed three foot piles of snow and from which spread the struggling pachysandra beneath a stand of oak and hickory trees.

Lyla, however, had stopped in her paw-tracks, and for a moment I considered the world from Lyla's perception. She had, after all, eyes the size of golf balls--eyes so big and unblinking that she looked almost alien. Lyla's head swiveled from side to side taking in the clean air, the older cats relaxing on the sun-deck, me, the guardian, in my winter coat. Her face skimming the woods as an up periscope looking for enemy ships, she surveyed every detail around her. I wondered just how keenly Lyla saw this new world around her, for nature was as new to her as it was to the kittens; afterall, she had been rescued from a shelter in North Carolina and had been taken from an irresponsible breeder before that. She had probably never even seen a tree other than through a window.

I watched Lyla survey her surroundings as the kittens leaped onto the snowpile in front of the deck. They picked up their paws delicately, flicking the wet from their toes like beach-children throwing sand off their feet. While Lyla stared up a sixty-foot oak tree, I wondered how those eyes--giant marbles--playthings for a leviathan, interpreted those images to her brain. And suddenly I burped a laugh. Of course! Her eyes allowed her to see everything in high definition. I envisioned the idea: Lyla was seeing everything in extraodinary clearness--in high definition. When I told Edgar later that night how I was certain Lyla's vision had to be super clear, he laughed and said, "Okay. We'll call her Lyla HD from now on."

For over an hour and a half I guarded the kittens and Lyla as they explored the woods and stalked the older and wiser cats: Kenny, Little Eggie, and the Deans: Regular Dean, Spitty Bottle Dean, and S.S. Dean. Elliot acted the trail blazer while Li'l Ralphie followed, rarely letting himself out of brother Elliot's and my sight. Then Elliot suddenly erupted with a burst of speed, leaping over stumps and downed branches. His body lengthened as he galloped, soared, over the melting snow, past Kenny who was watching complacently, and over the old wooden bench. But his finale was yet to come.

This youngster of a Siamese, who had never before seen the light of the outdoors, suddenly transformed into a beast of the jungle. He raced, hunkered down, stream-lining himself, and then he leaped onto the side of a two-foot-in-diameter oak tree. And there he stuck like an arrow into its target. I hiccuped a giggle: Elliot was as shocked as I that he had run vertically, instead of horizontally.

"Wow! Good job!" I yelled to Elliot, still clinging to the side of the tree. "C'mon . . . come on down now before you get yourself to high and can't get down." He looked at the ground and climbed another four feet until he reached a branch. Then he sat pondering the earth beneath.

My fingers danced over my cell phone: for sure Edgar would have to get the tractor to extricate Elliot from his tree. But just as my call went out, Elliot began his descent, head first, claws and paws stretched out awkwardly before him.

I cringed. He wasn't coming down the right way! I couldn't let him fall over ten feet! "Elliot. Turn around and come down backwards," I yelled running, arms out-stretched. Of course, he couldn't understand me, but to my complete surprise he did turn around. Then first one back foot stepped down--he looked at the ground, surely estimating the distance--and then the other placed next to the other. "Okay, Elliot," I shouted. "Now the front feet!" But I didn't have to advise him; he had his first descent from Mount Evertree well under control.

I put the phone down, and as I did, Elliot plopped to the ground. I clapped and hooted my congratulations, and Elliot raced past me, a victory lap for sure.

Timmy's World

2010-02-20T17:42:00.002-05:00

We lost another horse yesterday—Timmy--one of our old saddlebreds.
Between the tears, I experience moments of quiet satisfaction knowing Timmy had a charmed life with us. He was born on our farm, raised here, and even broke to ride here—never saw any other place or part of the world. He had a club foot, so we never asked him to carry us over the countreyside. His life revolved around lazy days in the pasture, nights in his stall, and, in general, enjoying a simple, relaxing life—one with no human demands.
Always a well-mannered horse, Timmy was a fixture here at our farm for the twenty-two years of his life. His stall stands silent without him, and though I have not detected any behavioral changes in the other horses because of his absence, they must know he’s not there in the pasture with them. Again—with the death of another of our animals—our place is not the same: I look around the barn and pastures, and the palette has changed--forever.
I have only one regret.
In order to try to save his life we had to transport Timmy to a veterinary surgical facility an hour’s drive away. I regret we had to remove Timmy, in his most painful and fearful moments, from the only world he knew: from the stall he had known for so many years, from his barn, from the pastures, and from all that was familiar to him: the wandering cats, pot-bellies, and us.
As we led him down the driveway to the horse trailer, his eyes grew wide, even as he was sedated with painkillers. Even being led down our drive must have been scary for him—he had never been out of the pastures or the barn; he had never walked on macadam before. Likewise, he had never expected to be lifted by four strange men and locked inside a horse trailer with its rattling, body-jarring ride.
Had I known, then, that surgery was not an option for Timmy, that he had a huge, inoperable tumor that hadn’t raised its ugly head until just two days before, we would not have swept our horse from the only world he knew into what must have been, for him, a strange and frightening environment. We would have put him to sleep where he felt safe, loved, and comfortable: in his barn, the barn where he was born and raised and fed every day, the barn where Julie, Lucy, and his new friend, Bo, lived beside him. Had we known the outcome, we would have let Timmy die in his world-home.
During the hours it took to drive to Quakertown, wait for the surgeon to arrive, do the ultrasound that discovered the tumor, and make the diagnosis, Timmy’s condition deteriorated rapidly. Though we wanted to bring him back home to end his suffering, doing so would have caused him even more misery. So, in that strange, horse-scary place, we euthanized him, calming him, patting his neck, whispering how we loved him, and covering his wide eye so that he couldn’t see the death needle.
That Timmy died outside his familiar world is our only regret. But we can feel good about having kept Timmy, with his club foot, his foundered front feet, and his roaring trachea, as our pet for 22 years. Many a horse person would have sold such an unserviceable animal to the auction where he would have likely gone to the butcher.
We are grateful to have known Timmy, to have taken care of him, and we are privileged to have witnessed his equine antics in his pasture. Bo will surely miss him as much as we will; Bo and Timmy always groomed each other’s withers, as brother horses often do. Though Timmy was seventeen years older than Bo, he could keep up with the young feisty horse. The two played together, play-biting each other and annoying each other like little kids until the lush grass lured them from play. Likewise, Timmy and his full sister, Lucy, hung out together much of the time—just lazing in the pasture side by side. Timmy seemed always to be a comfort to the other horses, assuring them in his sedate manner that there was nothing to be upset about, that this world was a good, safe world.
We brought Timmy’s body back home and buried him—in his world—next to Fancy, his mother Lillie, Nicky, Fax, and Merry.

Snowstorm Revenge

2010-02-10T08:40:00.002-05:00

Well, the big storm is in process, and I'm really irritated. It's a heavy snow, and I just about tore open my guts brooming off the front deck. And that was only the first sweep of three inches. By the time the snow has stopped, I will have brushed the same porch about four times. The cats are having trouble walking around in it; the pigs hate it: everyone's grumpy here. Plus, I can't very well ride the horses in this stuff, so, though it's pretty, it's a pain in all our asses.

Edgar's out blowing our thousand yard driveway with a snowblower hooked up to the farm tractor. He just called to say it wasn't blowing well because it's so heavy. That means he'll have to do the properties often to keep up with it. Poor guy.

So, the cats, the pigs, the horses and I are all sitting around watching the snow accumulate and glaring at one another. The pigs blame me for putting he snow there, despite my telling them it's not my fault. But ya can't convince a pig otherwise once he's made up his mind. If I give each one a cookie, though, it'll soften their resentment.

For my part, though, I have vowed revenge on the snowstorm: I am going to sit down with a flower catalogue and order a bunch of tropical plants and bulbs for the garden. In so doing, I'm going to transport myself to my summer garden outfitted like a tropical paradise--so there, snow. The windmill palm tree planted next to the barn will remind me of our favorite tropical island, Grand Cayman, as well as the cannas, elephant ears, and the weird voodoo lily. I can see it all now: this summer Balliet's property will be ablaze in tropical plants--big-leaved, hardy banana plants, castor bean plants, whose seeds I collected this past fall. Picotee begonias, orange candleflowers, and mixed caladiums will compete for space amidst the profusion of emerald greens. Loud tangerine canna torches, a bi-color butterfly bush, red lilies dancing amid the huge green and red-veined castor bean plants--I see them!--towering above the electric-blue lobelia lining the walkway. And the caladium interspersed with the tuberous begonias should be striking, especially with a cat resting beneath the leaves.

Ah-h-h . . . ., I feel a bit better now. Now to the phone to call in my order of tropical plants---hey, if I order $40 worth, I get $20 worth of goods free. My kind of deal.

If you and your critters have cabin fever, you can transport yourself or carry out you storm-vengeance in other ways, too. For those of you always in a mad rush, multi-tasking, rushing about fitting in one more chore before work, take the time to foster mindfulness: slow down, call your pet to your side and luxuriate in his or her company for a moment. Curl up under a blanket with your pet by your side, listen to the roar of her purr, have a conversation with your kitty or dog, look into your fish's eye and just try to imagine what he or she is thinking about you at that moment, about life with you. And I'm sure, if you allow your mind to imagine such things, you will have taken yourself to a place that is warm, comforting, and inspiring--and the snowstorm will disappear, if only for a few moments, like magic.

Li'l Ralphie's eye

2010-02-08T19:43:00.005-05:00

We just brought Li'l Ralphie home from the veterinary opthalmalogist. I'm glad to report that Li'l Ralphie does not have a cataract but has a condition, whose name I can't remember, that is, essentially, bad tissue growing over his cornea. It's caused by a herpes virus and is common in cats. The eye underneath the filmy covering looks good, said the doctor. He also said that since Li'l Ralphie has his other good eye, we wouldn't have to do anything because he gets along fine, but that, if we wanted him to, he could operate, cutting away that growthy stuff over his cornea.

I nodded and said that I'd like Li'l Ralphie to be able to have the opportunity to see normally out of that eye.

He said he would gladly operate but that he wanted to wait a few months so that Li'l Ralphie's eye would be fully grown. We should call back and have the eye re-evaluated in June.

I'm very pleased--for Li'l Ralphie. At least we can try to make up for his first owners discarding him onto the highway. And I still am impressed by the state-of-the-art veterinary medicine that we all have within our reaches.

I remember being similarly astounded when Edgar was in his last year in vet school in 1979. As I peeked into the operating room where the students and surgeons were operating on a horse's leg, I thought to myself how professional it all looked: just like an operating room for humans, with big white lights, elevated surgery table, surgeon gowns, instruments, anesthesia machine, and technical monitoring devices. What these doctors can do these days is nothing short of miraculous. And the cost? Very reasonable, compared to an equivalent human surgery, yet nothing is left to chance simply because the patient is an animal, not a human.

I'm really happy for Li'l Ralphie and can't wait until he's able to get that nasty, thickened "blue" eyeball made right. And I'm thankful for all the dedicated veterinary surgeons and medicine men and women who can make our sick animals better.

Prizes in peacock-naming contest

2010-02-08T14:03:00.004-05:00

Four prizes will be sent to the persons coming up with the best names for our peacocks. Those prizes are copies of my book, LIONS & TIGERS & MARES--oH, MY! And they will be autographed ones. So, for each name selected, I'll send that prize-winning name's owner an autographed book.

We've gotten some super-creative names so far, but the contest for naming my two female and two male peacocks isn't over until March 31st, so you all have plenty of time to mull things over and get back to me. I'm excited about this contest; without it, I wouldn't be speaking with any of you fun people. For that alone, the contest is worth it.

Now, realize that you need to sign up as followers on my blogsite in order for you to be eligible to win a book. So, if you already posted a comment, be sure to sign up as a follower.

Oh, yes. I wanted to post, also, that we counted 34 deer beyond our window at dusk last night. What a sight! And I just came inside from putting another couple of gallons of corn in the trough for tonight's feeding. But we may miss the deer tonight because Li'l Ralphie has an appointment with a veterinary opthalmalogist. My people eye doctor said Li'l Ralphie has a cataract. I hope the doctor recommends surgery because Li'l Raphie deserves it. Just maybe we'll be able to help restore some of his eyesight.

reply to comments

2010-02-08T11:03:00.002-05:00

Good choices, Loree. I can see already that this is going to be a tough task. I even like "rough" and "tough," so I'll give you credit for that, too. And, Stella, the bathroom isn't finished yet, but in two weeks it should be. I'll post pics then. You can see the one pic of the peacock we're getting at the top of my last post, but I did'nt take any pics of the emerald spaldings because I would've had to trek back out in the snow to do it. The females are really blah looking, but ya really need females to keep the males around--figures. They're going to be free-roaming eventually, so it'll be interesting to see if they stick around the patch. They're also going to be loud, so I must be prepared. Just hope the horses don't go berserk when they hear all the honking and screeching.