I'm back!

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The Softness of the Rain

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.

Oh, Donnie Boy

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.

Part Three--"Puppy Up"

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.

Puppy Up--Part One

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.