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.”

Suzie the Warthog--The Sleeping Beauty

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.

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.

Brer Balliet

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

Kenny Mayonnaise Balliet

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.

Farmer Rick

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.

Purr Lives--Part Two

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.

Louie Jay--Part I

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.