Meg

I could wring Death around her shriveled black neck for torturing my friends and me without remorse, without consideration, without reason.  It seems she, or is it a he, randomly takes our human and pet friends, willy-nilly, from us--as though she's entertaining herself or trying to remind us all when we are having a "good run" in life that we shouldn't get too enthusiastic because she's right around the corner ready to spring another attack on us.

Death is the grand spoiler.  She interrupts, spoils, disrupts, and shocks.  She is the ultimate Shock Jock.  And I hate her.  We all hate her.

Recently she stole my Ricky cat, and I can smell her hovering over my two old, arthritic horses.  And, who knows?  She may even have her vacuous eye on me as I drive, as I shop, as I sleep.  One never knows when or where the spoiler will next appear.

Just two days ago she came to my friend, Mare's, house and stole her cat, Meg--Mare's best buddy for 20 years and 4 months.  She came stealthily, leaving little signs for months, like mouse turds in a cabinet, that she had an eye on Meg.  As Meg's appetite grew slimmer and slimmer, Mare knew Death was stalking her friend.  She did all she could do to stave off the rancid devil, but she showed up for an overnight visit the other night.

And that was the end of Meg.

I post Meg's picture here so that not only my friends can appreciate Mare's cat for her loyalty, her affectionate nature, her lust for life, but also so that Death can see it too, if she's on Facebook, Twitter, or reads my blogs.  I want Death to know that she fails in so many ways.  She fails because we all have the ability to remember our loved ones and pass on their memory to others who may remember and pass it on to still others.  She fails because in our various ways, many of us prepare memorials to the one who she's taken from us and, therefore, keep that dead one alive.  She fails because, through science and good medicine, we mortals can often hold her back until she comes at us with a vengeance.  She fails because we eventually triumph over our misery.

Death, you loser, Be Not Proud!

Faster than a Speeding Fly

I had just stepped out of the shower the other day and was drying off when I heard the buzz of a very large fly.  "Oh, no!" I thought.  "I sure don't want that loud thing bouncing off the walls of the bedroom all night."

I wrung my towel tight in a futile effort to snap it at him as he zoomed by, but I couldn't even follow his Airbus 350 body with my eyes, so quick and agile was he, let alone take him down with a towel.    As though high on Mountain Dew, the huge fly zoomed from one light to another, hitting the mirror, and I soon decided I could never target him with my damp towel.  He was just too lively.

My cat, Evie, sat on the floor, her eyes following the loud blowfly as he flew into the wall like a kamikaze, dashed to the next light, and sped, roaring, past my head.

"Get him, Evie," I said, standing back.


Suddenly the fly made a fatal mistake.  Oblivious, he tore a path right past Evie.  I saw a paw as a blurred swipe, and, then, she pinned the pest to the floor with both paws.  I giggled into my towel.  Next, she hunkered down, carefully opening her paws, her face right over them, and sucked him into her mouth.

"Chomp, . . . chomp, . . . chomp."  Evie gulped twice, and the big and, apparently, fairly juicy snack disappeared down herSpeeding Fly feline hatch.  I cheered, and she just looked at me, nonplussed.

The moral of this story is "Cats are quick, and humans are very slow."
https://www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet

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.

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.

The Truth About Rabies--Boiled Down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good-Bye, Patrick

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patrick--the good good cat.

Kenny Junior

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

Kenny Mayonnaise Balliet

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.

Rain

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

It is raining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, indeed: rain soothes the souls.

Happy Mother's Day to Mom's of Pets

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

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

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

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

For the horses:

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

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

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

mammals in a mal mood

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

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

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

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

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

Spring Has Sprung

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pardon my Absence

Dear Followers: Sorry I'm behind in my posts. I've been under the gun and the weather since before Christmas. Thank goodness for the company of my cats and pigs, or I would've gone stark-raving mad lying 24/7 on the couch staring at the boob-tube. December 23rd I went in for carpal tunnel surgery on my right hand. I had to have someone else open my presents on Christmas Day! I'm going in for the other hand on February 17. Both hands had severe nerve damage--probably caused by my writing books on the computer, riding the horses, and manic tending of the garden and its produce throughout the summer.

My right hand is still not very good: fingertips are still numb, but at least I'm able to better hit these keys on the computer. A few weeks after the surgery my husband and I contracted a severe bronchitis. In my case, pair asthma with bronchitis, and I was a hurting buckeroo. Beware this cold, this bronchitis that's circulating: you don't want it. I heard from many others who had it: it lingers. And I can verify that: I've been struggling to breathe, had been to the doctor at least five times, and had a chest X-ray for pneumonia within the last three weeks. Ugh! Finally, though, I am able to breathe more freely--the wonders of steroids

Being so sick, I was unable to feed all our animals, and my husband has been doing all the work with them--thank goodness. He had it too, but not nearly as severe (above picture on right is him and Ralphie taking a "sicky" nap). All the animals survived our disease, and today I think I might venture outside to get a bit of exercise.

Here's an update on our four new kittens: Li'l Ralphie's one eye has a cataract, as diagnosed by my own eye doctor, so on Monday I'm taking him to an opthalmalogist to see about having it removed. I think he got it because of the bad eye infection he had when we rescued him from the side of the highway. He squints from that eye as though it bothers him, and because he's so young, if the surgeon recommends it, we'll spring for the surgery because I want him to be able to see as much out of that damaged eye as possible. I'll keep you posted on Ralphie's eye.

Elliot and Eveyln are growing. Lyla, the cat I rescued from a shelter in North Carolina, has one of those extreme pushed-in noses that won't allow her to get air easily from her one nostril--poor thing. We always know where Lyla is in the housebecause of her continual snorting. But she is a kind, wide-eyed cat that is grateful to have a loving home and attention. (her pic is upper left).

Of course, in the middle of all this disease and disability, the Haitian earthquake took place, and I was immediately worried about all the animals left in the disaster. I donated funds to Best Friends Organization, and their people are down there now trying to feed and support the animal population there. If you'd like to help the stranded pets in Haiti, go to info@bestfriends.org. Any donation is appreciated, and you can donate also through www,bestfriends.org. I write for this organization and can attest to its integrity.

Other news around here includes my attending a pet writing conference in February where I am scheduled to meet with three editors and pitch my three mss. that are so deserving of a publisher. I had a reject the other day: the editor said she absolutely "loved, loved, loved" my THE SUMMER OF RUSTLE book (a memoir of my having raised a baby raccoon during the summer of 2005) but that things were so bad in the publishing industry, she was afraid to take a chance. Oh, well. At least I know my material is attractive and entertaining. Economics is what is rejecting my books.

When I go to this pet-writing conference in NYC, I'm going to remind the editors that my books reflect how our pets sustain us, define us, and keep us honest and sincere. I'm going to stress the uniqueness of my own approach to appreciating animals and the literary quality of my writing that several editors have commented on. But my focus will be on the purity of the animals and how my books enlighten readers to that fact. I am very hopeful that my own sincerity, derived from my long-time association with my animal comrades, will be able to persuade the editors to consider my works for publication.

We who have our best friends in our pets truly realize what gifts they bring us. For instance, Li'l Ralphie has jammed himself, here as I'm writing, between a stack of papers and my laptop. He's singing to me--well--purring, and watching my fingers dance over the keyboard. He makes what would be a somewhat lonely task that much more bearable. Ralphie's not too busy today that he can't share time with me.

Thanks Li'l Ralphie.

The Case of the Missing Ralphie

Yesterday Li’l Ralphie went missing. We didn't realize it, but when Edgar and I took the horses out for a ride, several people had visited, knocking, trying doors to see if we were around. They even opened the door to our cat room to see if we were home. When we came back, the visitors were still there, but Li'l Ralphie wasn't. He was GONE!


The moment we found Ralphie absent from the living room and garden room, our relatives and we headed a full house search, but no one turned up a little orange kitten: nothing--no Ralphie. After an hour of searching inside, I figured he must’ve gotten outside somehow, sneaking out when they had opened the doors. I was frantic Li'l Raphie was gone but reasonably sure a little kitten couldn't go far and that, since it was only late morning, I'd have plenty of time to find him before dark. With better things to do, our visitors left with the salutations that they hoped Ralphie would turn up soon.



They couldn't have been more wrong.



Edgar and I approached the search analytically: "Where would a kiten go? Why wasn't he answering us or appearing to us when we called?" The answer was obvious: he must be stuck somewhere--in a pipe, a vent, a cabinet. It was more likely, we reasoned, that he was still inside the house, so we expanded the house search to opening every indoor space capable of harboring a kitten-sized object--every drawer, cabinet, closet, etc. We searched each room several times, calling his name—no Ralphie.



Finally, with the inside exhausted of finding the kitten, we took our search outside--driving our cars through the alfalfa fields surrounding our woods, taking the golf cart along the brush beside the road, and walking through the woods calling Ralphie's name—no Ralphie. At 2:30, after opening every door to every outside building and callling inside, shining the flashlight around, after getting on hands and knees and prying our heads down an opening of the deck to look around underneath, I really began to worry.

Li'l Ralphie wasn't anywhere in the house, not the basement, the furnace room, the exercise room, the pantry where I stored my canned products from the summer harvest. And he appeared not to be outside either. We had literally looked everywhere humanly possible--even down groundhog holes in the woods. I had bounced across the alfalfa fields, searching and calling through the brush under the power lines. I had roared with the cart through the fields scanning the rows for something orange--nothing, except for an occasional fall leaf. I called down across fields, inspected the Pig Palace where lived four of our pot-bellied pigs, and I had driven alongside the road in search of a little red body--nothing. And all of the searching Edgar and I did separately, together, and numerous times. Each out-building was inspected three times, at least. And, in between searches to the outside, we went back into the house, checking the rooms upstairs. It was simply unfathomable that a kitten could have walked half a mile away, yet a small woods a half mile away was another area we searched: not once, but twice. Going back inside again, we tore up a couple of ceiling tiles in the exercise room, shut down the air exchanger and tapped on the huge python-like pipes leading to away from it--no movement or cries for help.



Finally, in late afternoon and without anymore options for searching, and absolutely exhausted, Edgar gave up, but I continued to walk the woods--calling, pleading for my kitten to magically appear and come to me. I had already changed to my winter coat, a scarf and hat and gloves--the temp was plummeting, which only made me more anxious and tearful because Ralphie was too little to survive freezing temperatures. Behind every bush, every tree stump, I imagined finding Ralphie, sticking his head up. I imagined his running up to me and purring as I held him in my coat, but my images never panned out, and the day steadily darkened.



Finally, I, too, could go no more. Darkness made searching outside impossible. So, imagining him somewhere out in the alfalfa field or woods alone, lost, and scared, I came in and just stared outside into the woods—no Ralphie, and we had absolutely looked everywhere, under the pool cover, even under the hoods of cars, in the barn loft, listening and tapping on the air-conditioning vents. But Ralphie had, simply, disappeared into thick air. I resorted to tears because I was out of all other options.

At around 6PM it was completely black outside, so the only place we could hunt was in the house, and we had already searched each room several times. The search seemed futile. In one last ditch attempt to locate the missing kitten, Edgar decided to turn off the air system in the house: perhaps we could hear a kitten’s meow better when the swooshing noise was silenced. He flicked the switch, and the house went quiet. At the bottom of the stairs, I called for Li’l Ralphie. The next moment I heard a tiny meow. I ran to the kitchen and called again: nothing. I ran back to the foyer and yelled: a tiny, tinny meow answered. I tore upstairs and opened, for what was probably the sixth time that day, the door to my craft (junk) room, and, suddenly, out ran Li'l Ralphie. I gasped. He ran past me, down the steps, with me following in a fury (in an instant my worry turned to anger: Why hadn't he come to us all the times when we called for him in that room?) I followed him to the litterbox where he hunkered down and peed for what seemed like a full minute.

It’s certainly good to know that, to Ralphie, we rate lower than a litter box. The only thing that mattered to Li’l Ralphie was having to empty his bladder. One piece of advice I can offer anyone with kittens is to teach a kitten to respond and come to his name as soon as possible. Had I conditioned him to do that from the beginning, he might have come to me from behind wherever he was hiding in that room.


I can't tell you the relief Edgar and I both felt at sight of Li'l Ralphie in his litterbox. I was happy because now I didn't have to imagine him in a fox's lair, being ripped limb from limb by the predator. I didn't have to worry about his being lost and scared and freezing through the night. I didn't have to worry about my own state, how I'd cope during the night and the next days and weeks wondering what ever happened to the kitten we rescued from shoulder of the highway. I was, at once, so irritated with him for ignoring us when we searched that junk room, yet so glad he was all right.

The rest of the night Ralphie was playing with my hair and romping all over me, but I refused to indulge him. I was pissed and wasn't speaking to him--just as he hadn't spoken to use when we called for all those hours--his disappearance had sucked up my entire day; I had been exhausted from worry and had walked through woods, fields, barn lofts for hours. Who knew how far he had driven up my blood pressure?--probably to dangerous heights. He had deliberately ignored our calls until, so bursting full of pee, he had no other choice but to ask for help.

This morning Ralphie greeted us when we came downstairs. I shook my head, remembering yesterday's awful experience, and still feeling a twinge of anger with him. But I'm over it now. I'm speaking to him this morning.

Li'l Ralphie Revisited

A month has passed since I snatched a tiny orange and white kitten, eyes and nose pasted shut, from the side of a major road. Li'l Ralphie is a survivor: he has endured being thrown out of a car onto a highway; he has conquered a terrible upper respiratory illness and an abscess; and he has found himself a lasting home with us.

Li'l Raphie, named after our old Ralphie who died a couple of months ago, entertains and warms my heart in mysterious ways. The typical kitten, he struts when he's feeling proud; he hides when the tea kettle whistles; he skips sideways in a threatening stance when I sneak up on him. And when he's all worn out from playing, he jumps onto the sofa with me, sprawled out, and drapes himself along the front of my neck. With his two-pound weight on my throat, I have a little trouble swallowing, but it's all right: Li'l Ralphie's is in sound sleep.

Admittedly, I'm a person who thinks too much and too weird thoughts; it's why I write--you know, the old "outlet" thing. But this two-pound, fur-wrapped creature is so puzzling and endearing at the same time. For instance, I watch Li'l Ralphie skipping along the carpet in a prelude to an attack upon his catnip spider. He springs then wrestles it into submission, and I marvel at the ferocious creation packed within those two pounds. And then my imagination takes over, and strange things begin to happen.

Two pounds of fur and wonder. Two pounds composed of guts, a little brain, bones, tendons and ligaments to make the bones and muscles work, a pancreas, liver, stomach, lungs--all put together so ingeniously as to allow this creature to jump, stalk, leap, twist in the air, and, in all ways, thrive. It just seems as though there's not enough "stuff" inside the fur-covered skin to allow it to manifest itself as a playful, curious, proud, wild being. And I can hardly fathom, too, how all the organs and whatever else inside him allows him to wrap his arms around my neck and purr his love for me. Such manifestation of what I consider, in many ways, human behavior, all comes out of a body weighing only two pounds. For some reason, I can more easily comprehend a human being mysterious, vain, egoistic, etc., because there's obvious size and capacity to contain the machinery for such feelings. In Li'l Ralphie's case, his being a character with strong personality and loving attributes just seems harder to fathom--yet it's all there--inside that tiny body: at times contentment, ferocity, playfulness, trust of another, very different and, in comparison, very huge body--i.e. mine--that sweeps him off his tiny paws, into the air, and plants sloppy kisses on his nose.

Because this tiny, two-pound creature is capable of reacting, feeling pain, and expressing, in his own way, love for me, and because I always like to share, I have a favor to ask of my followers and anyone else who happens upon this blog. Here it is: Li'l Ralphies exist in animal kill-shelters all over this country. In these facilities in cages stacked high, sit gorgeous two-pound kittens just like Li'l Ralphie waiting for a chance to blossom--skip, leap, purr--have a decent life. They never asked to be born and never did anything wrong to warrant being taken to a shelter to live one or two weeks in a cage before being euthanized. So, as a favor to me, to the Li'l Ralphies in shelters, and to yourself, please go to the website of your local shelter--I beg you. Scroll down the images of the cats and kittens that have never been given a chance to skip, play, be curious, and run and leap through the grass as Li'l Ralphie has. Look into their faces and make the decision to adopt one or even two. And then call, ask about the kitten and commit to adopting him or her. I promise, you won't regret it. In return the kitten will reward you with hours of entertainment--little two or three pound wonders that will make you laugh and feel a warmth of spirit that, in this world, we feel too few times. If you're worried about the commitment, don't. They don't expect much--just a small breakfast and dinner each day and a dry, warm place to sleep. And a litter box would be a good thing. If you give one of these cats a home and basic care, they will repay you hundredfold just as Li'l Ralphie has repaid me.

Adopt a cat or kitten--two kittens, if you can afford it, from your local kill-shelter. Relish the experience of rescuing a creature who really, truly needs you and appreciates you, and then write to me on this blog and share your experiences of your two-pound wonders. Your efforts will not go unnoticed or appreciated, and I promise you will feel more complete, more fine, more satisfied than you have in years.