I am outraged that the Obama administration intends to disburse $2.5 million in economic aid to Libya. In fact, $400,000 of it is going to dictator Muammar al-Qaddafi’s kids’ personal foundations. Once again our tax money is being piddled away on a country whose leader resents Western culture and values. Once again, we are funding a foreign country in which most of the people can’t stand us. Doesn’t this administration have anything better to do that fritter away our hard-earned dollars?
Think about all the good that could be done—here in our own country—to aid people, pets, our national park system, and other deprived American sources. Imagine that: Americans’ tax money actually going toward something within our own country! The thought is nearly unimaginable.
I never intended to get political in this blog, but this president has me infuriated with his outrageous spending, his big government looming over us, and his health care reform bill that is so expensive and so untransparent in its language, that more people, particularly older folks, will ail than prosper from it. As the song goes: “He’s killing us softly—with his song—killing us softly. . ..” Most of what this president has given us so far has, indeed, been a song and dance: the Obama Shuffle.
Just think what good all this wasted tax money could do. Let me just quickly throw out some propositions:
1. Instead of shoving the $2.5 million dollars into Libya’s lap, why don’t we take just a million of that and provide free spaying and neutering of pets to people who can’t afford to fix their animals? In turn, thousands of future unwanted kittens and puppies wouldn’t suffer from lack of care and shelter. Likewise, they wouldn’t be a financial burden on people and humane societies.
2. Why not take all the money designated for Van Jones’s salary and purchase pastureland in the western United States for unwanted wild mustangs?
3. Why not take the money meant for ACORN and update struggling zoos and animal rehabilitation centers around the country?
4. Why not sell Pelosi’s private jet and buy some cat and dog food for struggling humane shelters around our country?
5. Why not take taxes owed by Charlie Rangel and Timothy Geithner and fund Catch and Release programs for unwanted and feral cats throughout our country?
6. Why not get rid of all the Czar advisers, elect a president with more experience—one who doesn’t need an “army” to help him steer our country--and assist our wildlife harmed by oil spills, forest fires, air and water pollution, and poaching?
7. Why not take all the money Obama intends for countries that hate America and use it to encourage people to adopt all the unwanted pets from our humane shelters, to set up animal relief organizations during times of catastrophe, to fund education for aspiring veterinarians, vet technicians? Why not fund pet emergency clinics hospitals as well as provide funds for pet cancer research?
Oops! I forgot about the other $1.5 million in aid to Libya.
8. Why not take this money and help farmers raise farm animals in humane ways—let them raise, transport, and slaughter them so that the animals meant for American plates experience no fear or suffering and can live their shortened lives in peace and contentment?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Celebrating the Life of Boo
Mare and I are celebrating the life of Boo, Mare's beloved Siamese, who died on September 9, 2009. His life is one worth remembering, as are all the lives of our pets so dear to us. They offer us comfort when we're stressed; they never criticize, badger, or nag us. They seem to know when we're not feeling well or feeling down in spirit. They need no blackberries, no fancy clothes, no gourmet feasts. They have us.
Boo was an exceptional cat about which the world deserves to know. Before his death he raced Mare's halls, a huge 16 pound ball of fury and love wrapped up in a beige and tan cat suit. As he ran, motorcycling through the living room, he pounded the floorboards with his thunderous paws. When he wasn't skipping through the kitchen, he talked, murmured sweet somethings to his Mare, his human, and lap-sat her to sleep every night. And he shared his catnip, treats, and bedtime dreams with his elderly feline friends, Spotty and Meg, as well as Claudia the corgi.
I commemorate Boo's life and his relationship with his human companion, Mare. His life serves as a reminder to us all of the innocence, the honesty, the guilelessness embodied in our pets. Our pets' love and admiration for us is unprecedented--limitless. What more can a person ask of life than to have been owned and appreciated by a pet the likes of Boo.
Boo was an exceptional cat about which the world deserves to know. Before his death he raced Mare's halls, a huge 16 pound ball of fury and love wrapped up in a beige and tan cat suit. As he ran, motorcycling through the living room, he pounded the floorboards with his thunderous paws. When he wasn't skipping through the kitchen, he talked, murmured sweet somethings to his Mare, his human, and lap-sat her to sleep every night. And he shared his catnip, treats, and bedtime dreams with his elderly feline friends, Spotty and Meg, as well as Claudia the corgi.
I commemorate Boo's life and his relationship with his human companion, Mare. His life serves as a reminder to us all of the innocence, the honesty, the guilelessness embodied in our pets. Our pets' love and admiration for us is unprecedented--limitless. What more can a person ask of life than to have been owned and appreciated by a pet the likes of Boo.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Ralphie's in Heaven
Ralphie died last night. We knew he was going: metastatic cancer. Though, in the end, he was a skeleton dressed in skin clothes, during the day he had eaten a couple mounds of whipped cream I had sprayed from a can. I didn't realize it then, but that was to be his last meal. Now he lies buried alongside all my other feline friends: behind the house in the cat cemetery. I loved Ralphie, a shelter cat who had a penchant for wrapping his front legs around my neck in a big hug.
A few days ago he had lost his appetite for any other food, despite my offering him the most delectable treats I could find. Yesterday we discussed putting him to sleep, but when my husband, who is a veterinarian, went to do it, Ralphie purred and rubbed his head against Edgar's arm--his sign that he wanted to be with us a while longer.
Last night when I went into the garden room where Ralphie rested on a dog bed, I covered him with a blanket, tucked him in for the night, and whispered private things in his ear. His ears were cold, and one front claw was stuck in the material of the bed. I freed his paw, and he looked at me with appreciation. Then, I did something that people who know me wouldn't believe. I baptized him. I lay my hand on his head and said, as our minister told us in confirmation class many, many years ago, "I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost." And I put the finishing touches on it with a soft, "Amen."
Doing such a thing is completely uncharacteristic of me because I'm not a religious person. I was raised Lutheran but do not practice any religion. I make no apology for that. People can fault me if they want, but I'm just not sure there's a God or Goddess out there. I'm not sure. In fact, when I look at the state of mankind and what we've made of this world, more in me tells me that the likelihood of a supreme, caring essence is highly unlikely.
Ya know how as a person grows up, certain things and messages stick with her that last throughout her lifetime. Well, when I went through confirmation class at the age of 14, the minister told us that if we were ever in the presence of someone dying, we should baptize him--just as I had Ralphie. He said we didn't need water or anything fancy. Laying one's hand atop the dying person's head was enough. And he told this class of awestricken teens that doing that would guarantee the person's place in heaven. That instruction stayed with me to this day--maybe I was struck by the fact that heaven could so easily be attained by doing a simple ritual. I don't know. But with Ralphie, a cat who never did anything bad, who was not over-bearing and generous with his bear hugs, I wasn't taking any chances. If there was a God or Goddess, then Ralphie was going to heaven, if there was such a place--provided that minister was telling us the truth, and I wouldn't suppose a minister would lie to a bunch of kids. And if my ideas that a God or Goddess maybe didn't exist were correct, well, then Ralphie and I didn't lose anything anyway. But I wasn't taking any chances with Ralphie's possible soul.
After my husband and I buried Ralphie, I came inside and sat down with my coffee, my eyes still thick with tears. How many people are crazy enough to baptize their animals? For sure, I couldn't be the only nut sending their animals to a possible heaven, but I'd bet most people didn't know or think to do it. And, to be sure, I didn't even know the Bible's position on this procedure--as far as it relates to animals. Are baptized animals afforded heaven as are people? Not being a Bible aficionado, I had no idea.
Still, I wasn't taking any chances. Ralphie was baptized--by a heathen--if he wanted it or not. I hoped Goddess wouldn't hold that against him.
Then, suddenly, I laughed out loud. I could only imagine that heaven--so overloaded with people souls. I envisioned a Goddess upon her golden throne who gazed upon all these people souls lazing back in recliners--dotted here and there amongst the clouds--and eating potato chips, ice cream, and donuts; others were playing frisbee; some were playing harps and guitars, others were smelling flowers and skipping from cloud to cloud. They were, after all, in heaven and enjoying fun things.
And, then, Goddess glanced around the crowd of human souls and cast a quizzical gaze. Something was amiss--in heaven! Suddenly other beings appeared before her. There frolicked all my pets. And elsewhere lay other animals that other earthbound nuts had baptized, too. Goddess was probably wondering who on Earth was bending the baptism rules to include animals. My Cornish cat Wendy began chewing on her sandals, and Ricky was using one leg of her throne as a scratching post. Suddenly I saw Nicky, my first horse, looking over her shoulder as my Gramma Eckensberger stood beside him brushing his mane. All my animals were there, everyone of which I had baptized right before they died. Some were chasing each other, happy expressions on their faces. The cats darted behind Goddess's throne and lapped milk from a golden dish that never emptied; the Irish Wolfhounds bounded after a couple of little kid souls. My other horses, Merry, Shadowfax, and Lillie, were grazing in a ray of sun. There were no saddles or bridles in heaven. I smiled: they were all there under the gaze of Goddess--thanks to my attentiveness during confirmation class.
Suddenly I saw Ralphie at the base of her throne. He wasn't skinny anymore, and with renewed strength he began crawling up one throne leg. Goddess held out her arms, and he climbed aboard, working his way to her shoulders. Then Ralphie tucked his head under her chin and wrapped his arms around her in his characteristic bear hug. And Goddess smiled.
A few days ago he had lost his appetite for any other food, despite my offering him the most delectable treats I could find. Yesterday we discussed putting him to sleep, but when my husband, who is a veterinarian, went to do it, Ralphie purred and rubbed his head against Edgar's arm--his sign that he wanted to be with us a while longer.
Last night when I went into the garden room where Ralphie rested on a dog bed, I covered him with a blanket, tucked him in for the night, and whispered private things in his ear. His ears were cold, and one front claw was stuck in the material of the bed. I freed his paw, and he looked at me with appreciation. Then, I did something that people who know me wouldn't believe. I baptized him. I lay my hand on his head and said, as our minister told us in confirmation class many, many years ago, "I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost." And I put the finishing touches on it with a soft, "Amen."
Doing such a thing is completely uncharacteristic of me because I'm not a religious person. I was raised Lutheran but do not practice any religion. I make no apology for that. People can fault me if they want, but I'm just not sure there's a God or Goddess out there. I'm not sure. In fact, when I look at the state of mankind and what we've made of this world, more in me tells me that the likelihood of a supreme, caring essence is highly unlikely.
Ya know how as a person grows up, certain things and messages stick with her that last throughout her lifetime. Well, when I went through confirmation class at the age of 14, the minister told us that if we were ever in the presence of someone dying, we should baptize him--just as I had Ralphie. He said we didn't need water or anything fancy. Laying one's hand atop the dying person's head was enough. And he told this class of awestricken teens that doing that would guarantee the person's place in heaven. That instruction stayed with me to this day--maybe I was struck by the fact that heaven could so easily be attained by doing a simple ritual. I don't know. But with Ralphie, a cat who never did anything bad, who was not over-bearing and generous with his bear hugs, I wasn't taking any chances. If there was a God or Goddess, then Ralphie was going to heaven, if there was such a place--provided that minister was telling us the truth, and I wouldn't suppose a minister would lie to a bunch of kids. And if my ideas that a God or Goddess maybe didn't exist were correct, well, then Ralphie and I didn't lose anything anyway. But I wasn't taking any chances with Ralphie's possible soul.
After my husband and I buried Ralphie, I came inside and sat down with my coffee, my eyes still thick with tears. How many people are crazy enough to baptize their animals? For sure, I couldn't be the only nut sending their animals to a possible heaven, but I'd bet most people didn't know or think to do it. And, to be sure, I didn't even know the Bible's position on this procedure--as far as it relates to animals. Are baptized animals afforded heaven as are people? Not being a Bible aficionado, I had no idea.
Still, I wasn't taking any chances. Ralphie was baptized--by a heathen--if he wanted it or not. I hoped Goddess wouldn't hold that against him.
Then, suddenly, I laughed out loud. I could only imagine that heaven--so overloaded with people souls. I envisioned a Goddess upon her golden throne who gazed upon all these people souls lazing back in recliners--dotted here and there amongst the clouds--and eating potato chips, ice cream, and donuts; others were playing frisbee; some were playing harps and guitars, others were smelling flowers and skipping from cloud to cloud. They were, after all, in heaven and enjoying fun things.
And, then, Goddess glanced around the crowd of human souls and cast a quizzical gaze. Something was amiss--in heaven! Suddenly other beings appeared before her. There frolicked all my pets. And elsewhere lay other animals that other earthbound nuts had baptized, too. Goddess was probably wondering who on Earth was bending the baptism rules to include animals. My Cornish cat Wendy began chewing on her sandals, and Ricky was using one leg of her throne as a scratching post. Suddenly I saw Nicky, my first horse, looking over her shoulder as my Gramma Eckensberger stood beside him brushing his mane. All my animals were there, everyone of which I had baptized right before they died. Some were chasing each other, happy expressions on their faces. The cats darted behind Goddess's throne and lapped milk from a golden dish that never emptied; the Irish Wolfhounds bounded after a couple of little kid souls. My other horses, Merry, Shadowfax, and Lillie, were grazing in a ray of sun. There were no saddles or bridles in heaven. I smiled: they were all there under the gaze of Goddess--thanks to my attentiveness during confirmation class.
Suddenly I saw Ralphie at the base of her throne. He wasn't skinny anymore, and with renewed strength he began crawling up one throne leg. Goddess held out her arms, and he climbed aboard, working his way to her shoulders. Then Ralphie tucked his head under her chin and wrapped his arms around her in his characteristic bear hug. And Goddess smiled.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Dogs and Eagles At Odds: Express Your Outrage at Vick Signing by Eagles
The Philadelphia Eagles has signed dog executioner, Michael Vick, to their team, much to the disgust of animal lovers worldwide.
Spending thousands of dollars to equip a dog-fighting training facility and headquarters in Smithfield, VA in June of 2001, Michael Vick, then quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons, became the “king pin” organizer of dog-fighting on the East Coast. As such, he participated in horrific executions of pit bull dogs that he and two associates felt were under-fighting in their bouts. Vick, himself, participated, in from 6 to 8 pit bull killings, not limited to drowning and hanging. As a result, Vick spent 18 months in a federal prison as well as several months on house arrest.
During a news conference on August 14, 2009, Vick, appearing humble and contrite, said, “I’ve made some mistakes and done some terrible things. Referring to his involvement with dog-fighting, he admitted he had “made bad decisions” and that he had had “to reach a turning point in his life.”
Vick, with former NFL head coach Tony Dungy at his side, also credited Donovan McNabb for being instrumental in helping him get this opportunity to play football with the Eagles.
During the news conference, Vick questioned why he ever got involved “in such pointless activity.” He said, “If I can help more animals than I hurt, then I’m doing my part.” Vick also said, “Everybody deserves a second chance. As long as you want to come back and do the right thing, then everybody deserves a second chance.”
Whether Vick’s TV audience believes his contrite apologies seems irrelevant. Vick said he was “wrong” and that “he made some terrible mistakes.” What he did was not really about wrong versus right? In fact, his murdering of dogs speaks to a unequivocal deep-seated amorality, something that cannot be righted in a course of 18 months in prison.
We all do wrong things, but we don’t deliberately murder innocent, sentient beings as Vick did. What Vick did strikes much deeper than simply choosing to do wrong over right. His actions speak to his lack of character, his essence of evil, his monstrous motivations and emotions. He is devoid of heart. His drowning and hanging of dogs are proof of a deranged, morally bereft sensibility—one that should never benefit from a second chance and a lucrative football career
Vick’s moral degradation precedes his football career. What went wrong with Vick cannot be fixed by any prison system. What went wrong with Vick cannot be honored with a second chance at a pro-football career. What went wrong with Vick still runs deep within his veins and in his heart; what went wrong with him is not capable of rehabilitation and certainly should not be ignored by fans of the Philadelphia football team.
What can the average individual and animal lover do about the Eagles’ signing Vick to their team? Obviously the Eagles’ management does not value the humane treatment of animals. Hiring Vick speaks to a complete disregard for Eagle fans that love both the game of football and their canine animal friends. People need to let the Eagles’ coach and management know that before we are Eagles fans, we are moral people who respect all life, including a dog’s life. We need to let them know that their signing Vick is, at the very least, inappropriate and in very bad taste..
Eagles fans and decent people worldwide have recourse. We do not have to stand by while Vick stuffs the millions of signing dollars in his pocket. We can boycott anything Eagles, including Donovan McNabb. We can refuse to attend games. We can refuse to watch TV broadcasts of Eagles’ games. We can refuse to buy Eagle shirts, caps, and other paraphernalia. We can refuse any celebrity, company, news station or any other group or individual who aligns themselves with the Eagles.
In addition, we can also contact sponsors of the Philadelphia Eagles and express our repugnance with regard to this signing. Please go to these sponsors’ websites and express your boycotting of their products and/or interests by the following companies:
AquafinNovaCare RehabilitationThe Strauss FoundationVWRJ&J Snack FoodsLincoln Financial GroupMasterCardSovereign Bank
With our dogs, our good friends, by our side, we can turn our backs on a football team that ignores what it means to be a good, decent person.
For more information about Michael Vick’s crimes and his signing conference, go to:
http://www.philly.com/philly/wires/ap/news/state/pennsylvania/20090814_ap_summaryofmichaelvickdogfightingcase.html
http://www.examiner.com/x-6121-Oklahoma-Crime-Examiner~y2009m8d14-Michael-Vick-press-conference-video--Eagles-millionsvs-dogfighting-busts
http://www.examiner.com/x-6121-Oklahoma-Crime-Examiner~y2009m7d9-Dog-fighting-rings-in-six-states-busted-in-largest-raid-ever.
Spending thousands of dollars to equip a dog-fighting training facility and headquarters in Smithfield, VA in June of 2001, Michael Vick, then quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons, became the “king pin” organizer of dog-fighting on the East Coast. As such, he participated in horrific executions of pit bull dogs that he and two associates felt were under-fighting in their bouts. Vick, himself, participated, in from 6 to 8 pit bull killings, not limited to drowning and hanging. As a result, Vick spent 18 months in a federal prison as well as several months on house arrest.
During a news conference on August 14, 2009, Vick, appearing humble and contrite, said, “I’ve made some mistakes and done some terrible things. Referring to his involvement with dog-fighting, he admitted he had “made bad decisions” and that he had had “to reach a turning point in his life.”
Vick, with former NFL head coach Tony Dungy at his side, also credited Donovan McNabb for being instrumental in helping him get this opportunity to play football with the Eagles.
During the news conference, Vick questioned why he ever got involved “in such pointless activity.” He said, “If I can help more animals than I hurt, then I’m doing my part.” Vick also said, “Everybody deserves a second chance. As long as you want to come back and do the right thing, then everybody deserves a second chance.”
Whether Vick’s TV audience believes his contrite apologies seems irrelevant. Vick said he was “wrong” and that “he made some terrible mistakes.” What he did was not really about wrong versus right? In fact, his murdering of dogs speaks to a unequivocal deep-seated amorality, something that cannot be righted in a course of 18 months in prison.
We all do wrong things, but we don’t deliberately murder innocent, sentient beings as Vick did. What Vick did strikes much deeper than simply choosing to do wrong over right. His actions speak to his lack of character, his essence of evil, his monstrous motivations and emotions. He is devoid of heart. His drowning and hanging of dogs are proof of a deranged, morally bereft sensibility—one that should never benefit from a second chance and a lucrative football career
Vick’s moral degradation precedes his football career. What went wrong with Vick cannot be fixed by any prison system. What went wrong with Vick cannot be honored with a second chance at a pro-football career. What went wrong with Vick still runs deep within his veins and in his heart; what went wrong with him is not capable of rehabilitation and certainly should not be ignored by fans of the Philadelphia football team.
What can the average individual and animal lover do about the Eagles’ signing Vick to their team? Obviously the Eagles’ management does not value the humane treatment of animals. Hiring Vick speaks to a complete disregard for Eagle fans that love both the game of football and their canine animal friends. People need to let the Eagles’ coach and management know that before we are Eagles fans, we are moral people who respect all life, including a dog’s life. We need to let them know that their signing Vick is, at the very least, inappropriate and in very bad taste..
Eagles fans and decent people worldwide have recourse. We do not have to stand by while Vick stuffs the millions of signing dollars in his pocket. We can boycott anything Eagles, including Donovan McNabb. We can refuse to attend games. We can refuse to watch TV broadcasts of Eagles’ games. We can refuse to buy Eagle shirts, caps, and other paraphernalia. We can refuse any celebrity, company, news station or any other group or individual who aligns themselves with the Eagles.
In addition, we can also contact sponsors of the Philadelphia Eagles and express our repugnance with regard to this signing. Please go to these sponsors’ websites and express your boycotting of their products and/or interests by the following companies:
AquafinNovaCare RehabilitationThe Strauss FoundationVWRJ&J Snack FoodsLincoln Financial GroupMasterCardSovereign Bank
With our dogs, our good friends, by our side, we can turn our backs on a football team that ignores what it means to be a good, decent person.
For more information about Michael Vick’s crimes and his signing conference, go to:
http://www.philly.com/philly/wires/ap/news/state/pennsylvania/20090814_ap_summaryofmichaelvickdogfightingcase.html
http://www.examiner.com/x-6121-Oklahoma-Crime-Examiner~y2009m8d14-Michael-Vick-press-conference-video--Eagles-millionsvs-dogfighting-busts
http://www.examiner.com/x-6121-Oklahoma-Crime-Examiner~y2009m7d9-Dog-fighting-rings-in-six-states-busted-in-largest-raid-ever.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
A Foster By Any Other Name . . .
Our bellies filled with funnel cake and lemonade, we left the Lorah Family Farm Fest that night renewed and rejuvenated--my faith in the goodness of man and womankind restored. Dusk descended as a river of cars poured from the parking-lot grass field. There was one hurdle to overcome, however: we had to cross the road with a rather lethargic, nobody's-gonna-make-me-hurry-no-matter-what pot-bellied pig named Foster.
The rush of cars was exiting as from a rock concert--people all pumped up and eager to get back on the road. While cars flowed from the field, Sheryl and I discussed the necessity of timing the crossing just right. When we spied a lag in the traffic, we'd have to hurry her pig to the other side.
I looked up the road and saw a break in the rush of traffic. "Okay, Sheryl. Let's go!"
Sheryl ran into the middle of the road. She pulled and tugged, but Foster, all dressed up in his shiny purple nylon harness and lead rope, was not going to hurry for her sake, though he didn't realize that the expediency was intended for his own welfare.
Sheryl pulled harder, "Come on, Foster. Hurry up before we all get run over!" Not in the least impressed, Foster turtle-stepped with his right front hoof onto the macadam. Then, slowly, very deliberately, he stepped with his left hind foot.
"COME ON, FOSTER! HURRY UP!" Sheryl pleaded, tugging on the leash.
To my left a car shot into the traffic and headed towards us. We had to get Foster across the road--fast. With no time to spare, I got behind him and pushed his rump as Sheryl pulled his front end. As usual, I rarely have the opportunity to see myself in action the way others do. So, I invariably have to step back and imagine what a passerby must be seeing and, therefore, thinking. Squatted down, legs splayed apart, both hands a mere eighteen inches from the ground and latched onto the ass-end of a pig who, clearly, resented my intrusion, I saw myself as others saw me. Surely onlookers were stifling laughs at a middle-aged woman bent double, huffing and puffing, leaning her full weight into the butt-end of a recalcitrant pig. Together all three of us must've resembled an Abbott and Costello gig. But I had little time to indulge myself with what others were thinking. In the encroaching darkness I had to help move Foster across the road before the car reached us.
When Sheryl saw the approaching car, her eyes widened like Gumby's, and she pulled harder on Foster's leash. But he was not going to speed it up without good reason, and, usually, for a pig, that meant a bribe of a donut or fries.
As the car drew close, I worried the driver would not see the three of us in the deepening twilight. I leaned into Foster even harder. Both Foster and I were grunting: me because I was trying to move his 250 pounds when he clearly wanted to remain static, and Foster out of rebellion against two weak women trying to manipulate him. He was refusing to move, probably more out of pride than anything else--it was a guy thing.
Stuck in the middle of the road with a vehicle approaching us, again Sheryl yanked on the leash. Though we were in a potentially dangerous position, she recognized the humor of the situation, too. We were like the three stooges--whooping, dancing, and behaving like clowns.
Suddenly, in a last ditch effort to get Foster across the road, Sheryl yelled,
"RUN, FORREST, RUN!"
That's all I could take. With the image of Foster as Forrest Gump, my legs and arms went weak. I let go Foster's ass and held my guts as I curled up and let out a gigantic belly laugh, the likes of my dear grandma Eckensberger. No matter the car barreling towards us, the image of the pig likened to the slow-witted movie hero being warned to run from danger reduced me to a quivering, giggling lump of jelly.
Finally, Sheryl yanked Foster into the shoulder of the road, and I, laughing and snorting and holding my guts, tripped behind him, the car flying past. The three of us stood in the field, we two yucking it up, with Foster looking on with some annoyance.
Not only was Foster's road crossing an adventure, but it has also resulted in a major change. Today Foster goes by the much more quirky, homespun, and fitting name--Forrest.
The rush of cars was exiting as from a rock concert--people all pumped up and eager to get back on the road. While cars flowed from the field, Sheryl and I discussed the necessity of timing the crossing just right. When we spied a lag in the traffic, we'd have to hurry her pig to the other side.
I looked up the road and saw a break in the rush of traffic. "Okay, Sheryl. Let's go!"
Sheryl ran into the middle of the road. She pulled and tugged, but Foster, all dressed up in his shiny purple nylon harness and lead rope, was not going to hurry for her sake, though he didn't realize that the expediency was intended for his own welfare.
Sheryl pulled harder, "Come on, Foster. Hurry up before we all get run over!" Not in the least impressed, Foster turtle-stepped with his right front hoof onto the macadam. Then, slowly, very deliberately, he stepped with his left hind foot.
"COME ON, FOSTER! HURRY UP!" Sheryl pleaded, tugging on the leash.
To my left a car shot into the traffic and headed towards us. We had to get Foster across the road--fast. With no time to spare, I got behind him and pushed his rump as Sheryl pulled his front end. As usual, I rarely have the opportunity to see myself in action the way others do. So, I invariably have to step back and imagine what a passerby must be seeing and, therefore, thinking. Squatted down, legs splayed apart, both hands a mere eighteen inches from the ground and latched onto the ass-end of a pig who, clearly, resented my intrusion, I saw myself as others saw me. Surely onlookers were stifling laughs at a middle-aged woman bent double, huffing and puffing, leaning her full weight into the butt-end of a recalcitrant pig. Together all three of us must've resembled an Abbott and Costello gig. But I had little time to indulge myself with what others were thinking. In the encroaching darkness I had to help move Foster across the road before the car reached us.
When Sheryl saw the approaching car, her eyes widened like Gumby's, and she pulled harder on Foster's leash. But he was not going to speed it up without good reason, and, usually, for a pig, that meant a bribe of a donut or fries.
As the car drew close, I worried the driver would not see the three of us in the deepening twilight. I leaned into Foster even harder. Both Foster and I were grunting: me because I was trying to move his 250 pounds when he clearly wanted to remain static, and Foster out of rebellion against two weak women trying to manipulate him. He was refusing to move, probably more out of pride than anything else--it was a guy thing.
Stuck in the middle of the road with a vehicle approaching us, again Sheryl yanked on the leash. Though we were in a potentially dangerous position, she recognized the humor of the situation, too. We were like the three stooges--whooping, dancing, and behaving like clowns.
Suddenly, in a last ditch effort to get Foster across the road, Sheryl yelled,
"RUN, FORREST, RUN!"
That's all I could take. With the image of Foster as Forrest Gump, my legs and arms went weak. I let go Foster's ass and held my guts as I curled up and let out a gigantic belly laugh, the likes of my dear grandma Eckensberger. No matter the car barreling towards us, the image of the pig likened to the slow-witted movie hero being warned to run from danger reduced me to a quivering, giggling lump of jelly.
Finally, Sheryl yanked Foster into the shoulder of the road, and I, laughing and snorting and holding my guts, tripped behind him, the car flying past. The three of us stood in the field, we two yucking it up, with Foster looking on with some annoyance.
Not only was Foster's road crossing an adventure, but it has also resulted in a major change. Today Foster goes by the much more quirky, homespun, and fitting name--Forrest.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Lorah's Family Farm Fest
Last night my friend, Sheryl and I and Sheryl's pot-bellied pig, Foster, went to the draft-horse pulling exhibition at Lorah's Farm Festival in Walnutport, PA. Foster went along for a meet-and-greet session in preparation for a stint at a local nursing home. Foster drew a crowd almost as large as that watching the draft horses pulling a sled full of concrete blocks.
I can seldom enjoy myself at such competitions like horse racing, jumping, competitive trail rides, and even regular horse shows. Why? I always worry that a horse will get hurt, drop over from exhaustion, or that something terrible, like a trailer accident, is imminent. When it comes to animals and the sometimes over-zealous expectations people have of them, I'm the biggest worry-wart around. After all, the animals themselves don't sign up for all this competitiveness. They are more content lazing their days on pasture than cavorting around the countryside looking to show off and best others of their own kind. Horses don't understand the point of being trailered off their home patch, taken from their mobile house, saddled up, and ridden among a throng of others like themselves around a showring or racetrack. Likewise, the draft horses at the Lorah Family Farm Fest, even though they've pulled dead weight at other times, don't really understand the logic behind pulling eight thousand pounds of concrete block 27 and a half feet across a dirt lane.
As we watched the horse pulling contest, I held my breath, almost too afraid to look, as the horses strained against their collars, their front legs pulling, stabbing into the ground, their hind legs hopping, galloping against the poundage. And then the laden sled lurched forward, the horses' nostrils flaring under the effort. I grimaced. For sure, I thought, some disaster is about to happen: a horse snapping a knee, a hock, or injuring a shoulder. When each pair of Percherons or Belgians, each horse weighing in at around 2,000 pounds, were hooked by chains to the sled, I gasped, scared to death for those horses who were giving their all, who were pulling with their hearts. I worried their owners, in an effort to win the contest, would push them beyond the limits of their bodies.
My faith in mankind, however, was restored as, in a couple of cases, the owners stopped their draft horses before they could have injured themselves. Their way of competing their animals yet protecting their health and welfare should be a lesson for those in Thoroughbred racing. Racehorse owners owe their large-hearted horses the consideration of and respect for their physical soundness, their lives: no racing before the age of three when the growth plates have closed and the fragile leg bones have grown strong.
At the Lorah Family Farm Fest, great men put aside greed and ego for the sake of their horses' well-being. What a refreshing evening.
I can seldom enjoy myself at such competitions like horse racing, jumping, competitive trail rides, and even regular horse shows. Why? I always worry that a horse will get hurt, drop over from exhaustion, or that something terrible, like a trailer accident, is imminent. When it comes to animals and the sometimes over-zealous expectations people have of them, I'm the biggest worry-wart around. After all, the animals themselves don't sign up for all this competitiveness. They are more content lazing their days on pasture than cavorting around the countryside looking to show off and best others of their own kind. Horses don't understand the point of being trailered off their home patch, taken from their mobile house, saddled up, and ridden among a throng of others like themselves around a showring or racetrack. Likewise, the draft horses at the Lorah Family Farm Fest, even though they've pulled dead weight at other times, don't really understand the logic behind pulling eight thousand pounds of concrete block 27 and a half feet across a dirt lane.
As we watched the horse pulling contest, I held my breath, almost too afraid to look, as the horses strained against their collars, their front legs pulling, stabbing into the ground, their hind legs hopping, galloping against the poundage. And then the laden sled lurched forward, the horses' nostrils flaring under the effort. I grimaced. For sure, I thought, some disaster is about to happen: a horse snapping a knee, a hock, or injuring a shoulder. When each pair of Percherons or Belgians, each horse weighing in at around 2,000 pounds, were hooked by chains to the sled, I gasped, scared to death for those horses who were giving their all, who were pulling with their hearts. I worried their owners, in an effort to win the contest, would push them beyond the limits of their bodies.
My faith in mankind, however, was restored as, in a couple of cases, the owners stopped their draft horses before they could have injured themselves. Their way of competing their animals yet protecting their health and welfare should be a lesson for those in Thoroughbred racing. Racehorse owners owe their large-hearted horses the consideration of and respect for their physical soundness, their lives: no racing before the age of three when the growth plates have closed and the fragile leg bones have grown strong.
At the Lorah Family Farm Fest, great men put aside greed and ego for the sake of their horses' well-being. What a refreshing evening.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
You Can Dress Her Up, But
With a full half hour before leaving for my allergy appointment (yes, I'm allergic to all of my animals: cats, horses, pigs), I styled my hair, brushed my teeth, swiped on some tinted moisturizer and mascara, and slipped on a pretty, airy summer dress. Then I jumped into a pair of patent-leather, pink-heeled sandals. A glance in the mirror assured me I was "good to go," so I flew out the door and backed the car from the driveway.
At the doctor's office, I took my allergy shots like a girl while Carol, the nurse, fussed over my new look. "My goodness," she said. "You look so nice today. Are you going somewhere all fancied up like that?"
"No," I laughed. "I'm just going home."
"Usually you come here in your barn clothes," she said. "We don't ever get to see you all dressed up."
"Yeah, all dressed up and no place to go," I sang with a big grin.
Everyone laughed. I said good-bye, high-stepped out to the car, and in a half hour I was barreling up our driveway past the swimming pool.
"THE FROG!" I yelled with horror. In a flash I parked the car and ran to the barn where sat the golfcart. Dress hiked to my thighs, I climbed into the cart, pulled the choke and stepped on the accelerator. My trusty cart coughed and spit, and I yanked the wheel to the left. I roared out of the barn but had forgotten something. So, I put the gear in reverse, backed up to the barn door, and leaped from the cart. Inside the barn I pulled an old dirty horse bucket from a pile in a corner. Then I tip-toe-ran through the grass and back to the cart. I wasn't at all used to running in heeled sandals and a dress, but I didn't have time to change: a frog's life depended on me.
I stepped on the gas, and the cart and I jerked forward, hanging onto the wheel with one hand and the bucket with the other. "I'm coming!"I shouted.
I stopped the cart at the pool, ran to the edge, squatted, and looked along the stone border.
Earlier in the day I had seen a frog zi-i-i-i-i-inging through the water--water that I had super-chlorinated the evening before. I was reaching for the skimming pole when I heard the horses squealing in the pasture: a battle of the equines. So, I ran to break up the disagreement before anyone got hurt.
Once the frog was out of sight it was out of my mind. I forgot about him swimming in all those chemicals. I went about my chores for the day and then left for the allergist.
I stumbled around the pool edge in my fancy fuschia sandals, trying hard not to overtread my ankle: Where could the frog be? I'd never forgive myself if he lay dead somewhere--dead from swimming in and inhaling chlorine for half a day.
I ran around the pool edge: no sign of the frog. I ran to one of the skimmers, pulling off the lid.
A frog was swirling, helpless, in the maelstrom created by the pump's vacuum. I reached down and scooped him up. Then I opened my fist, dreading to find him lifeless and bleached pale by the super-concentrated chlorine. Amazingly, he was still alive!
Tripping over the grass, I ran him over to the horse bucket into which I had put a small amount of fresh water. I put him into the bucket, and he began to leap for the edge. But the bucket was too deep for him to escape. Then, I teetered back through the grass to the other skimmer. Where there was one frog, there could be another. And so it was. Another frog! Scooping him up, I ran him to the bucket, too.
Then I hopped into the cart, stomped on the pedal and the frogs and I flew down the driveway, water sloshing all over the floor. We roared across the street, through our grove of fruit trees, and down the hill to the pond.
At the edge of the pond, I stopped the cart, grabbed the bucket with the frantic frogs leapng like pole vaulters, and squidged my way to the water's edge. I glanced at the muddy edge, full of divots made by the hooves of the Belted Galloways. In order to release the frogs I would have to step into the mud. I suppose I could have taken off my sandals, but the idea of squishing through manure-tainted mud and having it come up through my toes really grossed me out.
The frogs were manic and perfecting their vaulting. I had to hurry. So, with much distaste, I gripped the horse bucket handle and stepped gingerly into the mud. Two feet from the edge of the water, I sank almost to my arches. Slime bubbled around the edges of my shoes. I felt sick. Then, teetering on a small stone, I was able to pour the frogs into the pond. They slid away into the muddy water and were out of sight.
I hopped away from the edge. Mud was splattered up my calves and had hit the hem of my dress. What a mess! I would spend the next hour holding my sandals underneath the kitchen faucet and scrubbing them with Dawn liquid.
The most important thing, however, was that the frogs were safe and happy in the farm pond. I could wash the dress, and, though the sandals would never be as shiny as when I first put them on, their appearance is tolerable.
Just another day in paradise.
7/23/09
At the doctor's office, I took my allergy shots like a girl while Carol, the nurse, fussed over my new look. "My goodness," she said. "You look so nice today. Are you going somewhere all fancied up like that?"
"No," I laughed. "I'm just going home."
"Usually you come here in your barn clothes," she said. "We don't ever get to see you all dressed up."
"Yeah, all dressed up and no place to go," I sang with a big grin.
Everyone laughed. I said good-bye, high-stepped out to the car, and in a half hour I was barreling up our driveway past the swimming pool.
"THE FROG!" I yelled with horror. In a flash I parked the car and ran to the barn where sat the golfcart. Dress hiked to my thighs, I climbed into the cart, pulled the choke and stepped on the accelerator. My trusty cart coughed and spit, and I yanked the wheel to the left. I roared out of the barn but had forgotten something. So, I put the gear in reverse, backed up to the barn door, and leaped from the cart. Inside the barn I pulled an old dirty horse bucket from a pile in a corner. Then I tip-toe-ran through the grass and back to the cart. I wasn't at all used to running in heeled sandals and a dress, but I didn't have time to change: a frog's life depended on me.
I stepped on the gas, and the cart and I jerked forward, hanging onto the wheel with one hand and the bucket with the other. "I'm coming!"I shouted.
I stopped the cart at the pool, ran to the edge, squatted, and looked along the stone border.
Earlier in the day I had seen a frog zi-i-i-i-i-inging through the water--water that I had super-chlorinated the evening before. I was reaching for the skimming pole when I heard the horses squealing in the pasture: a battle of the equines. So, I ran to break up the disagreement before anyone got hurt.
Once the frog was out of sight it was out of my mind. I forgot about him swimming in all those chemicals. I went about my chores for the day and then left for the allergist.
I stumbled around the pool edge in my fancy fuschia sandals, trying hard not to overtread my ankle: Where could the frog be? I'd never forgive myself if he lay dead somewhere--dead from swimming in and inhaling chlorine for half a day.
I ran around the pool edge: no sign of the frog. I ran to one of the skimmers, pulling off the lid.
A frog was swirling, helpless, in the maelstrom created by the pump's vacuum. I reached down and scooped him up. Then I opened my fist, dreading to find him lifeless and bleached pale by the super-concentrated chlorine. Amazingly, he was still alive!
Tripping over the grass, I ran him over to the horse bucket into which I had put a small amount of fresh water. I put him into the bucket, and he began to leap for the edge. But the bucket was too deep for him to escape. Then, I teetered back through the grass to the other skimmer. Where there was one frog, there could be another. And so it was. Another frog! Scooping him up, I ran him to the bucket, too.
Then I hopped into the cart, stomped on the pedal and the frogs and I flew down the driveway, water sloshing all over the floor. We roared across the street, through our grove of fruit trees, and down the hill to the pond.
At the edge of the pond, I stopped the cart, grabbed the bucket with the frantic frogs leapng like pole vaulters, and squidged my way to the water's edge. I glanced at the muddy edge, full of divots made by the hooves of the Belted Galloways. In order to release the frogs I would have to step into the mud. I suppose I could have taken off my sandals, but the idea of squishing through manure-tainted mud and having it come up through my toes really grossed me out.
The frogs were manic and perfecting their vaulting. I had to hurry. So, with much distaste, I gripped the horse bucket handle and stepped gingerly into the mud. Two feet from the edge of the water, I sank almost to my arches. Slime bubbled around the edges of my shoes. I felt sick. Then, teetering on a small stone, I was able to pour the frogs into the pond. They slid away into the muddy water and were out of sight.
I hopped away from the edge. Mud was splattered up my calves and had hit the hem of my dress. What a mess! I would spend the next hour holding my sandals underneath the kitchen faucet and scrubbing them with Dawn liquid.
The most important thing, however, was that the frogs were safe and happy in the farm pond. I could wash the dress, and, though the sandals would never be as shiny as when I first put them on, their appearance is tolerable.
Just another day in paradise.
7/23/09
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