Missing the Here Dogs

 

Jenni

I walk behind the racing dogs, their tails sailing flags of joy. We know our steps; when we come to the choice of going up or going straight, they stop and turn, awaiting my wish. Up is through more woods, over fallen trees, meeting a rather hidden trail leading to an entrance behind the pretty church into the pastures that await. Ahead’s path brushes the small pond, through the trees, opening into the fields where the tennis balls begin to fly. Up or ahead, we wind up in the same place, fields littered with tennis balls left and lost, waiting for next time. Our neighbors are wonderful.

 I watch their joy as they run all out, and I find myself jumping the years (I pray many, many years) before us; I feel myself starting already to miss them.

 Such a foolish sense, that nagging foreboding thought. These three dogs who run so freely in front of me, eyes skyward searching for or following flight of a yellow sphere, have no serious health problems of which I’m aware (at least if I could get Mike to stop feeding them so much). Happy smiles dim only to open mouths to grasp their toys. Whisper even smiles around the ball he carries back to me.

 But, truth is, Jenni is ten. How? How did that happen? This little girl who came to ease Mike’s heart after Puppy Trey left us at 18 months old, memory still raw of the loss of Mac the year before, that dog of a lifetime who let me know you could bond with a dog and literally have them anywhere with you. Jenni’s lovely golden markings, her sweet, sensitive eyes, her quiet, shadowy presence continuously near Mike. Mike and Jenni placed in third at their first competitive herding trial seven years ago and eventually won one. This year’s case of pancreatitis so encumbered her, so frightened the humans who love her; she’s not quite as spry, perhaps, but still, once out with the boys or seeing stock, she flows along the ground. And, once inside, she worships Mike, pining when he leaves, quietly joyous when he returns.

 Next week, Whisper will be eight. EIGHT! The cutest puppy I have ever seen who, from the moment he came home with me from the foothills of the Carolina mountains, believed himself to be my boy, will be eight. His run doesn’t flow as smoothly as Jenni’s or River’s; at six months old he had surgery

Whisper

on his shoulder, and his back legs almost, not quite, but almost bunny hop a bit. My sweet, damaged, happy, worried beautiful boy. Even now he waits for my word to bring him to my side. In a half-acre field, he can sniff out his very own, particular tennis ball, THAT ball, the one he has used today. He knows more tricks that both the other dogs combined. And here, with Mike and me (and Dr. Manchild when he returns) he is happy and safe. The best thing we ever did for him was to get him Puppy River. But, eight.

River

 And in January—just a few short weeks away—my River dog will be five. That tiny puppy who so dreaded car rides for the sickness it made in his tummy, that terrified baby who could not master any element of an agility course unless the trainer and I picked him up and, literally, carried him over or around—that sweet boy grew. . . . and grew. . . ..  and grew. He loves the car now, accompanies me to the barn, careful of the horses’ size, careful of their clopping feet. But always with me. Even today he, Tripp, and I walked the path between pastures and paddocks, River always to the side, ever close. And now, he tries any obstacle I ask of him. So similar to my lovely, late Millie as any dog I can imagine, his sweet, soft self has become friends with a couple of dogs that accompany their owners to the barn. One little creature that might weigh five pounds, white fluff, wags her whole self and comes to try to reach and sniff his butt, that eternal canine greeting. River’s face turns patient, but when she finishes, he wags
his tail, and with the other, younger dog, and little white puff, squiggles to the other humans. “I’m cute, too!” He yearns for his people, mainly me, not understanding why ever now that the car doesn’t make him sick he has to stay home at all. I see that pure sweetness Millie had, that wanting to make everything right, and I miss those lovely friends from our “Golden Age of Dogs,” Mac and Millie, such beauty and grace, who had people stopping me in stores:  “You have those smart dogs.”

 I wish to have again the dogs now gone—Princess, Benjamin, Pluto, Mac, Millie, the ones from my childhood, the ones I cared for well and not as well—I wish I had them now. Even as I long for the dogs who brought me through some difficulties, who helped me raise a son, who kept me company and gave companionship, I find myself feeling already the loss not yet experienced. Too short—the lives of these amazing creatures is too short.

 Part of knowing time’s passage is knowing loss as part of life, grief best borne with others, and, as my life carries on, a looking forward to recoup of loss when I feel I will see the people I love and my beloved animals again. It is through such beliefs comes the phrase “the hope of Heaven.” It is through such beliefs one learns to grab the moment now and live it fully. “Take no thought of tomorrow.” Well, it’s a goal.

 Even so, as I watch my lovely dogs play, gaze adoringly up at me, my heart grips a bit, and already I start to miss these amazing animals. Such is the gift of these dogs, and all the dogs I have had, that they mean so much—that they ARE so much—that, always, I hope to have a furry presence in my life. As deep as the pain at their loss, none would want me without a dog to help me through. I can hope now, though, to have these three here with me for years to come. Just the merest hint of the grieving for them brings me to tears.

 But, doggy eyes have no idea of my silent thoughts—and all they want, now, is food, tennis balls, Mike and me, each other, a safe, happy pack. I will put off the sadness and live as they do—right now is what matters.

My lovely, sweet, wonderful dogs, their presence proving unconditional love exists. I do not deserve them. I hope I still can learn the lessons they teach.

 

A Wiener (Dog) For Dinner

Princess and my brother, Davie

               I grew up in the time of family supper each night. My mom, leaving home at 6:00 a.m., arrived back home after 5:30 p.m. and cooked a full supper for her family then cleaned the kitchen. “What,” you might ask, “were her family doing in the afternoon and evening?”

               Good question. The answer is, “Never enough.”

               Princess brought begging to high art. She came in after we sat down around the smaller kitchen table. While we said grace, she decided on her mark. Then, she looked up, raised the upper part of that l-o-n-g deep chestnut body, carefully balancing with her tail, tottering at times because, truly, dachshunds are called wiener dogs for a reason. Finally, her balance reached, she carefully s-l-i-d down until her bottom hit the floor, her short front legs folded in front of her, those beautiful brown eyes looking up at the target, eyebrows brought close together in a begging frown, a quiet, staring presence.

               Just try to eat with those eyes boring into your hand as it brings a bite to your mouth, back to your plate, to your mouth, to your plate, back, up, down, her head barely moving, that long nose pointing the way.

               After a few minutes of this, en masse the four humans came to agreement. “Princess! Go to the living room! Go on!” At which point, her short legs lowered that long body. “Go on!” Her sad eyes looked up, nose pointing to the floor. “GO!” And with sadness defining every vertebrae in that extended back, she slowly, one short leg at a time, walked to the living room.

               At which time we sighed and enjoyed eating without a little dog staring hopefully at us, measuring our every bite.

               Invariably, it seemed, after a few minutes, wild barking broke out in the living room! “Ark! Ark! Ark! ArkArkArkArkArkArk! ARKARKARK!!!!” Or, translated, “Somebody’s at the door!! Come quick! Come quick! COME QUICK!” Somebody’s at the door!”

               And somebody—usually my older brother or I—got up to go rescue whoever dared arrive at our door and disturb the dog. We hadn’t heard a knock, but, well, who needed a doorbell or door knocker? We had Princess.

               Once at the door, we quietly asked her to stop the shrieking barking. “PRINCESS! SHUT UP!” which did no good at all, then opened the door.

               And saw no one. Hmmm. No one there. Well, she had heard something and alerted us just in case. “Good girl! Good girl, Princess!”

               Then, as we walked back to the kitchen, the little, stubby-legged dog came trotting along behind.

               “No one there?” asked my mom or dad?

               “Nope.”

               “Well, Princess must’ve heard something. She sure let’em know, didn’t she!”

               “Yep.”

               Meanwhile, in a new spot, different than earlier, a little, long-backed dog, lifted her head and front legs, and balanced her stretched-out body on her tail, got balanced j-u-s-t right, then s-l-i-d down onto her bottom.

               It took us longer to figure out her scheme to return to the kitchen than it had her to come up with it. My whole life I’ve had dogs smarter than I am.

               And, I don’t care.

Princess

              

               My mom wanted a dachshund; I wanted to name her Princess. Turned out the puppy’s mother wore the name something like “Queen Esther of Camelot” as her owners lived on Camelot Avenue. They called her Queenie, of course; her father was King Something-or-Other of Camelot. So, Princess fit her well.

               As I recall, she cost fifty dollars. According to Google, that’s over $400 today, and a quick glance for dachshund puppies today shows her to have been a bargain. Even so, she proved herself worth well more her dollar value; she wiggled that long little body into our lives, and became our beloved family dog. She had a prominent overbite, her bottom lip not reaching her top one, that row of top teeth showing the whole of her life. As her back stretched into adulthood, and her legs didn’t seem to increase in length much, if at all, her overbite stayed the same, and for her whole life, her top lip overlapped her bottom lip.

               From the first, she slept with me, a little red bundle pasted to my side at night, sleeping to my rhythms, beginning the habit I learned to crave off and on throughout my life:  a dog beside me—or between two people—in the night. As a child of 12, she became the confidant I couldn’t find at school, the ever-present friend. She learned the cadences of our home, greeted us at the door with the joy of dogs from time immemorial, and captured the hearts of her family for the over 13 years she lived.

               As we knew at the time, we did our best with her, taking her for the occasional walk which started with her excited jumping around, gleefully starting up the sidewalk, and usually ending with whoever handled the leash picking up and carrying her home, those legs not able to last the entire walk. Of course, we should have used consistency and added gradual length to those walks to make the whole thing more fun for her. But, truly, we did our best with the knowledge we had, and loved her fiercely and fully—and she returned that love.

               At one point my parents bred her beautiful solid deep chestnut self to a male dachshund who had the same red, but only on his feet, the end of his nose, and, if you raised his tail, you could see his shining red little bottom. One amazing morning we woke to Princess’ seven puppies—five marked just like their father, two little red miniatures of Princess, one of them complete with her overbite. A good mother, her problem came with only having six feeding stations, and my mom got a toy baby bottle, some pablum mixture from somewhere, and helped her feed her brood. I wanted badly to keep the little girl with the overbite, but my dad put the kibosh on that, and they never bred her again, a decision I’m sure Princess appreciated.

               But if dogs are the ever loyal, never changing creatures, children or young people in a home tend to grow up and leave. First my brother finished high school and left for college. Though his family missed him, of course, at least we knew what caused his absence. What Princess knew was that one day he was there, then he wasn’t. The brave little badger dog, who would have fought any threat to her family she knew about or could see or find, could not fight the invisible hazard that had made her boy disappear.

               She couldn’t understand; but she could mourn.

               And one day she, herself, seemed to disappear.

               My mom couldn’t find her; she called her, but got no response from the dog who lived for her family and always—ALWAYS—ran to answer her name. She looked in each room; we had no doggy door, so Princess couldn’t go outside with no help. She checked each bedroom, opened each closet door with a crack in it. And, then, in the bottom of my brother’s closet on top of some clothes fallen to the floor lay the little red wiener dog, her misery obvious. “She really had tears in her eyes,“ my mom said.

               By the time I left, she had adjusted to my brother coming home periodically, happy to see him, but her allegiance to my mom grew as we came to other times of life, college taking us away, always happy to see her when I came home. As I recall, she still came to my bed when I slept there, but age took the toll it takes on all creatures, and those little “hot dogs” have long backs that can falter with age, that can, eventually, hinder their movements. So, my parents built a ramp for her as stairs became a barrier too great for her to overcome.

               And I—I left for a summer in Galveston with a Christian college group, then for a couple of years in Liberia to teach with a Mission group. I went to graduate school for a year and when the boy who claimed to love me more than life itself, who begged me to wait for him as he finished his last year with the same Mission group. . . .  as I finished my first year of graduate school and that boy decided that, really, he knew I had done my best, but he actually loved the girl from Mississippi with the  long blond hair who moved into my apartment a few weeks after I left more than he loved me, so I unwisely didn’t finish grad school but moved to the lovely North Carolina mountains to housesit for friends, Princess, continuing to age, still continued to offer comfort and love when I came home, packing and planning before leaving home again. Now she slept more on her blankets in the corner under my mom’s prized antique railroad desk, still loved, still a feisty representative of her breed.

Till, one day my mom called me and said, “Princess has died.”

               It almost broke my mother. An era of my own life ended; the dog who raised me had died. As so frequently happens, until then, I didn’t realize all she had given me.

               I know how blessed I was to have that sweet, kind dog love me so as I grew from child to woman, her little legs moving as fast as she could make them, but her loyal, loving heart as big as any dog alive.

               From Princess I learned what every person who loves a dog knows: that their dog is the best in the world. . . .. and every person is right. Now I have border collies. But, many border collie folks I know have a small dog of some kind as well, not infrequently a dachshund. At times I think I, too, should get a small dog, one you can carry in one arm. None of my dogs fit that description. Maybe, someday.

               Till then, I know the standard—a little red dog, overbite prominent, who loved me, who gave me the gift of the dog—that unconditional, ever present heart, that dogs give. I was fortunate to find that gift early.

               With dogs before her, certainly, but the standard finalized forever in a dog named Princess.

The Dog

The Morning

              Lila leaned into the biting storm blowing in from the Atlantic, trudging step-by-difficult step against the wind along the beach of the narrow island. Waves, powered by the wind, crashed closer than normal of a morning, her cheeks, hunkered inside the hooded coat Randy and Carol had left hanging by the door for just such mornings as this, burned from the biting wind, the pellets of spray that managed to hit her burning their way into her skin.

              Still, she walked.

              When Randy and Carol left her to winter alone after spending their pre-Christmas with her here, caring for her in her sadness, determined she would not spend total holidays alone, angry for her, angry with her, giving up time with their own children inland, then, sensing she had recovered enough to heal on her own, giving her their lovely beach house for a place and a time to grieve and work on her thesis in peace, Lila determined not to disappoint them. Though the pain still pierced her unexpectedly and sharply, robbing her of breath, she now could accept she was not the first woman to be left by a man soon before the alter. She could even understand the benefit of being left before the wedding rather than after.

              Intellect didn’t stop anguish, though; grief unexpectedly robbed her of breath at most inconvenient times, and her tears fell freely even when she wished them dried. Robert had sought her out, after all, had pursued her, even as she doubted the truth of his intentions. “I love you,” he stated emphatically and simply mere weeks after their meeting in graduate school at the North Carolina university that had colleges known to turn out scholars in both their chosen fields, he in some science thing she never understood, she working on advanced education studies, wanting to teach and write educational materials for students, maybe at some point have a company for that work, help other teachers publish the material they wrote daily for students and for which they received nothing beyond yeoman’s wages.  

              “I doubt it,” she had answered. A smalltown girl, she saw in him the boy from the classic “other side of town,” and believed herself a novelty, one he would wake up one day and realize a mistake.

              But as he continued his chasing of her, never did his resolve seem to falter. “You’re wrong,” he would say. “I love you, and I want to spend my life with you.”

              “We’ll see,” she wavered, enamored with rare brown eyes under dark blond curls, a deep Delta accent from his home Southern state.

              Certainly, his mind shone. He talked of the stars, of amazing distances, of math things that had to do with space. He seemed just as interested in her study of student methodology—which, Lila believed, took about one-third the intelligence of his work. She didn’t doubt the creativity she possessed, and she was smart enough for what she needed; but for sheer brains, Robert just measured above the crowd.

              He finished classwork for a Ph.D. in two years, wrote a dissertation six months after that. By then, Lila herself had progressed to writing a thesis. Randy, her mentor and faculty advisor, and his wife Carol, pretty much adopted her as her family lived in the middle of the country. Though proud of her academic ability, delighted in the scholarships and grants that had brought her to the prestigious school, the sacrifice was not seeing their daughter, and she missed many holidays at home. Randy and Carol—Dr. Randall and Mrs. Carol Bennett--brought her into their own large family, sharing the festival times she could not get back home, and letting her fall in love with the coast in all seasons of the year.

              This shoreline house, in fact, was to have been the setting of the wedding Robert finally talked her into believing he wanted, proposing to her the day he completed his dissertation, on his way to a prestigious career, a still-young man sure in love and career.

              And, then, in an interview, as his bride-to-be worked half-heartedly on her own thesis, he met Lynnette, she of the long blonde hair and the comparable science degree, she of the similar social standing. They corresponded weekly after that meeting, then more often, and as his wedding got closer and closer, scheduled to be over the coming Christmas break, his new job to start in the new year, he and Lynnette learned that she, too, had landed a job at the same research facility far away from the east coast, and, as Lila had feared at those first days’ fantasies, he cancelled the wedding the Friday after Thanksgiving, breaking her heart as badly, or worse, than she had believed possible, run off the next week with Lynnette and married her in a courthouse in Asheville, North Carolina, then moved on west, never to speak to Lila again, beyond a note with an address for sending the ring he felt certain she would want to return.

              Randy stopped her from actually sending it, took her (and the ring) to the only pawn shop in town, and got her probably a fourth of what Robert had paid for it, telling her to never even tell him (Robert) what she had done. Eventually, she was even glad about that small act of reprisal.

              What is it, she wondered again, slogging into the cold, wet morning, with men and long blond hair on women?

              Her parents asked her to come home; but, she couldn’t bear to return to her small hometown, where childhood friends knew of the wedding now cancelled and the advanced degree not yet complete. The refuge it once was now turned to an embarrassment, and those friends, mostly married with children, would have poured out pity beyond tolerance.  And, Christmas? Who could bear Christmas in a childhood home after such a heartbreak.

              Randy and Carol, whose own children flocked home to the college town from their own lives around the state, showed up at her apartment the first week of December, when the college semester ended, bundled her up, and headed to their beautiful beach house. “We’re getting ready for Christmas here,” they declared. “You’re coming with us.” Their kids would get it all ready at their house inland, and they would drive there Christmas morning. She could come or not….. but, here at the coast, with the comfort of the ocean, cold, endless tides, the sky leading towards Europe, the birds forever fussing or begging, and, on this small island, longer than wide, where on the second-floor steps you could look left and see the ocean, look right and see the inland waterway, here, she could, if not heal, then restart that thesis, spend the weeks needed for that, and, have the time to start to heal.

              No one doubted her pain.

              Randy and Carol made sure the merchants still open knew Lila lived in the house for a bit; the sheriff wouldn’t come bursting in to arrest her at least. Before they left, Carol stocked the pantry and freezer with food enough for “Patton’s Third Army,” much of it already cooked, just needing heating. She baked banana bread, cookies, pound cake, anything she could freeze. “You’re not eating enough,” she scolded Lila.

              “Better than too much,” Lila responded.

              “Not true.” And Carol poured homemade soup in Tupperware containers and plopped it in the freezer.

              By Christmas morning, Lila realized that, though no tree decorated the house, a lot of the wrapped presents had her name on them, and she felt shame at her total lack of ability to think of others.

              “Hush,” Carol said. “We’ll let you host us when you feel better.” Then the older woman peered carefully at the younger. “You are feeling better, no?”

              To her surprise, Lila smiled a small smile and nodded. “A bit.”

              “He really isn’t worth you, you know,” Carol stated. “Randy was ready to run over him with the truck. It’s good he ran away like he did.”

              To her surprise, Lila laughed—the first in a long time. And as tears filled her eyes, she said, “Thank you both so much.”

              They hugged her, piled the presents at her feet, “Open them throughout the day so you don’t forget it’s Christmas. Oh, by the way, Pastor Hillsboro will come by probably,” which meant he’d show up about fifteen minutes after they left.

              And they hung Randy’s big, warm hooded coat by the door. She had promised to walk the beach each morning, letting the tides work their healing magic. “Even if it’s not a long walk, even if the weather is bad, get on the beach. It’s why we bought beach front…. Don’t forget!”

              And they got into their truck, leaving their small car for her, even this thought for her, and headed inland to their ‘real’ family, and left.

              So, she did.

              To her surprise, the walks did help. Some mornings the sun shone and, even in this winter season, the water calmed her spirit. Others, like this, the surf pounded, the spray slapped her face, and grateful for Randy’s warm coat, she forced her feet, dry in the rubber shoes she had unwrapped in one of those boxes that Christmas morning, to move forward one step at a time. She knew when she arrived back home, entering the small mud room, removing her wet, muddy clothes, she would first find the couch, cover, and nap. But, still, she walked.

              At least she would be in better shape than before her non-wedding.

              On she trudged. At least a mile up the coast, that was her goal each morning, no matter the weather. If the day shone and gleamed, she went further; but, days like this, cold, blowy, a mile was really further, even if the distance wasn’t. One step, then the next. The wind pushed, the spray pelted. A gray sky, clouds pushing down the weather, forced her spirits to push back.

              I WILL go a mile.  She knew exactly the house where she could turn, a small, yellow house, slate green roof, the thing looking like cotton candy, especially on a moody day like this. Step, step, step. What a day. On days like this, she could push away thoughts of Robert and his blond… survival mattered more.

              Ah…. There it stood, that small yellow house. A hundred more feet and she would be there, able to turn around. The wind, though mainly sideways, would not be quite as in her face when she turned. The walk home would not be so strident, not so harsh….. fifty feet. Maybe she could count her steps. Later, after her nap, after hot tea, she would work on the middle of her thesis. Surprisingly, she had made real progress. In this new year, this last week of January, she could feel that she actually would finish writing it….. twenty-five feet. One step, two, . . . . fifteen . . .. twenty…. There, THERE was the house.

              And, just as she reached the steps leading up to the little yellow house (with the slate green roof), just as she pushed down her foot to turn around, at that exact second, just then she looked up…..

…… and just then, she saw the dog.

The Cost of Cruelty

We will someday pay a high price for the cruelty we perpetuate on animals with whom we share the planet. Trust me, I'm about as far from a "tree hugger" type of person as can be found. I don't think animals have the same rights as people, and if me not having any companion animals could feed all the starving children in..... pick a country, I'd not have any. No one who spouts that view can generally tell me HOW my getting rid of my dogs would feed starving children, even in the sad countries where dog is consumed. But, though quieter than at other times, that view still holds.

However, more than those people are the ones who actively, in our time, cause pain, anguish, heartbreak, and despair (and that’s just a start of the list) on real live, breathing, corporeal, organic creatures, many of whom have soul enough to bond with each other, other types of animals, and, frequently to their detriment, humans. I’m not a vegan or vegetarian, though I’d like to be (and my cardiologist—himself a heart attack survivor—recommends that lifestyle). But food does not mean malice or brutality.

It just doesn’t.

Michael Vick’s name will forever be aligned with dog fighting. I read the book about those dogs, about the investigation and arrest of the men who ran that hellhole. As horrific as it was, they did get many of the dogs out—not the ones who died for not being good enough killing machines, you understand—but many. Perhaps the most well-known “animal rights” group in the country advocated euthanizing all the rescued dogs. Thank you, God, other rescue folks came to the, well, rescue, took as many of the dogs as allowed, even when a few were sentenced to life at a wonderful rescue facility in the desert in Utah, and taught the dogs that not all people hurt you. Some of those dogs morphed into therapy dogs; some into wonderful family dogs.

But, dog fighting goes on. Why? I do not understand wanting to see beautiful animals tear each other apart….. of course, a big part is money. “The love of money is the root of all sorts of evil.” Not much to dispute there.

It is for that reason 30,000-40,000 beautiful thoroughbred horses are born a year—to get one Justify or American Pharoah, winner of triple crowns. And, oh, yes, I watch those incredible races each year. But the others…… oh, there are successful horses that race. And there now are people who work to rescue the horses who turn out not to run fast enough. But the whole industry had a big wakeup call when, some time ago now, a Kentucky Derby winner wound up in Japan at a factory to be used for food.

The Bureau of Land Management tries to manage the wild horse population in the west; so they round them up with helicopters, adopt out to some folks who know what they are getting—but to others who have no idea what to do with a wild animal, beautiful, a horse, but NOT a domestic horse, and shove them into pens to live a half life. Or, as one Colorado man so deftly managed to do, sell them inexpensively to “adopters” who might then get them to Mexico or Canada and the meat factory.

The stories from the bullfights in Spain…… a picture came around facebook of a bull who, raised by a man, as he was in the arena being tormented, bleeding, in pain, saw the man who raised him in the stands, and ran to him. He raised his head to this man—this man who raised a young bull to this beautiful animal being brutally killed before him. The man kissed the bull on the nose the bull offered to him, seeking help, smiling, then turned away. As he turned, how could a part of that man’s soul not shrivel?

 

That picture haunts me.

How many animals live a lifetime with a family or working a farm to wind up at a shelter or sold to slaughter when they are “too old?” There are times when animals must be surrendered; those times should be times of mourning, and not convenience.

Puppy mills, cock fighting, backyard breeding, vivisection in scientific labs, cosmetic companies using animals as testing for profit…….the list of creative ways we find to inflict pain on unsuspecting and helpless animals is endless.

And, because I do not think animals have the rights of humans, how much higher is our responsibility to treat them well? Jesus said, when telling the disciples how a loving God cares for them, that not even a sparrow could fall without God knowing. Yes, He emphasized how important we are to God. But, do not miss—He keeps track of sparrows. And, if sparrows, why on earth think any other animal unimportant to Him?

That casual cruelty practiced on animals….. of course it also falls on children, on the elderly, on the weaker by the stronger. Bullies, sadly, abound.

It is not unnoticed.

Like all injustice in the world, the struggle against unkindness is one small scuffle at a time. How odd, using words of conflict when discussing stopping unkindness. There are ways to make small differences, and the small differences grow. It is in the growing of acts of compassion that our own spirits can enlarge.

Today, this day, I will try myself to be kind—not a doormat (big difference)—but kind to not only the animals I meet, but the people in my path; I will make that decision, and even try to follow through. And I will find ways to help the bigger issues—there are groups who know steps to take and who always need help.

And as I take practical steps, I say a prayer for us all on this planet—all creatures great and small, human and animal together.

Buck Brannaman Says

Buck Brannaman, the premier (or close) horse clinician in America, says to never wrap the lead rope around your hand. The reason involves runaway horses and the dragging of the person at the other end of the lead rope. I confess I’ve been dragged a time or two, but usually when I have just held on with both hands as the horse (momentarily) thought to, um, hurriedly leave me.

And, then, there is today.

I had promised Ghost Ryder yesterday that today I would bring him into the barn for fun and treats. So, when I almost didn’t go, when my sore feet nearly kept me home to rest for the doggy class this afternoon, guilt reared its ugly head, and I gathered carrots and peppermints and my own Diet Dr. Pepper, took an extra pain pill (don’t tell the doctors), and headed to the farm.  Before I even got there, I went to buy them their beloved Alfalfa/Timothy pellets, treats for after we work, something they have not had in almost three months. The bag comes in one size—forty pounds. I hefted it to the

Tripp & Ghost Ryder

car and drove on, sure my boys would be pleased with me.

To minimize steps, I thought to bring both horses—Tripp and Ghostie boy—in at the same time. I’ve done it before, and though it has, er, challenges, we’ve always made it fine. Today GR made his way to me quickly as I opened the gate to the pasture and I could feel his horsey thoughts:  “Don’t just take that spotted horse. I wanna go in with you, too.” I hugged his beautiful neck, held out his halter, which he pretty much put on by himself, clipped a lead rope, and took him out and tied him to the fence to graze on the grass right outside the fence—which, by the rules, is ALWAYS greener and better—and returned to get Tripp…..

…..who had his head dug into hay put out from a new roll, apparently, this morning. I talked him into coming with me without too much trouble, we stopped along the way and picked up GR, and started to make our way to the barn where I had already set up grooming and tacking supplies.

And then.

Into the drive I saw two logging trucks turn. Loaded down with trunks of big trees. An access road lies right beside the barn; the path on which we walked ends onto that road, just at the barn door. About thirty feet before we arrived at the barn, the two big trucks rattled, chugged, lurched, clattered, and banged by us.

At this point, you may want to reread the first sentence. Because as the trucks clanked loudly by, sounding for all the world like a steam engine rattling along and about to explode, two horses-just two seconds before walking calmly beside me-decided these were the INCREDIBLE HORSE EATING MONSTERS that horse mothers warn every baby horse about, and have since the beginning of horse time. They reared, whirled, flung themselves around, and took off back down the way we had just come, the lead ropes slipping from my hands and not, thankfully, wrapped around them, and, thus, two horses did not drag me after them as they fled the terror behind.

This time I didn’t even try to hold onto a lead rope. I MIGHT be able to slow down one horse who just doesn’t want to work on any given afternoon. But there is no way I could stop two 1000-plus pound terrified animals determined to get away from THE INCREDIBLE HORSE EATING MONSTERS and heck with me. I thought I did pretty good letting go before the lead ropes could even give me rope burn. I did worry a bit that they would step on one or the other as they flew back down the path. But, really, no worries. Two beautiful horses raced away from me, manes, tails, and lead ropes sailing behind. I even managed to enjoy the sight of those magnificent animals that I so love as they sprinted away so gracefully. I could almost see the second when outright panic changed into, “Well, since we’re heading this way, anyway, let’s just head on home." From paddocks and pastures, their farm mates watched as the two steeds flew by. “Hey, you escaped from that INCREDIBLE HORSE EATING MONSTER! Good for you!”

Watching the Runners

When they arrived at their pasture gate, they stopped. Tripp—ever predictable—lowered his head and started grazing. After all, you NEVER KNOW when it could be your LAST MEAL, because, like, those things can apparently come from just anywhere! Ryder leaned over the fence to get sympathy from Freckles who, mare that she is, screeched at him. He then crossed the path to talk to one of the other geldings.

The (used-to-be) boys gotta hang together.

Meanwhile, my plan for fewer steps had gone galloping away with the two gorgeous steeds running away from me in that moment. I sighed and started walking after them. Buck Brannaman also says to not end a session on a bad experience……like having two terrified horses run away and think that’s the way stuff goes. So, I determined to, somehow, get them back down the path and into the barn. I AM the lead mare around here!  

Still nervous, Ghostie looked at me. “Are you sure about this?” Tripp kept trying to graze.

Finally, I tied Tripp to the fence and walked GR to the arena, at least part way to the barn, so I could go back and get Tripp. Ghostie tried to explain to me.

Ghost Ryder

 “Did you see those things? They were HUGE. They could have eaten me AND Tripp.”

“They were just trucks,” I tried to explain, “like the ones across the street where they’re building houses.”

“Boy, that was CLOSE,” his beautiful brown eyes rolled at me. “How did you get away? You only have two legs!”

Finally, I released him in the safety of the arena where no huge trucks awaited and returned to bring Tripp, who happily came along once he saw where his buddy waited. Then I just gave up the riding idea (by this time my feet had announced their presence), went in the barn and prepared the pellets (I wet them down a bit before they eat them) and put them in the new very pink buckets I got in their stalls. And, yes, I also got out applesauce for them.

No they are NOT spoiled…..very much.

Tripp, though, remembered from last Sunday that he actually can resist my clipping on his lead rope when he is in the arena and he wants to stay there. So, I went (again) back to the barn and brought out the new, pretty pink bucket full of sweet alfalfa/hay pellets and wagged it at him.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, “I’m not falling for……is that Timothy hay in there?” He walked over and sniffed, reaching his neck as far as he could, that blue eye rolling over at me. Then I set the bucket down, and he inched forward, thrust his gorgeous head into the small bucket, raised it, chewing, looked at me, and sighed as I clipped the lead rope to his halter. No, I didn’t want to have to bribe him, but I could not chase him for an hour again. And he was amazingly good as we walked in, me holding the bucket away from him, he strolling on the other side, making a bee line to his stall.

(I had long since lost count of the back-and-forth walking-to-the-barn times. So much for cutting steps).

Then back for the Ghostie boy who was no trouble at all, but who did almost run over me to get into his stall once he smelled applesauce in the building (Tripp had gotten his serving already). And, so, I made him come out, WAIT, and re-enter.

He did better that time.

Tripp Waiting for Ghost Ryder
to Return

I returned them to the pasture one at a time, not wanting to chance another double runaway. Once I got Tripp back to the others and returned for GR, I heard my spotted boy calling out for his friend.

“Hey, where’s that grey horse? Where? Where? WHERE? Don’t leave me alone!”

Tripp & Ghost Ryder
in Pasture

And he waited for us at the gate till we returned, grateful for GR’s presence, everyone safe and sound again.

 

Me, I am so grateful to be back with the horses, and SO very grateful to have pain meds waiting for me at home.

I’m not sure what Buck Brannaman would say about that. 

The Gift of Give-Star Story Number 5

Star slept soundly under the small table next to Gloria Shepherd’s paisley rose colored, soft wingback chair. Gloria sat contentedly beside the table knitting a toboggan-style hat, almost, but not quite sky blue, intended to match the jacket she had knit her son and mailed him a couple of months earlier. Probably she should have knit the hat and sent it the same time as the jacket, though she never knew if her son wore the clothes she knit for him. But when he received the jacket, he had called right away, couldn’t say enough nice things, and told her the friends at his new job couldn’t say enough good things when they saw him wear it on a weekend. Well. Okay then. She’d send the cap she intended all along, once she got it done, grateful the adult son liked something she made for him.  It

wouldn’t take long, for sure.

Gloria hummed softly to herself, songs from her younger days, happier times. Though not lonely now like she used to be, thanks primarily to the sleeping dog under the table, she still missed the husband she had lost a few years ago, missed her son so far away now and his friends she had mothered as her own. The dog stirred in her sleep, and Gloria again veered her thoughts to happier days, more recent times, the meeting of Revin, the young man who worked so hard to help his mother support himself and his younger brother and sister, and to those very same younger brother and sister children. The sister, Devin, had called twice to set up a day to come learn from Gloria how to knit. This afternoon Gloria planned to go to her local yarn store and get materials for the little girl, something easy enough for small fingers, but something to give her a real “thing” when they she has finished making it. A scarf would work, of course. Most people started with a scarf.

Gloria sat and worked on the hat for her son and mulled over colors for a scarf for a little girl, that child such an unexpected gift at this time of her life. Her grown son showed no interest in settling down and giving her grandchildren. To share the excitement and joy a child brings to a day made Gloria’s heart lift a bit, and she smiled just thinking about it.

It also, she knew, in the reality of it made her tired. “There’s a reason,” she remembered her own mother saying, “young adults have children.”

Star stood under the table, took a step, and stretched her front legs as far as she could in front of her, lifting her hind quarters as far as possible in the air, creating the perfect “bow” pose, but really just stretching. Gloria held her knitting still, appreciating Star’s perfect “sock” front legs, the gleaming white markings from her feet up almost half way up those legs, shining even under the faint light under the table. One of her back legs also wore such a white sock, but her other back leg had just a white foot. Whenever Star moved in darkness, she resembled disembodied feet and legs, the blaze of her face hovering above her feet, one white flame marking the end of her tail.

Now, though, the head that almost stretched to the floor, shimmered black, except for that brilliant white fur starting at her coal nose and moving over her snout, spreading between her eyes ending with the star shape on her head that gave her the name. Reaching as far forward and raising her back end as far as possible, Star took a step and reversed the directions of her body parts, now lifting her head as high as she could while stretching her hind legs as far behind her as they would stretch. She ended the whole thing with a vigorous shake that began at her nose and worked its way back to the

shining white tip of her tail, that blot of white shining as she waved that feathered tail back and forth throughout a day. (“How,” often wondered Gloria, “do you shake a nose?)  She then sat on the floor and looked at Gloria, who got up from her chair and walked with the dog to the back door, opened it, and let Star into the back yard.

              

“Don’t leave the yard!” Gloria commanded.

“As if…..” wafted through Gloria’s mind, and Gloria did not even blink. She did, though, shake her head, smiling. When she first started catching snatches of mental conversation from her unusual dog, she never sensed any kind of attitude, only the kindness that truly captured the personality of the dog.  As Star’s health improved over the days of rest and good food, every once in awhile, Gloria felt Star’s humor emerge, noticed her, when Gloria admittedly missed the obvious (“the light to cross has been green awhile now,” Star had one time conveyed to her at a street corner), Gloria sensed that Star might have, well, an opinion about Gloria’s, er, deficiencies. At that moment, as they hurried across the street, watching the light flash the yellow that meant “you’re about to have to stand there again on that corner!” she all but felt the dogs eyes roll.

Gloria’s heart gladdened with the emerging personality of her dog, too. In fact, the couple of months, or so, since Christmas had been good ones for Gloria, mainly due to Star.  Still smiling, Gloria prepared for her walk to the yarn store.

Granted, the temperatures had risen above freezing, but not enough to amble along, so Gloria and Star hurried the few blocks to the yarn store. When Gloria walked in with Star, no one even blinked; Star walked to the corner and lay down, a good dog, and waited patiently for Gloria to finish—as far

as most people knew. Every once in awhile, though, a stray thought drifted through Gloria’s head as she sifted through various yarns; apparently Star didn’t like waiting. “I like that one….” Or “Are you about through?” or “Do we need to make another trip later? I may need to go outside…” 

See? Star was having opinions.

Gloria, though, refused to be hurried, and finally selected a soft, pink, bulky yarn, perfect for a little girl, and some needles of a size small hands could manipulate for learning. As the cashier rang up the items, Star quietly made her way to the door.

“Look at that!” another customer exclaimed, “that dog acts like she knows you’re done!”

Gloria didn’t look towards the door….she didn’t want to see her dog’s reaction. Even not-too-smart dogs learned signs like “my owner has finished shopping.” If she was anything at all, Star was NOT not-too-smart.

Once outside, though, the dog’s tail wagged, and she headed again towards home. Most people, Gloria thought, would be insulted for hours by a comment  that disparaged them along the lines the dog had just heard.. Dogs really do live in the now.   Take a lesson.

Suddenly, Star stopped.  She halted so quickly, in fact, that Gloria almost fell over her. Looking down, she saw her dog crouched as if to attack….something. Following that crouching wolf creature’s gaze, there appeared to be that something in a small evergreen bush of some kind. Star made no sound, but those deep, brown eyes almost burned. Gloria froze herself.

She didn’t know much about border collie dogs, really nothing before Star showed up at her house on Christmas Day. Actually, she had not realized that Star was a border collie till she started trying to learn about her amazing dog. Since then, she had read a few articles at the library about this dog breed, and she realized that the pose Star now held would, if she faced a sheep, move the sheep back, probably a step at a time.

However, the bush into which Star glared at the moment surely had no fleece or hooves. What the heck held her attention that way? Gloria tugged lightly on the leash. “Star, come!” she lightly chirped.

Not once, ever, in the months they had been together had Star ever outright ignored Gloria—till now.

“Star! Star, let’s go!”

As Gloria studied the dog, she thought, “I might as well tell the bush to grow horns.”

And then, Gloria laughed, because across her mind had breathed the words, “You’d sound pretty dumb.”

Well, at least Star still knew Gloria was there…..

Then Star took one step…just one. She still crouched, still had her head lowered between her shoulders, still stared hard, but she did move one step closer to the bush.

“Okay, Star,” said Gloria softly. “What is it?”

And then, Gloria heard a tiny, quiet, “E-e-e-o-o-w?” 

Star moved another step.

“E-e-e-e-e-o-w.”

Gloria dropped the leash she held and moved forward slowly, placing the bag from the yarn store on the sidewalk. When she finally reached the bush, she leaned forward, trying to see inside the dense bush when suddenly two tiny green-ish eyes glowed up at her. “Oh-h-h!” she breathed.

“Get him, please.” Star, of course, inside her head. Gloria looked over at the dog. Star had stood up straight now, watching Gloria intently. Easy for her to say…..well, was it? She had never wondered if those sending of thoughts the dog managed took hard work or not. For now, Gloria filed that to think about at a later time. Now she looked again at the eyes peering out at her.

Around the green-ish eyes white fur stuck out in all directions; a small black triangle nose snuffled in, out, out, as the tiny creature breathed. When, again, it opened its mouth to make a sound, the small pink tongue showed itself over tiny teeth.

“Where did you come from?” Gloria asked, watching the miniscule kitten back away.”

“Oh…..” breathed Gloria, wondering how she would ever get the little creature out from it’s hiding place.

“E-o-o-ow.”

Gloria reached, and the kitten, again, backed up, eyes growing rounder, looking up in fear, swatting with its petite paw, and, gathering itself, managed as ferocious—and cute—a “s-s-s-s-s” as something that small could project, clearly a warning to watch out! a warrior cat waited here!

Gloria smiled at the hiss, but still did not want to reach and push it farther back under the bush. Then she saw Star stroll around to the side of the bush, shove her head forward until it disappeared into the leaves, and then “w-h-i-r-r-r” a tiny kitten flew out and plopped at Gloria’s feet.

If possible, its eyes grew even larger and rounder; the green deepened, and all hissing or meowing stopped. Frozen in place, the kitten shivered and tried to shrink inside itself—until a much larger pink tongue from the other animal present started to work, licking it up one side and down the other, knocking it to its side, then continuing to lick, lick, until the white coat was glued to the little feline’s body, the round eyes now squinched shut, and the kitten forgot its fear trying to escape the unexpected and inexplicable bath.

“Star!” Gloria exclaimed, “give the cat a break.” Looking down, she said, “Come here, little one…..are you a boy or a girl?”

“I told you to pick him up.” The thought sharply crossed Gloria’s mind. Star certainly had attitude today….

Gloria picked up the little cat, who easily fit in one hand, slipped it in her pocket, picked up her bag, and they headed home.

Once again, Star became the perfectly-trained dog, walking along at Gloria’s side, as if it would never enter her head to not do exactly what Gloria asked.

Entering the kitchen, Gloria lifted the kitten from her pocket and grabbed—Heaven help her—a dish cloth from the counter, folded, but not yet put away, to rub him dry from Star’s recent bath and make him feel sheltered and held, then set him on the floor in the kitchen. “Now, what do we call you?” she asked.

The kitten sat still, no longer shivering , but still keeping those big eyes on Gloria, with quick glimpses at Star. Perhaps he worried Star might start cleaning him again…..

Gloria had to admit that the kitten’s white hair looked much different, smoothed out a bit, after Star’s bath and her drying. Star, meanwhile, sat nearby, watching the little cat with that border collie “eye,” before any thought of leaving might enter that teeny head. Gloria stepped to the refrigerator for milk, poured some in a small bowl, warmed it a bit in the microwave, and set it in front of the kitten on the floor. The

kitten looked up again at her, those big green-ish eyes looking greener than ever as the little fellow warmed. His nose twitched, and he began to lap milk like he had not had anything to eat or drink in days…..which, maybe, he hadn’t.

As he lifted his head, licking his mouth of its milk mustache, Gloria smiled, patted his little head, and said, “Hello, Jade.” What a perfect name, she thought. Jade, like the green of his eyes.

“What’s jade?” floated into her brain……

Gloria stopped briefly and looked at her dog. Such was their relationship, she forgot frequently that Star really was a true, canine dog and not more than that. The communication they shared so bonded them that Star felt much more a friend or child than a ‘mere’ dog, if there is such a thing.

“Jade,” Gloria explained, “is a stone that is made into jewelry sometimes or pottery or…..other stuff. It is green. Since this little guy's eyes are green, I thought that would be a good name for him. It kind of goes with his eyes.”

Star sat and looked thoughtfully at Gloria. Then she shifted and started licking the kitten again, this time more gently, cleaning milk from his face, as the kitten, now warm, tummy full, stretched and started the sound universal to safe, happy kittens. He purred.

In a moment he slept on his side, and Gloria lay beside him, his back against her stomach, keeping him warm. In his sleep the kitten shifted closer to the dog, giving a huge, tiny kitten sigh, snuggling in, for the first time in who knew how long unafraid and happy.

Star gave a final swipe of her tongue, gently, just a last comfortable touch, hefted a huge sigh herself, and sleep lowered her eyes. Gloria, smiling as she watched this domestic scene, started to return to her knitting. As she turned, right before Star’s eyes closed completely, she felt in her mind, “I don’t see color very well. He likes his name, though.”       

Gloria’s heart swelled, just kitten size, and felt a tear form in her eye. How much more wonder, she wondered would this dog bring to her? Then she froze. It hit her that she had assumed Jade was staying……oh, dear. Vet tomorrow, cat food, litter pan…..

Star had brought Gloria a new, surrogate family and now an orphan kitten. Such gifts, yes.  But, hopefully, Star had a limit to waifs brought to her door!

As that startling thought crossed her mind, she glanced over and saw her dog looking at her intently.

Oh......uh oh?