Taking Time (A LONG Time) to Smell the Flowers

I fell for this little daisy-hugger the other day and had to share him/her with you:

“Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own whole Treasure.”
—From “The Snail” by William Cowper

[Photo by Audrey Green.]

One Small Step Toward a Better Dog Shelter

The facility for my local humane society is only five years old. At that youthful age, you’d think it would actually be as “state-of-the-art” as it’s described on the organization’s Web site. Sure, the colorful murals of the lobby warmly welcome visitors and the classical music playing in the dog wing shows consideration for the comfort of the animals; the staff’s upbeat and caring attitude is commendable. But none of these conceals the harsh environs the architect thought appropriate for homeless canines.

The adult dogs reside in a large, open concrete-block room in rows of cages with concrete floors that are separated by concrete block walls. Lots o’ concrete and NO apparent soundproofing, which makes for a VERY noisy habitat. And to a pooch who’s scared or nervous or troubled in any way, the din of the room must be unbearable. Especially when the barking begins, and it takes only one tiny terrier yelp to get 100+ dogs going. The music meant to calm the residents only adds to the cacophony. Between the noise and the concrete greyness/hardness, the place can really do a number on you.

But last month, the shelter held a special fundraising drive for one purpose: to purchase a bed for each dog cage. Donors were asked to contribute $50 per bed. And what do you know? In no time at all, caring folks met the quota.

Now each pooch has one soft place to go to relax or seek solace. Isn’t that wonderful? It’s such a simple effort, but one that makes all the difference for these homeless creatures as they wait for their future to begin.

[Top photo from Sweet Nothings Designs; dog photo from the Lexington Humane Society.]

Life Instructions

The nest in the photograph is atop a young oak tree across the street, spread across branches that aren’t much more than twigs. What I am unable to show by camera, though, is how amazingly minuscule the nest is. I could hold two of them in the palm of one hand.

It’s not a new nest, and when I recall how many terrific winds have gusted through the neighborhood this year alone, the engineering of the bird home is all the more remarkable. Whose is it? Will they be returning to it, as so many birds do?

I’ll start monitoring it. As the oak begins to bud and leaf, I expect that’s when the home will be reinhabited. I’ll keep you posted.

Until then, I aim to follow these wise words from poet Mary Oliver, and I encourage you to do the same:

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
—from “Sometimes,” in Red Bird by Mary Oliver

A Real-Life Velveteen Rabbit

If you clicked on the Animal Rescue Site button on the right of Lull today, you might have read Rusty’s story.

Abandoned in a Florida park, the red bunny was noticed by passersby because he sat calmly in the same place day after day, never moving from his spot. (You might ask, Why didn’t anyone help him?) One day a passerby saw the bunny with some soccer-playing boys—whose ball was none other than the little cottontail. Thankfully, that passerby intervened and changed the cottontail’s life.

The passerby contacted H.A.R.E. (Houserabbit Adoption, Rescue, and Education) and the organization got Rusty the medical attention he needed. Turns out Rusty has congenital hip dysplasia, making his hind legs splay out uselessly. What’s more, he once had a broken femur that had healed crookedly. The bunny had already been through so much that surgery didn’t seem a good option. So he was fitted with braces.

Braces? For a rabbit?

Yup. (Hey! If a goldfish can swim in a harness, a bunny can hop in braces.) And Rusty gained more than mobility: He became an ambassador at H.A.R.E., where he’s befriended and calmed rabbits of all types and personalities. He has friends!

Rusty is no longer seen as an object or a used-up pet. He’s deeply loved by humans and peers—a real bunny.

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become real.”
—from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

[Illustration by William Nicholson.]

Bunny Tutorial

At first glance I thought this child was reading to the furred crowd. Then I saw the pointing finger.

Do you think he’s giving the cottontails last-minute instructions about Easter?

[Artist unknown.]

What Makes You Happy?

As you know, if you’ve been reading Lull for any time, much of my reading focuses on animals. Which means that much of my reading also focuses on a subset of the human species that exhibits uncompassionate, psychopathic, or capitalistic behaviors toward animals. It wears me down.

So imagine my delight to see news about a little goldfish whose guardian was determined to help her have a better life. The finned one was buoyancy-challenged—she couldn’t float properly in the water. Instead, Ada spent her days at the bottom of the tank, watching her friends do what she couldn’t. Until her guardian made a floating device for her!

In a world that assesses animals in terms of convenience and cost benefits, it’s refreshing to come across someone who deems the life of an animal companion—even a small, furless, other-abled creature—as inherently valuable.

This makes me happy. How about you?

[Art by Robert Amft.]

Drawing Conclusions

In reviewing my birthday greetings to Douglas Adams, I realize an explanation may be in order. I may have been unclear or, at least, I may have made some faulty assumptions about you, Dear Reader:
1. I assumed you already knew the comic and imaginative genius of Douglas Adams (creator of the radio series The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which morphed into a series of novels, plays, comics, and a popular film; also the author of Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, which became a TV series).
2.You knew he cared deeply about conservation (hence his fundraising for Save the Rhino and his nonfiction contribution to the cause, Last Chance to See).
3. You know climate change has imperiled polar bears.*

The photo of the polar bear is, in my mind, tragic—and I believe Adams would concur. I didn’t intend any connection between the word laughter and the precarious position of the bear. I hope I didn’t mislead you. I hope I didn’t cause you to laugh at the stranded creature.

Though Adams and his works are immensely quotable, I chose yesterday’s particular quotation because I’ve been awed by ignorance lately—flabbergasted at what people choose to believe about animals, Nature, corporate responsibility, natural resources, poverty, and climate change. I’m waiting for the scales to tip—waiting to be more frequently awed by insightfulness and compassion and intelligence that I may revere and emulate. Of course, it’s occurred to me that I could be waiting several lifetimes for this to happen, so I’ve been researching how best to cultivate understanding—specifically regarding animals—and how I may play my part in the cultivation. This means steeping myself in the mythologies, religions, and cultural practices that threaten understanding.

If you’re already on the front lines of this cause, please tell the rest of us how we may help.

“We are not an endangered species ourselves yet, but this is not for lack of trying.”
―Douglas Adams, in Last Chance to See

* With this on my mind at the library yesterday, I checked out Zac Unger’s Never Look a Polar Bear in the Eye: A Family Field Trip to the Arctic’s Edge in Search of Adventure, Truth, and Mini-Marshmallows. Unger set up residence in Churchill, Manitoba—“The Polar Bear Capital of the World”—to investigate the nature of the bears and the validity of the media reports about their demise. I’ll let you know what he discovers in a future post.

A Conclave of Cardinals

Birdsong near our building has grown more complex of late—meaning that birds are beginning to return to the area. We had a couple of prolific songsters the other day who I was never able to spot. I wish I’d had the good sense to record them so I could share their music with you.

My next-door neighbor’s backyard bush is Union Station to the avian population here and served me quite a treat this week: Eight Cardinals, a mix of young males and females, have been perching quietly there. EIGHT!

“I hope you love birds, too. It is economical. It saves going to Heaven.”
—Emily Dickinson

[Photo by Ken Thomas.]

“That’ll Do, Pig. That’ll Do…”

It’s a holiday today. (Isn’t every day?) To be specific, it’s National Pig Day.

There’s no official ruling on how one is supposed to honor this day. Like National Chicken Month, some folks promote consumption of the animals while others try to raise awareness about their intelligence and individuality.

As you may have guessed, I reside in the latter camp and prefer to pay tribute to the porcine clan through a blog post.

If you want to explore the subject, please start by reading The Good Good Pig: The Extraordinary Life of Christopher Hogwood, Sy Montgomery’s memoir about the rescue and life of her personable pig. (He’s the black-and-white real animal pictured here.) It’s good reading no matter which camp you’re in.

If you’re artistically inclined, you may want to create your own little piggy à la the felted wool (from Amber Rose Creations) and folded paper (by Román) varieties pictured here.

If you’re a carnivore, you could give pigs a break today and celebrate by NOT eating pork (or, for that matter, any of the pigs’ friends on the farm). Or you could veg out a different way by watching Babe.

However you choose to celebrate, Happy National Pig Day.

Too Many Love-A-Bulls

On a bike errand yesterday (I may not be able to stay on a bicycle, but that doesn’t make me afraid of them), I noticed a man walking across a field with a blue pit bull and a pink box. I slowed to watch them. The dog grew animated as the man put the box on the ground, for out tumbled her puppies of every color. The wee things were mostly waggly tails. I wondered whether the guy’s landlord (the field stood adjacent to a string of apartment complexes) knew he was breeding pit bulls. Or maybe this was a one-time accident and the momma would soon be spayed.

This was on my mind this morning when I learned that today is World Spay Day. Not really a Hallmark kind of holiday, but a perfect moment to share more local news with you.

Nearly 20 percent of homeless dogs in Fayette County, Kentucky, are pit-bull mixes, and those adorable, bouncy pups I saw yesterday will only add to the problem. However, the local humane society received a substantial grant from PetSmart Charities to offer FREE spay/neuter services to pitties here through a program dubbed Love-A-Bull. Included with the spay/neuter service are FREE rabies vaccinations and city licenses.

It doesn’t get better than that! Pit-bull guardians have no excuse for not taking advantage of this generous offer. Bless PetSmart Charities for getting the ball rolling. Now let’s help spread the word.

Pitties everywhere deserve a good home where they’re loved, never exploited.

[The pile o’ pitties (and kitten) pictured are the stars of the blog My Two Pitties. For a good portion of 2012, though, there were three pit bulls: Stray and unspayed “Shaka” appealed to the blended family for help one day and they obliged. Here’s a link to all the posts related to her happy rescue story.]

Ready, set…

This is my nod to the Daytona 500. (Really just an excuse to post this photo.)

Some family members of a friend of mine will be in the stands, while my friend stays home with everyone’s pooches—seven dogs in her charge this weekend!

Hmm. Which would you prefer: Watch tricked-out cars zoom around a track or tend to the needs of seven affectionate dogs of various sizes and breeds?

Breed-Specific Legislation: Crafted by the Uninformed, Supported by the Uninformed

[Artist unknown.]

Gifts of the Cat

ats whose guardians allow them to wander outdoors are known to return home with assorted kills. For many cats, this is meant to be a gesture of giving rather than a stash to consume later.

One such kitty is profiled in Susan Chernak McElroy’s Animals as Teachers and Healers. Sammi and her person lived in the country, where every morning began with the chattering of Sammi at the front door and her gift of a (dead) field mouse. Her person lavished her with praise for her efforts, which Sammi reveled in.

Then the pair was forced to move to a small place in a city—no more countryside for Sammi to roam in, no more field mice to hunt, hardly a tree to climb. Her person worried that Sammi would have difficulty making the transition. She needn’t have fretted, though. The cat adapted to the nature deficit without a hitch: Each morning, Sammi chattered at the front door and presented her person with…

…a couple of pine cones. Sammi was just as pleased with these inanimate objects as she’d been with the tiny rodents. And her person must have been more pleased.

How sweet is that? Sammi made do.

As I searched for a photo to accompany this tale, I found The Happy Cat, the feline pictured here. His person explains that Happy Cat has a special fondness for squirrels—likes to carry them around by the scruff of the neck as if they were his own kits. Sometimes he places them at his person’s door, quite alive and never hurt. But as soon as the squirrels realize their good fortune, they race off. Yet Happy Cat doesn’t try to stop them or pursue them again.

I’m not sure what to make of this. I wonder if something’s missing in Happy Cat’s life. All the same, I do admire his unique approach to gift-giving, and his reminder that every animal is an individual.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische; photo by Fred Griffin.]

Clueless and Curious—A Bad Combination

As I’ve written before, my beloved first cat was not the sharpest of our menagerie. She was a porcelain figurine come to life—small and delicate of frame, glossy white coat, emerald eyes—and had no idea how to be a cat. She’d been weaned too early, was abused and brain damaged, and by the time I met her at four months of age, had become an adoption failure (she was brought back to the shelter by one family for not being energetic enough). Miss P saw the world through a much different lens than other kitties, a lens perhaps unique to her alone.

But what she lacked in feline savvy she more than made up for with her sweet, sweet temperament and uncanny empathy. I thought of Miss P when I saw this picture, for she certainly would have been the cat curious about the Big Sparrow:

There’s a Place for Us

My mind’s all mushy thanks to this lousy flu bug. I’m afraid Lull will continue to be Lull Lite for a bit longer.

Thought I’d share a song from West Side Story with you today for no particular reason. It’s actually an award-winning ad from Animals Australia.

[The song runs for about two minutes; what follows is educational and unsettling if you’re not familiar with factory farming. Watch at your own risk past 2:18. Or go to Make It Possible if you’d prefer to read instead of watch and find out how you can change the world.]

Sharing the Stage with Groundhog Day…

Today is World Wetlands Day, a single day reserved to rouse awareness for the importance of wetlands—not just for the plants and creatures who reside in them, but also for the critters just passing through (like these Whooping Cranes migrating through Kentucky and searching for a resting spot).

You can spread the word about wetlands by sending a favorite someone an e-card.

“[T]he meeting of land and water…keeps alive the sense of continuing creation and the relentless drive of life. Each time I enter it, I gain some new awareness of its beauty and its deeper meanings, sensing that intricate fabric of life by which one creature is linked with another, and each with its surroundings.”
—Rachel Carson

[Photo of Purple Gallinule in the Wakodahatchee Wetlands by Jake Paredes; photo of migrating Whooping Cranes from U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.]

BOOKreMARKS: The Workout that Wouldn’t End

I opened my new reading year with Grayson—a sweet, short memoir by competitive open-water swimmer Lynne Cox. In it, she details a single morning of her daily three-hour training in the Pacific Ocean—a morning that began like any other until…the water shuddered. This occurs in the sixth paragraph; then the morning (and every subsequent graf) gets stranger.

Cox is only 17 and has already broken numerous long-distance swimming records at this point in her life. She’s schooled in visualization techniques, resilience, and discipline. Where others cower from fear (like me, whom you’d never find in a dark, 55-degree ocean at 5 a.m.), Cox confronts and controls. Better still, especially for those of us who are armchair travelers, she remains aware and in awe of the marine life she encounters. She introduces readers to aloof sea turtles, chatty dolphins, a manic stingray colony, and flying tuna. We learn tidbits about each of these creatures and how oddly they’re behaving that morning. We get drawn in to Cox’s fear-induced urge to finish her workout ASAP and high-tail it home until…we meet “old” Steve near shore.

Steve owns a bait shop and has long been a source of wisdom and friendship to Cox. Today he’s not in his usual spot and Cox worries. She heads closer inland yet he waves her away. He explains that a baby gray whale has been following her like a puppy for about a mile. She can’t go closer to shore—it’ll beach the little guy—and she can’t stop swimming now. She must help the infant find his mother, his only food source at his tender age (baby grays drink about 50 gallons of milk per day), or he’ll die.

An already exhausted Cox rallies to save the 18-foot youngster. She takes her mission quite selflessly and compassionately, in spite of how the cold is affecting her, in spite of having no idea how to find one particular female whale in the Pacific. Though the baby—whom she dubs Grayson (a gray’s son)—acts healthy and playful, Cox knows every minute counts to reunite him with his mother. Especially considering the 5,000+-mile migration to the Arctic the whales have ahead of them.

As Grayson’s rescue grows longer and more complicated, Cox takes the advice of another old seaman who keeps an eye on her during her morning workouts. “Sometimes answers come out of time and struggle, and learning. Sometimes you just have to try again in a different way.”

Cox experiments with new dives, new ways of holding her breath longer, new ideas about what little Grayson is thinking and how he might have slipped away from his mother. And in all of this, Cox continues sending positive thoughts/energy into the Universe, hoping it will help the cause, and Grayson continues following her around the Pacific.

Don’t let Grayson’s slim dimensions fool you. At first glance, it’s a stirring rescue tale. But at closer read, it’s a love song to the ocean—and an instruction manual on what’s possible when we open our hearts and minds to the unknown.

[Gray whale mother and calf: photographer unknown.]

My Bluebird of UNHappiness

I wrote to the Nevada Mining Association this week. I’d never even heard of the Nevada Mining Association until I read my new issue of Audubon magazine.

On my ever-growing list of things I never knew (I’ve a friend who sends me news stories nearly every day to which I reply, too frequently and embarrassingly, “I had no idea!”), I can now add “mining markers”—hollow PVC pipes used to indicate a mining claim and operation on public lands in the West.

Sounds innocuous, right? Perhaps an aesthetic blight to some, but otherwise not a problem.

But this is not the case. Birds and lizards are drawn to these markers as potential nesting and roosting sites—or simply places to rest and conserve energy/heat for a bit. Trouble is that once they go in, they can’t get back out. The markers become the animals’ final resting place: death by dehydration or starvation.

Environmentalists have been trying to fix this since 1983. Finally, several years ago, miners were given two years to change the materials they used for these markers; now, after 30 years, it’s legal for anyone to remove the markers. Nevada state wildlife officials jumped into action with conservation groups and started pulling the markers in November 2012, when the new legislation permitted them to do so. Audubon magazine was celebratory over the change and reported that 8,000+ markers have already been pulled. Only 2,992,000+ to go.

“Once, with binoculars, I watched a male American kestrel perched on a post, staring down inside over and over. I avoided him for a while and came back to the post about a half hour later. The male was gone and his recently deceased mate was in the bottom of the post. Given how long it takes for a bird to die of dehydration, I imagine this male had kept vigil for some days, if not weeks.”
—Pete Bradley, Bristlecone Audubon Society conservation chairman

Not every pulled pipe held a dead bird, but some revealed as many as 15—my adopted Mountain Bluebird’s kin among them (this was part of the outcry—the Mountain Bluebird is Nevada’s state bird). With 2,992,000+ more markers to remove, that’s a lot of birds.

Hence my letter to the Nevada Mining Association, whose members include 3M and Halliburton. Obviously, the new legislation isn’t requiring the mining companies to remove their own markers. So I wondered which companies were assuming social responsibility and sending their own crews out to remove markers. Seems like a great PR opportunity, doesn’t it?

I haven’t heard squat from the NMA, but I’ll let you know if I do.

[Photo of marker by Christy Klinger; photo of Kestrel by James Ownby.]

Black Bears and Bad Dogs

“Will it bite?”

The folks had stopped their International Scout along the road out of curiosity. They’d spotted the bear in a field, where it had just been released by wildlife manager Mary McConnell. The bear had been drugged in order to transport her to this habitat and she was still a bit groggy.

“Will it bite?” asked one of the International Scout folks.

“If you corner her,” McConnell replied. She paused, and added, “A mouse will bite if you corner it. Of course, the bear has a bigger bite.”

This little scene is from John McPhee’s “A Textbook Place for Bears” and it makes me want to hug Mary McConnell. “Will it bite?” is the most frequent question I hear when I’m accompanying an animal of any kind. It’s exasperating. Could there be a more foolish question? I will bite you if I think it’s the only way to get you to leave me alone!

Any animal (humans included) with teeth may bite. Even animals without teeth (like geese) may clamp down on you hard enough to hurt. Does that make the animal “bad”?

Yes, if we’re to believe Kevin Renfro, a local personal-injury lawyer.

I’ve nothing against personal-injury lawyers—we all have to make a living. However, I do have a problem when said p-i lawyer goes on television while holding his two adorable dachshunds (they’re GOOD, he says) and tries to reel in new customers: “If you’ve been bitten by a BAD dog, you may need help getting your fair compensation from the insurance company…”

A bite is not a character flaw, Mr. Renfro. A bite is a SIGN—an indication of a health problem, a misinterpretation of circumstances, a territorial act of protection. A bite doesn’t make an animal bad. I would hope that you (and those lawyers who specialize in dog-bite litigation) have some basic knowledge of canine behavior so you’re not perpetuating myths and disseminating misinformation on television and in courts.

Every bite tells a story, Mr. Renfro, and without “hearing” (i.e., understanding) the dog’s point of view, you’re missing the most important element of the tale. If you don’t feel the need to delve deeper into canine behavior for your work, I urge you to do it for those cutie-pie dachshunds of yours. “Good” dogs shouldn’t have to settle for “bad” guardians.

[Photo of bear by Lil Polley; photo of Mr. Renfro from his TV ad.]

A Spider Mystery

We have a spider in our living room. Don’t know what kind. He (she?) stays in one place, yet we know s/he’s alive.

What is s/he doing? Do you know anything about spiders? Is s/he just trying to stay out of the cold (which means our usual way of dealing with spiders—taking them outside—won’t work)? Is s/he dying (in which case I need to drum up a eulogy)?

I don’t know what kind of spider we’re dealing with yet. Guess I need to get out the binoculars if I really want to solve this mystery.

What I DON’T want—as much as I like critters—is a nursery of baby spiders! But I don’t want to kill our little guest either. Any ideas from you would be much appreciated.