In Case the Groundhog Is Right…

I’ve been under the spell of Springlike temperatures and bursts of color here in the Bluegrass.

Crocuses have popped up everywhere and honeysuckle bushes have bloomed. Taller bulb flowers—jonquils, daffodils, tulips—have been ever-so-slowly pushing their way toward the sun since December. The bees seem as thrilled as I am about the early blooms.

I realize none of this guarantees Old Man Winter’s departure, so I’ve been making the most of the interim. Yesterday, my husband and I ate an early picnic dinner in a nearby park filled with towering old trees and alive with tennis players, skateboarders, dog walkers, and toddlers on swings. And squirrels, one who discovered a special fondness for our malt vinegar chips.

The whole scene was scrumptious.

A Sheepish Correction…

As I wrote earlier, Shaun the Sheep has been my mood-altering substance of choice recently and I encouraged you to follow suit.

However, the second season of the television series brought some disturbing changes to the flock. The characters are revealing some deviousness and meanness, likely because they’re under the influence of new writers. So-ooo-oo disappointing.

Just wanted to warn you.

Advocating, Not Battling, for Fairness

Satirist Al Franken wrote this before becoming Senator Al Franken, but my guess is that he still stands by it. If you’re part of the 99%, it should make you smile, or at least nod in agreement.

Any time that a liberal points out that the wealthy are disproportionately benefiting from Bush’s tax policies, Republicans shout, “class warfare!”

In her book A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous Fourteenth [sic] Century, Barbara Tuchman writes about a peasant revolt in 1358 that began in the village of St. Leu and spread throughout the Oise Valley. At one estate, the serfs sacked the manor house, killed the knight, and roasted him on a spit in front of his wife and kids. Then, after ten or twelve peasants violated the lady, with the children still watching, they forced her to eat the roasted flesh of her dead husband and then killed her.

That is class warfare.

Arguing over the optimum marginal tax rate for the top one percent is not.

—from Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right

Soothing Savage Beasts, or Why I Was Late to Class

You don’t always get to choose the theme of your life. Sometimes it chooses you. So it has seemed for me this past year, which I have dubbed The Year of the Squirrel.

Upon reflection, I have a surprising number of memories over my lifetime involving squirrels—the black ones, the white ones, the red ones. Now it seems they’re all grey, like Stubby.

When I was a kid, my grandfather “talked” to squirrels, who would trot right up to him to be handfed a tasty snack. My grandfather seemed part Dr. Dolittle to me, and I dreamed I’d be just like him one day. Of course, the Universe had other plans.

Years on, when I lived in the Windy City, I was racing against the clock one day to get to a class. The college was downtown and after parking my car, I knew I could make it if I took the shortcut bridge that arced over the expansive park standing between me and music theory. I was on edge about this plan, though, because the park was full of panhandlers and ne’er-do-wells, either of which could easily waylay me. (I’m a sucker for sob stories and when in danger, my fight-or-flight response goes dormant—I freeze.)

I started across the bridge at a brisk pace, my eyes scanning the horizon for potential trouble ahead. As I reached the top of the arc—halfway across, another half to go—I started to relax a bit. It looked like my plan was going to work.

Then I saw them. I thought trouble would come at about my height; I’d failed to consider ankle-high trouble.

There were five of them, maybe more, and they stood in a semicircle in front of me, blocking my route across the bridge. True to their Windy City roots (Al Capone territory, you know) they were the definitive gang—a gang of bushy-tailed squirrels.

Now you may have read, as I have, that squirrels are solitary creatures—they don’t colonize or have a social structure. But I know what I saw and I saw a GANG.

“Hello, everyone,” I squeaked out. “I’m afraid I haven’t time to chat with you today. I have to hurry to class.”

They didn’t budge. The gang wanted something and I knew that if I didn’t come through fast enough, they’d think nothing of leaping onto my shoulders or head to “encourage” my compliance.

I opened my purse, hoping to see a granola bar or maybe a package of crackers from a restaurant. Nothing. I had nothing for them.

“Shoo, please,” I ordered, unconvincingly even to me.

They shuffled a bit, closing in on me. I dug deeper into my purse. Desperate, I brought out the only edible thing in my possession: a mentholyptus cough drop.

“I’m sorry, but this is all I have.” I unwrapped it and set it on the ground.

A scramble for the treasure ensued. A couple of the squirrels gave up quickly, probably because after one sniff, they didn’t want to waste their time.

It came down to one squirrel, with two of his buddies intently watching. He (she?) took one lick and vigorously shook his head. He tried it again and then set it down, bewildered, it seemed, about how best to eat the thing. He circled it, picked it up and, finally, popped it into his mouth.

His friends craned their necks in anticipation of what would happen next. The squirrel drew the cough drop from his mouth and shook all over.

At this point, of course, I was not only late to class, but also worried that I’d caused the squirrel to have seizures and I didn’t know the first thing about squirrel first aid. The squirrel’s buddies, on the other hand, weren’t so concerned. They scampered off to catch up with the other gang members.

But the lone squirrel persisted. Once he got past the unusual nature of the cough drop, he began licking it in earnest. It made him giddy, maybe even a bit high. He seemed to enjoy it.

I stayed with him until I was convinced he would survive the ordeal. I may not have been Dr. Dolittle, but I wasn’t heartless.

When I at last reached my class, I didn’t reveal why I was late. The experience still felt mystical to me—something to be protected. And I was pretty sure no one would buy the gang-of-squirrels story.

[Photo of Red Squirrel adopting a baby by Ryan W. Taylor from The Nature Files. Black Squirrel photo by James Marvin Phelps. I’ve not been able to identify the photographer of the other photos.]

“Life’s a Treat with Shaun the Sheep”

Need a lift?

Watch Shaun the Sheep.

Yeah, I know I’m late to the game. I’m just catching up on everything I missed during my workaholic years.

Shaun is a little sheep who is wise beyond his wool yet never lets on to The Farmer. He turns bath time into fun time, helps anyone in need, and never holds a grudge against those who hurt him, nor does he accept credit for the problems he solves.

In addition to reading more cheerful material this year, I’ve taken to watching STS every night before I go to bed and I can’t tell you what a great end to the day it is—no matter how awful the day has been.

I’ve already started to worry about running out of episodes: The show ran on television for only two seasons. A film is due out next year, but once you’re hooked on Shaun, next year might as well be the next millennium.

If you’ve never seen Shaun the Sheep, try watching just once. The episodes are quite short and I’m pretty sure the flock’s antics will get a smile out of you. Just as the opening theme song promises, “Life’s a treat with Shaun the Sheep.”

Wisdom from Fiction: What Matters

“By the time everything is decided, it will be too late. The moment is always now. There is no then, it turns out. Everything real is a kind of now.”
—Hope, the elderly artist in John Updike’s Seek My Face

[I’ve no idea whose artwork this is. Do you?]

Evil Cookies and Wayward Comments

a! I was beginning to develop a full-blown inferiority complex until I read this on The Real Blogger Status.

I’ve posted comments on a number of blogs recently, but they haven’t been published. The first few times I just thought the blogger wasn’t moderating very often. However, I’ve returned to these blogs to check, only to find that other folks have commented since my attempt.

It’s a cookie thing, apparently.

Note to the bloggers of…

Dig-It Fetch-It Herd-It
Dog Art Today
Dog Bytes
Everything and the Dog
Grey Horse Matters
Paradigm Farms
Pawcurious
The Other End of the Leash

…I tried.

A few of my attempts to comment got caught in some sort of verification loop, which has also happened to some readers on Lull. It’s a Google/Blogger cookie thing, apparently.

Anyway, I’m working on workarounds at my end, but you might want to check your own cookie settings, too.

[Initial from Daily Drop Cap.]

Happy Anniversary, Husband Dearest

We’ve been married for 5 years, known each other for 30, and lived together for 27.

Whew! Where’s the bubbly?

“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”
—Rumi

[Contrary to the photo, our ceremony did not involve a church or flowing gown. Instead, we had a corporate conference room and pinstriped suits. But that’s another story…]

Sociopaths and Sandhill Cranes

Sorting the Defective Brains from the Poorly Operated Ones

One of the horse bloggers I check in with periodically is starting an online reading group: WHOAprah Whinny’s Book Club. The blogger is pushing for the inaugural book to be The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout. Her reasoning: She wants to understand horse abusers.

After scanning the reader reviews on Amazon.com, I may actually read Stout’s book. Not only does she identify the conscienceless and describe typical interactions we may have with them, she instructs readers in how to navigate these interactions.

Wish the book had been around in the previous century. Years ago my husband and I had only M. Scott Peck’s People of the Lie: The Hope For Healing Human Evil to turn to. We were trying to understand the odd behavior of a theatre director. The book described this guy to a T and labeled him “evil.” Though it was a relief to read about our problem, it didn’t help us handle our problem. I suspect The Sociopath Next Door could also have helped us deal with Mr. Slimy, our nasty landlord in the Windy City (or any of the other psycho landlords we cycled through there). As for the horse blogger’s desire to understand horse abusers through this book, though, I’m not sure how enlightening it will be.

The Sociopath Next Door examines only one end of the spectrum—the folks whose brains are clearly physiologically without conscience. What the book probably doesn’t explain are the motivations driving the millions of other a _ _ holes out there who simply aren’t engaging their consciences. The folks who capably exhibit sympathy or empathy or compassion in some situations yet not in others.

A character in The Last Detective television series said: “Really decent people have a tendency to bring out the worst in the rest of us.” Could it really be that simple? Sometimes it is. I’ve seen it played out in the workplace.

The only way in which I can relate to this phenomenon is when one element of my personality is brought front and center by some opposing personality. For instance, an extroverted, authoritative personality (i.e., “bossy”) will meet a mute me; a timid, uncertain personality will be drawn out by an encouraging, courageous me. Both are elements of my personality, but they usually act in harmony with all the other elements. They don’t go solo except when provoked under certain circumstances. When this happens, I feel as if I’ve been taken hostage. Maybe it’s the same for some people when they run up against goodness. They can’t help it: Their antigoodness element gets switched into high gear and before they know it, they’ve said or done something despicable.

In the case of bullies, perceived inferiority, lack of intelligence, or weakness may trigger their nasty behavior. Unfortunately, animals fall into all three of those categories (not in reality; just in perception). And bullies aren’t the only ones classifying animals this way.

I’ve been watching Buck, the documentary film about Buck Brannaman’s gentle approach to starting and training horses. Brannaman endured years of physical and emotional abuse at the hands of his father, and so seems to be able to understand the hypersensitive nature of horses. Yet, in one segment of the film, he treats cattle as if they were simply obstinate moving objects.* Which is pretty much how most animals deemed “livestock” get treated. Even horses fall into this category in some folks’ minds (see “Do Horses Live in the Moment” on Grey Horse Matters). It bothers me that Brannaman, who has so much empathy for horses, can traumatize calves and their mothers without a second thought.

I’m not saying Brannaman abuses the cattle. But he doesn’t offer them the same respect he shows for horses. Not all animals are equal.

“If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”
—Alexander Solzhenitsyn

I don’t believe all animal abusers are completely without conscience. If that were true, then the number of sociopaths in our midst would be much higher than the 1% to 5% range researchers currently report. However, I do believe these people are deeply flawed. At least, their thinking is.

This subject has been top of mind for me recently because I’ve been invited to attend Kentucky’s upcoming Humane Lobby Day. Animal welfare advocates from all counties gather in the state capital and meet with politicians to press for change. Not long ago, the Bluegrass State fell dead last in the Humane Society’s state rankings on animal welfare. The low score was achieved by having few laws on the books to prosecute animal abusers in a meaningful way.

Certainly, laws are important in this battle, but once you have a law in place, you have to enforce it. And more than that (and this is the crux of the matter), people (residents, cops, lawyers, judges, etc.) have to comprehend the laws and understand the necessity for the laws, which requires a certain mindset regarding animals. While my peers push for new and stronger laws to be enacted, I will be pushing for this mindset to be instilled in Kentuckians. I’ve come to this decision, oddly enough, because of Sandhill Cranes…

to be continued

* I still recommend the film. The methods Brannaman uses with horses and the results he achieves are worth emulating.

[Top pic is Abbie, rescued from a “horse breeder” by Catskill Animal Sanctuary.]

Technical difficulties at Blogger today. Hope to post again soon, Blogger willing.

[If you know the artist of this little robot, please let me know.]

A New Soul, An “Aw” Moment

Did you see the news? Rachel Alexandra, who made headlines some years ago in the racing world, gave birth to her first colt yesterday.


[Pic from Stonestreet Farm.]

You Think You’re Special?

“dysfunctional family: any family with more than one person in it”
—Mary Karr

[Art: The Family by Picasso.]

A Moment Suspended

After seeing the autumnal splendors from Natural Bridge last year, we met this little fellow (gal?) on the path back to our car. He appeared to be teetering between life and the next life, so we moved him closer to the woods for a calmer transition.

“Uh-oh. What are you about to do?”

But not before we took some photos of him, which, in spite of his condition, he managed to blur or escape the frame each time. I regret taking advantage of him that way, though I like to think that we gave him a better end than getting stepped on by other tourists.

“Knock it off with that picture-snappin’, boyo. I mean it!”

Watching him—his vivid green, his leafy shape, his tense determination—was a near-perfect end to our afternoon.

“To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

Merry Monday

“Someone spiked my coffee with optimism this morning and I spat it right out.”
—Larry Carlat

This made me laugh, but I imagine some of you out there are facing your workweek with just this sentiment. Shoulder on, readers…

[Art by Eric Carle.]

WordGazing: Finally, Justice Will Be Served

I WAS A DRUM MAJOR FOR JUSTICE
PEACE AND RIGHTEOUSNESS

The text above is on the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial in D.C. Not only is it carved without punctuation, it’s also paraphrased.

Yup. Not really a quote. And not even the gist of the original utterance, which is:

“Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice; say that I was a drum major for peace; I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter. I won’t have any money to leave behind. I won’t have the fine and luxurious things of life to leave behind. But I just want to leave a committed life behind. And that’s all I want to say.”

What’s more, when you think about the abundance of material the highly quotable Dr. King provided us, why in the world was this chosen in the first place?

The truncation was a “design change” according to Ed Jackson Jr., the executive architect. He ran it by the oversight body, the U.S. Commission of Fine Arts, and they didn’t have a problem with it. Neither did the Council of Historians.

Shame, shame, shame. If space was really an issue, then the solution was not to abbreviate but to choose different material. A quote that’s paraphrased isn’t a quote. Period. PERIOD, screams the editor in me.

I don’t expect architects to understand the problem with this kind of language bastardization, but I certainly expected more from the historians who approved it.

The good news today is that the stone-chiseled text is going to be fixed. Not sure how, but I’m glad someone in D.C. finally saw the light.

Here’s a King quote that speaks to me, that reminds me how to live my life:

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

What We Cherish

Just as Jane Goodall continues caring for Jubilee, I continue to keep Icky by my side.

I’ve no idea how he got his name and no one in my family remembers either. He entered my life shortly after my birth, while I was still in the hospital, and has stayed with me ever since. He’s been cuddled, fought over, lost, found, washed, and stepped on; he’s gone swimming, swinging, camping, and travelling; he’s been read to and cried on, squeezed and loved.

Last week my husband operated on Icky, who had become profoundly impaired. I’m sorry I don’t have a “BEFORE” photo to share with you (although Icky probably wouldn’t have appreciated that). Imagine a wilted mound of terry cloth with felt facial features.

NOW look at him! Icky has never been so solid. It’s the first time he’s been able to sit up on his own. With new stuffing and a clean playsuit (he didn’t come clothed originally, but a good wardrobe was always paramount in my family so I kept him in doll clothes), he’s ready for the next segment of our journey together.

Thank you, dear husband, for reviving my first animal.

And thank you, Icky, for your perseverance and patience.

Book Report: Seeking Good Cheer (Or, Barring That, Hope)

I finished the sheep detective book last night. Hated closing the cover on the little flock. They were quite charming.

Started Jane Goodall’s Reason for Hope: A Spiritual Journey. Seemed like a sound choice for someone in need of uplifting reading material.

Goodall’s concern for nature and animals was evident when she was but a baby. Her mother often told a story about the night she stepped up to 18-month-old Jane’s bed to wish her sweet dreams and found two handfuls of earthworms wriggling beside her daughter.

“Jane,” she cautioned, “if you keep them here they’ll die. They need the earth.”

Jane immediately scooped up her little friends and, with her mother’s assistance, returned them to their home in the garden.

I think I’m going to like Jane…

[That’s 18-month-old Jane in the photograph, on the beach with Jubilee—a stuffed animal commemorating the first chimp born at the London Zoo. Goodall still has Jubilee.]

A Friday the 13th Tale: Crossing the Line

This tiny tale has no spook factor except, perhaps, for its starring black feline. (And truth be told, when you stepped close to her, you could see she was more auburn than black.)

A purebred Sable Burmese, she entered my husband’s life after being abandoned by a second set of human “guardians.” When my husband’s life expanded to include me and a couple of other cats, her indignation rang loud and clear. She kept to herself and was easily annoyed by everyone around her. She had a range of strident, nails-on-a-blackboard vocalizations that we all dreaded and, as she aged, she added barking to this repertoire.

One evening we were watching television. The two younger cats were amusing themselves elsewhere and, in a rare moment, the Burmese deigned to join us. We gave her a treat—the last bit of yogurt on a spoon. Placing the spoon in a bowl, we set the treat on the floor for her.

Heaven! She was all over that spoon! We’d made her one very happy kitty.

But then she made such a racket clanging the spoon against the bowl that we couldn’t hear the television. As we turned to watch her, she stopped. In the quiet, she uttered one of her signature “Hrrmphs” and next, as if it was so-ooo-oo beneath her, she picked up the spoon with her right front paw, brought it to her tiny mouth, and licked the last bit off—the bit that had resisted her during all that noise.

My husband and I looked at one another, then back at the cat. She returned the spoon to the bowl and, satisfied, walked away.

We witnessed it only once, but it was enough to convince us that the Burmese was capable of anything—speaking five languages, roller-skating, leading Special Ops. Of course, these are mere Human activities and she crossed the line only when she deemed it absolutely necessary.

Animals are a great deal smarter than humans give them credit for. Just ask the Burmese. But don’t expect an answer.

The “Not What It Seems” Department

For those whose New Year’s Resolutions include slimming down, here’s Sleep Talkin’ Man’s take on the poundage situation:

“I’m not fat. No. It’s just my awesomeness swelling up inside me.”

[Art by Fernando Botero.]

Holding Gloom and Doom at Bay

“Hey, Poky,” greeted my husband the other morning as he inched his way into our living room. I’m not sure why he called me Poky. A reference to Poky Little Puppy perhaps?

“That’s just what I’m reading about!” I said a little too enthusiastically, The Omnivore’s Dilemma open in my lap. “The Poky Feedlot is…”

He didn’t let me finish because he assumed the word feedlot led only to tragic details. “Maybe it’s time for you to read something cheerier.”

What? Oh, well, I suppose feedlots are not the best topic to start the day with. And I suppose bringing up 1950s American civil rights issues the night before as we got into bed was also a poor timing choice. (I’d started reading Nikki Finney’s Head Off & Split.)

My husband continued his argument though he’d already made his point. I’d started a similar debate in my head long before that morning. Much of what I read upsets me, then upsets him whenever I share what I’ve learned. If I don’t share it, then my somber mood says what I haven’t vocalized. To reinstate calm in our house, I needed to rethink my reading list.

So I’m wiping the slate clean. I’m putting aside the remaining books of my “Current Reading Lineup” and starting over. I’ll get to those back-burner books one day (especially Pollan’s work, which I highly recommend). For now, I’ll avoid the library and pull books from my own inventory.

My first choice? Three Bags Full: A Sheep Detective Story by Leonie Swann. Yes, you read that right. I’m still reading about animals. But (and it’s a BIG BUT) the sheep are the protagonists of a fictional whodunit laced with humor and woolly-eyed insights about our culture. All the wooled ones know of the world they gleaned from the stories their shepherd-cum-murder-victim read to them. It’s a refreshingly inventive and fast-paced read. For those of you who have sheep, I would guess this is even funnier, and might prompt you to reconsider some of your flock’s behavior.

Until tomorrow, I’ll be in Ireland with Miss Maple (a very intelligent ewe), Mopple (who has an excellent memory, but an insatiable appetite), and Othello (the mysterious black ram, of course)—my first attempt to bolster cheer and optimism in my home.

[Art by Thomas Sidney Cooper.]

What’s Your New Year’s Resolution?

If you’re short on goals for 2012, here’s one to add to your list:

“Read, every day, something no one else is reading. Think, every day, something no one else is thinking. Do, every day, something no one else would be silly enough to do. It is bad for the mind to continually be part of unanimity.”
—Christopher Morley

[Blue Penguins after surviving an oil spill last year, now enjoying their new volunteer-made sweaters. Photo by Toby Zerna/Newspix via Rex USA file.]

Love in Shades of Blue

A month ago I got a call from a friend—the kind of call we dread receiving, the kind of call we dread having to make. I knew from B.’s voice that something was wrong. And then it tumbled out: His cherished buddy—his first dog—had reached the end of his Earthbound days. They parted physical ways with the assistance of a veterinarian’s needle.

I felt B.’s pain. Not just because I could relate, but because I’d witnessed the profound changes the canine brought to B.’s life.

I remember the first day I saw them together. B. had just adopted Roark from a rescue group (the same one our pooch came from). They were standing together in front of a neighborhood pet-supplies shop, turning the heads of drivers and passersby. In an area glutted by Retrievers and Labs, a stylish man with a sleek blue Weimaraner becomes a spectacle. B. was over-the-top happy with the creature at leash’s end. This happiness alone was an entirely new dimension of B.’s personality. Well, perhaps not new, but previously concealed most of the time. Roark had managed, in only a few days, to beeline straight to B.’s heart and make public B.’s range of emotional depth. They were bonded.

Then came trouble. For, of course, Life is a bloody seesaw and won’t let you experience long-awaited joy without soon balancing that out with a burst of bad news. In Roark’s case, it was a wonky heart and kidneys. B. saw more vet specialists and emergency teams in his first months with his first pooch than some of us see in our dogs’ lifetimes.

The rescue group stepped in and defrayed the costs (financial, not emotional) of the healthcare roller-coaster Roark was riding. In the wings, B.’s friends and family held their collective breath. Would the dog make it through? If not, would B. make it through?

When both made it through, there was a collective sigh of relief. Death had not only released the dog from Its grip, but had also left Roark and B. even more devoted to one another.

B. was no longer alone. He became part of a six-legged man-beast hybrid, half of an inseparable pair. They walked together, lazed around together, travelled together, ate together, snuggled together.

B.’s fashion priorities shifted. In the B.D. era (Before the Dog), my friend never stepped beyond his threshold without being tastefully dressed. And he could get snarky about people who did otherwise. But once B. accepted his new status as dog steward, along came “dog clothes.” Stylish still, but not always so perfect.

B. started to rethink his life’s purpose. He gave up everything in the Windy City and ventured West—with Roark at his side—in search of new terrain and soul-fulfilling work. They camped. They met interesting people. They smelled the unusual, saw the magnificent. They had a truly great adventure together. And on the road, B. learned more about himself and realized he belonged—at least for a while—back in the Heartland. The answer was not in the West. And so they journeyed, from Oz to home, together.

B. and Roark lived with us for a bit until their new apartment was available. We were happy to have a dog roaming the rooms again, and B. was a great help to us as we prepared to move to the Bluegrass. I took Roark for walks, but mostly I just watched him, for he made it quite clear that his affections were meant only for B. When B. left the apartment for any reason, Roark cried and pined inconsolably at the door.

After we moved to Kentucky, B. and Roark moved to the East Coast temporarily. B. had been accepted into a degree program that would springboard his life’s calling. We were thrilled for him. At last, with Roark at his side, Life was falling into place for him.

Three months later, the seesaw shifted. Roark’s body started turning against them both, his impaired organs becoming markedly wonkier. Filled with toxins, the poor dog could no longer control his actions, and knew it. Soon, according to the vet, Roark’s brain would also be affected. The inseparable pair knew this couldn’t be allowed to happen. The inseparable pair knew they had to let go of one another.

B. spent Thanksgiving weekend snuggling with his best friend, giving Roark his undivided attention. It would be their last weekend together.

When B. and I talked, he mentioned that Roark had been with him for only 4.5 years. I couldn’t believe it. Obviously, I’d lost track of time, but they were so much a part of each other it seemed they’d been together a lifetime.

Whatever the time they had together, I believe B. and Roark spent it “ankle-deep in Heaven.” And it just doesn’t get any better than that.


À bientôt, Master Roark…

Congratulations!

If you’re reading this, then you made it through 2011. And that’s something for some of us.

I’m glad you’re here and I hope you keep coming back.

It’s Headed This Way

Said my dental hygienist yesterday, “I sure hope 2012 is a better year than this one was.”

“Me, too,” I sputtered. Although I’ve said that for the last six years. Each year has brought me new and unexpected challenges (which is a nice way of saying pain and trouble).

For the record, I don’t buy into that “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” crap. Nor do I subscribe to the “You’re given only as many trials as you can handle” baloney.

One of my favorite lines in Steven Kotler’s A Small Furry Prayer is: “I had come into adulthood equipped with the essentially romantic delusion that life would get easier.”

Amen to that, Steven. I operated under the same delusion, though in retrospect, I realize my grandmother tried to feed me the truth early on. Her version of Cinderella had the wannabe princess end up marrying a used-car salesman. I missed her point.

A similar delusion has us believing every year that the NEW year will be different and better than the last—maybe even GREAT! But I’ve wised up. I refuse even to pretend that 2012 will bring happiness and improved economies and world peace.

However, I will agree that 2012 will be different. At least it will be for me. The New Year may throw me whatever it wants—natural disasters, death, illness, you name it. I’ll be ready for it. This year I insist on being the victor, on being in control. I plan to meet each challenge of 2012 with new strength (both physical and emotional) and resolve. If I can’t catch all the curveballs thrown at me, I will at least duck their trajectories.

But for you, Dear Reader? May the New Year rise to your highest expectations and fulfill your every dream…

My Year of Reading Aimlessly

“I do not want to be a book worm. If its book is taken away from it, the little blind head is raised; it wags, hovers, terribly uneasy, in a void—until it begins to burrow again.”
—Katherine Mansfield

For the past year, reading has been a salve for my grief and a substitute for exploring the world beyond my apartment (doctor’s orders to stay off my feet). I’m not alone in turning to books for spiritual sustenance and guidance. Nina Sankovitch read a book a day a few years ago to comprehend her sister’s death, then turned the 365 project into a best-selling book—Tolstoy and the Purple Chair: My Year of Magical Reading.

Unlike Sankovitch, I’ve no best-selling book as a result of my year of reading. And I certainly didn’t match the pace and quantity of her reading. I had no deadline and no specific goal in mind.

Yet I feel changed by my bookwormishness. My grief has lightened, I’ve learned loads, I’ve discovered (or rediscovered) some critical aspects of my nature, and I feel not quite whole but substantial enough to serve the greater good in some way. Though reading didn’t heal me physically (I’m still supposed to stay off my feet), it accomplished remarkable emotional and spiritual feats.

Like Katherine Mansfield, I need to be more than a bookworm now. Venturing forward, my reading will be specifically purposeful: to strengthen and improve my physical well-being, and to advance an animal-related education project for which I’ve volunteered my time. I’ll miss making random book picks at the library, but I look forward to reading for a cause.

Correction: I (almost) ALWAYS look forward to reading. Period. Don’t you?

[Art by Ramón Casas.]

A Bounty of Bad Choices

I’ve started a project that has me reading books for youngsters, specifically books involving companion animals. While scanning the library shelves last week for dog haikus, I tripped over a Lemony Snicket tome and was curious about what lessons the popular author was instilling in today’s youth.

The content is silly sometimes, sarcastic other times. Readers need to be intelligent enough to know the difference. But some messages in Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can’t Avoid contain both humor and wisdom, as does this passage on decision-making:

“Deciding on the right thing to do in a situation is a bit like deciding on the right thing to wear to a party. It is easy to decide on what is wrong to wear to a party, such as deep-sea diving equipment or a pair of large pillows, but deciding what is right is much trickier. The truth is that you can never be sure if you have decided on the right thing until the party is over, and by then it is too late to go back and change your mind, which is why the world is filled with people doing terrible things and wearing ugly clothing.”

Wish I’d understood this a LONG time ago…

It’s Here! Now You Can Relax…

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas…

Whew! I didn’t find a tree, but I purchased a 99¢ poinsettia and a wreath of mixed evergreens from the Blue Ridge Mountains, which I took apart to fashion into several holiday arrangements. Instead of a month of Christmas in our home, we’ll have it for a few days.

When my father was a child, Christmas decorations didn’t come out until Christmas Eve. His mother would take him to a church service in the evening. When they returned home, my father would wonder at the swiftness and thoroughness of Saint Nicholas—who had visited during the church outing. The Bearded One left behind an ornamented tree complete with presents beneath it.

I guess that by waiting until Christmas Eve to start celebrating, I’m carrying on (sort of) a family tradition of old.

Tree Shopping. Again.

We still don’t have a tree. In fact, there’s little in our apartment that tips you off to the season except the stack (somewhat tree-shaped) of boxes—both the cardboard and gift-wrapped variety—near the door.

I’ve been to several tree-selling stands. Stopped at one just this past Wednesday. But, as usual, couldn’t find anything I wanted (read: that was affordable).

However, my desire for a tree swiftly exited when I turned a corner and saw this:


How cute is he? He was part of a nativity scene and far more interested in his food than in making my acquaintance. Okay by me. He made the trip worthwhile.

Now I’m off again in pursuit of a tree. Or a branch. I’m feeling lucky…

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

That old Rolling Stone song is true. The question is, How will you respond?

When 15-year-old Regina Mayer was told she couldn’t have a horse, she took the road less travelled…


[Story and photo from Horse Connection magazine.]

Tired of the usual Christmas film fare?

Most of us have a favorite Christmas film classic we have to watch each year—Holiday, Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Carol (my husband is partial to the 1951 version with Alastair Sim), It’s A Wonderful Life.

My list is influenced by the fact that A) I’ve never had cable or satellite service, B) Every place I’ve lived has had poor television reception, and C) I’ve not seen many other Christmas movies. Until this week.



Double-click on the video for full view.

Our public station here broadcast an old black-and-white film I’d never heard of: The Great Rupert. It features Jimmy Durante and a philanthropic vaudevillian dancing squirrel. The film (now in the public domain) captures an era not unlike the one we’re currently in—people losing their life savings, old industries giving way to new ones, families struggling to make ends meet. The difference is Rupert, the squirrel.

I’m not sure The Great Rupert will make it onto my perennial must-see list, but it held my interest from an historical perspective. It’s worth watching just to see the filmmaking (i.e., the squirrel-making) of 1950. Plus it’s sweet and nonviolent and stars an animal. All good.

Start a Christmas Tradition à la Tolkien

After dropping off books at the library this week, I scanned the titles in the holiday display. Naturally, one called out to me and I couldn’t ignore it. I took home J. R. R. Tolkien’s Letters from Father Christmas.

You don’t have to be part of the Tolkien cult to enjoy this book. It’s a collection of letters and illustrations (and thereby characters and fonts) Tolkien created and sent to his children each Christmas season from 1920 to 1942—letters his wee ones understood to have been written by Father Christmas (or by his elves or his executive assistant, Polar Bear).

F. C. seems a tad cranky to me so far in my reading. Nonetheless, I can imagine what it must feel like to be a kid writing to Saint Nicholas each year, knowing that he will soon respond.

If you have small children or grandchildren, this could be a delightful family tradition to start. Check out the book for ideas, then adapt these to your own writing style and to the Father Christmas you want your progeny to admire.

Heaven on My Mind: Never Can Say Goodbye

Heaven’s been weighing on my mind, but I’ve had a hard time envisioning it.

“Every living thing dies. There’s no stopping it.”
—the opening paragraph of Unsaid, by Neil Abramson

As I posted earlier on Lull, my reading these last few months has been full of heartbreak and partings—people from dogs, horses from people, goats from turkeys, geese from cows. There’s no end to these losses.

I grew attached to the animals I read about on blogs and in books and when they passed into the Great Beyond, my thoughts followed them. I was reluctant to let go.

I take some solace in imagining an idyllic Afterlife where once-Earth-dead creatures now frolic (or graze or float or whatever they desire) and live beyond their psychological and physical constraints.

When I finished reading The Eighty-Dollar Champion: Snowman, the Horse that Inspired a Nation, I kept thinking about the sweetness and patience Snowman had extended to everyone. He had a good life back in the day, but I wondered what his life was now. Surely his story continues.

I e-mailed a friend to share my thoughts about the book (which she had also read) and said I hoped Snowman had found his way to Just-A-Bob, our favorite character in Jane Smiley’s Horse Heaven.

I e-mailed again after realizing my remarks had populated Paradise with fictional creations as well as the blood-and-bones variety. My friend, ever gracious about my many blunders, wrote back to say that of course our fictional favorites reside in the Afterlife. What’s more, fictional places are part of the landscape there (think environments devised by Tolkien and Lewis).

Fictional places? Wow! My friend had just exponentially expanded Paradise for me. I started rewinding my memories of all the books I’d read and all the films I’d seen. It made me dizzy.

“I have always imagined that paradise will be kind of a library.”
—Jorges Luis Borges

Playwright Eugene O’Neill imagines Heaven for us in “The Last Will and Testament of An Extremely Distinguished Dog,” a piece he wrote for his wife in dreaded anticipation of their beloved Dalmatian’s death. It’s written from the perspective of the dog, who describes Paradise as a place “where one is always young and full-bladdered … where each blissful hour is mealtime.”

Like Borges, O’Neill (on behalf of his dog) fashions Heaven in simple and self-serving terms that I can easily understand. It’s whatever you want most—every birthday and twinkling-star wish you ever made all rolled into one. While these are sweet notions, I suspect the truth is a bit more complex.

In his essay “Sick Dog,” environmental activist and writer Rick Bass speaks to the sorrow of loss and posits a different type of Heaven,* one that stokes my imagination and belief:

“[P]erhaps the seams, the laminae, between the various worlds—the past, present, and future, as well as the living and the nonliving—may not be as distinct and clear-cut as we have been taught, or as our somewhat arbitrary clocks and calendars have led us to believe.

“Sometimes—not always, and I think I could even say rarely—but still, sometimes, I perceive that there is a stillness and a wholeness in the world, or in some portion or corner or fragment of the world, for some little place in time, where things just feel so right and huge and powerful and easy that I will have the perhaps blasphemous thought that maybe there are layers of heaven, and that, with our species’ dependence upon visual acuity, we might fixate too much on notions of streets-lined-with-gold as indicator or marker of when a traveler arrives in that place.

“There are definitely moments in time and places in the world where we have each felt the peace and wholeness, the stillness, spoken of in such prophecies and promises. For me it is experienced most often when I am deep in the wilderness, or up on the ridges of mountains, or in the fields and prairies with nothing but field and prairie to the horizon, or when I am simply in the presence of family. In such moments I think very much that the case could be made that we are already ankle-deep in heaven.”

Ahhh. Thank you, Mr. Bass. A picture of Paradise is coming in clearer now.


I think again about the people and animals I’ve met through my reading—their deeply felt bonds, their unfathomable grief over the deaths of their mates. It’s a comfort and a relief to view them through Rick Bass’s lens: to believe that in each relationship, long before the untimely departure of one being, the pair’s Earthly life together was already “ankle-deep in Heaven.” In the future, this is the layer I shall try to commit to memory.

* Paragraphs may not be in original order. Essay is included in the anthology WOOF! Writers on Dogs.

[Painting by Abbott Handerson Thayer and recolored for Lull.]

“Squirrelly Saturday”: Need a 2012 Calendar?

While shopping for birdseed yesterday, I noticed a calendar that made me do a doubletake.

It was the 2012 Squirrel Stuff Calendar: The Official Field Guide to Undiscovered Squirrels published by Arundale Products. You can purchase the calendar, read the history of these unique squirrels (i.e., how the artist created them), or report your own sighting of an undiscovered squirrel (i.e., give the artist a new idea for the 2013 calendar) by clicking through the links.

These rare critters are almost as cute as my Stubby!