Soul Check

“If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things in nature have a message you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive.”
—Eleanora Duse

What Time Is It?

It’s Daylight Saving Time, an occasion when even the Rooster needs more coffee. Yet, how can we complain when we’ve already had Leap Day’s extra 24 hours?

[Art from Shaun the Sheep.]

A WordGazing Holiday

Today is National Proofreading Day, which seems an appropriate time to post this ad I noticed in the New Yorker:


Look closely at the first line of reverse type. Some would roll their eyes or mutter a “Geeze.”

Me? It just makes me sad.

Doling Out Dolphin Love

This rescue story is all over the Internet, but I’m posting it here anyway. It’s a feel-good random act of interspecies kindness that’s a model for us all. Note how two men immediately rush to the aid of the dolphins, then others follow suit. I want to hug those two guys for their leadership and for acting so quickly.



You can get more details at Treehugger.com. (If you go there, stay to watch the video of the whale and dolphins playing “Slide.”)

Read This, Rand Paul!

I just received an e-mail from Senator Rand Paul thanking me for voicing my opinion about horse slaughter. And now my productive Tuesday morning plan is derailed because I’m seething.

Clearly, Paul does not want to cease the horse-slaughter trade because 1) People should be able to do whatever they want with their property, and 2) If we don’t slaughter ’em, we’ll have to take care of ’em.

I’ve got news for Paul and his ilk on this Super Tuesday, news that I thought the conservatives would have learned in Sunday school: The meek shall inherit the Earth.

And the Time is Now…

“When righteousness withers away and evil rules the land, we come into being, age after age, and take visible shape, and move, a man among men, for the protection of good, thrusting back evil and setting virtue on her seat again.”
—from the Bhagavad Gita and the closing lines of Philip Glass’s opera, Satyagraha

[See video or read an account of Glass reciting this to Occupy protesters outside Lincoln Center.]

Mother-Struck

Daffodils are in full bloom now and crocuses have flaunted their palette of colors—purple, lavender, white, yellow, gold. This weekend I spotted my first hyacinth and yesterday, while on a walk through the neighborhood, I turned a corner to see a tree bursting in cotton-candy blossoms.

This morning? Everything’s blanketed in snow.

It’s allowed, I suppose. It’s still Winter, after all. As poet and novelist Alice Walker wrote:

“Mother. Once again doing it just any old way you like. Mother is my favorite name for Nature, God, All-ness.”
—from “Crimes Against Dog” in Dog Is My Co-Pilot

BOOKreMARKS: Your First and Only Warning

When I started to resize my personal library—that is, depopulate it—and commit to borrowing rather than buying any more books, I started keeping track of what I’d read. Hence the lists on the right of Lull.

My lists are only lists, though; they’re not recommendations. I want to be clear on that. The books listed may not even have struck my fancy; they’re simply the ones I finished reading.

However, many of the books on my lists have touched me in some way or riled my thoughts on certain subjects, which I’d like to share with you from time to time. No reviews, no synopses, no critical analyses. You can get those from oodles of other blogs and lit sites. I’m not trying to make Lull a go-to blog for bibliophiles. I just want to tell you how a particular book has affected me, or what impressions it has left on me. I’ll try to avoid giving much away and leave you to decide whether you want to read it.

If you don’t wish to read my reactions to books in the future, you can skip reading any Lull posts whose titles begin with the word “BOOKreMARKS.”

This, then, is the extent of my effort to follow the current protocol of the tech age: offering you fair warning and a choice of opting out when the occasion arises.

Whew! I’m glad we’re done with that! Moving forward…

[Art by Charles Burton Barber.]

Bellow on the Current Presidential Wannabes?

“A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.”
—Saul Bellow

Seeking the Truth About Reprehensible Human Decisions

After attending the Humane Lobby Day, I decided to add The Sociopath Next Door to my reading list—sooner rather than later.


Yes, this is due partially to the horror stories I heard from animal activists. But mostly it’s due to the other (worse) tales that were a mixed bag of evil and thoughtfulness (literally, in one case: Several small dogs were abandoned alongside a road in a large, half-full bag of dog food. Two were on the brink of death when rescued, one had already died.)

Where do these people fall on the mental disorders scale? Where does a legislator fall who doesn’t want to risk losing hunters’ votes so he makes it legal for hunters (and not the rest of us) to carry firearms (as protection) into state parks and wildlife conservation areas? Where do agribusinesspeople—who shift and twist the English language into an unrecognizable lexicon that conceals the truth of what they do—fit into the mental disorders range?

So many questions like these keep bubbling in my brain that I have to get some answered or I won’t be able to think straight. I hope this book delivers.

[Art by Jacob Hoefnagel.]

Does Google Really KNOW Who I Am?

Yesterday marked the dawn of a Big New Google era.

There’s a great deal of controversy over this, which I probably should care more about. However, all I’m hoping is that my new “single Google identity” resolves my recent inability to comment on other Google blogs. If not, then I hope one of those hundreds of Google ads that fill the periphery of my e-mail inbox will point me to a treatment for my Google Identity Crisis.

Hearing Our World

My husband and I took a short walk this past weekend to the end of our street and back. We fought a blustery, chill wind and a sundry of aches and pains. What’s more, we had to be alert for the minefield of tree pods and sidewalk cracks that can so easily send a distracted person to the ground.

Even so, I tried to stay aware of the natural world around us. I pointed out a new bird I’d been seeing in the neighborhood—a tiny, colorful creature who belts out a big tune unlike any other. We heard another bird new to us and spotted it in a tree. It was larger than a robin, but we were too far away to discern any details.

We were almost home when I heard a call that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Listen,” I told my husband. “What is that?”

“Geese?”

We looked skyward for the flock to fly over. None did.

The call went out again. If it was a goose, it was saying something I’d never heard before, and it sounded like it was coming from behind a semi-empty house that’s undergoing renovation. Naturally, my urge to see the critters trumped any worries I might/should have had about trespassing. I cautiously stepped toward the backyard, not wanting to scare off the big birds.

I blinked. Hard. There were no geese, though there were birds, yet the sounds we’d heard didn’t jibe with what was in front of me: chickens.

Yup. Chickens were running around between the yards and the bushes. If my husband hadn’t seen them too, you can be sure I wouldn’t be telling you about my freefall from reality.

What were they saying? Were they lost? Or were they acclimating to their new home? There was evidence that the owners of the house had been moving some items in already. I knocked on a few neighbors’ doors but couldn’t rouse anyone.

A fellow who just moved into our building told me that his previous home in Downtown Lexington was next door to a backyard full of chickens, so the new cluckers in our neighborhood may not be the anomaly I thought. Time will tell how my other neighbors view the new residents.

[Art by Gustav Klimt.]

A Gift of Time

It’s Leap Day. Make the most of it.

[Pic by Davies up North.]

Counting My Blessings

When I stepped into the shower today, I started imagining how differently my day would unfold were I headed to the Oscars tonight. My anxiety over my appearance, my self-consciousness over my demeanor, my fear of the Fashion Police, my worry that I’d lodge my foot in my mouth (after catching my heel in my hem).

No, thank you.

My grooming today was nothing more than making sure I didn’t smell and was fully clothed. I’m grateful that my attendance at the Oscars remains firmly in my imagination and I’m free from worry tonight.

What are you grateful for today?

[Photo of Piguet evening dress by Richard Avedon.]

See Your World

Walking home one late afternoon last fall, my husband spied the creature pictured above on the sidewalk. The praying mantis would have been easy to miss, for s/he blended well with the surrounding detritus. My husband scooped her up in a nearby cup.

By the time they reached our living room, the mantis had consumed the beads of Coca-Cola that had clung to the cup’s interior. The mantis seemed cramped in the cup, so I encouraged a move to the backyard with our guest.

My husband sat on the ground and invited the mantis out of the cup. While my husband morphed into the mantis’s playlot—allowing her/him to explore his arms, his shoulders—I ran back into the apartment for some nourishment for the insect.

I sliced open a pawpaw and took it to our guest. Before I could deposit the fruit on a leaf, though, the mantis grabbed the knife I held. Forcibly pulled the knife toward him/her.

My heart stopped. I was sure the blade had injured him/her.

But s/he was fine.

Though the mantis didn’t eat much, s/he certainly savored it for a long while, licking every last little bit off her/his legs.

We continued watching our guest, likely to our guest’s annoyance. It was a delightful way to spend an evening—better than any other way we might have chosen to fritter away our time.

As the sun gave way to a night sky, we chose a tree the creature could seek sanctuary in and bid our praying mantis goodnight.

“The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.”
—Henry Miller

Pop Over to POPVOX Today

Yesterday I discovered this is National Justice for Animals Week, sponsored by the Animal Legal Defense Fund. Fortunately, I did my part without even realizing it.

On Thursday, I attended (by invitation) Humane Lobby Day in Frankfort, Kentucky, the capital of the Bluegrass State. Most states have a Humane Lobby Day, which is a brainchild of the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). It’s the annual designated day when animal welfare advocates from across a state gather to persuade legislators to craft laws that protect animals from neglect, cruelty, and abuse and to support those laws with tougher sentencing and better law-enforcement training. At least, I thought that was our mission.

Instead, I found a disheartening small number of attendees (though the event organizer announced it was the largest turnout for the event in the 10 years it’s been held), speakers who couldn’t hold the audience’s attention, and too many under-informed, first-time advocates (like me) sent to speak one-on-one with legislators (the three people I was assured would do all the talking in my meeting with a Congressperson didn’t show!).

The clear (yet unintended) message of the day: As you were, legislators. Go ahead and keep doing whatever agribiz lobbyists and “sportsmen” want you to do. Most Kentuckians don’t care about animal welfare, and the few who do may easily be ignored.

What the legislators didn’t know was that the event was by invitation only. Or, more specifically, you had to RSVP to attend. This is understandable for the folks who agreed to meet with legislators at appointed times. But as far as networking with like-minded people (another goal for the day) and rallying in front of the press and Capitol visitors, the event should have been widely publicized—should have pulled in as many supporters as possible to show Frankfort and the media that animal advocates are a force to be listened to.

“I am in favor of animal rights as well as human rights. That is the way of a whole human being.”
—Abraham Lincoln

The refrain I heard again and again on Thursday regarding humane animal treatment was “It’s just common sense.” It’s just common sense that after animals have been abused, they shouldn’t be returned to the abuser. It’s just common sense that farm animals should be able to turn around in their pens. It’s just common sense that sick cows that can’t even stand up for slaughter should not become the beef served to schoolchildren in the U.S. It’s just common sense that a double-decker truck built for pigs shouldn’t be used to transport horses. It’s just common sense that animals need food, water, exercise, shelter, medical care, and attention.

Newsflash, folks: It isn’t. It’s not at all about common sense, which is apparently in short supply in the Bluegrass and Washington, D.C. Animal advocates aren’t fighting unused common sense. They’re fighting GREED and a LACK OF COMPASSION—the driving forces behind the Iraq War, the housing debacle, and the new Sandhill Crane hunting season in Kentucky. Animal advocates are up against the Dark Side of Capitalism and the free rein given to sociopaths. The battle is fierce. It requires wit and wisdom and patience and perseverance—and every single compassionate human we can persuade to join us.

Today is the last day of National Justice for Animals Week, but it’s not too late for you to take part. With a click of your mouse at POPVOX, you can voice your support of animal welfare legislation being considered by Congress. Yes, you’ll have to register, but it’s short and easy. Plus you can see how legislators across the country voted on other issues important to you. Or go to Change.org and sign a petition.

Please speak up for the voiceless. If not today, soon.

Better Late than Never

My new reading habits are beginning to bear fruit (that is, they’re driving my cheerier disposition). Especially my latest read: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Though I’m only halfway through it, I recommend it.

I know, I know. This is old news to most of you; I’m late to the party. The movie is already in production with Kate Winslet. But when the book was first published, my workaholic tendencies prohibited me from reading for pleasure. I missed out when everyone was talking about it and recommending it to me. On the other hand, I confess I didn’t make time for it either. The era it is set in—post-WWII—didn’t appeal to me. Has never appealed to me.

Thank heavens I finally forced my nose into the book. It’s full of sweetness and smiles.

First, the story is conveyed in letter format, a structure I’ve always been fond of. Second, though the war details are grim, they’re tuned to the daily routine of civilians (as opposed to the mechanics and strategies of military personnel), which I found intriguing, and (third) the details are buffered by the engaging, quirky characters who share their lives. Fourth, the whole plot is a tribute to readers and reading. What’s not to like?

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is pure charm and a welcome reprieve from my animal welfare reading. It could easily be your welcome reprieve from whatever burdens you.

[Art by Henry O’Hara Clive.]

I.Q. Reexamined

“If a rabbit defined intelligence the way man does, then the most intelligent animal would be a rabbit, followed by the animal most willing to obey the commands of a rabbit.”
—Robert Brault

[Art by Bunny Griffeth.]

Hug A Hamster Today

I don’t often pay attention to the “lesser holidays.” The sheer number of oddball celebrations and observances overwhelms me. Some come around annually, others come and go according to the whims of their originators and sponsors. For instance, you probably know that March is Women’s History Month, but did you realize that it’s also National Umbrella Month and National Adopt a Rescued Guinea Pig Month?

Periodically I stumble across a special date worth sharing. (Alas, I apparently missed January’s Squirrel Appreciation Day. My apologies to Stubby.) Today is Love Your Pet Day.

Of course, I don’t believe we need a set-aside day for this, nor should loving our pets be relegated to only one day out of the entire year. However, the book I just finished, An Unspoken Art: Profiles of Veterinary Life, contains a story about a devoted (affluent) pet guardian who spent around $50,000 in 1990s American currency on two years’ worth of vet care for her beloved cat. Just when you think the woman might have gone over the edge, she says this:

“A relationship with an animal is like having a terminal child, because you know from the beginning that their life span is short. The reality of it is that you better enjoy every damn day you’ve got with them because your time together is so fleeting.”
—Pauline Wilson

Isn’t that the truth? If you have a pet, give him or her a little extra affection today.

[Art by Jo Chambers and Andy Warhol.]

Beyond the Divide

Compassion
by Miller Williams, from The Ways We Touch: Poems

Have compassion for everyone you meet
even if they don’t want it. What seems conceit,
bad manners, or cynicism is always a sign
of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen.
You do not know what wars are going on
down there where the spirit meets the bone.

[Photograph by Gordon Parks.]

The Contraceptives Controversy

The recent brouhaha over religion and contraceptives brings to mind our youngest cat…

She was a wild little tortoise—tiny enough to stand atop any doorknob and paw it until she opened the door—a nonstop action figure until bedtime. She’d wait for both my husband and I to get settled in bed, the lights out, and then, regardless of what we may have had in mind, she’d pounce onto the bed and burrow between us beneath the covers.

She had rules, too:
1. She demanded constant contact with both of us.
2. Once she was comfortably snuggled between us, we weren’t supposed to move. At all.

The first few times this happened, we thought it sweet and cute. Thereafter, we found it annoying. We dubbed her nightly ritual “catraception.”

[Art by Jessica Hische.]

Atlantic City Horse-Diving Idea Tanks

From the 1920s to 1978, horse-diving acts were the main attraction at Steel Pier in Atlantic City. They were revived for a couple of months in 1993 by new owners of the pier, but abandoned after protests by animal rights groups.

Horse diving got its start in the late 1800s with William “Doc” Carver, a former performer in Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show. The act consists of a horse and rider diving from a 40- to 60-foot height into a 10- to 12-foot deep tank of water. Carver’s act became an entertainment staple at Steel Pier in the 1920s; it also spawned similar acts around the world, a memoir from one of the divers, a Disney film, and a Broadway musical.

As Steel Pier undergoes a multimillion renovation in the New Millennium, its owners (the same owners who closed the act in 1993) want to resurrect the nostalgic equine act. Naturally, animal welfare groups cried foul.

I signed a petition against the decision recently and was about to ask you to do the same. But good news arrived today instead! The owners have decided to abandon their idea. But not because of the outcry.

“We just felt that since Atlantic City is moving forward, we should move forward with it,” said Anthony Catanoso to the Associated Press, speaking on behalf of his family who owns the pier. “We should create new memories for visitors instead of re-creating old ones.”

Sigh. I wish Tony and his family were equipped with the intelligence and compassion necessary to see the inherent danger that diving poses to horses. But I’ll take victory however it comes to pass.

As Wayne Pacelle, president of the Humane Society of the U.S., said, “This is a merciful end to a colossally stupid idea.”

Love the One You’re With?

For some, this holiday serves up only unpleasant memories of the unrequited and the solitary. But they forget that Love manifests in all shapes and sizes, to all types of creatures. Love travels on Perception, and sometimes there’s no easy explanation for how and whom it touches.

Take Precious, my first animal companion of my very own. Her first love was a black version of the sculpture she’s photographed with here. She cooed at it, nuzzled it, slept with it, cooed more, pawed it, cooed from afar, cuddled it … you get the picture. There was a whole lotta cooin’ going on.

As you may have guessed, her efforts were never reciprocated. But she persevered, and when at last she met a real black cat (my husband-to-be’s female Burmese), Precious simply transferred her campaign to the living specimen. She must have thought her perseverance was being rewarded.

Sadly, the Burmese thought otherwise. She tolerated Miss P’s advances as long as she could stand it, then arched her back or hissed or screeched or left the room. This went on for years. (The Burmese was the ONLY feline to ever gain my cat-loathing mother’s sympathy. “Poor thing!” my mother said. “My God! How would you like to have somebody stalking and crying after you all the time?” She had a point.)

I just saw my lovestruck kitten for the brain-damaged but charming spirit she was. The world she inhabited was always a bit to the left of the one the rest of us understood. She couldn’t help how Cupid had entangled her. And frankly, I couldn’t argue with her taste.

Love, be loved, and honor Love today, for as Nikki Giovanni wrote:

“We love because it’s the only true adventure.”

Happy You-Know-What

Follow Your Dreams?

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 22

Lots of self-help “gurus” tell us to Dream Big to get what we want out of Life. “Follow your dreams and the money will follow,” they advise.

There are plenty of people who have done just that. We know this because they’ve taken the extra step of flaunting their stories across the media to remind us of their success.

But I suspect there are plenty more folks who took off after their dreams while the money fell far behind. Maybe didn’t even bother following. So I’ve little faith in the advice of the self-help experts.

Until today. My husband woke this morning and said he’d just had the strangest dream.

This is nothing new. My husband often relays the vivid alternative life he leads while asleep. So I presumed I was about to hear a variation on a theme.

But no. This time, instead of dreaming the fantastical or improbable, what unfolded was more anchored in reality. My husband had established a successful new business. It was a cafe where you could buy a gun and an artful cupcake, too. The business’s name was “Protect and Serve.”

If you live north of the Mason-Dixon Line, you’re probably shaking your head right now. But I have to tell you that sugary-sweet food is as popular in the Bluegrass as firearms. Guns and cupcakes could be a perfect combination here. That zany dream might just be my husband’s ticket to a new career and financial security.

Cue the orchestra: “To dream the impossible dream…”

How sweet it is.

[Cupcake pic from Travel Gal; Tiffany & Co. Smith & Wesson from Rock Island Auction Company.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

Silver-Lining Thinking

You’re going to see 420 Characters on my “Current Reading Lineup” for a while. Not because I’m laboring through it—far from it.

It would be easy to fly through the little book, devouring it. Instead, I’m allotting time and space and imagination to each mini-world Lou Beach created for readers. I’m trying to live in each alternate universe for a bit before moving on to the next one.

Here’s a line from the opening page of 420 Characters. It’s a lesson in keeping your chin up and your hopes high:

“I watched lightning hit the apple tree and thought: ‘Fritters!’ as we packed sandbags against the flood.”

Compassion: Yet Another Endangered Species?

I’ve been reading Ian Parker’s “The Story of a Suicide: Two College Roommates, a Webcam, and a Tragedy,” a New Yorker article about the Rutgers freshman who jumped to his death from the George Washington Bridge, leading strangers to jump to conclusions about his motivation. The author includes numerous e-mails and text messages that the players in this drama exchanged, and I was struck again and again by a common theme in their banter: compassion. Or, rather, a lack of it.

I realize these exchanges were private and written in techno-haste by kids who easily fall prey to the rhythm of peer-bashing—us vs. them. But words impart meaning and if used repeatedly, become a kind of truth. Homosexuals weren’t their only target. The kids expressed disdain for violinists, computer illiterates, people of inferior intelligence, people who don’t have Gmail addresses, and, most especially, poor people.

Poor people?

I thought I knew what I was up against in my mission to generate compassion for animals from the general population. But this New Yorker article indicated a societal mindset foreign to me.

As I related my concern to my husband, he found “What, Me Care? Young Are Less Empathetic” by Jamil Zaki. It’s a summary in Scientific American of long-term studies conducted on empathy in humans—how we apply it and how we think about it. In the U.S. college population, empathy has been on the decline in the last decade.

After watching the Super Bowl ads and halftime show this past weekend, I can understand why. It seems as if harshness and snarkiness and loudness are easy to come by in the media; for softness and kindness and quiet, we have to actively search for examples. All too often, most of us take whatever comes to us. I thought this indicated that our emotional world is out of balance with our multimedia world, especially for younger generations. For compassion to gain importance, we simply have to try harder to achieve equilibrium.

Then I read the comments to the Scientific American article. Here’s one that stands out:

“Perhaps low empathy levels could be improved if people were given the time and space to find each other interesting. … If it were somehow necessary for people to depend on the kindness of strangers, they might find reasons to care about them.”

Ah, it all makes sense now. If poor people could just be more interesting, they might rouse compassion from others. Poor people (like exploited animals) vie for our attention in the same media muddle as do displays of glamour, sexuality, affluence, athleticism, and trendiness. Is this a level playing field? How can we make society’s invisible more interesting?

I was about to give up on humans until I read this in Poetry magazine:

“If I can only be horrified by my species, then I will have to kill myself. If I find others recognizable, I guess I will continue. It’s as simple as that.”
—Fanny Howe

I guess it is as simple as that. I must do what I can as I can. I urge you to do the same.

Sidenote
One difference between empathic individuals (children and adults) and those with little compassion: Those who read more fiction have more empathy.

[Pics from top to bottom from Dog Files, Have Dog Blog Will Travel, and Dog Eat Dogma.]

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It…

Ol’ Man Winter is back in the Bluegrass.


That’s okay. I’m going to replay a sunnier day last week when my husband and I communed with a couple of paddocks of yearlings. They were curious about us—stormed over to check us out, jabbered a bit to us, then frolicked with each other.

Bliss.

Add The Lost Pet Chronicles to Your Reading List

If you care for a cat or dog, or work with or around canines and felines, or feel like you’re the only one who regularly notices stray pets as they dart past or peek out from hiding, this book was written for you.

The Lost Pet Chronicles is a quick, easy read yet profoundly useful. Author Kat Albrecht details her rescue work with animals and provides important information every cat and dog lover should know. With Albrecht’s step-by-step instructions, anyone can recover a lost pet—without hiring a detective and search hounds.

Some of the information is counterintuitive: Cats and dogs are generally skittish when lost. Finding a dog who appears afraid of humans doesn’t mean she’s been abused by humans. More likely, she’s responding only to the trauma of her current circumstances. Your first question should be, Who lost this pet and how can I find them? Cats and dogs are generally silent when in hiding. Your cat may always answer your call, but don’t expect her to once she’s lost. A cat keeps quiet so predators don’t get her before you do. Once a cat is in hiding mode, everything and everyone beyond her shadow becomes a predator.

Albrecht established a nonprofit, Missing Pet Partnership, to help train new pet detectives and search dogs for the cause. If you don’t have cats or dogs but want to read about their rescues, go to Albrecht’s blog for stories. Since The Lost Pet Chronicles predates iPhone apps, a visit to the Web sites it recommends is sure to uncover updated tips.

Don’t wait for Fido to disappear before reading this book. Prepare yourself now, then keep the book within reach should the worst happen. And remember: The worst can happen to anyone.

[Photo: Birdy was a lost, very sick dog on the streets of California, until someone who cared noticed her and took her to Bad Rap. Now she has a cushy home and a great blog, Birdy Flies Home, where you can follow her new life.]

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.]