The (Equine) Reading Life

Here’s a horse after my own heart:

This is Shana, whose guardian is equine coach Nicole Birkholzer. In a post on her Mindful Connections blog, Birkholzer asks whether horses are studious. Take a peek at the other horse pictured and you’ll have no trouble answering the question.

Ode to a Tree

esterday marked the demise of the last mulberry tree standing between my neighbors’ property and the expanse of now-shadeless withered grass that stretches out from our living-room windows. I can’t blame them. Who wants mulberry trees next to their driveway? Removing the tree will reduce their car-wash expenses and increase the natural light in their home.

Still, I will miss watching the sun’s shifting light on the tree’s leaves. I’ll miss the shade thrown by the tree and the songs of the birds who populated it. I’ll miss its stature, its profile against the sky.

Thoughts of this young mulberry tree evoke memories of a much larger and older one from my youth—whose smashed fruits supplied the boys’ war games with pseudo-blood, whose branches offered the most adventurous climbing.

Oh sweet mulberry trees, thank you for the time I knew you; you were loved.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische.]

Home, Home on the Hill

Periodically we peruse sale listings for properties. We often find something we like but can’t afford, or something we can afford but don’t like, or something we like but refuse to pay anything close to the asking price. Rarely do we experience that Goldilocks Moment where something is Just Right. Until this month.

The listing was for a summer house, a cabin. A LOG cabin, to be exact. It sat in some woods on a hill near the Kentucky River and the price was right. Sure, it was a fixer-upper, but that was part of the appeal for my husband. He delights in building and fixing things and constantly tinkering with improvements (the Kaizen attitude toward home ownership).

We started fantasizing about our lifestyle there, wondered about the neighbors, seriously considered a boat… But the detail in the listing that really stoked our imaginations was the acre of property on which the cabin sat. For a couple of gardeners currently deprived of their gardening, an acre sounds like Eden.

We couldn’t stop imagining our lives in that log cabin overlooking a river and surrounded by vegetation. Yet of all the photos attached to the listing, none gave us an inkling as to how the cabin was situated on the acre. So we drove out to see it yesterday.

The “neighborhood” was gorgeous: houses hidden in lush wooded lots, the river palisades in view. “Our” cabin stood atop a steep hill across the road from an expansive (and better) property that really did overlook the water. As we climbed the steep, crumbling limestone steps from the road to the porch and patio of our dreams, with more steps above to reach the actual cabin, I started to suspect that growing old here might prove challenging. Directly behind the cabin rose most of the acre of land promised in the listing: a wall of rock.

Yup. We’d be buying an acre of land all right, but it would be a vertical acre and practically useless to us. It was a deal-breaker.

We had to laugh. At least we had experienced a beautiful drive to a place we’d never been. I guess now we can redirect our fantasies to winning the losery (i.e., lottery).

Note: The pooch in the pics was the sentry of the ’hood and bounced around like a wicked-fast Slinky. To make friends with her, we threw sticks for her to fetch—over and over and over again.

Say What?

I read this the other day:

“Ethics is the new competitive environment.”
—Peter Robinson, business leader

Oh, Mr. Robinson, how you make me laugh. I know it wasn’t your intention. But, honestly, there are so few of your kind who care about social responsibility and the high road—opting instead for shareholder happiness and the bottom line—that I’d hardly call your arena “competitive.” But we can keep dreaming, can’t we?

[Graphic from the Everything Small Business Journal.]

Bird Briefs, Part 2

They’re fluttering outside my windows and inside my books: birds. Thought I’d say a few words about them.

Extreme Rescue
Sy Montgomery’s latest book, Birdology, is a delightful collection of stories, histories, lore, and facts about seven avian species (or, if some scientists get their way, seven dinosaur species). She devotes one chapter to hummingbirds, profiling the day-to-day efforts of a “hummer” rehabber who specializes in fostering orphaned baby hummers—so tiny they’re best observed with the aid of a magnifying glass.

One member of the 340+ hummingbird species journeys from Mexico to Alaska each year—the longest migration, in terms of body length, of any bird. The first portion of the course includes a trek across the Gulf of Mexico—a 21-hour, nonstop flight. It’s a miraculous show of stamina and endurance, and not every hummer is up to it. Montgomery mentions one unfortunate bird who collapsed on an oil rig. The (unnamed) oil company ordered a helicopter to transport the feathered patient to a wildlife rehabber in the States, where the little guy spent months recuperating in a greenhouse. He caught up with his pals on their return migration to Mexico. I’m not sure which is more amazing: the hummers’ migration or the oil company’s good deed.


Say It Isn’t So
If you’ve read Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City, you know how packed it is with details about 1890s Chicago—the dust, the odors, the politics. Of all the remarkable and sometimes shocking facts Larson presents, one in particular stood out to me. Frederick Law Olmsted, as part of the magical landscape he conjured for the Columbian Exposition, populated the lagoons with birds. Larson writes: “Olmsted had ordered more than eight hundred ducks and geese, seven thousand pigeons, and for the sake of accent a number of exotic birds, including four snowy egrets, four storks, two brown pelicans, and two flamingoes.”

SEVEN THOUSAND PIGEONS? Really? Weren’t there enough pigeons in Chicago already? Every species on Olmsted’s list is a water bird except the pigeon. Could it be that a critical word—say, Guillemot—was omitted from the copy? Perhaps Olmsted imported 7,000 Guillemot Pigeons to the fair, which would make sense. Readers, can you shed any light on this matter?


Platonic Pairings
I’ve written before about LuckyBird and his sparrow pal. What I’ve not yet relayed is that we have been watching two other similar pairs at our feeders. The cardinals are young adults and, in both cases, the sparrows seem more committed to the relationships than their crimson counterparts. Is it misguided, unrequited love? Are they just friends? Will they ever mate with their own kind? Again, dear readers, if you know anything about cross-species relationships, please enlighten me.

“Birds teach us reverence—a virtue that, writes classicist and philosopher Paul Woodruff, ‘begins in a deep understanding of human limitations.’ ”
—from Birdology, by Sy Montgomery

[Art by Ernst Haeckel (top) and Charley Harper (bottom).]

The Magic of a Four-Leaf Clover

My days too frequently begin with a text (spam) message telling me I’ve won a $1,000 gift card to some big-box store. The first time I received one I was genuinely excited. Upon investigation, of course, the thrill drained away.

Last week, though, an e-mail brought me a legitimate note from Petside.com. I had won a raffle and will receive as my prize Melissa Sue Bowles’ The Horses of Proud Spirit—her book about the residents of the sanctuary she founded.

The contest was easy: Step 1) Set up an account on Petside.com, and Step 2) Post a comment. I didn’t have to beg for votes or get approval from a panel of judges. It was my kind of contest. I suspect that four-leaf clover I found earlier had something to do with this change of fortune.

Thank you, Clover Fairy, for watching over me.

[Photo is from Proud Spirit Sanctuary.]

Earthlings Dive into World Record

Did you see the news yesterday? Folks from around the globe met outside Chicago to break the world record in heads-down vertical skydiving. Skydive Chicago (where yours truly learned to skydive) organized the jump.

Can you imagine? They were free-falling up to 220 mph! I get tingly just writing about it. If you’ve never experienced a free fall, I can tell you that it’s exhilarating—better than the downward thrusts of the most dangerous rollercoaster. The sensation of no sensation is…well…bliss.

[Photo by Brian Buckland.]

If You Believe in Fairies…

Guess what? My luck is about to change.

After returning home from an afternoon of Olympian cycling (truthfully more the Sisyphean variety), I stood in our yard waiting as my husband tucked our bikes back into their elevated, chained safe house (a thief attempted to pry one away last week, so we’re extra careful now). Sweat was pouring off me and I didn’t mind standing still.

I dropped my head in exhaustion and there it was. The first thing to come into focus was a four-leaf clover.

I’ve searched for four-leaf clovers my entire life—including in that very yard—and never spotted one before. I felt as if I’d just discovered a dinosaur bone or the map to a lost treasure.

Of course, luck can be ephemeral and sometimes hard to recognize as good. Yet if you believe in fairies, then you’ll agree that my luck is about to change. Stay tuned…

To Have and Have Not: The New Equal Rights

As you may have gathered from my reading list, I’ve been bingeing on Wendell Berry’s poetry. He writes transcendently about place, nature, farming, food, land conservation, and life cycles. If you’re unfamiliar with this Kentucky icon, I encourage you to get acquainted with him. (Start with Mark Bittman’s overview in Humanities, “The Thing (or Things) About Wendell Berry,” or read Berry’s 2012 Jefferson Lecture, “It All Turns on Affection.”)

Here’s a snippet from “The Reassurer,” published in Berry’s 1994 Entries. It made me chuckle when I read it because it might just as well have been written today.

from his smile they understand that the fortunate have
a right to their fortunes, that the unfortunate have
a right to their misfortunes, and that these are
equal rights.

Applying Musical Restraint

This morning’s air is cool and it seems every bird has answered the weather’s invitation to open in song. No cars, no joggers. Nothing stirs in this still dawn but the surround sound of feathered notes.

Later today I will practice my own music-making—a bit of Bach and Gounod on the piano. My keyboard is electric, so I take care to practice silently with the aid of some headphones. This is partially because I don’t want neighbors to hear me, but mostly it’s for the birds’ sake.

Oh, I confess: A few times when birds have perched at our feeders, I’ve played the piano out loud and enjoyed hearing birds respond to it. Major keys inspire them more than minor ones; the same for simple melodies over complex arrangements.

But I worry: What has my music communicated to the birds? Who do they think I am? I don’t wish to confuse them or frighten them or get their hopes up about a potential mate. And I absolutely don’t want to repeat the unfortunate Robin incident of my youth.

I can’t recall which sonata I was learning at the time, but it attracted a crazed fan. I played the family’s console piano then, so headphones weren’t an option.

One Spring day as I practiced this particular sonata, a THUD startled me. I quit playing and cautiously approached the window to investigate the noise. A Robin sat dazed in the pussywillow bush just beneath the window. Once I was certain he’d recovered, I returned to the piano and resumed practice.

THUD! This time, I ran to the window. There was the Robin again, only this time he lay sprawled and limp across the bush—dead for all I knew. “MOM!!” I needed assistance with this turn of events.

My parents came to my aid, but by the time my father had stepped outside and arrived at the pussywillow bush, the bird had resurrected himself and flown out to the ash tree in our yard. My mother convinced me all was fine and left me to my sonata.

This time as I played, my father watched. Turns out, the Robin would listen from the ash tree then fly pell-mell toward the source of the music. His window nemesis, of course, broke his path on each attempt. Well, on the first two attempts anyway. This third time the Robin simply perched on the bush and continued listening.

As you probably guessed, once I understood that this sonata, or my rendition of it, was causing the potentially fatal behavior of the bird, I stopped practicing it. I only hoped my music teacher would understand.

Mercifully, we’ve had no window collisions here since erecting our bird feeders, and I don’t expect any. But I still worry about giving birds the wrong impression with my music. I would hate to mislead them in any way. So as much as I’d like to join the avian chorus that sings here, I try to be the better human and refrain from participation. Sigh.

Huzzah and Good Luck!

It’s here at last—the 2012 Olympics. A far cry from the 1900 Olympics, when women draped in heavy Victorian garb were first allowed to compete and the events included ballooning, tug-of-war, croquet, and pigeon-shooting (mercifully, this “sport” was not continued).

I’m rooting for each 2012 competitor and hope that all may perform their personal best—medal or no medal.

[Pictured is England’s own Charlotte Cooper, winner of singles tennis in 1900.]

Conversing with Books

Typically, reading is a fairly solitary activity—a one-way communication from writer to reader. Our eyes take in an author’s message and direct it to our brains, where it mingles with our memories, convictions, and emotions and finds a comfy place to take up residence—having either supported what we already believed/felt or given us a new perspective.

Lately this one-way communication has fallen short for me. Post-it Notes mark page after page of my books where an author has written something that: 1) I disagree with and want to debate; 2) I wish to share my own thoughts and experiences about; or 3) I believe demands an extended conversation between the writer and me.

In The Nine Emotional Lives of Cats: A Journey Into the Feline Heart, author Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson generalizes countless pronouncements based on his experiences with his own cats as being true for all cats. Yet time after time, the cats of my experience don’t fit neatly into his theories. I feel as if I’m in a boxing match and not allowed to box back.

The Philosopher’s Dog: Friendships with Animals is a small book bursting with big ideas. I want to delve further into the mind of author Raimond Gaita, discuss the evolution of compassion in humans he describes and how we might nurture that now.

I want to ask Erik Larson, author of The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and the Madness at the Fair that Changed America, what fascinated people about Chicago’s Union Stockyards. How did a slaughterhouse become a main attraction, and when and why did it lose its appeal?

You might be thinking, “Get thee to a book club. You just need to talk about these things with someone.” And you’d be right—up to that last word.

You see, not just anyone will do. I need to speak with the very authors who stoked my ire, my defenses, my support, and my admiration. I need to alter the passive nature of these books, redirect their monologues to dialogues. Sometimes I just want to tell the writers they’re not alone in their perspective. Or maybe I really want to say thank you for letting me know I’m not alone in my perspective.

In The Light in High Places: A Naturalist Looks at Wyoming Wilderness, Rocky Mountain Bighorn Sheep, Cowboys, and Other Rare Species, author Joe Hutto challenges readers with this question:

“Who has stopped to admire the spectacular male starling in the last one hundred years?”

I cried aloud to the page, “I have! I have!”

[Typewriter art by Jeremy Mayer.]

Don’t Leave Your Dog in the Oven

“WHAT?!” you exclaim. “That’s just stupid. No sane person would leave her dog in an oven.”

Ah, but lots of sane people do. No, not the oven in the kitchen; that’s reserved for psychopaths. I’m talking about the ovens that parked cars morph into in warm weather.

Just yesterday, in fact, I saw a pooch overheating in a parking lot. Just as I was about to take action, the young couple returned to the car. They gave their spotted dog a warm reunion greeting and took off. They obviously loved their dog but were unaware of the potential harm they’d put him/her in.

The weather outside doesn’t even have to be hot to be lethal. With windows cracked open, the temperature inside a car rises nearly 20 degrees in 10 minutes; in 20 minutes, it goes up nearly 30 degrees—and continues to rise.

Just think about it: It was 98 degrees outside yesterday when said couple pulled into their parking space at the grocery store and left Rover in the car (turns out, we passed the couple as we were exiting the store). Now do the math.

And it’s not just that you could potentially kill your pet. There are a whole mess of medical problems heat can trigger if your pet lives through the ordeal. Some states have laws against leaving unattended pets and children in cars; the Bluegrass State does not. Without a law, too many people remain uninformed.

Please help spread the word about this.

[Visit the British Columbia SPCA Web site for symptoms and treatment of heatstroke. Art is from the American Veterinary Medical Association.]

Living Fully

“A day spent without the sight or sound of beauty, the contemplation of mystery, or the search for truth and perfection is a poverty-stricken day; and a succession of such days is fatal to human life.”
—Lewis Mumford

[Photo by Imogen Cunningham.]

It’s Too Darn Hot

If you live where the temperature is sizzling, you could probably use some relief. Here’s a diversion to help you cool off: snow scenes.

Thanks to the authors of Gifts of the Crow: How Perception, Emotion, and Thought Allow Smart Birds to Behave Like Humans, I learned that crows and ravens enjoy playing in snow. This first raven was caught on film for a PBS “Nature” special. (Warning: The first 14 seconds are titles and a gruesome wildlife dinner; start the video at :15 if you need to skip directly to the raven.)

For a different view of a Corvid at play, check out this amateur video of a crow sledding on a rooftop—with his/her own makeshift sled!

Pretty clever birds, don’t you think? I guess only people have birdbrains.

Happy Feline Friday

It’s the end of another workweek for many of you, and what better way to end something than to have something to look forward to? That is, if you haven’t heard already, this August the Walker Art Center is hosting an outdoor film festival of Internet cat videos. And you can vote for your favorite—meaning you can make a recommendation to the curator.

I believe at least one of Simon Tofield’s animations should make it into the lineup.

The Dappled Ones

I have freckles.

They’re not something to be proud of judging from all the freckle-concealing and freckle-removing creams and potions on the market. You rarely see freckled fashion models, but that’s only because someone has covered the freckles with cosmetics or Photoshopped them away.

I’ve never felt embarrassed or ashamed of my freckles (though I’ve had plenty of other body-image issues—don’t get me started!). I suspect this is because my father made a big deal about how wonderful it was to have freckles. They were special, he said, and he liked them. (Hmm. This may have been the genesis of my own fondness for all spotted animals.)

I bring up this odd topic because photographer Reto Caduff has a new book out called Freckles. Caduff thought it a shame that the lovely women he worked with for fashion shoots were expected to hide a part of themselves. So he aimed to show them in a new light. Freckles is a collection of freckled fashion models’ headshots with freckles illuminated front and center.

Years ago I noticed some large freckles on the back of my grandmother’s hand. They fascinated me. If freckles were special, as my father had declared, then these supersized spots must be extraordinary.

“What ARE those?” I asked my grandmother.

She drew her hands away from my obsessive stare. “Yelch. They’re nothing.” And she tried to change the subject.

“But what are they CALLED? Are they freckles?”

“No, they’re age spots.”

“Oh. They’re beautiful!”

“No, they’re not. They’re AGE spots!”

It was a revelation for me and an uncomfortable moment for my grandmother: the recognition of passing youth.

Glory be to God for dappled things…
—opening line of “Pied Beauty” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

I’m now of an age where my freckles have been joined by larger spots, probably about the same age my grandmother was when hers first appeared, and I thoroughly understand her revulsion to these odd blemishes. She was right: They’re NOT freckles. But I feel strangely compelled to uphold my fidelity to the little girl I used to be—the one who LIKED age spots. So you’ll not hear me complain about them. Nope, not one word. I’m dappled and I’m proud.

Animals as Commodities: Kentucky Redefines “Animals,” “Pain,” and “Welfare”

I’m headed for the state capital tomorrow to hear what the Kentucky Livestock Care Standards Commission is recommending for legislation. If you live in Kentucky, I urge you to join me.

Members of the Commission were appointed by the governor and include a pork farmer, a bovine farmer, a judge, a citizen concerned about food safety, an associate dean from UK’s Ag College, a grocer, an autoworker who represents sheep and wool producers, a private investor, several veterinarians, and the pièce de résistance—a farm manager from Cal-Maine Foods, the “largest shell egg producer” in the U.S.

This Commission garnered a little publicity last year when the Humane Society of the U.S. accused it of meeting privately instead of publicly (as it’s supposed to). Since then, the Commission has been known to tweak its recommendations via e-mail rather than in public meetings.

Why so much secrecy? Because a few contentious issues are at stake—such as tail-docking and beak-cutting sans anaesthesia or painkillers and confining animals in crates that are too small for the animals to move in. Apparently, the Commission talked at length during the last meeting about whether to include the words pain and welfare in the standards.

According to Kentucky’s State Veterinarian, Robert Stout, the animals at the center of this hubbub are “commodities,” not “companions,” and he hasn’t seen the science yet that proves commodities feel pain. With “advocates” like Stout, Kentucky animals don’t need any more enemies.

However, I believe the Commission needs a language expert on board to help them suss out obfuscations and stick to clear definitions of terms. I also believe some of the Commission members need to retrieve their consciences and try not to view everything through the lens of profitability (read: greed).

For those of you who live in Kentucky, I want to share a conversation I had recently with a Bluegrass veterinarian. She lamented how many out-of-staters regard Kentuckians as ignorant and backward—even out-of-state vets characterize their Kentucky counterparts this way. I had to bite my tongue. You see, it’s people like Robert Stout who aren’t helping your image. So do Kentucky a favor and prove to the rest of the nation that you’re thoughtful and compassionate. Attend the meeting tomorrow to remind the Commission members that they’re accountable for their decisions. Remind them to see beyond the Almighty Dollar.

The 1:00 meeting is scheduled for tomorrow, July 17, at:
Office of the State Veterinarian
100 Fair Oaks Lane, Suite 252
Frankfort, KY 40601

[Photographer unknown.]

Deflated or Motivated?

As if Zuzu didn’t deflate me enough with her oneupmanship of agility, Lil’ Buck’s grace and balance while jookin’ in this 2011 video pained me further:



On the other hand, Zuzu and Lil’ Buck (not to mention Yo-Yo Ma and Camille Saint-Saëns!) are outliers—part of a curious elite whose extreme giftedness sets them outside the realm of potential available to the rest of us. While I know I’ll never be good enough to reach their inner circle, I hope to at least continue chipping away at my own limitations.

[Video from the Wall Street Journal.]

My Friday the 13th Lens

I’m not genuinely superstitious, but I do love Friday the 13ths. I feel especially motivated on these quirky days to rise above life’s disappointments and unfortunate circumstances and see only loveliness in the world.

On this last Friday the 13th of 2012, join me in contemplating this photograph of one of Everton Wright’s Walking Drawings. What better combination than art, animals, and beach?

Reading Addict Enabled by Local Library

I don’t have to traipse through my library to the nonfiction section in order to find animal books. I can find enough just inside the entrance in the New Arrivals section.

Strategically placed, the New Arrivals section is next to the Returns drop and the Checkout desk. One has to pass through it whether entering or exiting the library. Which is to say there’s no way of avoiding it. And while stronger or more disciplined people than moi may be able to ignore the titles as they pass by, I cannot.

This is how I get sidetracked with books, for the New Arrivals have a shortened loan period. And what with all the notes I take when I read, it becomes an intensive experience.

Recently, a librarian ratcheted up that experience by introducing me to the Summer Reading program. I receive a prize for every 15 hours of reading I do. I’m to keep track of the time in my trusty Activity Log and when I turn it in for my prize, my Log will be entered into a raffle for a free Kindle. Woo-hoo!

The program began on June 1 and ends on July 31. With my late start, I’ve felt a certain urgency in catching up. And, of course, the particular books I borrowed are not breezy reads. So I don’t know if I’ll be able to reach the limit of 5 entries per person by the end of this month, but I’m trying.

I’m guessing the odds of my winning are a little better than my husband’s odds at winning the state lottery (which he more aptly calls “the losery”). But if you keep your fingers crossed and send positive thoughts my way, perhaps my addiction will pay off for once.

[Sorry. I don’t know whose photo this is. Do you?]

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

Many animals look in a mirror and see trouble instead of themselves. They don’t recognize the image and may even be afraid of it.

I’m not sure our cat, Precious, recognized her own visage in the mirror—she never acted like she was seeing any other cat—but she certainly recognized the clear vantage point our foyer mirror offered her and spent a lot of time in front of it. The mirror gave her panoramic views of spaces beyond the foyer—the living room, the sun porch, the bedroom, the long hallway. She regally followed our every move and, I think, taught our dog to do the same. She had control with the mirror; she reigned over our household just by staring into it.

For a different take on mirrors and felines, watch this video of a kitten’s unfortunate first encounter with the looking glass:

Outdone by a Cat

My physical activities have taken a back seat to pain for some time now, but I finally found an exercise program suitable to my limitations: Pilates. Even better, I need travel no farther than my own neighborhood for the classes, giving me no excuses for tardiness or poor attendance.

I’ve actually been enjoying the instruction, even feeling good about my progress and improved agility—at least, I did until the cats visited us.

As Zuzu reclined next to me on the couch one night, I rubbed her tummy and she began flaunting her own Pilates moves. She effortlessly stretched and contorted her tiny body in ways that no amount of practice will ever afford me.

I know it’s foolish to compare myself to a cat. Nonetheless, Zuzu managed to make quick work of my newly budding confidence. Oh, the humiliation!

According to the Nielsen Ratings…

I’ve often wondered about those Nielsen ratings: How many people were selected to participate? Were any of them like me? Did Nielsen even exist?

The answer to that last question arrived in the form of work. Years ago while employed at a typesetting shop—which reeled in Nielsen as a client—I proofread a few projects for the ratings giant. Yet I remained at odds with the America Nielsen analyzed and reported. When would they ask ME what I thought?

Turns out, the answer (a lifetime later) is this past week. Yup. The longtime (since 1923) media research company finally wanted to know what I watched on television. I was selected as a representative of my region of viewers.

Trouble is I feel like a poseur. I doubt very much that my viewing preferences are anything like those of my neighbors. First, I’ve no DISH or cable or similar connection. Second, I dislike reality TV and don’t watch daytime programming. Third, I have no DVR, so a show has to be really good or I have to be really unmotivated before I’ll suffer through commercials for network TV. Fourth, PBS programming in the Horse Capital of the World is a little lean. All of which is to say that my television viewing runs a distant second to my reading activities.

So, though I was delighted to record everything I or my husband watched—and when we watched it on what channel—only one category of “My TV Diary” (as Nielsen calls it) revealed heavy usage: “TV Off.” If I’d harbored any hopes that My Diary would help improve network TV, I would guess my repetitive checkmarks in the “TV Off” column dashed them. Sigh.

Here’s the Best Walmart on the Planet

Did you see this?

McAllen, Texas, recycled an empty box store and—through the vision of architecture and interior design firm Meyer, Scherer & Rockcastle, Ltd.—refashioned it into an award-winning, user-friendly library.

Now THAT’S a Walmart I could spend some time in!

[Photo from Meyer, Scherer & Rockcastle, Ltd.]

And The Point Is…?

The point is: Get ’em while they’re hot. Or, at least, visible.

El Libro que No Puede Esperar (The Book That Can’t Wait) is the brainchild of Argentinian publisher Eterna Cadencia. In a push to promote emerging Latin American authors to a wider audience, the new anthology is printed in disappearing ink. Once you’ve removed the wrapping and exposed the book to air and light, the ink begins to fade. Pages become blank after 60 days. The printed word takes on a whole new urgency.

Great gimmick, but I’m not sure what I would think if my first published story ended up a clutch of blank pages.

[Photo from designboom.]

Deep Discounts on Fabulous Furballs: Get Yours Now!

Sorry I’ve been MIA. But you can see in the photo who’s been in charge of the computer lately.

This is Zuzu (my nickname for her), who was staying with us while her person vacationed. She wanted me to give you a heads-up that June is Adopt-A-Shelter-Cat Month.

It’s Adopt-A-Shelter-Cat Month because this is the season when unexpected litters of kittens overwhelm shelters across this country. Most shelters counter the situation by offering incredible deals to folks willing to adopt a feline, old or young. Some shelters are even GIVING away cats.

I realize there aren’t many days remaining in the month, but if you’ve been thinking about adopting a furball, now is the perfect time.

“The smallest feline is a masterpiece.”
—Leonardo da Vinci

Pets in the Workplace: Enjoyment Up, Stress Down

Tomorrow is the 14th annual observation of Take Your Dog to Work Day. (Actually, for those of you feeling snubbed because you have an iguana or rabbit at home instead of a pooch, this entire week is apparently Take Your Pet to Work Week.)

But since it’s (temporarily) All About Cats here at Lull Central, I thought we could direct our focus to the mixed-species household, the one that embraces both cats and dogs. After the dog has been taken to work tomorrow, what is the feline thinking? What happens in the dog’s absence? Here are a few ideas from Stanley, the spokescat for the CATalyst Council:

“1. Your midday nap will not be interrupted by incessant, frenzied yapping sparked by the mail carrier’s arrival. Or a squirrel in the yard. Or the wind blowing the tree leaves. Or absolutely nothing at all.
2. No sliding in the drool puddles left behind on the tile floor.
3. You’ll finally get to eat your own food. All of it. No sharing.
4. A rare opportunity to use the dog bed as a scratching post. Or litter box—it’s your choice.
5. Being spared the humiliation of the most base of all canine greetings: the infamous and oh-so-annoying Butt Sniff. How uncivilized.”

Stanley cautions his brethren, though: “You must remember that if the dog is at work with your person, you can no longer frame the dog for any of your transgressions.”

I hope your employer is open to having pets in the workplace. For at least one day a year, management could pat itself on the back for having provided its workforce some humanity—in the form of nonhumans.

Read The Bark magazine for info on pets-in-the-workplace policies and a profile of the dogs at Jon Stewart’s The Daily Show.

[Dog art by Paul Boddum; cat quilt by Martha Tabis.]

Fix at 4

Here’s a tender father-daughter moment brought to you by the Best Friends Animal Society:

The Ties that Bind

One of the letters published in Tim Russert’s Wisdom of Our Fathers describes a father who quit school in sixth grade because his own father voiced increasing contempt for education and beat his son for bringing home books.

This is not the first time I’ve read of such a reaction to reading. Even yesterday at the library I witnessed a mother rebuking her young daughter for wanting to borrow more than two books. The girl tried to explain her choices, but the mother didn’t bother listening. She held firm in her position.

My goodness. I can’t even imagine who I would have turned out to be had my father not encouraged my love for books and reading—a love initiated by my mother, who religiously read stories to me during my pre-K years. Most of the quality time I spent with my father involved books and libraries. Books remain my favorite leisure activity and my trusted source for expanding my knowledge base. My fascination with interpreting the printed word paved the way to interpreting music notation and to (proof)reading for a living.

I’ve much to thank my father for, but I think I’m most grateful that he shaped and nurtured my bond with reading and learning. He created more than memories for me. He fostered my desire for continued personal and intellectual growth, armchair traveling, creativity, and pleasure.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. No tie or soap-on-a-rope for you this year. Just a genuine, humble thank-you.

[Art by Eugene Manet.]

Les Chats Have Arrived

My pet-sitting obligations have begun and so far, no good.

The two sibling felines are so terrified they’ve not stirred from their hiding place: a large cabinet that sets on a hollow pedestal. We’ve had this piece of furniture for years, yet I had no idea that from the back of it, its base is open and stands about 6 inches high. (Silly me. I thought we had nowhere the cats could escape to and in less than a minute, the cats knew right where to go.) The poor cats can’t even stand up, which I suppose was fine for the first few hours of their concealment but makes for a poor long-term choice of refuge.

They talked to me momentarily this morning when I tried to entice them out with their favorite canned food, but they couldn’t bring themselves into the light. I’m heading to the store next for some premium catnip toys.

I’m trying not to take this personally, especially in light of the fact that other neighborhood kitties follow me around, RUN to me when they see me going down the street.

While I’m trying to prove myself worthy of the sisters’ trust, you might enjoy watching Will Braden’s Henri, a cat whose ennui reminds me of our Burmese. (Then, don’t miss Henri 2, Paw de Deux.)

The Memory Keeper’s Father

Father’s Day is approaching and I gave myself an assignment:
Read Tim Russert’s Wisdom of Our Fathers and let it guide you through memories of your own father. Write down all the things your father did and said for which you’re grateful—the things you should never forget.

Why the Russert book in particular? Because several years ago I bought it for my father for Father’s Day, then got the wacky idea that I’d get a copy, too, and we’d read it and talk about it together. It would structure our phone conversations and, I’d hoped, prompt my father to tell a few stories I’d never heard—perhaps about his own father or grandfather. Together we would also reminisce about our father-daughter relationship.

Of course, it didn’t work out as planned. Instead, we each owned the book, and we each did not read it. Like father, like daughter.

Yesterday I removed the Russert book from a shelf and added it to the 20 pounds of books I’m about to part with (some I’ve read, others I haven’t). But it gnawed at me. Reminded me of my failed plans and guilted me into action. I felt like ONE of us should have read the blasted thing and since my father had already taken off for the Great Beyond, the responsibility fell to me.

So far it’s working! The reading is sweet and easy (the book is a collection of stories written by adult children about their fathers) and I’m creating a list of the ways in which my father positively influenced my life. This will become the list I’ll never want to forget—a fatherhood torch of sorts.

I recommend my assignment to you, though you don’t need the Russert book to do it. If you’re lucky enough to still have your father around, perhaps your list could become your Father’s Day gift to him this year.

I know some of us have/had fathers who aren’t/weren’t great role models. As one man wrote for the Russert book: “My dad was a beast. … I learned much more about love from my dogs than I ever did from my dad.” Even so, even learning from a father that you want to live differently is a lesson to be thankful for.

Do you have a favorite memory of or lesson from your father to share on Lull? Is your father a closet inventor or tireless prankster? What role did he play in your childhood? I’m not asking for masterpieces—just a line or two will do. Do it for your dad.

[Art by Norman Rockwell.]

Finding Kindness by Land and by Sea

Did you see yesterday’s news? A fellow has been hitchhiking across the lower 48 in search of material for his upcoming book on kindness. Specifically, on the kindness of strangers. As he made his way across Montana, a stranger in a pick-up truck drove up to him and shot him.

I wonder if that incident will be included in the kindness book. Or maybe the author will encounter enough people behaving badly to write a second book. [My thanks to the Lull reader who e-mailed this story to me. Her subject line: “It may not be kind, but it’s America.”]

In contrast, another Lull reader sent me a 2010 headliner about kindness. It happened a little farther north, off the coast of Alaska.

The strangers were in a large boat instead of a truck, and they were headed to a small town for a leisurely brunch. Their plans shifted as four unidentified creatures in the distance swam ever closer to the boat. The creatures turned out to be four Sitka Black-Tailed Deer, swimming for their lives and clearly needing help. Where had they come from? How long had they been in the frigid waters? Where were they originally trying to go?

Ship captain Tom Satre wasted no time in answering any questions; he immediately rallied his companions—his brother, sister, and daughter—to help the animals. Everyone worked at lifting the deer onto the boat and getting them warm and calm. The operation was touch-and-go for a while, but the humans managed to keep all four deer alive until reaching land, by which time the deer appeared to have recovered their health and were released. [Click through to a full news story for details, or to Tom Satre’s Web site where you may view more photos of the ordeal.]

With the world in economic and environmental turmoil, it’s sometimes hard to see how we can possibly make any difference. For most of us, I think the first step—and maybe the only step—is to act with kindness every day. It’s the simplest, most direct way of improving our world—one encounter at a time, human or nonhuman.

[Photos by Sharon Kelly.]

In Praise of Art

“I feel that art has something to do with the achievement of stillness in the midst of chaos. A stillness which characterizes prayer, too, and the eye of the storm. I think that art has something to do with an arrest of attention in the midst of distraction.”
—Saul Bellow

[Art by Gustave Caillebotte.]

Dreams DO Come True

Most of us have dreams, but only a few of us get to see them come true. Yesterday, Phyllis Wyeth watched a horse she believed in spring her dreams out of her imagination and onto the Belmont Stakes finish line while thousands watched.

Thank you, Union Rags. You’ve rekindled hope for the rest of us.

[Photo by Mark Lennihan.]

BOOKreMARKS: DEWEY Rises Above Other Animal Memoirs

The day I purchased two stacks of animal-related books from the library sales cellar, I threw in Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World at the last minute. I’d tried to borrow it from my Chicago library branch years ago when it was first published, but someone else always got to it before me. After buying it, I wondered why I did when I could easily have borrowed it in the Bluegrass. After all, it was only a sweet little tale about a rescued cat’s life in a library. Like so many similar memoirs, it would be touching at first read, but it wouldn’t linger in my mind. It wasn’t a keeper.

How wrong I was—on so many counts.

I have to confess upfront that I missed all the media fanfare about Dewey back in the ’90s. So every page was new to me. That said, I was hooked by the heft author Vicki Myron gave the book, for she told not only Dewey’s story but also that of her town and her family. Readers come away enriched with insights about: living in a small town; the metamorphosis from family-owned farms to corporate farming; the effects of joblessness on rural communities and libraries; city and library politics; and, of course, the influence animals exert over humans. I got so much more than I bargained for—plus it’s not dripping with saccharine language and it’s not full of typos as are so many books of this genre.

“Sometimes a cat is more than an animal…”

Above all the insights, though, Dewey remains the star of the book. He was certainly much more than a cat. He was also a library promoter, Web traffic manager, storytime consultant, family counselor, workforce mediator, and affection magnet. His intelligence, his comic antics, and his empathy are lovingly illuminated. In fact, a film is in the works and Myron has penned two additional books featuring the golden feline.

Add Dewey to your summer reading list. It’s a fast read that you won’t soon forget. But be warned: You might be struck with the unusual desire to visit Spencer, Iowa.

[Photos of Dewey from his Web site.]

A Dewey Sidenote: Twisted Thinking
As testament to the secrets that small-town residents can harbor, no one ever discovered who threw baby Dewey down the library book-drop chute that frigid evening in 1988. But curiously, once Dewey later met with stardom and acquired a fan base, numerous people stepped forward to claim credit for abandoning him!

Bird Briefs

Plumage-Watch Duty Ends
It pleases me to inform you that LuckyBird now sports a full and glorious tail of red and black. The tailless Cardinal has frequented our feeder ever since I first reported him to you—sometimes alone, other times accompanied by his Sparrow pal. He always peers through the window at us, as if to say, “Hey! Are you in there?” or “Hi guys! Watcha doin’ today?” or “Are you ever going to invite me in?” He acts as if he’s part of our inner circle.


Horsepower and the Urban Barnyard
Walked down our street the other day and saw the Chickens again. They were exploring their new next-door neighbor’s driveway. I love that I can see a Maserati parked there one evening and the next watch some curious fowl strut around the same area. (Yes, my quaint, manicured neighborhood of tiny, storybook homes occasionally offers a little eye candy to car enthusiasts: Ferraris, Aston Martins, Porsches, vintage Mercedes and Jaguars… Interesting demographics here. You can’t pigeonhole these folks.)

See Me! Feed Me! Love Me!
It’s baby-bird season now and I have delighted in watching their feeding rituals. The Sparrow mothers have been feeding their offspring from our feeders—sometimes in the yard, sometimes on our window ledge. The youngsters flutter their wings at a hummingbird pace while crying at a frantic pitch. They hold their mouths open, reaching their heads toward the sky in anticipation of their mothers’ next nourishment drop. Once these babies are on their own, their first few trips to the feeders are both comical and worrisome. They teeter on the perches, fighting to remain upright. They struggle to figure out how to turn toward the food while maintaining their balance. And just when it looks like they’re about to relax into a meal, an older bird swoops in and scares them back to Square One. The laborious process begins again, but their confidence is shakier than before. The feeder is a class in bird behavior and an inkling of how much the fledglings must learn in order to survive.


Hearing a Different Tune
Confidence was no problem for one unusually small young Sparrow. He swiftly mastered the balancing part of the feeder routine, and approached the eating stage in a far more direct manner. He worked his way down the perch until he could lean against the ceramic wall of the feeder. After a bit of maneuvering, he managed to extend his right foot up onto the edge of a feeder opening and hoist his upper body in through the opening. All I could see of the diminutive acrobat was his tail and his left leg. He got what he came for and I haven’t seen him since. But I will never forget his resourcefulness and chutzpah.

“The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing.”
—Eric Berne

I know precious little about birds. Many times I wish I could match the song or call I hear to the bird it’s coming from. Part of me wants to know more about their behavior and social structures. But I think I derive greater pleasure from their mystery, allowing it to stoke my imagination and my fondness for them.

I Dream of…

Scattered about this blog are references to one of my grandmothers. She’s pictured here in a photograph I’m pretty sure she never wanted to share with anyone. She NEVER let anyone see her unless she’d styled her hair and makeup for the day. She didn’t mind you seeing her in her robe, but she had to “have her face on.”

I like this pic largely for its naturalness. My grandmother isn’t posing for the photographer.

I also like it because it’s my grandmother at an age of dreams instead of memories. Everything’s possible in this moment. She hasn’t yet created all the stories of her life.

Today would have been her 100th birthday, an age she vehemently opposed reaching.

Happy Birthday, Gammy! I hope you’re rediscovering your glamour and your dreams.

I’m TRYING to Be a Good Little Vegetarian, but…

Many years ago in an office I was working in, the topic of conversation turned to vegetarianism. At that time, a lot of folks strangely equated vegetarianism with cutting back on red meat consumption. One such person in the office asked a vegetarian friend of mine, “But you eat fish and chicken, right?”

I’ll never forget her answer: “I don’t eat anything that has a face.”

I thought of her the other night as I was preparing a vegetarian meal. I was peeling and chopping potatoes and it was taking much longer than I wanted it to. I wished I’d inherited my mother’s culinary magicianship. She could peel a potato in one long slice—a single, unbroken curlicue of skin the end result. Not me, though. Chop and peel, chop and peel (yes, rather than peel the whole potato, I chopped it into wedges first, and peeled second; it seemed more manageable somehow). Then the next little golden potato I brought to the cutting board was the one in the photo.

Do you SEE its happy little FACE?! It befuddled me. I could hear my friend again: “I don’t eat anything that has a face.” I didn’t know what to do.

What would my friend have done? Not eat that particular potato but have no problem with the other faceless tubers in the bag? Stop eating all potatoes altogether in honor of the happy-faced spud?

Does every vegetable have a face and we just fail to recognize it most of the time?

Oh dear. I must stop pondering this. Otherwise, whatever will I be able to eat?

Back to the Grind

If you’re having trouble getting excited about your next project/shift/week at work, here’s something from Garfunkel and Oates that should either renew your sense of purpose or make you chuckle.

A Barnyard Lady Killer Bids Farewell

He arrived at Catskill Animal Sanctuary with 13 ewes and lambs and he was bad to the bone. There wasn’t a stall that could pen him in, not a creature who had authority over him. The humans called him Rambo, for he was all horn and rage—until…at last…he wasn’t. He transformed from wild to wise and became the self-proclaimed guardian of all the barnyard animals. He herded them, rescued them, guided them, and comforted them. They looked up to the Jacob ram and, if they were female, had a crush on him.

Yes, Rambo attracted the fairer sex of many species, especially the wingèd variety. Barbie, the rescued broiler hen, was one of his favorites. In Animal Camp, CAS director Kathy Stevens describes seeing Rambo approach Barbie and hoof the ground, the signal he used with humans to get a massage out of them. But Barbie didn’t understand the signal, so Rambo showed her what he meant: Ever so gently, he massaged her body with the tip of his horn. A few days later, Rambo could be seen relaxing in the barn with a busy Barbie at his side, pulling hay from his coat. As their relationship intensified, so did the jealousy of Hannah the sheep.

Hannah fancied herself the rightful mate of Rambo, in a Fatal Attraction kind of way, and was never far from the object of her affections. In fact, she fretted if he wasn’t in her sightlines. As Stevens entered the barn one day, she saw Rambo but no Hannah. This was odd and prompted her to ask a CAS employee about Hannah’s absence.

“She’s in time out.”

“What happened?” asked Stevens.

“She head-butted Barbie halfway across the aisle.” Hell hath no fury…

As Rambo aged, arthritis gripped his body and slowed him down, but it didn’t impair his sense of responsibility to his flock. A couple of months ago when the cows escaped, he couldn’t round them up himself so he did the next best thing: He hobbled to the humans and alerted them to the situation. Stevens knew Rambo would soon face his final transformation and she tried to steel herself for it.

She was right. Last Saturday Rambo transformed from earthbound to spirit while surrounded by everyone who loved him, both human and nonhuman. In a fitting portent, just the day before, the sanctuary had welcomed 14 sheep rescued from neglect—one of them a Jacob ram. While a new era begins for the flock, it seems Rambo’s legacy is sure to continue.