Kelly's Critter Talk

Ode to a Much-Loved Donkey

2011-12-20T10:02:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by!

I was hoping to round out the year by telling you a charming story about how the mouse who lives in my house has set himself the task of carving new designs in my wooden knife handles, but that will have to wait. It is with deep regret that instead, I must report the death of my beloved donkey friend, Cricket.

I always considered Cricket the mascot of the barn where I volunteer. She was the only donkey in residence, and she was a cranky donkey as well, which made her locally famous as someone who might take a bite out of your ankle if the spirit so moved her. I'll never know why she had such a cantankerous personality - we have no way of knowing how she was treated before she came to the barn - but her unwillingness to make nice rendered her surprisingly endearing to all who knew her: Cricket lived life on her own terms, and if you didn't like it, tough beans!

Cricket came to the barn by way of Kenny the Tiger Guy. Kenny's a local fellow who rescues exotic animals. His lions and tigers require a LOT of food, and occasionally, people donate sick or dying horses for that purpose. In Cricket's case, from what I understand, her owners simply gave her up when it became apparent that she was not going to go along with their breeding plans. There wasn't one thing wrong with Cricket apart from being unwanted, and Kenny's a nice enough guy that he didn't want to destroy a perfectly healthy animal. So he called the barn, and the barn agreed to give her a good home.

In the five years since, Cricket wormed her way into the heart of every volunteer who met her. We all loved her, no matter how badly she treated us: if she was in a crabby mood and you were in her way, she would go through you, rather than around. She had a habit of simply - and literally - flicking you out of her way with her big, misshapen head. She didn't care about people's personal space, and she didn't care about manners, which made her far more interesting than the horses who always observed the social niceties. I think we all loved her precisely because she refused to play by the rules.

Her head was misshapen for a reason. No one knows why - she came to the barn that way. Barn owner Wendy, who has seen more animal cruelty than anyone would want to, always said she hoped the injury was an accident, rather than intentional, that perhaps a horse had accidentally kicked Cricket in the head and broken some bones in her face. The bones never healed properly, which created a large, unyielding lump around Cricket's left eye. Not only did the lump impair her vision in that eye, but in hindsight, I wonder now whether the injury caused her the sort of chronic pain that might have accounted for her dark moods.

Even when she wasn't crabby, Cricket was unpredictable. One sunny summer day, as Wendy cast about for some way to entertain the barn urchins, she suggested that we give Cricket a bath. Baths can be a tricky thing when you're trying to lather up thousand-pound animals. Some horses like the occasional bath, some don't. Wendy insisted - in a manner which suggested that she knew from previous experience - that the donkey liked baths, so we walked Cricket out in front of the barn and proceeded to hose her down.

It became clear quite quickly that Cricket did not, in fact, like baths at all. As I clung to her lead rope, she twisted and turned this way and that, trying to get away from the hose before finally bolting altogether and running off down the driveway, dragging me along behind her. Cricket didn't weigh a thousand pounds, but she weighed enough, and it took quite some doing to bring her under control. From that day on, the idea of giving Cricket a bath became a running joke at the barn. Whenever Wendy would try to reassure me about a jittery horse, I would retort, "Sure, and you said Cricket loved getting baths, too!"

One of my more memorable Cricket moments happened a couple years ago. She was being exceptionally crabby one Saturday - to the point where she actually refused a snack I offered her. Turning down a snack was unprecedented for Cricket - a thing that she herself must have realized because just a minute or two later, she tried to pin me up against a stall door. I knew what she was doing, trying to force a snack out of me, but I was unmoved at that point, and said rather loudly, "I already offered you one and you wouldn't take it!" Just as the sentence left my mouth, I looked up to see barn co-owner Ron walking toward us.

After all these years of being a Critter Lady, I'm accustomed to talking with animals. Be it cats or ducks or horses (or donkeys!), I'm confident that they understand my meaning, if not the actual words themselves. But in spite of all those years chatting with critters, I still find it very embarrassing to be overheard by humans! Just image my mortification then, when, the minute I admonished that greedy donkey, I turned around and saw that a human being had heard the whole thing!

I developed a habit, over the years, of loading up a fanny pack with horse snacks, and wearing the thing around the barn every Saturday. Snacks were doled out generously to all and sundry, with Cricket getting the most due to the fact that she rarely, if ever, wanted to go out in the paddock with the horses; she liked staying in the barn with us. Wendy didn't really approve of the fanny pack, and warned me, periodically, not to wander out among the horses with it. I understood: a herd of greedy thousand-pound animals could make mincemeat out of a puny human. But, to me, Cricket was a different story entirely.

Wendy would issue the occasional edict that Cricket was no longer to be hand-fed. Cricket had her own greed issues, and could be every bit as dangerous as a horse. I had seen this up close and personal once, when, on a rare day that she was in the paddock, Cricket reared up in my face. Ears pinned, teeth bared, front hooves flailing, she reared up several times, and I was alarmed by the fact that she was completely out of control. I literally dove between the strands of the electric fence in order to get away from her.

The incident frightened and puzzled me, but I must confess, it didn't stop me from plying her with snacks! To the last week of Cricket's life, I always had a snack ready for her. If Wendy was in the vicinity, I would put the treat on the ground in front of Cricket. If Wendy was elsewhere, I would pop the snack in her mouth with the comment, "Don't rat me out, Cricket!" Indeed, Cricket's love of snacks was so reliable that, the last time I saw her alive, and she refused all the treats I offered, I knew that something was very wrong. Four days later, she was gone.

It was my riding instructor, Connie, who called me with the news. They didn't know what caused Cricket's death, and in fact, even the subsequent necropsy provided no concrete cause of death. Wendy thought that there might have been an infection raging inside the donkey, but we'll never know for certain.

I was in the middle of dinner in a restaurant when the call came. Connie told me that there was time for me to come out to the barn and say good-bye before they buried Cricket, which is exactly what I did. A certain numbness overcame me as I tried to enjoy the rest of my meal, but as I drove through the darkness toward the barn, I allowed the fact of Cricket's passing to fully register, and the tears began to flow.

When I got to the barn, I asked Wendy what had happened. She told me that Cricket had walked out into the arena, laid down, and in less than 20 seconds, had died. She'd been feeling poorly for several days, not wanting to eat much, and running the opposite of a temperature - her body temperature was below the normal number for a donkey. Wendy said that, whatever had been wrong with Cricket, she hadn't suffered much in the way of pain; Wendy had dosed her fairly heavily with painkillers. She gestured to where Cricket lay in the arena and said, "Go be with her." Of all the humans I know, Wendy is one of the few who understand the need to spend some time with the animal's body, saying one's good-byes.

I sat down next to Cricket's head. I rubbed her face as I cried, resting my hand on her nose as I tried to take in the enormity of the loss. I stared down at her face, sending out into the universe the twin thoughts that I would love her - and miss her - forever, and hoping that she heard them. And, because she was no longer there to stop me, I did the one thing in death that she never let me do in life: I stroked her big, fuzzy, rabbity ears. She had always pulled away when I reached for them. Now, there was nothing she could do about it.

I sat with Cricket for quite some time. When I was finally ready to leave, I sought out Wendy, who was topping off the horses' water buckets. I nodded my understanding as she said, "I didn't sign on for this! I'm here to rescue them, not bury them!" Given that, in only a few short months, two horses - and now Cricket - had died, I knew what she meant; that it was simply too much for a heart to take.

I remarked to her the irony in my decision - made months ago - to make it a "donkey Christmas" for the urchins: each would, during our barn gift exchange, receive from me a framed picture of him or her standing next to Cricket. The pictures had been taken over a period of many months, on the rare occasions that the donkey had stood still long enough for me to get the shot. There was no way that any of us could have known that Cricket's time with us would be so limited. The "donkey Christmas" idea turned out to be a sad irony indeed.

The barn is extra quiet, now, without Cricket's unique braying. It was never much of a "hee haw," but rather more of a "chuff chuff chuff eeek-HAW!" I will especially miss the way she liked to keep me company while I cleaned stalls. She would come into the stall with me, and then proceed to block as much of the doorway as possible. She did this to all the urchins, as well, and they could frequently be heard complaining, "MOVE, Cricket!" Wendy dealt with the intrusions by threatening to put her in a stall out of the way of the workers if she didn't vacate the area voluntarily, but I always enjoyed Cricket's presence, and simply chose to work around her. If I couldn't get past her, I'd just stand there and scratch her back for a while. Cricket lived life on her own terms, and I saw no reason to insist that she do otherwise.

That's all for now, folks. May you all have a wonderful holiday season, with health, happiness, and the love of great critters in the new year! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters! And please leave a comment below so I know you were here!

Grief Among Friends

2011-11-07T16:10:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by.

I feel the need to post more thoughts about the loss of my beloved lesson horse Ruckus, so I hope you'll indulge me while I continue to work through my grief. For those of you who haven't read my blog before, this post will make considerably more sense if you read the two previous ones first.

I had been talking with my riding instructor about doing lessons on a different horse for some time before Ruckus died. It wasn't a matter of me not wanting to ride him anymore, but rather, it was a matter of wanting to learn new things on a different horse. Ruckus had served me well over the years, but if you want to broaden your scope, you need to experience other temperaments and personalities. But Connie has a full-time job, a husband, and a young child to care for, so fitting me into her already-busy life took some doing.

During the same time that Connie and I were in talks about lessons on another horse, I was also keen to do a trail ride on Ruckus before winter arrived. I tried to do one or two trail rides a year, as a way to mix things up a bit: while Ruckus was entirely predictable in the arena, taking him out of his comfort zone and walking around neighboring fields always presented a bit of a challenge. I never knew whether he'd startle over some unfamiliar feature of the landscape, and that uncertainty served to keep me on my toes. Connie and I had done a trail ride this past spring, and I was itching to do another. Unfortunately, Ruckus's untimely death put paid to that idea.

In the mood to move life forward a bit from my grief, I scheduled a lesson on Charlie Horse for late this afternoon. I was looking forward to it. I've ridden Charlie several times and found him to be an enormous challenge. While Ruckus - who enjoyed going as fast as you'd let him - required a certain amount of rein, Charlie is the exact opposite: the rule of thumb is to stay completely out of his mouth and maneuver him solely with your legs. Because of that, I was keen to have Connie teach me how to be quieter in the saddle. It's no good treating every horse the same because they simply aren't. What works for one won't necessarily work for another. And I wanted more than to just ride a horse who would tolerate my mistakes; I wanted to learn not to make any.

The sky was grey and leaden, and it began to rain as I pulled up the driveway. I spent a few minutes grooming Charlie before tacking him up. At my request, we were doing an English lesson, with English tack. I'd taken a few English lessons, several years ago, but generally, I much prefer Western. I always feel naked, sitting on that tiny English saddle! But if I was going to move forward, out of my grief over reliable Ruckus and all our Western lessons, then this was the way to do it: on a different horse, with different tack, and a different style of riding.

The lesson went well enough, in spite of the constant feeling that I was mere milliseconds away from making an unscheduled dismount. The main problem seems to be that, unlike Western saddles made with suede, an English saddle is made with nice smooth leather. Since my riding britches are a nice smooth cotton, there's nothing to provide any grab or friction. It took some doing to get accustomed to clinging more tightly with my legs, but I managed it after a fashion.

After a considerable amount of posting around the arena, Connie urged me to try loping. At first, I resisted - that darn saddle was just too slippery for my liking! But after some encouragement from Connie, I gave it a try, and found, to my considerable surprise, that Charlie wasn't nearly as bumpy at the canter as he was at the trot. By the end of the lesson, my confidence on Charlie had improved considerably, and I felt satisfied that I'd gotten my money's worth - and then some - from the lesson. I dismounted and walked Charlie back to the cross ties, where I relieved him of his tack, then stalled him so he could eat his dinner.

It was then, as Connie closed up the barn, turning off the lights and casting one last glance around the stalls, that we started talking about Ruckus. I'd been wondering about her relationship with him, given my impression, over the years, that Nicky Naylor was actually her favorite. As it turns out, Nicky placed a close second to the first horse Connie had ever owned, a horse she'd had since the age of ten. The subject of his final days came up, and it was then that Connie told me the things that are generally just between friends.

In the gathering gloom of dusk we stood, watching the rain falling outside as Connie detailed Ruckus's sudden colic. Quietly, she talked about her hopes for his recovery, based on the fact that he showed no signs of pain or suffering. She talked, too, about how the vet dashed those hopes when he explained that when the gut twists, it acts as a nerve block, so that the horse doesn't feel pain, even though Ruckus's intestine was, by then, already dying. She shook her head as she said that she simply couldn't make the call to put him down, that it was her mother, Wendy, who had to say, "It's time."

Connie's voice broke as she described walking Ruckus out to the back of the pasture, and her eyes welled with tears as she repeated to me the last words she had spoken to him before he was euthanized. She told him how much she loved him. She told him that he was perfect. My own eyes welled up then, and the tears spilled onto my cheeks because I knew without question that those were the exact words that I would have said to him. Connie and I stood there together in semi-darkness, sharing our grief as she shared details that would never be shared with the barn urchins. Those details were simply too personal, too painful, to explain to youngsters. I'm grateful that she shared them with me.

There are those people in the world who are callous enough to believe that all animals are alike, that if you lose one, it's a matter of simply replacing it with another. And there are those people in the world who, like me, are animal lovers and who, like me, understand the monumental loss when a beloved critter dies. It takes with it an enormous force of personality, just as any human would, and leaves behind a painful void in the lives of those who loved it.

When Ruckus died, he took with him an extremely genial personality, one given to occasional silliness, a fondness for snacks, and a love of running as fast as his rider would allow. He forgave the children their multitude of mistakes, and he trod carefully when they were on his back. He was safe and reliable with me, as well, and he never once put me in any danger. His loss is a huge one, made all the more searing because I never got a chance to say good-bye. After four weeks, my mind still refuses to accept the unacceptable.

So while I enjoyed my lesson on Charlie Horse today, the good vibe was tempered by the knowledge that I'll never be able to do a lesson on Ruckus again. It's not just a new Now that I have to adjust to, it's a new Future, as well, one that won't include my beloved "handsome bubby." Right now, that's just too much for my heart to accept.

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, I urge you to spend extra quality time with the animals in your life, and please be kind to all the critters!

P.S. Please leave a comment so I know you were here! Thanks!

In Memory of Ruckus

2011-10-31T10:50:00.000-07:00

It's been three weeks since my buddy and lesson horse Ruckus died unexpectedly at the age of twenty. I'm no closer to believing it now that I was then: the mind cannot process what the heart refuses to accept.

I had known Ruckus for over six years, and had just recently begun giving lessons on him to one of the barn urchins. He was not, nor had he ever been, my horse in an ownership sense; in that regard, he belonged to my instructor Connie. But in my heart, I loved him as my own, got annoyed with him from time to time as my own, took him for granted as my own. It is that last which pains me the most.

It was a regular feature of Ruckus's personality that after one of the urchins dismounted, he tried very hard not to let anyone else get on! Even as I held his reins tight, he would side-step this way and that, trying to thwart the next rider's attempts to climb on. In his mind, once a person got off, that was it, he was done for the day! Try as I might, I never could convey to him the idea that he would be done when I said he was, and not a minute sooner! In spite of his best attempts, though, other riders always managed to get on and have a turn.

He was a safe horse for the young volunteers to ride. He tolerated their mistakes well enough, and never put anyone in danger. Sometimes, though, he just didn't feel like dealing with the kids, and at those times, he'd be a little stinky. He'd walk over to the gate where the rest of the children were gathered, and he'd stop there and make the kids figure out how to get him going again. It was always their biggest challenge, backing Ruckus out of the corner he'd put himself into, and getting him back on track. Horses can be like that: sometimes, they like to make you work for it!

He had replaced Old Crazy as the go-to horse for the children to ride. Crazy would play her own tricks on the kids, like turning right when she'd been told to turn left, completely vexing in the process the earnest youngsters who were trying their best to learn how to ride. After she died, the responsibility of conveying the volunteers around the arena fell to Ruckus. He performed his job well over the years, and everyone expected that there would be many more years of riding him to come. That's always the way, isn't it? How often, I wonder, do we make the mistake of assuming that our loved ones will be around indefinitely? It's an illusion that comforts - right up until it shatters.

It is to Connie's credit that, in the midst of her own grief over the loss of her first horse, she made the effort to seek me out and offer some words of comfort. On the evening of the day Ruckus died, as I sat down to lose myself in some mindless television, my phone began to vibrate. The texts came fast and furious, then, three at a time, all twelve of them from Connie, who wanted to reassure me that Ruckus hadn't suffered, that he'd gone to a better place to keep Crazy, Old Mikey, and Newt the mule company. It was clear that her own heart was breaking when she wrote, "I can't stop picturing his sweet loving face...it makes me sad to know I will never kiss that face again." I was, and still am, grateful that she took time out from her own sorrow to reach out to me in mine.

Last week, searching for some way through this awfulness, I asked barn owner Wendy, "Now what do we do?" Her reply, "I don't want to think about it right now," was understandable. Even so, I was thinking about it. My brain came up with a never-ending stream of stupid questions: who will I trail ride now? Who will the children ride? Who will I take my lessons on? They were admittedly selfish questions for which I have no answers. More recently, Wendy announced that she'd be consulting with Connie about using one of the rescue horses as a successor to Ruckus. Whether that idea pans out remains to be seen.

In the meantime, each of us has dealt with our grief in our own way. Connie has a young son to focus on. The barn urchins all posted "R.I.P. Ruckus" on their facebook pages. My own project involved creating a new facebook album called, "In Memory of My Buddy Ruckus," and filling it full of pictures of Ruckus and I together, along with photos I'd taken of him over the years. So much time spent taking him for granted. So little time spent savoring each and every moment.

It is the agony of knowing that I'll never get another chance to savor him that grieves me the most. There will be other horses, other rides, other experiences, but there will only ever be one Ruckus. And while I told him frequently that he was my favorite Ruckus in the whole world, I also blew a million chances to stop and enjoy the moment, to kiss his face and breathe his scent. To stand with him just a little longer, and give him yet another snack. What a careless fool I've been!

While I know that I'll learn from this experience and spend more time with the horses to come, I know, too, that complacency will creep in, as it always does, and I will eventually find myself back here, writing another blog about having taken another beloved critter for granted. It's human nature to blot out the inevitability of death. No one wants to spend time thinking about life after loved ones. It's too depressing.

So for now, the barn is a bit quieter for me. Animals always take a big presence with them when they go. I expect that the void will be filled someday, but not just yet. The urchins have been subdued as well. A shock like this one takes time to recover from. I really hope Ruckus knew how loved he was!

That's all for now, folks. Thanks for stopping by. Please leave a comment so I know you were here. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

All Things Must Pass

2011-10-11T13:09:00.001-07:00

George Harrison must have been in a philosophical mood when he named his first post-Beatles album "All Things Must Pass." He was right, of course, even if no one was prepared to agree. Change is a difficult thing in the best of circumstances. At the worst of times, the mind simply refuses to accept it.

When my riding instructor, Connie, posted a facebook comment yesterday informing everyone that her beloved horse had died, I felt a little philosophical myself: Nicky Naylor had had a good long life. He'd been losing weight recently, and the Alpha horse seemed quieter than usual to me. I had known that his time was coming, so it saddened but didn't surprise me when I read Connie's comment. The only thing she'd left out of the comment, though, was the horse's name. Given that there are 15+ horses at the barn, it was important to clarify which one had died. I posted my own "So sorry," comment, then waited for confirmation.

It never came. What came instead was the unfathomable one-word answer: "Ruckus." My buddy Ruckus. My lesson horse. The horse all the barn urchins rode. The same Ruckus I had loped around the arena just this past Saturday. The Ruckus who was younger - and in better shape - than his friend Nicky Naylor. How was this possible? What on earth had happened between Saturday and Monday?

It was a wonder that barn owner Wendy managed to decipher the voice mail I left her. "Sob, snuffle, sob, on earth happened? Sniff, blubber, sob, buried yet?" She called me back almost immediately, and told me what she knew: that Ruckus had been in inexplicable pain that refused to cease. They held out as long as they dared, then, forced to accept the unacceptable, agreed to euthanize. Wendy, wanting answers, had the vet perform a necropsy, which showed that Ruckus's colon was impacted, and indeed, had begun to die off. Euthanizing was the inevitable, and humane, course of action.

I can tell you very little about Ruckus's life before I knew him. Wendy's daughter, Connie, barrel-raced him, and they competed together for over five years. He never had any spectacular wins to his credit, but managed to accrue enough points to at least make Connie willing to keep riding him. He was a good boy with a mild personality. When I met him, he'd retired from competition and been pressed into service as a lesson horse at Wendy's barn.

The Ruckus I knew was an amiable fellow. I learned how to post on him. I learned a lot from him: I learned about patience, and trust, with him. I learned not to be so bossy, to give him time to respond in his own fashion, rather than getting worked up that he didn't do as I asked right away. I learned when to be firm, and when to chill out. I learned to let Ruckus be Ruckus: recently, when I used him in a video I made to promote my book, he pooped on camera. Instead of getting mad, I laughed, and used the footage rather than do the whole video over. Horses poop; what are you gonna do?!

We had a moment, several months ago, that told me that we had created a bond between us. The bond may, in fact, have been there all along, lying dormant until the right situation brought it to the fore. It's entirely possible that I hadn't been paying attention to the state of our relationship. It's a mistake we all make with the critters in our lives: we spend their lifetimes taking for granted that those animals will be with us forever. Or at least for an indeterminate number of years yet to come. And it never occurs to us that today might be the day that that beloved animal dies.

In any case, we'd been loping around the arena. After all the barn urchins had ridden him - pulling the reins too tightly, making the mistakes that inexperienced children make - I would climb on and let him run it out. Ruckus liked running, and he seemed to enjoy the opportunity to have at it. We'd lope a few circles in one direction, then turn around and lope the other way. We were right in the middle of this, and sharing the arena with a pony named Sequoia and his mistress, when one of them accidentally touched the electric fence. The zap it gives you isn't particularly painful, but strangely, you always remember it!

Immediately after the shock, Sequoia panicked in that way that horses do, tossing the 20-something girl off his back before racing around and around the arena. The minute I saw what happened, I pulled Ruckus to a halt. The safest thing for us to do was stand still and let Sequoia run it out of his system. Which is exactly what he spent the next seven minutes doing.

At one point, Sequoia ran into the corner behind Ruckus and I, standing there as though he was hiding from the girl who stood quietly, waiting for her horse to settle down. Sometimes, that sense of panic can have a domino effect: other horses see the one freaking out and figure they'd better do the same. It was to Ruckus's credit that instead of joining Sequoia in his meltdown, he looked to me for direction instead. An interesting conversation took place then, between Ruckus and I. Not one word escaped my mouth, but we talked nonetheless:

Ruckus: So....is there a plan, here?

Kelly: Yep. We're just gonna stand here for a while.

Ruckus: That's it? We're just standing?

Kelly: That's the plan. We'll just stand here quietly for a while.

Ruckus: O.k.

It was the first time that Ruckus not only looked to me for direction in a tight situation, but trusted that I knew what I was doing in the bargain. He finally had enough faith in me to let me take the lead. Ruckus was never a horse to stand still for long, but I'm proud to report that he remained completely still for the duration of Sequoia's meltdown, pointing one ear forward to keep up with the action, while pointing the other back at me, waiting to hear my next command. I was so proud of both of us that day. Proud that I'd learned enough to know that in some situations, your best action is inaction, and proud as hell of Ruckus, who had willingly let me take the lead because he trusted that I could.

That wasn't the only time I was proud of him. In spite of his retired status, a young girl came to the barn this summer, looking to lease him for the county fair. I watched her a few times as she worked with him at the barn. Between you and me, I was a little skeptical about it all. In the first place, the weather during the fair was brutally hot, and those horses have to stand in tiny stalls all week. In the second, the girl didn't look like she knew much about horsemanship. But you know what? She took fourth place with him! Boy, was I surprised!

I never let him forget it. Every time the barn urchins and I would groom him, I'd remind him that he was a "Fourth-Place Champion Horse!" From somewhere near his hind quarters, I'd hear the kids snickering, and I'd admonish them, "There will be no mockage! No mocking the Fourth-Place Champion Horse!" Never sure whether I was kidding or not, the kids would quickly swallow their giggles.

He was, of course, more than just a Fourth-Place Champion Horse. He was my pal. My buddy. My "handsome bubby." The best Ruckus in the whole barn. The kids would laugh at that one, too. They'd roll their eyes and say, "He's the ONLY Ruckus in the barn!" "That doesn't make him any less special!" I'd retort.

I'd give him endless snacks. He had a way of thrusting his head out from the cross-ties, eyes wide as saucers. He'd have the most comical expression on his face, as though he'd been starving all this time and just needed ONE MORE snack to revive him. I always told him, "Work first, then snacks," but I broke my own rule almost every time. Life's too short to be stingy with the snacks.

Stupid questions keep popping into my head. Who will I ride now? Why didn't I arrange a trail ride sooner, when I was thinking about it? In truth, they're not the questions I really want answers to. These are:

Who else will I love as much as I loved Ruckus?

Who else can I trust as much as I trusted Ruckus?

Did he know how much I loved him?

Why haven't I learned by now not to take the animals I love for granted?

Why didn't I give him some extra treats on Saturday?

Why? Why? Why?

Grieving is a process, and not one to be rushed. Grief has its own time-table, and its own stages, too, five of them: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Acceptance may well be the hardest, because the mind has to come to some agreement with the notion that all things must, indeed, pass. That's a bitter pill to swallow. And I'm definitely not there yet.

I'm going to miss you, buddy. More than you could possibly know.

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please spend some special quality time with the animals you love.

Do-Overs

2011-09-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by.

The regular readers of my blog know that every once in a while, I like to veer off the subject of animals and onto something completely different. The desire to do this usually stems from an event, or "Thing," as I like to call them, and this time is no exception: a Thing happened this weekend, and it's weighing heavily enough on my mind that I feel the need to unburden myself. I hope you'll understand, and find it in yourselves to indulge me here. For those of you who absolutely cannot bear the idea of a critter-less blog entry, try googling Cayr Ariel Wulff. She writes a fun dog-related blog called Up on the Woof.

In any case, the Thing I want to tell you about is my 30-year high school reunion, which took place this Labor Day weekend. Reunions are funny things, aren't they? Because life is such a great leveler, people we voted "most likely to succeed" often haven't. People we thought would be total losers turn out to be bank presidents. Almost everyone in the class has experienced some harrowing setback or other - a death, a divorce, a health crisis, etc. We go into these reunion events remembering how things used to be, and wondering how much has changed. In truth, everything has.

There will always be the characters that make us laugh and say, "You haven't changed a bit!" Donny Whitner seems to fit that category nicely, but in fact, he's seen his own share of sorrow. I recall attending the visitation when his mother passed on, years ago. Life may have smiled on some of my classmates, but if I had polled them this weekend, I don't think that any would have said that life has been easy.

It certainly hasn't been easy for me. Some of you may not know that I'm a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I endured over ten years of abuse at the hands of the one person I was supposed to be able to trust: my father. The resulting damage created what was, essentially, a shy, frightened, obnoxious, angry teenager who had no idea how to Be. You know what I mean: those popular kids in school who always seemed to know how to talk to the opposite sex, the ones who seemed so confident and sure of themselves. How I envied them! How I envied people like Shawn, and Tracey, and Barb, and Renee - who were all so pretty, who always knew how to act and what to say.

The obnoxious angry thing was a wall, of course, designed to keep people at arm's length. I needed a safe place, back in those days, and inside my wall was it. The only problem was, I never let anyone in. How could I, when I had no idea to behave, no idea what to talk about, no idea how to be a normal human being? How could I let anyone get close when I had no idea how to trust them? The end result was that I spent a lot of time alone and lonely, watching my friends and wishing I could be like them.

It may surprise some of you to know that back in those days, I felt ugly. Indeed, I was quite certain that I was ugly. Worthless. Damaged. The fact that guys rarely asked me out only served to confirm what I already suspected: that no one saw any value in me. I can't blame them for that, I probably seemed pretty undesirable: I swore like a sailor, I had no flair for clothes, I was painfully shy, I didn't know how to make small talk. I was not the sort of girl that any guy wanted to take home to meet his mom.

We held any number of dances, throughout high school. A few were formal, but most were informal "sock hop" type things. There was a building uptown that we used most Saturday nights. The partying crowd would usually get trashed at someone's house (often mine) beforehand, then turn up at The Beehive, as the building was known, thoroughly wasted, falling all over ourselves and generally having a fine time while an upperclassman played the songs of the day. It's funny how now, thirty years later, I can still associate certain songs with certain high school memories. Steely Dan's "My Old School" always got all of us on the dance floor. Back then, when high school seemed to go on forever, I don't think any of us could imagine a time when we'd never be "going back to my old school," but we were certainly optimistic about it!

The slow songs were the best ones, of course. Especially the longer ones like "Free Bird" and "Stairway to Heaven." The long ones gave you a perfect excuse to snuggle up to someone good-looking for a few minutes! You can't imagine how I envied all those snuggling couples from my vantage point against the wall! More often than not, if I wanted to get close to a hot guy, I had to do the asking myself. I didn't mind that, really, but it would've been nice if they had asked me instead.

So jump forward in time with me now to my 30-year reunion. I had the great good fortune of finding an absolutely stunning little black Ralph Lauren dress at a second-hand store for ten bucks. The minute I slipped it over my head in the changing room, I knew that it would be my "revenge dress." The revenge dress, in case you don't know, is that little piece of satisfaction that tells all the haters "kiss my skinny little ass" in no uncertain terms. And there were a few people in the class who needed to suffer the wrath of my revenge dress! Lucky for them, they didn't attend, which is fine with me. In any case, between the revenge dress, the minor nips and tucks I've had done over the years, and the 20+ years of therapy, I was stylin'!

That is to say, I looked FANTASTIC!

Now, I knew that I was oozing fabulosity. I've acquired enough self-esteem by now to know exactly what I looked like on Saturday night, and what my personality brought to the game, as well. I turned a lot of heads. Men flirted. Women were gracious about my look. I knew going into the occasion that it was going to be a special night for me, but at the time, I had no idea just how special it would end up being. Because, you see, I had no idea that the Gods were going to let me have a do-over.

No one ever really gets a do-over, do they? None of my friends have ever mentioned having one. Maybe it's a rarity, like Haley's Comet, only coming around once every 82.3 years or something. And I certainly wasn't looking to have a do-over kind of night; I just wanted to annoy a few specific women with my flat stomach and my great hair! But the Gods apparently smiled on me that night, and handed me Barry on a silver platter!

A little background here: Barry was one of the hotties on the football team. Guys liked him, girls wanted to be with him. He was that wonderful combination of good looks, charm, and humor. Self-effacing, easy to be around, willing to get up to a little mischief every now and then. Stories about riding around in his car - which was dubbed the "Death Wagon" with good reason - were legendary. I don't think there was anyone who disliked Barry. He was just that kind of guy.

I had a crush on him myself, in high school. Even asked him to a prom. He turned me down - he had already asked someone else. The rejection was understandable, but, as always, it felt like yet another confirmation that guys REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO GO OUT WITH ME! Let's face it: guys just don't want to be with an obnoxious swearing idiot. What they did want was Shawn - who dated Barry during our senior year, while I watched wistfully from afar.

Thirty years later, we've all reached a certain parity: some of the hot guys then are less so, now; some of the nerds turned out to be really good looking; a number of plain Jane's are now stunning beauties. We've all grown up, gained a little perspective, gotten our shit together (more or less). Now, we're a group of people on the cusp of middle age, fondly reminiscing about dumb things we'd done back in the day, remembering folks who died too young, and laughing at the ones who are still goofy after all these years. It was a fine evening, but it was missing something. That something was Barry, who had other commitments over the weekend.

So I spent some time stalking his best high school buddy, Billy. Hopping up and down impatiently at Billy's side, I said in a stream-of-consciousness kind of way, "Billy-Billy-Billy-text-Barry!-text-Barry!-text-Barry!" As it turned out, Barry was able to squeeze some time out of his obligation-laden weekend, and showed up near the end of the evening. "I'll be there in 10," he texted Billy in response.

I'd be leaving out an important detail if I didn't tell you that Barry's been happily married for a long time, now. So I wasn't looking to do one of those infamous hook-ups that we all hear about at reunions. To be honest, I'm not sure exactly WHAT I was looking for, I just knew it was Barry-related. So I hopped up and down some more while I waited for him to arrive.

The class had rented the Holiday Inn ballroom until midnight - which was fast approaching by the time Barry arrived. I had already consulted the DJ, and then informed Barry in passing that when he heard "Stairway to Heaven" playing, it was time to dance. Then I wandered off to tease Billy about his horse-shaped weather vane.

To the opening strains of that classic Zeppelin song, I glanced around the room, crooked a finger at Barry, and walked out on the dance floor. I turned and looked at him. When I held up my arms, he swept me into the kind of embrace that a woman only experiences a few times in life. And then we danced. For the eight minutes and three seconds that it took Led Zeppelin to sing that song, I was transformed. I was the prom queen. I was the pretty girl that the hot football player wants to dance with. We talked. We laughed. It was easy. It was magic.

I'd never experienced magic before.

We were the only ones dancing. One by one, classmates filtered out of the ballroom, heading to the hotel bar to continue the party. Apart from the DJ, we were the only two left in the room. Neither one of us cared. It was our moment - a moment Barry later conceded was "long overdue," given his own admission, earlier in the day when he briefly crashed the class picnic, to a crush he'd had on me all those years ago. Those classmates must have wondered what was going on out on the dance floor, given that we were clearly in a zone all our own, where not so much as one molecule of air could've passed between us, such was our embrace.

The buzz I got from the evening stayed with me well into the next day before reality came crashing in. That's the way it is with do-overs, though: they're much too fleeting. And then they're gone. Barry, of course, went home to his wife and 2.5 kids. I went home to my cats, my depression and PTSD, to the horrific nightmares that plague me on a nightly basis. Back to the life that's frequently interesting, but never magic. I had no idea how hard going back to reality would be.

I spent the better part of this day crying, off and on. Crying because it took 48 years to experience the sort of magical moment that all my normal friends took for granted back in high school. Crying, too, for Barry's kind willingness to indulge me for those eight minutes. He can't know how much that dance meant to the frightened, ugly, shy, damaged girl who still resides within.

I want to thank everyone who participated in the Perrysburg High School Class of '81 reunion. It was such fun talking to all of you, catching up on new things, and laughing about old things. I'm grateful that so many of you were willing to overlook how abominably I behaved thirty years ago. And I'm grateful, too, for those eight magical minutes with you, Barry. You made a fabulous woman/troubled girl very happy. Thank you!

Something Different for You!

2011-09-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

As a change of pace, I thought I'd post a link to an interview I did recently. I spent a very pleasant half hour or so chatting with "The Real Dr. Doolittle," Val Heart, being interviewed for her podcast. I've included the URL link to the interview, but my computer doesn't seem to want to work right, so instead of clicking on it, you may have to copy and paste it into your search engine:

http://www.valheart.com/blog/the-real-dr-doolittle-show/author-of-the-crazy-critter-lady-kelly-meister-on-the-real-dr-doolittle-show™/

For those of you who are interested to learn more about Val, here's her bio:

Val Heart is called The Real Dr Doolittle and is an Expert Animal Whisperer. She helps people who are struggling with their animals training, behavior, health, and end of life transitions. She resolves problems in minutes not years because she bridges the gap between people and their animals. She can also teach you how to be your own Dr Dolittle so you can save money at the vet, and resolve behavior, performance and training problems yourself. Free AnimalTalk QuickStart Course (value $79), The Real Dr Doolittle Show™ (free podcast) now on iTunes! (210) 863-7928, http://www.valheart.com

I hope you enjoyed the interview! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

You'll Be In My Heart

2011-08-17T17:00:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by! I know that I promised to tell you all sorts of interesting critter stories from the adventures I've enjoyed this summer, but a different story has been on my mind lately, and I feel the need to tell it. I hope you'll bear with me.

Have you ever experienced something really profound in your life, and for whatever reason, came to associate a certain song with that experience? And every time you hear that song, no matter how far back in time the experience was, that music brings all the old thoughts and feelings rushing back? Such is the case with me now. Every time I hear Phil Collins "You'll Be In My Heart," my eyes well up and my mind flashes back to my own first, profound experience.

It was eleven years ago this month that Macavity died. The deaf, all-white cat originally belonged to Lee, a man I lived with for several years. Toward the end of our relationship, Macavity became ill, losing weight and enduring horrible diarrhea that went on for months. A decent person would have taken him to the vet, but Lee was a drug addict, you see, and spending money on a veterinarian would cut into the amount of money available to spend on drugs. Eventually, I made the appointment myself, dragged Lee along, and stood there feeling like a total jerk when the doctor looked at us and announced, "It's not good. He'll have to stay." As it turned out, Macavity's liver was failing. He would require daily sub-cutaneous infusions of saline solution to help his poor, beleaguered liver flush out the toxic cooties.

I broke up with Lee shortly after Macavity's diagnosis. He took his cat and moved back in with his mother. He started stalking me, then, turning up drunk and angry, pounding on my apartment door and demanding to be let in. It was terrifying. I called the police so many times that the prosecutor finally took the case seriously. Together, we pushed the case through the courts, and Lee was sentenced to seven months in jail. Immediately after the sentencing, I drove to his mother's house and asked whether she wanted to do the sub-cu treatments herself while Lee was locked up. When she said no, I casually offered to do them myself, scooped up the cat and was gone. Macavity and I moved across town and left no forwarding address.

Come stop your crying,
it will be all right.
Just take my hand,
hold it tight.
I will protect you
from all around you.
I will be here
don't you cry.

He had lost all the weight he could possibly lose and then some. He was skin and bones. He slept most of the time. Sometimes, he wobbled and lost his balance as he walked. I had no experience with sick cats, and had a needle phobia to boot. It took a certain fortitude for me to stick him with those huge needles once, twice, sometimes three times a day. The wonderful techs at the vet's office gave me all kinds of suggestions on how to care for him. Cook some rice in tuna water, they said, the rice might help with the diarrhea. Warm the bag of saline solution before you inject it, they said, it will be more comfortable for him. Knowing that money was tight, they often gave me supplies for free. They never told me just how sick Macavity was, they merely encouraged me to keep doing what I was doing.

You'd think that all those needles and all those bags of saline solution under his skin would have made Macavity unhappy with me, but that was never the case. He seemed to understand when I explained, "It's Go Juice, it helps you go!" He never fought me, never clawed, never bit. He tolerated those treatments as though he trusted that I was doing my best to help him.

For one so small,
you seem so strong.
My arms will hold you,
keep you safe and warm.
This bond between us
can't be broken,
I will be here
don't you cry.

In retrospect, I know now that the attention I gave Macavity was more than he ever got from Lee. Even when Lee was physically present, his mind was elsewhere. I've no doubt that he loved Macavity, but he was numb and detached, and probably thought that the attention he gave his cat was enough. It's a testament to Macavity's own sense of isolation that he responded to those unpleasant saline treatments not with hissing and hiding, but with purrs and snuggles. During his last months, we grew closer than I ever knew was possible.

Cause you'll be in my heart,
yes, you'll be in my heart.
From this day on,
now and forever more.
You'll be in my heart,
no matter what they say.
You'll be here in my heart, always.

Dr. Green and his staff never told me that Macavity was dying, even though they knew. There was simply no way he could survive when he was pooping blood all the time. It's physically impossible. But Macavity didn't know he was supposed to be dying, and so he held on. Day after week after month, he held on. There was no medical explanation for the fact that he continued to wake up each morning, he just did.

Why can't they understand
the way we feel?
They just don't trust
what they can't explain.
I know we're different, but,
deep inside us,
we're not that different at all.

Because he was born deaf, Macavity had always been skittish. When Lee and I moved in together, it had taken the cat a couple of years to get used to my everyday presence. In that last year of his life, though, Macavity not only tolerated his daily treatments, but he initiated a ritual that told me just how important our relationship had become to him. Every night, as I lay on the couch (the bedroom was too far away from where he slept in the living room), he would join me for a snuggle. He would jump up and settle, half on my chest, half on my pillow, his cold wet nose touching my cheek, his small cat breath on my face. He had never once done such a thing when Lee and I were together. It was an extraordinary gesture, one I treasured every single night. And all the while, he continued to outlive the veterinary staff's predictions.

Don't listen to them,
cause what do they know?
We need each other
to have, to hold.
They'll see in time,
I know.

We spent whole days together. I wasn't working then; I was fortunate to be living with a man who was willing to pay the vet bills for a cat he didn't own. While he was at work, I would read, or work on pottery projects, always in the apartment, always in the living room where Macavity was. Sometimes, on sunny days, we'd sit on the balcony and bird-watch. When he wanted my attention, he would trill at me. You could hear the question in his voice, a sort of, "Would you notice me now, please?" I would go over him with a flea comb then. Macavity didn't have fleas, but he'd neglected his coat for so long that it needed daily care from me. While he napped, I'd consult with the vet's staff on matters of diet, on his never-ending diarrhea, asking question after question, and concentrating carefully on every answer. And all the while, he continued to outlive the staff's predictions.

When destiny calls you,
you must be strong.
I may not be with you,
but you've got to hold on.
They'll see in time,
I know.
We'll show them together.

I learned later that Macavity had been expected to live no longer than three months from the time I kidnapped him from Lee's mother. In fact, he lived for thirteen. No one could offer an explanation. No cat whose liver is failing to that degree lives thirteen months. And yet, he did. Repeatedly, I had asked the staff, "How will I know when he's ready to go?" They would always say the same thing, "You'll know." But I didn't. There were two times when I thought maybe he'd had enough. Both times, I had called the office, and arranged for Dr. Jill to come to the apartment to euthanize him, only to call back within hours and change my mind. I don't know who wasn't ready then - him or me. The day did come, of course. And on that day, if I wasn't entirely certain, I was certain enough. It had been a long haul. He'd lived fifteen years. He was tired. There was nothing else to do, no other treatments to try. We euthanized him on the balcony.

You'll be in my heart,
believe me, you'll be in my heart.
I'll be there from this day on,
now and forever more.

It was vet tech Terry Ann - a Christian woman with a rock-solid faith in the Almighty - who may have supplied the answer to the mystery that was Macavity's longevity. Discussing the matter over enchiladas at our favorite Mexican restaurant not long after Macavity died, she told me that she believed Macavity had lived so long because I loved him so much. In her view, there was no other explanation. And, you know? I choose to believe her.

For reasons I won't get into here, I ultimately scattered Macavity's ashes at Kew Royal Botanic Gardens outside London, England. It was the closure I needed. I've since returned there, to that spot by the lake, to linger for a time and enjoy the view, knowing that if there is, indeed, an afterlife, I've chosen his eternity well: I scattered those ashes where he can enjoy the ducks on the lake, and the birds in the meadow nearby. I look forward to joining him there when my time here is done.

You'll be in my heart,
no matter what they say.
You'll be here in my heart, always.
Just look over your shoulder.
I'll be there always.

That song still makes me cry.

lyrics by Phil Collins
(c) Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.
and Walt Disney Music Company

I've been a busy critter lady!

2011-08-10T16:14:00.001-07:00

Hi Folks!

I want to apologize to those of you who have stopped by over the summer, only to find that I haven't updated my blog since May 29! It's been a really busy spring and summer, critter-wise, and I just haven't had time to write! The good news is that my first book, Crazy Critter Lady, is now available! Simply go to my website (www.crazycritterlady.com) and click on the link there, or you can go directly to Amazon.com and enter my book title in the search engine. Crazy Critter Lady is also available at www.barnesandnoble.com.

I'm absolutely thrilled that the book is finally in print and can't wait for all of you to check it out! Read all about how that gang of domestic ducks roped me in and got me hooked on caring for them, and find out why Spanky the cat has low self-esteem! You can also read about the champion horse who knew more than I did and never let me forget it!

In the meantime, I'll make a concerted effort to update this poor blog in the next month or so. I think you'll enjoy hearing about the Great Crayfish Rescue of 2011, not to mention all the fledgling friends I made out in the back yard this spring!

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Anniversaries

2011-05-29T11:50:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by!

It seems that spring has finally arrived, here in the midwest, but instead of April showers, we're getting May monsoons! I'll be glad when the weather decides to cooperate!

I've been putting off writing this blog entry for a long time. The reason why will become apparent fairly quickly. Suffice to say, this particular subject is still a painful one for me, and writing about it means having to open doors that I'd just as soon leave shut.

It's been a year and a month since my beloved Miss Muffin passed away. I've spent most of that time trying very hard not to think about her at all because whenever I do, a searing pain burns my heart. I've had to euthanize a number of critters over the years, so I know that the pain will subside over time, but that doesn't change the fact that there's a huge empty place where Muffin used to be.

While she was with me for eleven years, and I loved her very much, I also took her for granted - a thing that grieves me still. Junebug and Spanky usually got more attention because they were squeaky wheels, whereas Muff would wait quietly to be noticed. She spent her days lounging in the family room. Whenever I'd lie down on the couch for a nap, she alone would jump up and snuggle with me, nestling against my stomach and purring happily.

She was the only cat I could take outside without a leash: she was never inclined to go any farther than I did, always staying close to me as I walked around the yard. I made a video of her once, lying in the grass enjoying the sunny day. In the narrative, I said that I didn't think she'd be around much longer; her health seemed to have taken a quick turn for the worse. In fact, the day after I made that video, I had to put her down.

There's never enough time to say good-bye. Those of you who have had to euthanize your critter friends already know that. You can spend an hour or a day or a week doing nothing but breathing in the smell of your pal, burying your face in their fur, and telling them all the things you meant to say over the years, but it's never enough. Just typing those words has started the tears streaming down my face: I spent quite a long time in the veterinarian's exam room, doing and saying just those things and knowing that wasn't going to be enough to sustain me once Muff was gone. And, indeed, here I am, a year and a month later, still grieving deeply for my girl.

I had her cremated because it's much more portable than burial. Mine has been something of a nomadic life, never living in one place for more than a few years. How could I bury a beloved pet, knowing that one day, I'd be moving on and leaving them behind? Like Pretty Boy Duck before her, I had no idea what to do with the small decorative tin full of ashes, and so I simply left them on my kitchen table. Both sets of ashes are still there now.

The dynamic among the surviving cats has changed. Gracie comes out of the bedroom more often now, and usually joins me on the couch in the evening when I watch t.v. Muffin hated Gracie from the start, but I never realized that that was why Gracie kept to herself. Seeing her come out of her shell now is actually a bit of a comfort: Gracie hasn't quite got the snuggling together thing down yet, but she's trying.

Junebug's come out of her shell more, too. She was a little afraid of Muffin, so I think she feels like she's on safer ground, now that Muff is gone. She naps in most of the places that Muffin used to. I don't know whether that's a territorial thing, or whether she finds some comfort in using those spot.

My half-feral cat, Buddy, who normally spends most of his time sleeping on the bed, has now taken a proprietary interest in what goes on around the house. Several times a day, he'll walk through all the rooms, making sure that everything smells right. I often wonder whether he's not actually trying to find Muffin. After he makes his rounds, he'll frequently join the rest of us in the family room for a nap.

It's orange tabby Spanky who seems to be suffering from a lingering grief. I have no idea whether he knows that the anniversary of Muff's death is upon us, but some time in the last couple of months, he became much more needy than usual. He'd walk around the house wailing in misery, then follow me around, staring up at me with his huge green eyes. When I pick him up and hold him, he purrs softly, though I sense it's more from relief than actual contentment.

When baby Spanky came home to live with us, he immediately put Muffin on notice that she was his new mom, and he never stopped demanding that she take care of him! Even in the days and weeks before her death, he would present his head to her for licks. Sometimes she'd growl, and sometimes she'd comply. No matter how many times she told him to go away, he always came back for more. He loved her so!

It was impossible for me to make sense of her death for Spanky. He simply couldn't understand what I meant when I said she "had to go." I didn't like the sound of it myself; it sounded too much like she had been banished from my home, rather than she was sick and wouldn't recover. No matter how I phrased it, there was no way of making Spanky understand what had happened. All he knew was that his mama was gone and wasn't coming back. It was the worst possible thing that could happen to a needy cat like Spanky.

Spanky's neediness hasn't done much for my frame of mind. I don't generally object to being needed, but now, while I'm still dealing (or not) with my own grief, dealing with Spanky's, too, is hard. I hold him when he seems to want it, I groom him with the flea comb from time to time, and I talk to him frequently. I studiously avoid any mention of Muffin, although there is the rare occasion when I'll say to him, "I know, Niblet. I miss her, too." And then I slam shut that door in my heart.

I'm a cheap substitute for his beloved mama. Spanky had always wanted a cat family, rather than a human one. I knew that all along, but it never occurred to me that he would grieve as deeply as I when she died. Since Spanky has always been the baby of the family, I wonder now whether he'll ever get over the loss.

So it's being a tough spring for me. The dreary, rain-filled days don't help my state of mind. The disease of depression is hard enough without crappy weather and the loss of loved ones, never mind grieving pets for whom there are no words of comfort. I really hope that time helps relieve Spanky of his burden of grief. I hope the same for myself.

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, enjoy the special relationships you have with your animal pals, and please be kind to all the critters!

P.S. Please leave a comment so I know you were here! Thanks so much!

Life Lessons from Grandpa Walton

2011-04-07T15:29:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by!

Well, it seems that Spring has finally sprung. I know this because here in Northwest Ohio, we're in the "April Showers" portion of the season! It seems as though all it's done this week is rain. And if it isn't raining, it's looking like it wants to rain. There's been lots of damp and dismal, and very little in the way of cheery and springy! Such is the nature of nature!

If you read the "About Me" piece on the right side of your computer screen, it says that I don't have cable t.v. In the first place, I don't want to pay for it, and in the second, I don't want to spend that much time in front of the t.v. when I could be doing other things. When analog went the way of the dodo bird, I bought one of those digital converter boxes. It did its job well for about a year, and then suddenly, I couldn't tune in to any of Whoville's local channels anymore.

Initially, I thought the converter box had died, but that turned out not to be the case. I never did figure out what the problem was, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the local cable company jammed the signals so that I'd be forced to pay for cable. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I didn't feel I could live without my weekly dose of Grey's Anatomy, so I signed up for the cheapest possible package.

It came as a surprise to learn that, as a cable subscriber, I was to get a few more channels that just my five network ones. Even so, I rarely gave them anything more than a glance until recently. Turns out the Hallmark channel shows reruns of several programs from my youth, like Little House on the Prairie, and The Waltons. I always liked that show!

Grandpa Walton was my favorite character. He was such a wise old soul, and his wisdom was always tempered with humor, and a willingness to indulge his grandchildren in a way that none of the other adults were inclined to do. Those other grown-ups always insisted that the kids behave and mind their manners. Grandpa, on the other hand, would merely grin and wink, knowing that sometimes, kids just need to be kids.

I generally have better things to do than watch a lot of t.v. But today, I was just killing time: I'd run out of busy work, and the nightly news wasn't on yet. I settled myself, more or less, to watching The Waltons until it was time to watch something more substantial.

I confess I was a little distracted. I had some other business on my mind, and kept tuning in and out mentally, as one does, catching a few lines of dialog then wandering somewhere else in my head. At some point, though, it became clear that this wasn't just any old episode, and that I might get something out of it after all, if I paid attention.

It was an episode in which middle daughter Erin finds a lost fawn. She brings it home and insists on keeping it, even though her parents tell her no. At some point, the local park ranger (and who knew that Walton's Mountain had one of those?) turns up and tells Erin that it's illegal to keep a wild animal. As kindly as he can, for he understands that Erin's very upset about it, the ranger takes possession of the fawn and releases the little fellow back into the wild, where he's meant to be.

That's not the end of it, of course. That very night, Erin has a premonition that something bad is about to befall the fawn, and she convinces her father to help her go looking for it. Bringing the ranger along, Daddy Walton indulges his daughter, and all three proceed to search for the critter that Erin's named Lance.

The Waltons find Lance just as shots ring out: the ranger's been having trouble with poachers on Walton's Mountain, and wouldn't you know it, the poachers had taken aim at Lance. Fortunately, Lance is found with little more than a flesh wound, and they bring him back to the Walton's barn for rest and rehab. The ranger tells Erin he knows about a fenced-in farm where he can take Lance. The deer would be safe behind that fence, he tells the child, and Erin can come and visit any time she likes. It sounds like the perfect solution.

That evening, as Erin fusses over Lance, Grandpa comes in to give the deer some hay. Erin tells him about the fenced-in farm, and how happy she is that Lance will go somewhere safe. She asks Grandpa what he thinks about it, and he tells her, very gently, that he reckons that wild animals should be allowed to live wild. "Even though they'd be in danger?" she asks him. "Even so," Grandpa says. Living wild, he explains, means that Lance can run free, and choose his own mate, and eat all the tender green grass he wants to. He might not be safe, but he'd be FREE.

And therein lies the crux: one of the McKinnon's Pond ducks is gone. When I went to feed them today, I noticed that Old Fellow was nowhere to be seen. Because he's a Pekin (and therefore white), he's not a duck who can hide in the shrubs. I searched everywhere and found no trace of him.

As always happens when one of the ducks disappears, I agonize over the fact that I could've/should've found homes for them, safe homes with fences and people who understand about predators. At the same time, I can't help thinking what a (usually) wonderful place McKinnon's Pond is for a duck: it's HUGE, with plenty of territory for everyone, lots of mud for dabbling in, and a sense of freedom that I assume they enjoy. No one I know could possibly offer them anything remotely similar.

It's a quandry that I've dealt with for a number of years: find them safe, contained homes (and it must be said that those are in very short supply), or allow them to remain at the pond, at the mercy of various predators, and hope like hell that everything turns out o.k. It's not exactly a recipe for longevity. So it's striking that of all the Waltons episodes they could've shown today, and of all the days I might've tuned in to watch an episode, the one I see has Grandpa Walton telling me that wild animals want to be wild.

I know that domestic ducks aren't wild animals, even though my gang is living wild. I know that they're meant to live on farms because that's what I keep telling the residents of Whoville, every time I write a letter to the paper asking them not to put live ducklings in their children's Easter baskets. I KNOW, for heaven's sake! I just have trouble getting past the fact that they have a huge pond at their disposal, and mates to keep them company, and that even though they seem glad to see me when I show up, every last one of them turns and walks away when our visit is over.

That doesn't make losing them any easier. As I listened to Grandpa Walton's words of wisdom today, I burst into tears for Old Fellow - a gregarious duck who never saw a pile of corn he didn't like. I cried again as I wrote this piece, because I can never quite settle my mind to one thing or the other: safe, fenced-in ducks, or free but dicey? I wish I knew for sure.

As you might imagine, Erin chewed on Grandpa's words and realized that he was right. At the end of the show, she took Lance up on Walton's Mountain and released him. He hung around for a couple of minutes, then dashed off into the woods, where he could live free.

In spite of the untimely end to his life, I know that Old Fellow had some good years at the pond. He was well-fed, he had a mate whose company he enjoyed, and he had a loving human who plied him with corn and looked after him as best she could. Sometimes, I can do no more than that.

That's all for now, folks. Thanks again for stopping by. May all of you enjoy quality time with the animals in your life! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters! And please leave a comment so I know you were here.

Twelve Minutes

2011-03-20T14:24:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by, and Happy First Day of Spring!

Here's a question for you: if you only had twelve minutes to evacuate your home, what would you take with you? I consulted several people on the matter, and their answers ranged from "my dogs and my wallet," to "the stainless steel silverware." We'll get back to that last answer in a minute! As you might imagine, among my animal-loving friends and acquaintances, the obvious answer involves grabbing their critters and leaving the rest.

I, too, thought that my pets would be my one and only concern. Then I realized that twelve minutes probably wouldn't be enough time to get all four of them into their carriers. I remember when the June 5 tornado ripped through Northwest Ohio: I had a reasonable amount of time to sequester the cats in the bathroom. The only problem was, I couldn't find all four. At some point, I was forced to quit looking and run for shelter. I waited out the storm with two cats intact, and a grim certainty that the other two probably wouldn't survive if the tornado took my home. As great good luck would have it, the tornado struck elsewhere, leaving my house without so much as a shingle out of place.

I imagine that's why my friend and Fowl Weather author Bob Tarte said he'd save the silverware in the event of a forced evacuation: because there's no possible way that he and wife Linda could rescue every single one of their 50+ animals. And who wants to think about such a depressing fact if you don't have to? I don't blame Bob for giving me such a flippant answer: it IS a depressing thought, knowing that in such a situation, you'd basically be signing the death warrant of every animal you didn't have time to rescue. I don't know if I could do it.

In asking the question, I'm referring, of course, to the twelve minutes that the residents of Sendai, Japan, had to evacuate their homes before the tsunami struck. The terror they must have experienced in those minutes is unimaginable. We here in the mid-west of the United States are uniquely fortunate in that we've never been threatened by a thirty-foot wall of water. Tornadoes, yes. Floods, periodically. But we've never experienced having entire towns wiped off the map in one fell swoop. I don't even know how you would start over after such a thing.

I heard on the news that a number of residents did manage to bring their pets with them to safety. I've also heard that a considerable number of animal rescue groups are already on the ground in Japan - just as they were in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina - searching the rubble for any signs of beloved family pets. The idea that people from foreign countries would put their own lives on hold in order to travel to a far-away place (at their own expense) to rescue the pets of complete strangers brings tears to my eyes. I know for a fact that if I were in the shoes of those poor beleaguered earthquake/tsunami victims, I could never repay my gratitude to the volunteers who found my cats.

I know that there are numerous animal rescue groups in action in Japan who could really use your donation money. I'm not going to mention them here because I don't have any way of knowing which are reputable and which are not. I can say with certainty, though, that you can get more information through Best Friends Animal Society by visiting their website at www.bestfriends.org.

I urge you all to think about how you would feel if volunteers showed up to search the rubble that used to be your home, looking for your pets, and I urge you all to consider making a donation to the animal rescue group of your choice. You can donate as little as five dollars. Just think if a thousand people each donated five bucks - that's five thousand dollars to buy critter food, carriers, and medicine to treat their wounds. Believe it or not, your five dollar donation could mean the difference between life and death! How cool is that?!

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please say a prayer for the people of Japan, and please be kind to all the critters!

The Great Mouse Rescue of 2011!

2011-02-22T12:22:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by! I hope you've all survived the snow and bitter cold Mother Nature's been throwing at us this winter!

I've been debating for some time which critter story I wanted to write about. The matter settled itself yesterday when I climbed out of bed to find two of my cats staring intently at a big wicker basket in the corner of my bedroom. It could only mean one thing: there was a rodent back there somewhere. Sure enough, when I peeked behind the basket, I saw a little brown mouse.

In the three years I've lived in my house, this is only the second time I've seen the mouse. I've known about him for quite a while, though, since I started finding mouse poops in the knife drawer. You might think a mouse hanging out in a knife drawer is a little strange, until I tell you that the cabinet where I keep the cat kibble is directly below that drawer! Apart from occasional poops, though, I never saw the mouse himself. Indeed, sometimes, so much time would go by between poops that I began to wonder whether he'd moved out altogether.

A week or so ago, I found that Buddy and Spanky had taken up positions outside my pantry door. I've lived with my cats long enough to know that when they do that, there's a mouse in the vicinity. Sure enough, when I poked around in the pantry, I found my house guest pacing back and forth behind the 50# bag of duck pellets I store in there. I tried to catch him, but as you may know, they're fast little buggers, and he got away. It doesn't bother me that he got away from me, though. I was more keen that he get away from my cats!

When I lived at my previous home - a renovated chicken coop - there was always a mouse in residence. Hell, there was a chipmunk living somewhere in the attic, too, but these things don't bother me! I figure, they're all God's creatures, and they all have a right to exist. As I see it, my job is to live and let live. Unfortunately, my cats see things differently, so I'm accustomed to running interference, and rescuing mice when I'm able.

At the chicken coop, if the weather was decent, I'd let the mouse go outside in the shrubs. In one memorable instance, it was too cold to just dump the little guy out in the snow and hope he survived. I set up a temporary home for him in the hope that he would weather the weather, as it were, and wait it out until spring came, at which time I planned to release him. The mouse had different ideas, though, and chewed his way to freedom. A week later, one of the cats caught and killed him. Boy, was I steamed about that!

I know that many folks set traps, and shudder at the mere thought of a mouse invasion. These same people like to emphasize their point by telling me that mice can spread diseases, to which I say, how else are you going to build up your immune system if you don't expose it to the occasional illness?! Besides, there's a cure for the plague now!

So instead of trying to eradicate the problem, I spent some time, yesterday morning, trying to coax the mouse out from behind the wicker basket and into my closet. This took some doing because mice don't understand that I'm a benevolent giant intent on saving their lives, they just know that I'm really big and scary-looking! After a few minutes spent watching the little guy ping-pong back and forth around the room, I finally managed to shoo him into the closet. The last thing I saw before I shut the door was that tiny creature leaping into one of my shoes. I assumed I wouldn't see him again for a while. Naturally, I was wrong.

I was watching the nightly news later on when I heard the squeaking. There was a brief cranial delay before my brain realized that the noise meant the mouse was back and the cats had found him. I hustled out of my chair and raced to the living room, where I found all four cats circling around the room the way cats do when they're excited. I spotted the mouse behind the console, and spent some time trying to catch him. As usual, though, he managed to evade me and disappeared without a trace.

Before heading back to my chair and the news, I thought I'd make a pit stop in the bathroom. When I walked in, though, I realized that the mouse hadn't entirely disappeared; he'd managed to find a new hiding place behind the rattan shelves. Judging from Buddy's "I know you're there" position in front of the shelves, it was obvious that Buddy did, in fact, know that he was there!

After chucking Buddy out of the bathroom and closing the door, I had to stop and think about my strategy. Those little field mice move fast, and I've lost more of them than I've actually caught, over the years. I grabbed a sieve from the kitchen, and a small sheet of cardboard from my office, and returned to the bathroom.

When I pulled the rattan shelves away from the wall, the hair dryer and curling iron that had been lying on top dropped like rocks to the floor. I winced and hoped the little guy hadn't been squashed by them. Luckily, he was fine. Glancing around the room, I spotted him desperately trying to squeeze himself between the grates of the heating vent. The grating was too narrow, though, so he raced off in search of another escape route. At some point, he accidentally cornered himself against the toilet. Now was my chance!

Waving at him with one hand, I held the sieve in the other, poised above him. The minute he ran in the direction I wanted him to go, down came the sieve. Gently, I slipped the sheet of cardboard underneath it, sandwiching the mouse in between. Now I had him. Once I'd caught him, though, I had to give some thought to what, exactly, I could do with him. Outside was an ice storm, with five-odd inches of snow still to come. It was much too cold out there to simply throw him out, knowing that he had no warm nest to go to. On the other hand, I couldn't just let him go any old place in the house because those four cats of mine weren't the least bit interested in sharing their home!

When I drew on the knowledge I had of my lodger, I thought that if I could aim him in the direction of the interior walls of the house, he'd be o.k. I mean to say, I lived with the little guy for over two years before myself or the cats actually saw him. Which tells me that there's some part of the house, back behind the kitchen cupboards, where he could live in relative safety.

So while the little brown fellow paced around under the sieve, I cleaned out the cupboard under my kitchen sink. There's a weird space back behind the shelf, where the indoor water meter resides. When I stuck my head in there for a look around, I saw a tunnel, if you will, running behind the cupboards. I imagine that's how the mouse got around, using that space behind my kitchen cupboards. It was the perfect release site.

I held the sieve in one hand, while my other hand supported the sheet of cardboard. Tilting the cardboard downward into that empty space, I lifted the sieve and watched as the mouse plopped down into the tunnel and ran off. Another successful rescue!

As I returned the cleaning supplies to the shelf, I watched in amusement as the cats circled around the room, clearly confounded about the disappearance of the mouse. They're always perplexed at times like this, and they can't understand for the life of them why I feel compelled to ruin their fun. Our conversations go something like this:

Junebug: Why can't we have him, Kelly?

Kelly: Because I like mice, that's why!

Junebug: But Kelly! I like mice, too!

Kelly: Yes, but I like them when they're still alive and wiggly!

Junebug: Me, too, Kelly! I like wiggly mice, too!

As you can see, conversations like that are destined to go round and round in circles with no resolution!

For those of you who are on the fence, mouse-wise, I'd like to take this opportunity to encourage you to use humane methods to trap your uninvited house guests. You can always release them outside, or, better yet, release them secretly into the house of someone you don't particularly like! No, I'm kidding! Releasing them at your local park, though, would be just the thing.

My friend Bob Tarte, author of Enslaved by Ducks and Fowl Weather (both available at amazon.com) wrote a great story about how he humanely trapped several raccoons and released them on what he thought was an empty bit of property. As luck would have it, the property turned out to have a house on it, and I think Bob's been counting himself lucky ever since that he never got caught releasing those raccoons!

The point I'm trying to make here is that there are a number of species that we humans consider pests, who aren't, really. They're just having trouble finding their place in the modern scheme of things. When we flatten a field or forest to built a strip mall, we don't compensate those displaced critters; we try to eliminate them altogether. How cruelly unfair that is! And I refuse to believe that any God in any religion is o.k. with all that extermination. As far as I'm concerned, the welcome mat is always out for mice in need!

That's all for now, folks. Hang in there just a bit longer and I do believe that spring will get here! Until then, please be kind to all the critters! Thanks again for stopping by. Please leave me a comment so I know you were here!

Mighty Oaks!

2011-01-01T16:17:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks! Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a great holiday season! Unfortunately, now we have to get back to things like work and reality and the daily drudge! Ugh!

You may recall hearing about the June 5 tornado on the news, that massive tornado that ripped through several Ohio communities, killing a number of people and decimating Lake High School. As it happens, Lake High School is a mile from my home, as the crow flies. I heard that tornado coming as I paced frantically in my bathroom.

I had managed to catch two of my four cats and bring them into the bathroom with me. The other two were on their own; I had no idea where they were hiding. I just hoped that we would all survive that horrible roaring sound I heard outside. Thankfully, the Gods answered my prayers that night, and myself, my cats, and my house were completely unscathed by the storm. At least, that's what I thought at the time.

A week or so after the tornado, fiance John and I toured the affected areas on his motorcycle. The scenes of devastation were even more unimaginable than the ones shown on t.v. I remember seeing a girl's pink bike jammed into the second-story corner of a house. I remember seeing a house that survived intact but for a fallen brick wall out front, while the house right next door was completely demolished. And I remember how odd the trees looked, denuded, entirely stripped of leaves.

Curiously, the tornado had taken a path roughly diagonal to the horse barn where I volunteer. Due to a number of downed electrical cables, I had to drive a different route than usual to the barn. On the way, on one side of the road I saw a garage that had been lifted off its foundation and turned by several degrees, then set back down otherwise intact. On the other side of the road, high up in what remained of a tall tree, I saw someone's area rug hanging. It was an eerie sight.

I heard on the news that the tornado had also ripped through the middle of my favorite metropark, Mighty Oaks, but I didn't give it much thought at the time. Mighty Oaks is a huge park out where things are still rural. I've never ridden the seventeen miles of horse trails there, but I'd sure like to! There are a number of natural features at Mighty Oaks, such as oak savannas, pine forests, sand dunes, and couple of scenic lakes. In all the years I've been going to Mighty Oaks, I've never managed to walk all the miles of all the trails, but I've definitely given it an honest try!

Some time in August, John and I rode his bike out to Mighty Oaks. It's a nice scenic drive in its own right, and it gave us a chance to survey whatever damage there might be. He slowly cruised the few roads through the park, explaining that you could tell the tornado had been there by how the trees were twisted: it was as though a giant hand simply grasped the trunks and gave them a big twist. It was easy enough to see the path of destruction, too, by the trail of felled trees in the distance. It was a sobering sight.

We didn't explore Mighty Oaks in any detail that day. It was enough to know that the tornado had been there and done some damage. We rode off in search of a root beer stand, and it never occurred to me at the time that there might be more to it than a few dozen downed trees.

I should probably give you some background on my connection to Mighty Oaks. I started going there as a teenager. My favorite aunt and uncle lived nearby, and often walked the trails with their black lab, Schooner. I soon discovered what a peaceful haven it was, and from my twenties on, began spending a fair amount of time there by myself.

There's a favorite path I've always loved. Directional markers are posted along the trail, but it was such a rare occasion to come across another walker that I began to wonder if anybody really knew it existed. It was a wondrous trail in all four seasons, and each held its own appeal. In spring, the gullies were filled with ferns. In summer, wild flowers bloomed, and the canopy of the trees overhead protected me from the sun as I walked. In fall, the oak leaves crunched beneath my feet as deer scampered into the distance. And in winter, there was nothing so beautiful as the hushed silence of a new-fallen snow. The quiet fairly rang in my ears, and I'd often pretend that I was the only person left on earth.

I knew that path like the back of my hand. Knew where the ground dipped just before the old wooden bridge crossed one of the many gullies. Knew where the horse trail paralleled my path. Knew where the stands of pine trees were, where the wind made a lonely whooshing sound as it passed through their needles. Knew where the patch of ground got swampy every time it rained. And I can still recall the bottom of the sand hill, where I found that old box turtle lumbering along.

I have so many wonderful memories of Mighty Oaks park that I wanted to show the place to John in depth. On a fine September afternoon, we returned to the park prepared to walk my favorite trail. I'd never shared this special place with anyone in my life, so this was a big deal to me. Mighty Oaks had been my haven, my peace and quiet in an otherwise tumultuous life. I hoped John would come to love it as much as I did. Unfortunately, we didn't get the chance to enjoy my trail: almost immediately, it became apparent that that June 5 tornado had destroyed more than just a few dozen trees; it had destroyed most of my path, as well.

I couldn't even find where the trail began. I paced back and forth, my eyes flicking here and there, knowing that somewhere in this mess of downed trees was the start of the path. I never did find it. I walked a few yards up a parallel trail, looking for access. Plunging through some old undergrowth, I finally picked up the path. There was debris everywhere. It was as if someone had filled a giant garbage can full of twigs and bits and pieces and then dumped it all over the park.

We had to pick our way around numerous piles of deadfall. The trail hadn't been used since before June 5, which rendered it overgrown in many areas. In some places, just the tops of tall pine trees had been snapped off, and in others, entire trees had been sucked up out of the ground and then flung down again in big messy piles. At first it was disheartening. But as we made our way deeper into the woods - that woods I had known intimately for decades - it became depressing. Disturbing. This was my haven, and my haven was gone.

We finally reached a pile of deadfall so extensive it occurred to me that if we couldn't make our way around it, if we couldn't pick up the trail on the other side (and who knew how many more piles of deadfall we'd encounter?), there was a distinct possibility that the park rangers would have trouble finding us. In spite of all those years of loving attention to the beauty Mighty Oaks had to offer, I was lost; I no longer recognized the landmarks I had always known. Emotionally numb, I told John it was time to turn back. I would've been in tears but I had none to shed. I was in shock.

When you come from a horribly dysfunctional childhood, as I did, there tends to be a lot of noise in your head. Indeed, the noise is so unrelenting that I take certain prescription medications each night in order to quiet the noise long enough to get to sleep. I've done decades of therapy, and worked very hard at obtaining a measure of sanity, but in spite of all that, the noise level is still unbearable. Which is why, when I find something that creates peace in me, I grab onto it with both hands. Mighty Oaks was just that sort of refuge.

For decades, at any time of year, I could go lose myself in its quiet. I would walk the trail in one direction, then, at its end, I would turn around and walk it again the other way. I'd inhale deeply of the smell of pine sap, listen intently to that whooshing sound as the wind traveled through the woods, take note of the moss and ferns, and the hemlock trees the boy scouts had so helpfully labeled years ago. Even if I arrived at the park in turmoil, I invariably left it relaxed, certain that I could, indeed, surmount my problems.

I told none of this to John. I merely stumbled along the overgrown trail repeating things like, "How could this happen?" over and over again. Somewhere along the way I realized that the path - my special path - would never be the same. Would I?

I've since learned that Mighty Oaks park has made the commitment to clear the paths destroyed by the June 5 tornado. I understand that they plan to work through the winter to accomplish this task. Given how much damage there was, I have no idea how long it will take to clean it all up. I'm wondering how they will re-establish the paths, given that they're all no doubt extremely overgrown by now.

I imagine that as long as Mighty Oaks is in disarray, I will feel somewhat adrift. I have so few solid anchors in my life to begin with that it's very painful to lose one. I worry, too, that this blog will sound unsympathetic to those who suffered worse losses on June 5. In truth, I feel huge gratitude to the Gods that they spared myself and my home. My heart goes out to all the folks in Fulton County, in Lake Township, in Millbury, whose splintered homes and splintered lives I made it a point to take an unflinching look at, that I might add my voice to those of other witnesses.

Even after seeing what must be hundreds of news reports of tornado damage over the years, I can tell you that those reports don't do the devastation justice. How on earth does one start over with absolutely nothing? Where do you eat, sleep, and shower, while you're waiting for the insurance company to issue a check? How do you know who to call to clean up the pile that used to be your house, when the tornado took your phone book with it? How do you change clothes when there are none left? It's unimaginable.

So to all of those who lost something in the June 5 tornado, I wish you all strength, and peace, and resolution. May we all find a refuge from the storms of life. And for all of those who helped, I hope you noticed the hand-painted sign thrown over a chain-link fence running alongside Route 795: "thank you for your help!" The sign is still there now.

That's all for now, folks. Here's hoping that 2011 brings love and friendship, prosperity and kindness. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Little Nipper: The Case of the Injured Duckling

2010-10-19T14:07:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! Well, fall is definitely here, and thank goodness: I'm not a fan of ninety-degree days!

I bet that when you read the title of this particular post, you immediately thought of cute, fuzzy little baby ducklings, didn't you? I don't blame you at all, but in fact, the duckling I'm writing about today was actually half-grown when I rescued him. He was far more scrawny and gangly than he was cute and fuzzy. In many ways, though, Little Nipper was still a baby: he stuck close by mama's side, and imitated her in everything she did, trying hard to learn how to be a Big Duck.

His mother is Freckle Duck, the very same Freckle Duck who continues to elude the best nest-finding efforts of both myself and Animal Control Officer Jeff. For three years running, now, she's managed to hide her nests so well that we never find them. This year, she hatched eight ducklings. Fortunately for the sake of population control, area hawks and snapping turtles brought the number of surviving offspring down to two. Nipper and Peeps - his sibling - had managed to survive in spite of the odds, and were well on their way to adulthood when disaster struck.

I was feeding the gang one summer morning when I noticed the length of fishing line floating among the ducks. There seemed to be five ducks caught in it, though not so tightly that they couldn't escape. Little Nipper was among those caught, which really tugged at my heartstrings: he was just a baby! He was too young for this sort of catastrophe! I held out hope that they would somehow untangle themselves without my interference, and adopted a wait-and-see attitude.

In a matter of days, the ducks managed to disentangle themselves, but Nipper now had such a pronounced limp that something was clearly wrong with him, and it was no doubt fishing line-related. His right foot dragged uselessly behind him as he limped along. He was so obviously injured it was a wonder that a hawk hadn't already made a meal of him. I grabbed him up one morning with a view to taking him to the vet's. He was fairly easy to catch in his compromised condition, and I plopped him gently in the ever-present critter carrier.

Before I drove off, I walked back across the boat house parking lot, intent on retrieving the bag of cracked corn I'd left behind during Nipper's capture. It was then that I saw Officer Jeff rounding the corner of the boat house and heading in my direction. He told me he'd gotten a phone call about a duck with some fishing tackle attached to it. I had just finished feeding the entire gang and hadn't seen anything of the sort, which was what I told Jeff. I went on to mention the injured duckling, who was at that moment firmly ensconced in the carrier in the front seat of my car. Jeff walked over for a look.

He told me then that this was the exact same duckling he'd found tied to a tree a few days earlier. Nipper hadn't really been tied to the tree, he'd accidentally gotten himself wound up in the underbrush because he'd had that fishing line wrapped around his leg. Jeff had cut him free, and now, here I was a few days later, taking the poor little guy to the vet. We surmised that the phone call Jeff had gotten had probably been about Nipper.

There was something about the timing of it all that clearly struck Jeff. Here he'd driven to the pond in response to a report of a critter crisis, only to find me already there, a few steps ahead of him! I think it was at that moment that he developed a measure of faith in me that he hadn't had before. We'd always gotten along well in the past, but it seemed that now, after this particular incident, the realization that I was serious about the animals, and not just some crazy duck broad, kind of jelled in his mind. Before he left, he offered up a fist pound. It spoke volumes.

Little Nipper's vet, Dr. Susan, inspected his leg and told me that the fishing line had caused nerve damage. The line had cut off circulation to his foot for a time, and there was no way to know how much tissue he was going to lose. She was certain that he'd lose some of the webbing in his foot, but also reasonably sure that the foot itself would survive. She gave me antibiotics for the infection and told me that if I hadn't brought him in, that infection would've killed him. Yikes!

It was clear that he was going to need some kind of therapy, not to mention regular doses of the antibiotic, so into my bathroom he went. He was deeply miserable from the start, and remained so for the next seven days. Having been wrenched away from his mother had been a traumatic experience for him - I knew this because as I carried him toward my car, he cried piteously for mama, who chased along after us for several yards. It broke my heart that I couldn't explain to them that the separation was only temporary.

It was immediately obvious that my bathtub would not be big enough to give Nipper proper hydrotherapy in. I called Pat Mitchell - she who had adopted both Ducky and Puddleduck after they became permanently lame - and asked whether she had anything big enough for a duck to dunk himself in. As luck would have it, she had just the thing: a 52-gallon plastic storage container. It worked perfectly, and once it was filled with water, it became Nipper's hydrotherapy tub.

Hydrotherapy entailed much more than just letting Nipper swim around. It was important that he use his bad leg, so every time I put him in the water, I'd gently pull backwards on a handful of his tail feathers. Because he was afraid of me, he'd pump his little legs extra hard, trying to get away. We'd do that over and over for fifteen-odd minutes at a stretch, then I'd take him in to rest.

Before every round of hydrotherapy, we'd do physical therapy. I should point out here that Dr. Susan mentioned none of these things during our time in the exam room. We didn't discuss rehab at all. It was something I came up with when it became clear that he wouldn't heal on his own, at the pond. So I devised some exercises that I thought would provide the most benefit for a flightless duck.

Physical therapy involved me putting him on a harness and leash - the same ones I'd used to teach my cats how to walk with me outside, then letting him walk around the back yard. In truth, he wasn't walking so much as he was running to get away from me. He would race toward the shady areas of my lawn with me following along at his heels. Then I'd pick him up and carry him back to the middle of the yard. When I put him back down on the ground, he was off and running again. Once he'd reach the shade, he'd turn his head, reach around behind him and try to chew the harness off. How he hated every minute of it!

It wasn't just the harness he disliked; he hated me, as well. And he told me so, every single day. I'd go into the bathroom in the morning to give him his meds and clean up all the poop, and he'd slouch miserably in the corner and announce, "I hate you, Kelly!" It made me sad, but I certainly understood: he was still a baby, missing his mama. And while on some instinctive level, he understood the concept of being eaten by a predator, he had no understanding whatsoever of humans and bathrooms and good intentions.

A new problem developed on Day Three: contracture. He wasn't using the injured foot sufficiently to stave off muscular contracture, and his foot had begun to curl under. I consulted with Dr. Susan, who put the idea in my head when she said there was no point in trying to put a splint on him. To this day, I don't know why she said that, but I'm glad I ignored her. I discussed the problem with fiance John, and between the two of us, we devised a duck-foot-shaped splint, custom-made just for Nipper.

We traced his foot around a sheet of plastic, then cut two pieces - one for under his foot, and one for on top. We taped it all together with his foot sandwiched in between, using coach's tape. It worked perfectly! I kept the splint on his foot for a day, making him walk with it on during physical therapy, and the contracture disappeared after less than 48 hours. The splint was a resounding success.

As Nipper continued to improve, and the time to return him to the pond drew near, I began to wonder whether mama would take him back. Surely, she was used to the idea that once a predator took her young, she was never going to see that duckling again. But what about one reappearing after eight days? I knew that he had imprinted on her, but had she imprinted on him? Did it work both ways, or would she have no idea who he was? The answers mattered to some degree: while he was half-way to adulthood, and could, in theory, get by on his own, he still had a lot to learn about how to be a Big Duck, and mama was the best duck to learn that from. I'd have to wait and see.

The day finally came that I felt comfortable returning him to the pond. Those eight days of rehabilitation had dragged on much more slowly than they normally did with adult ducks. That was probably because I knew the adults were just annoyed by the disruption to their lives, while Nipper was clearly scared and depressed at the separation from his mother. In addition, I think he pooped twice as much as the adults, even while he refused most of the foods the big ducks ate. Because he ate so little while in my bathroom, I ended up worrying as much about him getting a decent meal as I did about successfully rehabbing him. All in all, he ate enough. Not a lot, but enough.

When I released him at the pond, he made a beeline for the water. Swimming in a 52-gallon plastic storage container is not at all the same as swimming in your home water, with all its familiar smells, snacks, and friends. In no time, Nipper found mama, and while he was overjoyed to see her, her response seemed lukewarm by comparison. I got the distinct impression that she was thinking, "You're BACK??? I thought you'd grown up and moved away!" Mama seemed about as enthused as a human parent would when their adult child wants to move back home again.

The good news was that Nipper's sibling, Peeps, had managed to avoid becoming a hawk snack in his absence, and the two were thrilled to be together again. They found one another immediately, and have rarely left each other's sides since. As they've grown, they've taken numerous expeditions together around the pond, always finding mama eventually, but gaining confidence about being Big Ducks in her absence.

Little Nipper walks perfectly well, now, without a trace of the limp he still had when I returned him to the pond. A substantial portion of the webbing on that injured foot became gangrenous. Dr. Susan said that would happen. She advised me to let nature take its course, saying that the gangrenous parts would eventually fall off, and that they did. Where the dead tissue had been, there's now a triangle shaped space that used to be webbing. He swims perfectly well without the missing webbing, and in fact, he's grown to look so much like the duck I assume is his father that that web-less area is the only way I can identify him now. Thankfully, he's chosen not to hold a grudge, and bellies up to the bag of corn with all the other ducks. This was a good rescue, and a great rehab. They don't always turn out so well.

So that was the big excitement for me, this summer. I'm glad things went as well as they did, but it must be said that there was an astonishing amount of fishing tackle left lying around the pond this year. There was even more of the stuff this summer than in past years. And it's never just a foot or two of fishing line, it's often seven to ten feet long, usually with the hook still attached. Since the city provides trash cans all around the pond, I have no idea why fisherman can't be bothered to clean up after themselves. The only possible explanation is a shameful level of laziness.

So please, if you fish regularly, or know someone who does, please make sure you're cleaning up after yourself, and ask your fishing buddies to do the same. It's not just animals who are at risk of injury, it's barefoot children as well. I know I'd be really mad if my child had to get a tetanus shot because of someone else's laziness! And so would you! Let's all do our part to keep our parks and public spaces clean.

That's all for now, folks! I hope you're all enjoying this cooler weather! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

P.S. And while you're here, why not leave a quick comment so that I know you stopped by? Thanks so much!

The Dog in the Frame Shop

2010-09-10T17:08:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! It's good to be back, and I have several critter stories that I can't wait to tell you! I want to appologize for being off the radar for so long, but I think every single animal-lover out there understands how hard it is to lose a long-time critter companion. And no matter how many times I go through it, it never gets any easier.

In any case. I don't know how many of you hail from small towns, but Whoville, where I grew up, was probably pretty typical. We didn't lock our doors at night, or if we did, most of the neighbors knew where we hid the key. It seemed like everyone knew everyone else, and even if they didn't, it still felt like it. We had two elementary schools: one on the east side of town, and one on the west. They were both named, with a certain lack of imaginative flair, after trees: Elm Street School, and Pine Street School. Both sides of town merged in junior high, which was, at that time, housed in the very same building that used to be the high school back when my mother was a girl.

Just like John Mellencamp, we all chafed at the smallness of our small town. We were quite sure that there were bigger, better things out in the world, and I'd bet that just about everyone in my high school class of '81 (with 230-some graduating seniors) dreamed of escaping the small town noose. I know I did. At the time, I figured just about anywhere else would do. What did I know?!

I did manage to get away for a time. I joined the army, saw Germany, married a guy and lived down in Georgia for a while. Divorced and moved back to Ohio. Lived in the booming metropolis of Cincinnati for a year. Remarried, moved back to Whoville. Divorced again but stuck around, and some eighteen years later, I'm still in my old hometown. It's kind of growing on me now.

It seems like the older you get, the more things change. You acquire a little wisdom. You see the bad in the world, and try to figure out how to change it, or at least avoid it! You finally realize that you're mortal, and then things take on a signifigance that escaped you when you were young, dumb and impatient, things like friendships, and family, and stopping to smell the roses once in a while. You learn to appreciate the Now, because you don't know how much more of it you'll get to enjoy. Such is middle age.

One of the things that I'm appreciating in my dotage is the unique people who color my world. I don't know how these things work in big cities - where people seem to be in such a hurry, and tend to close themselves off from the things around them - but in small towns, we have folks who are....different. Unusual. Outside the box. Not crazy, or weird, or what have you, just a little different. We call them "characters," and Laura the frame shop lady is one of them.

I've known her for years. I met her when she worked in someone else's frame store. When she opened her own shop, I took my business there. Her boss had never been terribly reliable, and I tend to like it when people keep to a schedule as promised. Now, I don't want you getting the wrong idea about Laura. She's an astute businesswoman, and a fine artist, to boot. She's got great ideas on how to make your art look even better with the right mat and frame, and she's very active at her church, too. In other words, she's an all-around good egg, even if she did put a hand-made sign in her shop window that says, "Have A Day." Laura's just cranky enough that it's too far to go to wish that folks have a NICE day!

Her frame store is located in an L-shaped strip mall. There's a wine shop next door to the left, and a bar next door to the right. Some other shops have come and gone, in the strip mall, but Laura and the booze are still there after all these years! Out in front of her shop, there's a small landscaped island around which the cars circle. The shrubs look a little unloved but I don't think anyone really cares. To be honest, there's an element of urban blight about the place, but it can't be helped: Whoville is smack in the middle of the midwestern rust-belt and a lot of jobs have been lost around here.

Laura's shop has served me well for over fifteen years, now. Early on, she made a decision that put her squarely in the outside-the-box category. She brought her cat to work. It was a long time ago, and I can't recall the cat's name, but I do remember that she was feline leukemia positive. Laura didn't want her infecting the cat at home, so she installed the cat in the frame shop and there it lived for several years. It was a friendly cat, and I gave her lots of attention every time I stopped in. Some time after the cat passed away, Laura acquired one of those football-sized dogs, and every morning, she'd bring the dog to work. Unlike the cat, this pet went home with Laura at night.

After the dog died, Laura found herself in possession of a large rescue dog of indeterminate breeding. She started bringing Maxi to work with her fairly early in their relationship, and Maxi settled into the routine very nicely. Maxi suited Laura's personality: while Laura was a tad curmudgeonly, Maxi was always cheerful; where Laura was laid back and calm, Maxi got excited about the small things, like the UPS delivery guy's arrival. They were the quintessential Frick and Frack.

They spent long hours together in that frame store. Maxi enjoyed lying in front of the plate glass window, watching the world outside, and she always let Laura know when people of interest were in the neighborhood. The moment I'd get out of my car, Maxi would spot me and start barking. She came to know that I would always pet her, and throw some toys around the shop for her. After a few minutes, when Laura and I would get down to business, Maxi would resume her post at the window. A visit from any of the delivery guys was always grounds for enthusiasm because they often brought dog biscuits for her. Seems like everyone around the strip mall knew Maxi!

That landscaped island out in front of Laura's shop came in handy as a toilet for Maxi. Laura would open the door, make sure it was traffic-free out there, then let Maxi out to do her business. Maxi was sensible enough to know that she was expected to come straight back into the shop when she was finished.

Because of all that time spent together in the shop, Laura and Maxi developed their own language. Laura always knew the difference between Maxi looking at her because someone was coming up the sidewalk, and Maxi looking at her because she needed to go out and pee. For reasons known only to Laura, she taught Maxi to run a lap around her work station before Laura would let her out. All Laura had to do was gesture with her hand, and Maxi would jog once around the station, then head toward the door. It was hilarious! Laura would be in mid-sentence, get the look from Maxi, wave her hand as she resumed talking, and the next thing you know, the dog is running a lap around the shop!

Because my framing needs are fairly modest, these days, I only get to the shop about once a year. I was there recently, and while I waited for Laura to finish a phone call, I knelt down on the floor to give Maxi some belly rubs. I noticed immediately that she'd lost weight, and I said as much when Laura got off the phone. She told me that Maxi had been sick, of late, and they were, in fact, waiting for the lab results from the vet's as we spoke. In a matter of minutes, the vet called, and told Laura that she hadn't found anything terribly alarming in the work-up, but thought Maxi might have an infection in her liver. They would treat her with antibiotics and see how it went. I left the shop assuming that everything would work out, because things always do, don't they? Or at least, they always work out in my head. Reality is another story entirely.

As I walked across the parking lot a week later, things were strangely quiet. No barking, no big cheerful dog wagging her tail in the window. Entering the shop, I asked, "Where's the muttley?"

"Retired," Laura answered quietly.

"She's GONE?" I gasped in shock.

"I put her down on Saturday," Laura replied.

The details don't really matter. Suffice to say that it wasn't an infection at all. My guess, from the sound of things, is that Maxi had a tumor that killed her - or would have, had Laura not euthanized her. There was no question but that Maxi was suffering, and Laura absolutely did the right thing. It was just so unexpected, and came on so fast, that I was momentarily speechless. There's never any time to process these things because they go from bad, to worse, to worst, in the blink of an eye. And now here we were, Laura and I, blinking over how this thing had happened, how quickly Maxi had deteriorated, how fast Laura had had to make such an agonizing decision.

Now, if this had been a big city instead of Whoville, Laura might never have brought any animals to work. If she did, folks probably wouldn't have bothered to get to know them, like I did, like the UPS guy did, like the wine shop guy next door on the left did. And Maxi's passing probably wouldn't have engendered any special notice from the customers. But here in Whoville, when you have a character like Laura who brings her beloved dog to work every day, week in and month out, year after year, you get a little attached to both of them. Which explains why I'm having difficulty maintaining my composure as I write this.

Just last Christmas, Laura - who is a curmudgeonly Christmas Grinch if ever there was one - sent out holiday photos to all of her regular customers. I opened my Christmas card to find a small color picture inside of Laura wearing a Grinch t-shirt, kneeling, with her arm around her best buddy Maxi, who was wearing fake deer antlers. It was the perfect picture of a perfect small town character, one who's loved precisely because she chooses to be a little different from everyone else.

I left the shop subdued, that day. It was hard to leave at all. Laura doesn't open up to just anyone, so I stayed for quite a while, listening, talking, choking up, hugging it out. My heart aches for Laura because I know what she's going through. And because she chose to ignore the conventional rule that says you leave your pets at home when you go to work, I grieve for what is lost: the shop, that humble frame shop in the run-down strip mall in the rust-belt town, will never be the same without Maxi.

If there is a lesson to be learned, here, apart from cherishing every day that you get with your loved ones, I think that it's this: the Gods put people like Laura in our paths to remind us that not everything is meant to be done by the book. Not everyone is meant to think inside the box, or play by the rules. And when we encounter these characters, we should take the time to get to know them - and their dogs - because that's what small towns are all about. Even if you live in a big city!

That's all for now, folks. May you all be blessed with knowing unusual people! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

P.S. Thanks again for stopping by! Please leave a comment so I know you were here!

It's Been A While!

2010-07-27T17:06:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

I want to apologize for being gone so long. It's been a tough adjustment to life without Muffin, and it's taken me all this time since her passing to come to grips with it. It's not as though I haven't had any critter stories to write about, it's more a matter of me not feeling up to doing the writing. I hope this will be changing in the coming weeks. In the meantime, please feel free to visit the archives and check out some of the old stories. They're still fun - especially the ones about Pretty Boy Duck, the incorrigible houseguest.

I hope you're all having a great summer! Until next time!

Moving On. Or not.

2010-05-08T16:11:00.001-07:00

There comes a time in the grieving process where you make a concious decision to move on with life. You scatter the ashes. You go back to work. You put away your loved one's possessions. You start over in a hundred different ways. Your brain begins to adjust to Life After. It doesn't happen at the same time for everyone, but eventually, it does happen.

I'm not there, yet. Not even close. My mind doesn't want to make the leap into this new reality of Life After Muffin. I keep looking around the family room, hoping against hope that I'll find her sunning in her usual spot by the sliding glass door. She's not there, of course. She never will be again. And that's the hardest adjustment of all: making your brain understand what your heart doesn't want to accept.

The thing that stabbed at me today was this: a while back, noticing that Muff was getting on in years and not jumping as well as she used to, I bought her a set of steps. I found a nice carpeted set in a Drs. Foster and Smith catalog. I put the steps at the foot of my bed, and Muff immediately figured out what they were for: so that she could continue to get up on the bed and snuggle with me at night. Which is exactly what she did.

For reasons I'll never know, Muff took some sort of dislike to the bedroom in the house I live in now. The set of steps moved with us, and again took their place at the foot of the bed, but Muff never used them. In the three years she lived here with me, I think Muffin spent one night on my bed. I always felt bad about that.

I tried to encourage her to join us at night. I'd pick her up and put her on the bed, but she'd just growl and jump off. I certainly wasn't going to force her to do something she clearly didn't want to do, so when I turned off the lights at night, four cats followed me into the bedroom, and one stayed behind in the family room. Her self-imposed isolation made me sad.

Trying to make up for her absence in bed, I'd occasionally take naps on the family room couch. Muff would invariably join me for a snuggle - something I deeply treasured. I could always feel her purring as she stretched out against my stomach, my hand resting on her shoulder as I drifted off. It was the sort of thing you spend a lifetime taking for granted, until the day comes when you're forced to realize that you should've been paying more attention at the time because it will never happen again.

It wasn't until today - some three weeks after Muffin's death - that I gave any thought to that carpeted set of steps. Looking them over, I wondered what I should do with them now. My mind drew a momentary blank. "I could probably find some room for them out in the shed," I thought. Only problem with that idea, though, is that I'm not ready to move those steps very far. It would be too much like admitting that Muffin's not coming back, that she really is gone forever.

How can I possibly admit that?

How am I supposed to just put those steps away like they're not needed anymore?

How I am supposed to accept this awful, unbearable truth?

I haven't. The tin containing her ashes is still on the kitchen table. Her catnip mice are still scattered about the floor. Those carpeted steps only made it as far as the dining room, residing now in front of the bay window, making it easier for the surviving cats to get up on the window seat for a snooze. I know that grief happens at its' own pace. I'm not in any hurry to adjust. To accept. To move on.

I'm just not there yet. I'm not ready for Life After Muffin.

Things Left Behind

2010-04-24T11:09:00.000-07:00

It's been nine days since my beloved Muffin cat died. Because this isn't my first critter loss, the depression I feel is not as intense as it has been in years past. It's there nonetheless, though: a constant undercurrent that weaves itself through my days and dictates how I spend them.

Today, for instance, I chose not to volunteer at the horse rescue facility. Instead, I slept till 11:00, ate Reeses peanut butter cups for breakfast, putzed around on the computer for well over an hour, didn't shower until 1:00, and didn't eat a proper breakfast until 2:00. I'm pretty sure most other people were more productive.

I've spent a good deal of time, these past nine days, keeping myself immersed in busy-work - things designed to keep my hands moving and my brain occupied. The busy-work succeeds in keeping the sadness at bay. For a while. But then comes the time when I must go back into the house and deal with the absences: the absence of Muffin's presence, the absence of her insistent meows for attention. The absence of her requests for snacks. Indeed, there's an entire family room filled with her absences.

No one particularly wants to be in that room anymore, including me. It's where Muffin spent 99% of her time, the last couple of years. We all end up there in the evenings, though - I, watching t.v. while the cats keep me company. It feels awkward to be in that room now. Many nights, Muffin used to join me on the ottoman, or curl up in my lap for a snuggle - which leaves a big void where she used to be. So now my lap is filled with an absence, too.

Curiously, the dynamic among the cats has changed since Muffin's death. Buddy, the loner, has been spending less time sleeping and more time checking up on me. Any number of times throughout the day, now, Buddy approaches me and gives me a good sniff. Maybe he's trying to figure out where Muffin went. It's nice to see him coming out of his shell more, but it's impossible to explain to him why, exactly, Muffin had to leave.

The same is true with Spanky. Immediately after I returned from the vet's, that awful day, I tried to tell Spanky that Muffin had been sickly, so she "had to go." You can read that a couple of different ways, though, and once I realized that, I stopped talking. I don't want any of the cats thinking that if they get sick, they're going to get the boot.

Spanky was the last kitten that Muffin was willing to mother. He was an incredibly needy baby (and, seven years later, still is), making constant demands on Muffin for attention, for cleanings, for her time. She endured the demands surprisingly well, considering that Spanky was not technically hers - until he grew up. Then she made it very clear that she was done.

Spanky spent the rest of Muffin's life ignoring her growls, and occasionally, his perseverence was rewarded with a few licks on the head. Spanky would walk away happy, then, clearly believing that his mommmy-cat still loved him. Spanky now spends a lot of time asking for my attention. It's a cheap substitute for Muffin, but it will have to do.

By the time Junebug came along, Muffin had had enough of kittens, and was so nasty to Junebug that I often had to intervene. Muffin had started out life as an only cat, so I understood her unhappiness at being forced to live with so many others, but I draw the line at bullying. Eventually a certain parity was reached in which I played mommy-cat to Junebug while Muffin found a nice place to nap at the other end of the house. Junebug keeps looking at me now as though she's wondering if I'm o.k. I think she knows that I'm not.

When Gracie was brought into the house, everyone tried in their own way to scare her into submission. Gracie was having none of it, though. She'd survived out on the streets with a permanently gimpy leg; she wasn't about to be bossed around by my lot. So they all retreated to the other end of the house to stew about the latest turn of events, and Gracie used the time to find the right place to sleep. Then she spent an inordinate amount of time doing just that.

Muffin and Gracie never cared for each other, which is probably why Gracie spent so much of the last year sleeping wherever Muffin wasn't. Now, all of a sudden, Gracie is choosing to spend her evenings with me and the other three cats in the family room. It's nice that they're all there with me, but to be honest, I'd just as soon be anywhere else but in that room. There are simply too many reminders of what I lost.

Some time ago, at a yard sale, I came across a stuffed, 3-dimensional Kliban cat. He's a black-and-white tabby who's wearing red sneakers. I positioned him on the floor in front of an ottoman that I don't use. For some reason, Muffin liked snuggling up to that cat. Now, every time my eyes sweep around the family room, they come to rest on that lonely Kliban cat. Another absence.

There's a gaudy yellow blanket on the family room couch. It, too, I found at a yard sale. I liked the color, it was soft and snuggly, and sometimes, a little bit of gaudy is a good thing. I keep it folded at one end of the couch, ready for nap duty. Muff liked to crawl in between the folds, creating a little cat cave for herself. I could always tell by the messy lump where Muffin was sleeping. Now, the blanket lies flat and smooth. Another absence.

In my bathroom stands a set of wicker shelves. On the bottom shelf, I keep two folded beach towels. Every so often, Muffin would go in there, paw the top towel until it had unfolded somewhat, and then she'd lie on it. Given that I've set up special cat-friendly nooks and crannies all over the house, I have no idea why Muffin liked that spot behind the bathroom door, but she surely did. Now, the beach towels are as the gaudy yellow blanket: flat and smooth. Yet another absence.

I'm so incredibly grateful that I had the presence of mind to spend some extra time with Muffin, the few days before her death. Two nights - one of them, her last - I passed the night on the family room couch so that we could snuggle. Muff didn't come into my bedroom anymore, and for several years, I really missed the snuggling we used to do in bed. Those nights on the couch were good medicine for me as well as for her, though not nearly enough of it.

Several times, in the last week of her life, I took Muffin outside for some chaperoned excursions. In years past, on these same sorts of adventures, I would walk a few steps through the grass, in a direction I hoped she'd follow. Muffin would always wait til I got a couple of yards away, then race toward me at speed, stopping before she crashed into my feet. It was an amusing thing she did, one of those things you kick yourself for later because you took it for granted all the years she did it.

Muffin wasn't up to running - or walking much, for that matter - in her last days. She'd take a few steps, then gingerly lower herself onto the grass. It was as though she didn't have the physical energy to keep going any more. So I would sit down beside her, run my hand over her back as I remarked on what a nice day it was, and explained how the breezes would bring the smells right to her nose. They were quiet times, out in the yard. Perhaps, for Muff, they were also a final taking of stock, a last few looks at What Was.

I'm crying as I write this now. If I had known how close Muffin was to the end, I would've taken stock of What Was myself. But that's the problem with love, isn't it? You find yourself in a comfortable rhythm, after years together. You take that rhythm for granted, assuming that it will always be with you - or, at least, that you will have ample warning before the end, and plenty of time to say the things you should've said all along. It rarely works that way, though.

I really hope that Muffin knew how loved she was.

If there are lessons to be learned here, I can't help you with them. I'm much too busy at the moment keeping my hands moving and my brain occupied so that I don't have to think too much. Tears are inevitable, but mostly, I prefer feeling nothing to feeling the searing pain of loss. Life goes on, as it must, but with one notable difference now: there's a vast emptiness where Muffin used to be. It's a void that can never be filled.

In Memory of Muffin

2010-04-16T14:13:00.000-07:00

Her name was Heidi. I met her at the local Humane Society. I was grieving the loss of my long-time friend, Kitty, at the time. For some reason, my shrink thought that a recconnoiter at the shelter would make me feel better, so I went. I stood watching in one of the cat rooms, as a couple tried to coax a big grey striped tabby back into its' cage. The cat didn't want to go. She didn't fuss, it was more of a Gandhi-style passive-resistance type of thing, in which she pretended that she didn't understand what the humans were trying to tell her.

"If you're done with her," I said, "I'll play with her for a bit." The couple agreed, and left the room. I picked up the cat, sat on a chair, and plopped her onto my lap. She immediately curled up and began to purr. It was her way of saying, "Take me home, Kelly. I'll go home with you." So I did.

The story I heard was that Heidi had been surrendered because her elderly owner went into a nursing home. She certainly seemed to have been raised by an old woman: I once offered her a plate-ful of tuna fish and she wouldn't eat it. She wouldn't even go near it. Shaking my head in disbelief that any cat existed who didn't like tuna, I transferred the fish from the plate to her food dish. The tabby then gobbled the entire portion.

She wouldn't get up on the furniture, either. That wasn't my rule; it must've been the old lady's. Once I let her know that my furniture was hers, too, Heidi happily availed herself of it for the rest of her life. One of her favorite things to do was snuggle with me while I napped on the couch. I loved it, too: it was our cozy time together. I could often feel her purring against my stomach as I dozed off.

She wasn't really a Heidi. At first I thought she was a Tiger, but when I got her home from the shelter, I concluded that she was really a Muffin. Being three years old at the time, though, it took a while for her to catch on to the name change. Hell, I ended up calling her by so many nicknames, it's a wonder she never had a full-blown identity crisis! With kittens in the house (not hers), she became "Mama." With age and dignity, she became "Lady Cat." Because I heard it on t.v. once, she was also "Mamala." Mostly, because she took good care of me the times I got sick, she was "Mommy-ma."

Muffin saw me through several bad relationships. She went where I went. I never moved anywhere that she couldn't come. She was there when Macavity died. When Winkie died. She was there through every single bout of depression. Quietly, consistently, faithfully, she was there. Many times, I took her for granted. Sometimes, she got lost in the shuffle; while the louder cats demanded my attention, Muffin waited patiently to be noticed.

Her special treat was to be taken outside. Whether at my last home, the chicken coop, or here at the critter shack, she loved to run her paws through the grass, bask in the sun, and sniff the air. "Breezes, Muff," I'd say, "they bring the smells right to your nose!" Together, we'd wander around the yard, me standing by as she investigated the messages left on trees and shrubs by other critters, or gauged her chances with the birds who would land temptingly close but realistically out of reach for the slightly-overweight, middle-aged cat.

I knew something was wrong. Suspected it for a couple weeks. I mentioned to fiance John that she seemed to have gone downhill very quickly, that old age seemed to have come out of nowhere and hit her hard. Her breathing was labored. She stopped eating her favorite snacks. She refused offers of catnip. The last couple of days, she took to lying in odd places in the front living room - a room no one used except to get from one end of the house to another. I called the vet and got an appointment for the next day.

In the meantime, I took her out in the back yard several times. We had some beautifully mild, sunny spring days - the kind of days Muff liked best - and I wanted her to know that she was still my special lady, even if Junebug did hog my attention from time to time. But these treks were far different from years past. For one thing, there was that labored breathing that seemed to slow her down. And she obviously didn't feel up to having any more adventures. Mostly, she just wanted to lie still in the grass. So I'd sit down beside her, pet her, and tell her what a good girl she was.

I was feeling mildly optimistic on the way to the vet's. A couple of times, Thursday morning, Muff had let me know she wanted some wet food. She didn't eat near enough of it, but she was trying. That gave me hope. Then the vet showed me the x-ray, and explained how all that fluid built up around Muffin's lungs was making it hard for her to breathe. "There's nothing you can do to treat that?" I asked. The doctor, a kindly young woman four years out of vet school, remarked that there were a couple of procedures they could try, but the results would be fruitless and we'd be right back where we were now. In her opinion, the kindest thing to do would be to euthanize.

I take these recommendations seriously. Years ago, I had a long-standing association with a different animal hospital, which made me privy to things that many people don't know. One of the most striking lessons I learned from that association was that folks rarely euthanize their pets at a time that's right for the animal. I don't know why. Call them selfish, call them emotionally unprepared, call them whatever you want, but while they're waiting for the "right" time to come along, their pet is suffering. And suffering is something I will not abide. My pet's comfort comes way before mine. Which is why I agreed to put Muffin down then and there. But don't think for a minute that it was an easy decision for me.

Another lesson I learned from that other animal hospital was that many people can't bear to be in the room when their beloved pet is euthanized. I don't understand that, either. This is your final good-bye. It's a stressful time for the animal. Why wouldn't you want to be there to comfort your pal, to say your last words, to have some closure? Being present for those last moments is not an easy thing to do, but it's a necessary thing to do. So I told the doctor that I would, indeed, be staying in the room for the procedure.

I asked for a few minutes alone with Muff, first. The doctor and her assistant kindly withdrew, leaving me holding my faithful companion, tears running down my cheeks as I told her that I'd miss her forever. That I loved her. That she was the best lady cat in the whole world.

They left me alone with Muffin again after the procedure was done. I spent many minutes petting her soft fur, kissing her head the way I'd done for eleven years, wondering how I was supposed to walk out of the room and never see her again. Eventually, the vet tech came to collect the body. Gently, respectfully, she wrapped Muffin's body in a towel, covering everything but her head. She stood with Muff in her arms, waiting in case I wanted to stay a bit longer still. I could've, might've, stayed on, but there's never a good time to leave that room. And therein lies the problem.

I've been present for the final moments of more than one pet - indeed, in the last six months, John and I have euthanized two of his cats. I can handle the needles, the barbiturate overdose, the limp body who's soul is gone forever. But leaving, that's a problem. There's no good time, you see. There's no good time to walk away, knowing that you'll never see your pet again. As long as you stay in that room, time is suspended, and you don't have to look the awful new reality in the eye yet.

So you linger, and you try like hell to memorize the way your pet smelled, how its' fur felt against your cheek. You try, but it's too little, too late. You had your chance. All those years you shared together, but you never bothered to file that information away. You didn't need to, you had years ahead of you. And now, as the assitant wraps your friend in the towel, and prepares to take it away forever, now it's too late to try to memorize those details. And you know that, which makes walking out of that exam room, making your way through the lobby and out to your car, empty carrier in hand, next to impossible.

How did all those years fly by so fast? How did it come to this, without preparation, seemingly without warning? No matter how many times I go through it, it never gets any easier. Each animal has its own unique, magical soul, and each death is a crushing heartbreak all its own.

The house feels empty now. Or at least, empty of Muffin's presence. The silence she leaves behind is deafening. Her favorite places to lie in the family room are all empty. My eyes keep flitting from one spot to the next, knowing full well that I'll never see her here again, but wishing mightily all the same. Last night, I almost called out her name as I walked into the house. This period of adjustment is hard.

Really hard.

My friend Bob Tarte, writing in Fowl Weather about the grief he experienced at the loss of his beloved parrot, famously said, "I'm trying to cry myself to death." So ridiculous. So understandable.

If I could have a funeral service for Muff - a proper service, like humans get - I'd have a Unitarian minister of my acquaintence give the eulogy. He'd say eloquent things about how important it is to live each day to the fullest, to embrace all those people you love - human and otherwise - and love them all fully, fiercely, unashamedly, every single day of your life.

He would talk about Muff's fondness for crunchy tuna-flavored snacks - a fondness that found her chasing the treats across the room with a spunk that I'd thought had left her years ago. He would talk about how reliably she would jump into my lap when I'd sit down to watch the evening news. How happily she would knead bread on my stomach, clawing my belly and ruining shirts in the process. He would talk about her joy in sharing those outdoor adventures with me - times when the demands of even the loudest cat in the house were put on hold so that Muff and I could be alone together for a while. It would be a funeral befitting a Lady Cat, and at the end, we'd all scatter catnip instead of ashes.

"Just let me close my eyes, memorize
the way things are this minute,
so when you're gone, I can go on.
If memory can hold within it what I'm feeling,
should time try fading or stealing something away."
- Ian Thomas, "Hold On"

I'll miss you forever, Muffin.
Mama.
Mommycat.
Mamala.
Miss Muffin.
Pretty old Lady Cat.
My best girl.
Muff.

Spring In Duckville

2010-03-29T13:50:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! As I write this, the sun is shining, the weather is balmy, and the crocuses have come out to say hello. It appears that spring has indeed sprung!

I've been waiting for warmer weather for a couple of reasons: first and foremost, because winter sucks! I don't like being cold, and I really hate the fact that it gets dark at five in the afternoon. Winter days are so cold, short, and forbidding that it's almost not worth getting out of bed!

The other big reason I've been impatient for winter to end is that I hadn't been to the Mitchell's to see Ducky and Puddleduck since November. Pat and I have emailed back and forth through the winter months, and she's kept me up to date on the ducks' activities, but it's not the same as actually visiting. Believe it or not, I've missed those two!

Pat told me that they spent the vast majority of their time huddled in the garage keeping warm. Neither one was inclined to venture outside much. I think the cold bothered both ducks, as they each have leg issues and probably arthritis as well. Pat said it was pointless to visit until spring, when they'd be out in the yard more, so I stayed away all winter. The two ducks were never far from my mind, though.

When decent weather finally hit, a few weeks ago, I decided to take a walk at the nature preserve. Driving by Pat's house on the way there, I found her out raking leaves in her yard. Impulsively, I pulled into the driveway and said hello. We chatted for a bit, then she invited me to head out back to see the ducks.

As always after a span of time has elapsed between visits, I wondered whether Ducky would remember me. Let's face it - they've got pretty small brains, right? And most critter brains focus exclusively on eating, mating and staying alive. So where does "visit Kelly" fall on a duck's list of priorities? Your guess is as good as mine.

I hadn't even closed the latch on the gate before I got my answer: here came Ducky, walking my way and greeting me with his usual, "duck, duck, duck." Seriously, that's what ducks sound like when they're muttering. It's a sound I became quite familiar with, the times when Pretty Boy recuperated in my bathroom, and it's a sound I find amusing: I don't know what they're saying when they mutter like that, but it's clear that they've got something important on their minds!

So before I'd gotten all the way through the back gate, Ducky had recognized my voice, calling my usual hearty greeting, "Ducky! There's my pal!" and had come over to say hello. I can't tell you how heart-warming it is know that I've made enough of an impression on Ducky - and Puddleduck, who came over to greet me as well - that there's room to remember me in their small duck brains. We had a brief visit, in which I promised to bring snacks the next time I came, and then I made my way to the nature preserve for that walk I'd planned on.

Ducky's recognition of me put me in a happy frame of mind for the rest of the day. It was one thing to know that they were well-looked-after by the Mitchells, but it was quite another for me to be able to stroll onto their property after several months' absence, and be greeted by the ducks like a long lost friend. It never fails to amaze me!

As I was reflecting on my visit at the Mitchell's, and ducks in general (mating season is in full swing now at McKinnon's Pond), I realized with a start that it was a year ago this month that Pretty Boy was found dead. I recall telling you about it, and saying that one fine spring day, I would scatter his ashes at the pond he had spent his life on. I still haven't done it. For the last twelve months, the decorative tin that holds his ashes has remained in the same spot on my kitchen table, right next to the sage green casserole dish with the rabbit-shaped lid.

Knowing that I'd be writing about this, I gave some thought to why I never scattered the ashes as I said I would. I came to the conclusion that it would've been more permanent an act than I'm ready for. In some inexplicable way, as long as I leave that tin of ashes on the table, I don't have to face the awful permanence of Pretty Boy's death. I know there's no logic in that, but that's how grief is.

It's worth noting that, in the year since my favorite duck's death, I've yet to receive a bill for his cremation. Clearly, Pretty Boy touched more lives than just mine in his short time on earth!

Mitigating my sorrow has been the irrepressible Ethel Duck, who runs to greet me every single time I'm at the pond. She visits the longest, eats the most, and trusts me more than any of the others. Her cheerful nature makes up for many things: cold winter weather, wind chills, rainy days, and, in a small way, the loss of the World's Greatest Duck. I'm happy to report that Ethel's companion, Big Boyfriend Duck, is still with her. They've been together over three years, now, and they're still monogamous!

So there are highs and lows for me right now: pleasant visits with Ethel at the pond, and Ducky and Puddleduck at the Mitchells, but also a lingering twinge of sadness at the loss of that wonderful duck. If there is indeed a heaven, Pretty Boy is no doubt waddling around the front gate, waiting for me and muttering, "duck, duck, duck!"

That's all for now, folks! While you're waiting for my next blog entry, please check out my Youtube page (enter Crazy Critter Lady in the Youtube search engine) - I've got several videos posted already, with more to come soon. One of these days, I'm going to get Ethel on video and make her cheery smile world-famous! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Older Than I Want To Be

2010-03-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome back! I hope you've all managed to dig yourselves out from under all that snow! Spring is in sight, now, so we just need to hang in there a little longer!

I debated whether or not to blog about the subject I'm going to write about today. It has nothing to do with animals - which, as you may have guessed from the "Kelly's Critter Talk" name, is what I usually write about. But there was a Thing that happened yesterday, and I have a hard time passing up opportunities to write about Things, so I hope you'll bear with me, and I promise I'll get back to blogging about critters in the near future!

I went to my very first rock concert when I was 18. It was the Rolling Stones, and I sold my beat-up Gremlin with the radiator leak to pay for the tickets. I took my buddy Sandy Winscott with me - she was almost as big a Stones fan as I was - and we mooched a ride up to Detroit with a couple of guys we knew from high school, Dan and Dave. We all smoked some dope during the drive, drank some beers when we got there, and generally had a fine time, even though the Stones '81 tour would later be remembered as one of their most lackluster performances on record. But hey, it was the Stones: we were practically breathing the same air, so who cared if they weren't quite up to snuff?

We were young, then. Dumb. Innocent. We all had a lot of learning to do, and we all had hard times ahead of us that we couldn't possibly have anticipated at such a dopey age. Twenty-nine years later, Dan's a good-lookin' lawyer type in Cincinnati, Dave's heart is shredded from too much steroid use in the '80's - or so I hear, and Sandy's down in Florida with the old folks (not that there's anything wrong with that!). As for me, I've gained 20 pounds in the intervening years, and hopefully a little wisdom, as well. Some days, it's hard to tell!

So this concert came to my attention a few months ago. Three bands were scheduled: 38 Special, Styx, and REO Speedwagon, all on one ticket. All three had their heydays back in the '70's, but all three continue to draw crowds to this day and, in fact, they managed to sell out the brand new arena in Whoville for the first time since it opened last year. Not bad for a bunch of old guys!

Since fiance John has been a professional musician for 30 years - his specialty is searing guitar licks on his Strat - I asked whether he'd be interested in attending the concert. He immediately went on-line and got us a couple of decent seats, and we went last night.

As a writer, I'm always looking at the details that no one else pays attention to. I was having a field day with my people-watching as we made our way through the arena to our seats. Wide-eyed with wonder, I noticed that the place was full of baby boomers: middle-aged men and women with paunches, saddle bags, dyed hair, no hair. "Man, look at all the old folks," I said under my breath. I was starting to feel like a kid by comparison, until I realized that most of them weren't much older than me, and that I'm catching up pretty damn fast!

So I don't know why I was surprised to find that all three bands were fronted by white-haired men. Even Kevin Cronin's dark, curly, uber-70's mane had been replaced by a bleached-blonde buzz-cut. All the bands played well, and Cronin's voice, in particular, was in fine form, but where had the time gone? How was it that I - the skinny little Stones fan from just a few years ago - was now sharing audience space with a bunch of folks on the cusp of geezerhood, cheering on bands full of guys who have probably already had their first colonoscopies? WTF???

The problem is that I have this unfortunate telescoping memory, in which things that seem to have happened a few short years past actually took place decades ago. I understand - on some vague, intellectual level - that Sandy Winscott and I haven't partied together in almost three decades, but it seems more like just a few years ago. Most things that happened in the ensuing years feel that same way. Jimmy Buffet concert (1988)? A few years ago. Divorce (1991)? A few years ago. First trip to London (1995)? A few years ago. It's a strange repository for all my memories, whether I want them there or not.

I read recently that Journey's Steve Perry has had hip-replacement surgery. So this is what we've come to.

It's going to sound more than a little naive when I say that I didn't realize we were all going to get old. Seriously. My ability to conceptualize the aging process breaks down somewhere in the 30's. That is to say, I was never able to imagine life after 30-something. If you held a gun to my head, I still wouldn't be able to conjure an image of Sandy Winscott as anything other than how I remember her at 18. The same goes for all of my high school chums.

The fact that those chums now have children of their own - some in college, no less! - is beyond anything I can fathom. We weren't supposed to get old. We weren't supposed to fall apart, get flabby, get serious, get staid and boring. We were supposed to be ageless, timeless, somehow, and rule the world while we were at it. I'm not laughing as I write that. In fact, tears have come to my eyes at the sudden awareness that life is not going to be those things for us. We're not going to be the exception to the rules; we're stuck being mere mortals like everyone else.

How depressing.

And so I found myself, in the midst of a really good concert last night, vacillating between my pleasure in the moment, and my anguish at realizing that Sandy and I will never be dope-smoking young hoodlums again, that the things Leslie and I laughed about probably aren't funny anymore. That laughing with Dawn will never happen again because she died last year from breast cancer at the age of 46.

There will continue to be private agonies for me, as time goes by and some of the things I really wanted in life - things I had counted on happening, assumed would happen, probably never will. Every day, it seems, some of my hopes and dreams die small, quiet deaths as I become a middle-aged stranger in my own life. While I'm starting to look every inch of my 47 years, I certainly don't feel it: when the Stones come on the radio, I still crank the volume, every time. "You Can't Always Get What You Want" just never gets old!

In the midst of all this introspection, I'm pleased to report that REO Speedwagon played one of my all-time favorite songs last night. It's a song I've used over the decades to rally myself in times of hopelessness and despair. When I play it, I'm reminded that there are still possibilities. For those of you who need the same reminder, I offer the lyrics now for your consideration:

I used to be lonely, til I learned about living alone.
I found other things to keep my mind on.
And I'm gettin' to know myself a little bit better.
I keep pushin' on.
Goin' through all the changes, I made so many mistakes,
trying to leave behind the heartaches.
And sometimes I think I was a little bit crazy.
I keep pushin' on.
Well, it's comin' together, I finally feel like a man.
I never thought that I'd be where I am.
Every day I wake a little bit higher.
I keep pushin' on.
Keep pushin', keep pushin', keep pushin' on.
You know you've got to be so strong.
Keep pushin', keep pushin', keep pushin' on.
Even if you think your strength is gone,
keep pushin' on.

- lyrics by Kevin Cronin

That's all for now, folks! Thanks so much for reading this entry anyway, even though there weren't any cats, ducks, or horses in it! I'm keeping my eyes and ears open for the next great animal story, so until then, please be kind to all the critters!

P.S. Hey, Sandy! Thanks for the memories!

Good News from Lorenzo the Cat!

2010-02-03T11:55:00.001-08:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome to the middle of winter! Jeez, I'll be glad when spring is here - I can feel a nasty case of cabin fever coming on!

I've been trying to combat the winter blahs by taking walks at a nearby nature preserve. It's a small place, but if you walk the loop trail enough times, you can log a few miles. I like the park no matter what the season - it seems to be an undiscovered gem that the locals don't know or care about - but the last few times I've been there, I've noticed the same thing: the woods are skeletal, the trails empty, and the sky leaden. Even the squirrels stay tucked away in their nests most of the time. Seems like winter's getting everybody down.

So it was with a measure of relief that my friend Lorenzo the Cat saw his shadow yesterday. This is not to be confused with Punxatawney Phil's weather prediction. I mean, do you really want to trust the judgement of some poor critter who's just been rudely awakened from semi-hibernation? Of course not. No one wants a cranky woodchuck predicting the future! A wise cat, on the other hand, might be a tad more accurate.

Lorenzo is a myspace friend of mine. Ordinarily, I don't friend many strangers on myspace - there are just too many fruit loops out there! But I liked Lorenzo's page, and his intellect (courtesy of writer/owner Joann Biondi) so I reached out, and Lorenzo reached back. I've been enjoying his company for some time, now.

Lorenzo mentioned Phil in a myspace status comment yesterday. He called his mood "Punxatawney," and it got me thinking. So I messaged the cat, asking whether he'd been outside lately in his hometown of Miami, and if so, had he seen his own shadow. Lorenzo had this to say in response, "I saw my shadow. It was short and fat and had a big fuzzy head. So forget what that dork Phil says, summer will be here soon. Break out the t-shirts." I would be remiss in my journalistic duties if I failed to mention that Lorenzo the cat likes wearing shirts.

You don't have to take my word for it. Head to www.lorenzothecat.com and see for yourself. He has them custom-made in Italy by a fellow named Mr. Luigi. One wonders what Luigi thinks about a shirt-wearing Maine Coon, but perhaps it's nothing more than a paycheck to the tailor. You can also watch a great slideshow of Lorenzo modeling different garments (jackets, polo shirts, and something that is clearly yachting garb) on his myspace page, www.myspace.com/comeseelorenzo. I guarantee you won't be sorry you did!

So the good news, according to Lorenzo, is that spring is on its' way. The bad news is that it's not here yet! Even so, with characters like my shirt-wearing feline friend to keep things interesting, I'm sure the time will pass quickly. May all of you be fortunate enough to know a day-brightener like Lorenzo!

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Just When You Think You Know It All!

2010-01-20T14:05:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Gosh, it's been a while since my last post, hasn't it? I hope you all had a great holiday season, and I really hope that spring gets here soon!

I was out at the barn volunteering in December. Volunteering doesn't stop because the weather gets wintry, it just means you wear more layers! My favorite nemesis, Mandy, has been away at college since late August. It's been that long since she's been to the barn, and the barn's a lot quieter without her. While I enjoy the company of the other volunteers, I don't have the same rapport with them that I do with Mandy.

Mandy's like the squirrely little sister I always wanted, and while she's got a couple of siblings at home, it's clear that there aren't many people in her life willing to suffer her abuse! So we have a special relationship, one based on a mutual fondness for insulting each other. It's terrific fun when she's at the barn, and a little lonely when she's not.

She managed to turn up one Saturday just before Christmas. After our usual round of teasing and poop-scooping, Nancy asked if we wanted to ride. We rarely turn down that opportunity, so we finished up the chores and grabbed a couple of lead ropes. Only problem was that Ruckus - my usual riding horse - was being used by the gang of children who were also volunteering.

Because he's such a steady, reliable horse, Ruckus is the one that children ride - especially those who have no idea how to ride. Ruckus will walk them safely around the arena without balking or getting out of hand. But with Ruckus in use, who was I to ride?

You might've guessed that, sooner or later, I'd be stuck with Mandy's favorite horse, Charlie. You remember - the one that's always trying to knee-cap Mandy?! I don't mind telling you that I felt a fair amount of trepidation when Mandy climbed off (after a ride in which Charlie behaved perfectly, I might add), and I took hold of the reins and climbed on. I had no idea what I was in for, but I was fairly certain that it wouldn't be good!

I don't trust Charlie. After watching all the times he tried to kick Mandy, I've had no reason to trust him. I remember Nancy saying more than once that she never turns her back on him. This from the woman who owns the barn, and loves each and every horse that comes through the door! Not exactly a ringing endorsement. So I gingerly climbed into the saddle, and tsked the command for him to walk. He obeyed, walked me once around the arena, then stopped.

I recalled from lessons I once took on an incredibly stubbon Appaloosa that if the horse refuses to move, you must make a rib-digging irritant of yourself. I tried this tactic with Charlie, and it worked. Once. He took a few steps, then stopped again. After that, he was on to me: the trick wasn't going to work twice!

I sat there on his back, digging my heels into him, feeling like a complete amatuer, and getting nowhere. Nancy and Mandy both called out suggestions - none of which moved Charlie sufficiently to obey, as I sat wondering why my four-odd years of riding lessons were failing me completely. Just when you think you know what the hell you're doing, someone comes along to remind you that you don't!

Nancy finally came over, took Charlie by the bridle, and lead us around like she does with the children. After some discussion, it was agreed that taking a few lessons on Charlie might not be a bad idea. Between you and I, though, the thought of spending thirty dollars for the opportunity to be kicked by a nasty horse doesn't appeal to me at all! Realizing that the lessons are inevitable, though, got me thinking about how to approach this horse who knows I don't like him.

In the first place, it's no good going through life riding no one but safe, reliable old Ruckus. I'm only going to learn so much from a horse that doesn't challenge me, and clearly, my knowledge has fallen short if I can't even get a horse to walk when I want him to! So if I want to broaden my skills, I have to ride different horses. Since Charlie presented such a problem, it seems prudent to learn how to handle him. It can only make me a better horsewoman.

In the second place - and I'm going to regret saying this because Mandy's going to use it against me later - it's entirely possible that I haven't given Charlie a fair shake. If Mandy likes him, he can't be all bad, and it's not his fault that his owner is a schmuck (for more about Charlie's schmucky owner, see my previous post, "Saturdays at the Barn"). So I hatched a "getting to know you" idea, ran it by Nancy, who approved, and have already set the plan in motion.

It goes like this: every Saturday that time allows, after I've finished scooping poop, I'm going to bring Charlie in from the paddock, place him in the cross-ties, and give him a grooming he won't forget. I'm told that Charlie loves being groomed, and it seemed as good a starting point as any. During our first session, I even sang a few verses of the theme from the Scooby Doo cartoons, for no other reason than that Temple Grandin, in her great book, "Animals in Translation," believes that animals communicate through their own version of music.

When I sought advice from Nancy on how to handle Charlie during grooming, she told me to keep an eye on his ears. Ears are one of the ways horses communicate. If the ears are up and alert, he's listening to you; you have his attention. If his ears are laid back flat, he's angry and you want to be very careful: there could be a bite or kick coming your way. I lost count of how many times I checked Charlie's ears during that grooming session, but I'm pleased to report that he never once flattened them. It was a good start.

There's still a long way to go before I'm willing to get on his back again. There's the matter of hoof-picking, which is when he always tried to kick Mandy. While I managed to pick the front hooves all right during that first session, there was no way I was getting near his hind end! I had Nancy do it, and watched as he flailed his legs at her, instead. Sooner or later, I'll have to take the plunge and try it for myself, but I'm going to stick to grooming his coat for a while, first. It's time I got to know Charlie, and let him get to know me, and that's a process that can't be rushed.

It's worth noting that my very first lesson horse, Crazy, put me through this exact same sort of misery. Crazy made me work for every single step she took. In spite of the fact that she was an experienced horse, she delighted in pretending that she had no idea what I wanted - or simply didn't care. I would spend entire circuits around the arena giving her the command to trot, while Crazy did her best to thwart me. Our conversations went something like this:

"Trot, Crazy!"

"Now?"

"Yes, Crazy, trot now!"

"You mean right now?"

"Yes, Crazy, right now!"

"You want me to trot right now?"

"Crazy!"

"Maybe I could do that for you later."

And all the while we were engaged in this power struggle, Crazy's circles would get smaller and smaller, until we were basically walking around the middle of the arena, instead of out by the wall where we belonged. It was all very vexing indeed.

After a time, I shelled out for a pair of ball spurs. They helped emphasize my commands, but it took me years to realize that it's not how hard you nudge their ribs, it's how much horsemanship you possess. At that time, I possessed very little; Crazy knew far more than I did. While it's good that someone in the equation knows what they're doing, I would prefer that it be me! And although I spent most of those lessons feeling completely humiliated by my lack of ability, it was in overcoming the obstacles that I learned the most.

It's worth noting all this because on January 3rd, Crazy passed away. She'd been retired from lessons for some time, and had spent her days relaxing and browsing hay. On the Saturdays when children were at the barn, Crazy was brought in for them to groom. She would stand patiently as they brushed her coat, and braided her mane. It was a nice way to live out her days.

Though she caused me no end of grief during our lessons, I've always had a certain affection for her, and I'll miss her presence at the barn. Curiously, some devilish part of her seems to live on in Charlie. Perhaps she's whispering in his ear, telling him all the tricks she employed with me.

So yet again, I'm humbled by the fact that a thousand-pound animal has reminded me of my limitations. After Crazy, I spent four-odd years learning how to ride Rebel, and maybe that's the problem: that of all the horses in the world, I've only experienced two. Evidently, it's time to expand my horizons. I don't mind admitting that I'm very nervous about this, if for no other reason than that Charlie is an unknown element, one that takes me out of my comfort zone. And I do like my comfort zone! Don't we all?!

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, keep warm and please be kind to all the critters!

A Mouse In The House

2009-11-19T07:46:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! Most of you probably don't know that today is my birthday. I turn forty-seven fabulous years old, and I don't mind a bit! Seems like the older I get, the better I get: wiser, more sensible, more comfortable being me. Let's face it - many people in their twenties are idiots! I know I was. Most people in their thirties still have a lot to learn. But I think by the time you get half-way through your forties, you finally get a few things figured out, and you stop caring so much what other people think. It's a calmer, easier place to be. Something happened last night, though, that threatened to derail my happy birthday.

I was sitting on the floor playing solitaire - something I frequently do when the t.v. offerings are less than exciting - when favorite cat Junebug calmly plopped a dead mouse down in front of me, then laid down a foot or so away. I believe her thought at the time was something along the lines of, "You can have it, Kelly, I'm done with it." When I examined the poor creature closely and realized there was no bringing him back, my heart sank. The tone in the room immediately changed, and it's been off-kilter ever since.

I'd known for some months that we had a boarder: I kept finding mouse poops in the knife drawer. The knife drawer as litterbox was a mystery to me until it hit me that the cupboard holding the bags of cat food was directly underneath. As long as he wasn't eating my food, his presence didn't bother me. After a time, though, he stopped pooping in the knife drawer, and I didn't give him another thought.

We had a number of mouse boarders when I lived in the converted chicken coop. I always knew when the cats were after them by the way Buddy and Spanky would stake out spots in the laundry room and stare for hours at a small hole in the wall. Once in a while, all five cats would go racing off into the spare bedroom, or the living room, hot on the trail of some poor terrified creature. Most times, I was able to rescue the mouse and set him free outside.

But no one among the cats has done anything like Checkpoint Charlie here at the new place. It was as if we had no mice in the house at all. So I was stunned by the sudden appearance of that poor dead mouse. I looked at Junebug and asked, "Why did you hurt the mouse? It's not good when the mouse gets hurt." She looked up at me, uncertain about the flat tone in my voice. Over the course of the evening, I asked her that same question several times.

In a curious irony, earlier yesterday I had discovered the presence of a mouse - though not the critter himself - in the trunk of my car. I had gone to the trunk to retrieve a spare bag of cracked corn for the ducks. When I popped the lid, I noticed a mouse-sized hole in the bag, and a pile of corn husks on the floor nearby. Glancing at the duffle bag that I keep extra winter clothes in, I saw a pile of duffle bag shavings, as well. Someone had definitely made himself at home!

I went through the duffel bag but found nothing. Before cleaning up the corn husk mess, I grabbed my camera and took pictures of the evidence, so that I'd have something to show you later. Oddly, when I grabbed the same camera to take pictures of the dead mouse, hours later, I found that the damn thing had died on me in the interim. Minolta Freedom Zooms have a way of doing that, and I've gone through three or four of them in the last two years. You'd think I'd have learned after one or two camera deaths, but alas, I'm a creature of habit! I can say this, though: Minolta has done more to push me toward upgrading to a nice Canon digital than any t.v. advertisement!

In any case, it was too late at night to consider burying the mouse then, so I found a mouse-sized box, wrapped the little fellow in a tissue and tucked him into the box, then put the thing in the freezer until morning. I spent the rest of the evening searching Ebay for yet another Minolta Freedom Zoom Right To The Garbage Can, then staring blankly at Junebug as she lay on the family room floor. She kept glancing up at me in a manner that suggested she knew something was terribly wrong. Her behavior this morning confirmed that understanding.

Junebug's morning priority is kibble. It's the first, most important thing she wants, and every morning, she lets me know this, as though I'd somehow forgotten overnight. But she lingered next to me on the bed, purring as though to reassure me that things weren't as bad as they'd been the night before. Still in a dark frame of mind, I dragged myself to the kitchen and plunked some kibble in her dish. Instead of eating, though, she chose to join me in the bathroom. This was unprecedented. Junebug never passes up a chance to eat fresh kibble! But to my surprise, she jumped up on my lap and purred some more.

It's unlikely that she felt bad about the mouse - that had probably fallen off the radar the minute I put the little guy in the box. But what DID seem likely was that she picked up on my listless tone, and my heavy heart. And those things clearly bothered her. She even went so far as to jump up on the bed when I climbed back in, purring and head-butting in a clear attempt to raise my spirits. So far, she's been unsuccessful. I'm not sure why.

It's not as if I WANT to feel crappy. In fact, I was surprised to have awakened today in the same low frame of mind I was in last night; I assumed I'd sleep it off. But something about that small victim has stayed with me. I genuinely like field mice. They're cute, and they possess a certain assured audacity, attempting to live among us as though it's not a conflict of interest. As a walk down any pest-control aisle in any store will attest, though, most folks are not like me. Which makes me admire their ability to survive in spite of us all the more. I had no more problem sharing my cats' kibble with a mouse than I did sharing the trunk of my car. Call me strange, but that's what makes me the Critter Lady! And therein lay the problem.

I didn't start out in life as a Critter Lady. When I was a child, I never said, "When I grow up, I want to have cats and ducks, and let mice live in my house!" I actually came to critters rather late in the game. I had spent an intense year caring for a sickly, dying cat. The vet had privately given him three months to live - and that had been optimistic. But I poured heart and soul into his care. I did midnight sub-cutaneous saline treatments. I cooked rice in tuna water, just to tempt him to eat something that might firm up his constant diarrhea. I endlessly combed his coat when he became too sick to care for it himself. I did whatever it took, and then some. And my reward was that he chose to keep on going for over a year, exceeding the vet's prediction by ten months. It was the finest thing I've ever done.

When that cat died, I had a lot of pent-up critter-caring energy with no outlet. Slowly, over time, I acquired one cat, then two, then three, four, and five. I found the ducks, who charmed me into a level of involvement I never could have imagined at the time. I met a therapist, who led me to horse therapy, which led me to my now-long-standing association with that wonderful horse rescue facility, The Healing Barn. My life, my house, my heart, and my photo albums, are filled with the animals I've come to love so much. You would think that that would make being the Critter Lady a good and satisfying thing, and for the most part, it does. But caring for so many animals - and being on alert for problems 24/7, can be exhausting. Especially when you lose one.

Fiance John heard my tone on the phone last night, and offered to come stay with me because of it. I told him I'd like that, but he was absolutely NOT allowed to laugh when I told him why I was upset. To his credit, he didn't laugh. In fact, he reassured me that my caring about whether a field mouse lives or dies is one of the things he loves best about me. I'm very lucky to have found a man who gets me, who understands that ALL critters are a priority for me, no matter how small.

So it's been a rocky start to my forty-seventh year. I hope things improve from here! John and I will be going to our favorite Japanese restaurant tonight, where I plan to drink a big glass of plum wine and try to put this recent loss behind me. After all, there are still lots of critter who need my attention!

That's all for now, folks. I want to wish a Happy Birthday to all my fellow Scorpios - may all your birthdays be great ones! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

A New Home For Puddleduck

2009-11-13T13:21:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! Judging from the low temperatures at night here in Northwest Ohio, I guess summer's gone for good this year. Rats! I wasn't quite done yet!

I know that I've mentioned white Pekin Puddleduck in previous blog entries, but I don't recall saying much beyond the fact that he'd taken over caring for Girlfriend Duck after Pretty Boy passed away. In fact, Puddleduck was dumped at McKinnon's Pond a few years ago. He was full-grown at the time, and not too fond of humans. I'm thinking that either he wasn't handled much, growing up, or he'd had bad experiences with humans. Whatever the cause, Puddleduck made sure he never got too close to me.

The handy thing about Alpha ducks like Pretty Boy is that they set the tone for the other domestics: because Pretty Boy wasn't afraid to get close to me (even after repeated pickings-up by me when he needed to go to the vet), the other ducks would follow his lead. They may have been nervous, but they clearly came to some understanding, by watching Pretty Boy's example, that I was relatively harmless.

With Pretty Boy gone, the other ducks have backed off to a certain degree. There still seems to be, though, in the recesses of those little duck brains, a semblance of memory of times past - times when the big hulking human could be trusted, because every now and again, they still come within reach. It's not something that can be relied upon to happen at every feed, but it happens often enough.

For the past month or so, I've noticed a problem with Puddleduck's left leg. Puddleduck always walked with a degree of what looked like bow-leggedness, but lately, he's been favoring that left leg. It looked noticeably weaker, and he invariably ended up using his right wing as a ballast at the feeds. And, increasingly, he's been isolating himself from the crowd. Many times, I'd be surrounded by a horde of ducks - wild mallards and domestics alike - with no sign of Puddleduck at all. If I wandered around to the side of the pond over by the highway, I would usually find Puddleduck off by himself, huddled on the grass.

He swam much better than he walked; on dry land, he was the proverbial sitting duck. I worried about him, and fretted over what to do. The times I decided to catch him and take him to the vet, he proved surprisingly agile and managed to evade capture. After discussing my concerns with Pat Mitchell - who, since the untimely death of Chicken, a month or so ago, has been on the look-out for a new companion for Ducky - we agreed that Puddleduck was a suitable candidate to fill Chicken's shoes at the Mitchell's home. Successfully catching him, though, was another matter entirely.

I sent Pat an email earlier this week, telling her that I would be trying to catch Puddleduck on Friday. She responded with a voice mail on my machine, letting me know what time she would be home to receive him. "She's a lot more optimistic than I am," I thought wryly on Thursday night. From past experience, I can tell you that things rarely go as planned where the ducks are concerned. Even when Pretty Boy was still alive, there were always those days when - for whatever reason - he remained out of reach during the entire feed. Puddleduck, I was sure, would be no different.

My skepticism was coupled with a healthy dose of laziness: lets face it, anything outside your usual routine is a hassle, and the ducks are no exception. Sometimes, I just want things to be easy, and wrestling with an unwilling duck is never easy. My brain overcame my lethargy, though, when it reminded me, "There's no way he can survive on the pond this winter! Catch him now while you still can!" Sighing deeply as I drove to the pond, I resigned myself to the task.

It didn't help that I had an appointment with the eye doctor first. It was my annual visit, complete with the pupil-dilating drops that made being anywhere near a light source quite painful for several hours after the exam. And the pond, reflecting the bright sunshine of a beautiful late-fall day, was one hell of a light source! Squinting as I walked along the side of the pond, I could make out the faint shapes of Mama, Freckle Duck, and Old Fellow as they ran to greet me. Puddleduck was nowhere to be seen.

Because the feeds are also frequented by hordes of migrating wild mallards, the domestics tend to get elbowed out of their own meals. I go through a lot more cracked corn during the fall and winter months than in the spring and summer, and I usually have to pour out the corn, squat and wait until my guys are displaced, duck-walk backwards, pour some more, and repeat the process several times to ensure that the domestics all get fed. I was in the middle of that process when I looked up to see Puddleduck walking toward me, moving considerably faster than I'd seen him walk in recent weeks.

For a brief, lazy minute, I discarded the idea of catching him before reluctantly giving in to yet another reminder from that pesky brain of mine. To my amazement, Puddleduck bellied up to the bar a mere foot and a half away from me. When he stuck his right wing out to balance himself, I knew I had him: he was too close, and too clumsy with that wing out, for me to pass up such an easy opportunity. I bided my time for a few seconds, saw my chance, leaned in quickly and grabbed him up. All the other ducks scattered in fear, quacking their disapproval as they fled en masse to the pond. Puddleduck managed to flap his strong wings a few times, but my grip was firm. I returned to the car and put him in the waiting critter carrier.

I cell-phoned the Mitchell's as I pulled out of the parking lot, letting them know the mission had been successful and that I was on my way to their house. My usual feeling of triumph was subdued, though. Grabbing up Pretty Boy always brought a measure of satisfaction in the knowledge that I was doing right by him. Even if the same was true with Puddleduck, I had no close bond with him to savor. I might as well have been transporting a complete stranger.

Regardless of my personal feelings, I nonetheless favored Puddleduck with a running monologue about what lay in store for him. "It's a nice place with a small yard, your own little pond to swim in, a pal to keep you company...Puddleduck, what are you doing? Digging to China?" While my eyes were on the road, I'd heard a taptaptap coming from inside the cage. I'd glanced over to see what looked like Puddleduck trying to dig his way out by pecking his bill repeatedly on the hard plastic underneath him. I remained mystified for another ten minutes, until I pulled him from the carrier and discovered a pile of dry cat kibble scattered about. He hadn't been digging to China at all, he'd been chowing down on cat food!

When I got to the Mitchell's house, it was agreed that Puddleduck should spend some time alone in the garage, getting his bearings. Ducky would be brought in for the night in a few hours, at which time the two ducks would presumably catch up on the good old days spent together at the pond before Ducky's move to his new home. In a couple weeks, I'll take Puddleduck to the vet to try to discover the reason for his leg issue.

Whatever the problem may be, Puddleduck now has a wonderful forever-home with people who will cater to his whims, and spoil him rotten with not one but four ponds from which he can safely bathe, swim, and watch the antics of an impossibly-fat resident squirrel, whom I've privately named Fat Squirrel, as he eats his way into the record books by being the Fattest Known Squirrel In Existence. It's a life most ducks would envy, and I've no doubt that once he gets past the transition phase, Puddleduck will be one happy duck. Ducky sure is.

My visits with Ducky have gotten fewer and farther between, during the last several months. It's not because I don't care, but because life gets in the way, and I have to accomodate not just my own schedule, but Pat Mitchell's, as well. The last couple of times I'd been there, Ducky seemed preoccupied with the minutiae of duck life, and I figured that I was probably disappearing from his memory. He rarely came up close, anymore, or stuck around as long as he used to. I understood the distance, and reluctantly accepted it. What choice did I have, anyway?

But a terrific thing happened today: while a discussion ensued about Puddleduck's immediate future, I called my usual greeting over my shoulder, "Ducky! Hi, pal! How ya doin'?!" To my surprise and pleasure, Ducky climbed out of the pond he'd been swimming in, preened a few feathers so that he'd look presentable, and hurriedly waddled in my direction. I felt bad that I'd forgotten to bring snacks with me.

Indeed, I'd been so fixated on the prospect of those stupid pupil-dilating drops that I forgot everything I usually arm myself with: snacks for Ducky, and, equally important, my camera, for documenting the action. Dammit! I lamented out loud my lack of snacks before joining Pat in the garage. She shut the door so that Puddleduck wouldn't be able to run out into the yard, then I pulled him from the carrier and plonked him on the cement floor. He immediately disappeared under the 1960 Studebaker Lark that would also be spending the winter in the garage. We let him be, and rejoined Pete out in the driveway. To my great gratitude, Pete had ducked inside the house while we were about our task, and returned with a package of saltine crackers, that I might give Ducky a treat after all. Thanks, Pete!

I walked back across the yard, calling to Ducky, and feeling certain that my charmed moments with him earlier were all I was going to get, this visit. He surprised me yet again by waddling back over to me and snacking on the crackers while Fat Squirrel perched in the crotch of a nearby tree, waiting for his own opportunity with the saltines.

The visit at the Mitchell's turned out to be enormously satisfying for several reasons. Discovering that some primal recess of Ducky's brain still contained an apparent recognition of me was deeply pleasing. Ducky and I had never shared a rapport on a level with myself and Pretty Boy, but I had had to take him to the vet once, several years ago, when he'd swallowed a fish hook. He survived the surgery and returned to the pond with an aplomb I didn't know he possessed, and he never seemed to hold the incident against me.

Finally getting Puddleduck's future seen to was equally satisfying. There's no doubt in my mind that if he'd had to suffer another winter on the pond, slipping and sliding on the ice would have done permanent damage to his leg. It would very probably have left him completely helpless out on the ice, as well. That would've required a dangerous rescue attempt, or, in lieu of that, a slow starvation death out there beyond reach. A forever-home with the Mitchells is the best prospect, and a better outcome than most abandoned ducks get.

While this particular story has a happy ending, don't make the mistake of thinking that it's all beer and skittles for the McKinnon's Pond ducks: the remainder of them are still homeless, and trying to make the best of a bad situation out there on the pond. A painful reminder of just how treacherous their existence is can be found in the deaths of Pretty Lady, white Pekin Peepers, and Pretty Boy - all lost in the short span of this past spring. Any of those left could go at any time. Indeed, a predator could be catching one of them right now as you read these words. So, please, THINK TWICE before bringing home a duckling for your children or grandkids: ducks can live over twenty years. Don't get them if you're not prepared to care for them for their entire lifetime.

That's all for now, folks. I want to give a quick shout out to the Gods, who clearly considered and granted the plea I flung at them earlier today to please let me catch Puddleduck! No matter who your god is, I think there's something to be said for the power of prayer. Until next time, keep warm and please be kind to all the critters!

A Difference of Opinion

2009-10-21T13:46:00.001-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're enjoying some nice fall weather, just like the ducks and I are here in Whoville. A curious thing happened the other day, and I've been doing a lot of thinking about how to tell you about it. I guess the best way is just to jump right in, so here goes.

I was talking with fiance John recently, teasing him about one of his idiosyncracies. I can't recall which one because he has too many to keep track of! It probably had to do with his propensity for really bad puns. I keep telling him that they're not all meant to come out of his mouth, but that never stops him! Anyway, the subject was endearing quirks, and I made the mistake of asking what he thought mine were. Between you and me, I didn't realize I had any quirks - or at least any that John was aware of! Turns out he had a list of them, and at the top of the list was this: that I talk to my cats, and believe that they talk back.

Considering that John has five indoor cats that he dearly loves, this comment came as quite a surprise. Given that John and I both have high IQ's, I just assumed that we were on the same animal-communication wavelength. I mean, of COURSE they talk: they meow, hiss, growl, and purr, just to name a few. I pointed this out to John, but it didn't seem to register.

"Well," I said, "other cats understand what they're saying, right?"

"Yeah...," he answered cautiously.

"So the cats ARE talking, right?"

"Yeah...," he still wasn't convinced.

"Just because YOU don't understand them doesn't mean they're not talking, does it?"

At which point he gave me that indulgent look that I really hate getting from people. It's the same look you give your child when they do something dumb but funny.

I suppose that now is as good a time as any to explain about the critters talking. My cats talk the most (more so, say, than the ducks). That's natural: I live with them, we interact all day long, and they have things on their minds that they want me to know about. Junebug is the most talkative, and her thoughts usually center around asking me to refresh her bowl of kibble, or give her snack treats. We don't spend all day talking to one another; it's simply a matter of Junebug trying to make a point, and me translating that point into my own language of human English.

One of my favorite things that Junebug says is this: when I give her a catnip toy, she'll lie on the floor and lick the thing soggy. And she'll say, "I'll lick all the smell off, Kelly!" Which is, of course, exactly what she's doing when she licks the thing soggy. Makes sense to Junebug. Makes sense to me.

My six-year old orange tabby, Spanky, who is so emotionally stunted that he thinks he's still a small kitten, often walks around the house wailing unhappily. What I hear him saying is, "Me!," though I have no idea what, exactly, he's talking about. I just know that he's unhappy and he wants me to know about it.

The problem with this whole subject of animals talking is that I worry about being mistaken for one of those eccentric cat ladies whose animals all speak in flowery prose, which is not the case at all! I've never once claimed that any animal spoke the English language to me, nor do their mouths move to form words. The easiest way to describe what I experience is that it's like standing in the middle of a stream and letting the critter-waters flow around me. I get the essence of communication, not an actual thought or word.

My thinking is that if you spend enough time interacting with your pets, you're bound to become a pet whisperer to some degree, if for no other reason than you love your pet and enjoy your bond with it. That's basically how it is for me: I spend such a large amount of time with my cats and ducks that I seem to have an inside track on what they're thinking about.

Meanwhile, I've learned the hard way that my high IQ fiance is a lot more narrow-minded than I realized. How disappointing! And as a fellow Trekkie, he should know better!

The subject of animal communication put me in mind of some really priceless movie dialog, and in the interest of accurate reporting, I sat down this afternoon and popped the video in the VCR so that I could get the phrasing just right. The things I do for the sake of my blog! In any case, it goes like this:

The crew of the Enterprise (Star Trek IV - The Voyage Home) become aware of a powerful space probe that's rendering star ships inoperable. No one knows where the probe came from or how to communicate with it. Dr. McCoy makes a sarcastic remark about the probe's intention of saying "'hi, there,' to the people of the earth." Mr. Spock gives him a pained look and says, "There are other forms of intelligence on earth, Doctor. Only human arrogance would assume the message MUST be meant for man."

Let me repeat that in all caps for the benefit of my myopic fiance:

THERE ARE OTHER FORMS OF INTELLIGENCE ON EARTH, DOCTOR. ONLY HUMAN ARROGANCE WOULD ASSUME THE MESSAGE MUST BE MEANT FOR MAN.

There's no doubt that animals do, in fact, communicate - and make themselves clearly understood - with each other. Even John doesn't dispute that. Why he disputes the idea of one specie trying to connect with another, though, is unclear to me. Maybe he's got scary things going on in his head that he doesn't want anyone else knowing about. Maybe he's worried that his cats would rat him out! Who can say?

As for all of you critter-lovers out there, I know that you understand exactly what I'm talking about: there are all kinds of different species living among each other on this planet - birds and mammals, fins and feathers, and tail-less homo sapiens, and it's only natural that we're going to try to talk to each other. I'm starting to see, though, that talking might not really be the issue after all; perhaps LISTENING is.

Do you ever get the feeling that we're not doing enough of it?

Here's a challenge for you: the next time you're at your local park, walk around with your ears open and really listen to the natural world. Can you hear the birds? The ducks? The chipmunks? I dare you to take a walk around your neighborhood and leave your ear buds at home! I dare you to say hi to the people that you pass. I double-dare you to smile at them! Lie down on the floor with your dog or cat and relate to them on their level. Brake for squirrels! You never know - in the next life, you might BE a squirrel!

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, I'm going to be working on expanding John's mind. As always, please be kind to all the critters!

Too Close For Comfort

2009-10-15T09:12:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome back! I sure hope it's not raining where you are because that's all we've been getting lately here in Whoville! It's so dismal and dreary out there that boyfriend John coined his own word: "drismal," which perfectly describes the weather outside and the feeling inside! I'll sure be glad when the sun comes out again!

I had a thing happen the other day that really threw me off kilter. I was out at the pond feeding my guys as usual, when I noticed that new favorite duck Ethel was nowhere to be found. Neither was Big Boyfriend Duck. I called and called, and stuck around longer than usual, but never saw hide nor hair of them. Heck, every wild mallard within a ten-mile radius showed up, but not Ethel. This was very unusual: as I've said before, Ethel is one greedy duck! She stays at the feeds the longest, and eats the most, and her presence is such a given that on the rare occasion that she doesn't make an appearance, it's all the more noticeable.

She hadn't shown up for the previous feed, either. Now I was worried. My concern was compounded by the sudden discovery of a duck carcass. The poor corpse had been picked over so well that there was literally nothing left but bones and feathers. The head was gone - rendering identification impossible because the way I tell Ethel apart from other Rouen females is by the black stripes across her face - and so was just about everything else. No innards, no skin, no nothing. I found one lone webbed foot lying a few feet away. There wasn't even enough duck left to be grossed out about.

Having no idea whose corpse it was, I was forced to conclude from the missing Ethel that the body must be hers. Now I was really bummed. So bummed that I went right from concerned to numb. This was just too much: first Pretty Boy and his sister, Pretty Lady, then Peepers, and never mind the human losses John and I have incurred this year, or the death of his beloved cat, Picasso. This has been the suckiest year on record for sheer number of loved ones lost. I just couldn't handle the idea of losing Ethel, too.

So I tried not to think about it. I did make a return trip to the pond the very next day to recover what was left of that poor duck. John and I will give the remains a proper burial sometime soon. I talked to Pat Mitchell - who suffered her own loss recently with the untimely death of Ducky's companion, Chicken. Between you and I, it's no great loss - he was one mean bird! Even so, Pat was deeply upset about it, and was no less so when I told her about Ethel. She tried to convince me that she'd seen Ethel earlier that day, but I remained skeptical, mainly because I don't think she has a clear idea of what Ethel looks like.

The few times I let myself think about things, what I thought about most was that I don't have a close relationship with any of the remaining domestics at the pond. I entertained the idea of quitting - giving up feeding the rest and letting someone else take over the job. Hell, I put in sixty miles a week, driving to and from the pond; I could surely save a little wear and tear on the old Honda by not making the drive anymore. And I could surely save a little gas in the tank, as well. But my sense of obligation to those abandoned creatures was stronger than my brief desire to quit, so back to the pond I went yesterday for our regularly scheduled feed.

You can imagine the surprise and joy I felt, then, when good old Ethel - trailed, as usual, by Big Boyfriend Duck - crested the hill and joined the crowed. "Ethel!" I called out delightedly, "where ya been, you silly girl?!" She made no reply, but simply tucked into the corn as usual. Life was good again!

I was so relieved that I actually tried to send a text message to John as I drove away. This was, of course, courting disaster, and I strongly recommend that every person on the planet put away their cell phone/blackberry/whatever once they take a seat behind the wheel. As for me, I pulled off the road and then let John know that all was well at the pond.

While I'm glad to have things back to normal, this experience has served as yet another painful reminder of the fragility of life. I've been spoiled for so many years by a false sense of security at the pond: the longer those ducks live, the longer I expect them to live. Losing so much as one of them really throws off my plans for duck immortality. Pretty Boy was never supposed to die, nor Peeps, or any of the others. We were all simply going to live on indefinitely. Naive, I know, but cheating death does that to you, it makes you think you can go on doing it forever. But then one day, reality smacks you in the face and the loss is that much harder to live with.

So yet again, I urge you all to spend extra quality time with your loved ones - humans and otherwise. You just never know when you'll run out of time, and once they're gone, they're gone forever. That's all for now, folks. Thanks again for stopping by. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Critter Thoughts

2009-09-21T14:30:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you all had a great summer!

Golly, but it's been a while since I blogged last! From all that silence, you'd think that nothing noteworthy has happened, but that's not really the case. Mostly, I've been trying to figure out how to tell you the things I've been thinking about, and sometimes, it takes longer than others to make sense of the jumble in my head.

One of the main things on my mind has been Pretty Boy Duck. You may remember that I told you, when he died back in March, that one fine spring day, I would scatter his ashes at the pond he had spent his life on. Well, I haven't done it. I thought about it a few times, but just couldn't bear to part with any of the ashes. They remain in the decorative tin the crematorium put them in, and the tin remains on my kitchen table, where it's sat for all these months since. I'm over the worst of my grief, but there are still many days when I have painful twinges of sorrow at his loss.

Nothing reminds me of that loss more than my thrice-weekly visits to McKinnon's Pond to feed the other ducks. What a huge presence Pretty Boy took with him when he died! There don't seem to be any other domestic ducks down there who want his old job. I've watched all summer, and haven't yet detected so much as one duck taking a leadership position within the flock. It's damned disappointing.

My friend Bob Tarte - author of "Enslaved by Ducks" - thinks it's possible that there is, in fact, a new leader at the pond who is perhaps more subtle than Pretty Boy was. I suppose it could happen; Pretty Boy was anything but subtle, after all! What I keep looking for, and not seeing, is a strong personality that isn't afraid of getting close to me, one that the entire flock recognizes and responds to: in Pretty Boy's day, all the domestics gathered for the feeds and everyone seemed to know their place. Now, the flock is fragmented into three or four separate cliques who rarely share the same space at the pond, let alone the food. In other words, there is no longer a unifying duck presence.

One of the hard truths I've learned from loving and losing critter friends is that they - like we humans - are all unique individuals with unique personalities. The problem grieving humans run into when they lose an animal friend is when they adopt another and find that the new one is in no way like the old one. I've run up against this myself - even though I knew better! - and had to swallow that bitter pill of disappointment and find the patience required to let a new personality shine in its' own light. Eventually, the joy of the new personality helps soften the blow of losing the old one, but in the case of the McKinnon's Pond ducks, I'm still waiting.

It's entirely possible that my new special duck will be a girl. I find now that at all the feeds, Ethel is the duck I most look forward to seeing. Why? Because she's such a cheerful and trusting soul, always happy to see me, and never seems to mind when I touch her. She hangs around the longest, eats the most, and her enthusiasm for a good bag of corn never seems to dim! Every single time I go to the pond, I can expect to sit down on the ground and visit with her while she eats. None of the other domestics stick around long enough for that. They eat quickly, then return to the pond and get on with their day.

I'll keep watching to see if any alpha ducks turn up at the pond. In the meantime, I'll treasure my friendship with Ethel. Not everyone is lucky enough to know such a wonderful character as her, so I consider myself very fortunate indeed. Those three visits are a highlight of my week, and I always make sure that I have enough time to stay as long as I want to.

For those of you who think ducks are boring, I say this: you have no idea what you're missing! While wild mallards can be dull creatures (and why not? They're not meant to interact with humans), domestic ducks are just the opposite: gregarious and outgoing, intelligent and funny, they'll make you laugh while they're alive, and they'll break your heart when they die. Was knowing Pretty Boy worth the pain of losing him? You betcha! And I'm looking forward to seeing him again in the next life.

In the meantime, I've been searching for a way to honor his life. I know I mentioned previously that to honor some great cats I've known and lost, I had my favorite jeweler create small gold baubles to hold a pinch of their ashes and to wear on a chain around my neck. I originally planned to do this with Pretty Boy, but the price of gold has gone through the roof, rendering my idea unaffordable. I did, however, find a good Plan B: I met an animal-loving artist on Facebook who creates beautiful fused-glass pendants. What this is is powdered glass, in a wide variety of colors. The artist arranges the colored powders just so, then fires the piece in a kiln. The heat melts the glass powders and fuses them permanently into place.

It should be noted that the artist, Heidi Mason, does all this with one eye. I can't tell you why that is because I don't know what happened to her other eye. Perhaps I'll ask her and get back to you. In any case, you can see and purchase her stunningly beautiful creations at www.redshoecreations.com. Tell her Kelly Meister sent you. When she's finished mine - sometime in early November, I should think, when she returns from her road trip - I'll be sure to post a picture of it so that you can see how great her work is.

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters, and be sure to cherish the ones you share your life with: you never know how short your time with them will be!

Author's note: I've since learned that fused glass artist Heidi Mason suffered originally from what she described as a "macular pucker"- which surgeons were able to fix - but then the retina in that same eye detached. Four surgeries later, the retina refuses to remain attached, and Heidi tells me that she now sees only light and dark shapes with that eye. And still she manages to create beautiful one-of-a-kind pins and pendants! Way to overcome, Heidi!

For those of you interested in learning more about fused glass art, here's Heidi in her own words, describing the process by which she creates her beautiful pieces:

In short: All glass will melt at the right temperature in a kiln. COE 90 glass (and there is COE 96) all melts at the same temp. So you can fuse (melt) different colors of glass together, without cracking. Slumping is melting glass in a kiln, but melted in a mold. So basically what I am doing is cutting a shape out of the glass. Painting a design with glass paint. I then fuse, or melt the paint into the glass, and fuse (melt) different pieces of glass in my kiln. Cold fusing (a special glue) is to glue two pieces of glass together before it's put in the kiln. The special glue melts away in the heat. At 800 degrees I put in a plug to restrict the air going in the kiln. Red paints like to have oxygen and are brighter if I let it have oxygen up to 800 degrees). I program my kiln to the time and temperature and how long I want the temperature to hold at different stages. The kiln slowly rises in temperature (say to 1,480 degrees). I determine how long I want it at that temp. then the kiln will slowly cool down. Glass Frit is crushed glass, that is sifted into powder. Fine, medium or coarse. I like to use glass frit, which I make myself. However it can be bought. Cathedral glass is glass that you can see through. Opal glass is glass that is solid. Glass also can be bought in very thin sheets, which works well for jewelry. I hope this answers your question...It would take pages to go into all the kinds of glass paint, and kinds of glass. But this is the basic way I make my pendants.

Chipmuks!

2009-07-28T12:08:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're having a great summer.

As you may have noticed, I misspelled the word "chipmunks" in the title. I did that on purpose. My orange tabby, Spanky, calls them "chipmuks." It doesn't matter to me what he calls them, and I don't think Spanky's much of a speller anyway. I just know that he and I both like the little critters.

Before I moved into my current house, I rented one on an old estate. I loved that place! It had quirky features to it, and the sort of character that new houses just don't have. The whole south-facing side of the house had huge windows, with these big wide sills that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever other than to provide my cats with a comfortable spot for bird-watching.

There was a side door on the house that led nowhere, other than the vast expanse of the estate itself. It's not like you'd use that door to take out the garbage, or go to your car - those things were on the opposite side of the house. That side door also had a brick walk that led nowhere. The bricks had been there so long that many of them had sunk into the ground, causing the entire walk to look warped. It all added to the charm of the place.

To the right of the side door was a long row of old overgrown yew shrubs that ran the length of the house and hid who-knows-how-many woodland creatures. To the left side of the door was a bed of ivy that had not only climbed the outside wall of the house, but was well up onto the roof, too. A few feet away stood an old box elder tree which was home to numerous birds and squirrels. It was all very enchanting.

There was a proper all-weather door on that side of the house, but no screen door. When I realized the entertainment possibilities for the cats, I had an old-style screen door installed, the kind that's more screen than door. The cats would gather around it and watch the critters outside come and go. Eventually, I took to putting out sunflower seeds and ears of corn to attract even more critters.

It was the chipmunks who made that brick walk a daily feature of their routines. Squirrels, mice, and the occasional bird would stop by, but the chipmunks really took over. No one was more enthused about that than Spanky. He loved their quick movements, and the way their tails twitched. He could sit, mesmerized, for hours! Chipmuks were by far his favorite animals.

When I moved to the house I'm in now, it took me a while to notice that there weren't any chipmunks. At all. This puzzles me because there's a wooded property adjacent to my own, with a field of tall grass between us. Maybe the chipmunks don't feel the need to wander past their woods, I don't know. I just know that there are none on my property.

I gave some thought to putting out something tempting to attract the little rodents, but quickly nixed the idea because I don't want to attract raccoons, as well. One of my first nights in this house, I heard a noise, looked out the front window and saw a large raccoon sitting on top of one of my garbage cans, trying to get the lid off the other. Don't get me wrong - I like raccoons. I just don't want to encourage them to hang around.

So Spanky and I are both a little depressed about the lack of chipmuks. I really miss having them around. I love how cheerful and carefree they are, and they're cute as buttons besides. If I could figure out a way to have a whole family of them living on the property, I would.

It's hard trying to explain their absence to Spanky, who doesn't understand why they want to stay in the woods when they could come over and "play" with him. I've tried to distract him by pointing out visiting rabbits and squirrels, but he's just not interested. I can't blame him; it's not the same at all.

I don't have a happy ending for this story, just some cautionary advice to enjoy what you have while you have it. I spent four years smiling over those chipmunks. Hell, I spent time staring at them through the screen door, too! I'd hunker down on the floor, surrounded by cats, and grin over their antics. It's surprising, now, how large a presence they were in our lives: there's definitely a quiet place where chipmuks used to be. Dang it!

That's all for now, folks. I hope you're able to take a few minutes out of your day and enjoy your four-legged neighbors. They can be such fun to watch! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

The Case of the Injured Goose

2009-07-16T17:21:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope your summer is being a good one.

Well, if you've got a Canada goose in trouble, who ya gonna call? That's right, the Critter Lady, which is what Nancy from the Healing Barn did the other night. I was just settling in for an evening of mediocre t.v. when I heard someone leaving a voicemail. I picked up and Nancy told me that her sister and step-mother had come across an injured goose during their walk near a local pond (not McKinnon's Pond).

The women had been able to get pretty close to the goose, they just didn't know what to do with it once they caught it. They called Nancy, and Nancy called me. I said, "Of course I'll help," and hopped into the car without bothering to change out of my sweats. I found Nancy's family easily enough, and they pointed to a goose who was off in a patch of grass eating, not too far away.

Apparently, fishing line had almost cut his foot off, and indeed, when I glanced in his direction, I could see the foot dangling by a shred of skin. It was a sad and gruesome sight. Sighing, I asked which one of the assembled women wanted to try to catch the goose. Nancy hadn't arrived yet, so her sister volunteered. I don't know why I bothered asking though, because it's always me that ends up doing the work!

In all fairness, it should be noted that the sister was perfectly willing (and no doubt able) to make the attempt. I usually end up doing the work because I'm the most experienced, and the most confident. In this instance, I asked for a volunteer because in my view, this was their rescue, and I didn't want it to seem like I was taking over. I see now, though, that someone needs to be in charge of things, if the mission is to be accomplished, and being a Scorpio, I'm pretty good at being in charge.

So I had everyone (Nancy had joined us at this point) range around the goose in a semi-circle, being careful not to move too quickly. I didn't want him so scared that he'd fly away. But I needn't have worried: he didn't seem to know that he was supposed to be afraid of us. I managed to get within a few feet of the goose, and every now and then, he'd look up at me with a sort of calm curiosity.

As I inched closer, I'd quietly reassure him that he was a Very Good Goose indeed. When I was close enough to grab him, I asked Nancy's sister for the blanket she was going to throw over him, she handed it to me, and I tossed it over him. He let out a squawk, put up what seemed like a perfunctory amount of fight, and then was still.

His head was covered by the blanket, which had been intentional: I've heard that geese can be very aggressive fighters, and I didn't want to be wounded in the line of duty! The women lifted up the back of the blanket, though, and took a good look at the foot. It was hanging by a thread, and it was dead and useless. It would have to be removed.

I knew that Nancy was accustomed to doing gross things with horses (cleaning pus-filled wounds in hooves comes to mind), so I figured she'd have no problem manning the scissors. "I have a pair between the front seats of my car," I told her. Which is exactly where she looked.

It's funny, how you mean something one way, and a person hears it another. What I meant to say - and probably should have said - was, "The scissors are in that box between my front seats. Just lift the lid." What Nancy heard was, "Somewhere between my two front seats is a pair of scissors that you'll have to look all over for." Funny, huh?! So I corrected myself, she found the scissors, and with one snip, the foot was off.

As I write this, the foot is in a Zip-Loc bag in my fridge. I brought it home so that I could take pictures of it - to go with the pictures of the one-footed goose that I took that night. You never know when you'll need the gory evidence! Boyfriend John (now Fiance John) has agreed to give the foot a respectful burial out back in his pet cemetary this weekend.

In any case, we stood for some time debating what to do with the goose. As I held him, he voiced his opinion about the proceedings the same way my ducks do: he pooped all over. Unfortunately, my right leg was in the line of fire! By the time I headed home, I had goose poop trailing all the way down the back of my right leg! Well, me and my sweats are washable, so what do I care?!

We made a couple of phone calls to various wildlife rehab services, but they're always too busy to answer their phones, and this night was no exception. There was some discussion about who would take the goose home for the night (and feed and water him, and deal with loads of goose poop), before taking him to a vet the next day, but we couldn't really settle ourselves to any one thing.

It was turning into the sort of hassle that no one needed, and even Officer Jeff wasn't answering his phone! I couldn't blame him: as I listened to the incessant ringing on the line, I glanced at the clock in my car and saw that it was 9:15 p.m. It was time to put this situation to bed.

It was Nancy who finally suggested that we simply release the goose. And why not? The worst was over, and apart from a dose of antibiotics, there was little anyone could do for him at that point. There seemed little reason to hang on to him. Besides, wild birds get notoriously stressed out when forced to deal with humans. Nancy's suggestion made sense.

We set the critter carrier down near the pond (after being pooped on, I transferred the goose from the blanket to my carrier), opened the door, and watched him get all tangled up and turned around, attempting to get out. He gave up trying fairly quickly and just plopped down where he was, half in and half out of the carrier. I walked up, then, took hold of him and gently pulled him out. I turned him right-way-round, let go, and watched him hobble off. He stood at water's edge considering the pond for a moment, then hopped in and swam away. Our work was done. I put the now-stinky-with-goose-poop carrier in my car and headed home.

It should be noted that this was not my first experience with fishing line injuries. I've seen this sort of thing before with the wild ducks at McKinnon's Pond. There was also an instance a few years back with one of my domestics, who had gotten caught on some line, dragged it back to her nest, and ended up tied to a branch, unable to move. Thank God I knew about her nest and was able to free her before she lost a foot to the line, or her life to an animal. It was a lucky break. Not all critters get so lucky.

I've been collecting fishing tackle for some time, now. Not at garage sales or stores, but at the pond. Every time I find more junk, I bring it home and put it in a bag, and put that bag with all the other bags on a shelf in my office. If you scroll around on this page, you'll see a picture of not only the one-footed goose, but also a pile of fishing lures, fish hooks, fishing line - any or all of which can do permanent damange to anything it comes in contact with, whether it's a wild animal, your pet, or your child. It doesn't take much to change a life for the worse forever.

I don't know whether or not it goes without saying that we shoud all be teaching our children to be very careful with their fishing gear, and that we should all be setting a good example as adults. I see far more grown men fishing at McKinnon's Pond than children, so I'm going to go out on a limb and accuse those careless slackers of making everyone look bad. Let's change that! Let's all be mindful that we're the stewards of this planet and that God (whichever one you pray to) is watching all of us, seeing what we're doing with His planet and His creatures. So far, we've not done a great job taking care of things.

That's all for now, folks. I'm going to close with a quote by Margaret Mead that I really like: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has." Right on, Margaret!
Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Hangin' with the Ducklings!

2009-06-10T13:18:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by!

As I write this, my cat, Gracie Ellen Tripod - she of the three legs - insists on lying on my lap. I don't mind the company, but she sure can work up a lot of drool when she's in the mood! About the only time Gracie ever asks for attention is when I'm sitting at the computer, though, so I'm happy to oblige her.

I followed through on my plan to change out Freckle Duck's eggs yesterday. When I approached that fork in the tree she's nesting in, I saw four or five slices of bread - whole slices, not even broken up into duck-sized pieces - ranged around the perimeter of her nest. I know that the people who left them there meant well, but come on! No duck eats whole slices of bread. You have to break them up into small pieces. And even then, no mama wants food around her nest: it will lead predators right to it, for heaven's sake!

In any case, when I went to remove the bread, Freckle bit hell out of my hand. Repeatedly. Hard! Every single one of those bites hurt, too, and one of them scraped across my skin and drew some blood! I can certainly understand her desire to defend her nest, but things were getting painful in a hurry!

So I went 'round to the other side of the tree, reached into the fork and grabbed her from behind. I set her on the ground and poured out some cracked corn for her but she spent the time bitching loudly about the felon who was disturbing her nest. I ignored her squawking and set to work changing out the twelve eggs she's laid for the dozen I'd bought at the grocery store.

My friend, "Enslaved by Ducks" author Bob Tarte, has commented on duck bites in past conversations. He seemed to think that they could do some damage - an idea I dismissed at the time because Pretty Boy's bites were always fairly harmless. In retrospect, I'm beginning to wonder whether my favorite duck pulled his punches, so to speak, because Pretty Boy's bites never hurt like Freckle's did yesterday! I was quite surprised by the hostility in her attack. Then again, that's what mamas are supposed to do, isn't it? When I finished my task and walked away, Freckle climbed back onto her nest, none the wiser about the chicken eggs.

It was supposed to rain today, but when I got to the McKinnon's Pond, there was only the odd sprinkle. So I lingered for a time, sitting quietly on the ground as the other Freckle Duck and her ten offspring tucked into the pile of corn I'd set out for them off to my left, while black duck Baby Fuzz nibbled at the pile of corn I'd set out for her off to my right. Baby still has three ducklings, who are all cute as buttons and not nearly as nervous about me as Freckle's offspring. One of Baby's young has black legs and orange feet, which looks endearingly ridiculous, like day-glo orange shoes. I remember that when Pretty Boy was a duckling, he had similarly silly-looking feet.

Because I'm at the pond several times a week, I have the opportunity to see every stage of the ducklings' growth, as they go from tiny little fuzzballs, to awkward, gangly ducklings, to individuals with their own unique personalities. It's fun to be a part of, even if I'm just a spectator. And while Baby's young are fairly brave about being near me, Freckle's young are brave about everything but me!

Take today for instance: when I first spotted Freckle on the far side of the pond, she only had three ducklings with her. "Aw, jeez," I thought, "she lost seven young overnight?" Boy, was I wrong! Turns out the other seven were just off by themselves, looking into things. For ducklings who are barely two weeks old, that's pretty brave! But the minute they see me - that terrifying, hulking human - they all start peeping for mama! They have selective bravery, I guess!

As always, I thoroughly enjoyed today's interlude at the pond. The longer I sit there quietly, being harmless, the more Freckle Duck relaxes her vigilance. Baby Fuzz already seems to know that I'm only interested in taking pictures, and I've gotten some great ones of her and the kids. By the time they're grown, I'll have filled at least one photo album with pictures of them! Meanwhile, I hope you'll all join me in saying a prayer to the Gods that at least some of those little cuties will make it to adulthood.

That's all for now, folks. Thanks again for joining me. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

We've Got Ducklings!

2009-06-08T10:52:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by!

I don't know about you, but I was on pins and needles the entire month of May, waiting to see if any ducklings would hatch. Animal Control Officer Jeff and I had scoured the pond area in early May, looking for domestic duck nests, but found nothing. That in itself was unusual because those domestic ducks usually pick easily find-able nesting spots. We walked all the way around the pond, poked into all the shrubs surrounding the nearby apartment buildings, then threw up our hands in despair. Where had those sneaky ducks gone?!

There was one nest that I knew about from the start. Baby Fuzz - the last remaining black duck at the pond - used the same site she had chosen last year, a well-hidden spot under a very sharp and pokey evergreen shrub. Late in April, I replaced all but a few of her eggs, figuring, what's the harm in letting her raise a few; pedators will end up getting most of them anyway. Sure enough, last week Baby showed up at a feed with three ducklings.

All three are cute little nippers, with varying splotches of color on their tiny fuzzball bodies. Since Baby knows me well, she's approached me quite closely at feeds, letting her offspring know in the process that the big hulking human with the bag of food is relatively safe to be around. I hesitate to get attached to her young, though, because I've learned from years of experience that they won't all survive to adulthood. In fact, I've been surprised so far that Baby's managed to hang on to all three ducklings for over a week.

Another domestic duck at the pond had ducklings, as well. Because Freckle Duck is white, I felt sure that I'd be able to spot her nest, but I never did find it. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I showed up at the pond one day to find her with fifteen ducklings! How cute they are, each with their own distinct markings and personalities, peeping and paddling around and poking into things. There's just nothing more entertaining than a batch of enthusiastic ducklings!

As I write this, though, Freckle is now down to ten ducklings and counting, which confirms what I've written previously about all the predators at the pond. And, as sad as I am to see the numbers decrease, I'm also very relieved that over-population won't be an issue this year. I don't want to give the city of Whoville any reason to feel that they have to interfere with the goings-on at the pond. Better to keep the numbers low so as not to raise any questions, I think.

As I was hiding behind a tree today, angling for a better picture of Freckle Duck and her offspring, I heard a familiar huffing sound. I turned my head toward the fork of the tree, only to find the other Freckle Duck (hey - you try thinking up interesting names for every single duck at the pond!) sitting on a nest of her own, huffing at me in warning as she gave me that look which says, "Go away before I bite you to death!" Golly!

Well, there's nothing like hiding in plain sight, is there?! I can't tell you how many times wild mallards have used that same tree fork for their own nests - only to have the nest destroyed by neighborhood children who have nothing better to do with their time than be cruel to animals. Who knew that flightless Freckle could even get up that high off the ground to begin with???

"Rats," I thought, "I'm gonna have to get some more chicken eggs and change 'em out, here." I hope Freckle's eggs aren't too far along, but the deed must be done: it's my job to keep the numbers down, and I take the job seriously. It's not that I dislike ducklings (far from it), it's that I don't want the city of Whoville thinking they need to remove the entire gang from the pond. I've no doubt that they'd end up euthanizing every last one of them, and that would be heartbreaking.

So, it's a mixed bag for me this spring. I'm pleased as punch with all the new little ducklings, but nervous, as well, that the new lives might compromise the safety of the other pond residents. In addition, Pretty Lady has yet to turn up, which leads me to believe that a predator got her, too.

You may recall that Pretty Lady was Pretty Boy's sister. It's sad for me to lose that special generation of ducks, one of the first generations to be born to abandoned duck Missy Miss, all those years ago. Pretty Lady and Pretty Boy were practically fearless about approaching me at feeds, something they certainly never learned from Missy, who remained distrustful during her entire time at the pond.

Meanwhile, I confess that I'm secretly hoping for a duckling to take up where Pretty Boy left off. Not a replacement, of course, but maybe an alpha duck in his own right, trusting and open and ready to make me laugh. Wouldn't that be great!

Well, as with anything else in life, time will tell. I'll keep you posted as the ducklings grow, and, as always, I take loads of pictures of everything. Check out the "view my pics" area of my myspace page, it's where I post the majority of my critter photos. www.myspace.com/crazycritterlady

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters! And please, teach your kids to be kind to critters, too!

Hello Old Friend

2009-06-02T11:10:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope that spring is in full swing where you are!

I came across an interesting quote recently. It might've been said by Dr. Suess himself, Theodor Geilsel, but I can't be certain of that. In any case, it goes like this: "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened." As with anything else in life, that's easier said than done.

I was at my local Meijer store the other week, where I found a 'Best Of Eric Clapton' CD. I'm a huge Clapton fan, and the CD had a number of songs on it that I love. One of those is a tune that gets virtually no air play whatsoever; I came across it years ago tucked away on another album. But this 'Best Of' included that song, "Hello Old Friend."

"Hello Old Friend" is about running into people you haven't seen in a long while, and how agreeable it is to see them again. It's an upbeat song whose chorus goes, "Hello, old friend, it's really good to see you once again." It never occurred to me that that song would make me think of Pretty Boy Duck, but when I popped the recently-purchased CD in the player, and listened to the song I hadn't heard in years, Pretty Boy sprang immediately to mind. The tears followed soon after.

It's easy to become complacent when things run smoothly. And the longer things run smoothly, the more complacent one can become. After years of looking after the ducks without incident, I guess I just assumed that incident-free was the norm, rather than the exception. How foolish I was! After all, I know firsthand how many predators lurk in the area: the hawks and snapping turtles who always make such quick work of the ducklings in spring; the raccoons that keep Animal Control Officer Jeff so busy; the dogs that people bring to the pond and allow to run free - in spite of Whoville's leash law. In retropspect, there were many painful possibilities that I turned a blind eye to.

I suppose we all second-guess ourselves after some preventable tragedy takes place. How easy it is to beat yourself up over things that can't be changed! I've tried very hard not to do that, but the sadness remains nonetheless, so that every time I hear certain songs that remind me of Pretty Boy, the tears welled up in my eyes. I wonder if he ever knew how loved he was.

While I find the aforementioned quote by Dr. Suess interesting, I think that it's much more suited to optimists. For someone like me - for whom loss has been a recurring theme (loss of innocence, loss of childhood, loss of trust), it's hard to smile about the fact of Pretty Boy's life, and my experiences with him, when the loss of him is so devastating. An optimist would say, "But Pretty Boy made your life special!" while I say, "But Pretty Boy is gone!"

So I listen to "Hello Old Friend" and think about all those days/months/years that I took feeding the ducks for granted. Without fail, Pretty Boy - simply by being his alpha duck self - would brighten my mood, often made me laugh, and always made me smile. Who knew a duck could do all that? Who knew it would come to a screeching halt, out of nowhere, without warning?

This, I think, is the lesson to be learned: that it's important to appreciate the great things in your life as an on-going effort, rather than only on special occasions, and not assume that they will still be in your life for years to come. Change can happen in the blink of an eye, and when it does, there's often no time for I-love-you's, or good-bye's. Such was the case with Pretty Boy.

If I seem melancholy, it's because I am. Pretty Boy was a strong presence in my life. He helped define my identity. He was the reason newspapers wrote stories about me. It's hard to know who to be, without him. Of all the remaining ducks at the pond, not one can hold a candle to Pretty Boy; their personalities seem barely formed by comparison. I will, of course, continue to care for those remaining ducks. But there is a painful void, a screaming quiet, where Pretty Boy used to be. That glaring absence is the reason why I cannot "smile because it happened." The loss is simply too great.

There will no doubt be another strong presence at the pond one day, just as there are now special cats in my life where there used to be other special cats before them. The new special cats in no way take the place of the old ones; they merely add more great memories to the collection. But make no mistake: those previous special cats all took pieces of my heart with them when they left, and there is no replacing those missing pieces.

Time is the only cure for a grieving heart, and even time is no guarantee. Every now and then, I still cry over an amazing cat I knew who died ten years ago. Phil Collins' "You'll Be In My Heart" is the song that goes with those special cat memories, and when the local radio station plays it, I take the time to miss Macavity, and grieve anew. I bet you have certain songs that get to you, too.

I've known people who were so devastated by the loss of their pet that they vowed never to get another. I don't agree with that thinking. Just imagine all the wonderful critter characters you'd miss out on if you closed your heart to anything new! As painful as the loss of Pretty Boy - and Macavity before him - is, my heart will go on (another song that makes me cry for a lost critter!) and savor the next phase of life. But right now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go shed a few more tears.

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

p.s. There's another old friend I want to give a nod to: Tammy Shealey! You know who you are! It's been a long time, my friend. Please shoot me an email, let me know how your life is going.

Meet the Critter Lady

2009-05-12T14:27:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're enjoying sunny spring weather and lots of blooming flowers.

It finally occurred to me - over a year after I began to blog - to tell you a little about myself. I've been so keen to tell you about my critter adventures that I forgot to tell you about the Critter Lady! So here goes, and if you have any questions, please feel free to put them in a comment at the end of this blog.

I'm forty-six years old. Slender build with hazel eyes. My hair is brown, but it comes from a bottle, nowadays! Wrinkles are starting to take hold - road maps, I think, to a life that wasn't always easy or pleasant. I'm a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I spent a number of years being an alcoholic, making bad choices and getting involved with the worst possible men. It was a deeply miserable existence.

After almost twenty years of therapy, I'm finally getting myself together. It's been a long, hard road. Sanity can be elusive, I've learned, unless you're really dedicated to finding and hanging on to it. In spite of all the therapy, I don't generally play well with others. I turned the ringer of my phone off several years ago, now. I screen my calls: there just aren't that many people I feel like talking to, and I resent the intrusion of an incessantly ringing phone. I like my quiet. I'm happiest tending the landscaping in my yard, volunteering at the horse barn, or visiting with the ducks at McKinnon's Pond.

It was precisely because of the abuse in my childhood that I became involved with animals. Critters, I find, are easy on the psyche, and on the soul. If you treat them well, they will love you unconditionally - which is more than I can say for some members of my family. When I was a child, love was predicated on keeping secrets. Maintaining the status quo was far more important than telling the truth, and certainly more important than rescuing me from the hell that was created by the sick bastard who robbed me of my childhood. In more ways than I can articulate, animals have helped me heal every bit as much as conventional therapy.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I grieve far more deeply for animals I've lost than for people. I've spent much more time missing Pretty Boy Duck than I have any of my grandparents. I've been thrown into protracted depressive episodes when beloved cats died. I've gone to great lengths to honor their memories - from having necklace charms made that held some of their ashes, to smuggling one cat's ashes into Great Britain and scattering them at a Royal park. To me, animals are family, while humans are hurtful and not to be trusted.

Because of my trust issues and loner tendencies, it was an enormous stroke of luck that I met boyfriend John. Unflagging in his patience, he gives me room to work at who I want to be in our relationship. His terrific sense of humor makes hard times easier, and his IQ is a match for my own. In many ways, he is the yin to my yang, and his laid-back personality helps to calm the ever-present noise in my head. It's a huge bonus that he's an animal-lover, too!

What do I do for a living? Critters! I spend my days looking after the ducks at McKinnon's Pond, fussing over my own five cats, rescuing injured animals as they come along, and writing about all of it. I came into some money a while back, which buys me time to work on my sanity - as well as take care of critters - without the hassle of a day job. I used to work, but as I said at the beginning of this blog, I don't generally play well with others.

So that's me in a nutshell. I live alone on a beautifully-landscaped half acre of property. That will change one day when I move in with John. He's got room for a duck pond and a horse barn, and he's already been warned that there will be livestock in his future! For now, I continue to work on me. Sanity, sobriety, integrity, compassion, decency - these things, I've found, are the best revenge.

To others who have suffered as I have, I say this: don't just exist. Live fully! Savor each day that you're able to get out of bed and stand on your own two feet. Take time to smell the lilacs when they bloom. Throw snowballs. Laugh out loud. Learn to trust yourself. Give yourself the gift of unconditional love, be it cat, rabbit, mouse, bird, horse, dog or duck. Stop waiting for the mythical "someday" and live your life now, in the present tense. It's not easy, but it is do-able. I can tell you from personal experience that a life well-lived is much better medicine than Prozac. Go for it!

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters - and yourselves.

In Your Face!

2009-04-20T13:20:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by. I hope that spring has finally sprung in your neck of the woods.

I took a road trip recently with a couple of girlfriends. We went to a British tea shop up in Michigan, and hit some antique stores along the way. There was one store in a building that looked like an old log ranch house, and I seem to recall that the name of the place was rather horsey-sounding: Old Stables Antiques, or some such. While the merchandise inside was interesting, it paled in signifigance to what was out back.

Out back, behind the parking lot, was a sizeable pasture. It was a beautiful spring day, and I could see horses grazing in the distance. There was also a fenced-in area just next to the parking lot, and to my considerable surprise, the animal contained within this pen was not a horse, but a llama. Cool!

Naturally, my excitement over the antiques quicky dissipated as my critter enthusiasm kicked into high gear. "Good morning, Llama!" I called as I made my way across the lot. I find that it's a good idea to announce yourself in advance of an approach - some animals are initially quite shy, so it's best to give them a little warning that you're coming to say hello. In this case, the llama perked up and walked over the the fence to greet me.

I've only met a few horses in my time who were brave and/or interested enough to stand nose-to-nose with me. Most horses will give you a quick, curious sniff, and then go back to whatever they were doing before you interrupted them. I've been told that, being prey animals, they want to know what you've been eating lately (like meat, for instance, in which case they're going to worry that you're there for a horse meat snack), which explains why the first thing they usually want to smell is your breath.

It's probably a little careless on my part to let any animal that big get that close to my face. Because their whole head is made up mainly of bones, any sudden movement on their part could cost you your skull: all those hard horse bones smacking into your head could break just about every bone you have. Even so, I doubt that there's a horseman/woman out there who would pass up the opportunity to give their favorite horse a kiss on the nose. We do it, but we do it mindful of what the danger is.

In any event, the antique store llama, being considerably smaller than the average horse, didn't seem to present an immediate threat to my cranial well-being. It did surprise the hell out of me, though, when he plastered his nose against my own, and stood there for some minutes in that position. At first, I experienced my usual moment of "Uh-oh. Is this a good idea?" Then, deciding to get into the spirit of the thing, I simply stood my ground, looked him in the eye and spoke quietly to him.

"How ya doin', Llama?" I inquired. In lieu of a name - he wasn't wearing any identification - I generally address an animal by his species. The llama said nothing in reply, he merely continued to look at me softly through gentle brown eyes as though he'd never seen a human up close before. We remained like this for several minutes. He finally broke the spell by pulling away, and I wandered back to the antiques inside the store. And while I fully enjoyed the outing with my friends, you already know that my visit with the llama was the high point of the trip for me!

Apart from the road trip, I slept in for several weekends. I wanted to put a little distance between me and old Mikey's death before I went back to the barn. I should've known, though, that the Gods would try to balance out the karma by throwing some positive critter experiences my way. They do it all the time, but I'm not always open to it. This past Saturday, I was.

It's not unusual for Cricket the donkey to do a little braying when she first sees me. It's entirely motivated by the fact that she knows I've got treats on me, and I can usually get her started by giving a few of those treats to someone other than her. Even so, I don't know how long it's been since she actually hee-hawed at me. Usually, it's more of a "snuff-snuff-haw!" This time, though, she threw the whole thing my way!

I had walked into the barn, grabbed a pitchfork and started scooping poop without any of the usual preamble. Ordinarily, I would wander around a bit first, greet those critters who're in stalls, and chat with my fellow barn cleaners. That day, Cricket was aware of my presence well before I'd even given her a thought. As I walked into that end stall, though - and into her line of sight - I heard, "Snuff-snuff-snuff-heeeee-haawwww!" I whirled around in surprise. There she was, two stalls away, looking at me through the bars.

"Cricket!" I hollered, "my favoritest donkey in the whole world!" The barn crew laughed along with me.

"It's nice to be loved," I remarked, while Kaye observed, "She's missed you!" I frankly didn't think Cricket liked me enough to miss me.

I went back to poop scooping, then, thinking that sometimes, the Gods really go out of their way to make you feel like your efforts amount to something. It's enough to know that my once-a-week volunteering makes a difference in the lives of the barn critters; anything else - like Cricket's braying, or the occasional ride on Ruckus - is gravy. But it's really good gravy: every once in a while, one animal or another will let me know that they enjoy my company, and that's a reward all its' own.

There was more, later that same day. Nancy's boarding a new horse these days, one that may (hopefully) or may not end up being a permanent resident. His name is Jem, and I met him for the first time a few weeks ago. He had charmed me enough at that first meeting that I was looking forward to seeing him again this time. Once we'd finished cleaning all the stalls, I went looking for him.

I stood in front of his stall talking quietly to him. He pushed his nose up against mine in greeting - just as the llama had done, and we stood like that for some minutes. I was enchanted as much by his gentleness as by his friendliness, and I began to wonder what it would take to make him mine.

Mind you, I'm not a wealthy woman. To be honest, I really don't have much of nuthin'. But when boyfriend John and I first began emailing (we met online), and he sent me pictures of the farm he lives on, my first set of questions - even though we hadn't actually met in person yet - went like this:

What kind of crops do you grow?

Where would the horses live?

Does farming thirty acres pay the bills?

Where would the horses live?

What do you do when there's a drought year?

Where would the horses live?

To his credit, John resisted the urge to change his email address. Instead, he gamely talked about where a horse barn could feasibly be located someday. Between you and I, he has no idea how rapidly "someday" is approaching! Once he meets Jem, I think he'll understand.

So while part of my heart is torn and aching from the loss of Pretty Boy, Peepers, and old Mikey, there's still plenty of room left for whatever comes next. Could be a new duckling at the pond, could be a cool horse named Jem. When I know, you'll be the first people I tell!

Thanks again for stopping by! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

All Things Must Pass

2009-04-16T16:19:00.001-07:00

Hi Folks.

Thanks for stopping by.

It was Mr. Spock, in 'The Undiscovered Country,' who said, "Nature abhors a vacuum." I'm finding lately that he was right. While my own world, in dealing with the grief of losing Pretty Boy, ground to a painful halt, life at the pond carried on. Within days of Pretty Boy's death, white Pekin Puddle Duck somehow figured out that Girlfriend Duck was in need of a companion. How he knew that, living on the other side of the pond as he was, I have no clue. But he's been by her side ever since.

While Puddle Duck doesn't possess any of the attitude that made Pretty Boy so charming, he's willing to do whatever is necessary to look after his new friend: several times, I've seen him shooing away wild mallard drakes so that Girlfriend Duck could eat her corn in peace. Every time I approach the pond now, I find the two Pekins in close proximity to each other. It's an arrangement that suits them both.

Another life that carries on is that of Pretty Boy's wing man, Ducky. While it's unlikely that Ducky knows that his friend has died, a curious thing has happened since he went to live with the Mitchell's: he's come out of his shell and into his own. It's an unexpected turn of events.

Ducky had been dumped at the pond as an adult, and he never really settled comfortably into the new living arrangement. As a result, he was content to walk in Pretty Boy's shadow, and he no doubt felt safe with the alpha duck looking out for him. When he first arrived at the Mitchell's, Ducky looked to Chicken for the same sort of security, but as time passed, some inexplicable change took root. Now, I'm told, Ducky chases squirrels off the property, as well as birds, rabbits, chipmunks and any other interlopers he feels brave enough to face down. He's clearly more confident, now, and more sure of his surroundings.

One of the main reasons I've kept the ducks at McKinnon's Pond - instead of pushing boyfriend John to hurry up and dig that duck pond - is because the place is so damned big. The pond is easily the size of a football field, with grass and shade trees along the banks, and it's located on a quiet street in a quiet subdivision. To my mind, it's the perfect place for a duck to live - if you can overlook, that is, the fact that any number of predators also call the area home. To ducks like Pretty Boy, who're born there, it must seem like paradise. To ducks like Ducky, who were dumped there having first known a more secure life somewhere else, it must've been a nightmare.

So while Pat Mitchell continues to express surprise at the changes in Ducky - the new-found assertiveness, the obvious pleasure he takes in patrolling his territory - they don't surprise me much at all. It makes sense that in that more contained environment, Ducky would thrive and blossom. And it's a joy to see. The last time I stopped in for a visit, Ducky ran all the way across the yard to greet me, quacking happily as he inspected me for treats. His new passion, I was told ahead of time, is saltine crackers. I came prepared.

As I drove home from that visit, it occurred to me that I hadn't been greeted so heartily by a duck since Pretty Boy died. Ducky will never take Pretty Boy's place, of course, but how satisfying it was to stand in the Mitchell's driveway, calling Ducky's name, just like I used to call Pretty Boy, and watching Ducky race toward me as fast as his webbed feet would carry him. Nature does, indeed, abhor a vacuum. There will never be another Pretty Boy, but there will be other ducks, and other critter friendships, that will be satisfying in their own right. I just have to be open to them as they come along.

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Notes in the Midst of Grief

2009-04-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks. Thanks for stopping by.

As I've struggled to come to terms with the death of Pretty Boy Duck, I've stuggled, too, with my memories of him, and my inability to articulate the sights and sounds that made him so special to me. There are no words to describe the noises he made while in my care: the snuffling, honking sounds that were his warning to me to stop touching him; the throaty, glottal noises that actually sounded more like a croaking frog than anything else, as he chomped repeatedly on that offending hand of mine. The closest I can come is to borrow from Bob Tarte's description of his own ducks, muttering something along the lines of, "duck, duck, duck." I miss those noises.

There's another noise I miss just as much: the sound of my own voice hollering, "GOOD MORNING, PRETTY BOY!!! HOW YA DOIN', HANDSOME BUBBY?" It was the same thing I yelled every morning. He'd come running from wherever he was, intent on being the first to get to the corn I'd dumped out on the ground. Even if he was the last duck to arrive, he'd still shoulder his way to the head of the hand-out line, coming to a stop right in the middle of the pile of corn. He was usually no more than a foot away from me, and I often reached out to stroke his feathers while he ate.

There was an incident which took place in my bathroom that I think I'll cherish the most among all my memories of that goofy duck. I had asked boyfriend John to come over and take pictures of Pretty Boy and I during one of his stays last summer. I like to document my critter adventures so that I can show you - not just tell you - what I was up to. So I stood in my bathroom holding Pretty Boy as John snapped away with the camera. Things were going well enough until I felt a strange presence against my neck. Pretty Boy was up to something, but I couldn't tell what. "What's he doing?" I asked John.

"Nothing," he replied. Like hell!

Calmly, I pressed the issue, "Are you sure he's not going for my jugular?"

"I'm sure," said John. Hmmmmm. It sure FELT like he was going for my jugular!

It wasn't until I got the film developed that I saw exactly what Pretty Boy had been doing. Look for yourself - scroll up the photos on the right side of this page until you get to one with a caption underneath that reads, "Apparently, I've been forgiven!" John was right: Pretty Boy hadn't been going for a vein at all; instead, he appeared to be snuggling up against me. It's something he never did before or after that day. It was a wonderful moment, and I'm thrilled that it was recorded on film.

In the weeks immediately following Pretty Boy's death, I had to endure two other losses. First came old Mikey out at the horse barn. I'd been away from the barn for a few months, and just assumed that when I returned, I'd find everything the way I'd left it. Boy, was I wrong. I walked in one Saturday in late March to find Mikey pacing frantically up and down the aisles. When I asked Nancy about it, she told me that he was dying. I don't know about you, but my mind doesn't easily wrap itself around something as frank as, "He's dying." But when I pressed her further, it started making sense. Old Mikey was thirty-two years old. He'd been decrepit for years. And now, his organs were shutting down.

Nancy had put a call in to the equine vet, who came out and euthanized Mikey a couple hours later. We'd finished cleaning the stalls by then, and Mandy, feeling a bit overwhelmed, I think, by the prospect of watching a horse die, decided to head home. I stuck around, hoping that by being a part of the end of Mikey's life, death would somehow become easier to bear. I turned out to be wrong about that, too. Death - or, more specifically, loss - hurts like hell. And you can't cheat your way out of that fact no matter how hard you try. As the drugs coursed through Mikey's veins, I sobbed quietly, as much for the loss of Pretty Boy as for that old horse. Mikey'd had a good long life, all right, but I hadn't been ready to say good-bye.

A few days after Mikey passed, I was at McKinnon's Pond feeding the ducks when I noticed that white Pekin Peepers was missing. Being fairly certain that Peeps was male, I felt sure that he wasn't sitting on a nest of eggs somewhere. And no matter how big that pond is, it's very hard to miss a big white duck. I made a mental note of his absence and continued with my day.

I got home to find a voice mail from Pat Mitchell. There was something in the sound of her voice that told me bad news was in the offing, and I said as much as I left a message for her. When we finally connected, she said, "It is bad news but probably not who you think." She thought I'd be worried about Ducky, but I already knew better. "No," I replied, "it's a white Pekin, isn't it?" She answered in the affirmative; Peepers had died.

She and Pete had found him acting strangely at the pond that morning. Unable to balance himself, he appeared as though drunk or drugged. Pat managed to catch him - and normally, those domestics can run pretty fast - which told me that he was really badly sick or injured. She brought him back to the house and put him in a quiet place, where he died later the same day. Now Pat was asking whether I wanted the body. When she offered to bury him on her property, I thanked her and agreed that that would be best.

Like Pretty Boy before him, I'd known Peepers since he was an egg. He'd been one of the last ducklings hatched before I'd instituted the Planned Duckhood project. Because Pretty Lady had popped out a few more eggs after he arrived, Peeps spent a lot of time on his own, following the other Pekins around and learning from them how to be a duck. He was an intrepid little soul, and braver than most ducklings: he approached me at feeds much earlier than usual with young ducks, which charmed me no end.

Peepers and I were never close in the way I was with Pretty Boy. But he learned his name, and was among the handful who trusted me enough to get close at the feeds without worrying about the hulking human sitting among them. I would have been sorry to see him go under the best of circumstances, but these were not, as we already know, any kind of good circumstances to begin with. The loss of Peeps was yet another straw on the camel's back.

So it's been a difficult time, lately. I still go feed the ducks three times a week, but it's with a heavy heart, and lacks the enthusiasm I enjoyed all those years I'd stand watching that big goofy duck racing toward me, Girlfriend Duck in tow, flapping his bill in anticipation of food and a visit. I just don't have the same relationship with any of the remaining ducks, so my joy is muted.

I'll continue to feed the ducks, though, and make my rounds during egg-laying season. I'll continue to holler things like, "GOOD MORNING, DUCKS! EVERYBODY COME HAVE CORN!" I'll continue to be a little embarassed when humans overhear me talking to them. And I'll continue to miss that funny, enigmatic, big, black, bossy duck, Pretty Boy.

That's all for now, folks. Thanks so much for stopping by. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

In Memory of Pretty Boy Duck

2009-03-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

Hi, Folks.

Thanks for stopping by.

I've put off writing this particular blog because - as you can see from the title - it's not going to be a happy one. It is with great sadness that I must tell you that Pretty Boy Duck has died.

I got the phone call on Tuesday morning. Pete Mitchell had been out at the pond, and he noticed Pretty Boy's body lying at water's edge. No one knows what caused his death, and in spite of the fact that an acquaintance of mine is an animal communicator who could probably tell me how he died, I'd just as soon not know. I wouldn't be able to handle any information involving fear, pain, or suffering.

It's worth noting that Pete understood the situation well enough to wrap Pretty Boy's body in a plastic bag and bring it back to his garage for safe-keeping until I could get there. Most folks wouldn't bother. I'm grateful that he did. When Pat Mitchell called to tell me the news, I held out a tiny hope that she was wrong, that it wasn't Pretty Boy after all, but the other black duck at the pond, Baby Fuzz. But deep down, I knew that she knew exactly who that duck in the bag was.

If you go back in the archives here, you'll find a blog in which I discovered that Pretty Boy was a fan of George Harrison's song "My Sweet Lord." I played it in the car once when I was transporting him to one of his vets. It was a 'Best Of' CD, and the minute the opening notes of the song began, Pretty Boy stopped scrabbling around on the hard plastic of the critter carrier, settled down on his stomach, and listened quietly. It was the first time he'd ever shut up while in my car!

I tried to turn him on to some other George Harrison tunes - most notably, "Here Comes The Sun," but he was having none of it. He rose to his feet again and resumed his escape attempt in earnest. "But Pretty Boy," I argued, "it's 'Here Comes The Sun'! That's a classic! Everyone loves it!" He conveyed his distaste by ignoring me completely.

Autistic author Temple Grandin, in her fascinating book "Animals in Translation," mentions a number of research studies that suggest that animals communicate through music. Dogs, it's noted, will change the pitch and tone of their barks, depending on what the situation warrants.

There are theories that humans didn't invent music after all, but copied what they heard various birds singing. Grandin sites an example where Motzart himself was influenced by a pet starling who re-wrote one of Motzart's concertos by changing the sharp notes to flat ones. Evidently, Amadeus preferred the bird's version of the song.

So it seemed only fitting for me to play "My Sweet Lord" in the car as I drove first to the Mitchell's to collect the body (crying all the way there), then as I headed to McKinnon's Pond (crying all the way there) for one last I-don't-know-what. It just seemed the thing to do, take the body to the pond one last time. Then I drove him to his original vet's (crying all the way there) to drop him off for cremation. Dr. Chrys - the vet who amputated his cancerous wing - has been out of the country for some time, now, but she was still quite shocked about Pretty Boy's death when I emailed her later in the day. The staff at the animal hospital were equally subdued.

Feeling numb for most of Wednesday helped take the edge off my raw nerves. I spent the day wishing it had all been a nightmare, and knowing that it hadn't been. By the time I got in the car that evening and headed north for the half-hour drive to John-the-boyfriend's house, I guess it was time for the the floodgates to reopen. I sobbed for thirty minutes straight.

I wasn't even listening to "My Sweet Lord" anymore. I'd skipped ahead to the slightly-more-cheery song, "What is Life." I should've known that that one would do me in, as well:

What I feel, I can't say
but my love is there for you
any time of day.
If it's not love
that you need,
then I'll try my best
to make everything succeed.
Tell me, what is my life
without your love?
Tell me, who am I
without you by my side?

Who am I, indeed. In those numb hours after Pretty Boy's death, I thought, to paraphrase my friend Bob Tarte, "I'm just some crazy lady without her duck." Who was I, now that my cause celebre - the world-famous one-winged duck, my pal, the only duck who had ever made me laugh, the one I'd gladly shared my bathroom with - was gone? There were still twelve ducks at the pond who needed me. But the only one I'd developed a deep, trusting bond with was Pretty Boy.

Because the Gods prefer balance in the universe, a thing happened Wednesday afternoon that offered a much-needed reminder that life does go on, and that other critters do need me. I was driving through Whoville when I passed Animal Control Officer Jeff standing half-way down a ditch. Owing to the rain we had recently, there was a fair amount of water running through it. I passed on by thinking that whatever he was up to, I probably didn't want to know about it. It was most likely some horribly mangled dead critter and I just didn't want to see it.

So I kept driving. And kept telling myself to go back and help him out. I managed to get about a mile down the road before I impulsively turned into a driveway, backed up, and returned the way I'd come. I pulled off the road, crossed the street and hollered, "Need a hand?" The noise of passing traffic whittled his sentence down to "dog" and "blind."

The dog - a yellow lab - seemed to be walking with some purpose in the water. When he headed for a culvert, I saw my opportunity and jogged to the other end, making my way down to water's edge as he reappeared. He turned his head to me when I called him, and it was then that I saw what Officer Jeff was talking about: two milky white orbs stared sightlessly in my direction.

I began calling loudly, then, and clapping my hands. The dog walked right up to me, and I held him fast with one hand while I gave him some rubs with the other. "Good boy," I told him, "what a good boy you are!" Jeff walked up then and handed me a leash. I looped it over the dog's head and handed the dog off to him. As we headed back to our respective vehicles, speculating on why a blind dog was out roaming around all alone, Jeff announced, "People are really dumb!" Yes, Jeff, they sure are.

As I drove off down the road, it hit me how ironic that rescue had been: there was the perfectly able and experienced Animal Control Officer, having trouble catching a dog. And then the Critter Lady happens on the scene and snags the dog on the first try. Sometimes, life just happens like that, and the folks around me remark, "Wow! How 'bout that?!" And I usually say the obvious in response, "Well, I am the critter lady..."

If you folks think that birds are boring, I can tell you with heartfelt certainty that they are not. Each has its own individual personality, and if you trouble yourself to find it, you will enjoy untold hours/days/years of rich friendship with that critter. What I loved best about Pretty Boy was his alpha-duck-ness, a striking assertiveness that I've seen in no other duck on the pond. He trusted me enough to let me pick him up, and then he asserted himself - every time - and let me know that he had better things to do than to go with me.

There will be more tears in the coming days, before I settle into the grim knowledge that Pretty Boy's gone forever. I always end up quoting Cleveland Amory ("The Cat Who" trilogy) on this subject because his words are so succinct that I can do no better myself. He was referring to the death of his beloved cat, Polar Bear, when he said, "It was not just that Polar Bear was not there. It was the awful, overpowering weight of knowing that he would never, ever be there again."

Indeed, what will my life be without you in it, my friend? Less rich, surely. Less colorful. Less satisfying. Such was the power of one duck's personality.

That's all for now, folks. Thank you for stopping in. I appreciate it. May all of you be blessed with great animals like Pretty Boy! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

The First Whiff Of Spring

2009-03-07T12:19:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by!

Those of you beleaguered souls who got slammed recently by that huge winter storm that hit the eastern seaboard may find this hard to believe, but spring is finally in the air. I know this because when I fed the ducks on Friday, they were already in the process of pairing off for the spring mating season. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck were paddling around together. Freckle Duck turned up with the same four optimists who followed her everywhere last year. Ethel was off on the far side of the pond with Big Boyfriend Duck. No one's started laying eggs, yet, but they will, soon.

Don't get me wrong - it's not that I believe spring is actually here. I grew up in Northwest Ohio, so I already know that no matter how many mild days we have in the next few weeks, the Gods will absolutely throw at least one more storm at us in which we'll be inundated with multiple inches of snow, roads will be impassable, and spirits will be crushed by the wind chills that we had foolishly hoped were a thing of the past. It happens every year.

The animals know when the seasons are changing, though. For instance, at some point every fall, the horses out at the barn will start growing woolly winter coats. The thickness of the coat, and the timing of the growth, are actually much better indicators of the severity of the coming winter than anything the weather guy on t.v. can predict. Sometimes, a horse will get very woolly very early in the fall, and everyone at the barn thinks, "Uh-oh, it's gonna be a long winter!" And, inevitably, it does indeed end up being a long, hard winter.

The ducks at McKinnon's Pond don't seem to acquire any extra feathers to get them through hard winters, but you can always tell when spring is coming by the way they act: they start pairing off; they begin choosing territory for their mates, and start fighting the other ducks over it; the girls turn up at the feeds with feathers missing from their necks. That last occurs because the drakes tend to pull out the girls' neck feathers as they're mating with them. All of these are classic signs that, if you pay attention to them, will tell you that change is in the air.

So, while there may still be ice on the pond, and winter-cold temperatures, there also seems to be some internal clock that tells the ducks that these are temporary issues that will soon be replaced by sunshine and warmth. I sure hope the ducks are right because I've had enough of winter to last me quite some time!

That's all for now, folks. I sure hope that all of you are getting excited about the end of winter, and starting to make plans for springtime. I'm already mentally purchasing bags of mulch for the flower beds in my back yard! Until next time, take care and please be kind to all the critters!

Unsung Heroes

2009-02-27T16:57:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

How ya doin'? I hope everyone's surviving these blah winter months.

I was running an errand today at the local newspaper publishers. They've got a great woman there named Sarah who helped create my website. She also does the updates to it because I know nothing about that stuff. Whenever I'm in the building on business with Sarah, I always try to say hi to Deb, the editor of the paper. Deb's my Unsung Hero of the month, and I want to tell you why.

Several years ago, when I first approached her with a story idea involving my gang of abandoned ducks, I learned that not only was she receptive to printing animal stories, she's also receptive to printing the occasional letters to the editor that I write. The letters are always about one of my ducks, like the time Pretty Boy had to have his wing amputated because of a cancerous tumor. I wrote a short piece explaining the situation, and soliciting donations to help pay for his surgery. Deb was not only willing to print my letter, but she wrote her own story as well, and she used one of my photos to boot!

Making it a family affair is Deb's husband, who did a stint on the board of the local humane society. The two of them own three dogs, as well. In fact, if you go to my website and look at the yellow lab in my logo, that's actually one of Deb's dogs! When Sarah and I were creating that logo, she prowled around the office, looking for a photo of a dog that we could use. Everyone thought it would be funny to use Deb's photo, so that's what we did. I understand that that dog has since passed away, but he'll live on forever in my logo!

Deb's a big animal-lover, which makes my job of educating the public about the plight of those abandoned flightless ducks that much easier. You can't imagine my great fortune at having the editor of the local paper in my corner. Deb has done more to promote my cause of kindness to animals - and promote my book in the process - than any of the literary agents who've represented me.

When I stopped by her desk today, I mentioned that Easter was coming up, and asked if she'd be willing to print a note from me beseeching people not to put live ducklings in their children's Easter baskets. She didn't even hesitate before she said yes. Deb's great that way. I can always count on her to help, and she's a really nice person besides. Always cheerful, always wanting to know what's new with all the critters - that's Deb.

I try to remember all my critter helpers at Christmas. In December, I send out a newletter with a different logo on it (one that Sarah helped me create): a picture of one of the white Pekins with a (computer-generated) Santa hat on his head, encircled by the sentiment, "Have a Ducky Christmas!" Every year, I write a note at the bottom of the newlsetter, thanking Deb for all she does to help me help the ducks.

I suppose I could take just as good care of that gang of ducks without the help of a newspaper editor, but I'd never reach all of her readers on my own. And Deb's readers are the ones who're moved to donate duck food, and money for vet bills. It's quite a network, really: I write it, she prints it, they read it, and sometimes, change happens because of it. I truly am blessed to have Deb in my corner.

There are, of course, many other unsung heroes who help me help the ducks. I'll write about them in future blogs. I mentioned two of them in a previous blog called The One About A Few Good Men. Please check it out in the archive section of this page while you're here!

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

On Thin Ice

2009-01-29T12:38:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome back! I hope you're all keeping warm during this protracted arctic blast.

I'm not a fan of cold weather myself. The colder it gets, the more miserable I am. Oh sure, I can put on extra layers, but when the wind chill is a gusty minus ten, no amount of layering is gonna stave off that kind of cold. I do have one useful weapon in my arsenal, and that's my coat-of-a-thousand-geese.

I found that down coat at a garage sale a number of years ago. They'd asked ten dollars for it - an extortionate amount, in my view, but I knew I'd never find a coat of that quality for ten bucks in a store. So I plunked down the money and took home the coat. The thing is so big and bulky, it's actually too warm on all but the coldest days, but I've gotten plenty of wear out of it during the last month.

I know I've mentioned before that I'm not a vegetarian. I'm not actually a fan of any vegetables. I'm definitely a carnivore, although I do have a policy when it comes to eating meat: I don't eat any specie that I've enjoyed a first-name relationship with. Naturally, that includes my ducks, but when it comes to geese, they're another story.

My friend Bob Tarte (author of Enslaved by Ducks and Fowl Weather - both available at amazon.com) and his wife Linda have several geese. They aren't Canada geese, of course, but rather, some other genus in the goose family. Bob really likes his geese. I'm assuming, since they're farm geese, that they have more personality to them than wild geese. In my experience, wild geese are just plain mean.

I'm sure most of you have experienced wild goose meanness: the hissing, the biting, the chasing after small children...they kind of make you want to kick them, don't they?! Not in a malicious way, of course, but as my other favorite author Bill Bryson puts it, because of an honest desire to see how far you can make them fly. The fact that they're always mean to my gang of ducks doesn't help their cause one bit.

In any case, because of the wretched cold the midwest has been enduring over the last month, McKinnon's Pond has frozen over quite nicely. Indeed, there have actually been people out there doing a little ice fishing. In spite of the weather, the fountain has continued to work (usually it's blown a gasket by now and requires a temporary fix until spring), providing all the ducks and geese with a much-needed open area for drinking and bathing. But the colder it got, the smaller that open area of water became.

Ordinarily, during the winter months, I would carry my twenty-five pound bag of cracked corn down to the water's edge and call the ducks over. They would climb out of the water and waddle their way across the ice, flapping their flightless wings and quacking up a storm. This year, though, has been a little different.

For reasons known only to them, over 200 Canada geese have chosen to remain at the pond - even though warmer temps are easily had a few hundred miles south. An equal number of wild mallards made the same decision, resulting in a massive honking, quacking crowd at all the feeds. The geese get so close, I've actually touched them.

The sheer number of wild birds may well be why my gang of ducks have frequently chosen not to attend the feeds. It's an exhausting gauntlet of big mean geese to have to make your way through, only to be bitten while you're trying to eat. But because the ducks rely so heavily on food from humans, I've taken to walking a considerable distance out on the ice to get closer to them. Yikes!

When you get to be my age - 46 last November - you become very aware of your own mortality. Living to a ripe old age is no longer a given, and the older you get, the more ways you discover you could lose your life: getting hit by a bus. Seriously, it happens! A car crash, a mugging gone horribly wrong, a hip replacement surgery you never wake up from...the list gets longer and longer every year. And at no time am I more aware of the hand of death than when I'm standing way out on a pond on which the ice may or may not be inches thick.

I did this once before. Years ago. There was a duck who looked to be stuck to the ice. She didn't come to the feed, heck, she didn't move at all in the hour I went away and came back to check on her. The weather had been wretched for a while, then, too. I crawled out onto that ice on all fours. I inched my way out very slowly and quietly, listening for the sound of cracking, breaking ice.

The one time I looked up from the ice to check my progress, I experienced a sort of horizontal vertigo, an unnerving dizzy, sloshing feeling in my head. The good news is that I scared the duck into sliding herself across the ice and into the water using her wings like ski poles, and I made it safely back to shore.

Then I made the mistake of telling a shrink about it. This particular woman - who, it must be said, is THE most ineffective shrink I've ever met - had a hair trigger for danger, and spent an entire therapy session lecturing me on the foolishness of risking my life for that of a mere duck. I went away indignant, and then pissed: you're entitled to your priorities, lady, but so am I!

I'll admit that this time around, I've felt a certain measure of fear out on the ice, but I haven't let it stop me. I mean, hell, there are grown men walking a lot farther out than I am in their pursuit of winter fish. But I feel anxious nonetheless. And I hate it that that useless shrink's words (you know who you are, Cheryl) have come back to haunt me. Like I don't have enough demons to battle already!

It's a scary feeling, not knowing for sure that you're going to make it back to dry land: trying to figure out which way the wind has been blowing (and thus making the ice weaker by sending fountain water in that direction); trying to gauge just how close I can get to the ducks before the ice thins around the fountain. It's scary, dangerous work, but I do it because I'm needed.

Thankfully, the ducks have somehow made it through the worst of the weather. There was one night that northwest Ohio had a record low wind-chill of minus forty. You can bet that I prayed mightily to the Gods to look out for those ducks - indeed, for all the innocent creatures in the world. So far, they've heard my prayers: when the ducks feel like making the effort, Pretty Boy and the others shoulder their way through all those stupid geese and tuck in at the cracked corn buffet, seemingly indifferent to that awful cold. I couldn't be more grateful if you paid me money.

I wouldn't recommend walking out on a frozen pond to just anyone. You never really know, after all, how safe the ice is. I've chosen to do it because of my commitment to the ducks, but every single time, I'm aware of what a huge risk I'm taking.

While I'm at it, I also don't recommend kicking geese (or any other animal) to see how far they fly! The world already has too much cruelty in it, and there's no doubt in my mind that whichever God you pray to is taking note of how you treat his defenseless creatures. A lot of people are going to have a lot to answer for, come judgement day.

Lets all make an extra effort, during these awful days of arctic cold, to look out for critters in need - whether they be hungry birds and squirrels, dogs who should be brought in out of the weather, or a gang of abandoned flightless ducks at your local pond. The world truly is a better place through your acts of kindness to animals.

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, keep warm!

Saturdays At The Barn

2008-12-27T12:43:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks! I'm glad you're back.

I know I've mentioned the fact that I volunteer at a horse barn in any number of blogs, but I've never told you exactly what we do on Saturdays, so I thought I might do that today. As you know, I've been volunteering at the barn for a number of years, now. I wanted to learn more about horses, and Nancy, who owns the place, is very generous with her knowledge. Nancy says the best time for anyone to learn is on Saturdays, when she's there to supervise and answer questions. So there's a small crowd of regulars who all come out on Saturday mornings.

The regular gang includes Mandy - who's a high school senior; Kaye - who boards her horse at another stable but seems to prefer this barn for the humans involved; Nancy; and me. We scoop poop, clean the water buckets, groom some of the horses - whatever needs done. We also do a considerable amount of yakking while we work. Kaye might tell us how her lessons with George the rescue horse are coming along, I usually rant about whatever is going wrong in my life, and Mandy uses the time to dog me incessantly.

Actually, Mandy and I spend most of our Saturday mornings bickering back and forth. Today, for instance, one of our new helpers, Laurie, was telling us how her daughter's grade point average is so high, the girl won a thirty-thousand dollar grant for college. I looked over at Mandy and said, "Too bad you're not that smart!" Mandy just smiled: she knew she'd get me back before the end of the day! She always does. And while I thoroughly enjoy working with and around the horses, I must admit that the high points of my Saturdays are always the times when Mandy and I are teasing each other. When Mandy can't make it to the barn, it's mighty quiet that particular day.

There are two critters out there who are free to wander the barn at will. First is Mikey, a retired barrel racer who's now so decrepit that he doesn't require a stall. The second is Cricket the donkey. Nancy will put Cricket in a stall when she starts becoming a pest; I'm happiest when Cricket is free to wander. Both she and Mikey spend their mornings browsing the stalls after the horses have been turned out. They're looking to eat everyone's leftover hay, and Cricket always makes sure to give the feed buckets a sniff, too, just in case.

Cricket and Mikey both have a habit of invading the stalls you're trying to clean, and they'll invariably block the door with their bulk while they munch on hay. Nancy finds this annoying enough that she threatens to "stall" them if they don't move along. I personally enjoy the company, but I've also learned the importance of keeping a physical distance between myself and them. Mikey's harmless enough, but Cricket is just so damned ornery that you never know when she's going to follow through on her threat to chomp your ankle.

Most folks don't know that a healthy horse weighs about a thousand pounds. That's a lot of horse! While Cricket is quite a bit smaller than a horse, she's still got a surprising amount of strength in her, as I found out the time I was minding my own business in one of the portable stalls. There was plenty of room for both of us, but apparently Cricket was in a mood because one minute, I was aiming my pitchfork at a pile of poop, and the next, Cricket had tossed me into the corner with one ornery flick of her head. "Cricket!," I hollered in my exasperated voice, "what're you doin'?!" Even I had to laugh, though: that's just Cricket being Cricket!

Cricket provides most of the comic relief, but many of the horses are interesting in their own way: there's Big William, who's so dopey that he seems to have the mind of a 5 month-old puppy; there's Nicky Naylor, who's just the calmest, nicest horse you'd ever want to meet. There's my personal favorite, Sidney, who's a mellow guy with big round eyes. Sidney endeared himself to me forever the day I sent him outside with a promise of snacks: "I'll bring some out later, Sidney," I told him.

Five minutes later, as I ducked under the electro-braid fence, I called, "Hey, Sidney!" That's all I said, but Sidney backed away from the horse he was standing next to and turned expectantly to me. He knew, you see. He knew that I was bringing that snack I'd promised, and I don't think I've ever been more impressed by a horse's intelligence as I was at that moment. If I could bring him home and keep him in my back yard along with the shrubs and rose bushes, I'd do it in a heartbeat!

My least favorite horse is Charlie. In my opinion, he's just plain mean. For no reason that I can explain, though, Mandy likes him, and he's her regular riding horse. One of the perks of volunteering at the barn is that sometimes, Nancy lets us ride for free when we've finished working. Mandy will grab Charlie, and I'll get Ruckus, and together, we groom and tack 'em up.

Grooming's an important element in the whole riding process. You want to check the horse from head to toe, making sure he doesn't have any wounds in places that a saddle would irritate. Picking their hooves is equally important - you want to pick out anything that might create a problem, like gravel, and usually, you can smell trouble before it gets too serious. Believe it or not, there's a "normal" stinky hoof smell, and plenty of abnormal ones that indicate an issue in the works. It's the abnormal smells that I keep my nose open for.

For whatever reason, Charlie takes an apparent dislike to having his hooves picked. Ordinarily, the horse is supposed to lift his foot on command so that you can get at the underside. When Mandy tries to do that with Charlie, he usually tries to knee-cap her in response. I'll hear endless rounds of, "No kicks, Charlie! No kicks!," which he ignores completely, along with any other rule he doesn't like. It's frankly a wonder he hasn't hurt her yet.

Horse owners are funny people. There are any number of them who own a horse simply so that they can tell people they own a horse. I've met Charlie's person and I'm pretty sure she falls into that category. Once in a blue moon, she'll come out and "help" at the barn. In her case, though, "helping" usually involves nothing more than taking an endless number of cell phone calls as she tries to order the rest of us around. I'm sure she views herself as a capable, assertive woman. I view her as an arrogant pain in the ass who's far more interested in herself than anything or anyone else - including Charlie.

As you can see, in addition to caring for the horses, there's a certain amount of gossip and intrigue going on at the barn as well! There are horses who were rescued from abusive owners, and there are past and present champion competitors. There's a crabby donkey, and great gang of women who think that scooping poop is a fun way to spend a few hours! We rarely miss a Saturday, and I'd be willing to bet that everyone else leaves there feeling as energized as I do. There's something very satisfying in knowing that I've helped critters in need. And insulted Mandy better than she insulted me!

So that's the barn in a nutshell. We're out there sweating in the summer, and freezing in the winter. We'll go even when we don't feel all that great, because it's our one day out of the week to get away from life's annoyances and do a little good for the animals. It's better than any drug I've ever been prescribed.

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

A Christmas Duck!

2008-12-24T13:02:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I've got a great Christmas story for you, so settle in and here we go!

Several weeks ago, I got an email from my weekend duck feeder, Liz. She'd noticed that one of the ducks was limping, and wanted to let me know about it. From her description, I knew she was talking about Ducky. If you scroll down the photos on the right side of this page, you'll come to a picture of a black duck with a caption underneath that reads, "Pretty Boy's wing man, Ducky." Ducky is indeed Pretty Boy's shadow, following him everywhere and taking his cues from the Alpha duck. It's a nice relationship they have, and it's comforting to know that Pretty Boy looks out for his less-courageous friend.

Initially, I assumed that Liz was talking about Ducky's gait, which has always been a much more pronounced waddle than his fellow ducks. But when I turned up at the pond for a feed, it became clear that there was indeed a difference to his walk now: he moved considerably more slowly than usual, and stopped to rest several times on his way to the pile of corn. Imagine an elderly man with a dicky hip, and you'll know what I mean.

Now, I'm more than happy to help the ducks out by taking them to the veterinarian when the situation calls for it, but the truth is that taking them to the vet is a royal pain in the ass on a good day. There's the difficulty in getting them to move into grabbing range, and the hassle of trying to figure out which avian vet is working on which day of the week. There's the stink of duck poop which permeates the inside of my car. There's the cost of the office visit. And there's the inconvenience of spending a week sharing my bathroom with an unwilling and deeply unhappy duck. Ugh!

And with Christmas right around the corner, I confess that I just didn't have the energy to deal with Ducky and whatever was causing his limp. I decided to keep an eye on him for a week or so, and make a decision then. In the meantime, the temperature outside dropped in a big way, freezing most of McKinnon's Pond, save the area around the always-running fountain. Curiously, there was also a small hole in the ice some yards away from the big hole. Making themselves comfortable around the fountain were an untold number of wild mallards and Canada geese, as well as my gang of ducks. In residence next to the small hole in the ice was Ducky.

I don't know how he managed to create and maintain that small hole in the ice, but he looked terribly forlorn there all by himself. After a week of procrastination on my part, it was clear that something would need to be done about Ducky's dicky leg. So I poured out a large measure of cracked corn to attract all the birds from the big hole. Once they'd settled in, I walked over to an area that would be a shorter distance from the small hole to dry land, and poured out more corn for Ducky.

He struggled over the slippery ice, taking a considerable amount of time to make the journey. Once he got close enough, I grabbed him up, put him in the carrier and headed home. I wasn't able to get an appointment with Dr. P. until the next day, so I settled Ducky into my bathroom as best I could, which turned out to be no small feat.

I knew that Ducky wasn't an Alpha duck, but I'd had no idea just how much of a scaredy-duck he really is. Every time I went into the bathroom, he pooped (a sign of fear), and climbed into his food bowls in an attempt to get away. He clearly believed I was going to murder him - even though he's known me for well over four years. Nothing I said or did convinced him that my motivations were strictly benevolent, so I tried to leave him alone as much as possible.

The bad news came on Tuesday, when Dr. P. announced her belief that Ducky had an old leg injury that, instead of healing properly, created a new hip socket (which is fairly common in animals). The new hip socket wasn't the problem, though. The painful arthritis in that new hip joint was apparently the problem.

I don't know about you, but when winter hits, what little arthritis I have acts up pretty badly. I could just imagine how Ducky felt out at the pond, exposed to the elements for five months straight with no relief. Dr. P. and I agreed that Ducky shouldn't spend the winter at McKinnon's Pond, but apart from a few doses of anti-inflamatory medication, she had no help to offer.

Uncertain what to do next, I took Ducky home and made a call to one of the other area avian vets, Dr. Susan. Dr. Susan had worked on Pretty Boy's torn eyelid, and had told me at the time that she knew some folks with a barn who would be happy to take in a duck. Well, you know how much I love Pretty Boy! Call me selfish - and in this instance, you'd be right - but I wasn't prepared to send Pretty Boy off to some stanger's barn. Ducky, on the other hand....

Well, it's not as if I love Ducky any less. It's that he needs a barn more than Pretty Boy did. Unfortunately, the barn option was no longer available. Having used up my one and only idea, I was stumped for what to do about Ducky. Goodness knows he couldn't just spend the next four months in my bathroom!

I've found that usually, story-book endings only happen in the movies. But I'm starting to see that every once in a while, right here in real life, the Gods like to throw you a bone when you're not expecting it. And so it was when that very same Tuesday, Officer Jeff called me out of the blue (the guy only ever calls once or twice a year), and left a message about a report of an injured duck. When I called him back, asking if he knew anyone that would like a duck, he said he'd think on it (I've yet to hear back from him, though!), and he repeated the voicemail some woman had left him about an injured duck at McKinnon's Pond.

I called the number he gave me, asked for Pat, and immediately, my whole day changed. Pat told me that she'd been watching a black duck who appeared to be injured. She mentioned a small hole in the ice, and said that when she'd been to the pond that very morning, the duck was nowhere to be seen. Recounting her worry, Pat was on the verge of tears.

I told her that the black duck in question was not at the pond because he was in my bathtub. My goodness, the sigh of relief Pat heaved! Did I know, she asked, that there was also a duck at the pond with one wing? "Yes," I replied, "that's Pretty Boy. He had cancer in the wing and the doctor amputated it."

Now, folks, I can't put too fine a point on this when I say that you REALLY have to be paying attention to notice that Pretty Boy's missing a wing. In the first place, he'd have to be flapping right in front of you, then it would have to register in your already-busy brain that that particular duck seems to only have one wing. The odds are strongly against you noticing, which is why I was so impressed that Pat DID notice. Already, she was my kind of person!

As we talked on the phone, I told her what Dr. P. had said, and that I was now trying to find Ducky a winter home. Pat immediately came to the rescue, offering the use of her garage. She already had a rescued chicken in there - what difference would one duck make?! Based on the depth of emotion she displayed during that phone call, and the obviousness of the fact that she was very fond of that gang of ducks, I made the decision to trust her with Ducky's care. We arranged for me to bring him over on Friday.

In the interim, poor Ducky was stuck with me. His fear and anxiety never diminished, and he never acquired the sangfroid that was the staple of Pretty Boy's coping skills. It was hard to enjoy the visit when I spent so much of Ducky's time here feeling like an ax murderer! When Friday came, I was more than happy to hand him over to Pat and her husband, Pete.

Pat hadn't been kidding about the size of the chicken in their garage - he was HUGE! We had already agreed that the chicken (creatively named, by the way, "Chicken")would probably have territorial issues, and that it would be best to keep the two fowl separate, if for no other reason than Chicken's beak looked particularly lethal.

Toward that end, Pat had already installed a large dog cage in the garage, filled it with straw for bedding, and supplied Ducky with not only a substantial bucket of water, but also a bowl filled with cracked corn AND duck pellets. I'd forgotten to mention duck pellets on the phone, so I was surprised and very pleased to see that Pat and Pete had already done their duck food homework.

In addition to comfortable quarters, Pat showed me the children's wading pool that would provide Ducky with plenty of tub time. She assured me that the yard was completely fenced, and any excursions Ducky might take out into that yard would be closely supervised. Unloading Ducky from the carrier into the cage, I had no doubts about the care he would be receiving from the Mitchells. As I left, I thanked them profusely for their willingness to take in a gimpy duck for the winter.

Over a week would pass before I was able to stop in and visit Ducky. Christmas has a way of getting in the way of things, doesn't it? Between last-minute shopping and last-minute errand-running, I just didn't have any free time available. This concerned me, enough so that as I laid awake in bed at night, I'd indulge in a few minutes of anxiety about whether I'd done the right thing. What if I'd been wrong? Worse - what if they ate him?!

Well, the good news, folks, is that they didn't eat Ducky! I stopped by for a visit today, planning to stay just a few minutes, and ending up staying for well over half an hour. Pat had put Ducky in his paddle pool, and as we three humans sat chatting, and as Chicken lorded over his garage floor territory, Ducky paddled and bathed, splashed and preened. While he enjoyed some of the bread snacks I'd brought him, the feral garage cat came down from her perch in the rafters and allowed me to pet her.

Pat expressed surprise, when I first arrived, that Ducky seemed to know me on sight. I've learned from long experience that the ducks are great that way: they always remember me, and they're always glad to see me. As I approach the pond, the quacking starts. As I get nearer, the ducks all race toward me en masse, quacking to beat the band. It's a sight that never fails to amuse me and warm my heart.

I love those guys, every quirky, quacky one of them. They all have different personalities, but they all have one thing in common: their love of Kelly and her bag of food. After all our years together, I've managed to earn their trust, and their affection. It didn't surprise me that Ducky recognized me, there in the Mitchell's garage. What did surprise me was how attached the Mitchells had become to him, in such a short amount of time. Domestic ducks will do that to you, though: they're highly addictive!

So while awful things are happening everywhere around the world - from the quagmire that is the Iraq war, to the global economic mess, to all the poor Americans who have suddenly found themselves out of work - it's always heartening to come across some good old fashion KINDNESS; people doing good things for no other reason than that they want to help.

I know that to some of you, helping an injured duck would probably be at the very bottom of your list of things to do, but that's precisely the point: clearly, the Mitchells are people who care a great deal about the most vulnerable creatures in the world. There is no doubt in my mind that they, and all the other folks like them, have earned a special place in heaven, when their time on earth is through.

In the meantime, I'm very pleased to be able to say that I know Pete and Pat Mitchell. They've made my Christmas so much better than I ever thought possible.

I'd also like to give a shout to my weekend volunteer, Liz, who does so much more than just feed the ducks. Thanks for a great year, Liz! I really appreciate all your help.

That's all for now, folks. I wish all of you a great holiday season, and a happy, healthy new year. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

A Typical Day

2008-11-23T16:23:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by again!

A lot of people wonder what I do all day, so I thought I'd describe a normal day in the life of the Critter Lady. Mind you, today's events don't happen every day (thank goodness for that!), but you'll get an idea of what I'm up to.

I got an email last night from the woman who feeds my gang of ducks on the weekends. Liz read about me in the local paper a while back and got in touch with me, volunteering her services. I've been relying on her ever since.

In addition to feeding the ducks, Liz is also my eyes and ears at McKinnon's Pond. She sent me an email a couple of months ago, when she became concerned about one of the Pekins. She thought maybe he had a leg injury. After I checked him out, I told her that no, he's not injured; Puddleduck's just bow-legged! I sure am grateful for the observations, though!

In any case, last night's email told me that Liz had come across a dead goose at the pond. She didn't know why the poor creature had died, or what to do with the corpse, but she wanted me to know about it. I immediately replied and asked if she was sure it was a goose, and not one of my guys. She reassured me that the dead critter in question was, indeed, a Canada goose. I told her I'd check it out today.

I had a holiday open house to go to this afternoon. Julie, the pottery instructor at the studio where I make stuff (vases for animal charity events, to be specific), has her own gallery up the road in the quaint and historic town of Watersedge. It's a thirty-minute drive from Whoville, but all the Watersedge shops are open for the event, most of them set out free cookies, and there are carolers and horse-drawn wagon rides, as well.

It's a festive occasion (although, due to our current economic woes, it was also rather subdued this year) and Julie always has good stuff in her gallery. She features a number of artists in different mediums, and my favorite is the boiled wool lady, who makes catnip mice out of wool.

For reason I can't explain, cats in general seem to like wool, and my cats in particular are no exception. Every year, at Julie's holiday open house, I avail myself of the free food and pick up a couple of wool mice for the cats' Christmas stocking. And every Christmas Day, my cats get stoned out of their minds on those mice!

I stopped off at McKinnon's Pond on the way to the open house. I decided to give the ducks an extra helping of cracked corn before I looked into the dead goose issue. I figured that if they were occupied with food, my gang wouldn't follow me all over the place like they occasionally do. Sometimes, I get to feeling like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, except with ducks instead of rats. One day, I had over forty ducks (mostly wild mallards) following me in search of extra corn!

After I dumped a pile of feed near the boathouse, I followed Liz's directions and walked half-way around the pond before I found the corpse. He seemed to have a neck injury, and when I turned him over, I found a big, yucky, maggot-filled wound on his belly. I'm guessing that a raccoon got him because they never seem to eat what they kill. I think a dog would've played with the corpse, and a coyote would've made a meal of it, but it seems like only raccoons kill an animal, make a hash of the body, and then leave it without eating. What a waste.

In any case, I had with me the empty paper sacking that the cracked corn had come in, along with a lawn-and-leaf bag, for disposal. I wrapped up the goose in the paper, then put the whole package in the plastic bag. I headed back around to the boathouse, putting the carcass in a garbage barrel along the way. The Whoville City garbage collectors will come around next week and take care of the rest.

The ducks, having eaten every last piece of corn in the six minutes I was dealing with the goose, all took a renewed interest in me and started heading in my direction. I spent some time reassuring them that there was, in fact, no more corn, then climbed into my car and drove to Watersedge.

As I travelled, I reflected on the thought that while an untold number of people use the park and pond every day - for duck feeding, as well as exercising dogs, and making clandestine cell phone calls - I seem to be the only one who's involved to the point of handling dead critter issues.

There is, of course, Animal Control Officer Jeff, who I usually call in such situations. Part of his job is disposing of just this sort of unfortunate creature before children start playing with them and catch some disease or other. But since it was Sunday, I decided to give Jeff a break and handle it myself. Besides, a maggoty dead critter is a lot easier to deal with in winter than in summer!

I wish there was good news to report on the wool mouse front, but by the time I got to the gallery, they were all sold out. Julie assures me that she can hook me up with some before Christmas arrives, though, so that's all right. I sure did enjoy spending some time among the living, savoring the thin, wintry sunshine, wandering the antique shops and listening to carolers as I did. There's just something special about a quaint old village that puts me in the holiday spirit.

Any day now, I'll start putting up my Christmas decorations. My all-time favorite thing is a stocking that a friend of mine cross-stitched for me, some years ago. It's a picture of a white cat lying under a Christmas tree, playing with a string of lights. It is, of course, the cats' stocking. Every good-smelling thing that goes into it (like catnip mice) has to be sealed into a Ziploc bag, first, lest the cats get curious too soon! On Christmas day, I'll pull out all the new toys and snacks and let the cats have at 'em. It's the best part of my holiday!

So that's a day in the life of the Critter Lady. Fortunately, there aren't always critter deaths to deal with! A typical day is usually about feeding and nurturing living animals, which makes dealing with the occasional death a little more tolerable.

I hope you all have your own special winter critter traditions - whether it be feeding the wild birds or putting out a salt lick for the deer (but please, no hunting!), or buying a nice new blanket for that old horse in your pasture. May you all be as blessed with wonderful critter characters as I am!

That's all for now, Folks. Thanks again for stopping by, and until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

Scruffy the Kitten

2008-09-04T12:55:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by. I had a rough morning, today, and I want to tell you about it.

My boyfriend's barn cat (who will be spayed ASAP) had a litter of four kittens this past spring. They were cute little buggers, as kittens always are. They spent their days chasing bugs, pouncing on each other, and watching as mama taught them how to kill mice. It seemed like an idyllic kittenhood. Idyllic, I know now, for all but one.

John named her Scruffy because she always looked so unkempt. She never really got the hang of bathing, so her coat was always matted and oily. She never seemed to gain any weight, either. While her siblings thrived, Scruffy did not. There came a time when her siblings were easily twice her size. She ate, but the food never stuck to her ribs. Indeed, she was terribly emaciated, with her bones sticking out sharply under her skin; when you touched her, you could feel every vertebrae in her spine.

At some point, she developed a respiratory infection. She was so weak and sickly that she couldn't even be bothered to clean away the snot that hung from her nostril. She was a pitiful sight, hunched over on an old couch, looking fragile. I wiped the snot off her face several times the day I visited, but her nose never stopped running. Hearing the bubbly, uneven breathing, you wondered how she stayed alive.

It was heartbreakingly painful just to look at her. She rarely made eye contact with me. Mostly, she huddled uncomfortably on that ratty couch, looking like she was waiting for death. That was how she passed her days - just waiting. I never saw joy in her eyes, or interest in anything. It was an existence, and barely that.

John and I assumed that she would simply pass away at some point, but she never did. Whatever compelled her to keep going is beyond me, because she certainly had no quality of life. When I'd had enough of waiting for the inevitable, I took her to the vet. I was pretty sure that she'd need to be euthanized, a fact I tried to get across to John as gently as possible: they may be barn cats, but he still gets attached to them.

I didn't give the matter much thought as I drove to the clinic. I was too busy being indignant about how long it had taken John to acquiesce. I hadn't formed a bond with this particular kitty anyway. In the first place, she always looked so unhappy, I didn't want to touch her and make things worse. At the same time, she was too sick to be cute and cuddly. Indeed, out of all the photos I took as the kittens grew, I'm sad to say that I only have one picture of Scruffy.

The doctor told me that there is a veterinary term called "failure to thrive," and it described Scruffy to a tee. For some unknown reason, Scruffy's siblings came out of the womb completely healthy, while Scruffy herself did not. The vet said that the kitten's future consisted of nothing more than illness after illness, with diagnoses and cures an uncertainty. The doctor went on to say that she wasn't even confident that she could cure the current respiratory infection. Gently, she concluded that euthanasia was a kind and reasonable alternative. I nodded in agreement.

There was a form to sign, authorizing the doctor to put Scruffy down. I had planned to be present for the procedure, but when the vet tech exlained that it would be impossible to find the kitten's veins - requiring the doctor to inject the needle directly into Scruffy's heart - I passed. That was not a picture I wanted stuck in my head for the rest of my life. Instead, I asked the tech if she would please be present in my place, and hold the kitten for me. She kindly agreed.

Afterward, the doctor wrapped Scruffy's body neatly in the towel I'd been holding her in earlier. I placed the package gently in the critter carrier, and left the building. The tears began to flow as I pulled out into traffic, and they continued all the way home.

It took a bit of wondering to figure out why I was crying so hard for a kitten I barely knew. I finally realized that I was crying for all the opportunities I knew she'd miss: Feeling healthy. Lounging in the grass. Napping in the sunshine. Chasing birds, and mice, and chipmunks. And I cried, too, for my own selfish reasons: Because I'd never have the satisfaction of seeing Scruffy get well. Because I'd never get the opportunity to see her grow and thrive like her siblings. Because for her all-too-brief life, she knew only sickness and suffering, and no animal deserves that.

Hindsight is a given: I should've done something sooner. I should've known more (in spite of my complete lack of veterinary training). I SHOULD HAVE. I'll torture myself with that thought for a while, then file it away in that mental folder called "Learn From Your Mistakes, Will Ya?!" If there is a next time, I can assure you that relief will come to the animal in question much more quickly. For now, all I have to go on is the doctor's reassurance that I did the right thing. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't ease my sadness.

It was Cleveland Amory - author of "The Cat Who Came For Christmas" - who summed up his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cat so succinctly when he said, "It was not just that Polar Bear was not there. It was the awful, overpowering weight of knowing that he would never ever be there again." Indeed, euthanasia relieves the animal's misery, but rarely the human's.

That's all for now, folks, but I'd like to leave you with this one request: please, when your pet is suffering, please take him to the vet and allow the doctor to alleviate that suffering. As a responsible pet-owner, you owe your beloved animal this one last act of unselfish kindness.

Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Pretty Boy's Latest Stay In My Tub

2008-08-29T13:51:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you're here!

Well, Pretty Boy's latest visit went off without a hitch. His eye responded to the antibiotic drops and I took him back to the pond as scheduled. He's always so pleased to be home again that he's developed his own little happy dance: he paddles back and forth in the water, opening and closing his bill as if he's too excited to speak. He searches out Girlfriend Duck, makes sure she's o.k., then zips around the pond some more, like he can't believe his good fortune. It's the same every time.

I used his latest stay in my bathroom as an opportunity to reinforce the idea that he and I would be sharing the space during his visits. Pretty Boy wasn't terribly keen on that, and never really did get used to me walking in and conducting my business. He'd eye me suspiciously while I brushed my teeth/styled my hair/used the toilet, and growled if I came too close. When I'd swab the floor with paper towels - attempting to clean up yet another pile of duck poop - he'd squawk and nudge my hand with his bill as if to say, "I don't like this! Back off!"

I'm convinced that Pretty Boy knows perfectly well who I am: that human who's been feeding him since he was a duckling. Considering that he's about five or six years old now, it's been a lengthy relationship. I've lost track of how many times I've taken him to his various vets. He's been a guest in my bathroom four or five weeks out of the last year alone. In spite of all this, I remain somewhat of a stranger to him, or at least, a danger. I tower over him. I control his day - from when he gets tub time to when he's caged, to when we go outside for exercise. And I dictate what he eats while he's here. For an alpha duck like Pretty Boy, it must be hard to take.

So it should have come as no surprise that as I drove him back to the pond - in our new fashion of carrier in the front seat with the top off so he can stand up and get a look around - Pretty Boy took advantage of every opportunity to chomp my hand. And he can pinch you good, if he's got a mind to! "Pretty Boy," I'd ask him, "what're you doing?!" His answer was always the same: another chomp. I try not to take it personally.

Happily, my favorite duck is back where he belongs, hanging out with Girlfriend Duck and relishing the cooler weather we've been having. For a duck who really enjoyed biting me, he doesn't seem inclined to hold a grudge: he's put himself within grabbing range at every subsequent feed, and eats out of my hand when I offer him a fistful of corn. Clearly, he's developed a measure of trust in me, even if he does resent being imprisoned in my bathroom. I'm just glad that I'm able to help a critter in need.

That's all for now, folks. Thanks for stopping by! I'll be back again soon with more animal adventures to tell you about. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!

My Favorite Duck

2008-08-21T13:31:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all having a great summer.

Well, as I write this, Pretty Boy Duck is back in my bathroom yet again. This will be his third eye infection in five months. The good news is that during the cold winter months ahead, it's entirely likely that he won't experience any more infections. The bad news is that next summer will probably be fraught with the same chronic problem that plagued him this summer.

In the interest of convenience, I've tried to streamline the duck-keeping process. Taping plastic drop cloth to the floor really cuts down on clean-up time, while cracking the bathroom door when I'm in the vicinity provides some much-needed ventilation and really cuts down on the duck poop smell.

Despite all the care I put into hosting my favorite duck, Pretty Boy continues to be a biting, growling force to be reckoned with. He's not above trying anything that will make my tasks more unpleasant, and he's not the least bit interested in behaving. When I wrap him in a towel at eyedrop-application time, he bites the towel. When my hand gets in the way, he bites my hand instead. It's my good fortune that he doesn't have any teeth!

I'd given considerable thought to the idea of buying a figure-eight harness - with a view to walking Pretty Boy on a leash in my back yard - but ultimately decided that, since the yard is fenced, letting him have a supervised walk around would be sufficient. My yard is bisected by a picket fence. For whatever reason, a previous owner chose not to continue the picket theme around the rest of the back yard. Instead, they used a nice, tall privacy fence. It's actually one of the reasons I bought the house: because nothing says "go away and leave me alone!" like a nice, tall privacy fence!

While the fence is pretty much duck-proof, I keep a close eye on his movements anyway. Pretty Boy spends his entire time outside looking for the exit. This is so obvious that there's no way I can be accused of anthropomorphism. He pokes his bill at the fence, and cocks an eye at the cracks to see if they might be big enough to squeeze through. He runs through the ivy, across the mulched bed, and around the shrubs. All the while, his head swivels back and forth like a periscope, intent on finding the way out.

We've had a bit of drought, the last couple months, so I've been putting my Playground Monitor time to good use watering some of my plants. When Pretty Boy wanders within range, I've taken to hosing him down as well. Interestingly, he seems to like the showers, and always turns himself to face into the blast. Every now and then, he'll try to catch some water in his mouth. Then he finds a shady spot to do a little preening. So far, he seems to enjoy the twice-daily excursions out into the fresh air and sunshine.

Meanwhile, getting him to eat enough is always a concern. Pretty Boy does eat some of his cracked corn, and picks at the duck pellets, but it's only enough to get by. He doesn't eat nearly as much in my bathroom as he does at my feeds at the pond. I don't suppose he's working up much of an appetite huddled on the floor by my tub.

I always try to supplement Pretty Boy's diet with greens from the grocery store, whether he wants them or not. As I stood before a fairly impressive array of choices yesterday, I recalled what my friend Bob Tarte wrote in Enslaved by Ducks about feeding a sickly goose. Bob said that in his attempts to encourage the bird to eat, he would wander his yard searching for the choicest dandelion greens to offer his pet.

Standing idly in the produce section, my gaze wandered back and forth before it settled on a area marked "dandelion greens." But the rubber-banded bunch of greens on offer didn't look anything like what Bob had pulled from his yard. These greens where huge - the sort of thing you'd expect to find growing in the Chernobyl fallout zone. I bought them anyway, but Pretty Boy doesn't seem the least bit interested in trying them. Indeed, I've seen no evidence at all that he's eaten so much as one chopped-up, bite-sized piece. Figures.

In the meantime, we've got three more days before he's due to go back to the pond. Dr. P. and I agreed that we wanted to treat this infection more aggressively than the last one, so Pretty Boy's getting his eye drops three times a day instead of two, and staying a day longer in my bathroom than he did last time. It's not nearly as much of an inconvenience as you would think. Establishing a routine and sticking to it is the key to maintaining my sanity, and throwing in extras like exercise time in the yard serves to make things more interesting for my favorite duck.

That's all for now, folks. I'll be sure to keep you updated on Pretty Boy's latest stay in my bathroom. Until then, please be kind to all the critters!

Another Pond Update

2008-07-28T14:46:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by again!

Now that summer's in full swing, I've been a little preoccupied with my usual summer activities like art festivals, and studio time at the place where I do pottery. Some weeks, I've actually missed a duck feed or two. At this time of year, I don't worry too much about that because Domestic ducks are famous dabblers, which means they smack their bills around in the mud, hunting for bugs and worms. They do the same thing in the water, too, searching for tasty duck treats at the bottom of the pond. So in theory, they should be getting plenty to eat on their own - even if they do act like they're starving to death when I show up with my bag of corn!

Because I'd missed a couple of feeds the other week, I thought I'd better make the rounds and see whether any of the girls had started another nest. The easiest way to tell who's nesting is to take a quick head-count when I first get out of the car. Who's lying around on the grass with the gang, instead of sitting on a nest somewhere? Let's see: Baby Fuzz is here. So are both Freckle Ducks. Pretty Lady is missing. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck are here. Ethel-Ethel? Nowhere to be seen. And it would be some minutes before Ethel showed up, which led me to believe that she might just have a nest over there on the side of the pond. I made a mental note to check it out after I went around the apartment building and fed Lady.

Good old Ethel is the friendliest duck on the pond. She and a sibling had been dumped there a few years ago after what must have been considerable handling by the humans who'd owned them. Always glad of a friendly face and a little food, both girls were congenial from Day One. Even though Ethel's sister disappeared this spring (probably the victim of a raccoon), Ethel's cheerful nature has not diminished one iota. She'll let me pet her, and she's the only Domestic trusting enough to actually crawl inside the bag of cracked corn without worrying about what the hulking human outside might do.

As it happened, Ethel did lay a new nest of eggs while I was off prowling around art fairs. I found the nest in a location she's tried to use before, behind a small shrub just at water's edge. It was fairly well-hidden, and contained eight eggs. She'd clearly been sitting on the nest, as the whole thing was covered in feathers. Domestics don't seem to consider a nest sit-ready until they've laid quite a few eggs and covered the nest in down feathers plucked from their own breast. While Ethel was off eating corn, I tossed all eight eggs into the water and replaced them with chicken eggs. I left the small pine cone that was already in the nest.

The lesson I took away from Ethel's latest nest was that perhaps I needed to tone down my zealous approach to duck nest-hunting. Instead of spending time during every feed searching for nests, maybe I'd have more success if I gave the girls time to lay more than an egg or two. It's a thought worth considering.

In any case, most of the girls have given up on their nest attempts for the year, and the boys' hormones have settled back down to normal. They're now beginning their yearly molt, and the cliques that inevitably separate the ducks during spring mating have now merged back into one big gang of ducks in which Pretty Boy seems to be the Alpha Duck, and Ducky, his willing henchman. In other words, all's right at the pond!

That's all for now, Folks, but it's by no means the end of the story: we still have two girls trying to nest (Lady and Ethel), and all the usual summer hazards (fishing line and hooks, and unkind children) to contend with. I'll be sure to keep you posted as events develop. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!

A Duck With A Chronic Eye Problem

2008-07-21T11:49:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you stopped by.

Well, Dr. Chrys was right when she said Pretty Boy's eye infections would most likely be a chronic problem. Unfortunately, Dr. Chrys isn't here anymore to take care of them: she recently moved to Germany for two years, leaving Team Pretty Boy in search of a vet that didn't require the sort of thirty-minute drive it took to reach Pretty Boy's other, sometimes-vet. After asking around, I got the name of a vet with avian experience whose office is much closer to the pond than Dr. Susan.

I initially spoke with Dr. P. on the phone, explaining about the pond-ful of abandoned ducks, and the need for a vet who could handle their usually-unscheduled emergencies. She seemed nice enough, and willing to help where she could. I closed the conversation by saying I hoped I wouldn't be meeting her any time soon! Naturally, I found myself in need of her services less than a month later.

I'd been growing concerned about Pretty Boy's eye. It looked cloudy, and Dr. Susan's words about ducks needing two good eyes kept ringing in my head. Last Friday, I made the decision to take him in to meet Dr. P. With his guard down, he was easy to grab. I'd already set the critter carrier out by the far side of my car where he couldn't see it. It was a simple matter to scoop him up and drop him in the carrier.

Riding in the front seat with the top of the carrier off, Pretty Boy spent another car trip clearly entranced by the idea of flight. Head swiveling like a periscope, he took in all the sights and sounds. When a truck drove by and made that hydraulic hissing noise, I chuckled and announced to my favorite duck, "Geese, Pretty Boy! Noisy ones!"

Dr. P. confirmed my suspicion of an infection and explained why, exactly, Pretty Boy's eye would always be an issue. Because the sutures hadn't been able to completely join his torn eyelid back together (you can go to my archives to read the blogs on his original eye injury, last November), his left eye no longer drains properly, meaning that his tears are no longer able to sufficiently cleanse his eye of all the yuck and bacteria that live in his pond. A build-up of that bacteria will eventually, inevitably, cause an infection.

I had been hoping that Pretty Boy's immune system would take care of the problem, but that was not the case. Dr. P. prescribed antibiotic eyedrops, and we agreed that the best course of action would be to put Pretty Boy in my bathroom for the few days he'd need those drops. He's been in there for three days, now.

As you may recall from past blogs, the last time Pretty Boy was in my bathroom (this last spring), he was in full mating mode. Mad as hell at being trapped in a stinky bathroom, away from Girlfriend Duck, he proceeded to tear the place up. Pulling bath towels off their racks was a favorite trick. Thankfully, mating season is over at the pond. Unfortunately, I forgot about molting season!

It must be said that molting season is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than mating season. For one thing, he doesn't have duck hormones racing through his veins, making him slightly nutty. But molting is a messy affair, one that involves individually picking the multitude of feathers out of the bathtub before I can drain it. The tiny down feathers go down the drain; I'm hoping they don't collect in a pipe somewhere and cause a clog!

There are also feathers all over the floor, but I believe I've stumbled upon an effective clean-up method that you might like to borrow for your own critter needs. After wasting a number of tall kitchen garbage bags, which I cut in half, spead out in the bathroom and taped to the floor, it finally occurred to me to use the drop cloth I had left over from a painting project. I could cut the stuff to any width and length, and when it was time to clean, simply roll it all into a poopy, stinky bundle and drop it in the garbage.

Because Northwest Ohio has been in the midst of a heat wave, the stink in the bathroom is far worse now than anything I endured last winter. The ninety-plus degree days literally bake that duck poop smell into the room, regardless of the two fans I have running. No matter how many piles of poop I clean up, the stink remains until - Pretty Boy watching closely from the tub - I wash down the entire floor, and some of the walls!

I've been so impressed by the cleaning product I've been using (and I'm not a clean freak by any stretch of the imagination; I simply needed a product that wouldn't kill a duck), that I'm going to mention it again in this blog. It's a spray bottle of stuff called Seventh Generation. Billing itself "Free & Clear," it claims to have no fumes, no phosphates, and to be non-toxic. As near as I can tell, they're not kidding.

While I object strenuously to the idea that Clean, Green and/or Organic must for some reason be exhorbitantly high-priced, I was then, and will be in future, willing to shell out the extortionate sum my local grocer asks for Seventh Generation, if for no other reason than it's the first effective cleaner I've bought that didn't bring to mind worries of COPD every time I breathed the stuff. Indeed, this cleaner has no fumes at all.

While I'm happy to be able to help Pretty Boy, the feeling does not seem to be mutual. In spite of the fact that I've known that goofy duck since he was an egg, he remains wary and standoffish, growling in warning if I get too close. As I squat down to clean up the piles of poop, he'll tilt his head and scrutinize me with his good eye. No matter how many times we go through this trapped-in-my-bathroom routine, he refuses to get used to it. I suppose it's just as well: a certain guardedness around humans might keep him out of harm's way at the pond.

At any rate, his eye seems to be improving, thanks to this latest round of antibiotics. He was due to return to the pond today, but I thought an extra day's-worth of drops might be beneficial so I'll be taking him back to the pond tomorrow. The thought occurred to me, though, that, given the chronic nature of his eye problem, I should expect these bathroom visits to become somewhat routine. If that's the case, I definitely need to find some sort of non-toxic air de-stinkifier!

That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for joining me! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Old Molly

2008-06-11T14:50:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all keeping cool in this awful heat.

I've put off writing this particular blog because I'm not entirely sure what I want to say. Back in December of '07, I wrote a blog about critter trust, and I mentioned Old Molly the Belgian draft horse as an example of how an animal that's been neglected by its' owner can learn to have faith in its' new, better owner. This was certainly the case with Molly.

She had been confiscated, along with two other Belgians, from a man who neither fed nor watered those horses, but simply left them out in a field to survive on grass. My friend Nancy, who runs The Healing Barn, had been called in to foster them while the local Humane Society did battle with the horses' owner. Nancy maintained custody for the last nine years, ever since the judge found in favor of the Humane Society.

While one of the Belgians died shortly after being moved to The Healing Barn, a second lived another six-odd years, until his heart gave out due to old age. Molly plodded on without them, having taken a wild mustang under her wing for company. Molly and Baby the mustang were virtually inseperable. They were stalled next door to each other, and frequently touched noses over the top of the stall wall as a gesture of comfort and security. The times when Baby was out of Molly's line of sight, Molly would whinny anxiously, and you knew she was asking, "Where are you?"

For as long as I knew Molly, she was skin and bones. Imagine my surprise when I saw an old photo of her in which she looked fit and healthy! As with many animals, though, Molly's advanced years brought with them a rather extreme weight loss, and it's all but impossible to get an aged animal to gain weight. For the last three-odd years, I wondered how a horse that thin could survive the cold Northwest Ohio winters, but much to everyone's surprise, survive she did.

There were a number of times, during the past year, when Nancy worried about Molly's failing health. With every incident, she was certain that Molly wouldn't pull through, and yet somehow, Molly always did. Privately, I began to grow skeptical about Nancy's concern - precisely because Molly always seemed to bounce back. I'd show up on Saturday morning, and Nancy would tell me that Molly had gone down in her stall earlier in the week. Things would be touch-and-go for a day or two, but Molly always got up again. Until last week.

It's funny how your mind reacts to the news of someone's passing. When I walked into the barn last Saturday, scanned the bulletin board for announcements and found "Goodbye, Molly" written in Nancy's scrawled hand, my mind struggled to process it. "But I just groomed her last week," I thought frantically, "She was fine!" Intellectually, I understood - Old Molly was ancient, after all, and had had a hard life - but in my heart, it just didn't make any sense. Death never does.

I'm glad now for the time I gave Molly then. She seemed to enjoy being groomed, and would stand patiently in one place for the duration. Eyes half closed, lower lip jutting out, she was the picture of relaxed contentment. I'd talk to her quietly, remarking on how much of her woolly winter coat I was combing out - enough to make a couple of ponies! "Pretty old lady," I'd tell her. Every now and then, I'd pull a treat out of my ever-present fanny pack and give it to her. Molly never turned down a snack.

While I'm sure that Nancy will tell anyone who asks that Molly's in a better place now (and that may well be true), I can't help thinking about what a large presence that quiet, skinny Belgian took with her when she left. Other horses will come and go at The Healing Barn, but there will always, I think, be a void where Molly used to be. She was a singular lesson in the healing power of love, a horse who came to the barn frightened and neglected, but learned to trust again in spite of what had gone before. That's a testament not only to the work that Nancy, Allen, and Corri do at the barn, but a testament to Old Molly's faith in humanity, too. I hope we all served her well.

That's all for now, folks. Thanks for spending some time here! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

At The Pond

2008-06-02T13:48:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

I'm glad you're here. Thanks for joining me again.

As you know from previous posts, I'm in charge of population control at McKinnon's Pond here in Whoville. It's my job to keep the Domestic ducks from having offspring, and the reason for that is because Domestic ducks lay a hell of a lot of eggs. One nest I found this spring had seventeen eggs in it! That's just from one duck! If you multiply that by the number of female Rouens on the pond, you'd get around one hundred new ducklings every single summer.

That amount of ducks on one pond is unsustainable, of course. They'd run out of food fairly quickly, and since they can't fly away, they'd be stuck at the pond, starving to death. Which is one of several scenarious I'm trying to avoid. Another involves the City of Whoville deciding to get rid of the problem (the ducks) altogether. As I've said before, there seems to be an unspoken understanding at some level of local government that as long as the number of ducks is manageable (and the person doing the managing isn't doing it on company time), then they'll be allowed to stay on the pond.

This spring, I decided to replace the duck eggs with chicken eggs because last year, when I removed the eggs and left nothing in their place, the ducks would abandon that nest and build another one in a different (and harder to find) location. I was thinking that if I fooled the girls into staying put, it would make my job a lot easier. You'd think it would be easy to think like a duck and find every nest on the first try, but you'd be wrong! Humans tend to over-think things anyway, and I was no exception: I kept looking in places that I thought would be good (under a shrub, say, away from local traffic), and kept coming up empty.

As it turns out, ducks don't seem to put that much thought into nest location. Indeed, several ducks chose sites that were far too close to danger for my liking: right next to an apartment building, for instance - entirely without cover and out in the open. That was Pretty Lady's chosen spot, and she laid twelve eggs. Even though they've been replaced with chicken eggs, she's still there, faithfully sitting on them, having no idea that they'll never hatch. Every time I feed the ducks, I walk around to the back side of that building, shoo Lady off her nest, and pour out a pile of food. She always gobbles it up like she hasn't eaten in days.

Another of the ducks - Freckle Duck, a hybrid Rouen who's mostly white with creamy spots, chose a clump of tall grass and saplings at water's edge for her second nest attempt. The first nest was disturbed - probably by neighborhood children - so she abandoned it fairly early in the season. Because her white feathers stand out like a sore thumb against all that green grass, she's ridiculously easy to spot.

Freckle's poor choice of location concerns me because children have an unfortunate tendency to tease the ducks, often throwing stones at them, or poking them with sticks. I sure would love it if every single parent on the planet spent time teaching their children about kindness to animals. Just think of how many less cruelty cases there would be if parents did that! Every day that I make my rounds at the pond, I worry about whether Freckle will still be o.k. She's just too out-in-the-open for my liking.

In any case, Freckle Duck is currently sitting on nine chicken eggs. She had laid twelve (which seems to be the average number of eggs laid per duck), but I ran out of chicken eggs at nine, and I'm pretty sure she can't count! Indeed, none of the ducks seem to notice that their eggs have been replaced with something noticeably smaller, and a different shade of white, too boot. Thank goodness for that!

Even though I've replaced all the duck eggs with chicken eggs, I still check the nests after every feed because the ducks have a tendency to keep adding more eggs to the batch. I collect all the duck eggs in a bag, then toss them one by one out into the pond. It seems a more appropriate and respectful resting place than the trash barrels the City provides.

At some point, as spring wanders into summer, Officer Jeff will drive by the pond and express his satisfaction that there are no new ducks to contend with. Don't get me wrong - Jeff likes the ducks just about as much as I do; he simply wants to avoid any unpleasant outcomes such as culling. Because if someone decides the flock needs culling, the job will inevitably fall to Animal Control Officer Jeff. And killing ducks is the last thing he wants to do.

For now, everything is going pretty much according to plan. I'm keeping tabs on five nests, and I'm watching to see where Ethel-Ethel decides to set up shop next. Some City worker with a weed whacker and too much time on his hands disturbed her first nest (which annoyed me no end: she'd laid nine eggs and had just started sitting on them). Hopefully, her next nest will be as easy to find as the first. The fact that she's not the brightest bulb in the pack definitely works in my favor!

Regardless of what happened to her first nest, though, Ethel remains cheerful and friendly, and always eager to approach me and my big bag of corn! It's an almost daily occurance to see her racing toward me through the grass, quacking boyfriend in tow. It's a sight that never fails to charm and amuse me.

So that's what's happening at the pond. I'll be sure to keep you updated as the summer goes on, because it seems inevitable that some sneaky duck will hatch a few ducklings in spite of me. It happened last year, and it's why the pond is now blessed with Baby Fuzz, who laid twelve eggs this spring, and Peepers, who will undoubtedly find himself a girlfriend next year.

That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for stopping by! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Untimely Demises

2008-04-25T11:18:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for joining me again! I hope you're all enjoying the great spring weather we've been having.

A funny thing happened the other week, and it fits right in with what I want to talk about today. I was idling at a four-way stop in downtown Whoville. Up ahead on my left was a small house someone had turned into a knitting supply shop. There were a couple of trees out front, and some grass and a sidewalk. There were cars parked in the street. Across the way was the local grocery store.

As I sat in my car, I noticed a squirrel rooting around in the grass out in front of that knitting shop. I watched him as two women left the building. The squirrel was spooked by those ladies, and did exactly what I thought he was going to do: he ran under a parked car and then out into the street.

I did what I always do in situations like that. I rolled down my window and hollered, "Squirrely! Get out of the road!" I find that yelling works much better than laying on your car horn, though it took me a long time to figure out why: because even after a century of internal combustion engines, animals still don't see cars as predators. Humans, yes. Cars, not so much.

I'll admit that I felt a bit stupid, hollering the way I did. Not because of the squirrel, of course, but because those two women overheard me. From the corner of my eye, I saw the squirrel quickly make his way up a tree while at the same time, two humorless thirty-somethings swivelled their heads in unison, keen to get a look at the crazy broad who talks to animals. The good news is that Squirrely lived to see another day.

A veterinary technician of my acquaintance once claimed that hitting the occasional animal with your car was inevitable. I disagreed with her then, and I still do now. In truth, I suspect that she was looking for a plausible excuse as to why she'd run over so many. As for myself, I've only hit one animal in my forty-five years, and I can tell you, I swerved mightily to avoid him.

The "thunk!' I heard told me that my swerve was unsuccessful. Glancing out the passenger-side mirror, I could see the squirrel's lifeless form at the side of the road. I pulled into the nearest drive and fished the shovel out of the trunk. If nothing else, I would see to it that he wouldn't be flattened into a pancake by the cars behind me. As I scooped him onto the shovel, I noticed that the squirrel was still breathing. Thinking that he probably had internal injuries and needed euthanized, I headed back to my car to pull out the critter carrier, with a view to taking him to the nearest vet.

I had some difficulty with the latches, and apparently the four-odd minutes I struggled with the carrier was the time the squirrel needed to get his wits back. Just as I popped the carrier top, the squirrel sprang to life, ran a couple of circles around my now-frozen body (they bite, you know!), turned what looked like an entirely accidental back-flip, then ran off toward the woods. When I stopped back an hour later and searched the treeline, I found no trace of him. It was an unexpectedly happy ending.

A few weeks before I write these blogs, I give the topic a good think. I'll ask my friends salient questions, get some opinions, listen to stories. Indeed, I invited my friend Bob Tarte (author of such gripping page-turners as Enslaved by Ducks and Fowl Weather - both available at amazon.com) to weigh in on the subject. Bob told me that he's never hit an animal in his fifty-odd years.

When I asked what he attributed his success rate to, he claimed it's because he skateboards everywhere instead of driving. Because by Bob's own admission he's far too lethargic for something as strenuous as skateboarding, I suspect that he simply didn't have the stomach for a detailed coversation about roadkill. Who can blame him?

My friend Aimee, who is, among her many charms, the Director of Humane Ohio (low-cost spay/neuter in six Ohio counties), once told me something about herself that makes me look tame by comparison. She said that in the spring, female opossums are often killed by cars while carrying a pouch-ful of young. Aimee is one of those hardy souls who will pull over to the side of the road and stick her hand in that dead critter's pouch, checking to see if any babies need rescuing. I'm pretty sure I successfully concealed my nausea during that conversation!

On the other hand, it cheered me no end to learn that I'm not the only person with a shovel in my trunk intended for scraping dead animals out of the road. Turns out Aimee and I have both passed roadkill in the street and made mental notes to shovel it out of the road on our way back - only to find that in the interim, someone else (no doubt one of us two) beat us to it! It takes a tender-hearted soul indeed to care about an animal that's already dead.

In a rather alarming coincidence, maybe a week after Aimee told me about female opossums with pouches-ful of babies, I happened to come upon a dead opossum in the road. Pulling my car to the side, I noted grimly that the thing really took a mashing: there were guts all over the place. I may have a tender heart, but I definitely have a weak stomach, too, and there's nothing like critter intestines to give me serious dry heaves. Wanting to scoop the poor creature up on the first try, I gave it one brief glance and discovered to my horror that all those things lying in the road weren't intestines at all. They were dead baby opossums.

There must've been eight or ten of them, all tiny, white, hairless, wormy-shaped things. Say what you will about opossums - and most people tell me they hate them because they hiss (which, by the way, I'd be inclined to do, too, if humans disturbed my peace), but the fact is that if you believe in God - any God, I'm not particular, then you cannot deny that the ugly critters, the mean ones, the hissers, they're all His creatures. And they all have a right to cross the road safely.

My experience with the somersaulting squirrel taught me that some accidents do seem to be inevitable. But I find that, more often than not, most folks just aren't paying attention. I know this because any number of you have had vehicular near-misses with me while you chatted away on your cell phone. Or tried to discipline your kids in the back seat. Or fussed with your groceries/briefcase/whatever else took your attention from the road.

And while they may seem like nothing more than nuisance animals to you, you might want to consider the possibility that your deity is unimpressed with the money you toss in the basket on Sundays, but is instead very interested in why you gave his lesser creatures such little regard. We're all going to have to answer for ourselves one day - or at least I hope so - and I'd love to be a fly on the wall up there, listening to people's excuses as to why they didn't go back and check on that critter they hit on their way to Somewhere Important.

Every single day, as I drive around Whoville, I see construction workers building new shops, new restaurants, new crap that we don't need, all the while bulldozing the one thing His critters do need: habitat. And we never give it back. You'll never see Wal-Mart tearing down one of their ubiquitous stores in order to give some land back to the local skunks. Seeing all that new construction, and knowing that the people responsible don't give a second thought to all the creatures they've displaced, depresses the hell out of me. It's no wonder so many of them end up in the road - they've got nowhere else to go!

So please, folks, try to be a little mindful, the next time you're in your car. How would you feel if some fool babbling away on his cell phone hit your pet and kept on going? I know that skunks and opossums and the like don't seem terribly important in the grand scheme of things, but God made them all for a reason, and I think it's safe to assume that when you kill one of His critters, you kill a little piece of Him as well. That won't look good on your resume.

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, enjoy this beautiful spring weather, and please be kind to all the critters!

That Incorrigable Duck!

2008-04-08T12:26:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Hey, how 'bout this spring-like weather?! Makes me want to go out and play!

I've put off writing a follow-up about Pretty Boy's second stint in my tub not because the story has an unhappy ending, but because he was such a shit while he was here, I'm still reeling from it! As you may recall, the ducks are in the midst of the spring mating ritual down at the pond. The drakes are chasing the girls around, they're also chasing the other drakes away from their conquests, and the poor girls just look harried and worn out. It's not a pretty sight.

I guess I didn't realize how strongly those duck hormones rage at this time of year, but I'll never make that mistake again! Because for the three days that Pretty Boy was in my bathroom, he spent all his waking hours looking for trouble. He poked his bill into the shelves he could reach, he banged his way around the room, and, in one astonishing instance of duck rage, he yanked my full-sized bath towel off the rack. When I walked into the bathroom to investigate all the noise, I found my towel lying in a heap on the floor.

I said in my book - and it bears repeating here - that when you mess with nature, nature will find a way to mess back. Instead of a complacent duck in my tub, I had an incensed, hormone-driven creature being compelled by forces that he couldn't control if he wanted to. Why I fail to see these things in the course of events is beyond me; hindsight truly is 20/20.

In any case, I managed to snag an appointment with Dr. Chrys, who was, apparently, back from house-hunting in Germany. I'm told that her last day at the animal hospital will be May 31st. She'll be sorely missed. Dr. Chrys looked Pretty Boy's eye over carefully, and pronounced it infection-free. Thank God! She cleared him to go back to the pond ASAP, and gave me a salve to put in that eye once a month as a preventative measure. All the while, Pretty Boy was as bitchy with Dr. Chrys as he had been with me. I left the animal hospital and drove him directly to the pond.

There is an interesting aside to this latest duck adventure. In an effort to keep the car-time crabbing to a dull roar, I opened the top of the carrier so that Pretty Boy could stand up straight and get a look at things. He and the carrier were in the front passenger's seat, so I had a clear view of what happened during the drive.

What happened during the drive was this: Pretty Boy stuck his head up out of the carrier and suddenly realized he was flying. I don't need to remind you that Pretty Boy is a flightless duck - and I don't know whether he even has any concept of flight, given that he's never once flown at all. But something about the movement, the speed, the sense of being above the ground, struck a chord in him, and he was captivated.

Pretty Boy stood motionless in the carrier. Once, on the highway, a tractor-trailor passed us. He tilted his head to get a better look at it. "Geese!," I announced, for lack of an explanation he'd understand, "big honking geese, Pretty Boy!" During that ride, he never once bitched. He didn't even poop.

It was terrific fun being able to give my favorite duck an experience that he'll otherwise never have on his own. The look of rapture on his goofy duck face was worth all the bathroom tantrums he threw, and then some. I don't know whether duck brains have any capacity for memory - although I think they must do, since they've remembered who I am for the last seven years - but I certainly hope so. Particularly in light of the fact that he'll forever more be missing half a wing, I really hope that Pretty Boy retains that "I'm flying!" feeling for the rest of his life. He deserves no less.

So, another duck story with a happy ending. When I dropped him off at the pond, Pretty Boy made a beeline for Girlfriend Duck, exchanged greetings with her, then proceeded to chase the other drakes away from his lady. Things are apparently back to "normal," or whatever passes for it during mating season.

I've already done some egg-hunting - and I've already found a few, despite the current vagaries of the weather. I'm looking forward to summer, when the hormone-addled behavior subsides, and my guys get back to being The Gang. In the meantime, I have a new respect for the power of nature, which revealed itself through an angry duck and an innocent bath towel that was in the wrong place at the wrong time!

That's all for now, folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

The Ungrateful Duck In My Tub!

2008-04-01T13:09:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome back!

Well, as you can see from the title of this blog, I was a bit too optimistic about Pretty Boy's eye responding to the antibiotics. I could've sworn that the infection was clearing up, but when I looked him over yesterday, I decided that I didn't want to take any chances. So I ran a bunch of errands and got myself mentally prepared for another week of growling ingratitude.

I grabbed Pretty Boy today as he was availing himself of the pile of corn. Thank goodness he's fairly easy to catch. He appeared to resign himself to his fate quite quickly, settling down in the carrier as he did for the ride to my place. He didn't even make his usual escape attempts, but just laid there listening to the radio along with me.

I had some trouble coming up with suitable nest material. I'd raked up all my leaves last November, after all. I emailed my friend, "Enslaved by Ducks" author Bob Tarte, asking for bedding suggestions. Bob wrote back that the rare times he and wife Linda had had a duck in the house, they'd used towels, which, he remarked, they'd had to wash a LOT! Given Pretty Boy's habit of pooping every 12-odd minutes, using towels as bedding was one of the few suggestions Bob's made that I'm gonna pass on! In fact, I found some leftover leaves hiding under my shrubs in the back yard. I raked those into a basket, and I'm really hoping there'll be enough to last seven days.

I set out the usual dishes of water, cracked corn, and duck pellets. Pretty Boy dug into both food bowls as though he hadn't eaten in weeks. Since the grass around here hasn't greened up yet, I made a quick run to the grocery store for something fresh and tasty. Not being a veggie eater myself, nothing on offer at the store looked the slightest bit compelling. I remember Bob telling me that he feeds his fowl all sorts of things, like kale, lettuce - even chopped up hard-boiled eggs. Yuck! Seems a little canabalistic, doesn't it?!

In any case, I ended up buying a bag of spinach, another of watercress, and a head of green leaf lettuce. The bag of Cheetos is for me. I chopped up portions of all three vegetables and put them in a bowl. Why I do this is beyond me - it's not as if the ducks eat off plates out at the pond, for heaven's sake! I set the bowl of greens next to the other bowls of feed and left Pretty Boy alone.

While I was enjoying a cup of tea and some of the aforementioned Cheetos, I heard various banging noises emanating from the bathroom. I'd already duck-proofed the place, so I didn't get up right away and investigate. When I finally did have a look, it appeared that my favorite duck had sneezed right in the bowl of greens, for they were scattered all over the room! I think he might've actually eaten some, though, which pleases me no end.

So that goofy duck is back for another week of eyedrops and healing. In spite of what I said in a previous blog, I've chosen not to bring Girlfriend Duck along. Having discovered that Ducky (who's been hanging around with the couple) is actually a drake, I'm satisfied that he'll look out for Girlfriend Duck while Pretty Boy's away. My only concerns at this point are whether the eyedrops will take care of the problem, and (in a strictly selfish vein) how much duck poop I'm going to have to contend with!

That's all for now, folks. I need to go put Pretty Boy in the tub for some water time. It sounds like he's getting restless in there. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

The Great Crayfish Rescue!

2008-03-29T13:18:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by!

I want to tell you about an interesting experience I had yesterday. We've been having some spring-like temperatures on and off for a couple of weeks, and yesterday was a fine example: the sun was shining, the sky was a brilliant blue, and I was in desperate need of some exercise. I set off for a walk around the neighborhood late in the afternoon.

I usually walk around this area filled with nothing but ranch houses; visually, it's pretty boring. Everyone's inside waiting for warmer weather, so I don't even get the pleasure of a wave or a "hello!" On walks like that, I generally just let my mind wander, paying little or no attention to what's around me. Luckily, though, when the leaf in the street started walking toward me, I had the presence of mind to stop and get a better look.

You may have noticed from pictures on my website that I wear glasses. The prescription is up-to-date, too, so I can't blame my poor vision on old lenses. Personally, I think that wires get crossed in my brain and don't translate things properly, for the "leaf" that I initially saw walking toward me turned out to be a very large crayfish! I haven't seen one of those since I was a kid!

You can imagine my surprise. How on earth did a water-critter end up on the pavement a good mile away from the nearest creek?! I wondered if the over-flowing drains had anything to do with it. Like, maybe the poor thing got swept away by a strong current and ended up being spit out of a drainage grate in the street. It was the only explanation I could come up with.

He looked an awful lot like a spider with all those legs. And I hate spiders. But there was no question of leaving him in the street to be run over. Moving him into someone's yard didn't seem to fit the bill, either. He belonged in a creek, and there just so happens to be one running through the property behind my back yard. Gingerly, I picked the critter up and set him in the palm of my gloved hand. He remained there, immobile, for so long, that I thought I'd killed him. Turned out he was just taking stock of his new situation.

I wasn't terribly keen to cut my walk short so I kept going, crayfish in tow. I must've looked ridiculous, walking down the street staring at my open hand! When I rounded the last corner, changing direction just enough for the sun to shine down on the newly-christened "Bubby," the crayfish seemed to wake up. Now he wanted to walk, too, and I had to keep putting one hand in front of the other as he walked across them in an earnest attempt at escape.

I made a quick stop at my house to grab the camera: I wanted some proof that this rescue really happened because I was fairly certain that even the people who know me wouldn't believe me. I put Bubby in a bowl that he couldn't crawl out of, took a few snaps, then made my way to the creek.

Owing to all the snow we've gotten lately, which is now melting considerably faster than the ground can absorb it, the creek was moving fast and high. I entertained more than a few passing thoughts about the possibility of my falling in and being swept away, and concluded that I really didn't want to go swimming just yet. So I endeavored to be extra careful.

When I told this story to Mandy out at the Healing Barn, she teasingly asked me whether I'd weighed the crayfish's new homesite options, or just tossed him down any old place. It must be said that Mandy relishes every opportunity she can find to zing me, and I handed her this one on a silver platter! I mean, of COURSE I chose his new homesite carefully! Hell, I spent a good ten minutes in a lather of indecision over the area on one side of the bridge, which consisted mainly of broken chunks of pavement, and the other side of the bridge, which was mostly twigs and the usual sort of detritus you find creekside.

Twigs and detritus are, of course, preferable to chunks of pavement. But there was a hitch: the twiggy area could only be got to by first passing through a couple of trees with branches full of thorns longer than my fingers! Once I made it past that obstacle, then there was the loose earth to worry about: I wasn't sure whether I was actually standing on solid ground or just a bunch of sticks that were floating at water's edge.

I know what you're thinking. "Jeez, Kelly, all this fuss over a stupid crayfish! Why bother?" My answer is, "Why not bother?" Where do you draw the line and stop helping? It's o.k. to help dogs and ducks, but the crayfish of the world are on their own?! I swear to you that I don't go looking for these things, but there he was, a critter in need, so I stepped up to the plate and helped. He most surely would've died otherwise, and I didn't want that on my conscience.

So I trod very carefully on the sticks and twigs. I chose a spot where he could rest and take stock first, and then hop in the water when he was ready. I picked him up out of the bowl and gently set him down. Then I crouched there, waiting, to make sure he knew what to do. After considerable assessment on his part, Bubby slowly made his way across the sticks until he found a place he felt comfortable with. Watching for a few more minutes while nothing happened, I concluded that he was indeed where he wanted to be and I carefully made my way back through the obstacle course.

That's where the story ends, folks. I'm hoping that Bubby lives happily ever afer, but I'll never know for sure. Some rescues are like that: you do your best, then you set them free and hope for a good outcome. If nothing else, this story certainly proves that the Critter Lady will rescue just about anything!

In other news, Pretty Boy got his last Baytril pill today. His eye infection seems to have cleared up. Dr Susan - who stitched up his torn eyelid last November - said very firmly that in her estimation, birds need two good feet, two good wings, and two good eyes. We already know that Pretty Boy's half a wing short, there, but I take the "two good eyes" part very seriously, so I'll have Dr. Chrys check him out next week, just to be on the safe side.

Well, that's all for now, folks! Thanks so much for stopping in! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

That Troublemaking Duck!

2008-03-22T13:50:00.000-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by again.

Well, I should've known that the next duck problem would involve the same duck who's been at the center of every other problem! Pretty Boy is just prone to bad luck, I guess. I'd been noticing that his eye looked funny, at the last few feeds. His third eyelid was partially covering his eye - the same eye we'd had all that trouble with last November. I couldn't imagine what the problem was, and to be honest with you, I spent a day or two procrastinating before I made an appointment with Dr. Chrys.

It's not that I don't worry about the ducks - you know I do. It's just that taking them to the vet's office is a hassle of epic proportions. First there's the grab 'n go, wherein I scoop up the duck in question, try to wrap my arms around his wings before he can leverage them in an escape attempt, then chuck him into the waiting critter carrier. That's probably the easiest part of the exercise.

On the drive to the animal hospital, Pretty Boy is guaranteed to poop several times in the carrier. In the middle of winter, with all the windows up, it's not the nicest smell I can think of. But Pretty Boy's not a big fan of these forced vet visits, so a puddle or two to underscore his feelings is understandable. He'll go on to leave several souveniers in the exam room, as well.

Because these visits tend to be last-minute, the kind staff at the hospital squeeze us in between several other clients. So once they put us in an exam room, we tend to be there for a good twenty to thirty minutes before Dr. Chrys comes in. I'll let Pretty Boy out of the carrier, and he'll spend some time investigating the room. He always has an uncanny knack for locating the door, but when I opened it, on this latest trip, and offered to let him wander down the hall, he declined. He chose instead to hunker down under the exam table, facing the wall.

He does that out at the pond, too. I have a picture I took of him a year or so ago, during a summer feed. I was sitting on the ground, surrounded by ducks, and when I looked around to take stock of things, I found Pretty Boy about eight feet away, hunkered down on his tummy, with his back to the crowd. It was the funniest thing, like he'd had enough of the all the ducks and just turned his back on us. When I called to him, he refused to look around. That's Pretty Boy: a little wierd but definitely his own duck!

In any case, Dr. Chrys finally came in to have a look at her favorite duck. Some things had changed since she'd seen him last: most notably, his attitude had taken a turn for the worst. During his time in my bathtub, I gave Pretty Boy free reign to express every feeling he had that week - and judging from his comments, all those feelings were distinctly negative! But I understood. After all, I wouldn't want to be held hostage in some strange, stinky place, comepletely alone and worried about my Girlfriend Duck and all the others. So I let him have his say and I didn't try to sweet talk him out of being crabby.

Now, though, he was using his extensive vocabulary of honks and growls on Dr. Chrys! She didn't take it personally - she understood that he wasn't happy about having been rudely yanked away from his pile of corn at the pond. I told her my observations about his third eyelid, and upon close examination, Dr. Chrys agreed that there did seem to be an infection in his eyelid. She said that Dr. Susan's surgery on the torn eyelid had clearly been a success, but that Pretty Boy might now be prone to difficulties related to the original trauma. Rats!

Dr. Chrys administered some eyedrops to get the duck started, then handed me the usual Baytril regimen - half a pill crushed up in some bread chunks once a day, and, if the antibiotic didn't do the trick, she gave me a bottle of eyedrops as well, just in case. Oh, crap! Not another duck in my tub!!! Determined to avoid that at all costs - if for no other reason than that mating season is upon us, and how would his two girlfriends hold up for a week without him? - I found myself having to re-learn how to be smarter than my favorite duck, in order to get those pills down his gullet.

I know what you're thinking: jeez, Kelly, if you're not smarter than the average duck, then you really have problems!!! You'd think that, but I'm here to tell you, sometimes humans are so busy trying to think outside the box, they don't bother to think like the critter they're dealing with. So let's break it down here: I'd just dragged Pretty Boy off to the vet, who man-handled him and put drops in his eye. Once I released him at the pond, he wasn't inclined to get close to me for a while. Which meant that he wouldn't take the proffered bread chunks out of my hand like he ordinarily would. Now what do you do? He's gotta have his crushed up pill every day, so now what do you do?

Believe it or not, it took me a couple hours of anxious examination of the problem before I came up with the solution. Pretty Boy wasn't going to take the bread chunks out of my hand no matter what. That left the one thing I knew he would do: eat them in the water. I could toss the chunks to him one at a time, and the greedy little stinker would eat them right up. Which is exactly what he did. Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the hardest ones to find, don't you think?

In any case, we're still in the middle of the Baytril regimen, so it's early days yet, but I'm cautiously optimistic that his eye is clearing up and the swelling is going down. In the event that I'm wrong, I'm absolutely prepared to bring him home and do the whole bathtub-and-eyedrops routine again - although this time, I think I'd bring along Girlfriend Duck to keep him company. I'd hate for her to worry about where he'd gotten to.

That's all for now, folks. I'll keep you posted on that silly duck's latest medical issue. Here's hoping he heals up just fine without another visit to my bathroom! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

Spring

2008-03-14T12:18:00.001-07:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for joining me today! I know it's been a while since I posted my last blog - I've been stuck in the grip of the winter doldrums. Heck, just about everyone here in Northwest Ohio has had enough of winter. I bet you have, too! The good news is that spring is on the way.

You may well be skeptical about this, given the massive dumping of snow the entire midwest endured recently. I think some areas got four inches. That's the least amount of snow that fell. Here in Whoville, it was more like eight or nine inches, with blowing and drifting winds.

I was so disheartened by winter's insistence on sticking around that I laid down on the couch, put my head on my boyfriend's lap, and slept an entire afternoon away. He didn't mind too much because the remote was nearby and some Nascar race was on t.v. Even so, that's a good four hours of my life that I'll never have back again!

In any case, the temperature outside has been creeping up ever so slowly, the past few days, and there's finally a promise of spring in the air: some of the summer songbirds are back already, waking me up too early with their cheerful music; the air itself smells of the rich, damp earth and hints at the blooming season to come; I can finally stop wearing my coat with the 800 geese-worth of down in it. But none of these things confirms that spring is coming quite like my ducks do.

As critters of the wild, they see and hear and feel unknown-to-me signs of the changing seasons. Maybe they, too, smell something in the air, but they clearly operate on a different timetable, a different schedule, than we humans. Indeed, all animals seem to know things that we don't. For instance, I've noticed that some years, the horses at the Healing Barn grow their wooly winter coats earlier than other years. And sometimes those coats are extra-shaggy, too. I always assume that they know something about the winter to come that we humans don't.

So I've been mindful of the fact that while winter seems to not want to let go anytime soon, the ducks are behaving as though spring is already here: Freckle Duck, who enjoyed a certain amount of independence during the cold months, is again being shadowed by the three optimists who staked their claims to her last year. Where she goes, those three big drakes always follow - a thing that never fails to amuse me: it's nice to see that she's got a fan base!

Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck spent the whole winter hanging around together, but now Ducky has joined them. I'm not sure why, though it's possible that Ducky is vying for Pretty Boy's attention. And while some of the other Domestics may not have paired off yet, they've begun the spring ritual of dividing up the turf nonetheless.

I assume this has to do with staking a claim to a nesting site. Everyone wants their own bit of property, and eventually, there will be nests hidden all around the far side of the pond. The Ethels will nest close to each other over by the fence near the interstate. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck like the shrubbery under the "McKinnon's Pond" sign near the parking strip. Pretty Lady likes the shrubs under the apartment building windows. Freckle Duck likes the clump of wild bushes growing right next to the water.

Once Officer Jeff showed me how to find the nests, last spring, I faithfully made the rounds five days a week, picking up all the Domestic duck eggs and disposing of them in a respectful fashion. Since the Domestics are all prolific egg-layers, it was the only way to control the population. I picked up eggs every week day for three months!

Since the ducks have already begun to pair off, I've been wondering how soon I'll need to start the routine again. This year, though, in an effort to keep the ducks from going off in search of better nesting sites (that I won't be able to find!), I've decided to try replacing their fertile eggs with fresh-from-the-store chicken eggs.

My understanding is that the ducks won't know the difference, and will eventually give up on the eggs when they fail to hatch. This approach makes more sense than simply removing the duck eggs, which just encouraged the ducks to lay more eggs. I'll let you know how the experiment turns out!

Anyway, even though the weather may still be dicey where you are - and the forecast here for the next few days is promising increasing cold - know that the most important signs of spring are well in hand and already happening, even if your thermometer says otherwise! I'll trust my ducks over the local weatherman any day!

That's all for now, Folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

A Few Good Men

2008-01-04T14:47:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by! As you already know, this blog is mainly about animals. But every now and then, I come across an animal-lover worthy of recognition, and Kelly's Critter Talk seems like a good place to give them their due. Today I want to tell you about two guys who help make the world a better place for animals in general, and for my gang of ducks in particular. In the interest of keeping them out of trouble with their bosses, I'm not going to mention their last names. They know who they are, though, and when I'm finished, so will you!

The first guy I want to mention is Jon. He's the Director of Important Things here in Whoville. I'm not sure what his job entails, but it seems to give him enough authority to decide whether to keep the fountain at McKinnon's Pond running through the winter. In years past, the pond froze sometime in December and stayed that way until spring. I don't remember whether there were Domestic ducks on the pond, then, or if so, how they managed. What I do know is that for the past few years, it's been Jon who's kept the fountain working, providing the ducks with a much-needed open area of water in which to bathe, drink, and escape predators.

From what I've gathered in my research about the ducks, water is a vital component of their diet. It seems that they especially need water to wash down their food - and nowhere is that more important than when they're eating dry, powdery cracked corn. I don't know whether Jon knows this about the ducks, or whether he just likes having them around - whatever the case, he does more for their survival every winter than just about anyone. That's a little-known and unremarked part of what he does for Whoville, which is why I've tried to thank him in a discreet, no-need-for-the-boss-to-know kind of way.

The information that Jon was a fan of the ducks came to me by way of Officer Jeff, who is the Animal Control Officer for the Whoville Police Department. I imagine that most Whovillians think that Officer Jeff's job is all about trapping that pesky raccoon that's taken up residence under their porch, but Jeff does a lot more than that, and he does it with heart.

Officer Jeff and his wife have raised any number of orphaned mallard ducklings in the family swimming pool, and, when Jeff was recently given a brand-new Animal Control truck to do his crittering in, he alone recognized the inherent problem of having a black vehicle with no air conditioning in the back. When he voiced his concern about it, the Chief of Whoville Police told him to go buy a nice seat cover for the (air conditioned) cab - which is where Jeff will be housing those pesky raccoons during transport on hot summer days!

It was Officer Jeff who first noticed that there was a duck lady (me) hanging around and making friends with those flightless ducks at McKinnon's Pond. Having done his homework, and knowing that those ducks multiply astronomically, Jeff approached me about doing some population control. Last spring, after he showed me where to look for nests, I spent over three months picking up eggs five days a week.

The effort paid off: with the exception of the dumped-by-his-humans Puddleduck, the Domestic duck population remained stable for the first time ever. Officer Jeff was exceedingly pleased, which puts my gang of ducks in a better position to comfortably live out their lives at the pond: as long as the numbers are manageable, then apparently, there are those with some influence in Whoville who are willing to help manage them.

It must be noted that neither one of these men is required to do what they do for the ducks. The City of Whoville is in no way responsible for those abandoned animals, and, indeed, it's actually Officer Jeff's job to catch and have euthanized that very sort of unwanted, unadoptable critter. In Jon's case, it would no doubt be much easier - and less costly - to turn the fountain off between October and May. I have no idea what motivates either man. Given the flavor of my conversations with Jeff, though, I sense that he's a man who experiences a genuinely innocent child-like joy around animals.

I can't thank either Jon or Jeff enough for what they do - and allow me to do - for the Whoville ducks. It may be a small matter to Jon to leave that fountain on through the winter, but it's life and death for the ducks. And the fact that Jeff believes the ducks are good for the health of McKinnon's Pond tells me that he has indeed done his homework, and found good reasons (and good arguments, should he need them!) for keeping the ducks around. May the Gods smile on both men, and their families, for the good deeds they're doing for animals in need.

That's all for now folks! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

My Favorite Things

2008-01-01T10:30:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for joining me again. Happy New Year!

Every year around Christmas time, I look forward to watching that sappy, soppy, sentimental favorite, The Sound of Music. Every year the movie seems hokier than the year before, but I tune in anyway, and invariably tear up at some point in the proceedings. This season, though, I never saw any promotional ads on t.v. And, when Christmas came and went without a von Trapp in sight, I assumed I had missed my once-a-year treat.

So as I channel-surfed two nights ago, you can imagine my surprise when I found the movie playing on a local station. Yay! But then I did some mental figuring and concluded that they'd already shown the best part of the whole three-hour movie. Rats! I don't sit through all that doe-a-deer stuff for nothing!

Realizing that my one opportunity for the year had been blown, and feeling mildly bummed about it, I began making up lyrics in my head. I do this sometimes, to amuse myself. And I liked the result enough to want to share it with you now, on this first day of a new year full of adventures and possibilities. So with sincere appologies to Oscar Hammerstein, I submit the following for your approval:

Saddles on horses and whiskers on kittens,
huge bags of chocolate and warm woollen mittens.
Big ducks that quack til it makes my ears ring,
these are a few of my favorite things.

Folks, the moral of the story is that if the song doesn't work for you the way it's written, then write your own song. Take a risk. Put your heart on the line. Live dangerously - or at least, more fully. Stop waiting for someone to drop a life in your lap and go out and get one! Smile more, and bitch less. Make someone laugh. Be kind. Say yes.

That's all for now, folks. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters.

The Beginning

2007-12-28T17:54:00.000-08:00

Hi folks!

I never did tell you how I first got involved with the ducks at McKinnon's Pond, so I thought I'd better bring you up to speed! Seven years ago, I moved into a tiny little apartment about a mile away from the pond. The place was so small and dark that I got into the habit of taking walks every day, just to get away from those four walls. The pond was the turning-around point, and for the first few months, I didn't even stop to look at the scenery; I'd just glance over at the water as I turned and headed for home.

More than a few times, I'd see this middle-aged couple standing near the water with a small bag in their hands. At their feet would be a gang of ducks, eating the cracked corn they'd brought with them. Sometimes the corn would fall onto the tops of their shoes, and the ducks would come right up and eat it! It looked like fun, so I started bringing my own bag of corn. I'd sit on one of the many park benches, and the ducks would gather around my feet. They were mostly wild mallards, with three notable exceptions: two big white "Aflac" ducks, and a jumbo-sized mallard. After doing a little research, though, I learned that she wasn't a mallard after all, but a Domestic duck breed called Rouen. Since neither the Rouen or the white Pekins can fly, the only way those three got to the pond was by being dumped.

There was a natural increase, during this time, as Missy Miss Rouen got herself a mallard boyfriend and laid a bunch of eggs - eleven, to be exact. Because there are so many predators in the area, though, only three of those ducklings survived to adulthood. Today, you know them as Pretty Lady, Big Boy, and Pretty Boy. Eventually, Pretty Lady had a number of ducklings of her own before I started removing the eggs from all the Domestic girls' nests in an effort to keep the population in check.

There was also an increase because stupid people kept dumping their unwanted Easter ducks. Why in the world anyone would buy an animal knowing that they aren't going to keep it for a lifetime is beyond me, but that's what happens. I know because I had a conversation once with a couple who had dumped two Rouen girls after their grandchildren had tired of their Easter surprise. The couple had named one of the ducks Ethel. To this day, I have no idea who's who because the two ducks look alike. To keep things simple at feeds, I just refer to both of them as "Ethel-Ethel!"

A few summers ago, I had some tense words with the female half of that stupid couple because I wouldn't let the Ethels add to the population problem by letting them keep their eggs. The woman got so annoyed that she called Animal Control - little knowing that Officer Jeff and I work together to keep the population down! If I could rat the couple out here in my blog, I would, but alas, I never learned their names.

I will say this, though: last summer, I found the decapitated remains of a Domestic drake lying in the grass. It was a horrible sight. So, stupid duck-dumping couple, know this - 1) the minute you dumped the Ethels, you gave up any claim to them whatsoever; if I choose to remove the eggs from their nests, or even take those ducks home with me, I can do that because they're no longer yours. And 2) what happened to that poor headless duck can just as easily happen to the Ethels; that's the danger you put them in when you decided to dump them.

Over time, some Domestics died, others were dumped, and still others were very sneaky about their nest sites and I never found the eggs! Seven years later, there are roughly sixteen Domestic ducks living on McKinnon's Pond. I haven't named all sixteen because I can't actually recognize them all. Last summer, Freckle Duck had three Domestic drakes following her around, and they all had cream-colored tummies. To my untrained eye, they look exactly alike. The only way I can tell Big Boy apart from all the other large drakes is because he's such a huge chunk of duck that he stands out like a sore thumb.

You might think that Pretty Boy is the only black duck on the pond. For a time he was, but not anymore. Ducky, who has white rings around his eyes that make him look rather studious, was dumped several years ago, while Baby Fuzz (o.k., so they're not always the most creative names!) was one of those ducklings that Pretty Lady snuck onto the pond when I wasn't looking. The three black ducks are easy for me to tell apart because their markings are so distinctive. That, and one of them only has one wing!

Rounding out the line-up are Pretty Boy's girlfriend, the appropriately-named Girlfriend Duck; Peepers the Pekin - another duckling that Pretty Lady snuck in behind my back; Puddleduck, a Pekin who was dumped last summer; and the two Pekins I dubbed, "Fellows!" Back when I was first feeding the original three Domestics, I would greet them all as one by calling, "Fellows!" The name stuck, and to this day, I still address those two guys as such.

You're probably wondering what all the fuss is about, and why I devote so much of my time, energy, and money to what would seem to be boring animals. But that's just the thing - they're not at all boring! I learned that back in the early days, when, as I approached the pond on my walks, the ducks would catch sight of me. They'd start quacking to each other, something along the lines of, "Hey! The corn lady is here!" Then they'd all race toward me at once - up to thirty, forty ducks (mostly wild mallards) stampeding in my direction, all quacking madly, and every one of them glad to see me. That gets addictive very quickly, I can tell you!

At some point in the proceedings, I bought a point-and-shoot camera, and got the inspirational idea of sitting on the ground among them. I now had a ducks-eye view of the world, and, since I wasn't towering over them anymore, they became much more comfortable with me.

It's been that way for seven years now: I'll get out of the car, pick a spot for the feed, pour out a large measure of cracked corn mixed with duck pellets, then sit cross-legged on the ground in front of them. The ducks never stay in one place for too long, so they'll eat some food, then wander around a bit, then eat more food, then go down to water's edge for a drink. Most of the ducks get within a few inches of me at least once during a feed. I try very hard to observe the rules: no loud noises, no sudden moves. Most of them don't want to be touched, either.

Even so, I'll make a point of running my fingers through the tail feathers of some of them. I do this regularly with Pretty Boy and the Ethels. I want them to get used to my touch and not fear it, because as we've already seen with my favorite duck, sooner or later someone's going to have to go to the vet! Fortunately, the ducks have been lucky, over the years, and had very few mishaps.

Most of the problems and injuries have to do with fishing line and hooks, which careless people leave lying around all over the place. These days, I carry a bag of specially-chosen gear in my trunk, all of it designed to remove fish hooks, or cut fishing line off of duck legs. In a perfect world, I'd never even need to think about a bag of tools in my trunk. Regretably, it's a huge concern, and I've seen the damage fishing line can do: it once wound so tightly around a wild mallard's leg that it eventually amputated that leg. Because the duck was wild, I never got near enough to help him. It took two whole weeks before that leg rotted sufficiently to fall off.

I'm going to end on that downer note, folks, because it was humans who left the fishing crap lying around, and humans who can make a difference with the animals, if they choose. In the first place, please don't bring home any animal that you're not prepared to take care of for the rest of its' natural life. In the second place,
even if you don't have any pets of your own, you can still help make the world a better place through kindness to all critters. If you don't have the money to donate to a worthy critter cause, maybe you could donate some of your time, or give a piece of artwork to a charity fund-raiser. You could even donate your unwanted clothes or electronics!

If nothing else, every one of us can certainly ramp up our awareness of how small we're making their habitat, and that what's left of it doesn't need to be riddled with cigarette butts, empty pop cans, or used-up fishing line. Thank you all for stopping by. Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Kelly's Christmas Cats

2007-12-27T13:37:00.000-08:00

Hi folks!

Happy Holidays to you! I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas/Hanukkah/non-denominational time with lots of friends, family, good cheer and critters!

You'll probably be surprised to hear me say that I don't love all my cats equally. That would be impossible. It's more accurate to say that I love them all uniquely and individually. Each cat has a different temperment, different needs and wants, and a different personality. Because Spanky and Junebug are a little needier than the others, come Christmastime, I'll whisper in Spanky's ear, "You're my best present every year, 'Panky!" A little while later, I'll tell Junebug, "You're my favorite Christmas kitty!" The other cats seem to understand that those two need extra help, and no one seems to hold a grudge about it because the truth is, they all know that they're going to be spoiled eventually!

The cats have no idea what the holiday fuss is all about. Stockings, carols, and Christmas cards mean nothing to them. I do hang a stocking for them, a red felt thing with a mouse embroidered on it that I found in a store years ago. I usually have to Zip-loc the things that smell good, otherwise the cats will help themselves well before the appointed day. On Christmas Day, I'll sit down on the floor with them, use my excited tone of voice and say, "Christmas, cats!" Then I'll pull their gifts out of the stocking one by one.

This year, there was a new feathery thing attached to a stick. It was an immediate hit with Junebug and Spanky, who both pounced on it gleefully. Buddy just observed for a bit, while Gracie leapt back in horror every time I waved the feather in her direction. I suppose that while she was on the streets, movement meant danger, so I didn't push the issue.

There were two new toy mice to add to the collection of other toy mice that they rarely play with. You know the kind: a small mouse-shaped thing covered in rabbit hair, with a leathery tail at one end. For some reason, Buddy always chews those tails off and eats them. And he works pretty quickly, too: those mice weren't out of the stocking for more than ten minutes before I noticed their tails were gone!

The cats also got a package of snack treats. I don't recall the brand, but they're cheap and crunchy and crab flavored. Muffin, in particular, has taken a keen interest in these treats. Old Muff, who generally spends her days doing very little, will suddenly spring to life if she gets a whiff of crab or hears the package crinkle. Then she'll come running over to me with a speed I didn't know she possessed. It's nice to see she's still got some life in her after all these years!

So we spent about an hour chewing and leaping and sniffing and batting. Everyone joined in the fun, and after watching the other cats have at it, Gracie eventually mustered up the courage to give the feathery thing a few rabbit kicks! It was good bonding fun, where every cat got to sample the new goodies and enjoy some playtime with me.

Realistically, every pet owner (including me) should set aside some playtime with the critters every day. I understand that busy schedules often get in the way, and to be honest, I don't believe that all my cats want to play every single day: Muffin's too old; Buddy has his own agenda; Spanky prefers snuggling to playing; and Gracie's a little afraid of play that involves humans. Out of the five, Junebug is the only one who will aproach me with toy mice in her mouth, asking me to play. And while Junebug's only three years old, I've noticed that even she doesn't ask me to play that often anymore.

It seems more important to my cats that I am consistent. That I acknowledge Muffin when she maiows. That I stop working at the computer for a few minutes and let Spanky have a snuggle with me on the desk. That instead of shooing Gracie away while I'm trying to type, I scoop her onto my lap, where she'll purr happily until I get up. That I drop everything and respond to all of Junebug's squeaks. That I know when Buddy's had enough petting and wants to me to go away. Different cats, different personalities. While the cats don't need Christmas, they do need to be able to rely on me.

All my cats get presents every Christmas, but Santa gave me something a little different this year: my very own elf! A few weeks ago, I got an email out of the blue from a woman named Liz who had read about Pretty Boy and I in the Toledo Free Press. She liked what I was doing for the ducks at McKinnon's Pond and offered to take on the task of feeding them at weekends. So not only are the ducks getting a healthy meal when I'm not there, but I've got a set of eyes and ears at the pond, now, too. If there's an emergency, I'll learn about it that much sooner. Santa really took care of me this year - what I asked for was a bag of money and a date with George Clooney. What I got was the one thing I really needed: some help with the ducks. Thank you, Santa! And, thank you, Liz!

That's all for now, folks. I hope you all remembered your critters in some small way this holiday season - maybe with a new rawhide bone, or fancy collar, or just some extra crab-flavored snacks. But what your animals really want for Christmas - and all year around - is your love and attention. The great thing about those is that neither one will show up on your credit card bill in January! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!

Critter Trust

2007-12-17T13:32:00.000-08:00

Hi Folks!

Thanks for joining me today!

I've been thinking a lot lately about critter trust. I started thinking about it last week when I was out feeding the ducks. As you know, Pretty Boy Duck spent a week in my bathroom healing from a serious eyelid injury. For that reason alone, it would make perfect sense if he spent the rest of his life studiously avoiding any more contact with me. At the very least, you'd think he'd be wary enough to keep a distance at the feeds, but he doesn't. More than once recently, I've watched as Pretty Boy shouldered his way through the throng of ducks until he was standing right in the middle of the pile of corn. Once there, he'd turn his back to me and start eating - even though he knew that I was well within grabbing range!

Having given the matter some thought, I don't think it's a question of Pretty Boy not being worried that I'll grab him again. I think it's more likely that he's learned that nothing really bad happens when I do grab him. There's a distinction between those two things, and an element of trust involved in knowing that ultimately, this Kelly person isn't going to hurt me, even if she does keep me in her bathroom for a while.

I don't take critter trust lightly. You have to pass a lot of tests and jump through a lot of hoops before some animals will honor you with their trust. My friend - and "Fowl Weather" author - Bob Tarte seems to use much the same approach as I do with the new critters that come his way: he tells me that he generally gives them a wide berth, allowing them the time they need to adjust to their new surroundings, and the new humans in their lives. Bob understands that you can't force yourself into an animal's life, that you have to do things at their pace, instead of your own. Anything else simply creates an environment of distrust.

While all this business about trust was percolating on the back burner of my brain, I went out to The Healing Barn on Saturday to do my usual horse poop scooping. I got to talking with Nancy, the owner, about the Belgian horses she used to have. She still has one of them, Old Molly, whose picture you can see on my website. If you look at that picture, you'll see how impossibly thin Old Molly is, and you'll think that she's been woefully mistreated. Well, she has been, just not by Nancy.

You see, there are people in the world who think of animals as nothing more than unfeeling chattel that they can do whatever they want with. And Old Molly's former owner was one of those people. He saw no need to buy proper feed for the Belgians because hey - there's all that free grass out in the pasture! This fellow also didn't see any need to have the horses wormed, even though, I'm told, their stomachs were bloated with worms. Nancy went on to tell me about some sheep that this same man owned, whose wool coats were so thick from lack of shearing that if they fell over, the poor creatures couldn't even right themselves again!

As Nancy told me these awful stories, I stood there picturing Old Molly standing in a field, not knowing that there were other people out there who could treat her much more lovingly and respectfully. It occurred to me then that even when animals don't know that they depend on us, they still do depend on us nonetheless. There's a certain implied trust, there, too: domesticated animals can't feed and water themselves. So, most of the time, they reach the conclusion that you're going to reliably do that for them. People like Bob and I attend faithfully to our critters' needs - no matter what the weather, or our state of health. But people like Old Molly's former owner clearly don't feel an obligation to provide even the basics.

It will interest you to know that Nancy ended up with the Belgians - Mr. and Mrs. Belgian, as I called them - because someone (rightfully) ratted that useless man out to the local Humane Society. In one of the unusual instances where the right thing actually happens, the man was relieved of the burden of caring for animals that he didn't care for anyway, and Nancy was called in to take temporary custody of Mr. and Mrs. Belgian.

Like so many other jerks in the world, the man took exception to being told what to do with his animals. He hired a lawyer and then turned around and sued the Humane Society for impugning his "sterling" reputation. Meanwhile, his lawyer appeared to have his own ax to grind against the judge in the cruelty case. Ultimately - and I'm told the case dragged on for over two years - the judge, in essence, told the creep and his lawyer to grow up and shut up, and that was the end of that. Nancy has maintained custody to this day. Mr. Belgian died a few years ago (his heart gave out due to old age), while Old Molly, who frequently appears to be on death's door, seems to keep going in spite of the past.

Old Molly has certainly earned the right to be suspicious of human beings, considering all she's been through, but after all this time with patient, gentle Nancy, it's clear that the old Belgian doesn't particularly want to hold a grudge. She understands now that she's going to be fed good food, that she's going to be well-cared-for (this time last year, I sprung for a new winter blanket for her), and that she's going to be safe. Those are big lessons to learn at any age, but Old Molly's managed it. Why? Perhaps because, deep down, she prefers trusting humans over not trusting them. Who can say?

As I sit in my chair watching t.v. at night, Junebug will wander in and, more often than not, lie down on her back. She's always liked lying flat on her back, her four paws splayed casually about. She's more than happy to fall asleep in that position. Some of my other cats will lie that way, too, but the minute I get near them, they will invariably roll over; they're just not sure what the situation calls for, so they always choose to play it safe. Not Junebug. She'll just turn her head for a better look at what I'm doing. If I reach down to pet her, that's o.k. - there's no reason for her to move when she's comfortable where she is.

Out of all my cats, Junebug is the only one whose kittenhood I'm familiar with. I don't know how Dr. Green's vet techs acquired the huge orange and white momcat and her kittens, but the family had already taken up residence in one of the hospital kennels by the time I heard about them. The staff - who go nutty over a critter at the drop of a hat, spent considerable time fussing over mom and kitties, giving them plenty of love and getting them used to being handled. "Socializing," it's called, and they did a wonderful job because when I took Junebug home, her trust in humans was already firmly in place. It was simply a matter of me reinforcing that trust by playing fun mouse games with her, by responding to her needs in a timely manner, and by being consistently not-scary.

Critter trust is valuable to me. I work hard every day to give all the animals a reason to trust me. I'll stand there getting soaked in the pouring rain, feeding the ducks and chattering my usual commentary - for no other reason than that I know umbrellas scare them. I'll dry off, and the rain isn't going to kill me. And believe it or not, duck trust is worth the risk of a bad hair day to me! I'll appologize to the cats if I've stepped on one of their tails - and the fact that they turn around, come back and let me pet them afterward tells me that they understand that I didn't mean to hurt them; they get that it was an accident. The fact that they're able to make that distinction means they understand a whole lot more than we generally give them credit for.

So while Pretty Boy surely didn't enjoy his time in my bathroom, I think that some part of him understood that I wasn't acting from a place of malice, just as Old Molly seems to understand that this new home, with its' new people, can be relied upon to be consistent in their care of her. By the same token, based on all of her experiences with humans in general, and me in particular, Junebug has clearly concluded that I'm a pretty good pal to have around: I play fun mouse games, I'm generous with the snack treats, and I'm always happy to see her. And seeing those trusting eyes looking at me - whether they belong to cats, or ducks, or horses - make all the hoop-jumping and test-passing worthwhile. I'm well and truly honored that they all seem to think that I'm trustworthy.

That's all for now, folks. But I want to leave you with this thought: at least once in our lives, we've all been in a position to see someone treating their animals badly. Whether it was outright cruelty, or hard-to-put-your-finger-on neglect, we knew in our gut that something wasn't right. But more often than not, we put blinders on because - well, what are we supposed to do? Rat out our friends, family, or neighbors? In a word, YES. That is exactly what you must do. You can do it anonymously, but you MUST do the right thing by the animal. You must be the voice for that voiceless, helpless creature. After all, how would you like to be in that animal's place? You may well risk losing a friend in the process, but from your moral high ground, ask yourself this question: do you really want to be friends with someone who treats animals with so little regard?

Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!