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.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
In Your Face!
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!
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!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
All Things Must Pass
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!
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!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Notes in the Midst of Grief
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!
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!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
In Memory of Pretty Boy Duck
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.
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.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
The First Whiff Of Spring
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!
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!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Unsung Heroes
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!
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!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
On Thin Ice
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!
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!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturdays At The Barn
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
A Christmas Duck!
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!
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!
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