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!
Friday, February 27, 2009
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!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
A Typical Day
Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by again!
A lot of people wonder what I do all day, so I thought I'd describe a normal day in the life of the Critter Lady. Mind you, today's events don't happen every day (thank goodness for that!), but you'll get an idea of what I'm up to.
I got an email last night from the woman who feeds my gang of ducks on the weekends. Liz read about me in the local paper a while back and got in touch with me, volunteering her services. I've been relying on her ever since.
In addition to feeding the ducks, Liz is also my eyes and ears at McKinnon's Pond. She sent me an email a couple of months ago, when she became concerned about one of the Pekins. She thought maybe he had a leg injury. After I checked him out, I told her that no, he's not injured; Puddleduck's just bow-legged! I sure am grateful for the observations, though!
In any case, last night's email told me that Liz had come across a dead goose at the pond. She didn't know why the poor creature had died, or what to do with the corpse, but she wanted me to know about it. I immediately replied and asked if she was sure it was a goose, and not one of my guys. She reassured me that the dead critter in question was, indeed, a Canada goose. I told her I'd check it out today.
I had a holiday open house to go to this afternoon. Julie, the pottery instructor at the studio where I make stuff (vases for animal charity events, to be specific), has her own gallery up the road in the quaint and historic town of Watersedge. It's a thirty-minute drive from Whoville, but all the Watersedge shops are open for the event, most of them set out free cookies, and there are carolers and horse-drawn wagon rides, as well.
It's a festive occasion (although, due to our current economic woes, it was also rather subdued this year) and Julie always has good stuff in her gallery. She features a number of artists in different mediums, and my favorite is the boiled wool lady, who makes catnip mice out of wool.
For reason I can't explain, cats in general seem to like wool, and my cats in particular are no exception. Every year, at Julie's holiday open house, I avail myself of the free food and pick up a couple of wool mice for the cats' Christmas stocking. And every Christmas Day, my cats get stoned out of their minds on those mice!
I stopped off at McKinnon's Pond on the way to the open house. I decided to give the ducks an extra helping of cracked corn before I looked into the dead goose issue. I figured that if they were occupied with food, my gang wouldn't follow me all over the place like they occasionally do. Sometimes, I get to feeling like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, except with ducks instead of rats. One day, I had over forty ducks (mostly wild mallards) following me in search of extra corn!
After I dumped a pile of feed near the boathouse, I followed Liz's directions and walked half-way around the pond before I found the corpse. He seemed to have a neck injury, and when I turned him over, I found a big, yucky, maggot-filled wound on his belly. I'm guessing that a raccoon got him because they never seem to eat what they kill. I think a dog would've played with the corpse, and a coyote would've made a meal of it, but it seems like only raccoons kill an animal, make a hash of the body, and then leave it without eating. What a waste.
In any case, I had with me the empty paper sacking that the cracked corn had come in, along with a lawn-and-leaf bag, for disposal. I wrapped up the goose in the paper, then put the whole package in the plastic bag. I headed back around to the boathouse, putting the carcass in a garbage barrel along the way. The Whoville City garbage collectors will come around next week and take care of the rest.
The ducks, having eaten every last piece of corn in the six minutes I was dealing with the goose, all took a renewed interest in me and started heading in my direction. I spent some time reassuring them that there was, in fact, no more corn, then climbed into my car and drove to Watersedge.
As I travelled, I reflected on the thought that while an untold number of people use the park and pond every day - for duck feeding, as well as exercising dogs, and making clandestine cell phone calls - I seem to be the only one who's involved to the point of handling dead critter issues.
There is, of course, Animal Control Officer Jeff, who I usually call in such situations. Part of his job is disposing of just this sort of unfortunate creature before children start playing with them and catch some disease or other. But since it was Sunday, I decided to give Jeff a break and handle it myself. Besides, a maggoty dead critter is a lot easier to deal with in winter than in summer!
I wish there was good news to report on the wool mouse front, but by the time I got to the gallery, they were all sold out. Julie assures me that she can hook me up with some before Christmas arrives, though, so that's all right. I sure did enjoy spending some time among the living, savoring the thin, wintry sunshine, wandering the antique shops and listening to carolers as I did. There's just something special about a quaint old village that puts me in the holiday spirit.
Any day now, I'll start putting up my Christmas decorations. My all-time favorite thing is a stocking that a friend of mine cross-stitched for me, some years ago. It's a picture of a white cat lying under a Christmas tree, playing with a string of lights. It is, of course, the cats' stocking. Every good-smelling thing that goes into it (like catnip mice) has to be sealed into a Ziploc bag, first, lest the cats get curious too soon! On Christmas day, I'll pull out all the new toys and snacks and let the cats have at 'em. It's the best part of my holiday!
So that's a day in the life of the Critter Lady. Fortunately, there aren't always critter deaths to deal with! A typical day is usually about feeding and nurturing living animals, which makes dealing with the occasional death a little more tolerable.
I hope you all have your own special winter critter traditions - whether it be feeding the wild birds or putting out a salt lick for the deer (but please, no hunting!), or buying a nice new blanket for that old horse in your pasture. May you all be as blessed with wonderful critter characters as I am!
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks again for stopping by, and until next time, please be kind to all the critters.
A lot of people wonder what I do all day, so I thought I'd describe a normal day in the life of the Critter Lady. Mind you, today's events don't happen every day (thank goodness for that!), but you'll get an idea of what I'm up to.
I got an email last night from the woman who feeds my gang of ducks on the weekends. Liz read about me in the local paper a while back and got in touch with me, volunteering her services. I've been relying on her ever since.
In addition to feeding the ducks, Liz is also my eyes and ears at McKinnon's Pond. She sent me an email a couple of months ago, when she became concerned about one of the Pekins. She thought maybe he had a leg injury. After I checked him out, I told her that no, he's not injured; Puddleduck's just bow-legged! I sure am grateful for the observations, though!
In any case, last night's email told me that Liz had come across a dead goose at the pond. She didn't know why the poor creature had died, or what to do with the corpse, but she wanted me to know about it. I immediately replied and asked if she was sure it was a goose, and not one of my guys. She reassured me that the dead critter in question was, indeed, a Canada goose. I told her I'd check it out today.
I had a holiday open house to go to this afternoon. Julie, the pottery instructor at the studio where I make stuff (vases for animal charity events, to be specific), has her own gallery up the road in the quaint and historic town of Watersedge. It's a thirty-minute drive from Whoville, but all the Watersedge shops are open for the event, most of them set out free cookies, and there are carolers and horse-drawn wagon rides, as well.
It's a festive occasion (although, due to our current economic woes, it was also rather subdued this year) and Julie always has good stuff in her gallery. She features a number of artists in different mediums, and my favorite is the boiled wool lady, who makes catnip mice out of wool.
For reason I can't explain, cats in general seem to like wool, and my cats in particular are no exception. Every year, at Julie's holiday open house, I avail myself of the free food and pick up a couple of wool mice for the cats' Christmas stocking. And every Christmas Day, my cats get stoned out of their minds on those mice!
I stopped off at McKinnon's Pond on the way to the open house. I decided to give the ducks an extra helping of cracked corn before I looked into the dead goose issue. I figured that if they were occupied with food, my gang wouldn't follow me all over the place like they occasionally do. Sometimes, I get to feeling like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, except with ducks instead of rats. One day, I had over forty ducks (mostly wild mallards) following me in search of extra corn!
After I dumped a pile of feed near the boathouse, I followed Liz's directions and walked half-way around the pond before I found the corpse. He seemed to have a neck injury, and when I turned him over, I found a big, yucky, maggot-filled wound on his belly. I'm guessing that a raccoon got him because they never seem to eat what they kill. I think a dog would've played with the corpse, and a coyote would've made a meal of it, but it seems like only raccoons kill an animal, make a hash of the body, and then leave it without eating. What a waste.
In any case, I had with me the empty paper sacking that the cracked corn had come in, along with a lawn-and-leaf bag, for disposal. I wrapped up the goose in the paper, then put the whole package in the plastic bag. I headed back around to the boathouse, putting the carcass in a garbage barrel along the way. The Whoville City garbage collectors will come around next week and take care of the rest.
The ducks, having eaten every last piece of corn in the six minutes I was dealing with the goose, all took a renewed interest in me and started heading in my direction. I spent some time reassuring them that there was, in fact, no more corn, then climbed into my car and drove to Watersedge.
As I travelled, I reflected on the thought that while an untold number of people use the park and pond every day - for duck feeding, as well as exercising dogs, and making clandestine cell phone calls - I seem to be the only one who's involved to the point of handling dead critter issues.
There is, of course, Animal Control Officer Jeff, who I usually call in such situations. Part of his job is disposing of just this sort of unfortunate creature before children start playing with them and catch some disease or other. But since it was Sunday, I decided to give Jeff a break and handle it myself. Besides, a maggoty dead critter is a lot easier to deal with in winter than in summer!
I wish there was good news to report on the wool mouse front, but by the time I got to the gallery, they were all sold out. Julie assures me that she can hook me up with some before Christmas arrives, though, so that's all right. I sure did enjoy spending some time among the living, savoring the thin, wintry sunshine, wandering the antique shops and listening to carolers as I did. There's just something special about a quaint old village that puts me in the holiday spirit.
Any day now, I'll start putting up my Christmas decorations. My all-time favorite thing is a stocking that a friend of mine cross-stitched for me, some years ago. It's a picture of a white cat lying under a Christmas tree, playing with a string of lights. It is, of course, the cats' stocking. Every good-smelling thing that goes into it (like catnip mice) has to be sealed into a Ziploc bag, first, lest the cats get curious too soon! On Christmas day, I'll pull out all the new toys and snacks and let the cats have at 'em. It's the best part of my holiday!
So that's a day in the life of the Critter Lady. Fortunately, there aren't always critter deaths to deal with! A typical day is usually about feeding and nurturing living animals, which makes dealing with the occasional death a little more tolerable.
I hope you all have your own special winter critter traditions - whether it be feeding the wild birds or putting out a salt lick for the deer (but please, no hunting!), or buying a nice new blanket for that old horse in your pasture. May you all be as blessed with wonderful critter characters as I am!
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks again for stopping by, and until next time, please be kind to all the critters.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Scruffy the Kitten
Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by. I had a rough morning, today, and I want to tell you about it.
My boyfriend's barn cat (who will be spayed ASAP) had a litter of four kittens this past spring. They were cute little buggers, as kittens always are. They spent their days chasing bugs, pouncing on each other, and watching as mama taught them how to kill mice. It seemed like an idyllic kittenhood. Idyllic, I know now, for all but one.
John named her Scruffy because she always looked so unkempt. She never really got the hang of bathing, so her coat was always matted and oily. She never seemed to gain any weight, either. While her siblings thrived, Scruffy did not. There came a time when her siblings were easily twice her size. She ate, but the food never stuck to her ribs. Indeed, she was terribly emaciated, with her bones sticking out sharply under her skin; when you touched her, you could feel every vertebrae in her spine.
At some point, she developed a respiratory infection. She was so weak and sickly that she couldn't even be bothered to clean away the snot that hung from her nostril. She was a pitiful sight, hunched over on an old couch, looking fragile. I wiped the snot off her face several times the day I visited, but her nose never stopped running. Hearing the bubbly, uneven breathing, you wondered how she stayed alive.
It was heartbreakingly painful just to look at her. She rarely made eye contact with me. Mostly, she huddled uncomfortably on that ratty couch, looking like she was waiting for death. That was how she passed her days - just waiting. I never saw joy in her eyes, or interest in anything. It was an existence, and barely that.
John and I assumed that she would simply pass away at some point, but she never did. Whatever compelled her to keep going is beyond me, because she certainly had no quality of life. When I'd had enough of waiting for the inevitable, I took her to the vet. I was pretty sure that she'd need to be euthanized, a fact I tried to get across to John as gently as possible: they may be barn cats, but he still gets attached to them.
I didn't give the matter much thought as I drove to the clinic. I was too busy being indignant about how long it had taken John to acquiesce. I hadn't formed a bond with this particular kitty anyway. In the first place, she always looked so unhappy, I didn't want to touch her and make things worse. At the same time, she was too sick to be cute and cuddly. Indeed, out of all the photos I took as the kittens grew, I'm sad to say that I only have one picture of Scruffy.
The doctor told me that there is a veterinary term called "failure to thrive," and it described Scruffy to a tee. For some unknown reason, Scruffy's siblings came out of the womb completely healthy, while Scruffy herself did not. The vet said that the kitten's future consisted of nothing more than illness after illness, with diagnoses and cures an uncertainty. The doctor went on to say that she wasn't even confident that she could cure the current respiratory infection. Gently, she concluded that euthanasia was a kind and reasonable alternative. I nodded in agreement.
There was a form to sign, authorizing the doctor to put Scruffy down. I had planned to be present for the procedure, but when the vet tech exlained that it would be impossible to find the kitten's veins - requiring the doctor to inject the needle directly into Scruffy's heart - I passed. That was not a picture I wanted stuck in my head for the rest of my life. Instead, I asked the tech if she would please be present in my place, and hold the kitten for me. She kindly agreed.
Afterward, the doctor wrapped Scruffy's body neatly in the towel I'd been holding her in earlier. I placed the package gently in the critter carrier, and left the building. The tears began to flow as I pulled out into traffic, and they continued all the way home.
It took a bit of wondering to figure out why I was crying so hard for a kitten I barely knew. I finally realized that I was crying for all the opportunities I knew she'd miss: Feeling healthy. Lounging in the grass. Napping in the sunshine. Chasing birds, and mice, and chipmunks. And I cried, too, for my own selfish reasons: Because I'd never have the satisfaction of seeing Scruffy get well. Because I'd never get the opportunity to see her grow and thrive like her siblings. Because for her all-too-brief life, she knew only sickness and suffering, and no animal deserves that.
Hindsight is a given: I should've done something sooner. I should've known more (in spite of my complete lack of veterinary training). I SHOULD HAVE. I'll torture myself with that thought for a while, then file it away in that mental folder called "Learn From Your Mistakes, Will Ya?!" If there is a next time, I can assure you that relief will come to the animal in question much more quickly. For now, all I have to go on is the doctor's reassurance that I did the right thing. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't ease my sadness.
It was Cleveland Amory - author of "The Cat Who Came For Christmas" - who summed up his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cat so succinctly when he said, "It was not just that Polar Bear was not there. It was the awful, overpowering weight of knowing that he would never ever be there again." Indeed, euthanasia relieves the animal's misery, but rarely the human's.
That's all for now, folks, but I'd like to leave you with this one request: please, when your pet is suffering, please take him to the vet and allow the doctor to alleviate that suffering. As a responsible pet-owner, you owe your beloved animal this one last act of unselfish kindness.
Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
My boyfriend's barn cat (who will be spayed ASAP) had a litter of four kittens this past spring. They were cute little buggers, as kittens always are. They spent their days chasing bugs, pouncing on each other, and watching as mama taught them how to kill mice. It seemed like an idyllic kittenhood. Idyllic, I know now, for all but one.
John named her Scruffy because she always looked so unkempt. She never really got the hang of bathing, so her coat was always matted and oily. She never seemed to gain any weight, either. While her siblings thrived, Scruffy did not. There came a time when her siblings were easily twice her size. She ate, but the food never stuck to her ribs. Indeed, she was terribly emaciated, with her bones sticking out sharply under her skin; when you touched her, you could feel every vertebrae in her spine.
At some point, she developed a respiratory infection. She was so weak and sickly that she couldn't even be bothered to clean away the snot that hung from her nostril. She was a pitiful sight, hunched over on an old couch, looking fragile. I wiped the snot off her face several times the day I visited, but her nose never stopped running. Hearing the bubbly, uneven breathing, you wondered how she stayed alive.
It was heartbreakingly painful just to look at her. She rarely made eye contact with me. Mostly, she huddled uncomfortably on that ratty couch, looking like she was waiting for death. That was how she passed her days - just waiting. I never saw joy in her eyes, or interest in anything. It was an existence, and barely that.
John and I assumed that she would simply pass away at some point, but she never did. Whatever compelled her to keep going is beyond me, because she certainly had no quality of life. When I'd had enough of waiting for the inevitable, I took her to the vet. I was pretty sure that she'd need to be euthanized, a fact I tried to get across to John as gently as possible: they may be barn cats, but he still gets attached to them.
I didn't give the matter much thought as I drove to the clinic. I was too busy being indignant about how long it had taken John to acquiesce. I hadn't formed a bond with this particular kitty anyway. In the first place, she always looked so unhappy, I didn't want to touch her and make things worse. At the same time, she was too sick to be cute and cuddly. Indeed, out of all the photos I took as the kittens grew, I'm sad to say that I only have one picture of Scruffy.
The doctor told me that there is a veterinary term called "failure to thrive," and it described Scruffy to a tee. For some unknown reason, Scruffy's siblings came out of the womb completely healthy, while Scruffy herself did not. The vet said that the kitten's future consisted of nothing more than illness after illness, with diagnoses and cures an uncertainty. The doctor went on to say that she wasn't even confident that she could cure the current respiratory infection. Gently, she concluded that euthanasia was a kind and reasonable alternative. I nodded in agreement.
There was a form to sign, authorizing the doctor to put Scruffy down. I had planned to be present for the procedure, but when the vet tech exlained that it would be impossible to find the kitten's veins - requiring the doctor to inject the needle directly into Scruffy's heart - I passed. That was not a picture I wanted stuck in my head for the rest of my life. Instead, I asked the tech if she would please be present in my place, and hold the kitten for me. She kindly agreed.
Afterward, the doctor wrapped Scruffy's body neatly in the towel I'd been holding her in earlier. I placed the package gently in the critter carrier, and left the building. The tears began to flow as I pulled out into traffic, and they continued all the way home.
It took a bit of wondering to figure out why I was crying so hard for a kitten I barely knew. I finally realized that I was crying for all the opportunities I knew she'd miss: Feeling healthy. Lounging in the grass. Napping in the sunshine. Chasing birds, and mice, and chipmunks. And I cried, too, for my own selfish reasons: Because I'd never have the satisfaction of seeing Scruffy get well. Because I'd never get the opportunity to see her grow and thrive like her siblings. Because for her all-too-brief life, she knew only sickness and suffering, and no animal deserves that.
Hindsight is a given: I should've done something sooner. I should've known more (in spite of my complete lack of veterinary training). I SHOULD HAVE. I'll torture myself with that thought for a while, then file it away in that mental folder called "Learn From Your Mistakes, Will Ya?!" If there is a next time, I can assure you that relief will come to the animal in question much more quickly. For now, all I have to go on is the doctor's reassurance that I did the right thing. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn't ease my sadness.
It was Cleveland Amory - author of "The Cat Who Came For Christmas" - who summed up his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cat so succinctly when he said, "It was not just that Polar Bear was not there. It was the awful, overpowering weight of knowing that he would never ever be there again." Indeed, euthanasia relieves the animal's misery, but rarely the human's.
That's all for now, folks, but I'd like to leave you with this one request: please, when your pet is suffering, please take him to the vet and allow the doctor to alleviate that suffering. As a responsible pet-owner, you owe your beloved animal this one last act of unselfish kindness.
Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Pretty Boy's Latest Stay In My Tub
Hi Folks!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you're here!
Well, Pretty Boy's latest visit went off without a hitch. His eye responded to the antibiotic drops and I took him back to the pond as scheduled. He's always so pleased to be home again that he's developed his own little happy dance: he paddles back and forth in the water, opening and closing his bill as if he's too excited to speak. He searches out Girlfriend Duck, makes sure she's o.k., then zips around the pond some more, like he can't believe his good fortune. It's the same every time.
I used his latest stay in my bathroom as an opportunity to reinforce the idea that he and I would be sharing the space during his visits. Pretty Boy wasn't terribly keen on that, and never really did get used to me walking in and conducting my business. He'd eye me suspiciously while I brushed my teeth/styled my hair/used the toilet, and growled if I came too close. When I'd swab the floor with paper towels - attempting to clean up yet another pile of duck poop - he'd squawk and nudge my hand with his bill as if to say, "I don't like this! Back off!"
I'm convinced that Pretty Boy knows perfectly well who I am: that human who's been feeding him since he was a duckling. Considering that he's about five or six years old now, it's been a lengthy relationship. I've lost track of how many times I've taken him to his various vets. He's been a guest in my bathroom four or five weeks out of the last year alone. In spite of all this, I remain somewhat of a stranger to him, or at least, a danger. I tower over him. I control his day - from when he gets tub time to when he's caged, to when we go outside for exercise. And I dictate what he eats while he's here. For an alpha duck like Pretty Boy, it must be hard to take.
So it should have come as no surprise that as I drove him back to the pond - in our new fashion of carrier in the front seat with the top off so he can stand up and get a look around - Pretty Boy took advantage of every opportunity to chomp my hand. And he can pinch you good, if he's got a mind to! "Pretty Boy," I'd ask him, "what're you doing?!" His answer was always the same: another chomp. I try not to take it personally.
Happily, my favorite duck is back where he belongs, hanging out with Girlfriend Duck and relishing the cooler weather we've been having. For a duck who really enjoyed biting me, he doesn't seem inclined to hold a grudge: he's put himself within grabbing range at every subsequent feed, and eats out of my hand when I offer him a fistful of corn. Clearly, he's developed a measure of trust in me, even if he does resent being imprisoned in my bathroom. I'm just glad that I'm able to help a critter in need.
That's all for now, folks. Thanks for stopping by! I'll be back again soon with more animal adventures to tell you about. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you're here!
Well, Pretty Boy's latest visit went off without a hitch. His eye responded to the antibiotic drops and I took him back to the pond as scheduled. He's always so pleased to be home again that he's developed his own little happy dance: he paddles back and forth in the water, opening and closing his bill as if he's too excited to speak. He searches out Girlfriend Duck, makes sure she's o.k., then zips around the pond some more, like he can't believe his good fortune. It's the same every time.
I used his latest stay in my bathroom as an opportunity to reinforce the idea that he and I would be sharing the space during his visits. Pretty Boy wasn't terribly keen on that, and never really did get used to me walking in and conducting my business. He'd eye me suspiciously while I brushed my teeth/styled my hair/used the toilet, and growled if I came too close. When I'd swab the floor with paper towels - attempting to clean up yet another pile of duck poop - he'd squawk and nudge my hand with his bill as if to say, "I don't like this! Back off!"
I'm convinced that Pretty Boy knows perfectly well who I am: that human who's been feeding him since he was a duckling. Considering that he's about five or six years old now, it's been a lengthy relationship. I've lost track of how many times I've taken him to his various vets. He's been a guest in my bathroom four or five weeks out of the last year alone. In spite of all this, I remain somewhat of a stranger to him, or at least, a danger. I tower over him. I control his day - from when he gets tub time to when he's caged, to when we go outside for exercise. And I dictate what he eats while he's here. For an alpha duck like Pretty Boy, it must be hard to take.
So it should have come as no surprise that as I drove him back to the pond - in our new fashion of carrier in the front seat with the top off so he can stand up and get a look around - Pretty Boy took advantage of every opportunity to chomp my hand. And he can pinch you good, if he's got a mind to! "Pretty Boy," I'd ask him, "what're you doing?!" His answer was always the same: another chomp. I try not to take it personally.
Happily, my favorite duck is back where he belongs, hanging out with Girlfriend Duck and relishing the cooler weather we've been having. For a duck who really enjoyed biting me, he doesn't seem inclined to hold a grudge: he's put himself within grabbing range at every subsequent feed, and eats out of my hand when I offer him a fistful of corn. Clearly, he's developed a measure of trust in me, even if he does resent being imprisoned in my bathroom. I'm just glad that I'm able to help a critter in need.
That's all for now, folks. Thanks for stopping by! I'll be back again soon with more animal adventures to tell you about. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
My Favorite Duck
Hi Folks!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all having a great summer.
Well, as I write this, Pretty Boy Duck is back in my bathroom yet again. This will be his third eye infection in five months. The good news is that during the cold winter months ahead, it's entirely likely that he won't experience any more infections. The bad news is that next summer will probably be fraught with the same chronic problem that plagued him this summer.
In the interest of convenience, I've tried to streamline the duck-keeping process. Taping plastic drop cloth to the floor really cuts down on clean-up time, while cracking the bathroom door when I'm in the vicinity provides some much-needed ventilation and really cuts down on the duck poop smell.
Despite all the care I put into hosting my favorite duck, Pretty Boy continues to be a biting, growling force to be reckoned with. He's not above trying anything that will make my tasks more unpleasant, and he's not the least bit interested in behaving. When I wrap him in a towel at eyedrop-application time, he bites the towel. When my hand gets in the way, he bites my hand instead. It's my good fortune that he doesn't have any teeth!
I'd given considerable thought to the idea of buying a figure-eight harness - with a view to walking Pretty Boy on a leash in my back yard - but ultimately decided that, since the yard is fenced, letting him have a supervised walk around would be sufficient. My yard is bisected by a picket fence. For whatever reason, a previous owner chose not to continue the picket theme around the rest of the back yard. Instead, they used a nice, tall privacy fence. It's actually one of the reasons I bought the house: because nothing says "go away and leave me alone!" like a nice, tall privacy fence!
While the fence is pretty much duck-proof, I keep a close eye on his movements anyway. Pretty Boy spends his entire time outside looking for the exit. This is so obvious that there's no way I can be accused of anthropomorphism. He pokes his bill at the fence, and cocks an eye at the cracks to see if they might be big enough to squeeze through. He runs through the ivy, across the mulched bed, and around the shrubs. All the while, his head swivels back and forth like a periscope, intent on finding the way out.
We've had a bit of drought, the last couple months, so I've been putting my Playground Monitor time to good use watering some of my plants. When Pretty Boy wanders within range, I've taken to hosing him down as well. Interestingly, he seems to like the showers, and always turns himself to face into the blast. Every now and then, he'll try to catch some water in his mouth. Then he finds a shady spot to do a little preening. So far, he seems to enjoy the twice-daily excursions out into the fresh air and sunshine.
Meanwhile, getting him to eat enough is always a concern. Pretty Boy does eat some of his cracked corn, and picks at the duck pellets, but it's only enough to get by. He doesn't eat nearly as much in my bathroom as he does at my feeds at the pond. I don't suppose he's working up much of an appetite huddled on the floor by my tub.
I always try to supplement Pretty Boy's diet with greens from the grocery store, whether he wants them or not. As I stood before a fairly impressive array of choices yesterday, I recalled what my friend Bob Tarte wrote in Enslaved by Ducks about feeding a sickly goose. Bob said that in his attempts to encourage the bird to eat, he would wander his yard searching for the choicest dandelion greens to offer his pet.
Standing idly in the produce section, my gaze wandered back and forth before it settled on a area marked "dandelion greens." But the rubber-banded bunch of greens on offer didn't look anything like what Bob had pulled from his yard. These greens where huge - the sort of thing you'd expect to find growing in the Chernobyl fallout zone. I bought them anyway, but Pretty Boy doesn't seem the least bit interested in trying them. Indeed, I've seen no evidence at all that he's eaten so much as one chopped-up, bite-sized piece. Figures.
In the meantime, we've got three more days before he's due to go back to the pond. Dr. P. and I agreed that we wanted to treat this infection more aggressively than the last one, so Pretty Boy's getting his eye drops three times a day instead of two, and staying a day longer in my bathroom than he did last time. It's not nearly as much of an inconvenience as you would think. Establishing a routine and sticking to it is the key to maintaining my sanity, and throwing in extras like exercise time in the yard serves to make things more interesting for my favorite duck.
That's all for now, folks. I'll be sure to keep you updated on Pretty Boy's latest stay in my bathroom. Until then, please be kind to all the critters!
Thanks for stopping by! I hope you're all having a great summer.
Well, as I write this, Pretty Boy Duck is back in my bathroom yet again. This will be his third eye infection in five months. The good news is that during the cold winter months ahead, it's entirely likely that he won't experience any more infections. The bad news is that next summer will probably be fraught with the same chronic problem that plagued him this summer.
In the interest of convenience, I've tried to streamline the duck-keeping process. Taping plastic drop cloth to the floor really cuts down on clean-up time, while cracking the bathroom door when I'm in the vicinity provides some much-needed ventilation and really cuts down on the duck poop smell.
Despite all the care I put into hosting my favorite duck, Pretty Boy continues to be a biting, growling force to be reckoned with. He's not above trying anything that will make my tasks more unpleasant, and he's not the least bit interested in behaving. When I wrap him in a towel at eyedrop-application time, he bites the towel. When my hand gets in the way, he bites my hand instead. It's my good fortune that he doesn't have any teeth!
I'd given considerable thought to the idea of buying a figure-eight harness - with a view to walking Pretty Boy on a leash in my back yard - but ultimately decided that, since the yard is fenced, letting him have a supervised walk around would be sufficient. My yard is bisected by a picket fence. For whatever reason, a previous owner chose not to continue the picket theme around the rest of the back yard. Instead, they used a nice, tall privacy fence. It's actually one of the reasons I bought the house: because nothing says "go away and leave me alone!" like a nice, tall privacy fence!
While the fence is pretty much duck-proof, I keep a close eye on his movements anyway. Pretty Boy spends his entire time outside looking for the exit. This is so obvious that there's no way I can be accused of anthropomorphism. He pokes his bill at the fence, and cocks an eye at the cracks to see if they might be big enough to squeeze through. He runs through the ivy, across the mulched bed, and around the shrubs. All the while, his head swivels back and forth like a periscope, intent on finding the way out.
We've had a bit of drought, the last couple months, so I've been putting my Playground Monitor time to good use watering some of my plants. When Pretty Boy wanders within range, I've taken to hosing him down as well. Interestingly, he seems to like the showers, and always turns himself to face into the blast. Every now and then, he'll try to catch some water in his mouth. Then he finds a shady spot to do a little preening. So far, he seems to enjoy the twice-daily excursions out into the fresh air and sunshine.
Meanwhile, getting him to eat enough is always a concern. Pretty Boy does eat some of his cracked corn, and picks at the duck pellets, but it's only enough to get by. He doesn't eat nearly as much in my bathroom as he does at my feeds at the pond. I don't suppose he's working up much of an appetite huddled on the floor by my tub.
I always try to supplement Pretty Boy's diet with greens from the grocery store, whether he wants them or not. As I stood before a fairly impressive array of choices yesterday, I recalled what my friend Bob Tarte wrote in Enslaved by Ducks about feeding a sickly goose. Bob said that in his attempts to encourage the bird to eat, he would wander his yard searching for the choicest dandelion greens to offer his pet.
Standing idly in the produce section, my gaze wandered back and forth before it settled on a area marked "dandelion greens." But the rubber-banded bunch of greens on offer didn't look anything like what Bob had pulled from his yard. These greens where huge - the sort of thing you'd expect to find growing in the Chernobyl fallout zone. I bought them anyway, but Pretty Boy doesn't seem the least bit interested in trying them. Indeed, I've seen no evidence at all that he's eaten so much as one chopped-up, bite-sized piece. Figures.
In the meantime, we've got three more days before he's due to go back to the pond. Dr. P. and I agreed that we wanted to treat this infection more aggressively than the last one, so Pretty Boy's getting his eye drops three times a day instead of two, and staying a day longer in my bathroom than he did last time. It's not nearly as much of an inconvenience as you would think. Establishing a routine and sticking to it is the key to maintaining my sanity, and throwing in extras like exercise time in the yard serves to make things more interesting for my favorite duck.
That's all for now, folks. I'll be sure to keep you updated on Pretty Boy's latest stay in my bathroom. Until then, please be kind to all the critters!
Monday, July 28, 2008
Another Pond Update
Hi Folks!
Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by again!
Now that summer's in full swing, I've been a little preoccupied with my usual summer activities like art festivals, and studio time at the place where I do pottery. Some weeks, I've actually missed a duck feed or two. At this time of year, I don't worry too much about that because Domestic ducks are famous dabblers, which means they smack their bills around in the mud, hunting for bugs and worms. They do the same thing in the water, too, searching for tasty duck treats at the bottom of the pond. So in theory, they should be getting plenty to eat on their own - even if they do act like they're starving to death when I show up with my bag of corn!
Because I'd missed a couple of feeds the other week, I thought I'd better make the rounds and see whether any of the girls had started another nest. The easiest way to tell who's nesting is to take a quick head-count when I first get out of the car. Who's lying around on the grass with the gang, instead of sitting on a nest somewhere? Let's see: Baby Fuzz is here. So are both Freckle Ducks. Pretty Lady is missing. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck are here. Ethel-Ethel? Nowhere to be seen. And it would be some minutes before Ethel showed up, which led me to believe that she might just have a nest over there on the side of the pond. I made a mental note to check it out after I went around the apartment building and fed Lady.
Good old Ethel is the friendliest duck on the pond. She and a sibling had been dumped there a few years ago after what must have been considerable handling by the humans who'd owned them. Always glad of a friendly face and a little food, both girls were congenial from Day One. Even though Ethel's sister disappeared this spring (probably the victim of a raccoon), Ethel's cheerful nature has not diminished one iota. She'll let me pet her, and she's the only Domestic trusting enough to actually crawl inside the bag of cracked corn without worrying about what the hulking human outside might do.
As it happened, Ethel did lay a new nest of eggs while I was off prowling around art fairs. I found the nest in a location she's tried to use before, behind a small shrub just at water's edge. It was fairly well-hidden, and contained eight eggs. She'd clearly been sitting on the nest, as the whole thing was covered in feathers. Domestics don't seem to consider a nest sit-ready until they've laid quite a few eggs and covered the nest in down feathers plucked from their own breast. While Ethel was off eating corn, I tossed all eight eggs into the water and replaced them with chicken eggs. I left the small pine cone that was already in the nest.
The lesson I took away from Ethel's latest nest was that perhaps I needed to tone down my zealous approach to duck nest-hunting. Instead of spending time during every feed searching for nests, maybe I'd have more success if I gave the girls time to lay more than an egg or two. It's a thought worth considering.
In any case, most of the girls have given up on their nest attempts for the year, and the boys' hormones have settled back down to normal. They're now beginning their yearly molt, and the cliques that inevitably separate the ducks during spring mating have now merged back into one big gang of ducks in which Pretty Boy seems to be the Alpha Duck, and Ducky, his willing henchman. In other words, all's right at the pond!
That's all for now, Folks, but it's by no means the end of the story: we still have two girls trying to nest (Lady and Ethel), and all the usual summer hazards (fishing line and hooks, and unkind children) to contend with. I'll be sure to keep you posted as events develop. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Welcome back! Thanks for stopping by again!
Now that summer's in full swing, I've been a little preoccupied with my usual summer activities like art festivals, and studio time at the place where I do pottery. Some weeks, I've actually missed a duck feed or two. At this time of year, I don't worry too much about that because Domestic ducks are famous dabblers, which means they smack their bills around in the mud, hunting for bugs and worms. They do the same thing in the water, too, searching for tasty duck treats at the bottom of the pond. So in theory, they should be getting plenty to eat on their own - even if they do act like they're starving to death when I show up with my bag of corn!
Because I'd missed a couple of feeds the other week, I thought I'd better make the rounds and see whether any of the girls had started another nest. The easiest way to tell who's nesting is to take a quick head-count when I first get out of the car. Who's lying around on the grass with the gang, instead of sitting on a nest somewhere? Let's see: Baby Fuzz is here. So are both Freckle Ducks. Pretty Lady is missing. Pretty Boy and Girlfriend Duck are here. Ethel-Ethel? Nowhere to be seen. And it would be some minutes before Ethel showed up, which led me to believe that she might just have a nest over there on the side of the pond. I made a mental note to check it out after I went around the apartment building and fed Lady.
Good old Ethel is the friendliest duck on the pond. She and a sibling had been dumped there a few years ago after what must have been considerable handling by the humans who'd owned them. Always glad of a friendly face and a little food, both girls were congenial from Day One. Even though Ethel's sister disappeared this spring (probably the victim of a raccoon), Ethel's cheerful nature has not diminished one iota. She'll let me pet her, and she's the only Domestic trusting enough to actually crawl inside the bag of cracked corn without worrying about what the hulking human outside might do.
As it happened, Ethel did lay a new nest of eggs while I was off prowling around art fairs. I found the nest in a location she's tried to use before, behind a small shrub just at water's edge. It was fairly well-hidden, and contained eight eggs. She'd clearly been sitting on the nest, as the whole thing was covered in feathers. Domestics don't seem to consider a nest sit-ready until they've laid quite a few eggs and covered the nest in down feathers plucked from their own breast. While Ethel was off eating corn, I tossed all eight eggs into the water and replaced them with chicken eggs. I left the small pine cone that was already in the nest.
The lesson I took away from Ethel's latest nest was that perhaps I needed to tone down my zealous approach to duck nest-hunting. Instead of spending time during every feed searching for nests, maybe I'd have more success if I gave the girls time to lay more than an egg or two. It's a thought worth considering.
In any case, most of the girls have given up on their nest attempts for the year, and the boys' hormones have settled back down to normal. They're now beginning their yearly molt, and the cliques that inevitably separate the ducks during spring mating have now merged back into one big gang of ducks in which Pretty Boy seems to be the Alpha Duck, and Ducky, his willing henchman. In other words, all's right at the pond!
That's all for now, Folks, but it's by no means the end of the story: we still have two girls trying to nest (Lady and Ethel), and all the usual summer hazards (fishing line and hooks, and unkind children) to contend with. I'll be sure to keep you posted as events develop. In the meantime, please be kind to all the critters!
Monday, July 21, 2008
A Duck With A Chronic Eye Problem
Hi Folks!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you stopped by.
Well, Dr. Chrys was right when she said Pretty Boy's eye infections would most likely be a chronic problem. Unfortunately, Dr. Chrys isn't here anymore to take care of them: she recently moved to Germany for two years, leaving Team Pretty Boy in search of a vet that didn't require the sort of thirty-minute drive it took to reach Pretty Boy's other, sometimes-vet. After asking around, I got the name of a vet with avian experience whose office is much closer to the pond than Dr. Susan.
I initially spoke with Dr. P. on the phone, explaining about the pond-ful of abandoned ducks, and the need for a vet who could handle their usually-unscheduled emergencies. She seemed nice enough, and willing to help where she could. I closed the conversation by saying I hoped I wouldn't be meeting her any time soon! Naturally, I found myself in need of her services less than a month later.
I'd been growing concerned about Pretty Boy's eye. It looked cloudy, and Dr. Susan's words about ducks needing two good eyes kept ringing in my head. Last Friday, I made the decision to take him in to meet Dr. P. With his guard down, he was easy to grab. I'd already set the critter carrier out by the far side of my car where he couldn't see it. It was a simple matter to scoop him up and drop him in the carrier.
Riding in the front seat with the top of the carrier off, Pretty Boy spent another car trip clearly entranced by the idea of flight. Head swiveling like a periscope, he took in all the sights and sounds. When a truck drove by and made that hydraulic hissing noise, I chuckled and announced to my favorite duck, "Geese, Pretty Boy! Noisy ones!"
Dr. P. confirmed my suspicion of an infection and explained why, exactly, Pretty Boy's eye would always be an issue. Because the sutures hadn't been able to completely join his torn eyelid back together (you can go to my archives to read the blogs on his original eye injury, last November), his left eye no longer drains properly, meaning that his tears are no longer able to sufficiently cleanse his eye of all the yuck and bacteria that live in his pond. A build-up of that bacteria will eventually, inevitably, cause an infection.
I had been hoping that Pretty Boy's immune system would take care of the problem, but that was not the case. Dr. P. prescribed antibiotic eyedrops, and we agreed that the best course of action would be to put Pretty Boy in my bathroom for the few days he'd need those drops. He's been in there for three days, now.
As you may recall from past blogs, the last time Pretty Boy was in my bathroom (this last spring), he was in full mating mode. Mad as hell at being trapped in a stinky bathroom, away from Girlfriend Duck, he proceeded to tear the place up. Pulling bath towels off their racks was a favorite trick. Thankfully, mating season is over at the pond. Unfortunately, I forgot about molting season!
It must be said that molting season is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than mating season. For one thing, he doesn't have duck hormones racing through his veins, making him slightly nutty. But molting is a messy affair, one that involves individually picking the multitude of feathers out of the bathtub before I can drain it. The tiny down feathers go down the drain; I'm hoping they don't collect in a pipe somewhere and cause a clog!
There are also feathers all over the floor, but I believe I've stumbled upon an effective clean-up method that you might like to borrow for your own critter needs. After wasting a number of tall kitchen garbage bags, which I cut in half, spead out in the bathroom and taped to the floor, it finally occurred to me to use the drop cloth I had left over from a painting project. I could cut the stuff to any width and length, and when it was time to clean, simply roll it all into a poopy, stinky bundle and drop it in the garbage.
Because Northwest Ohio has been in the midst of a heat wave, the stink in the bathroom is far worse now than anything I endured last winter. The ninety-plus degree days literally bake that duck poop smell into the room, regardless of the two fans I have running. No matter how many piles of poop I clean up, the stink remains until - Pretty Boy watching closely from the tub - I wash down the entire floor, and some of the walls!
I've been so impressed by the cleaning product I've been using (and I'm not a clean freak by any stretch of the imagination; I simply needed a product that wouldn't kill a duck), that I'm going to mention it again in this blog. It's a spray bottle of stuff called Seventh Generation. Billing itself "Free & Clear," it claims to have no fumes, no phosphates, and to be non-toxic. As near as I can tell, they're not kidding.
While I object strenuously to the idea that Clean, Green and/or Organic must for some reason be exhorbitantly high-priced, I was then, and will be in future, willing to shell out the extortionate sum my local grocer asks for Seventh Generation, if for no other reason than it's the first effective cleaner I've bought that didn't bring to mind worries of COPD every time I breathed the stuff. Indeed, this cleaner has no fumes at all.
While I'm happy to be able to help Pretty Boy, the feeling does not seem to be mutual. In spite of the fact that I've known that goofy duck since he was an egg, he remains wary and standoffish, growling in warning if I get too close. As I squat down to clean up the piles of poop, he'll tilt his head and scrutinize me with his good eye. No matter how many times we go through this trapped-in-my-bathroom routine, he refuses to get used to it. I suppose it's just as well: a certain guardedness around humans might keep him out of harm's way at the pond.
At any rate, his eye seems to be improving, thanks to this latest round of antibiotics. He was due to return to the pond today, but I thought an extra day's-worth of drops might be beneficial so I'll be taking him back to the pond tomorrow. The thought occurred to me, though, that, given the chronic nature of his eye problem, I should expect these bathroom visits to become somewhat routine. If that's the case, I definitely need to find some sort of non-toxic air de-stinkifier!
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for joining me! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
Welcome to Kelly's Critter Talk! I'm glad you stopped by.
Well, Dr. Chrys was right when she said Pretty Boy's eye infections would most likely be a chronic problem. Unfortunately, Dr. Chrys isn't here anymore to take care of them: she recently moved to Germany for two years, leaving Team Pretty Boy in search of a vet that didn't require the sort of thirty-minute drive it took to reach Pretty Boy's other, sometimes-vet. After asking around, I got the name of a vet with avian experience whose office is much closer to the pond than Dr. Susan.
I initially spoke with Dr. P. on the phone, explaining about the pond-ful of abandoned ducks, and the need for a vet who could handle their usually-unscheduled emergencies. She seemed nice enough, and willing to help where she could. I closed the conversation by saying I hoped I wouldn't be meeting her any time soon! Naturally, I found myself in need of her services less than a month later.
I'd been growing concerned about Pretty Boy's eye. It looked cloudy, and Dr. Susan's words about ducks needing two good eyes kept ringing in my head. Last Friday, I made the decision to take him in to meet Dr. P. With his guard down, he was easy to grab. I'd already set the critter carrier out by the far side of my car where he couldn't see it. It was a simple matter to scoop him up and drop him in the carrier.
Riding in the front seat with the top of the carrier off, Pretty Boy spent another car trip clearly entranced by the idea of flight. Head swiveling like a periscope, he took in all the sights and sounds. When a truck drove by and made that hydraulic hissing noise, I chuckled and announced to my favorite duck, "Geese, Pretty Boy! Noisy ones!"
Dr. P. confirmed my suspicion of an infection and explained why, exactly, Pretty Boy's eye would always be an issue. Because the sutures hadn't been able to completely join his torn eyelid back together (you can go to my archives to read the blogs on his original eye injury, last November), his left eye no longer drains properly, meaning that his tears are no longer able to sufficiently cleanse his eye of all the yuck and bacteria that live in his pond. A build-up of that bacteria will eventually, inevitably, cause an infection.
I had been hoping that Pretty Boy's immune system would take care of the problem, but that was not the case. Dr. P. prescribed antibiotic eyedrops, and we agreed that the best course of action would be to put Pretty Boy in my bathroom for the few days he'd need those drops. He's been in there for three days, now.
As you may recall from past blogs, the last time Pretty Boy was in my bathroom (this last spring), he was in full mating mode. Mad as hell at being trapped in a stinky bathroom, away from Girlfriend Duck, he proceeded to tear the place up. Pulling bath towels off their racks was a favorite trick. Thankfully, mating season is over at the pond. Unfortunately, I forgot about molting season!
It must be said that molting season is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than mating season. For one thing, he doesn't have duck hormones racing through his veins, making him slightly nutty. But molting is a messy affair, one that involves individually picking the multitude of feathers out of the bathtub before I can drain it. The tiny down feathers go down the drain; I'm hoping they don't collect in a pipe somewhere and cause a clog!
There are also feathers all over the floor, but I believe I've stumbled upon an effective clean-up method that you might like to borrow for your own critter needs. After wasting a number of tall kitchen garbage bags, which I cut in half, spead out in the bathroom and taped to the floor, it finally occurred to me to use the drop cloth I had left over from a painting project. I could cut the stuff to any width and length, and when it was time to clean, simply roll it all into a poopy, stinky bundle and drop it in the garbage.
Because Northwest Ohio has been in the midst of a heat wave, the stink in the bathroom is far worse now than anything I endured last winter. The ninety-plus degree days literally bake that duck poop smell into the room, regardless of the two fans I have running. No matter how many piles of poop I clean up, the stink remains until - Pretty Boy watching closely from the tub - I wash down the entire floor, and some of the walls!
I've been so impressed by the cleaning product I've been using (and I'm not a clean freak by any stretch of the imagination; I simply needed a product that wouldn't kill a duck), that I'm going to mention it again in this blog. It's a spray bottle of stuff called Seventh Generation. Billing itself "Free & Clear," it claims to have no fumes, no phosphates, and to be non-toxic. As near as I can tell, they're not kidding.
While I object strenuously to the idea that Clean, Green and/or Organic must for some reason be exhorbitantly high-priced, I was then, and will be in future, willing to shell out the extortionate sum my local grocer asks for Seventh Generation, if for no other reason than it's the first effective cleaner I've bought that didn't bring to mind worries of COPD every time I breathed the stuff. Indeed, this cleaner has no fumes at all.
While I'm happy to be able to help Pretty Boy, the feeling does not seem to be mutual. In spite of the fact that I've known that goofy duck since he was an egg, he remains wary and standoffish, growling in warning if I get too close. As I squat down to clean up the piles of poop, he'll tilt his head and scrutinize me with his good eye. No matter how many times we go through this trapped-in-my-bathroom routine, he refuses to get used to it. I suppose it's just as well: a certain guardedness around humans might keep him out of harm's way at the pond.
At any rate, his eye seems to be improving, thanks to this latest round of antibiotics. He was due to return to the pond today, but I thought an extra day's-worth of drops might be beneficial so I'll be taking him back to the pond tomorrow. The thought occurred to me, though, that, given the chronic nature of his eye problem, I should expect these bathroom visits to become somewhat routine. If that's the case, I definitely need to find some sort of non-toxic air de-stinkifier!
That's all for now, Folks. Thanks so much for joining me! Until next time, please be kind to all the critters!
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