Things Left Behind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really hope that Muffin knew how loved she was.

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

In Memory of Muffin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really hard.

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

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

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

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

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

Spring In Duckville

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Older Than I Want To Be

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How depressing.

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

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

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

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

- lyrics by Kevin Cronin

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

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

Good News from Lorenzo the Cat!

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just When You Think You Know It All!

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Trot, Crazy!"

"Now?"

"Yes, Crazy, trot now!"

"You mean right now?"

"Yes, Crazy, right now!"

"You want me to trot right now?"

"Crazy!"

"Maybe I could do that for you later."

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Mouse In The House

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A New Home For Puddleduck

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Difference of Opinion

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

"Yeah...," he answered cautiously.

"So the cats ARE talking, right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too Close For Comfort

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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