You'll Be In My Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That song still makes me cry.


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

I've been a busy critter lady!

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

Anniversaries

Hi Folks! Thanks for stopping by!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life Lessons from Grandpa Walton

Hi Folks!

Thanks for stopping by!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve Minutes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Mouse Rescue of 2011!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Junebug: But Kelly! I like mice, too!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mighty Oaks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Nipper: The Case of the Injured Duckling

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dog in the Frame Shop

Hi Folks!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Retired," Laura answered quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Been A While!

Hi Folks!

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

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