Tag Archives: animals

Charlie’s Story — 1: “Something about Mini” #rescue #animal #dogs #puppies #perseverance #hope #spirit #love

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Deep inhale. Center myself.

I can tell I’m going to have a hard time telling this story. If come at it rationally as a friend listening to it be told by another person, then I’ll not do it justice. If I go all melodramatic and compare it to, say, “Brian’s Song” then I’m completely missing the point as well. My intention here is not to emotionally manipulate anyone, or to provoke some form of inorganic response. My intention is to share the story of a little dog, his three sisters, one brother, his mama, and two heroic women who had to follow their gut instincts and female intuition as both creators and salvagers of life. I’ll do my best to play the reporter, say, of Rolling Stone Magazine or an NPR blog piece.

So we start at the beginning.

On Wednesday, January 1, 2014, Annie* was returning home, northbound along I-95 from her Christmas vacation to see family in Florida. She and her husband, a loving, practical and reasonable man, and their young daughter and son were crammed in their little Honda hatchback along with a bounty of Christmas goodies showered upon them during the visit.

“We were driving along 95, somewhere in the early afternoon, and I saw a shaggy black lab kind of dog. A mix of some sort, just wandering along the shoulder of the road heading north with us. I physically turned to watch him as we drove by, wondering about him. I turned to my husband as I normally do, because we’ve done a lot of crazy animal rescues and I asked him, ‘Should we turn around?’ and of course he said, ‘yes,’ and so we turned around and it took forever, about an hour to find the dog and coax him to come to us, but it was too scared. So we had to give up.”

At this point, it’s well after lunchtime and their kids are super hungry. So they got back on the road with the full intent of stopping, as they had planned before, but just not at the exit next after they had encountered the black lab-ish dog, but they needed to get a bite into their daughter.

“So we stopped at exit 119 and we pull into this travel station, it’s like a truck stop and as soon as I parked, I looked up and there were TWO dogs. This mini golden retriever that looked like she had been a mama, and another dog next to her on the curb.”

Annie was still on dog rescue mode; her adrenaline was up from the attempted and failed effort with who I’m going to call “Recon,” who got her to stop in the first place. She got out of her car and started to ask people about the dogs and no one claimed them.

“So I went into the little shop at the stop and bought a leash and a couple cans of wet dog food and went to the dogs to feed them. The dogs rejected the leash, so we bought a collar. I’m still hand-feeding them and once we were able to put the collar on her,” Annie paused, reflecting and sighed. “It’s like the strangest thing. Every time I put a collar on a stray dog, it’s like they’re domesticated, from the inside and they respond like a pet dog. So I got her. The male, there was no way. He was not coming.”

At this point, it’s close to 3:45. Annie and her family had been at this for about two hours and her husband had referred to the mama dog as “Mini,” because she looks like a mini golden retriever. Mini had jumped into the car, happy as a clam at high tide, and was settling in to her new digs just fine.

this is "Mini"; she has been adopted.

this is “Mini”; she has been adopted.

Meanwhile, Annie is still trying to get the male dog to join her but he was just too scared. Annie asked several people in the shop about the possibility of puppies. It was confirmed that Mini was pregnant six-eight weeks before. Some time before Thanksgiving, Mini had puppies everyone guessed. The consensus in the shop was that Mini had also stopped coming to the shop to beg and that she’d stayed away for almost two months. So she had recently returned although no one saw any puppies.

This is where I start getting emotional about all the synergies lining up like gossamer strands keeping things linear and organized even though it seems and feels random. This is where I start to believe in “dovetailing” and “fate” and “inexplicable reasons” for why people should always follow their internal wisdom; the wisdom that lives in all of us if we’d just sit, breathe and be still for a few moments. Like a stray animal, we need to show our intuition we are ready for it to guide us; that we trust it and then it will come to us.

Annie has been involved in animal rescue for several years; once taking in dozens of feral cats to foster, spay and neuter them with the help of her local animal welfare league. She has experience with all manner of beast, so getting to know a little more about this stray dog and her potential puppies was nothing new.

Mini’s teats were sagging, so she looked like she’d at least had puppies once, but Annie and her husband had asked around and no one had seen the pups. “So we fed the kids and took in Mini and even though there was a thought at the back of my mind that there might be puppies, we’d done all we could within reason to ensure that they weren’t leaving anyone behind. So we all packed back into our tiny car,” she said. It was crowded: Mini, Christmas packages, baggage, high hopes, good intentions, children and all. “Mini didn’t make a peep the whole way back; she slept on the kids in the back seat.”

The rest of the journey was blissfully uneventful. A bit after 11 o’clock at night, five days before the much-hyped Polar Vortex was about hit the U.S., Annie and her family pulled up to their home after a very long day of fruitlessly chasing after Recon, buying a leash and a collar and wet food and kibble and coaxing and waiting and hoping and lying on the cold asphalt or gravel or mud at a South Carolina truck stop to rescue Mini, which had been successful and the other dog, which had not been successful.

“So I’m getting Mini out of the car and she was FULL OF MILK. Her belly was red, her nipples were red. I knew what mastitis was all about and I thought, ‘Oh no. We’ve got this dog who’s going to get mastitis.’ So my husband and I went back and forth between, ‘no babies and we left the babies to die…'”

Annie is well-connected with people who can help. She called up her friend who is a vet tech and she took Mini to see her and the diagnosis was no mastitis … yet. She would be OK until the morning.

The next morning, Thursday January 2, when many Americans have begun their second day of New Year’s Resolutions and many children are off from school, Annie took Mini to the local animal welfare clinic and got her dewormed and vaccinated. She also wanted to get their insight into whether Mini did actually have babies. They checked her out and surmised that yes, Mini was a recent mother and that there are puppies waiting for her return.

I know. Just when you thought you could exhale.

“So, at that point, and even before — like Wednesday night when I got home, I kept calling the people at the rest stop and asking them more questions. So on Thursday morning, I also called rescue groups in South Carolina to see if anyone could go to the rest stop and find the puppies, but no one could help us. They’re all strapped thin.”

When Annie first called the rescue groups, they were not willing to help at all. But she was persistent and explained to them that she would take the puppies and help find them homes, she started to get some traction. One of the groups agreed to call, “Bill” the single local animal control officer, who was a good guy, who could be trusted to actually help, to see if he would go look for the puppies.

“She said she would call Bill, but she never said she’d call me back. I left several messages and none of them were returned.”

So Thursday night comes. Still no phone calls and Mini has been without her puppies, and they without her, for more than 30 hours and things are getting sort of desperate at this point. Many things are at play: Mini will develop mastitis; the puppies, of there are any, could fail to thrive and the temps are dropping, even in South Carolina as the Polar Vortex starts its journey across the country. Reports of snowfall and crazy-low temps populate the airwaves. My own radio news station, WTOP, couldn’t get its fangs on this Polar Vortex story fast enough.

Annie’s husband and she are inclined toward her venturing back to the site with Mini where they found her to see if she can locate the puppies.

“I hadn’t used Facebook in a year. I just decided to post the story about what was happening. It was one of the first things I’d posted in a very long time. So I went to sleep and we thought, ‘I’d never left my kids on any trip without them,’ but I was determined. I was going to see what was happening with the dogs.”

Overnight, a friend, Mandi* responded to Annie’s Facebook update and offered to join her to find the puppies.

I know… right?

“So the next morning, I talked to Mandi, and we made plans about when to leave. My husband gave me these two little flashlights. Mandi brought some extra leashes and a cat carrier. I don’t even think we got any food [for anyone, human or dog], we just went.” Annie said, in a matter-of-fact and assured way. To her, there was any possibility; but the one thing she knew for sure was that she was going back.

They really had no idea what they were in for, but they were up for anything and that, my friends makes the difference.

So at 11 o’clock Friday morning, on January 3, 2014, Annie and Mandi hit the road in search of puppies.

# # #

Yes. I’m going to string you along here. Not because I’m desperate for people to read this and to follow the posts, which I hope they will do because it’s a great story, but also because I’ve been typing for about three hours and listening to an MP3 recording of this story from Annie and I need a break.  Come back tomorrow. I will have the next update. I suspect this story will run two or three more posts.

Thank you.

*fake names.

A Goose Shits Every 17 Minutes and No Other Waterfowl Facts

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A goose shits every 17 minutes, thus giving credence to the phrase, “like shit through a goose” when speaking of the speed of a process or reaction.

Monday I wrote this post about my walk with Murphy in the hood. It was a gorgeous morning, and then it rained for almost two straight days.

I took pictures of the baby geese, the parents of whom rightly gave my dog a total rash for his insolence in wanting to place them all in his mouth.

Here’s a picture:

really? say that on the grass, geese. i will chase you back into the water and laugh when you can't hiss back on me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof.

really? say that on the grass, geese. i will chase you back into the water and laugh when you can’t hiss back on me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof.

As you can likely predict: Murphy really could not be less impressed by the geese. He didn’t think they were cute; he likely didn’t even think they were assholes, like I did. He didn’t think. That’s the brilliance of this animal: it’s all instinct and he’s not one tiny bit interested in how I feel about the geese. He just wants to put them all in his mouth. And the baby geese? They will remember him and his teeth because the memory is now imprinted.

Murph doesn’t care that I don’t have a gun or that they didn’t fall out of the sky. Almost every day, we see the geese at the ponds, and I can’t tell if he loves seeing them and tugging at the leash and wanting to put them in his mouth, or if he hates it. But I can tell you this: after each time we see them and we walk away, he does this, “that was cool, can we do it again?” face and rubs his nose into my left thigh. He’s the best dog ever.

So yeah: I hate the Canada geese here. We used to have lots of ducks, but they ran away because the geese are like the mafia, the Gambinos of geese.

Here is my one request: Don’t Feed the Geese, wherever WHEREVER you are. Here’s why as I just posted on my Facebook page:

a quick comment (lecture) about the adorability of baby geese and our responsibility as members of this planet: DON’T FEED THE GEESE. here’s why: geese are dumb-ass stupid birds. they don’t know the difference between me and Ronald McDonald. 

so, when say, Ronald feeds them, they expect me to feed them, which of course i won’t because i can’t stand them. why can’t i stand them? because aside from being stupider than hell, they are also nasty and aggressive and dangerous and they shit everywhere. 

a few years ago, a toddler in this neighborhood was disfigured and maimed (lost part of his tiny finger) because his mother looked away to get more freakin’ bread crumbs out of her bag. the goose was all, “faster! faster small Ronald McDonald!” and the toddler was all, “what’s up goose? i will try to put my fingers in your eyes…” and the goose was all, “i don’t smell no bread coming from you small Ronald McDonald, is your finger bread or are you trying to put your finger in my eyes?” and so the kid was bitten and forever maimed. 

so while i was taking these pictures the other day, i saw a well-intentioned, not-dressed as Ronald McDonald woman feed the geese COOKIES. she has dark hair, i have dark hair. she had no dog, i had a large dog. did the geese notice the difference between us? no. and if i didn’t have my dog, they would have gone after me for more cookies because they’re freaking idiots. they actually were chasing me, honking, “what’s up cookie-looking person? why do you have that small lion with you? do you have more cookies? because this grass and these worms and bugs, they suck… i will talk louder for you, and flap my wings so you see me and know that i am very hungry and that your small lion does not scare me, until it turns back on me, then i am very afraid and i know that if i had to, i would abandon my babies to save my own ass if your small lion came after me.” (because it did, and NO i didn’t let Murphy loose.) 

then people like me try to walk around the geese and we get hissed at and flapped at and freakin’ chased because even when i’m NOT in my Ronald McDonald suit, they think i’ve got bread in my bag. which i don’t, because not only do i not feed the geese, but i don’t have a bag with me. 

so i told the woman: don’t feed the geese. please stop. 

“but they’re so little and they need food.” she said. 

“no they’re not and that’s not food. it’s a cookie. before i start sounding all judgey and whatnot, would you feed a 2-week old infant that cookie? no, so don’t feed it to the geese for that reason alone. they’ve got all the grass and insects and their own defecation to eat all they want… and because you feed them, they think everyone has food and now they’re hassling me. a kid lost his finger because people think the geese don’t have enough to eat; they thought his finger was food because they’re stupider than a rock. they don’t need your cookies or bread. look at them: they’re the size of a smart car… they don’t need you to feed them.” 

so … please: DON’T FEED THE GEESE. they’re stupid and … well: wild animals. 

lecture done. 

>drops mic<

So… you wanna feed baby geese? Super. Guess what: they grow fast. In a week, they’ll be ugly as butt and then they’ll chase your ass all over the park flapping and honking,”Wait! Ronald! Don’t you have a cookie? Remember?! I’m that baby you fed a lasagna to last week… but I’m and growing and I’ll be as big as a calf in a month, but don’t you have a cookie, Ronald?”  and you’ll be HOSED because they will REMEMBER you and anyone who looks like you, aka all bipedal humans because of that imprinting. We basically train them to attack us. So do us all a favor: stop feeding the geese.

Thank you.

ps – maybe they’d shit less often if we didn’t feed them.

Murphy and Molly: A Walk in the ‘Hood

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I was sick all last week; didn’t go to the doctor’s until Wednesday, but I wasn’t sure what I had.

So of course, I felt the symptoms Sunday night and increasingly through Tuesday. My youngest, Thing 3, was home with me on Wednesday when I went to the doctor because his first course of antibiotics were overwhelmed by his infection and his fever returned. So at 1:15 on Wednesday, when my doctor asked me to say “ahhh” and then she looked down my throat, she didn’t need to swab me, I had strep throat. Thanks, T3.

The irony of all this was that for three days straight, my throat became increasingly worse: the tightening, the pain and the swelling were almost unbearable, yet I didn’t believe I was sick. I felt like my entire body was resting in one of those mechanical blood pressure machines. But my b/p was fine: 115/75, so I’m not sure what the sensation was, but I do know what I was doing emotionally, it was what I had done for most of my life whenever I’d get sick: keep it together and just keep going.

As a child, I didn’t have much opportunity to be sick; too much was going on already. I was sick a lot, in fact I had sore throats all the time. The yoga practitioner and chakra-aware part of me tells me that it’s my 6th chakra and that I was having issues with expressing myself. I felt I couldn’t express myself. I felt, intuitively, unsafe in expressing myself. More on that later, in my “fictional” novel to come one day this decade.

The amazing part of all this, was that when I went in to the doctor, and she didn’t need to swab me, that I was instantly relieved. The pain went away: INSTANTLY. I don’t know if I can make this clearer. When she said, “strep.” I felt no pain. No tension, no compression, no illness, no symptoms. All the sensations I’d been confronting, all the discomfort I’d been internalizing, all of it vanished. I don’t know how to explain that. Other than to say that my body / my illness had been affirmed. My body had been “heard.”

She explained to me how she knew (other than the obvious: she was a trained professional): a throat with an allergic reaction (pollen, etc.) looks sort of gray and slimy; a throat with a virus looks sort of pink and fleshy; and a throat with a strep infection looks red and beefy. Beefy. Like a sirloin on the hook, I guess. All I know is that my throat felt like it was hanging on a hook and had the shit kicked out of it by the Italian Stallion. My lymph nodes, all of it, were a giant swollen mess. I don’t have a normal 98.6˚ body temp, I’m more of a 97.8˚ girl, so when I hit 99˚+ I have a fever. Just before my appointment, I had 100.8˚, so we were on.

But this post so far, has nothing to do with what I saw this morning on my first walk with The Murph in a week. A walk we’d been unable to take because I’d been so sick. I will share those images and moments with you now, because it’s far more interesting than my boring old throat and amazing discovery about my health being affirmed once I was diagnosed.

I am the sole walker of the dog here, other than my beloved, who takes him out at night for a quick stroll to the neighborhood fire hydrant for Murphy’s nightly sniff and pee. Today, the weather is unseasonably cool (it’s 50˚ in May in D.C.!) and everything with roots is verdant and healthy and happy. But first, I want to show you my breakfast.

i have been having poached eggs lately with a slice of artisan garlic bread. the eggs have been quite expressive lately. today, they were decidely confused.

i have been having poached eggs lately with a slice of artisan garlic bread. the eggs have been quite expressive since i’ve taken the time to notice them. today, they were decidely confused. last week, my egg winked at me… see the next picture.

sassy egg. i believe it's flirting with me.

sassy egg. i believe it’s flirting with me.

I think I will do a whole series on my expressive poached eggs. I believe it’s the Fiesta Ware that makes it more … “American.”

Ok… enough! Here’s what we saw today:

canada geese and their babies.

Canada geese and their babies.

And then those geese thought they were all badasses when we walked away, so Murphy (being massive and toothed and genetically engineered to want geese in his mouth) said, “I don’t think so…”

see daddy goose getting all fresh with my camera? he's all hiss / sip / hiss / sip...

see daddy goose getting all fresh with my camera? he’s all hiss / sip / hiss / sip… and that baby goose on the right looks like he’s saying “yeah! what daddy said. nyah.”

(I’ll get to Murphy telling them off in a second — one more shot of those cute-for-now baby geese)

aren't they precious? next week they'll be gangly and ugly and still stupid, but not nearly as endearing.

aren’t they precious? next week they’ll be gangly and ugly and still stupid, but not nearly as endearing. trust me: those geese grow up to be dicks. they’re all like: “we don’t see you. do you have bread?” me: “no bread, but i do have a dog that i will let kick your ass if you snap at me again.” (They disfigured a toddler, maimed him actually because he got too close, took part of his finger clean off.)

So then daddy goose gives Murph some backhiss, and mother goose is saying, “You tell ’em Percival,” and Murphy’s all like, “Percival?” That’s so STUPID. WOOF YOU! STUPID WOOFERS!” His fur didn’t even get puffy; he hates the geese. I think.

really? say that on the grass, geese. i will chase you back into the water and laugh when you can't hiss back on me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof.

“Oh, really?! I don’t think so. Say that on the grass, geese. Then I will chase you all back into the water and I will laugh when you can not hiss back at me me on this grass. here. THIS grass. Woof. stupid geese. These are my teeth.”

The best part of all this is that the geese have no clue I’m holding back this 83# monster because I don’t want him to kill anything. They think he’s afraid of them (or I think they think that, which is really odd because I have better things to think about). So when they start to get all chest-puffy with him, I let him do a two-step tug on me toward them and they comPLETEly freak out, start honking and flapping and generally fall apart emotionally and Murphy does this thing, it’s so funny, it’s like he says, “Yeah. I thought so. Losers.”

I’d decided we’d made enough of an imprint on those babies to leave us alone in the coming months. When I make the fatal error of going for a run without my trusty Golden, those geese will chase me and freakin’ snap at me. Not so much with Mr. Fluffyface, they mind him quite well. Thank you, Darwin.

Next, we saw our favorite old truck.

isn't it cute? i've never seen it move. but someone drives it because... well, it's clean.

isn’t it cute? i’ve never seen it move. but someone drives it because… well, it’s clean.

Then after that, there’s this house across the street from that truck with an AMAZING peony garden. If I were half as impulsive as I thought I was, they’d all be cut down and in a vase in my kitchen enveloping my home with their amazing scent.

see? oy.

see? oy.

I ventured closer and took a whiff of this bunch:

it was glorious. I can't wait for my peonies to open soon. they're in the shade, so it takes them a little longer.

it was glorious. the police found me in them thirty minutes later. I can’t wait for my peonies to open soon. they’re in the shade, so it takes them a little longer.

Once I woke up and was released on my own recognizance, we started back home and just when I thought I’d seen enough beauty for the morning, THIS hit me:

serious? it's out of focus a bit because the energy coming off the combination was too much to handle, even for my schmaltzy iPhone 5 camera (which is pretty good, by the way).

serious? it’s out of focus a bit because the energy coming off the combination was too much to handle, even for my schmaltzy iPhone 5 camera (which is pretty good, by the way). no, it was breezy. rain’s coming in.

So … that was it. It was just boring old boring old when we walked home and I released Murphy to his own backyard:

we like it here.

we like it here.

The good news is that the antibiotics are working and I don’t need to work so hard to keep it together, man. I was astounded by that release though.

Oh, and I’m over here today too at Peevish Penman doing everything I can to offend a reader enough to leave a comment. 🙂 (hint, hint.)

Thank you.

Tuesday Morning Press #7: The Importance of the Right Cat Litter

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Tuesday Morning Press #7: The Importance of the Right Cat Litter

I don’t have much time today; less than usual actually, to get this off to bed. My kids were late this morning and then that sets everything off. Then my director sent me an email fearing that I’d keyed in an order wrong and it was shipping to the wrong address: mine. I didn’t – we’re all set. The order is going where it should.

So! Here we are…. how’s your drink?

Did you have a good Thanksgiving? I did. It was really great; Family is tough… I mean, we love all each other, RIGHT?!, but we also tire of each other. It’s hard. Even the beautiful family I’ve created with my husband, my tree, gets on my nerves. Maybe it’s that time of the month. You know: the end of it.

Anyway, we traveled out of town and visited my brother and his family. They are always amazing hosts and I try to be a good guest, helpful, out of the way as much as possible but also able to pinch hit at a moment’s notice. Thanksgiving dinner is a big deal no matter what you’re having, it seems. There’s that whole, “be thankful” thing.

Our travels meant we had to trust our cats. I have been known to post on my Twitter feed or in a comment string the following: “My cat’s a dick.” I have borrowed hijacked the phrase from a dear friends’ husband whose wit knows no bounds. They are probably one of the funniest couples I know. I digress. The point is yes, My Cat’s a Dick. Here he is in the background behind my beloved Murphy:

There is nothing warm and cuddly nor the least bit kind and patient about that cat.

That cat, Gandalf, is beautiful, actually. He is a classic gray barn cat. He has a sister, her name is Beezer. Anyway, trusting those cats is a big leap because during the last two weeks, all my mental focus and Mr. GrassOil’s free time has been spent trying to unstink the hell out of our recently installed basement carpeting because apparently, THEY DIDN’T LIKE THE (swear alert) FUCKING KITTY LITTER we provided them.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Apparently not.

Look, the irony of humans “having a pet” is not lost on me. Jerry Seinfeld probably stated it best when he talked about dog owners. I’m paraphrasing of course, but it went something like this, “When you think about the ‘Master’ and ‘pet’ dynamic, does it ever occur to you about who’s picking up whose poop? Who’s being pulled around on the leash by whom? Who gets their food no matter what?”

Ouch. But I love my dog.

There’s a line that makes me cringe inside: “Dogs have family, cats have servants.” HAHAHAH! That’s so funny I forgot to laff.

So apparently because we used the wrong kind of kitty litter, we got to spend more money on “Nature’s Miracle: Just for Cats” which comes with a welder’s helmet, chain mail gloves and a hazmat suit. We also tore out the padding beneath (of course) and have turned our beloved movie room / aka: bunker into a demilitarized zone.

I got back at them though: I moved their food to the carpeted area they  . . . used as their toilet. The long and short of it is this: it’s over. The cats are behaving themselves. The only thing is that I can’t tell if it’s that or that we reverted back to the original kitty litter that got them to stop because they don’t talk and expecting them to act like those cute tabbys or calicos on television commercials is OUT of the question. They are dicks. But I still wonder… Did I win?

Ehhhh who am I kidding? It’s the kitty litter. They don’t respect me. They’ve been the masters and commanders of our home since 2005. I was experiencing a moment of weakness because we had to surrender a beautiful rescue golden retriever (that I got from an old man who couldn’t drive away from my house fast enough) because he kept knocking over my children and trying to climb our trees. That dog, “Skipper” was given to me — I KID YOU NOT — by an elderly divorcee whose second wife left him after only a few months of marriage too soon after his wife of 45 years, his widow died of cancer. It was a touching story. The man told us that the dog was given to him by his children and was named “Skipper” in his honor because that man was a retired US Navy captain.

I decided later that the dog was named “Skipper” because “Vaulter” was taken. The man, after he’d dropped off the dog — that I only agreed to have meet my aging Maggie (my previous dog) — later called me to tell me that Skipper “doesn’t know what to do outside.” WHAT? Suddenly, I was the aging navy captain, my ears wrecked from spending all that time on subs and destroyers and aircraft carrier decks… “He isn’t used to being outside.” I looked out the window and saw Skipper, an 85#, full grown, glorious golden retriever on my very small deck table. Our deck at the time was only 10’x10′ – so the table was like … a bistro table.  He looked like a grizzly on a circus ball.

So I worked with Skipper, trained him beautifully, actually and got him to calm down a bit with lots of long walks. He actually was a saving grace to me during a time of personal struggle and we went on a 4 mile walk together one morning several years ago and he helped me sort things out on that walk. Were it not for him, I likely wouldn’t be coping as well as I do with myself. Even so, Maggie aged and Skipper grew into his adolescence, knocking more things over, including Maggie, and we had to let him go. That was a terrifically hard day for me. I tended to be a “fixer” and a “rescuer” of lost causes back then (I still wrest with some ghosts of that today) so giving him up was like admitting that I’d failed. He was truly a wonderful dog. The great news though is that he went to live with a family whose youngest son had autism and no friends and Skipper became this boy’s very best friend.

So when Skipper left, the cats came in. Not even a weekend went by. We were all taken in by their utter cuteness and blue baby cat eyes. We got two because everyone says to get two so they can keep each other company. The company they keep is more like “HHHIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSS” and “RRRRRrrrrRRRrRrrrrrrRRRRR RAAA-AAAA-A-AAAARRRROOOOOOOOWWWLLLL….” though. I’m not sure they are really fond of one another.

Cats live for a long time. We’ve been together almost 8 years. It’s gonna be awhile. I am sure I will have more posts to write about my awesome cats.

Thank you.