aunt Jemima

A 'wild, feral' kitten was put in a box with holes in the sides and left at the veterinarian's office. We partner with this vet as a drop off location for orphaned and injured wild animals as they are in a centralized location in town. Proof: you can see in this picture that she is trying to rip Forrest's finger off.

She arrived in the clinic and was immediately given a front row 'shoulder' of all of the goings on that evening. She has amazing balance for one so small, so Casey's shoulder was the best place to be as birds and raccoons were checked in and given initial fluids.

Forrest and I walked in not long after her arrival. Forrest asked to hold her and that was pretty much the end of the 'wild, feral' kitten's homelessness. I had some serious thinking on my feet to see if this kitten could indeed come home with us (the law had already been laid down "No More Animals") so I figured that we could foster the baby until she was old enough to be adopted, that way we would be able to enjoy the life of a kitten and she wouldn't be a permanent addition--not breaking any rules. So I made the phone call to Brent--I had to make it good because I knew I only had one chance.

Casey, Jemima and me


Well, it was a tough phone call but finally the kitten was on her way to a new, albeit temporary, home. We began calling her Syrup, then Chocolate Syrup. Forrest came up with Aunt Jemima and the name stuck.

She has made her tiny self at home venturing from Forrest's lap to his bed (under the covers and on his stomach)and all around down stairs. She is a very accomplished kitten for one so young. She looks like a fuzzy 8-ball with a bottle brush tail. Delicious!!!

I nave neglected telling the downside of all of this kitten love. Namely, Rosie and Maggie are entirely out of sorts and refuse to participate in the baby's upbringing in any degree. Well, hissing and nasty looks are some type of upbringing I suppose. Maggie with trail Jemima but will stay far enough away so that when Jemima turns to see who's behind her Maggie can hiss. I know Mags wants to possibly play, but, there are invisible obstacles to overcome--I just wish I knew what they were. And Rosie--she's just entirely put out by the whole ordeal. She won't even venture into the same area of the house if Jemima is there. How can a 1/2 pound kitten wield so much power over animals triple and quadruple her size and weight??

HI-larious!!!

Black Buck

This is Black Buck girl. She is of the antelope family. They originated in India and parts of Pakistan and Nepal, but unfortunately, like many other exotic animals, they have been imported to this country all for the folly of zoos and exotic game ranches where wannabe "hunters" can kill one with little effort.

Such was the case with Black Buck's mom. Raised in the Texas hill country on a large amount of land, her only lot in life was to be some one's "trophy" on a paid "hunt". These "ranches" are stocked with exotic animals from other countries. Fees are charged for gun wielding people to slaughter the wild life and claim their exotic prize. There is little reason for this kind of "hunting". No human life depends on the animal's meat and there is no shortage of human food to warrant these activities. But these "ranches" are prolific in Texas, and the moniker "canned hunt" is a true representation of what occurs.

Black Buck's mother was shot and killed by one of these "hunters". He then realized she was pregnant and a wave of guilt somehow permeated his bravado. He took his pocket knife and cut her mother's belly open and delivered Black Buck girl himself.

I vehemently disagree with these canned hunts and I have to wonder what truly transpired at the moment this man decided to do The Right Thing and save at least the baby black buck. What exact thought set his hands in action?

Black Buck girl was brought to the sanctuary still damp from the birthing. She was kept warm and fed by an entire staff dedicated to making sure she had everything she needed for survival.

She spent her early days in the clinic, then, when she was big enough, she was put out in the pasture with the other younglings--mostly lambs. They roamed banded together and were duly named "The Baby Gang". It was a sight to see--15 or so young lambs and one black buck browsing the pastures en mass.

Her life has passed quite contentedly these last few years. The lambs matured into sheep and went their merry sheep ways. She is now in pasture 2 along with a few other sheep, one lovely goat named Chocolate, several pigs, and the boys, Rocky and Vinney.

She is not pregnant--she is just very well taken care of!

A scary couple of hours

Last week Lillie and I visited the sanctuary with my camera. While I took a few shots of the boys, Lillie took photos of everyone else in the pasture--including me loving on Rocky. I love this picture--have you ever seen a lamb smile like that?



I know this one is out of focus, but I love it anyway. At first, Lillie was very afraid of this pig. He is a feral one that came in as a tiny piglet. She used to visit him when he was tiny and loved his cold wet nose. Now, his cold wet nose will leave bruises on your leg if you stand still for too long.

But this point of view is priceless!!



This is one of the girl barbado mix sheep that just loves the little goatie goats. She and her best friend NEVER mosey anywhere. They will approach you (or any visitor) at a fast trot. They'll check you out, look around, and trot to another spot in the pasture. It cracks me up. She came up to us, sniffed our hands, trotted over to where Vinney was laying down having a nap, and began to walk away. Vinney hopped up and joined her where she was grazing. It was like I totally missed their communication about it being snack time. So did Rocky.




Here's Vinney. Apparently I disturbed his nap because all he could manage was to get up, say hello, then lay down again. He is so handsome.

The title of this post refers to what happened the day after I took this photo.
Vinney was loaded up to go to his vet's appointment in town. When the intern stopped to give him water, he was nowhere to be found. He had been inside a crate with bungee cords securing the door in the bed of a truck. And he was gone.

There were a handful of people out looking for him for several hours. The intern retraced her route several times. And I know she felt worse than horrible.

I received the phone call around 6:30pm that he was gone and at that time I was walking into Niles' band concert at his school. I didn't quite grasp the situation when I heard it--I thought he had just gotten out of the crate in the neighborhood where the vet was and was roaming green city yards and gardens. What I grasped later was that it was highly possible he jumped out of the truck on the highway. I reeled at all of the horrid pictures my mind conjured up. And, I won't got into them here.

At 9pm, I got the call that he had been found and returned to the clinic, that he was wondering what all the fuss was about and why everyone--EVERYONE--was loving on him and giving him kisses. I couldn't keep from crying--for joy. And relief. He was found not far from the sanctuary by one of our key volunteers.

I wonder what he did those hours he was on the loose, a renegade, a rogue lamb.

So, Vinney's back. And, he's not even aware of how much energy was spent getting him back. Or how many tears one particular sheep mama shed.

Minnie Pearl, aka M. Pearl

Minnie, M Pearl (she will have to eventually be called Pearl as calling her around Vinney ends up in a little confusion between species...) has blossomed. Once a fearful, frail little goatlet, she has turned into a very opinionated, powerful kid-woman-to-be. She's now used to our routine of feeding at 6am and every three hours after, being let out of her crate to roam the room she's in, and, now, to lead Scooter around and show him 'the ropes'. Meaning, nibbling on everything--EVERYTHING--encountered. This means all matter of laundry (clean and dirty), trash can liners, newspapers, animal care forms... everything.

Scooter came to us not long after Pearl. His story is that whomever it was that 'found' him found him in a ditch and brought him to us.



His belly was bloated from being fed way too much far too often and his skin was extremely dry and flaky--very uncomfortable for such a little guy. His stature is quite diminutive compared to M Pearl's. We think he is a miniature goat.

So far, he is still very timid about life. He will call for his mother when I take them to the pasture and then gives up and lays down. He doesn't really socialize with anyone--yet. Rocky has sniffed him out and Vinney has done a 'drive-by'. All he needs is time. He will come around.

M Pearl's tag was removed last week, hence the shortening of her name. She was named after the infamous Minnie Pearl of Hee Haw fame because of her tag. Now that it's gone, her name had to be updated. Her personality is slowly coming to light. She runs and jumps and kicks like any other goat kid. She is beginning to nibble grass and leaves and is becoming more interested in the other pasture inhabitants. Scooter slowly and sometimes reluctantly follows her around. He'll get the picture soon enough.

So now there's two more little ones to care to, spend time with, and initiate into the pasture. I am not so sure I like being a 'mama goat'--they don't follow me as well as the lambs did and they don't seem as appreciative of my endeavors with them as the lambs were.... but I know in the long run it'll all pay off.

Long live Oliver

My sweet boy Oliver--the one whose feet never really touched the ground, who was much larger than life; the little boy lamb that lived every minute of his life to the fullest--died today.

Remember...

In one of my favorite movies of all time, Men In Black, the search was on for an alien galaxy and if it wasn't found the world would be blown up by said aliens. An ok premise for a movie but the cool fact that the galaxy in question was housed in a bell-like charm on a cat's collar was oh so inspiring. (The galaxy is on Orion's be... be... be... belt....)

The other morning after it had rained and I saw this fella on the sidewalk, I put him in Lillie's hand. I was inspired by the simplicity of the photo--what galaxy was he carrying, what knowledge would he impart, where was he going????

In the Dr Doolittle movie of long ago (the FIRST one, with Rex Harrison) the sea snail took him and his crew to Galapagos islands. How exciting--travelling inside a sea snail! For many years after I watched that movie I wanted nothing more than to learn to talk with the Animals and go to the Galapagos islands.

Was this guy carrying tourists from one place to another???





We found this caterpillar in the garden. I suppose it's easy to read all kinds of things into a moment like this--the evolution of a child into an adult; a girl into a woman; a caterpillar into a butterfly. Or just a kid with a worm!

What strikes me deeply about these photographs are my little girl's hands. I suppose they're so special because not only are they one of my children's, but, she is the youngest, the last one, the only girl.... sigh....

All mama's have secret special parts of babies that they love. My sister LOVES baby feet; other mama's love toes, lips, noses, eyebrows... I love baby hands. There is something in the fact that when they're born, you can look at your baby's hands and try and divine what they will encounter. You leave kisses in baby palms hoping that some magic will hold the sentiment right there in the middle and keep baby safe. (By the way, the best kid's book ever is The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. Thanks Gayle!!)

As the baby grows into a toddler, pre-schooler, then elementary school aged, and older and older you watch those same hands grow larger; longer fingers, scrapes and nail losses, more mama kisses... and then you'll be out and about and see a sweet new baby and you pause and smile, remembering your own new babies. The next thing you know you're blocking an aisle in Target with a goofy grin on your face and perhaps a tear or two threatening to fall.





Here's my big boy's hands. We were at Lillie's cheer/Niles' football practice and he found a really big toad and luckily I had my camera. His hands are fully bigger than mine--and he's just 16! They've helped me with animal rescues, removing deceased animals from roads, held his sister so tenderly when she used to let him comfort her, shown his brother how to throw baseballs, taken apart more electronics that I am aware... and they have so many secrets.

Lucky I'm at home, otherwise I would be the one blocking the aisle in Target....

It was bound to happen

Yes, it was. Only I didn't think it would be so soon.

When Rocky hit a certain age, I was no longer his "One". He was walking past me following someone else and when I called out to him his ears twitched only a little and he kept walking, never missing a step. Everyone in the kitchen gasped and went silent. My heart broke into a thousand pieces. But I had been warned this would happen. Rocky was officially a Teen Ager. A typical one at that.

When Vinney came along, he mended my shattered heart and I again was a Mama Sheep caring for a perfect little white lambie. Hours upon hours have been spent with these two folowing me to pastures, on walks, and on short escape runs. I have kissed both of their pink noses and sweet faces and memorized their sweet individual scents. I have massaged limbs, extended and flexed joints, and cleaned snotty noses. I have hundreds of photographs of them.

I have been a very good Mama Sheep.

And yesterday it happened. Vinney walked through the clinic and I stepped into the hallway and he trotted to me. I invited him to join me in the room I was in and he gladly obliged me. He looked and sniffed around the room while I busied myself with baby birds. There is nothing better than having a lamb between your feet, leaning on one leg just a little, as you work. A co-worker walked in and called him to leave and he galloped out of the room. I called his name and he never slowed down--not even an ear twitch of recognition. My heart was shattered once again.

Until later in the afternoon when a new baby was brought in. A sweet 3 week old Boer baby goat, or kid. She was entirely unsure about what was going on and the chaos of getting her to the sanctuary obviously exhausted her. The women that brought her in said she was sickly and just frail. They thought she had deformities with both knees and that she was blind.



I put her on a blanket in the intake room, stood her on it, and just observed her. I got down on her level so she could see my face and not just my feet and be somewhat comforted. She was very aprehensive of the new environment but her eyes were bright. She wasn't overly warm or cold, she was just very scared.

From just observing, she looked fine.

And then I put my nose to hers and it was true love--at least for me. A new baby!!!

Spring is in the air.

Oh to be a lamb!!! Could spring be any better illustrated??

Vinney has had a hard time. He's just been here on this planet for a few weeks, (maybe 4?) but he's already had to overcome more than most ruminants.

First his mother rejected him (at least that's what we were told). He was taken away from all that he knew and brought to the sanctuary. He has been loved and coddled every day, however, one day he wasn't walking on his left front leg. We all thought that Oliver might have gotten more than a little jealous and dealt Vinney a severe kick to the shoulder leaving him unable to put any weight on the leg.

Further investigation by our vets concluded that Vinney had an infection in his left shoulder joint. Unfortunately, that meant for Vinney daily anesthesia and flushing of the joint. (I accidentally walked in on this procedure one day and fled the office crying. My Poor Baby!!!) Seven days later including antibiotics and the infection cleared. But Vinney still wasn't walking on the leg.

He gets around fine on 3 legs and is never further than a few inches from my legs when we take walks. He's been on crate rest for the last 2 weeks to allow his shoulder joint to heal. But today was so beautiful I was able to get special permission for a trip to the pasture.

We never quite made it to the pasture due to Rocky's temper tantrum--yes he did. I figure he was expecting his bottle and when I didn't deliver he set about the most pitiful screaming I've heard from him yet. For the entire walk--an hour!!!

Finally I relented and headed back to the clinic, made 3 bottles, and fed all 3 lambs. Vinney retired to his crate without having to be told and Rocky, Oliver and I headed back outside. While Oliver romped around, Rocky and I reconnected. I can't believe how fast he's grown. Not just in weight, but in all manner of going from lamb to ram.



Time is passing quicker than I thought.

The Ides of March

I'm not a Big Cat girl--


give me an itty bitty possum,



or a kitten-sized closed-eyed raccoon,


or even a day old lamb,


and I'm mush.

But put me with the big girls, and well, I feel like food. Be it ever so humble there's no place like looking into a mountain lion's eyes and see her thinking I'd make a good--snack. Mortality at its best.


There I was one cool and windy morning taking photos of the camera crew shooting Lynn talking about how awful these big cats lives were before they came to the sanctuary.


The sheep walked by


And the turkeys came to see what was going on


Much too quickly my day being a photojournalist was soon over with one last romp through the pasture with the boys.

Vinny is the new addition to the herd. Look at that sweet face!!!

What an awesome day.

He's growing up.

Here's Rocky. All 15 pounds and 4 weeks of him. His feet and knees slow him down but they don't daunt his travel. If he's beyond being able to walk, he will ask politely to be carried. As he is carried, he is generous with kisses. His teeth are growing in and he constantly grinds them--I think because they feel so weird. He has really bonded with Oliver. While Oliver runs and jumps and bucks, Rocky is stead fast and constant. Oliver always checks in with Rocky with a little nudge or nose to nose time.



And I guess Oliver is our 'normal' lamb. He is, at two weeks old, nibbling hay and tasting grass and anything else he happens upon. He is very aware that he is like the other sheep in the pasture and I find he struggles with the choice of staying with me or going and visiting with every last sheep. I encourage his curiosity and urge him to befriend the older ones. He really takes the ewe's head-butts well. I don't think the girls mean to hurt him as much as remind him of his place, but he bounces right back for more and that tells me he's ok with it all.

And oh how I love that little white lamb.

A Saturday Meditation

This was taken at Nile's basketball game this morning. The weather was cool (50 degrees or so), misty, and foggy. The perfect combination for staying home in bed reading old books and entertaining lofty musings. But here I was in a small, incredibly loud gymn filled with stampeding 11 and 12 year old boys and grown men with whistles. My new personal hell.

Then the brand new baby arrived. So tiny, so pink, so NEW. She was born 5 weeks early and weighed in at a hefty 4 pounds. She was perfect at 5 weeks old. Her birth date was supposed to be Valentines day but she knew better. Her cherubic lips pursed in sleep oblivious of the chaos.

And that took me back to when the kids were born--their little selves all balled up for the first few days; their bodies remembering their confined quarters and slowly realizing they could stretch all the way out, arms and legs flailing; sleeping babies with arms over their heads, hands even with their ears, open mouths.... and now look at them. Forrest is going on 17, is taller than I am, is ready to fledge the family as long as we support him. THERE'S a never ending stuggle!! Niles is having a well rounded puberty with playing basketball, playing percussion in the middle school band, and learing the hard way his mouth really is the source of many of his problems. (I have no idea where he got that!). And then there's Lillie--little Miss Thang. All things girl and she can deliver a punch too. First grade never looked so good.

And then there's the thought that life is so fragile. I don't think you think of that when your their age, but, when you are older and have chosen to deal with death on a pretty regular basis, you think about it frequently. On the whole, I see death as a blessing, a reprieve. A Release. I'm not solid in what I feel about suffering and what exactly constitutes suffering, but I do lean towards the mindset that imperfections are not a blessing. But I've met few humans with physical imperfections so that realm is foreign to me. But the animals I have known with injuries so severe that continue to live in spite of them--not what I would call a blessing. More of a lesson for us to learn when enough is enough. More of a huge neon sign pointing to the action of release. On behalf of that animal. A teaching moment.

And there are plenty of teaching moments to encounter on a daily basis. Just be aware.

So, long meditation short, live your life. Don't just take pictures of pretty things, take pictures of the real things. And embrace them as yours.

This is love!

Rocky Mason

His life didn't begin as sanguine and peaceful as many others do; his began with his mother's love fading behind him as he was taken from her and thrown into the back of a pick-up truck and hauled around. Luckily the driver of the truck has an inkling to stop and ask if someone wanted 'it'.

He landed in my arms. Apparently the lamb was 'retarded' and a 'throw away'. After all, sheep 'ranchers' don't have time to raise 'retarded' sheep. Sheep 'ranchers' don't have time to raise a lamb born with 4 club feet, blind, and a hare-lip. Even if the ewe wanted the lamb, the 'rancher' didn't. So he threw the newborn into the back of the truch to languish. Until the thought hit him to stop.

He didn't want to feed the lamb until the following day when I would be on my way home. Even though he was feeding three other lambs, he could not and would not feed another one. But he would bring me the bottle and formula so I could.

And I did.

Lillie named the new lamb "Mason" after a little boy in her class. After a little time passed, my sister noticed his tongue stuck out just a little on the left side of his mouth causing him to look a bit like Sylvester Stallone in "Rocky". So Rocky it was. Rocky Mason to Lillie.

I took him to work the following day and he was instantly decreed as 'perfect' in every way. What was discussed was the origination of the disfigurements--a possible virus because the sheep 'rancher' wasn't managing his herd well. Turns out, Rocky's disfigurement came from a lack of vitamin A from both parents.

Rocky took to the bottle like a champ. He began to walk on his little bent hooves almost immediately. He wasn't able to walk long distances, but he kept at it and even though his little legs and knees are bent, he is surviving and thriving. Two weeks after being born into a death sentence, he is walking, running and hopping as he should.



The cataracts that covered his eyes at birth have shrunk to over half their size, only partially covering his pupils.

He has a new friend now, a barbado lamb that came in last night. I can say that Rocky is not happy with sharing the limelight. But 'Oliver' doesn't mind.

Not so cute anymore

I was on my way to photograph the new 'black' fox. I was driving past the native mammal enclosures when I realized I didn't have a picture of the ex-pet prairie dog that had recently come in. Another 'pet' that wasn't wanted anymore.

I parked and walked up to his day cage. Growing up in west Texas, I was very familiar with these little rodents and had fond memories of watching them in their burrows in a sectioned off part of a park, apropriately named "Prairie Dog Town". I loved the way they would stand on their hind legs at the mouth of their tunnel and throw their head back and 'bark'.

As I walked in to his domain, he began to smell my shoes and make small chirping sounds. Cute. I scratched his back and found his fur wasn't so different from our dogs, just shorter. He then chased my hand as I stood up. Cute.

I readied my camera to take pictures of the little guy and just couldn't get him to leave me alone. He was entirely taken by my shoes, shoe strings, and pant legs. As I watched him, I heard a noise above and behind us. I turned around to see a rather large female red tail hawk land on a tree limb beside the enclosure. Apparently she was drawn to the sounds the prairie dog was making. She was entirely focused on the little guy, so much so that I was able to stand straight, ready my camera, and take a nice series of photos of her.







The prairie dog never noticed her. After taking the series of pictures, I again focused on the little guy, hoping I could get him to wander far enough from me to get some good shots. I again scratched his back and tried to move him away from my feet and he again chased my hand and leapt after it. I thought perhaps he just wanted pats and reached down to allow him to approach my hand. BIG mistake. He leapt at my hand and latched onto my thumb near my palm. In subconscious reaction, I flung my hand behind me, complete with prairie dog, and he detatched and was airborn for several feet. He then landed in the deep hay. (Don't you know the hawk was so excited she decided to visit!!!)

It seemed blood literally began to pour from the wound. I gawked for what seemed hours until it dawned on I really needed to do something. Getting out of the day cage, locking it up, making my way to the cart, and getting back to the clinic was my only thought. Yes, the bite hurt. I tried not to think of it as I wrapped my hand in my shirt tail trying not to bleed all over the place.

I was almost to the clinic when I ran into our vet Dee. I showed her my wound and asked if I needed stitches. After her initial shock she looked at it and decided I didn't. Whew. I continued to the clinic and found our other vet Jamie and asked her if she thought I needed stitches. Nope. I was golden!!!

We rinsed the wound out with sterile fluids and I soaked my hand in betadine for almost half an hour. In the mean time, Jamie and our vet tech Chealsea looked up all of the zoonotic diseases I could possibly catch from a prairie dog bite. Monkey pox topped the list and the Plague rounded out the bottom of the list. Since I had been vaccinated for small pox when little, Monkey pox was taken off the list. But I was a shoe-in for the Plague!!!

Now, a week later, the wound has healed wonderfully and I might only end up with a pale scar from the event--what a gip!!! I've been an employee for a year and two months and have never been bitten--what a record. A then a little rodent took me down!!!

Happy New Year 2008

We spent the beginning of the new year in Michigan with Brent's family. Oh what a joy when on new year's eve night the snow began to fall. I know the family thought we Texans were nuts to go so crazy over snow fall. To us it was a folly, to them it meant winter was here along with more snow, ice, sleet, single-digit temps, and all that encompasses.

The snow had just begun to fall when I took this picture. When I got up the next morning, over 6" had fallen. The landscape took on a new softer, more rounded look. The romanticizing of winter could now begin.

By my birthday on the 2nd, we have over a foot of snow. It was delightful. I wandered around the yard with my new lens taking photos of up close things.



I wish I could have gotten photos of the little chipmunk in the back yard that would vie for dropped birdseed with the fat northern squirrels. He had a tunnel dug at the base of a tree in the snow that he would dart in to after stuffing his cheeks full.

The crows were noticeably absent until the last day of our visit. I think the storms kept them holed up in warmer places. On our last day while running errands, I saw them in the hundreds filtering back into town. I was ecstatic!!! I didn't have my camera with me or I would have taken pictures of the trees that were full of the black birds, calling and visiting.

Back home now and the gardens look like winter was definitely here. The tender plants that will return again in the spring have left bare stalks and it looks like we lost our beautiful mexican olive tree out front.

It's good to be home!!!

Maggie

September 1st 2007-

With the loss of Tucker, Lillie was able to choose a kitten for her own. Each of the kids have been able to choose a pet at the age of 6, so it was Lillie's turn. I took her out to look at almost 40 kittens. Her first choice, a cinnamon grey tabby had been adopted and we didn't know it. It was a tense few minutes when the inevitable meltdown of disappointment happened but Lillie overcame it with her chin up.

Another hour later and we found the One. Although I had wanted another calico, Miss Maggie was chosen. (Her mother was a calico so that would have to do.) Her brothers and sisters were all pastel colors--a pastel orange, pastel orange and white, pastel calico, and a really nice torti calico. The others kept together and Maggie kept to herself.

She was quite shy when she arrived here and so very small. But let's face it, EVERY cat is small compared to Rosie the behemoth resident calico cat! Three weeks later, she can hold her own when Rosie hisses and our evenings are filled watching a really tiny cat chase a really big one.

So here we go--another baby in the house and years of unconditional love!!!

Betsy

July 1991-November 2007

Betsy was the last of our 'Austin' cats that included Tucker. She was born in Austin to a lovely black mama cat called BC. The woman who owned BC was the same woman who rescued Tucker from his abusive family and lived with her until that home became too crowded with other rescued cats. She followed her mom to our place where food was daily and plentiful and few other cats were around. Even though they were mostly outside cats, they were loved and cared for at their home away from home.

Betsy decided to live with us and ultimately was loaded up and moved to where we now live. She acclimated to the moves with grace and gratitude never letting the newer adopted felines forget she was the matriarch of the household (feline of course).

My fondest memory of Betsy in her heyday was that she never turned her back on an opportunity to chase a dog--any dog, any size. She chased terriers and huge labs. I don't think she hated dogs (she lived with several over the last 10 years) but truly enjoyed the chase (and possibly the resulting yelps of fear!). The memory of her 7 pound self walking back from the chase, black tail erect and full, faint smile on her face, will always be a cherished memory.

This spring Betsy made a true friend in the resident mockingbird. Every time she would go out, he would be there to welcome her into his yard. She would slowly make her way to the garden bench and he would escort her there every step of the way. As she would lay on the bench, he would serenade her with squawks and hisses often times landing mere inches away from her to bring home his point of allowing her refuge in his yard.

One afternoon, Forrest had the luck of being able to photograph their afternoon together. Betsy was taking an impromptu bath near a garden and the mockingbird was helping her in the only way he knew how by pouncing her repeatedly and often. The wondrous thing is, Betsy never flinched or wavered from her bath. The photo above is from one such pounce and mockingbird flying away and Betsy looking just a bit annoyed.

Betsy had a tumor on her thyroid that was detected by our vet a little over 3 years ago. That explained the rapid weight loss and lethargy (more than normal) that we had noticed. Daily medications suppressed her overactive thyroid and she rebounded within a week to her geriatric ways. Her prognosis was wasn't positive--the medication was hard on her kidneys and liver and even with surgery there was no guarantee of a long survival.

Three years later and after more medications to slow her accelerated heartbeat, Betsy was finally ready to depart. She came to me early one morning and gave me the earnest, tired stare that I knew to be the signal of her desire. She was tired of being sick and tired of being tired.

That afternoon, I took her to our wonderful vet. She never fought the trip, never once meowed, just wanted me to hold her paw, which I did with great sadness. She waved her paw as the medicines that made her sleep entered her body and was released from all of her suffering.

I brought her home and a small funeral service was conducted at the treeline underneath the cedars, hack berries, oaks, and native grapes and beside Heather and Emily, the past felines of the family. We used to walk this area years ago when there were fewer dogs and no back yard fence. Betsy would stalk the scents in the leaves and dirt, chatter at the birds in the trees, and lounge beside me when I would sit. She would chase after Emily through the under brances of the cedars. She was laid to rest in deep soil with desert sage and a washingtonian palm frond, facing eastward towards the rising sun.

Betsy is sorely missed, especially during the evening time when her presence on the arm of the couch beside where I sat is felt but not seen. Her purrs echo in my memory for they were louder than any cat I've known. We love you Betsy.

(tigger) Tucker

April 1996-October 2007


Tucker was rescued from abusive children long ago when we lived in Austin. He was just a kitten when we found out he was being used as target practice for teenaged kids with rocks; being thrown into the air to see if he would really land on his feet; and other sordid things I won't mention.

Before all of that, I was at the pool and he came around all fluffy and full of kitten goodness. I looked around and saw no one was with him or calling for him so I took him home. Soon one of the neighborhood kids came to claim the kitten and sadly we gave him back.

Not long after word got back to us of the antics I described above. Again, I snatched the kitten when I saw him and took him home. We had him for several weeks before he was spotted again by the neighborhood kid. This time we gave him back with the expicit terms of "if we see him again we keep him."

I told a neighbor about the situation. She lived not far from the kids and had a better view of their place (we lived in a townhouse adjacent to apartments--habitrail living at its finest.) One evening I received the call, "I've got him." Under the cloak of darkness the exchange was made--his freedom from abuse!!

In order to keep him (as we already had two cats in a tiny townhome--not to mention 2 small kids!) I offered him up to Brent to name. As his heritage was obviously tabby, his were unique markings. Instead of stripes going around him, his were in bulls-eye patterns on both sides. White sox and boots, and the biggest, fluffiest tail ever. tigger Tucker, aka Tucker, was born.

Tucker lived a very full life filled with children, other cats, dogs, sunshine... all the things that make live wonderful.

One story. Early one morning I called the cats in for breakfast. In good weather, they would choose to stay in or out. He stayed out that night. I called and called getting a little more frantic as time passed and no Tucker. Finally, I saw him come down the driveway.

Our next door neighbors had a pool. On warm summer nights you could walk out the back door and hear the frogs and toads talking amongst themselves. Some days would find out neighbor pulling yards and yards of frog eggs from the pool--something that was always a little creepy to see.

Tucker was coming down the driveway with a frog in his mouth head first, arms dangling on either side of his mouth, legs hanging down. I screamed for him to drop the frog and he stopped and looked for an escape. I ran towards him, juked him left, then right, and in all of his wisdom, he dropped the frog.

What a lovely frog too--a Leopard frog. Long, lean back legs built for swimming; gorgeous dark green and pine green stripes for camouflage. In my rubber gardening clogs, I hopped the neighbor's 4' fence (frog in my hands!!) and slunk through his yard to his pool. I slipped the frog back into the water and watched him glide to the bottom.... such grace.

There are a thousand times ten stories that illustrate Tucker's life. He is sorely missed by the entire famiy. Even Rosie (the large, raccoon sized calico cat) when she thinks about it.

Happy Fall!!!!!

It's all in the way you do things.

My co-worker asked how she could help me out. I was running about an hour or so behind so her offer was like a fulfilled wish. Cleaning the little skunks was the next big chore I has so I asked if she would mind doing that.

I continue feeding the animals outside and returned inside to the overwhelming smell of skunk. Someone had startled one. Asking around, I found out that the co-worker that was cleaning the skunks had indeed startled one and didn't want to return to the room. I quickly found her and traded chores with her. There was no reason for her to do something she couldn't stomach.

She told me the baby was in the bucket near his crate. When I walked into the room and saw which crate she had been cleaning, I knew right away which little one had 'skunked' the room. Bless his heart--he was the one I knew as 'Cranky' as he was never really happy. Even as an infant he would find something to complain about--the person feeding him was late, his bedding wasn't soft enough, it was too bright in the room... whatever. As he got older, his fur began to fall out. Not all over, just around his face and hands. We tried everything we could think of to remedy the situation from homeopathics to mainstream medicines. The baldness subsided but in the in-between state of his fur re-growing, his attitude remained less than satisfied.

I lifted the towel that covered the bucket and he immediately went on the defensive, tail raised, locked and loaded. I calmly reminded him in a soothing tone that it was me and I was so sorry he was startled. Gently reaching in and picking him up, I asked what had happened. Almost nose to nose, he began his story. Small little grunts and squeaks, a little shaking, and his story came to light. He had been startled as a stranger's hand had picked him up at his middle and as he didn't know what was about to happen, he got scared and it was an accident. He quieted with scratches to his bare face and ears. His bedding was fresh and he was gently placed back in his crate.

There is a certain knowledge that comes from caretaking animals from infancy and certain fears are relieved. Some would bluster that there is no way I could know what had made him spray. My response is how can you not know how a being thinks when you are with them almost every day, all day long? I would counter that it would be a sad situation for the animals if you didn't.

These guys are now outside acclimating to the ever changing Texas weather they will soon be released into. Those of us that took care of them will be forgotten, the innate wildness they posess will come forward, and they will live their lives as wild things. As it should be.

For Now

I made this collage in the spirit of Teesha Moore (visit http://www.teeshamoore.com/) for a swap. I loved experimenting with different layering techniques, colors, collage and journaling on one piece of paper. The face is Lillie's who, that particular day, wasn't feeling well and didn't want to perform for me and my new camera.

The hardest part was beginning the back ground. My normal technique revolves around vintage sepia tones and colors--a lot of browns, beiges, and other neutral colors. This background required color up front and lots of it. After the initial hesitation I didn't slow down. Everything came together so quickly. The journaling was intimidating--what if I make a mistake? Misspell a word? Hate the color I use? After the first line of writing I never looked back--just hoped there was enough room to tell the story.

I sent the collage on its merry way and hope whomever received it enjoyed it as much as I did creating it.

Back again!

After several months of battling with Blogger about how to post, etc... I took a break. Early on, you had to go through Firefox and while it was interesting to experience, I decided to uninstall the program and go with what I knew. IE might be some people's downfall, but for me, it works. I logged in today to see if I really could and yes!! I can!! Now I can tell my stories again!!

I've been an employee at the sanctuary now for 8 months (after volunteering for 6 years). During this time I've experienced the entire spectrum of emotion from overwhelming grief to the point of absolute despair to immense joy and hope. We've had a huge baby season this year. Many songbirds are still through as well as all other native wildlife from turtles to coyote pups. My favorite? I'd have to say that tiny orphaned possums have to render my heart mushy. There is no discounting minute pink noses and tiny barks of frustration at not being fed fast enough. Toddler raccoons are another favorite and remind me of kittens as they puff up, head down, eyes sqinted, growling and attacking whatever is nearby.

Possibly the cutest of all are the foxes. Their story, like so many others, began as a challenge.

A rancher trapped the Fox intending to kill. He saw her thickened middle and called Texas Parks and Wildlife who in turn called the sanctuary. MomFox arrived late one night. She was quickly transferred to a roomy crate and put in a quiet dark room where no one would bother her. First thing next morning I walked my rounds. Entering her room, I lifed the blanked that covered her crate and 6 tiny heads raised up. She was curled with her kits at her breast and she eyed me with pride. Against all odds, she had delivered her babies safely.

We thought it best for the family to be released as soon as possible so the crate was taken to the back of the sanctuary. There is an area at the back of the property called 'soft release' where healthy animals are taken to an enclosure, provided food and an open door to leave when they choose. Our hope was that MomFox would find a den nearby and transport her newborns to their new home. Unfortunately, she was so very stressed and when the opportunity arose, she fled, leaving the kits behind.

The kits were brought back to the clinic where they were initially fed every 2 hours. They grew far too quickly as most babies do. Sadly, one little girl didn't make it. Seizures racked her tiny body and one morning she was gone. Shortly after, another small male kit was brought in and blended beautifully with the orphans. As they grew far too busy for the small room they were in, a day cage outside was prepared for them. They were united with an older kit and since then they have been one rowdy Fox gang.

They have now been moved to a larger enclosure and have relatively little contact with people. As fall approaches and puberty hits, they will be released on a large property to live out their lives as wild animals. The way it is supposed to be.

Right now, baby season seems to be slowing down. First is was the possums, then skunks, then raccoons. Fawns have been consistanly coming in for several months. Songbirds are constant as they have up to 3 broods a year. We didn't have as many baby squirrels this spring, but, come fall, mama squirrels all over will have another batch of babies and somehow some will end up at the sanctuary.

Coop's 1, Dove 0

The afternoon was entirely beautiful for an early March day. About 65 degrees, clear, sunny with a slight breeze that still spoke of northern origins. But still, it was the best part of the day to be outside.

Lillie and I sat on the garden bench under one of the cedar trees talking of her day at school. Her favorite part of the day--me walking her in and dropping her off first thing. Her second favorite part of the day--lunch. You gotta hand it to her, she has her priorities.

She was in the middle of telling me a story about one of her classmates when we heard a ruckus in the cedar above our heads. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something land on the ground nearby. Fully looking through the garden immediately to my right and across the yard, I saw what had caused the commotion.

For the last several years we have been graced with the presence of a Cooper's hawk. A smaller sized hawk that differs from the larger hawks in that they hunt in the tree canopy. A larger hawk isn't able to maneuver through branches to chase prey, so the Coop's is a specialist. They also hunt in the open, but their legacy is in the trees.

I've seen him herd dove around the neighborhood and scatter birds from our neighbor's backyard feeder habitat. I've seen him fly by, not hunting necessarily, but sending up the warning calls from the resident feathered ones nonetheless.

He was perched on the white winged dove. As the Dove struggled, the Hawk had a tough time getting a good foothold. I asked Lillie several times if she saw what was going on. She did.

Finally, the Hawk got the hold that he needed and he proceeded to fly directly behind the house to the treeline. Lillie and I looked at one another, mouths open and eyes wide. We had been privy to something not everyone gets to see.

The we heard them. The Chickadees began telling the story. Then the Titmice joined in. Then the other small birds took up the story telling and gathered in the tree above where the Hawk landed with the Dove. The tiny birds were adamant about the story--they told and retold it. As they became more brave, they moved closer to the ground.

As Lillie and I approached the site, a pile of feathers was all that was left and an amazing spot of energy was fast evaporating. We stood silent mourning the end of one life and smiling at the life that would continue.