Before and After

My last month there were lots of trips to the vet.  I ate mozzarella cheese even though I knew there was a pill hidden inside.  I ate canned food mixed with my favorite green beans.  Sometimes I even ate the moist dog food packets.  I knew the other dogs envied my new food.  I no longer slept in my crate at night but had my memory foam dog bed in the master bedroom next to my mom's side of the bed.  I wore a dog diaper and was able to roam freely through the open dog door at any hour.  I could still bound down the slope in the backyard with my long ears flopping and howl at the sirens in the distance.  The other dogs in my family would join in, too.

My last week I took a trip to Florida to drop the younger English boy off at his new home.  I ate chicken and waffles for lunch outside of Warner Robbins, Georgia.  I rode in my favorite spot in the car, at the very back on my dog beds piled three high so I could look out the window.  I sniffed around a parking lot in Florida but the journey made me tired.  The Englishman found a vet that was open in Gainesville, Florida and we stopped for a visit.  I pretended that I needed to go outside and dragged my mom through the slick, black parking lot in the rain.  The vet gave me a pill and I felt better.  I had sausage and pancakes for dinner.

My last night, I couldn't sleep.  I went into the backyard that shimmered with the silver moon and howled.  My mom came out and got me.  She tucked another pill into cheese and brought me back to my dog bed.  I was restless so she pulled her pillow and blanket to the floor and slept beside me.  I fell asleep with my head on her chest.

My last morning, the Englishman made bacon for breakfast.  I had the lion's share.  The older English boy arrived and I had a video phone session with an old friend from England.  I was wrapped in my blanket and sat on my mom's lap for a final drive in the car.

The first hours after, we couldn't return to the house so we went to a movie.  I don't think either of us remember it.  The Englishman secured a small orange collar with dog tags dangling like a miniature wind chime around his wrist.

The first day after, the Englishman had to leave on a business trip.  As I sat in the living room, I heard a voice clearly stating "I love you".  Gathering my courage, I went to the kitchen to explore and found Molly, holding a Build-A-Bear teddy bear that George had cherished.  I didn't realize the bear talked and Molly had set off the trigger.  I later found Chase staring at George's crate relentlessly.  I had to move it to another room.

The first week after, I returned to the vet's office and picked up a small box.  I couldn't speak.  I sat in the parking lot and cried.  I then placed the box in the passenger seat and took a slow drive around town with my former friend riding shotgun. He would have approved.

The first months after, the house was so quiet.  Sirens would sound and the three dogs wouldn't even blink.  The silence seemed so loud.  I would return home from work and remove four treats from the jar on the counter, remember and slowly put one back.  My hand naturally held four.  We folded one dog crate and stored it in the basement.  I still had his small pillow at the foot of our bed.  The material still smelled like him.

Ten months after, I heard Charlie start to howl from the deck.  He hadn't forgotten.  I looked at the Englishman and he said, "I was thinking of him, too".

Hobby Farm: A Daily Commitment

I love my little backyard farm and it has become part of my daily routine.  Before I leave for work each morning, I make the rounds with my three-pack in tow.  First I walk down the hill to the pond and check on Richard.  My beautiful male duck greets me with quacks, tail quivers and quick circles in the icy water.  He thinks he is a wild duck but I know better.  He still eats his food from a ceramic bowl.

Next, I trudge back up the hill, glancing at the bee hives.  It's still too early for any activity.  The chickens already spotted me on my way down to the pond and are cackling loudly, lined up by the gate and hoping for a treat.  Berries?  Apples?  Bananas?  If the fountain has iced over into a beautiful fairyland sculpture, I have complaining chickens trying to herd me to the corner to get me to fix their water source.  They watch me break up the frozen water with a small garden trowel and they gobble up the bits of ice that land on the ground.

Finally, I check on my newest duck members.  Two female rouen ducks and three drakes are settled in  the enclosed duck area with my tiny mallard call duck.  They aren't sure of me yet and hide behind Puddle Duck Pub, heads peaking around the corner to see if I am giving them food. 

A similar routine occurs each evening when I return home.  This time, I collect the eggs, too and watch the bees make their final landing into the hive.  It doesn't matter if it's too hot, too cold, raining, sleeting, windy, or stormy.  Keeping a hobby farm is a responsibility as well as a source of happiness and a stress reliever.

I currently am fighting bronchitis and the last thing I really want to do at 6:45 in the morning is my routine.  It's draining.  I'm so tired.  Breathing is a challenge.  So I start a little earlier and take my time.  This morning, I opened the top latch on the duck fence and then stooped down to pull up the latch on the bottom that fits tightly in place.  The spring that The Englishman recently installed to bring the door back into place, creaked open as I entered.  I let the door go too quickly and it slammed into place, startling my fine feathered friends.  I quickly filled the feeder with grain and turned to leave.  The door wouldn't budge.  The top was fine but with dread, I realized that the problem was with the bottom.  I was positive that the bolt had fallen back into place, locking me inside.  I quickly checked my pocket to make sure that I had brought my cell phone with me.  I did not want to call my husband back from the start of his commute because I had stupidly locked myself into the duck compound.  I looked around at his craftsmanship and knew I couldn't escape easily.  Before making the call, I gave the bottom of the gate a little tap with my garden clog.  Nothing.  I was impatient, sick and had six cackling ducks peering around their house at me.  I gave the bottom of the gate the hardest kick I could muster.  The gate slammed open and I quickly leaped out, my thin shawl billowing around me like a super hero cape.  I secured the gate and retreated up to the house swinging my empty bucket.  As I placed it outside the garage, I thought better of that and placed it on the floor of my car to take on my long commute to work.  After all…I still am sick!

As Seen on TV

My boss has some amazing stories to share.  My favorite story that I love begins when he first started working for the company.  He was staying in a hotel and was watching a program on the Discovery Channel about snakes.  The snake guru was demonstrating that you could pick up most snakes by the tail and the snake could not climb back on itself to bite you.  My boss was dazzled by the idea and soon an opportunity arose at home where he could proudly show off his newly discovered skill.

One evening, his daughters and wife discovered a snake in the garage and began screaming.  My boss rushed to the rescue.  One daughter was concerned for the snake’s well being and didn’t want it to be harmed.  My boss confidently informed his family that you could pick a snake up by the tail and it couldn't bite you.  He crouched down and picked the snake up by the tail.  It promptly bit him.  He threw the snake and with blood dripping down his hand, his wife drove him to the emergency room.  I suppose he missed the "don't try this at home" message in the programming.

Group Names

My pets have individual names and then they have group names.  They are smart enough to know the difference.  With a multiple pet family, it’s a lot to yell out each of their names when you require the presence of all of them.  The dogs, respond to each of their names however, if they are outside and I need them to return to the house, I simply call out, “DOGS!”    The chickens have a group name, too.  “CHICKENS!” brings about frenzy near the gate as they cluck and pace to see what sort of treat I have for them.  I’m not sure if they know their individual names of Raven, Buffy, Angel and Nancy Drew but they do respond to the group name.  The ducks have diminished down to one lonely drake named Richard and I still call him by the group name.  Calling out “DUCKS!” from my deck at any hour will bring a series of quacks in response.

Matters of Choice

George has cancer.  We first became concerned with the weight loss that was noticeable after the groomer shaved him for the summer.  His appetite had diminished and he also seemed crankier with the other dogs.  A vet visit was scheduled and blood work was taken.  We were told he didn’t have diabetes or cancer.  Further testing for other possible weight loss explanations was also negative.  The vet’s assistant was unsuccessful in retrieving a urine sample.  The Englishman and I tried on a fifteen minute walk, but George was stubborn. 

There have been numerous occasions where we have been given this impossible task with each of our four dogs.  First, it is required to sneak behind your already suspicious dog and then quickly slip a pan beneath his leg as soon as it appears he is about to lift it.  Any trickle that may have started flowing immediately stops, the leg returns to the ground and the dog glares angrily at the interruption.  In spite of numerous demonstrations by our vet and her assistants, we cannot master the technique.  We finally left with a diagnosis of arthritis in George’s back legs and a bottle of pain pills.

We changed George’s food to a softer variety.  We added canned food to his meals.  He appeared to have a slight gain in weight.  Six weeks later we returned to the vet for another checkup.  George’s weight was now at 19 pounds.  His ideal weight is 28 pounds.  A tiny bit of urine that was collected was dark with hints of blood.  He was given an antibiotic and we were given options to discuss which included an MRI to confirm cancer followed by surgery and chemotherapy.  There was also an alternative medication that involved a derivative of blood root.

When we returned to the vet’s a few days later, what she suspected was a mass in his back pelvic region had grown in size.  Surgery was no longer a viable option due to the invasiveness and the uncertainty of surviving the anesthesia.  The alternative treatment was also not an option because it could do George more harm than good at this point.  I had also researched it extensively and was still not comfortable with it as a treatment.

George is eleven years old.  He is happy at home and is comfortable with his pain medication regimen.  He still interacts with his four-pack, riling them all in a nightly chorus of howls when he detects a siren in the distance.  We pause and smile and I wonder if the other dogs will continue the howling tradition without him.  As annoying as it can be at times, the thought of silence makes me sad.  So we watch him for signs, for changes and discomfort.  He sleeps in our bedroom each night so we can hear him if he needs us.  And we cherish these moments that we have remaining because he is a part of our four-pack and a part of our family.

Drama Dog

In his medical folder, I have a full body X-ray of Chase when he was several months old.  Puppies get under your feet.  They get in the way.  They get stepped on.  This was the case when Chase somehow got his paw stuck in the front door on a Saturday afternoon.  Chase cried, he limped, and he held his quivering right front paw several inches above the ground.  I cried.  I was a bad person.  I didn't deserve him.  I scooped him up, placed him in the car and raced to the animal emergency hospital.  I carried him in, paid the three hundred dollar entrance fee and was ushered into an examination room.  The vet rushed in, Chase wriggled from my grasp and promptly forgot about his injury.  When he remembered he had hurt his paw, he seemed to forget which one it was and tried the hurt paw pose on his left paw and then his right.  Since we were already there, I agreed to an X-ray of his paw but because Chase was still so small, his entire body was scanned.  No fractures, no injuries…I felt betrayed.

I firmly believe that dogs prefer to injure themselves on weekends or after regular veterinary hours in order to incur costly bills to their human companions.  My pet companions have proven this theory many times over the years.  I have also realized that Chase is a bit dramatic when it comes to his wounds.  I was reminded of this a few nights ago when his friend Marty, a tough little dog from three doors down came by to play.  Chase and Marty romped through the back yard doing dog things until Marty was called home.  Chase raced up the deck stairs but tripped on the top step.  He circled me a few times visibly limping.  Concerned, I followed him into the house where he was balancing on three legs with his right paw lifted in the air.  I examined his paw carefully.  It wasn't swollen; his recently trimmed nails were fine and there were no splinters or blood.  I released the paw and it began to tremble.  Chase limped to his crate and I attempted to apply an ice pack.  This proved to be an impossible task so I decided to leave him alone. 

An hour later I checked on him.  Chase’s left paw was bent at a strange angle and I couldn't see his other paw.  I had forgotten which paw he had hurt.  I touched the left paw.  Chase pulled his right paw out from beneath him.  The paw started to tremble.  I brought him some water since he was apparently too injured to move.  He lapped it vigorously.  I left him alone again and returned to the kitchen where I offered the other three dogs a treat.  Suddenly, I noticed Chase was dancing around my legs, demanding his treat, too.  No more paw trembles.  All four legs firmly on the floor.  Chase… my heart, my mini-me, my drama dog.

One Door Closes, Another One Opens

The Four-Pack was confused.  In January, the Englishman and I embarked on the daunting task of renovating the kitchen.  Within hours, we added the laundry room, sun porch, dining room and living room to our renovation project.  Dry wall dust covered every surface, including the dogs, white primer streaks added new coloring to their fur while leaving odd, feathering patterns on the walls and the Four-Pack took every opportunity possible to walk directly into piles of sawdust.

We walled in doors because they weren't needed, added doors where there weren't any and completely turned their home upside down.  The dogs would see the construction, watch a door disappear, yet still run toward it later, sliding into the wall looking absolutely befuddled.  They delighted in the new doors that emerged and spent their time testing it out.  The "piece de resistance" was a small, fancy dog door inserted directly next to the new French doors in the kitchen.  A door of their own.  The Four-Pack was very excited when they discovered this door (discovered because I pushed each of them through it).  They practiced jumping in and out of it, tasting a bit of independence.  Tails wagging, paws dancing on the kitchen floor, they gained expert precision with each trial run.  Sometimes the best things in life really are small.

Cold Duck

At the beginning of December, the ducks finally noticed the pond in the back yard.  Not the turtle pool that I had been filling twice a day for their bathing pleasure, not the small Koi pond the Englishman and I had been digging just for them…the big pond.  The pond with a dock and a row boat and their fancy floating duck house.  The real pond with room to forage along the banks and tasty bits to pluck from the surface.

 

A couple of months earlier, I tried to introduce them to the pond.  I herded the ducks to the dock and managed to catch two.  With a duck under each arm, I trekked to the end of the wooden dock and tossed them unceremoniously into the inky surface.  They acted like I had tossed them into acid, flapping their wings and practically flying to the safety of the grass.

 

Now, the ducks marveled at the wonders the pond had to offer.  They swam, they dove, they dunked each other below the surface and they foraged among the lily pads.  They would only return to the main house if they were hungry and they avoided the shelter of their own little house I dubbed “Puddle Duck Pub”.  Each morning when I let the dogs out, I would call to them with my own version of a duck call.  “Ducks!” I would yell and they would quack back to me from their hidden spot in the pond.   At night, I would walk down to the pond with my flashlight and play tag with them.  I would shine my light to the left and they would swim furiously in a pack to the right.  I’m not entirely sure they enjoyed this game as much as I did.

 

The mild temperatures of our southern winter finally gave way to the bitter, blustery winds of the New Year and the Englishman and I arrived home after work to find the ducks in a small pile of feathers near our driveway.  It looked like they couldn’t remember where their house was after weeks of frolicking on the pond.  We each grabbed a flashlight and guided them to the warmth of Puddle Duck Pub.  I closed the door and listened to their chatter before retreating to the warmth of my own house.  I was amused that, even with all those feathers, pampered ducks still get cold and could (partially) navigate their way back home.

Cattails

When my sister lived in Atlanta she had a problem with the destructive feral cats in her neighborhood.  Animal Control provided a trap and as long as she continued to catch cats, they would continue to remove them.  Liz was quite successful in her endeavors to rid her yard of cats and firmly believed that they would be rehabilitated and then adopted by a loving family.  This dream was shattered by me when we checked the trap in her backyard one day and found a spitting, hissing tiny ball of dirty fur in the trap.  She saw a sweet kitten that just needed a little bit of TLC from Animal Control.  I saw something that had clearly been fed after midnight and was one step away from being labeled an evil Gremlin.  She shared her vision of rehabilitated feral cats and I told her what Animal Control was doing to the cats she caught.

The Englishman does not like cats.  When he somberly tells the story of “THE NIGHT HE WAS ATTACKED AND ROBBED BY A CAT” as a wee lad in England, I have to hide my face and muffle my snorts of laughter.  When he was eight years old, he was sent to the corner store on a mission to buy bread, milk and cigarettes.   Arms filled with his purchases, he walked quickly down the city sidewalk, eyes darting left and right searching the shadows for lurking danger.  As he passed a low wall, a feral feline leaped upon him, gouged his arms and stole his loaf of bread.  The tiny Englishman ran home, had his war wounds cleaned and bandaged and his father prowled the streets looking for a cat with a pilfered loaf of bread.

So my sister helped clean up the neighborhoods of Atlanta, I will never be permitted to own another cat, and apparently there really are cat burglars and they stalk the streets of Manchester.

Packing Peanuts

I placed my empty Stonewall Kitchen box on the floor, careful to close it up so the leftover packing peanuts wouldn’t escape.  I thought that I might be able to reuse the peanuts and the box for Christmas gifts to England.  Over the next few days, as I walked past the box, I always crouched low to close it, puzzled as to why it stubbornly opened on its own several hours later.

And then, one evening as I walked by the box, I caught Molly with her nose buried deep inside.  She was gorging on the packing peanuts.  In fact, it looked like she had been eating them for days as the supply had been depleted by more than half.  I secured the box shut once again, sure that she wouldn’t be able to undo the lid this time.  Molly brought backup in the form of George and with teamwork, they opened the box and began scarfing peanuts with wild abandon.  I removed the box from the house and placed it in the garage.  

When I told the Englishman about the incident over Sunday supper with his oldest son and daughter-in-law, I learned that packing peanuts can be made with biodegradable starch and are safe to eat.  The Englishman demonstrated by retrieving a peanut from the drool-covered box and popped one into his mouth, chewing vigorously.  He declared it quite tasty and mentioned that if we had a zombie apocalypse, he would head to the nearest warehouse to stock up on the edible delights called packing peanuts.   He patted his clever canines on the heads and sat down to finish his dinner.

Duck Herding, Jedi Style

The ducks don’t want to sleep inside their safe and warm house at night.  They prefer to huddle in an appetizing pile of feathers right next to it.  I prefer not to feed the neighborhood’s nocturnal critters and perform the tedious task of herding the ducks into their home each evening.

In thrift shops I have seen vintage prints of small children herding a flock of ducks with a stick.  My ducks would cackle at such a sight.  If I approach them with a stick, they scatter, then reconvene and chatter about my failed efforts in a circle.  If I approach them at night with the two insanely long and metallic flashlights that the Englishman calls “torches”, I am a duck herding Jedi knight.

I walk straight toward the flock of feathers who stare at me in alarm.  They rise and move as one to the left.  I flash my left beam of light and block them.  Like Carol Ann in Poltergeist, they fear the light.  They make a move to the right.  My right arm rises with the flashlight beam.  They resort to moving in the only direction not dissected by a ray of light.  I am filled with a sense of accomplishment as they file reluctantly into their house within thirty seconds, loudly expressing their unhappiness.  I don’t care as I shut the door.  “You are sleepy” I tell them using my Jedi Mind Trick and I return to my house with the light sabers, errr… flashlights by my side.

Don’t be a chicken!

Donning my beekeeper’s veil and gloves, I headed out with the Englishman first thing in the morning for some hive chores.  On the way back to the house, I stopped by the chicken house to see if there were any eggs to collect.  I barely noticed the squawks as I approached the gate and pushed my way inside the chicken yard, awkwardly maneuvering in the large hat and veil.  I greeted the ladies with a cheerful “good morning!”  The chickens scattered to the far corners leaving a trail of feathers in their wake.  I was missing one chicken.  I opened the hen house and clumsily squeezed inside.  Rosie was sitting in a nesting box and looked terrified when she saw me.  I quickly backed out, realizing that the chickens did not recognize me.

I walked briskly up the hill to the garage, passing the ducks waddling for their lives in the opposite direction of my path.  I flung off the veil and gloves, gathered some treats, and returned to my flock looking less alien than before.  Not only did I get a great idea for a Halloween costume, a valuable lesson was learned:  what works for the bees does not always work for the birds.
 

Moving Day

Puddle Duck Pub was moved five feet to the side and two feet forward.  This allowed for more sunlight to reach the solar panel powered lights.  All five ducks watched the Englishman and me carry the house to the new location.  They tilted their heads and peered through one glittery eye each as I cleaned the inside and added new bedding.  They kept careful watch as the Englishman moved the green plastic turtle pool behind the house and filled it with clean water.  They splashed in the pool as we cleared weeds, vines and thorns.  They happily waddled in and out of their house, taking mouthfuls of food from their feed bowl.  They padded over to their drinking bucket and gorged on the lettuce I had placed on the water’s surface.  They raced around the house, chasing each other until they tired.  They slept behind the house on a mound of fall leaves, tucking their heads into their feathers in a warm patch of sun.

And when it was dark, all five huddled in a pile on the ground in front of the old duck house location.  Puddle Duck Pub was lit up like a beacon to their immediate right but they took no notice.  The ducks were confused and so were we as the Englishman and the English Boy cornered the ducks and carried them back to their shelter a stone’s throw away. 

Fear the Beer

In a multiple dog home, barking by multiple dogs is not unusual.  Sometimes a doorbell on TV gets the four-pack going.  Joggers, walkers and kids on bicycles require the posse to stand guard at the front windows barking out warnings and applying a generous coating of slobber sprinkled liberally with nose prints on the glass.  There are times when all four bark in different directions, like the points on the compass, brows wrinkled in confusion when they realize they have forgotten why they are barking.

George, however, barks when he is unhappy.  He is most unhappy in the summer when the temperatures soar and the humidity only adds to his misery.  Barks will soon give way to mournful howling and he is completely inconsolable.

Quite by accident I discovered that George loathed beer.  He is a quirky dog at best, and one day as I lightly blew air across the top of a bottle creating a low, hollow tone, George fled the room.

On a particularly hot and horrible evening, George was perched on top of his favorite air conditioning vent, hoarding the cool flow of air.  He was uncomfortable and miserable and he barked and howled his complaints incessantly.  The Englishman threatened George with the bark collar to no avail.  George was placed in time-out in his crate where he raged violently on his own.

Finally, I had had enough.  I looked at the Englishman, refusing to accept defeat by my twenty-eight pound dog and declared, "Bring me a bottle of beer, now!"

George paused mid-tantrum, and sat quietly with his eyes following the path of the Englishman.  A light pop could be heard from the kitchen and a slight tinkling of the metal top falling to the counter.  George's tail stopped wagging.  The Englishman returned with a green bottle, slick with condensation.  As I raised the bottle to my lips, George bolted from the room with no further audible complaints.

Fighting fire with fire?  I'm not sure but at least with one-fourth of my pack, when all else fails, try the ale!

Pearl of Wisdom

We were down to one duck and she was lonely.  Miss Pearl followed the Englishman around the yard.  She perked up when the dogs raced through the back garden.  She was a frequent visitor in the garage, stretching her neck and peering through the back door glass.  Her nighttime quarters in Puddle Duck Pub were cavernous and I imagined her quacks echoing through the space like an empty cathedral.

I did what any high-heeled wearing modern farm girl would do and fired up the I Pad to search Craigslist.  I found what I was looking for and only ten miles away.  Four ducks: two Crested Peking and two Blue Swedes.  Ten dollars per duck, two for twenty or all four for twenty.  I did the math and decided on four.  The Englishman and I headed out with one dog crate and very vague directions.  “After the four-way stop sign in Rutledge, go past three roads on the left and then we are directly across from the third road”. 

The Englishman and I argued over whether a dirt road counted as a road.  He proclaimed that the Romans would disagree.  We ended up in a cemetery and decided to call the woman for better directions.  This time she added more details including the name of the road that her residence faced and that she had the only fish mailbox for miles.  She also mentioned that it might be only two roads past the four-way stop sign.  I think she struggled with counting.

Armed with the new information, we zoomed past a road without a sign and a tacky fish mailbox.  It was a mile before I could turn around.  I drove down a narrow dirt path that was a driveway and cautiously approached the double-wide trailer.  We were greeted by a flip flop wearing woman with obviously natural maroon colored hair.  Random tattoos on her feet and ankles accessorized her tank top that was stretched tightly over her ample torso.  She led us to her chicken and duck pen.  Rusty tin cans littered the back yard and my five-inch wedge heels crunched across the dead grass.  Thirty or so tiny Bantam chickens darted about the area with crazy feathers sticking out from their legs like old-fashioned bloomers.  The Englishman and the woman’s husband entered the pallet and chicken-wired structure to retrieve the ducks.  Moments later, we settled up with a twenty-dollar bill and headed home listening to the quacks in the back of the car.

 

Miss Pearl was waiting in the driveway when we returned.  The Englishman carried the crate to the duck sanctuary and placed it on the grass.  Miss Pearl excitedly circled the crate, peering through the slits in the sides.  We opened the door but the ducks stayed inside.  Impatient, Miss Pearl dive-bombed the crate and pushed her way to the back, trying to force the other ducks out.  Frustrated, she emerged first and the others timidly followed. 

 

 

At first they noticed the food and happily gorged but then they saw the green turtle pool.  I don’t think they had been in water before and all four piled in bathing and diving and swimming in manic circles.  Their feathers hadn’t been waterproofed and they were wet and dripping and thoroughly happy.

 

 

The Englishman lit the tikki torches to fend off the mosquitoes and we tossed frozen corn and peas to our newest additions.  Miss Pearl established the pecking order with herself as the leader.  She was twice the size of the new flock and as I watched them empty the food bowl, I was sure they had been underfed. 

 

 

As the sun disappeared in the sky, the lights inside Puddle Duck Pub beckoned them to enter and Miss Pearl led her charges inside.  I closed the door and stayed behind for a few moments listening to the quacks.  “Don’t teach them all your bad habits, Miss Pearl,” I chided before retiring for the night.

Starling Darling

The Englishman wanted to meet me for lunch at the only restaurant in Thomson, Georgia that we could both agree on:  Hoagie Joe’s.  I welcomed the break on the typical scorching summer day in June and hopped in my car, windows down to release the heat and air conditioning blasting.  “I’m on the way”, I reassured him in a quick text message.  He responded with, “Bring a shoebox”.  I scoffed.  Who did he think I was?  Of course I had shoe boxes in my car!  I even had extra shoes in the trunk “just in case” I needed another pair or two.

 

I parked my car and the Englishman approached the trunk holding something carefully in his hands.  It was a baby bird.  It had apparently fallen from its nest and into the hot and dusty street.  The Englishman had searched high and low but was unable to locate the nest.  He added layers of tissue to the shoe box and placed the bird gently inside.  It was ugly.  All mouth and no feathers.  The Englishman handed the box to me to carry into the restaurant.  Apparently being American made me more local than him.  We ordered, ate and no one seemed to notice the shoe box under the table.  An hour passed and it was time to leave.  I handed the box to the Englishman.  He shook his head, refusing my offering.  “I can’t bring it back to work,“ he insisted.  I brought it back to my office and left it on my desk.  I called my mother in South Carolina and warned her about her overnight guest that would be arriving with me to spend the night.  I also wondered how on earth I would manage to do my English setter dog transport the next day with the unexpected passenger for a 100 mile leg from South Carolina to Georgia.

I arrived at my parents’ house with shoe box in hand and went off to Walmart to buy worms.  I brought them back and squealed in disgust as my mother pulverized them and tried to feed the bird using tweezers.  It wouldn’t eat.  My mom decided we should leave it alone and that it would probably die during the night.

The next morning I woke up and reluctantly checked on the bird, sure that I would be burying it in their yard.  It was shrieking.  Delighted, I ran for the wormy mixture and fed it.  Mom helped by blending worms, water, cherry and hard-boiled egg in the blender, pulverizing the wriggly crawlers into a fine mush.  I now had the perfect Christmas gift idea for my parents as I vowed never to use their blender again.  Mom, ever helpful, produced a glass dropper and the feeding frenzy commenced.  Apparently baby birds eat a lot.  I wasn’t sure what kind of bird I was fostering so I looked it up on my I-Pad.  We decided it was a mockingbird.  I tucked it into a piece of fleece to keep it warm, packed it into the front seat of my car and drove to the highway to meet Emma, the English setter rescue who would catch a ride with me to Georgia as part of the leg of the rescue transport from North Carolina to Florida.  I had a squawking baby bird in the front and would soon have a strange, unpredictable rescue dog in the back.  I was looking forward to the drive. Emma, turned out to be a sweet seven year old setter who could care less about the screeching bird.  She didn’t mind that I had to pull over several times to feed the greedy thing, stashed away in a clay flower pot.  I met the next driver, passed along the dog and her paperwork and then headed home to hand off the bird to its rightful owner.

The Englishman was helpful.  He used my mini food processor (which I will never use again for cooking) to blend worms, berries, hard-boiled eggs, kitten chow and water.  The image of wiggling worms swirling through the grayish mixture was permanently etched into my brain.  The Englishman, much later, discovered it was easier freezing the worms first before making the bird smoothie.

The bird insisted on feeding every ten minutes.  I was exhausted by the end of the weekend and eager to return to work.  On Monday morning, the Englishman handed me my travel mug of coffee and a bucket with the bird for me to bring to work.  The bird was loud.  It screeched.  I’m sure my office was too cold for it.  I sent the Englishman a text message stating that I had found a new home for the bird and was giving it to my production manager.  He had a stay-at-home wife who needed a project.  The Englishman whined about me outsourcing the bird and told me that he would take it to work with him the next day.  The Englishman took the bird for two days because he didn’t trust me.

My mother arrived to watch the bird, the four dogs, the four ducks, the seven chickens and 90,000 bees for the weekend while we took an overnight trip to the coast.  The Englishman was not amused by her constant status updates on Facebook threatening to make a bird omelet.  In one of her statuses, she declared that we were not the proud owners of a mockingbird.  It was a starling.

Monday morning, we decided to leave the bird on the sun porch inside the bird cage we picked up at the antique mall.  It wasn't much of a cage as the tiny bird could easily slip through the bars and flutter to the floor.  While we were at work, the bird practiced flying and eating.  We began to leave it freeze-dried crickets and meal worms.  The bird began to sing instead of screech and with its feathers completely unfurled, it looked more like a bird and less like a mouth.

 

It would fly to my shoulder and hide beneath my hair.  It would sleep in the ceiling fan.  Sunday came again and I walked onto the deck, bird in hand.  Suddenly, the bird flew into the Bradford pear trees bordering our property.  It didn't return.  I wasn't ready for it to leave.  I sadly looked at the tiny nest within its cage and the words "empty nest" weighed heavily on my mind.  I returned to the daily grind on Monday and pulled into my driveway at the end of the long day.  As I approached the sun porch I heard a familar screech.  The bird had returned!  I ran inside the long and bright porch and the bird flew to my shoulder, mouth open, demanding treats.  I happily obliged.  The bird spent the night in the fan and then left in the morning to spend its day doing secret bird things amongst the trees, only returning to the sunporch at the end of the day to greet me and dine on dried crickets and worms.

 

 

Hush little baby don’t say a word

Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird don’t sing
It’s probably 'cause he brought you a baby starling!

 

Keep Calm and Carry On

Three beehives were not enough for the Englishman.  Five hives were perfect.  Five hives would make his life complete, so he drove two hours each way to pick up the last package bees of the season.

We weren’t ready for them.  So, the bees remained in their boxes while the Englishman built two bases.  Time was of the essence so it was decided to install the hives temporarily on the deck until the weekend.  We donned hats and gloves and within minutes the bees were buzzing about their new homes.  With great satisfaction, we put away our bee protective gear and grabbed a beer to share.

The Englishman sat in a nearby chair, sipping his lager and smugly admiring his efforts.  I took the second chair and watched him.  A lone bee aggressively flew about his head.  The Englishman put down his beer bottle and swatted at it.  Several more bees joined the first.  The Englishman continued swatting.  Backup arrived in the form of twelve angry bees.  The Englishman screamed, flailed his arms in the air and ran from the deck into the driveway and out of my view.  I picked up his abandoned bottle of beer but was unable to drink it as each shriek from the driveway made me laugh harder.  Soon the cries faded and I sat back to continue to observe our gentle Italian honeybees.

A tap at the window above my head beckoned me to the kitchen.  “There’s a stinger in me forehead!” he cried.  “Get it out!  Get it out!”  I scraped at it with a pair of scissors and assured him that bee stings were better than botox at removing wrinkles.  “I don’t have wrinkles in my forehead,” he protested.  “Not anymore,” I agreed and left him in the house while I checked on my ducks.

A few days later we removed the hives to their permanent home amongst the fruit trees.  The Englishman decided that it would be a good time to check the three established hives.  We smoked the hives, one at a time and removed the roof.  Using a hive tool to pry each frame from the “bee glue” that cemented it in place, we were able to lift the frames and inspect each side.

As I held a frame, heavy with honey and covered with bees, I felt a sting and a slow burning sensation under my arm where a sliver of skin was exposed between the glove and my short-sleeved shirt.  “I’ve been stung,” I told the Englishman, holding out my frame.  “Take it,” I ordered.  He slowly grasped the frame’s edges and I walked a few feet away.  I lifted my arm, scraped the stinger with my hive tool and returned to the hive to finish the job.  No screaming.  No crying.  No flailing.  Just keep calm and carry on.

The Englishman and I gathered the tools of our trade and trekked up the hill to the driveway.  “I’ve been stung through my pant leg,” he told me and then dropped his pants.  I looked on, horrified and fully aware of the neighbors, joggers, dog walkers and kids on bicycles.  He scraped the stinger with his hive tool and walked pant-less into the house.  No screaming.  No crying.  No flailing.  Just keep calm and carry on.

Creature Comforts

Molly loves clean laundry.  She lurks near the laundry room, ready to snatch the used dryer sheets that float to the floor.  She tucks them in her crate and snuggles with them at bedtime.  She eyes me warily as I clean her crate of dryer sheet debris each week, the lavender scent long faded from the white fibers.

Molly also loves a freshly pressed shirt.  Each morning, she pads into the bedroom and slowly shifts back and forth beneath the dangling dress shirt that the Englishman is ironing.  It’s a morning ritual as sacred as that first cup of coffee sipped in silence.

The Englishman need not be present for Molly’s morning ritual.  On a recent week-long business trip, there were no shirts to be pressed in the pre-dawn hours.  I found Molly in the closet, creeping gently along the edges of a row of shirts, the fabric softly caressing her head.  I sat down, gave her a hug and whispered, “I miss him, too.”

When Chickens Fly

I wore appropriate shoes to pick up my Americauna chickens that were advertised on Craigslist.  Sensible ones.  Ones that coordinated well with the bedazzled back pockets of my jeans.  A long time ago, I realized that I could drive for hours in Georgia and still be in the same state.  Such was the case on the beautiful Saturday morning when we left our driveway at dawn to navigate the back roads to Fayetteville, Georgia.  The Englishman had shoved a large plastic dog carrier into the back seat of my Honda and I fretted that it might be too small for the six adult hens.  The MapQuest app on my phone wound us through roads unknown and two hours later we had reached our destination at the end of a forgotten country road. 

The first thing I noticed were the goats roaming the property.  “Maybe she will let you pet one of the goats,” the Englishman suggested as he peered through the herd of bearded beasts, searching for the owner.  Janet, the chicken/duck/bearded goat lady waved us over to the chain-link compound.  As we made our way toward her, the goats followed.  They seemed friendly.  One bit me in the butt.  I turned around and swatted it away.  The goat had creepy ice blue eyes and human-looking teeth.  I tried walking away.  It nipped me again.  Same place.  I picked up the pace and so did my new companion who was completely mesmerized with my sparkly, bedazzled back pockets.  Nip, nip, nip.  I escaped into the chicken only section of the compound.

Janet greeted us and then pointed out the six chickens that we were buying.  They were hanging out in the chicken yard with twenty other chickens and we would have to catch them.  First Janet lured as many “not-for-sale “chickens as possible into her yard.  One of our chickens escaped with the flock.  We concentrated on tossing the remaining five into the dog crate.  The Englishman confessed that chickens scared him ever since he was a young lad back in England and he was put in charge of collecting the eggs.  Apparently the chickens pecked him with their tiny beaks.  Wah, wah, wah.  All five were secured in the crate with no help from him.  We scanned the yard for the runaway chicken.  She was solid white so it didn’t seem like it would be too hard to spot.  Janet rang a bell and all the other chickens and goats came running with the exception of one.  Fifteen minutes later, the Englishman found chicken number six hiding in the duck house.  He carried her in his hands, arms outstretched as if he was holding a rattlesnake.  I cursed myself for leaving my phone in the car.  I really wanted to take a picture.

 Transaction completed, squawking birds in the backseat and the GPS leading us home on completely different roads than before, I made myself useful by reminding the Englishman that we had chickens in the backseat and he needed to take it easy on the curves.  There were a lot of curves.  The chickens rode well in the car until there was a curve.  They flapped their wings and screeched in protest with each curve.  Feathers were flying about the car and unpleasant smells wafted toward the front.  Windows down, sunroof open and avoiding the roads less travelled, we finally made it home. 

I introduced the chickens to Cluckingham Palace, gave them fresh food and water and clapped my hands in delight as they scratched the ground with their feet.  The Englishman and I left to run some errands.  When we returned, it was almost dark.  We grabbed flashlights and hiked through our overgrown grass to Cluckingham Palace.  It was empty.  The chicken yard was empty.  We searched frantically for the chickens.  Three were balanced on the top bar of the trellis and three were in a cedar tree.  Chickens can fly, I realized.  We also realized that chickens are very docile when they are asleep.  We carefully plucked each chicken from their perches and placed them inside the chicken house.  They never woke up.  No wonder foxes can eat them.  The Englishman and I retreated to our house and made a list of everything we needed to do the next day to secure the chicken area.  It would be another early morning because chickens can fly.

The Things You Can’t See

On Easter Sunday, I was headed back to Georgia with Chase, George and a Georgia Tech passenger who I was dropping off at his college dorm in downtown Atlanta. Typically the traffic on the interstate is not heavy for the majority of the trip; however it seemed that everyone was headed in the same direction. Coupled with the fact that the never-ending roadwork had closed down one lane, I made a last minute decision to keep the two dogs in my car for the entire trip instead of making a quick detour to my house.

I pulled away from the Georgia Tech campus shortly after 8PM and decided to avoid Interstate 75 as there were several accidents being cleared in two lanes and traffic. The familiar lights of The Varsity beckoned to me as I skillfully headed into downtown Atlanta with the intention of taking a “short-cut” to Interstate 20. It was getting dark quickly and I hoped Chase and George were getting along in the back seat. I could hear some commotion and suddenly Chase leaped into the front passenger seat right around the same time I started to smell something foul. “Perfect”, I thought.” George must have thrown up back there.” I silently cursed my mother for feeding my dogs Easter ham and knew that I would need to clean up my car. I do not have the greatest sense of smell but as the scent permeated the interior of the car, began to wonder if there was something more horrific back there. It was too dark to make a determination but George was clearly pressed against the far side of the car. I looked around for a place to pull over, but I could see no safe options. I opened the sunroof and all of the windows and drove home in record time.

I released the hounds who headed for the back yard and I retrieved a flashlight to assess the damage. I prayed for puke. It was worse than I thought. I backed away from the chocolate-colored poo prints that decorated the back seat like a dance step card. I went inside the house, yelling for the Englishman, and changed out of my white pants and high heeled sandals.

Floodlights in the driveway highlighted the true task ahead. I discovered quickly that I couldn’t just pick it up with doggy bags. The mess was now streaked in smears, blobs and other shapes. My back seat was now a canvas for a macabre finger-painted Pollock masterpiece. Our industrial carpet cleaner didn’t have attachments for this job and it was too big to even attempt to push into the car. I pulled out my secret weapon: the wet/dry shop vacuum. I figured the problem was both wet and dry at this point. With no attachments other than the hose, I went in with the proper personal protective equipment: latex gloves and safety glasses. I found myself working with a steady rhythm: throw some soapy water down, and then suck it up with the hose. That shop vac was the best thing I ever purchased. The Englishman followed up with a layer of “Tuff Stuff”. A little bit of air freshener and the car looked untouched. We left all the windows open and called it a night. I grabbed George and carried him inside for his Easter bath.

I waited months before mentioning the unfortunate Easter Event because the only friend I did tell refused to ride in my car for a very long time. I have more than one vehicle but somehow she just “knew” which one had festered with feces. For those that are contemplating buying a used car, keep in mind that a CarFax won’t reveal everything. There are some “accidents” you will just never know.

Cone Head

In every dog’s life there comes a time when he is selected to wear the "Cone of Shame".  The piece of plastic that encases the head in a ridiculous, yet confining crown is a right of passage for our four-legged friends.  Chase has had to wear the cone of shame several times, mostly due to his fondness of playing with snakes.  More recently, George has been bestowed with the cone.

The Englishman and I had a few complaints for the vet when we escorted George to his annual visit.  The small lump on his ear had grown larger and his breath had become unbearable.  We wanted to have his teeth cleaned and the lump removed at the same time.  The vet inspected George’s mouth and found one bad canine tooth that she felt might be causing the sewage smell.  We scheduled an appointment as soon as possible for the surgery which happened to be on a day when the Englishman was out of town.

I took the day off of work to bring George to the vet.  He happily jumped into my car, wagging his tail until I took a left turn out of the neighborhood instead of a right.  If you think dogs do not know their left from their right, think again.  In my town, “left” means “vet”.  Right means a lot of other things.  Better things.  More preferable things.  I took a left.  George pawed at my leg.  I ignored him.  George tried to jump into my lap and take over control of the steering wheel.  He has no thumbs and I thwarted his plans of car hijacking.  George finally sulked in the back seat and refused to make eye contact.

Moments later, I parked and was trying to convince George to exit the car.  I then tried to convince George to enter the building.  After resorting to dragging my dog into the office, I sat on a bench waiting for our turn.  George stood up on his back legs, placed his head in my lap and let his paw tremble.  I felt terrible.  Worse than terrible.  I frantically glanced around the room for a box of tissues as my eyes seemed a bit watery.  Finally, it was our turn.  I signed a lot of paperwork.  I was told I could check on him throughout the day.  I was told to leave.  Really?  I didn’t want to leave.  George was looking at me with his big brown eyes and giving me the “trembly” paw again.  The technician told me that I had to leave first.  It was apparently better for the dog.  I left and sat in the parking lot, tears in my eyes, and sent a text to the Englishman damning him for his business trip to California that forced me to be the villain.

I went home and waited.  I needed something to take my mind off of things so I turned on MTV’s “Teen Mom” marathon and proceeded to clean the house.  I am domestically disabled so this was no easy task, plus I could feel the other dogs’ “judgey” eyes on me.  The vet finally called me to let me know that George was awake and he had five teeth pulled.   “Does he have any teeth left?”  I asked, horrified.  I was assured that he had plenty of teeth left.  The vet felt that the teeth she removed were the cause of George’s garbage mouth.  I would be able to pick him up at five.

I went early, but they meant five.  I had to wait and stare at the bags of Science Diet pet foods on a shelf in front of me.  Finally, George careened around a corner sliding his cone encased head into my leg.  I dutifully listened to the instructions on meds and food and then carried Cone Head to the car.  When we arrived home, the other dogs backed away from him, fearful of a similar fate.

The first day, Cone Head learned how to navigate the house and outdoors without catching the edge of the cone on an object.  This was important because Cone Head would freeze when the edge the plastic caught on a door frame or other immovable object.  He wouldn’t back up or move his head.  Just freeze.  Thankfully he only weighed 33 pounds as I had to carry him around quite a bit.  The first night, he slept soundly on a dog bed on the floor of my bedroom.

The second day, he had conquered the house and every edge and object.  He wasn't sure of the front door or stairs so I would carry him outside to the front yard where there was little to block his path.  Cone Head would trot through the freshly cut grass, his head bobbing from side to side as he sniffed the warm summer air.  The second night, he slept in my bedroom, the envy of the other three canines. 

On the third day, Cone Head growled at the other dogs.  He howled.  He barked.  He carried shoes around the house in his mouth.  He was back to his typical self.  He followed me through the front door and into the yard.  He ignored me as I yelled for him to come back.  He outran me in front of the neighbors.  As I jogged down the sidewalk with my flip flops smacking against the hot cement, I wondered how a dog with a cone on his head could outrun and outsmart me.  He finally let me catch him.

In the house, Cone Head discovered that his cone could be used as a weapon.  He rammed the cone of shame into the other dogs.  He pushed the hard plastic into the back of my legs.  I didn’t fall over.  He backed up and tried again, pressing tiny red marks into my skin.  When it was time for bed, I called for him.  He ignored me.  “Fine”, I told him and walked back to the bedroom.  Moments later, the Englishman summoned me to the laundry room where the four-pack’s crate condo was located.  Cone Head had somehow backed into his crate, with the cone of shame (and his head) resting on the floor.  Stubborn dog.  I left him and he was still snoozing soundly in the morning.

Dogs can adapt very quickly to things, I have learned over the years.  George was eating his dry kibble without a problem, in spite of a distinct lack of teeth.  He demanded treats and could catch them with ease.  His stitches will soon be removed from his rapidly healing ear and Cone Head will be no more than a distant memory for him.