Firstly, there was Paloma and then Lilly. Last week, it was Jean’s story about how she found Dhalia. Today, Jean recounts how Ruby came in to the family.
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Ruby
Ruby – picture taken at the end of January, this year.
My house in Mexico was on the beach. There was a door in the wall of the rear courtyard that lead almost directly on to the sand. Most mornings I would rise before dawn to run two or three dogs together along the shore. It was a good arrangement for all of us!
Next door to my house was a duplex that had been rented out to a family that lived in Hermosillo; the capital of the State of Sonora. Every month or so this family would visit for a long weekend. This family, unfortunately, had an autistic daughter who, when not supervised, would open my front gate that led on to the dusty road so she could come in to play with my cats that lived in the front area of my house. That was fine by me when the daughter was in a calm mood but frequently she had screaming fits that would send both my cats and dogs into a state of frenzy. In addition, the family owned a Chihuahua dog that the daughter often carried as if it were a doll.
One month, the family arrived ‘sans Chihuahua‘ with the news that it had died; adding that their daughter was bereft at the loss.
The following day the mother knocked on my door. She explained that they had acquired a new puppy but that it was not eating. What could they do? Would I help?
Of course I went with them to have a look. Sure enough, they had a small puppy, probably no more that three weeks old. “It’s a Chihuahua”, they said. I replied, “Firstly, it’s not a Chihuahua and secondly, it’s far too young to be without it’s mother – you must take the puppy back to the mother”.
Despite much pleading, I could not convince the family to do this. So I did the next best thing and went back home to get replacement milk formula and a tiny feeding bottle. I showed the family how to feed the little puppy and also how to massage its tummy to help it go to the toilet. I was more than a little concerned, to say the least. I just couldn’t see the family going to the effort of feeding the puppy every couple of hours or so; essential to ensuring the tiny dog survived.
I planned to check up how things were going the following day. But didn’t need to. For when opening my front door I found the puppy left on my doorstep. Not even left in a box. The family had returned to Hermosillo.
That little three-week-old puppy is now Ruby; an eight-year-old 80 lbs Shar-Pei mix. After a few weeks of investigation I tracked down Ruby’s mother. She had had 13 pups and was unable to feed them all.
Ruby suffers from skin problems as do many Shar-Peis. Ruby clearly missed out on the mother-puppy relationship; so important for the development of social skills. Accordingly, she is a bit scatty when playing with the other dogs, frequently bowling them over in her enthusiasm. Luckily the other dogs seem to realise that she is missed out as a young puppy and are very forgiving.
After such a shaky start I didn’t even try to find her a home. With countless puppy feeds in the middle of too many nights, I had bonded too deeply.
The family returned to the duplex a couple of months later with a new Chihuahua in tow. I confronted them about Ruby. Their answer was that they had given the puppy to a couple on the beach and it was they who had left the puppy on my front door-step.
Yeah! And the moon is made of green cheese!
Ruby in our kitchen area – picture taken yesterday.
You will recall that yesterday I very briefly mentioned our trip to visit Strawberry Mountain Mustangs, our meeting with Darla and the outcome. Namely, that subject to an adoption agreement being signed and approved we hope to be able to adopt Ranger.
Here is Ranger’s story.
Ranger
Ranger is believed to be a quarter-horse (a quarter thoroughbred, as I now have learnt) that earlier on in his life was a roping and barrel-racing horse. Ranger is a little over 15 hands.
He has been abused in the past. Evidenced by the scars of previous ill-fitting saddles and from being wary of having his ears touched.
Originally Ranger came to Strawberry Mountain because he was found abandoned and starving in an Oregon forest. After he became a settled horse at Strawberry, he was adopted out to a family. But after some months of being ridden he threw his riders by spinning so quickly they came off.
He came back to Darla and eventually was adopted out to a different home. But after some months with his next owners, the habit of spinning riders off his back resurfaced.
Back he came to Darla but his age, he is about 15 years-old, and not being a secure riding horse were against him. Darla was unhopeful that he would ever be found a home.
Hallo, my name’s Jean. Will you come and live with us, Ranger?
But in our case, I don’t know how to ride and Jean is not interested in riding Ranger. His age is a bonus because it reduces the odds of Ranger outliving Jean and me. So Ranger seemed like a perfect match.
Jean and Ranger getting to know each other.
So that’s where we are just now. As we progress in getting our fencing done and our adoption approved (fingers crossed) then there will be more to report. We have come a long way from wild mustangs but this truly feels like the most sensible way to help given that our experience and facilities are not sufficient for us to handle a rescued Mustang.
P.S. the comments and the ‘Likes’ to yesterday’s post were wonderful. Both Jean and I are touched beyond measure.
Yesterday, Sunday, Jean and I went North in Oregon to visit Strawberry Mountain Mustangs to explore the pros and cons of adopting a horse previously rescued by Darla, of Strawberry Mountain. It was a long day and by the time I sat down in front of the PC it was already past 5pm.
So for today going to offer you two pictures from our inspiring time with Darla and all her magnificent horses, most of whom have backgrounds that would make one weep.
Tomorrow, I will write more fully about what we are discovering when it comes to adopting a horse.
Trust me, a horse with its tongue in your ear is very ticklish!
Now of all the things I am not, I am neither a biologist nor a scientist of any description. However, general knowledge told me years ago that the human brain is composed of three areas, as the following diagram shows.
The first time you observe the anatomy of the human brain, its many folds and overlapping structures can seem very confusing, and you may wonder what they all mean. But just like the anatomy of any other organ or organism, the anatomy of the brain becomes much clearer and more meaningful when you examine it in light of the evolutionary processes that created it.
The most efficient model for understanding the brain in terms of its evolutionary history is the famous triune brain theory developed by Paul MacLean. According to this theory, the following three distinct brains emerged successively in the course of evolution and now co-inhabit the human skull:
The reptilian brain, the oldest of the three, controls the body’s vital functions such as heart rate, breathing, body temperature and balance. Our reptilian brain includes the main structures found in a reptile’s brain: the brainstem and the cerebellum. The reptilian brain is reliable but tends to be somewhat rigid and compulsive.
The limbic brain emerged in the first mammals. It can record memories of behaviours that produced agreeable and disagreeable experiences, so it is responsible for what are called emotions in human beings. The main structures of the limbic brain are the hippocampus, the amygdala, and the hypothalamus. The limbic brain is the seat of the value judgments that we make, often unconsciously, that exert such a strong influence on our behaviour.
The neocortex first assumed importance in primates and culminated in the human brain with its two large cerebral hemispheres that play such a dominant role. These hemispheres have been responsible for the development of human language, abstract thought, imagination, and consciousness. The neocortex is flexible and has almost infinite learning abilities. The neocortex is also what has enabled human cultures to develop.
These three parts of the brain do not operate independently of one another. They have established numerous interconnections through which they influence one another. The neural pathways from the limbic system to the cortex, for example, are especially well developed.
I’m well into reading the book Waking The Tiger: Healing Trauma authored by Peter A. Levine. As early as Chapter One, Peter Levine explains [my emphasis]:
The involuntary and instinctual portions of the human brain and nervous system are virtually identical to those of mammals and even reptiles. Our brain, often called the ‘triune brain,’ consists of three integral systems. The three parts are commonly known as the ‘reptilian brain’ (instinctual), the ‘mammalian or limbic brain (emotional), and the ‘human brain or neo-cortex’ (rational). Since the parts of the brain that are activated by a perceived life threatening situation are the parts we share with animals, much can be learned by studying how certain animals, like the impala, avoid traumatization. To take this one step further, I believe that the key to healing traumatic symptoms in humans lies in our being able to mirror the fluid adaptation of wild animals as they ‘shake out’ and pass through the immobility response and become fully mobile and functional.
Unlike wild animals, when threatened, we humans have never found it easy to resolve the dilemma of whether to fight or flee. This dilemma stems, at least in part, from the fact that our species has played the role of both predator and prey. Prehistoric peoples, though many were hunters, spent long hours each day huddled together in cold caves with the certain knowledge that they could be snatched up at any moment and torn to shreds.
Anyway, to get back to what triggered today’s post.
If you read yesterday’s post you will recall me chatting with Jon Lavin and Jon reminding me that humans are drawn to positive messages. But in stark contrast, the news media industry excels in promoting ‘doom and gloom’. Why is this? Why are we so fascinated by danger?
Well here’s my theory.
That is our evolution would not have succeeded if early man didn’t become pretty smart at identifying animal behaviours and plants and fruits that had the capacity to harm or even kill. For example, what parent hasn’t made it a priority to teach their children the difference between harmful fungi and edible mushrooms. Indeed to the extent that most of us would think long and hard before eating any fungi found in the wild unless we were 150% certain it was edible. Look at the following picture. Your instinct tells you if it’s safe to eat or not – it’s not!
So early man became over-sensitised to dangers to his health for his own good and continued existence. While modern man functions in ways almost unrecognisable from early man, that good old reptilian brain still is doing it’s best to protect us (flight, fight or freeze). Think how we all respond to a sudden alarming sound, such as a gun shot or a scream, to know that the old reptilian brain is still alive and well.
Thus while all of us hate negativity we all seem to have this fascination with doom and gloom – just in case it helps us and our loved ones survive.
Back to Jon Lavin. He makes it very clear that anything more than a small amount of ‘doom and gloom’ speaking to our consciousness increases the odds of depression and introversion.
Thus the message is that we humans should allow our Neocortex to tell our Reptilian ‘neighbour’ to go easy on the bad news, go and open a beer and watch the world go by! Whoops! Watch the world go by with a smile!
In yesterday’s post about meeting Dhalia, I spoke about a story that was written three years ago. It was the Summer of 2011 and Jean and I had signed up to a Creative Writing course that was being run at our local college in Payson, Arizona where we were then living. This story was a course exercise. While it was published a couple of years ago on Learning from Dogs the fabulous response to the Meet the dogs – Dhalia post yesterday merits it being offered to you, dear reader, for a second time.
The story is fictional. However, the idea for the story was triggered by an event when we were living in Payson, AZ when Dhalia did run off and was lost for a couple of hours, thankfully finding her own way back to the house. Thus while the event did not take place, the location and names of all concerned are real! The photographs are genuine and selected because they seemed so apt for the story, fictional or otherwise. Hope you enjoy!
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Messages from the Night
by
Paul Handover
Dhalia heads for the hills!
“Jean, where’s Dhalia?”
“Don’t know. She was here just moments ago.”
“Jeannie, you take the other dogs back to the car and I’ll go and scout around for her. Oh, and you better put Pharaoh on the leash otherwise you know he’ll follow me.”
“Paul, don’t worry, Dhalia’s always chasing scents; bet she beats us back to the car. Especially as it’s going to be dark soon.”
Nonetheless, he started back down the dusty, dirt road, the last rays of the sun pink on the high, tumbled cliffs of granite. This high rocky, forest plateau, known as the Granite Dells, just three miles from their home on the outskirts of Payson, made perfect dog-walking country and rarely did they miss an afternoon out here. However this afternoon, for reasons he was unclear about, they had left home much later than usual.
There was no sign of Dhalia ahead on the road so he struck off left, hoping she was somewhere up amongst the trees and the high boulders. Soon he reached the first crest, panting hard in the thin air. Behind him, across the breath-taking landscape, the setting sun had dipped beneath faraway mountain ridges; a magnificent sight. Suddenly, in the midst of that brief pause admiring this perfect evening, a sound echoed around the cliffs. The sound of a dog barking. He bet his life on that being Dhalia. Just as quickly the barking stopped.
Challenging walking country.
The barking started up again, barking that suggested Dhalia was hunting something. The sound came from an area of boulders way up above the pine trees on the other side of the small valley ahead of him. Perhaps, Dhalia had trapped herself. More likely, he reflected, swept up in the evening scents of the wilderness, Dhalia had temporarily reverted back to the wild, hunting dog she had been all those years ago. That feral Mexican street dog who in 2005 had tentatively turned away from scavenging in a pile of rubbish in a dirty Mexican town and shyly approached Jean. An approach that forever more changed the futures for both the dog and Jean. Jean had named her Dhalia.
He set off down to the valley floor and after fifteen minutes of hard climbing had reached the high boulders on the far side.
He whistled, then called “Dhalia! Dhalia! Come, there’s a good girl.” Thank goodness for such a sweet, obedient dog. He anticipated the sound of dog feet scampering through rough undergrowth. But no sound came.
He listened so intently. There were no sounds, no more barking. Where oh where had she gone? Perhaps past these boulders down in the next steep ravine beyond him, the one so densely forested with pine trees. With daylight practically gone he needed to find Dhalia soon.
He plunged down the slope, through tree branches that whipped across his face, then fell heavily as his foot found empty space instead of the expected firm ground. He cursed, picked himself up and paused. That fall had a message. The madness of continuing this search in the near dark. This terrain made very rough going even in daylight. At night, the boulders and plunging ravines would guarantee a busted body, at best! Plus, he ruefully admitted, he didn’t have a clue about finding his way back to the road from wherever he now was!
The unavoidable truth smacked him full in the face. He would be spending this night alone in the high, open forest. It had one hell of a very scary dimension.
He forced himself not to dwell on just how scary it all felt. He needed to stay busy, find some way of keeping warm; last night at home it had dropped to within a few degrees of freezing. He looked around, seeing a possible solution. He broke a small branch off a nearby mesquite tree and made a crude brush with which he swept up the fallen pine needles he saw everywhere about him. Soon he had a large stack of needles sufficient to cover him, or so he hoped. Thank goodness that when he and Jeannie had decided to give the four dogs this late afternoon walk, he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, a pullover thrown over his shoulders. Didn’t make Dhalia’s antics any less frustrating but he probably wasn’t going to freeze to death!
He lay down, shuffled about, swept the pine needles across his body, tried to find a position that carried some illusion of comfort. The air temperature was sinking as if connected to those last rays of the sun. His confidence was sinking in harmony with the temperature. The isolation and loneliness of his predicament was enveloping him like some evil, dark cloud.
No matter the physical position that he adopted with his body, he couldn’t silence his mind. He couldn’t silence the screaming in his head; his deep, primeval fear of this dark forest about him, imagination already running away with visions of hostile night creatures, large and small, watching him, smelling him, biding their time. Perhaps he might sleep for a while and give his imagination a rest? A moment later he was struck by the absurdity of that last thought. Caused him to utter aloud, “You stupid old fool. There’s no way you’re going to sleep through this!” His words echoed back from unseen cliffs nearby in the darkness reinforcing his sense of isolation.
He was very frightened. Why so? Where in his psyche did that come from? He had spent many nights alone at sea without a problem; solo sailing a thousand miles from shore. But, of course, then he knew his location, always had a radio link to the outside world. Being lost in this dark, lonely forest touched something very deep in him. He started shivering.
The slightest movement caused the needles to slip from him and the cold night air began to penetrate his body. He mused about how cold it might get and, by extension, thanked his lucky stars that the night was early October not, say, mid-December. So far, not too cold. But soon it was the fear rather than the temperature that started to devour him. What stupid fool said, ‘Nothing to fear but fear itself!’ His plan to sleep under pine needles, fear or no fear, had failed; he couldn’t get warm. He had to move.
He looked around, faintly saw a boulder a few yards away, like some giant, black shadow. No details, just this huge outline etched against the night. He carefully raised himself, felt the remaining needles fall away from him, and gingerly shuffled across to the dark rock. He half-expected something to bite his extended hand as he explored the surface, ran his fingers down towards the unseen ground. Miracle of miracles, the granite gently emitted the warmth absorbed from the day’s sun. He slowly settled himself to the ground, eased his back against the rock-face, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He felt a great deal less vulnerable than he had when laying on the forest floor and let out a long sigh. Moments later he burst into tears, huge heart-rending sobs coming from deep within him.
Gradually the tears washed away his fear, restored a calmer part of his brain. That calmer brain brought him the realisation that he hadn’t considered, well not up until now, what Jeannie must be going through. At least he knew he was alive. Jeannie, not knowing, would be in despair. He bet she would remember that time when out walking here in this area of the Granite Dells they had lost little Poppy, her adorable 10 lb poodle mix, never to be found again despite ages spent combing the area, calling out her name. A year later and Jeannie still said from time to time, “I so miss Poppy!”. First Poppy and now him! No question, he had to get through this in one piece, mentally as much as physically. Presumably, Jeannie would have called 911 and been connected to the local search and rescue unit. Would they search for him in the dark? He thought that unlikely.
Thinking about Jean further eased his state of mind and at last his shivering stopped. Thank goodness for that! He fought to retain this new perspective. He would make it through, even treasure this night under the sky. This wonderful, awesome, night sky. Even the many crowns of the majestic pine trees that soared way up above him couldn’t mask a sky that just glittered with starlight. The Granite Dells, just outside Payson, were at an elevation of 5,000 feet and, frequently, had beautifully clear skies. Tonight offered a magical example of that.
A heavenly clock.
Often during his life the night skies had spoken to him, presented him with a reminder of the continuum of the universe. On this night, however, he felt more humbled by the hundred, million stars surrounding him than he could ever previously recall.
Time slipped by, his wrist-watch unread in the darkness. Above his head, however, was that vast stellar clock. He scanned the heavens, seeking out familiar pinpoints of light, companions over so much of his lifetime. Ah, yes! There was the Big Dipper; Ursa Major to give the constellation its formal name, and there the Big Dipper pointing the way to Polaris, the star that was so closely aligned to North Pole. Great! Now the rotation of the planet became his watch, the Big Dipper circling around Polaris, fifteen degrees for each hour.
What a situation he had got himself into. As with other challenging times in his life, lost in the Australian bush, at sea hunkering down through a severe storm, there was never a choice other than to work it out. He felt a gush of warm emotions that flowed from this changed perspective.
Far away, a group of coyotes started up a howl. What a timeless sound. How long had coyotes been on the planet? He sank into those inner places of his mind noting how the intense darkness raised such deep thoughts. What if this night heralded the end of his life, the last few hours of the life of Paul Handover? What parting message would he give to those that he loved?
Jeannie would know beyond any doubt how much he had adored her, how her love had created an emotional paradise for him beyond measure. Then his son and daughter, dear Alex and Maija. Oh, the complexities he had created in their lives by leaving their mother so many years ago. He knew that they still harboured raw edges, and quite reasonably so. He still possessed raw edges from his father’s death, way back in 1956. That sudden death, five days before Christmas, so soon after he had turned 12, that had fed a life-long feeling of emotional rejection. That feeling that had lasted for 51 years until, coincidentally, also five days before Christmas, he had met Jean in 2007.
His thoughts returned to Alex and Maija. Did they know, without a scintilla of doubt, that he loved them. Maybe his thoughts would find them. Romantic nonsense? Who knows! Dogs had the ability to read the minds of humans, often from far out of visual range. He knew Pharaoh, his devoted German Shepherd, skilfully read his mind.
He struggled to remember that saying from James Thurber. What was it now? Something about men striving to understand themselves before they die. Would that be his parting message for Alex and Maija? Blast, he wished he could remember stuff more clearly these days and let go of worrying about the quote. Perhaps his subconscious might carry the memory back to him.
He looked back up into the heavens. The Big Dipper indicated at least an hour had slipped by. Gracious, what a night sky in which to lose one’s mind. Lost in that great cathedral of stars. Then, as if through some stirring of his consciousness, that Thurber saying did come back to him: All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why. As last words they would most certainly do for Alex and Maija!
He reflected on those who, incarcerated in solitary confinement, had their minds play many tricks, especially when it came to gauging time. What a bizarre oddment of information to pop up in his head! Where had that come from? Possibly because he hadn’t a clue about his present time. It felt later than 11pm and earlier than 4am, but any closer guess seemed impossible. Nevertheless, from out of these terrible, heart-wrenching hours of being alone he found his calm, a calm that had gently arisen from within. He slept.
Suddenly, a sound slammed him awake. Something had made a sound. Something out there in the dark had made a sound fairly close to him. Now his whole body was totally alert, every nerve straining to identify what might be out there, so close to him. It sounded like animal feet moving through the autumn fall of dead leaves. He prayed it wasn’t a mountain lion. Surely such a wild cat preparing to attack him would be silent. Now the unknown creature had definitely paused, no sound, just him knowing that out there something waited. Now what? The creature had started sniffing. He hoped it was not a wild pig. Javelinas, those pig-like creatures that always moved in groups, could make trouble. He knew they had no qualms at attacking a decent-sized dog and crouched down like this he didn’t offer a much larger target.
Should he get to his feet and run? Almost immediately he answered his own question. In the dark and in this terrain he would harm himself within seconds and that would make him an attractive meal for any meat-eating animal out there. No, he chose to stay still. Feeling the ground around him he closed his right-hand around a small rock. The sniffing stopped. Nothing now, save the sound of his rapid, beating heart. He sensed, sensed strongly, the creature looking directly at him. It seemed very close; perhaps ten or twenty feet away. The adrenalin hammered through his veins.
He tried to focus on the spot where he sensed that the animal waited trying not to think what it might be waiting for. He pushed that line of thought straight out of his head. His ears then picked up a weird, bizarre sound. A flap, flap sound against something like the trunk of a small tree. Surely not! Had he lost his senses? It sounded like a dog wagging its tail. A dog’s tail flap, flap, flapping against a tree-trunk. If it was a dog, it just had to be Dhalia!
Then came that small, shy bark! A bark that he knew so well. Unbelievably, it was Dhalia. He softly called, “Dhalia, Dhalia, come here, there’s a good girl.”
With a quick rustle of feet Dhalia leapt upon him, her tail wagging furiously, her head quickly burrowing into his body warmth. He hugged her and, once more, tears streamed down his face. Despite the darkness, he could see her perfectly in his mind. Her tight, short-haired coat of light-brown hair, her aquiline face, her bright inquisitive eyes and those wonderful head-dominating ears. Lovely large ears that seemed to listen to the world. A shy, loving dog when Jean had rescued her in 2005 and all these years later still a shy, loving dog.
Dhalia licked his tears, her gentle tongue soft and sweet on his skin. He shuffled more onto his back which allowed her to curl up against his chest, still enveloped by his arms. His mind drifted away to an era immensely long ago. Back to an earlier ancient man, likewise wrapped around his dog under a dome of stars, likewise bonded in a thousand mysterious ways. He was unaware of slipping into a deep sleep.
The morning sun arrived as imperceptibly as an angel’s sigh. Dhalia sensed the dawn before Paul, bringing him out of his dreams by the slight stirring of her warm, gentle body.
Yes, there it came, the end of this night. That sun, ancient beyond imagination, galloping towards them across the desert lands; another beat of the planet’s heart. Dhalia slid off his chest, stretched herself from nose to tail, yawned and looked at him, as much to say it’s time to go home! He could just make out the face of his watch: 4.55am. He, too, raised himself, slapped his arms around his body to get some circulation going. The cold air stung his face, yet it couldn’t even scratch the inner warmth of his body, the gift from the loving embrace that he and Dhalia had shared.
They set off and quickly crested the first ridge. Ahead, about a mile away, they saw the forest road busy with arriving search and rescue trucks. Paul noticed Jean’s Dodge parked ahead of the trucks and instinctively knew she and Pharaoh had already disappeared into the forest; undoubtedly Pharaoh sensing the way to them.
Pharaoh and Jean heading up the search.
They set off down the slope, Dhalia’s tail wagging with unbounded excitement, Paul ready to start shouting for attention from the next ridge. They were about to scrabble across a small, dry creek-bed when, across from them, Pharaoh raced out of the trees. He raced up to them, barking at the top of his voice in clear dog speak, ‘I’ve found them, I’ve found them, they’re safe, they’re safe’. Paul crouched down to receive his second huge face lick in less than six hours.
Later, when safely home, it came to him. When they had set off in that early morning light to return back to civilisation, Dhalia had stayed utterly pinned to him. It was so out-of-character for her not to run off ahead. Let’s face it, that’s what got them into the mess in the first place. What came to him was that Dhalia had known that during that long, dark night, it had been he who had been the lost soul.
The message from the night, as clear as the rays of the new day’s sun, the message to pass to all those he loved. If you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found.
There have been previous tales in this series of meeting our dogs. Firstly, Paloma and then Lilly. Now comes Jean’s story about how she found Dhalia.
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Dhalia
Dhalia – domesticated but still the wild dog shows through.
It was a Sunday around the middle of the month of September in the year 2005. My friend, Gwen, and I had set off for La Manga, a small fishing village three miles from San Carlos, Mexico. As the trip would take us through areas of desolate desert and the day was forecast to be a sizzler, we left early. The purpose of the journey was to feed a pack of dogs that were living on the outskirts of La Manga. These wild dogs were gradually getting used to our presence and with the aid of a humane trap we had previously caught two of them, a small puppy and her mother. Those two dogs were at my home and were gradually becoming tame so that good homes could be found for them.
Half-way to our destination, we saw two dogs running by the side of the road. It wasn’t unusual to see strays searching for road-kill. I stopped the car and prepared food and water for them. One dog took off almost immediately but the other just stood perfectly still looking intently at me. She was rail-thin and full of mange. Her ears and chest were scabbed with blood, and I could see that previously she had had pups. Tentatively, I pushed the food towards her. She took a bite and sat on her haunches; her eyes never leaving mine. Then she lifted a paw and reached out to me. Immediately, I burst into tears and scooped her into my arms. I carried her back to the car where she lay quietly in my lap whilst we went on to do our feeding. She was bloody and very smelly. However, I didn’t care.
I named her Dhalia and after treatments for mange she became quite beautiful. She was the pivotal part of a short story Paul wrote back in 2011. [Ed: see note] Under her sweet exterior remains that same will to survive so evident when I rescued her all those years ago. There has been more than one occasion that she has brought me a recently killed squirrel or an ancient bone. We love our Dhalia: she still reaches out with her front paw when she seeks attention. Dhalia will be ten-years-old this year.
Love and Trust – Grandson Morten hugging Dhalia, September 2013.
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NB: Tomorrow, I will publish the short story written three years ago Messages from the Night. Next week another account from Jean about one of our family members.
We interrupt your life to bring you a moment of beauty, part two.
Last week I published the first set of pictures sent across by John Hurlburt. Here is the second set (but do look at the postscript).
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Now a bonus.
I was reading Naked Capitalism earlier on Saturday and came across the link to a story in Huffington Post about a young man who jumped into a swollen river in Bangladesh to rescue a young fawn in danger of being swept away to it’s death. This how that story opens:
Courageous Teen Risks His Life To Save Drowning Baby Deer
This is pretty incredible.
A wildlife photographer visiting Noakhali, Bangladesh, was able to witness — and document — an amazingly courageous teen risk his own life to save a drowning fawn, Caters News Service reports.
The boy waded into the fast current of a surging, swollen river in Noakhali, holding the deer above his head, even as he, himself, disappeared beneath the water at times.
The link in the last sentence takes you to the article as it appeared in The Daily Mail newspaper (online version).
Two of the photographs from that article.
PIC FROM HASIB WAHAB / CATERS NEWS (Pictured: DEER RETURNED SAFELY) – A brave boy fearlessly risked his own life – to save a helpless baby deer from drowning. The boy, believed to be in his early teens, defiantly held the young fawn in one hand above his head as he plunged through the surging river. During the ordeal onlookers were unsure whether the boy was going to appear again. When he finally made it to the other side the locals cheered as the deer was reunited with its family. The incident took place in Noakhali, Bangladesh, when the young fawn became separated from its family during torrential rain and fast-rising floods.
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PIC FROM HASIB WAHAB / CATERS NEWS (Pictured: DEER)
OK, I know I have a tendency to get a little sentimental but here’s my closing thought. That is that while there are people in the world such as young Belal who will not hesitate to rescue a vulnerable creature then there’s hope for all of mankind.
Yet another wonderful opportunity to chuckle at the world.
Sent to me by dear Cynthia Gomez.
This wonderful collection of sayings from America’s ‘South’ reminded me of the incredibly rich local accents that one experienced all over Britain. Despite being born a Londoner, I spent many of the years before switching home countries from England to America living in the County of Devon in the South-West of England. Here are two images to show those unfamiliar with England where I was living.
County of Devon. Cornwall to the West. Somerset to the East.
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Home used to be in the village of Harberton, 3 miles South-West of Totnes.
Thus anyone born and bred in this part of Devon frequently had a strong South Devon accent. My brother-in-law, John, used to chat to some old Devon fella’s in the local pubs that had accents impossible to understand by such newcomers as me.
So with no further ado, enjoy the following.
ooOOoo
Florida
A Florida senior citizen drove his brand new Corvette convertible out of the dealership. Taking off down the road, he pushed it to 80 mph, enjoying the wind blowing through what little hair he had left. “Amazing,” he thought as he flew down I-95, pushing the pedal even more.
Looking in his rear view mirror, he saw a Florida State Trooper, blue lights flashing and siren blaring. He floored it to 100 mph, then 110, then 120. Suddenly he thought, “What am I doing? I’m too old for this!” and pulled over to await the trooper’s arrival.
Pulling in behind him, the trooper got out of his vehicle and walked up to the Corvette. He looked at his watch, then said, “Sir, my shift ends in 30 minutes. Today is Friday. If you can give me a new reason for speeding — a reason I’ve never before heard — I’ll let you go.
“The old gentleman paused then said: “Three years ago, my wife ran off with a Florida State Trooper. I thought you were bringing her back.
“Have a good day, Sir,” replied the trooper.
Georgia
The owner of a golf course in Georgia was confused about paying an invoice, so he decided to ask his secretary for some mathematical help.
He called her into his office and said, “Y’all graduated from the University of Georgia and I need some help. If I wuz to give yew $20,000, minus 14%, how much would you take off?”
The secretary thought a moment, and then replied, “Everthang but my earrings.”
Louisiana
A senior citizen in Louisiana was overheard saying … “When the end of the world comes, I hope to be in Louisiana .”When asked why, he replied, “I’d rather be in Louisiana ’cause everythang happens in Louisiana 20 years later than in the rest of the world.”
Mississippi
The young man from Mississippi came running into the store and said to his buddy, “Bubba, somebody just stole your pickup truck from the parking lot!”
Bubba replied, “Did y’all see who it was?”
The young man answered, “I couldn’t tell, but I got the license number.”
North Carolina
A man in North Carolina had a flat tire, pulled off on the side of the road, and proceeded to put a bouquet of flowers in front of the car and one behind it. Then he got back in the car to wait.
A passerby studied the scene as he drove by, and was so curious he turned around and went back. He asked the fellow what the problem was.
The man replied, “I got a flat tahr.”
The passerby asked, “But what’s with the flowers?”
The man responded, “When you break down they tell you to put flares in the front and flares in the back. I never did understand it neither.”
Tennessee
A Tennessee State trooper pulled over a pickup on I-65. The trooper asked, “Got any ID?”
The driver replied, “Bout whut?”
Texas
The Sheriff pulled up next to the guy unloading garbage out of his pick-up into the ditch. The Sheriff asked, “Why are you dumping garbage in the ditch? Don’t you see that sign right over your head.”
“Yep,” he replied. “That’s why I’m dumpin’ it here, ’cause it says: ‘Fine For Dumping Garbage.’
ooo
“Y’all kin say whut y’all want ’bout the South, but y’all never heard o’ nobody retirin’ an’ movin’ North.
A genuine cry for help for a pig that needs its toenails cut!
Regulars will be tempted to conclude that this old Brit has really lost the plot! After all, in this fifth year of writing Learning from Dogs, representing a total approaching 2,000 posts, there has been not one mention of the pig; the animal that is! Until now!
Let me explain.
One of the consequences of the NaNoWriMo experience is that I have become aware of a number of other writers, all of them far more competent than yours truly, I’m bound to say. I was also encouraged to join the writers social media website, WattPad. (for those interested, my WattPad user name is LearningFromDogs – yes, I know, it wasn’t very original!)
One of those authors is Melinda Roth and I have been reading her Blog: Anyone Seen My Horse. A recent blog post concerned one of Melinda’s pigs that, as a result of being unable to use its rear legs, can’t naturally wear down its ‘toe nails’.
While the post contains a strong humorous thread, nonetheless the issue is far from funny for the pig.
So, please, if you know what to do for this poor pig, or you know someone who does know, please make the connection, or leave a comment to this post. So with Melinda’s kind permission here is the republication of her recent post.
ooOOoo
My Pig’s Toenails
POSTED ON JANUARY 26, 2014
The publicists says I should be plugging the book, but I have a more immediate concern: the fact that I received no good advice from my last post about how to cut my pig’s toenails.
One person did suggest that I use my pigs for “sustenance.” Which crossed my mind. But I can’t eat anything that I’ve had to clean up after. Which means I am now a vegetarian and still have a partially paralyzed pig who needs her toenails cut.
Besides, this is what they looked like when they first arrived:
And who could eat that?
Unlike the other animals on the farm (back story >), the pigs were a gift . My kids gave them to me for my birthday, and how do you tell your children – who think they’ve just given you the best present ever – that you have too many (bleep)ing animals already? They bought them from a breeder who called them “teacup” pigs and promised they’d never weigh more than 30 pounds.
Right. And I’m Lady Godiva riding gloriously naked across the horizon on my well-behaved steed.
Are there any attorneys out there who can, in the name of civil justice, do anything about this…
(See that fake smile on my son-in-law’s face? He was part of the best-birthday-present-ever conspiracy, and whenever he comes to the farm, he pets the pigs and smiles and tries to pretend like they’re still cute in an effort to cover up his culpability. He thinks I’m stupid).
At first, when the pigs were still under 30 pounds, I let them live in the house. I dressed them in pink sweaters and painted their toenails. I gave them cute names, which I’ve long forgotten, because once they started expanding (75 pounds in six months) and ramming the kitchen table whenever they got hungry and pooping things that looked like meatloaves out of their butts, I started calling them “those things” which is the only name they go by now. More specifically: Thing 1 and Thing 2.
As soon as the weather warmed up, I decided they should be free-roaming things and relocated them outside. I put them in a small barn with the chickens where they had their own separate apartment with a dog house big enough for both of them and all of their blankets and toys. They roamed the property at will and thrived: 125 pound by age one; 150 pounds by age two; 200 pounds currently and still counting.
They got so fat that after a while, you couldn’t see their legs anymore. Then they got fatter and their eyes disappeared under rolls of eyebrow blubber. They got so fat that when one of them meandered out to the road, she blocked traffic (two pick-ups and the mail delivery car) for 20 minutes until I finally coaxed her back into the yard with crescent roll dough.
The last straw was when one of them got stuck in the dog house door. She panicked and squeal/screamed so loudly, the neighbors half a mile down the road called 911, because they thought someone was being murdered (they later told me they didn’t know what the horrible sound was but seemed like something to call 911 about). By the time the sheriff arrived, the pig had dragged herself out of the barn and into the yard, still screaming, dog house still attached to her body.
The sheriff’s first reaction was to reach for his gun (and I must admit, I didn’t do much to stop him). But then his SWAT training must have kicked in: He whipped off his jacket; ran down the dog house; and, then leaped onto its roof, which weighed it down just enough for the screaming pig to pull her body the rest of the way out.
After that, the pigs went on a diet. Nothing but water and lettuce for a week. That, however, didn’t go over well, and they decided to run away from home, which meant the sheriff’s next visit happened after another neighbor called 911 to report “big, black things” attacking her garbage cans.
By the time the pigs were two-and-a-half years old, they were no longer pigs: They were humongous, hairy, black cows with no legs or eyes. Because they couldn’t see so well, they ran into things a lot, and when one of them ran into a small hole in the ground, she threw out her back, which paralyzed her hind legs.
The veterinarian’s suggested that she be “put down.”
Had the sheriff shot her or the mail delivery truck run her over, I wouldn’t have lost too much sleep. But to actually cause the death of something… well, I figure almost anything is better than being dead. Even if you have to drag yourself around by your front legs like a beached walrus it’s probably better than not being. So I let her live.
And now… her toenails have grown to be about seven inches long, because she can’t move around enough to wear them down. I tried to cut them back when they started a life of their own, but she weighs 250 pounds now and does not want anyone messing with her toes.
Thus, this post. Is there ANYONE out there who knows about this stuff?
Learning from Dogs 