Thanksgiving and Christmas will be here soon.

Little Smokie

Rocky

Here we are beginning a new week. The weather has been lousy this weekend and I have had a quiet time with Lexie and Smokie, my sister's dearly loved pup. Smokie is now twelve years old. The years fly by. I remember when she was a sweet little puppy who loved to bite Rocky's neck, his ears, the backs of his legs when she had those sharp baby teeth. He was such a gentle fellow he never even growled at her. He is gone now, she is the older one and my Lexie is the younger. They get along beautifully. I think Lexie loves Smokie. Recently when I put down a full water bowl for them, Lexie began drinking but when Smokie tried to drink also, Lexie stepped back and let her have all she wanted. Animals have their own way of communicating and showing their affection and respect for each other.

Lexie in the sunshine

I spent this weekend sleeping mostly as I am enduring a spell of nerve pain. I had wanted to attend an outdoor ceremony for some of my fellow writers and friends who wrote and published picture books for children. The publisher and illustrator came to Young Harris, GA to the library where she placed a beautiful mural on the outside wall. Each book by the local authors is represented on that mural.

Visit  www.muraltrail.com  to learn more.  Doreyl Cain is the illustrator of these large murals and her company installs them in places where they can be seen twenty-four hours a day. We have one in Hayesville, NC. You can see it on the website. 

My most recent memoir class has ended. 

We had a great group of students, and I think they are motivated to continue to write their unique stories. I plan to hold another series of classes in the spring of 2022. I teach online and find that works really well for me. I have had to experiment and learn new ways to reach my students, but they seem to enjoy the experience and that makes me happy.

Next Friday evening at 7:00 PM, I will host Writers' Night Out on Zoom. 

Our guest will be Ed Southern who will talk about and read from his new book, Fight Songs. Ed is the Executive Director of the NC Writers' Network and author of several books. You can read my interview with Ed on the Netwest Writers blog.  https://netwestwriters.blogspot.com/2021/10/glenda-beall-interviews-ed-southern.html

The book is about how sports affect people in the south and how the pandemic affected fans during 2020 when we had lockdowns and other restrictions. I am not a sports fan but this book has humor and also hard facts and even ugly facts about our beloved southland. 

I continue to have work to do with my job as NCWN-West program coordinator. I like to be busy with work I enjoy. I also plan to submit more of my poems and stories for publication. That is not fun.

As we look forward to the holidays, I wonder how our country will deal with the pandemic still going on. I was told that we had 14 cases of COVID last week and that means we have a healthy county. I guess I won't consider us to be healed until I hear that we have no cases of this virus among us.

I have had all my shots, my booster, and my flu shot so my vaccinations are up to date. Still, you will not find me out in a crowd. I will try to buy locally, but I am already ordering by mail. It isn't the gift but the giver that matters to me. I am as thrilled by a sweet card as I am by a present. 

I hope you, my friends, have a safe and healthy holiday season. Leave me a message or send me an email. I love to hear from you.

Grief, mourning and going on with life

My readers know I love animals, especially dogs and horses. My horse, Pretty Thing, lived to be 32 years old and was my darling. My poodle, Brandy, lived to be 19 years old. 

All of our pets except for one, lived to ripe old age. They were treated well, fed well and well-loved. We had the reputation of having pets that lived forever.

But, no matter how old they are, when it is time to let them pass on or when they die unexpectedly as our Nikki did, we grieve. We grieve as we would if any family member was gone. 

Over the years I have made a study of grief and why we grieve more over some and not so much over others although we loved them all.

The first person that I knew well and loved dearly, and who died suddenly in his fifties, was my brother-in-law, Stan. I was about six or seven years old when he burst into our family with his big smile, his boisterous nature, his laughter, and his hugs. I knew and loved him as much as I did any of my brothers for two decades and more. So I grieved and mourned his passing deeply. His presence in my life was far bigger than anyone knew. I think of him as the loving father I didn't have and the big brother who was not embarrassed to show his love for me. His passing left a place that can't be filled. 

Brandy, my black miniature poodle, was the first big loss in my animal family. You can find his shortened story in Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins, Family Pets and God's Other Creatures. This little fellow was a wedding gift to me from my husband, Barry. I liken living with Brandy to raising a wild, but precious boy-child. He was not obedient and was very destructive, causing us to have to move to the country when he demolished our first apartment.

Brandy lived on the edge. When he had the opportunity to take a risk, he did it. The cows grazed quietly in the pasture near our house. They were enclosed by a three-strand barbed-wire fence.  Of course the fence meant nothing to my dog. And the cows looked much to peaceful and content to him. If he was outside his pen, he didn't waste time scooting under the barbed wire and making a bee line for the herd. 

As I stood yelling and screaming at him to come back, Brandy circled the bovines barking at the top of his lungs. At first they ignored him, but, I suppose his noise-making got under their skin. Eventually one of the black and white milk cows had enough. She raised her head, looked at the yapping dog, and headed straight for him. That was the signal, it seemed, for the other cows to do the same. Big heads came up and the entire herd of forty started toward the little black dog.

Back in my yard, I continued to yell at Brandy. Now I was calling, "Brandy, come here" "Brandy run! Run, run, run!"

The mischievous little guy got just what he wanted. Every single cow was now after him, chasing him across the pasture. Brandy knew where he was going and they followed. At times I thought they were gaining and were going to trample him, but he stayed just about ten feet ahead of the lead cow, looking back from time to time, his red tongue hanging out of his mouth. 

He came home just as I wanted, but he brought an entourage of hoof beats from forty beasts pounding right behind him.

I stood rigid, holding my breath, scared senseless, and praying that my little buddy would make it. Afraid to look! I could not stand to see his body mangled by the sharp hooves. 

But Brandy was shrewd. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I am sure he was laughing in his own doggy way.

He slowed down just enough to let the cows think they were going to get him, and then he skittered under the bottom strand of wire with their hot breath on his curly coat. 

He ran around the yard, then jumped up on me. I knew what he was thinking. "See Momma, I didn't get hurt, and I had a lot of fun."

Brandy Beall lived to be nineteen years old, was nearly blind and totally deaf. I found him stretched out on the carpet in my bedroom one rainy afternoon. He didn't wake up.

My days and my nights were not the same without Brandy. I missed him so much I could not speak his name or talk about him to others for months. 

I believe we grieve most those whose lives are entwined with our own, those whose very existence is a part of who we are. Husbands and wives miss each other more because they have become almost one person over the years as my husband and I did. When everywhere you look, everything you see, touch or feel reminds you of your loss, the pain just grows deeper.

I know that Stan, my brother-in-law, made a giant impression on me from the earliest days of knowing him. What made him most special to me, when I was a kid, was he listened to me. I could tell him what vexed me and what made me happy. He knew what I loved and what I did not love, what I feared and what I was not scared of. He approved of me and let me know it. When he didn't approve, he let me know. His death left a hole in my life too big to ever be replaced. 

My little Brandy gave me memories I still cherish and always will. He loved me unconditionally, as our dogs usually do. He and I were so attached that I often think Barry was jealous of my attention to him.

For months I would forget he was gone. I looked for him around me, expecting him to be near me. Then the punch in the gut came, feeling the emptiness when it dawned on me that I had buried him out by the stable. 

They say that tears of grief are just ways of showing you loved someone, and I shed many when I lost my three brothers, my sister, my dear sister-in-law, my parents and my beloved husband.  I didn't think I could endure all those losses of people I love. But I have. What choice do I have?

I have lost my sweet, loving Samoyd, Kodi, and Rocky, the best dog ever.

I grieved more and more. So much sadness, and I still cry over those I loved, human and animal, who have gone on. But each day arrives with new possibilities. 

What will I learn today? What can I do, what will I do, today that might make a difference? I know I will mourn for the rest of my life, but somehow, I found a way to departmentalize grief while going on with living. I hurt for those who cannot do that. 

I hope your holidays will be happy and filled with fun and good memories. Make great memories this year. Don't let petty things from the past cause hurt feelings or sadness. I found that being thankful for my family, my friends and for still being alive on this earth to enjoy each sunrise and each sunset gives me peace. 

Is there anything more fun than a new puppy?

I have now had a darling little baby, Lexie, for about three weeks, and she is controlling my life to a certain extent although I am determined not to spoil her.

She weighs only five pounds

How could anyone resist that little face?

Lexie is a Chi-Weenie, a mix of Chihuahua and dachshund. She has long ears that stand up like a jackrabbit's and a long body like a weenie dog. We think she is about three months old.

She is not the prettiest dog I've ever had, but she is loved. Barry and I always had dogs in our family for as long as we had a home, 45 years. A couple of years after Barry died, our sweet Rocky had to be put down. He had a terrible illness that I believe was a brain tumor.

I decided I would not get another dog. After all, they die on you. I wanted to be done with grief. I had lost my husband, three of my brothers, my parents, and a sister. I grieve over the loss of my pets just as I do a family member. Well, they are family members. At least all of our dogs were loved like a member of the family. They lived in our homes and were our constant companions. 

Brandy, the miniature poodle was our first. Barry gave him to me a week after we were married. Brandy soon owned us and we obeyed his every wish for nineteen years. Poodles are such people-dogs, that it is hard to leave them, even with someone they love. He mourned when we were away. After all, he didn't know if we were coming back. 

Our next dogs were Samoyeds, the most beautiful dogs in the world to me. Nicki died when he was only two years old from a mysterious malady the vet could not explain. Barry could hardly stand it until we found another snow white puppy and that was Kodi who lived to be fourteen. He was my shadow and I adored him. While I was grieving over having to put him down on Christmas Day, Barry found Rocky who had been put out on the road by the Chatuge Dam. And so began another love affair with a wonderful dog. He and Barry were inseparable until Barry passed away. Then Rocky realized he had only me and we were best friends going back and forth to Roswell where we visited family. I'll always remember Rocky as the most gentle, loving dog who let other dogs he liked, take his bed or eat his food. He would even let the cat have his bed.

Now after time has eased the pain of losing Rocky, little Lexie has come into my life like a bright star that had been waiting until the right time to fall into my lap. She is smart, too smart at times, and is going to be a great dog when she is house trained. She snuggles with me and sleeps nestled up beside me until I put her in her own bed. She sleeps there without making a sound until I wake up in the morning. 

There is more to Lexie's story and I'll tell it soon, but this is enough for now.

A Family Story from my collection

I am compiling a manuscript of family stories. Madness is one of them. Let me know what you think of it. 

Madness

By

Glenda Beall

It was summer and the hot August sun beat down on the fields and pastures surrounding our white frame farmhouse in southwest Georgia.  My sister Gay and I played with our dolls on the covered front porch while Fluffy, a black curly dog near the front screen-door, slept. She had been given to us when she was a puppy, and we loved her. I often buried my face in her soft fur and squeezed her in a tight hug. She licked my face to show me she loved me as well. Wherever Gay and I played, under the huge oak tree beside the house or on the porch, Fluffy was always close by as if she had appointed herself babysitter.

Our playtime was interrupted when Mother rushed out on the porch, grabbed each of us by the arm and hurried us inside.  We were forced to leave our dolls and Fluffy behind.

Being grabbed so quickly and seeing my usually calm mother in such a dither, I cried, “Mother, what’s wrong?”

“There’s a strange dog in the yard.  He looks dangerous. Stay inside until he’s gone," she said. 

It was then we saw through the screen door, the large brown dog coming from behind the house.  Mother had noticed him from the kitchen window, his muzzle white with foam, slobber dripping down in long streams. He seemed intent on a mission, looking for a victim.

Mother called to Fluffy, "Come here, come inside, Fluffy."

But Fluffy would not come. Mother did not believe in having pets in the house. Fluffy had never been inside. She ran down the steps heading for the place where she felt secure, her bed under the porch. It was the only refuge she knew.

The strange dog saw her and followed. In minutes we heard Fluffy’s pitiful yelps. I wanted to go to her. I pushed on the screen door, but Mother would not let me open it. I stood safely inside and called Fluffy until she finally came up on the porch. I let out a sigh of relief. I saw no blood. She looked fine to me. I wanted to run out to her and give her a big hug. There was no sign of another dog in the yard. 

“He didn’t hurt her, Mother,” I said. “She’s not bleeding or anything.”

Still, Mother insisted we stay inside away from Fluffy who was back on the porch, licking her fur, cleaning herself of the terrible ordeal she had experienced.

My father and brothers came home for the noonday meal, and Daddy examined our friendly pet. He found bite wounds we had not seen. The rabid dog had done the damage. Daddy locked Fluffy in a cage beside the barn. She would be fed and given fresh water as he watched for signs of illness. She was quarantined, a word my sister and I did not know.

 Her sad brown eyes begged for our pats and hugs, and when we approached she wagged her bushy tail. But we could only talk to her from a distance and tell her how sorry we were that she had to stay in the cage.  We missed her and every day we asked, “How much longer does she have to stay shut up?”

One day Gay and I went out to visit Fluffy and found the cage shut tight, but our beloved dog was not there.

“Mother, Fluffy’s gone. What happened to her?” I ran inside to the person who always made things right. Tears ran down my cheeks. Somehow I knew she couldn't fix this problem. She seemed as sad as I was, but I couldn't help my anger toward her. If only Fluffy had been an inside pet.

We were little girls and no one wanted to tell us Fluffy had to be euthanized. Daddy said she must have gotten out of the cage somehow. He evidently wanted us to believe she escaped and wondered away. Even today my older brother tells me he doesn't know what happened to our pet.

I knew Fluffy would never have left us. No matter what we were told, Gay and I believed she had been destroyed. I vowed then and there, at the age of six, that when I was grown up and had my own house, I’d have my own dog, and he would sleep in the house and even sleep in my bed so that I could protect him.

We had other dogs as I grew up. They were family pets. Brit was an English Shepherd that was killed when she was run over in our yard by a neighbor kid.  Turbo, a purebred Cocker Spaniel, was given to us by an Air Force officer who was going overseas. That was a big mistake. That fine animal deserved a home where he was groomed daily and fed treats, curled up by the fireplace. Instead he ran out and collected sand-spurs and burrs in his lush coat. He went to the field with my brothers and my father. Turbo rode in the pickup and acted like a hound dog. He disappeared one day, and we never saw him again. I always hoped he had found a better place to live.

One week after my wedding day, I was finally able to fulfill the promise I had made to myself. My husband Barry, who also loved dogs, gave me a puppy, a miniature black poodle, that we named Brandy.  This lovable little animal quickly owned our house and both of us. In many ways he looked like Fluffy with his dark curly coat, his deep expressive eyes that could read my mind. For nineteen years I kept him safe in spite of his mischievous ways, his daredevil personality, and his stubbornness. But one afternoon, his old body gave out as he slept in our bedroom. It was raining. Barry was out of town. Alone, I buried him under the trees behind our back yard.

Since that time I've opened my heart to other dogs – Nicki and Kodi, the Samoyeds, so pristine white, always smiling and loving – Rocky, the rescued mix, who was Barry’s dog, but won my heart even as I grieved for Kodi. We protected them well, loved them and they loved us. Each one had his own personality, his peculiar traits just the way humans do. They all lived long and good lives except for Nicki who died at the age of two from a mysterious malady no one understood. All of them lived in our house and Brandy slept in our bed. The bigger dogs had their own beds or slept wherever they wanted. 

Rabies is a terrible disease, and found in wild animals in our area even today. I am grateful that my mother was vigilant enough to protect my sister and me, even if she couldn't save sweet Fluffy. 

Babysitting Smokie and Sunny

Since our beloved Rocky died a year ago, I have not owned a dog. I borrow dogs to fill that compulsive need to hold a loving adorable canine in my arms. This week I am dog-sitting my two most favorite dogs, Sunny and Smokie. Sunny is a Maltese mix, a four-year-old beseeching and beguiling little thing who quickly became Alpha dog when she was rescued from a shelter to be shy Smokie's sister.

She has a thick coat of blond hair, a curly tail, and learned along the way to stand on her hind legs and beg by pumping her front legs, up and down, over and over, until she gets her treat. Her owner grooms her dogs and creates the cutest little faces. See Sunny below.

Loving Sunny

Smokie, the tiny miniature Schnauzer, has silky coat , mostly silver. She is not groomed in the typical squared Schnauzer cut, but more like a poodle puppy cut.

She wakes me each morning by climbing on my chest, her little nose just inches from my face. Having her here reminds me of how much I loved my four-legged companions.

Adorable Smokie

But, having them both here reminds me of how much attention is required when one owns a dog or any pet. 
Barry and I had five dogs. All of them lived long lives except one that became ill and died quickly from an unknown cause.

Brandy, a miniature poodle, had a stubborn streak and was mischievous as they come. Topaz, a German Shepherd, was more dog than I could handle, and we found a better home for her. Nicky, our first Samoyed, stole my heart when he arrived as a puppy and left us too soon. Kodi, my shadow, a Sammy who lived thirteen years, lingers in my memory still. Rocky, a mixed breed rescue, died at fourteen, and he was the most gentle and adaptable of all our dogs.

Resident cat, Tiger, takes the dogs in stride.
She learned a long time ago, although Smokie will bark and try to play, if she simply ignores all the commotion, the dogs will leave her alone.

Sweet Tiger

I am looking for someone who loves cats to give Tiger a good home or someone who will keep her when I go to Florida in 2014. I will pay for all of her food and litter, if she can "board" with someone who will give her some time and attention. Tiger loves, loves people and I hate to leave her alone with only a brief visit from a pet sitter once a day. She deserves so much more.

Do you have a special pet? Have you had one that was especially dear? 

Love Myself Week Continues

As loving myself week continues, I have been loved also by others.

                           Smokie, so tiny and adorable
 Keeping two precious little dogs for my sister, Gay, has given me the great opportunity to give lots and lots of love and get tons back. Smokie, the miniature schnauzer steals my heart when she looks at me and gets so excited simply because I am there.

Sunny is a Maltese mix, about three years old

Sunny, the larger fuzzy one loves to be in someone's lap all the time. I realized being with the two of them how much I miss my Rocky, and my Kodi, and Nicki and my first born, Brandy.

Sunny taking a breather from wrestling with Smokie

I can measure the life of my marriage with the life spans of these four dogs. Brandy, a small black bundle of curly fur, came into my life the week after our honeymoon, and he was with me almost twenty years. 

He was the mischievous and humanistic dog that won over the heart of my own dear mother. We say Brandy was Mother's favorite grandchild. 

I didn't search for Nicki and had no idea I wanted him in my life until a foxy friend asked me to keep him, a snow-white bundle of fur only a couple of months old, and before she came home, we had bought a dog house and a crate for him. She laughed later and said she knew she had hooked us and we would never think of returning him.

We lost Nicki before he was three years old to some malady the veterinarian never explained. I think we lost him because I was caught up in caring for my mother who was very ill at the time. I did not notice the signs of Nicki's illness until it was too late.

Kodi Beall more beautiful than my azaleas in south Georgia

Because of Nicki and how adorable he was, we soon found another Samoyd pup who was meant to be with us. Kodi gave us both such joy. One day while I was gone to work, he pulled a 100 foot water hose into the house through the pet door. It must have kept him busy for hours. He seemed quite proud of himself as he sat in the midst of it smiling as Sammys do. Kodi was my shadow and a good traveler. Already a decade old when we moved to the mountains, he had to learn to climb stairs for the first time in our house in Hayesville. But he did it and managed getting to the pet door and outside to his fenced yard then back up again.

Kodi developed corneal ulcers on his shiny black eyes and I had to drive him down to Athens Georgia to a dog ophthalmologist. The doctor scraped off the ulcers and inserted contact lenses for my dog to wear. We found out quickly that the only way to keep the lenses in was to put a bell collar on his neck. Poor baby. He hated that thing. And I hated it because he couldn't go out through the pet door. I had to let him in and out. 

While Barry and I loved our mountain house, the stairs became Kodi's nemesis and in time his hips began to fail him. He was thirteen years old when we set him free of his pain. I grieved so over that sweet dog that I thought I could never love another one. I didn't want another one and I said so loud and clear.

But, as my friend Debbie told me, God knew more about what I needed than I did. On a cold January day as we walked over near the Hiawassee River dam, we saw a handsome pup, black and tan, with a cropped tail, under a tree -- waiting. It was obvious to me he was waiting for whoever dropped him off there to come back and get him. He would have nothing to do with Barry who tried to pet him.

We talked about how awful it was for someone to abandon a young dog like that, but we came on home. Later, my kind-hearted husband couldn't stand it. Concerned about the pup, he took dog food over for him. About an hour later he arrived home with the mut.

I tried as hard as I could to find his owner, but he was certainly meant to be with us. Barry named him Rocky and the two of them were constantly together. While I don't compare my dogs, Barry said Rocky was the best dog we ever had. He was the only mixed breed, the only rescue, and he was indeed a wonderful dog. Hardly any trouble from the time he arrived. He loved to travel and we could take him anywhere as long as we took his bed. He was so gentle, he never bothered another dog or cat. When Tiger the cat moved in, Rocky came to love her so much he licked her like she was his puppy. She rolled over on her back and basked in his attention. He fell for Smokie, the miniature schnauzer when she came along and put up with her puppy bites even in his old age. 

He mourned Barry but consoled me during those difficult days and nights. At the age of fourteen, he became ill with something the docs could not diagnose. I believe he had a brain tumor. It almost killed me to have to put him down, but it was the only way to stop his pain. 

Rocky loved to ride in the convertible with Barry 

Now I have no dog of my own and I'm not sure I want to go through losing another loved one like that. I think I will continue to dog sit for Gay and Stu and get my puppy love from Smokie and Sunny.

My life has been enriched by my four legged friends. I can't imagine how much I'd have missed had I not had them. I can think of any one of them and smile. Some of my memories make me laugh out loud. Someday I want to write a book about each of them and how they made our lives so rich.

Rocky waiting on the deck for his master to come home

Do you have beloved pets? Want to tell us about them?

Cats and Dogs Don't Have to Fight

Tiger, the resident cat and my boss, has become quite comfortable with her cousins, Smokie and Sunny.

Smokie, the youngest of this clan, tried to get Tiger to play with her for the longest time, but now she just sniffs Tiger when they meet and then ignores her. Who said dogs and cats can't get along?

Sunny, a rescued three year old, could have been a real thorn in Tiger's side, but she chose to work on getting all the attention offered by the humans in the group. And who could resist that face?

Rocky loved Tiger and gave her big sloppy kisses. She adored him and mourned for him when he died.

One wonders why some dogs and cats don't get along. They are like those humans who become violent with total strangers, shoot into cars of people they don't know, pick a fight because of the color of another's skin, or hair or because he looked a certain way. I think it all has to do with how they are raised. 

I have never had a pet that was vicious or would bite, and I've had big dogs, little dogs and several cats. My dogs and cats loved each other. Why was that? What caused them to change their innate nature?

Maybe it was because we expected more from them, we loved them and did not show violence toward them. We never hit our dogs or cats, and treated them better than some little children I've seen in the grocery store who were slapped or yelled at or yanked up by one arm and swatted on the bottom while the parent screamed dirty words at them. How can a child be expected to learn non-violence when all he sees at home is anger and rage?

MY DOG ROCKY, STILL WITH ME TONIGHT

July 21 is not a good day for me. Yesterday, already feeling blue, I cleaned up after my old buddy, Rocky, who threw up on the carpet just as I was getting ready to leave for a doctor’s appointment out of town. Rocky is around fourteen years old. We don’t know his exact birthday. We found this wonderful dog when he was approximately six months old. He had been abandoned near the Chatuge dam, a place often used as a dumping place for unwanted dogs.

It was hard to believe that anyone would leave such a handsome pup near the road where he might be hit by a car. He fearlessly stood his ground under a tree, shunning those who might want to put their hands on him. When I saw him as Barry and I walked by, I commented that he seemed determined to stay in that spot as though he was waiting for that certain person to come and get him. Little did I know he would end up at my house and become my shadow in his later years after his master passed away.

Yes, Barry spent an hour coaxing the pup into his arms and into his Jeep. It was a shorter time before the pup became Rocky, and Rocky became a devoted pal to Barry.

For twelve years the rescued dog and the gentle man who loved him, were inseparable.
I knew when I arrived home late in the day I’d find the two of them on the deck, Barry in his rocking chair, enjoying the woods and the creatures that lived there, and Rocky curled up near his feet.

As my mother would have said, this dog doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. To know Rocky is to love him. He has fans everywhere. When we brought home Tiger, a grown cat, Rocky accepted her immediately. Now he licks her ears and her face until she finally has more of all that loving than she wants..
 I hated to leave my dog yesterday with his big brown eyes beseeching me. Don’t go, he seemed to be saying as I left at 10:30 a.m. I knew he wasn’t well, but I planned to be back home by early afternoon. I’d call the vet if he wasn’t feeling better then.

But my doctor visit stretched out into several hours and soon I realized I’d not get home in time to take him to the vet if he was really sick. I called my friend Denise and luckily she was home. She went to see how Rocky was doing. She found he had vomited two more times and was so lethargic he wouldn’t get out of his bed. He was twitching and acting strangely, she said to me on the phone. She called my vet and met me there with Rocky. I had to leave him overnight hooked up to tubes for hydration. The vet had no idea what was wrong.

On my way home to get Rocky’s bed, my car suddenly stalled in the middle of the road. I started it and drove a few miles but it stalled again. The third time it stopped I had turned on the road where I live, and I managed to pull into a parking lot where I left it. My neighbor Alice responded to my call for help, as she often does, and drove me over to take Rocky’s bed to him. I knew  he would be much happier if he had his bed.

So I was without my dog and without my car that I need and love so much. I knew I’d get my car back eventually, but I feared that my beloved pet would not return to me. Only two years ago, July 21, Rocky’s master was taken from us by cancer and a poor medical system.

I will be bereft if Rocky leaves me, too. He is almost fourteen years old. Quite elderly by dog standards. And I am trying to prepare myself. However, tonight July 22, Rocky is home again, and has eaten some broth and rice; he drank a little water and went outside to urinate though walking is quite difficult.
He responds when I talk to him although he is on pain meds, antibiotics and something to help his digestion.
 Maybe he'll hang on a while longer.

Dog Lover or Cat Lover? Do You Love Both?

Are you a dog or cat lover? Do you love both? Most people seem to be either one or the other. We have had cats and dogs throughout the years of our marriage.

Our present cat, Tiger, a Manx cat

In our early marriage years, we got our first cat when we found mice in the house. After a few failed rat traps, a smelly, smelly incident when a mouse died in the innards of the sofa, we gave in and found us a pretty kitty at the dairy barn where cats multiplied faster than the rats and kept the barn yard free of vermin.

The little tabby, long-haired with a snub nose like a Persian, reminded me of a fancy feline I had seen in a magazine. She had never been handled by human hands, but she sat quietly in my lap as we drove the short distance home. In that short time I found my arms crawling with fleas. I hate fleas! I detest fleas! And here I was bringing fleas to my house.

Barry brought the flea powder, and I dusted it over the cat’s coat, rubbing it into and under her fur. She took that treatment for only a few minutes, and then she scrambled out of my grasp. She ran a short way and stopped. She began licking her coat and soon bubbles frothed from her mouth.

“Oh, God,” I yelled to Barry. “I’ve poisoned her.”

The flea powder was meant for a dog, not a cat. I panicked. What was I to do? I filled a bucket with water from the outside hose, it was cold, and plunged the foaming cat into its depths. She screeched and all four paws extended claws that climbed my bare arms. With blood running in the water, I let her fly.

“She’s gone back to the barn,” I said, disappointed. She had been given a rude and frightening welcome to our house.
But a short time later, I saw her curled on the grass out front as the sun dried and warmed her coat. I was a big fan of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s so I named our new family member  - Cat - like the stray she had in the movie.

Cat gave us a second chance and I’m glad she did. She birthed five kittens before we were aware we needed to spay her. We kept one of her litter and the mother and daughter, Queenie, lived long lives at our house.
Are you a cat person or a dog person? Why do you prefer one over the other?

Happiness - How Happy Are You?

Last night while trying to throw away some magazines I'd collected for six months, I came across an article on happiness. Many surveys had been done to find out how happy Americans really are and what makes them happy.
We are a fickle group. On one survey we say that money is not on the top of our list of what makes us happy, but when asked to choose between winning the lottery, losing down to our perfect weight and keeping it off, or having the best sex possible for the rest of our lives, most of us chose Winning the Lottery. So maybe money is more important that we want to admit.

It is not hard for me to know right now what would make me happy, but it is not possible to bring my best friend back to me. But had you asked me three years ago what makes me happy, I probably would not have mentioned him because he was so much a part of me that I took him for granted just as I take it for granted that my hands will type the words on this keyboard. Be careful what you say when you talk about what it takes to make you happy.

I would not have said that being able to open medicine bottles, jars from the grocery, and being able to read small print would be among the things that would bring me happiness. A few years ago I took those things for granted, also.

In 1995, if I had been asked what makes me happy, I'd have said my move to these mountains where I'd always wanted to live. I might have also said that publishing my writing would make me happy. Happiness has never meant material things, luxurious living, fancy cars and fur coats and diamonds.

Happiness for many people involves their children. My mother said she was always happy because she had her children she loved and enjoyed. She was married to a man she loved and although they had hardships both financially and healthwise, those things did not marr her happiness with her life.

My pets bring a smile to my face and even more than winning the lottery, I think I would rather be healthy and strong.

What makes you happy? If you aren't happy with your life, why? What would it take to make you really, truly happy?

Rescue, Spay and Neuter

I have a rescued cat, Tiger, butting me with her head right now. She is purring like crazy as she sits on the arm of my chair. My first cat was a rescue.

 We lived on the farm and were newly married. When mice invaded our little abode, I tried the poison which left our sofa smelling like the county dump when the mice crawled inside and died.

"Get yourself a cat. She will take care of those mice for you," I was told.
I knew it would be no problem getting a cat. We had a dairy barn on the farm and lots of cats hung out there.

My husband, Barry, and I went hunting for a cat. In no time we found a lovely tabby kitty who was friendly. She had a short nose and long hair.

"I've always wanted a Persian cat," I said.

This ferol cat was by no means a Persian cat, but she fit the bill.
By the time we drove the short distance to our house with the new kitten in my lap, I could see the fleas on her. "We can't take her inside with all these fleas," I said."I'll have to get rid of them first."
Knowing nothing about eradicating fleas from cats, I found the only thing in my arsenal of pet care items, a box of flea powder I sometimes used on our dog.
While my husband held her, I powdered the cat until she looked like she had fallen into the flour barrel. When she had taken all the abuse from us that she could stand, she flexed her claws and my husband let her go. She ran off into the woods.

"Well, I don't know if we did any good, but hopefully, she will be free of fleas for a short while," Barry said.

A lttle while later I spied the poor kitten nearby. She had licked herself, ingesting all that flea powder I had poured on her. She was frothing at the mouth. Suddenly, I realized  I might have poisoned her.

"We have to get that flea powder off her," I cried, as I ran for a bucket to fill with water.
"You can't wash that cat, " Barry said, looking at me like I had lost my marbles.
"I have to. If I don't, she is going to die. Look at her. Look at her mouth. She is poisoned, and I did it."

Once I had filled the bucket with cold water from the outside faucet, I grabbed up the cat and plunged her as far as I could into the water. All it took was a brief minute and she turned herself wrong side out. She climbed my bare arms with her back legs and also her front. My blood ran into the water along with the white powder. I held her as long as I possibly could, but she was strong and exploded out of my hands, out of the water and out of the bucket like a  home made canon ball, wet and messy, ugly as sin.
"Well, that will definitely be the last we see of her," I said as I tried to stop the bleeding from my clawed arms. "At least if she goes back to the barn, she will not die from poisoning."

A few hours later I looked out and saw the tabby kitten lying in the sun. She had not run away. She had not left us. In spite of her terrible treatment she had decided to give us another chance.
I was a huge fan of the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's starring Audry Hepburn. In the movie she takes in a stray cat, but she never names it. She just calls it Cat. I also named my stray, Cat.
Our mouse problems did cease, but we were young and totally naive about caring for a cat. She ran loose and we did not worry about her. After all she had been raised wild and we had no traffic on the farm to endanger her.

A few months later we arrived home from vacation. While unloading our car, we heard Cat. She was howling instead of meowing, crying like some strange wild thing. I looked and there she was coming to the front door with something in her mouth. The door was closed so she dropped the bundle of fur on the porch, right in front of the door. She turned and looked at us, still howling.
"Oh, no. She has a kitten." I ran to pick up the tiny yellow/orange baby. Its eyes were still tightly closed. Barry dropped the suitcases and came to inspect our new little one. While we were oohing and aahing over the kitten, Cat appeared with another one. Then we realized she had a litter, and they were all in the hollow oak tree by the driveway.

However, Cat was determined they were moving inside with us. As soon as we returned one to the tree, she grabbed another and carried it to the door again. When we opened the door, she promptly carried a kitten inside and under the bed in our guest room. Not only had she decided she and her family were moving in, she had picked out her own room.

We learned about spaying our female cats and neutering our male cats after we had a litter of five to care for. We found homes for all but one little orange girl we named Queenie because she never stayed on the floor. She perched on a wicker stool and gazed down at her siblings as if to say, I'm not associating with those guys. I'm different, and she was. The others were short haired cats and were tabby like Cat. Queenie had the short little nose and the long hair of an ancestor. She was such a lady and so beautiful.

Both she and Cat kept themselves clean and were never a problem. Both were hunters and often brought us presents like small rabbits, squirrels, and rodents. That was a natural instinct they had in spite of the cat food I fed them every day.

Queenie was shot in her front leg and a great vet, Dr. Moree, put the hanging paw back as it was before. She wore a cast for a long time and had to stay inside all the time. To my amazement, she learned to use a litter box and even with her one good foot, she was still a clean and careful kitty.

We couldn't have loved Cat or Queenie any more if they had pedigrees a mile long. All of our cats have been rescued, except for Queenie, and we loved them dearly. Now we have a rescued dog, Rocky. I don't think I'll ever again buy a purebred dog or cat. So many unwanted puppies and kittens are born every day and so, so many are killed because there are not enough homes for them. If any of you have rescued pets, tell us about them. Why do you think a rescued dog or cat makes a good pet? How did you get your pet?

Every day I click on the animal rescue site to give help to dogs and cats like mine. Read the short piece each day on a resued pet.
All you have to do is simply click on this site and the animals who need it are fed.

  http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=3&ThirdPartyClicks=ERA_112509_ARS_Html

Our Pets

Rocky, the sweetest dog, we found while out walking one day. He is ten years old now and limps a bit after exercise. His muzzle has grayed and he sleeps more than plays. He begs and talks to us wanting just one more treat. How can we ignore those precious brown eyes?
We got a big laugh when Rocky decided to curl up in Tiger's little bed. He weighs around 55 pounds now and we had to replace his old bed as he outgrew it.
Seems he doesn't care whether it is large or small -- if it is a bed on the floor, he thinks it is his.

Barry always leaves Rocky the last bite of his sandwich. Rocky waits patiently, knowing it is coming.

Cats and Dogs with Unusual Names

Tiger, the bob-tailed cat loves Barry's lap. She is the most loving cat we've ever owned. She takes to strangers and before they know it, she is all over them.

We once had a cat named Diesel. He was a big black tom cat who adored Barry. And well he should.

My friend Sue found him abandoned in her yard and was afraid her big cat would harm him. She brought him to us out on the farm where she knew he would have a good life. But my new puppy, Nicki, frightened the kitten, and he ran under the freezer to hide.

There he stayed until Barry came home in the evening and rescued him. I had been scared to death the kitten would get into the fan or moter of the freezer and be killed.

Anyway, from that day on, Diesel, whose purring was as loud as the engine of a Mercedes, therefore his name, came to my husband as soon as he walked in the door, slept in his lap and followed him when he went outside.

We had owned a couple of cats before Diesel came to us. The first one we rescued from the dairy barn where she and many other feral cats lived. I was a huge fan of Breakfast at Tiffanys, and I named the pretty calico after Audrey Hepburn's stray. I called her Cat.

When Cat surprised us with her first litter, she became Mama Cat.



We found homes for all of her babies except the little orange one with the snubbed nose who would not stay on the floor with the others. She somehow knew she was royalty. Most of the time she perched on a wicker stool like a queen on a throne. I named her Queenie.

Queenie never grew very large. She overcame a gunshot wound that severed one front leg. A fine veterinarian reattached the limb. We were amazed when she learned to use the litter box, her leg in a cast. Queenie lived a long life. Mama Cat also lived to a ripe old age. Both cats were spayed.

Living with us now is Tiger, the bob-tailed cat from south Georgia. She had been named before she came to us.



At the link below, I enjoyed reading the ten most popular names of Dogs and Cats and also the most unusual names. Some are FUNNY.

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/28540800/?pg=7#TDY_Pets_TopNames



I wonder if any of you have had dogs or cats with unusual names. If so, we'd enjoy hearing about them. Leave a comment or e-mail me, writerlady21@yahoo.com I'd love to hear about your pets' names.

Prompt: If you have owned a pet of any kind, tell about a particular incident that was amusing, embarrassing, or outrageous.
Choose an episode in your life with your pet. Don't tell about his entire life, just a scene with a beginning and a middle and an end.

Write a 300 word essay. Send it in to me, if you'd like. writerlady21@yahoo.com
Send a photo if you have one. I'll read it and get back to you.