Susy Flory's Blog: Chasing Stories That Change Lives

[image error]Photo by Taliesin at Morguefile.com

Of the horses I’ve known and loved, Harry was my favorite. I used to have an elderly friend who had many dogs and loved them all, but she had one special little dog who was “the dog of her heart,” and she said you only get one in a lifetime. Well, Harry was the horse of my heart. A gelding, he was a shiny black beauty with a long flowing mane and tail, a soft, gentle heart, and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Whenever Harry heard me approach, he always tilted his head, then bobbed it up and down with a friendly nicker, eyes bright. He was easy to catch but not easy to keep tied to the hitching post—he was a master at untying the knots in the lead rope when you weren’t looking and then wandering away to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass. When I caught up, he always looked innocent. “Who, me?” You’d almost believe it was an accident if you didn’t see the twinkle in his eye.

Even though he was mischievous, Harry got along well with the other horses, including the pasture bully, a big-boned white Appaloosa with a smattering of tiny, red spots. Her name was Mesa, and she had a first class bad attitude. Mesa was quick to lay her ears flat against her head and fix an angry glare at whoever was blocking her way to the feed box, the water trough, or her preferred patch of grass. The other horses knew to stay out of her way when she wanted something because she wasn’t above striking out with a back hoof or baring her teeth and biting whoever was in the way. The other horses just let her have her way. Harry finessed the situation, though. He avoided her when she was on the rampage and waited instead until she was otherwise occupied to sneak in and grab some hay for himself. He never confronted Mesa head on. Harry was too smart for that.

One day, my dad told me the best news ever—our quarter horse mare had just given birth to a beautiful foal. My dad, sister, and I raced to the stable and quietly watched the new baby, nestled in the straw, her proud mama licking and nudging her. We immediately named her Honey to match her rich, red-gold coat and watched through a window into the stall as Honey stretched her legs and awkwardly tried to stand. Foals are all legs and those long spindly legs seem to bend in all directions when they’re first born. Honey tried to stand, then collapsed, then tried again. Eventually her legs worked, and she got her first taste of warm milk, her curly tail wiggling in delight.

Every day after school, I hurriedly grabbed my backpack to race home and see Honey. But most afternoons I faced my own bully. One of the boys in my class used to hide behind a fence and wait for me, then run out, jump in front of me, and kick me in the shins before laughing and running away. I was tall for my age, but he was taller. I tried to outrun him, but he’d just run after me and give me a shove. I didn’t know what to do, so I took the kicks, then ran home.

Honey was curious and quickly grew tame, allowing me to stroke her neck and back while she leaned against me, snuggling into my side. But within a month the snuggling was over, and Honey was scampering around the stall, jumping and playing and driving her poor mama crazy. My dad decided it was time to let the pair out into the pasture where mother and daughter could stretch their legs.

On the appointed day, Harry, Mesa, and the other horses were up high on the hill, grazing peacefully in the spring sunshine when Dad released Honey and her mother into the pasture. Honey stayed close by her mom, and they slowly wandered across the base of the hill. We watched as the rest of the horses looked up, watched the release, then went back to grazing. Horses came and went from the pasture all the time, so the herd didn’t pay much attention, especially if there was no hay involved.

We turned to leave when we heard a loud neigh, then a squeal. “Dad, what is that?” I yelled. We ran back to the gate and tried to see what was going on. Mesa! We looked in horror as Mesa, now at the bottom of the hill, ran back and forth in front of mother and baby, stirring up dust, and screeching. When a horse screeches, it’s never good news. Mesa’s legs were stiff as she charged back and forth, her tail stuck out at an odd angle like a battle flag. Her ears were back and she made sharp, jabbing motions with her head. She wasn’t yet within striking distance, but she was close.

Honey, clearly terrified, was hiding behind her mom, who trotted nervously back and forth, mirroring Mesa’s movements. My dad rushed over to the fence and waved his arms, trying to scare Mesa off. “Mesa, get out of here. NOW!” he shouted.

The mare wheeled around, angrily flipped her tail, and ran back up the hill. Honey and her mom also took off running along the fence line at the bottom of the hill away from us. My sister and I started crying, sure that our precious baby foal was going to die at the angry hooves and teeth of the massive spotted horse. Dad rushed back toward us and opened the gate while we screamed, “Daddy! Daddy! Please help Honey!”

At the top of the hill, Mesa trotted around, back and forth, then headed down towards the right. She still looked like she was on the warpath. Then it happened. The other horses, who’d been staying out of the fray at the top of the hill near the trees, parted and out trotted Harry. He crossed over in front of Mesa but never once looked at her. He slowed to a walk, then headed purposefully down the hill to the right. My dad saw the black figure moving towards Honey and her mama and stopped to watch at the gate.

Harry’s body language was calm and collected. His ears were up and forward, his body relaxed and moving gracefully, and he looked like he was just a gentleman out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. When he was about twenty feet away, he stopped, looked at Honey and her mother, then dropped his head and began to sniff the grass. He moved a few feet, sniffed again, and began to nibble.

Honey’s mother looked at Harry grazing and copied him, dropping her head and beginning to nibble at the grass, too. Honey stayed close by her side.

Then Mesa was on the move again, walking in ragged, agitated circles at the top of the hill. The circles grew larger and larger and pretty soon, she broke her pattern and came down again, circling in from the left and heading towards Honey. Her ears went flat against her skull, and her front legs pounded the ground as she walked.

What is wrong with her? Why does she want to hurt Honey?  It didn’t make any sense. Honey was no threat. Neither was her mother. The truth is, Mesa was just a bully, and she wanted to be the boss. Usually her aggressive behavior worked and she got what she wanted, when she wanted. But this time was different.

When Mesa approached, Harry stopped eating. He lifted his head and turned to watch Mesa approach. When she was about forty feet away he turned his whole body to face her and grew very still, mama and foal behind watching nervously. Mesa veered to the left, still walking. Harry moved again to face her. Mesa stopped, looking at Harry. He regarded her calmly. She started walking again and veered to the right. So did Harry. Then Mesa stopped, looked at Harry, and dropped her head, nibbling at the grass. Harry watched her for a minute, then did the same. Harry stayed put, with Mesa in front and Honey and her mother behind him.

Mesa’s body language changed when she realized Harry wasn’t going to back down. I couldn’t believe it as her ears went back up, her body relaxed, and she turned around and grazed her way back up the hill. I watched, relieved, and knew that dear, sweet Harry had thwarted Mesa’s bloodlust and saved Honey’s life. My dad quickly went into the pasture, gathered up Honey and her mom, and led the pair out and back to their stall. Harry watched and when the gate shut behind mom and baby, he wandered back up the hill and rejoined the herd.

A few days later, Dad let Honey and her mother out in the pasture and once again, Harry put himself in front of Honey and her mom and stayed there, like a bodyguard. Mesa approached aggressively, but Harry stood his ground, and she soon gave up. For the next few months, that’s how it went. Mama and baby relaxed, enjoying the sweet grass, while Harry guarded them and kept the peace.

The very next day after watching what Harry did, I decided to confront my own pasture bully. When the mean boy ran out from behind the fence after school, I looked him in the eye, and said, calmly, quietly, “You STOP it. Leave me alone. If you kick me ever again, I’m going to tell your mom!”

And you know what? He never did kick me again. I don’t think it was the threat to tell his mother that worked. Instead, it was the power of standing my ground. Harry taught me that sometimes you just have to face the bully head on. And when you do, he might just turn tail and walk away.

“The Pasture Bully” originally appeared in Callie Smith Grant’s wonderful anthology, The Horse of My Heart: Stories of the Horses We Love.

 

 

 

Spoiler alert: My dog survived! 

Disclaimer: This story includes some graphic details.

[image error]Sprinkles is a silky terrier.

 

People who love pit bull dogs REALLY love them. I get that. I’m actually a little nervous writing up this story because pit bull advocates are not only enthusiastic, but also very defensive about these animals. I get that, too.

I love animals and I grew up on horseback, the daughter of a Texas cowboy, and I’ve had just about every kind of creature people keep as pets. For a while we even had a pet tarantula; it ate live crickets. I love animals and can’t imagine life without them. I love horses and can ride one without a saddle or bridle. I’ve rescued animals and given them second chances. I’ve advocated for them. I have a daughter who works in wildlife rescue. I’m fascinated by the human-animal bond and the healing power of horses, dogs, and other creatures.

So I’m just going to tell you my story. Because other stories I’ve come across don’t seem to convey the ferocity and single mindedness of an attack. At least, I had never read one.

It was Memorial Day. My husband and I were in the Sierra Nevada mountains and we decided to go for a hike at Horse Thief Canyon trail, south of Lake Tahoe near Carson Pass. The trail was steep and rocky, almost like climbing rock slabs for stairs. We brought along our dog Sprinkles, a silky terrier who weighs about 12 pounds. She’s a scruffy dog, with a black body, with silver and golden brown fur on her legs and face. She has dark brown button eyes and floppy ears. Sprinkles was on a leash, the retractable kind you can let out, lock, or reel in by pushing a button.

While Sprinkles looks sort of like a dainty little Yorkie, she’s actually a sturdy little animal and we’ve hiked all around the area with her. She’s a great swimmer, good at playing fetch, and was born with a boundless supply of energy. She’s bouncy and can run at turbo speed. She’s also very connected to me. We got her when I was recovering from breast cancer, right when I was finishing up with chemo and radiation. She seemed to sense when I was anxious or not feeling well and would curl up beside me. Once, when I went jogging with new socks and came home with a bad blister on my ankle, she took it upon herself to lick my ankle every morning while I was drying my hair. It was like she was taking care of me, even as a puppy. I can’t explain why that little act made me feel better, but it did. She was doing what she could to help.

So on Memorial Day Robert and I were climbing this mountain, me stopping for lots of breaks to enjoy the scenery (and catch my breath), and Sprinkles joyfully trotting along. She hopped up the rock ledges like a rabbit.

A clear, gurgling stream ran downhill next to the trail over rock waterfalls and into little pools. We stopped in the shade for a break and Robert took Sprinkles down to the water so she could get a drink.

I was about 25 feet up the trail, resting. Movement ahead caught my eye. I looked up and two dogs were running down the trail toward me. This is not unusual. Lots of hikers have dogs and when you’re up in the high country, there aren’t that many people; so, even though dogs are supposed to be on leash, people often let them loose so they can have a little freedom to run and sniff and enjoy themselves.

But these two dogs were running straight toward me with no owner in sight. Something about their body language, heads down, tails out, and picking up speed, filled me with a sudden sense of foreboding. These were not dogs out for a leisurely stroll in the woods. The bigger dog was a dark gray, barrel chested, powerfully built, and sleek. The other was tan, a little thinner, more like a smallish Labrador Retriever.

Before I could even register fear for myself, the two dogs zoomed past me in a cloud of dust, not interested in me at all, and veered down towards Robert and Sprinkles. I realized something bad was about to happen and turned around.

“Robert,” I screamed. “Pull her back. Pull her back!” Sprinkles was at the stream, about ten feet of line between her and Robert. He saw the approaching dogs and immediately began pulling the line in with his hands, trying to drag the terrier towards him. But it happened too quick and the two dogs were there, tails stiff and upright, backs rigid with excitement, legs straight and quivering. They paused for a split second, then the big gray one attacked. There was no barking, no growling, no warning sound of any kind. Robert was yelling but the dog ignored him, its eyes on the small dog. Then the pit crouched, every muscle coiled, and pounced on Sprinkles before Robert could save her. The tan dog just watched.

I could see now–as my adrenaline rushed in, causing time to slow down and my vision to sharpen–that it was a grayish-brown pit bull. I clearly saw the short, broad head with small ears, the wide jaws, a thick neck, and a big, deep chest. The pit bull snatched the terrier up by the back of the neck, picked her up in the air, and began shaking her. It was a savage, furious movement, a whipping back and forth so quick it was a blur. Then it began to go crazy, jumping back and forth in a grotesque dance as it shook her limp body. When the pit first grabbed Sprinkles she shrieked, but the shaking was so intense her yelps cut out.

As the dog started its attack and began to plunge around with the little dog in his mouth, Robert initially pulled hard on the leash, trying to pull her back to him before it was too late. But the pit’s movements were so quick and powerful that the leash ripped through his fingers, causing a rope burn, and he could no longer hold on. He ran after the dog, yelling and kicking at its back, trying to force it to let go.

All of this took a total of about twenty or thirty seconds. Something about the pit’s body language, and the sudden ferocity of the attack, along with Sprinkles’ screams, reminded me of watching one of those nature programs on public television where a lion grabs a gazelle by the throat. There is an intensity, a single mindedness, when a carnivore decides to kill. The killer doesn’t play around. There are no threats of displays of aggression. There is only action. The predator’s body, mind, and spirit are focused on killing its prey as quickly as possible.

I’ve been around animals all of my life. I’ve been in dangerous situations and witnessed animal attacks before. I’ve seen horses kicking and biting and fighting. I’ve been around dogs battling for dominance, growling and snapping and grabbing each other by the throat and drawing blood. But I’d never seen anything like this in person. I’d never seen an animal go into such a killing trance, with a single minded focus on tearing another creature apart until it no longer lived. And I didn’t know what to do.

I’ve always known what to do with animals. I can read a horse’s body language and get him to do what I want. I can tell when he’s going to bite or kick or misbehave and try to head off the behavior before it happens. The same with dogs—I can read their body language and listen to their breathing and watch their eyes and know what they’re going to do, and what I can do to try to stop it. But this—this was beyond anything I could do. I saw the attack, and I knew the pit was going to kill her and there was nothing I, nor anyone else, could do to stop it. She was as good as dead.

But the most horrible part was that she wasn’t dead yet. It was still happening. My dog was still alive and I could not protect her. Just then, I heard something behind and turned to see a man running down the trail from where the dogs had come. He was in jeans and a tank top, muscular and young he reminded me of a cowboy or a football player. He ran towards me, his eyes wide.

Before I could think, I was screaming at him, “Your dog is killing my dog!” I repeated it twice more before he ran by me, straight towards the dogs. Robert was still yelling and kicking at the dog. It was still shaking Sprinkles. Every once in a while it would stop for a minute and she would shriek again, as the pit readjusted his jaws, trying to get a better lock on her neck.

I collapsed, sitting down on a rock, put my face in my hands, and started crying. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like that before. I’m not a big cry-er, but I was wailing out loud, a sound tearing up and out of me, the pain I was feeling at witnessing a killing was taking shape and becoming sound. I cried, not caring who could hear, and then bent over and covered my ears with my hands so I couldn’t hear the strangled screams of my dying dog.

Total time elapsed: about 90 seconds.

After my first burst of crying, I looked up and saw the guy jump on his dog. The pit was facing away from me and I could see the muscles working in her sleek, grayish back. She had Sprinkles down on the ground now. The man grabbed his dog around the neck from behind. It reminded me of a steer wrestling event at the rodeo, where a cowboy jumps off his galloping horse and grabs a steer by the horns to stop it and flip it over onto its side. The muscles in the guy’s shoulders and arms bunched and popped as he struggled with his dog. Dust was kicking up amid the frantic savage movement, and two men trying to save a little dog.

I bent back over, wailing and crying again. Next time I looked up, it was over. Robert told me later the man picked up a big stick and started stabbing his dog in the face with it. But it didn’t seem to be working and Robert said the guy repeatedly stabbed it in the face, including the eyes, and the dog finally let go.

Total time elapsed: about 3 minutes.

Somehow, even in my hysterical state, I could tell the attack was over. The shouting had stopped and I heard no more yelps or sounds of movement from below.

I stood up, afraid of what I would see, and called out in a shaky voice, “Is she alive?” No response. The pit bull and the tan dog were gone. I wondered where they were. Would they come back?

“Is she alive?” I called out again. I was pretty sure she must be dead. I stood up on wobbly legs and looked down. I could see Robert and the young guy on their knees, bent down over what I only assumed must be Sprinkles. Maybe she’s alive. If they’re looking at her like that, she might be alive.

I picked my way down the trail. She was on her back in a c-curve, lying still, eyes wide open. She had a thick ruff of brown and black fur around her neck, shoulders, and chest, so it was hard to see anything. Robert was trying to see her injuries. There was blood, mostly on the front of her neck.

The young man had a first aid kit, and he pulled out some things and fumbled with them but Robert and I quickly decided if she was going to live, we had to get her to a veterinary hospital as soon as possible. The guy also tried to feed her a cracker from a plastic container he had in his backpack. She was in no condition to eat, but I guess he was trying to help in the only way he knew how.

I had a sweatshirt tied around my waist so I pulled it off and we wrapped it snugly around her neck. Then Robert gently picked her up and carried her a mile down the steep, rocky trail. She was breathing in quick, shallow breaths, eyes still open but glazed. I almost felt like she was unconscious because she didn’t seem aware of much, but I guess that was the shock. I was afraid she would die in his arms.

The young guy followed us silently down the hill. The walk took about 30 minutes. I talked to Sprinkles a little bit but we were mostly quiet. I felt like we were in shock, too. I couldn’t comprehend what we’d just experienced. Robert climbed down slowly, careful with each step, balancing himself and keeping Sprinkles level with as little movement as possible in his upper body.

Down at the bottom of the trail, we saw a pickup truck with an older man at the wheel. He had the pit and the other dog locked up in the camper shell behind. He said a few words to the young guy and then took off. The young guy had his own truck and he gave us contact info before we left. In some ways I felt a little sorry for him because he seemed in shock, too, at what his dog had done.

I realized suddenly that Sprinkles would have already died without his intervention. The owner wasn’t our enemy. Stabbing his dog in the eye with the stick distracted it enough to give our little dog a chance of survival. Robert’s attempts at pulling Sprinkles away, yelling at the pit, and kicking it hadn’t really done anything at all. In fact, it’s a miracle the pit didn’t turn and bite him.

We drove Sprinkles to a vet hospital on the Nevada side of the mountain and they put her on oxygen and rushed her into surgery. Before he put her under the anesthetic, the vet showed us the wound at the front of her neck. It was open from one side to another, the muscles torn apart and exposing her windpipe, her jugular, and even part of her spinal column. We looked on in horror.

The vet said, “Somehow her jugular is intact. I don’t know how. She should be dead.” He went on to do a two-hour surgery where he cleaned her up and sewed her all back together, including several deep lacerations on the back of her neck. X-rays showed damage to her spinal column, particularly her neck (which now had an odd curve) and her middle to lower back (where the vertebrae were now compressed), likely a result of the savage whiplashing the pit had put her through.

Robert and I sat in the waiting room a few feet apart, not talking. We had no words. I replayed the attack again and again in my head, wondering what we could have done differently. He did, too. Over the next few days we talked about what we could have done to fight off the dog, and what we can do in the future if it ever happens again. We love to hike and don’t want to give it up, so what would we carry for protection? We talked through the merits of a walking stick, pepper spray, a taser, a knife, and even a loaded gun.

We determined that based on the speed and viciousness of the attack, the only thing that would have stopped the pit bull’s attack is a gun. The problem is that we don’t want to carry a loaded gun with us on hikes, we’re not trained to use it in emergency situations where adrenaline is racing and mistakes are easily made, and we’re not even sure either of us could have gotten it out of a backpack in time to use it effectively. Plus, would the shots have hit our dog by accident? Or simply enraged the pit further? Or its owners? The situation was already volatile enough without introducing a firearm.

So, there’s no easy answer for us. Except this: the attack would never have happened if the dog had been under control on a leash. Or, of course, if it hadn’t been there in the first place.

Before we parted that day at the bottom of the trail, the young guy told us the pit bull was a female, 14 months old, and had never done anything like this before. If he could be believed, and I felt like he was telling the truth, this dog had no past history of violence and had been a loving family pet. But that day, something inside of her snapped and she became a killer. And Robert, my six foot tall strong, athletic, mountain bike riding husband, could not stop her.

Contrary to popular belief, the vet said, the jaws of a pit bull don’t actually lock. Instead, their jaws are so strong the only way to get them open is to use a pry stick, but it’s very, very difficult.. The vet also said they don’t bite more often than other dogs, but when they DO bite, it’s often lethal, or at least very destructive.

Some countries outlaw pit bulls. They were bred to fight and to kill and that instinct is built into their genetics. But there are multiple varieties of pits and they’re often mixed with other breeds, so it’s a difficult task—first to define the breed, and second to decide what to do with them. I don’t know what the answer is and I have no solutions to offer you. All I know is what happened to me and my dog on Memorial Day.

Sprinkles is recovering slowly. Her stitches are out and each day she gets stronger and happier. She still has pain and problems with mobility. The other day she was chasing a ball I threw for her inside our apartment and she ran headfirst into a wall. Is she partly blind? Or does she have some damage to her brain? There’s no way to tell. But I’m guessing she will never completely recover. She’s lucky to be alive.

And then there’s the fear. I live in San Francisco and pit bulls are everywhere. Most are well behaved—San Franciscans at all levels of society adore their dogs and spend lots of time with them. But I’m afraid of them now. I’m afraid to take Sprinkles on a walk anymore, and she really loved to go on walks. And I’m not just afraid of pit bulls, but almost any dog that seems like it could be aggressive. I hate that. I’ve never been afraid of dogs before. I wonder if the feeling will go away some day? I hope so. When that pit bull tore apart my dog’s throat, it also tore apart my sense of competence and safety, my feeling of knowing and understanding dogs, and feeling capable of dealing with a dangerous situation if needed.

And what scares me the most, so that I almost can’t even allow my mind to go in that direction, is the horror of what it must be like when a pit bull goes into the kind of frenzy we experienced and kills a human being. Especially a child. I can’t imagine it, and I don’t want to. I can’t. Because once a dog like this decides to kill, there is nothing you can do.

What you do with this story is up to you. I have no recommendations for you, no easy answers to this problem, no top ten tips to avoid a dog attack. I just have my pen, and the desire to share this experience with you so that you and your family never have to go through this. As bad as it was for us, I can’t imagine what it would be like to be the owner of such an animal and to witness such an attack. May God have mercy.

What happened after:  I reported the incident to the local sheriff, and they issued a warning to the owners about having a dog off leash in a state forest. The sheriff said he could have done more if the dog had attacked a person. We also sent a letter to the owners requesting they cover medical expenses and they did, but only after we signed a release form (to forestall a lawsuit). 

I wrote this story a couple of years ago. Sprinkles is a walking, breathing, barking miracle–she is okay and very alive. Overall she is healthy and the only lasting effect I’ve noticed is stiffness in her back and legs. She can’t run as fast or jump as high as she used to. I imagine she has some significant arthritis in her spine and her neck from the trauma. I’m still afraid of many dogs–I can’t seem to shake it. I also don’t take her hiking in the woods anymore, and I pick her up and hold her if any large dog is near. I don’t like being afraid, but the feeling persists. Even reading back through this story is traumatic for me. I’ll never forget a couple of weeks after the attack, I was telling a few writer friends what happened. One person blinked her eyes, looked at me and said, “My daughter has a pit bull and she LOVES it. It’s a great dog!” I just stared back and didn’t know what to do with that statement. Pit bulls are great…until they aren’t.

[image error] Not too long ago, I had a blister.

You know the kind. Raw, red, and it hurt like Hades.

I earned it the old-fashioned way. I was on a get healthy/lose weight kick with that compulsion that shows up once in a while, usually in the spring, when you remember summer is coming and there will be capris, shorts, tank tops, and even, gasp! the occasional swimsuit. And you are pudgy and soft around the middle from too much sitting at the computer.

One morning while on a business trip to Dallas, Texas, I was feeling particularly ambitious and I got up early, drank some juice, ate a banana, and pulled on my workout clothes. I happened to be wearing an expensive pair of running socks with pads on the toes and ankles, in a cool shade of silvery blue and green.

Out behind the hotel was a walking trail and I walked for a while to warm up, then began a slow jog. Every once in a while I stopped to adjust my iPod (meaning, to catch my breath) or take a drink of water (meaning, to try to stop breathing so hard.) I sped up in the shade and slowed down in the sun and had a lovely time, as lovely a time as you can have while jogging.

After a bit, I noticed a stinging feeling on my ankle. It was hot and humid, and the heat caused my feet to swell a bit. My new socks were slipping down and my shoe was rubbing the back of my ankle. It stung but I ignored it and kept going. After a few more laps, I headed inside. I was limping by the time I got to the middle of the lobby. And by the time I made it back to my room, it was clear I had a pretty nasty blister. You know what they say–everything’s bigger in Texas.

After some Neosporin and a Band-Aid, I was good to go. But blisters heal slowly, right? and by the time I got home from the trip, it still looked pretty nasty. I kept it covered and tried to forget about it.

The morning after I got home, I was standing in front of the mirror in my fuzzy pink robe when I felt something strange on the back of my ankle. It didn’t hurt exactly. It felt warm and tickly.

I looked down and Sprinkles, our six-month-old silky terrier puppy was licking my wound.

[image error]I wasn’t sure whether to yell because it was gross or just say, “Aw, thank you, honey.” Sprinkles was doing what dogs are born to do–take care of us. No one knows the definitive history of dogs or who first domesticated a wolf, but for thousands of years dogs have been our best friends. Dogs and people just go together.

 

And the blister incident wasn’t a one-time thing with Sprinkles the puppy. Every morning she waited for the moment when I’d leave the shower to brush my hair and put on makeup. As soon as I got distracted getting ready, she moved in. She wanted to help my blister heal. She was persistent. She was diligent. She wasn’t going to give up until it was fixed.

My blister finally did heal and Sprinkles stopped her fixation with the back of my ankle. And to be honest, I sort of missed it. I felt loved, like she had been trying her best to connect with me, take care of me, and heal me. There is a special kind of connection and interdependence when the relationship is working right. And in that interdependence there is health, and hope, and healing.

Sprinkles came into our lives at a critical moment and she has turned out to be my unofficial therapy dog. There’s something about stroking her back that is soothing. She greets everyone at the front door with a tail wag and a smile. When we go on walks, there is a spring in her step and her joy is infectious. She is a bright spot, always. After a difficult year dealing with breast cancer and other challenges, she helped me to heal in far deeper ways than a blister on the surface of my heel.

When I’m working, Sprinkles often sleeps on a Snoopy pillow under my desk. When I’m writing, I often reach my foot out to nudge her, reminding myself she is there. Her presence touches something deep inside me, where the emotional and spiritual wounds hide deep.

Awww, thank you, honey.

[image error]This story appears in a different form in the introduction to my book, Dog Tales, published by Harvest House in 2011.

[image error](Photo: Morguefile)

It was a beautiful spring day and everything was crisp and clear from a long rainy spring. I had gone up the trail with my husband and girls and they were working with the horses and doing their chores such as cleaning and repairing the barn.

I decided to sit on a big fallen tree at the side of the trail behind the barn. As they scurried around doing their many duties with the horses and getting ready to take a long trail ride, I just sat and enjoyed the beautiful trees, grass, and birds. There is always something to see around the barn and on the trail. The smell of the new grass was like perfume and every once in a while, little yellow butterflies would come gracefully fluttering by.

On the way up to the barn, we’d seen a beautiful little bunny running across the trail, busy looking for some fresh clover. Our two Australian Shepherd dogs were always excited to go to the barn; they went with my husband twice a day to feed the horses but today they knew they were going on a trail ride and they were excited. Every five or ten minutes they’d bound down to the tree I was sitting on to see if I was okay.

I’d been sitting there for quite awhile when I noticed a movement in the grass at the side of the trail. The grass was about eight inches tall and very thick. There was a small hill about two feet high. And there was something in the grass, but from where I was sitting I could not see what it was. I heard a low, chirping noise so I very slowly rose from my log and walked a few feet over to the trail. I stood very still, listening and wondering what it could be.

All of a sudden, a California quail came out of the grass and onto the trail, which was fine gravel and sand. I was afraid to move as the quail seemed to be concerned and talking to something in the grass. He would go back in the grass very frantic and making the chirping noise, and then go back onto the trail. He did this several times.

Finally, he went back in the grass and came out with a tiny, tiny baby quail who could hardly walk. He was so cute–a little ball of brown fluff about the size of an English walnut–and had large feet for his size. As he tottered across the trail, he held out his tiny wings to balance himself. The father helped him across the trail and into the bushes and then they disappeared.

[image error]Photo: Tony Wills (Wikipedia)

The eggs are about an inch long, and as soon as they hatch and are dried off, the quail papa and mama moves the babies to a new home and never return to the nest where they hatched. I was amazed at what I had just seen.

I stood there motionless for several minutes and then walked over to the spot where they had disappeared. I carefully looked into the bushes and there was a mother quail and ten babies who had been quietly waiting for the rest of the family.

They quickly disappeared into the woods to their new home andI went back to my seat on the log and here came the dogs to check on me once again, and I was so glad they had not appeared when the quail were crossing the trail. I resumed my quiet time on the log but I have never enjoyed anything as lovely as the littlest quail.

[image error]Mary Jane Daugherty Srubar

“The Littlest Quail” is from a book called Ozark Princess Diary by my late Irish storyteller mother, Mary Jane Daugherty Srubar. It was published in 2008 and is full of wonderful stories, including this one. Happy St Patrick’s Day, Mom!

 

 

[image error]What can humans do that animals can’t? The answer might surprise you. Over at Theodora Thought, a young wildlife rehabilitation specialist who works in the Sierra Nevada mountain range of Northern California, is musing on this very subject. Here’s a start:

Humankind is part of animal kind. What superiority do we really have over animals?

This is where my friends and family of faith will say the Bible says that God created man in his image, and to be stewards of his creation. Let me ask you to put this aside for a moment, not to push away your beliefs; only to see a different perspective.

Bear with me as I understand this might be slightly controversial, because it’s difficult for us to compare our intelligence with that of a bumble bee. What really sets us apart though?

  Is it language? Because some animals are better at learning language then we are, including ravens and prairie dogs…READ MORE OVER AT THEODORA THOUGHT.

[image error]Once I was asked to pet sit for a friend. She lived on the edge of town and had a small farm full of animals, including a flock of chickens. When I went by to get instructions, she opened up the top of the chicken coop and showed me one of her hens sitting on a clutch of eggs.

“Keep an eye on the hen,” she said. “If she hatches out some baby chicks and leaves the nest, be sure to throw away any leftover eggs. They are probably bad.”

Sure enough, one day I showed up to take care of the animals and the hen had hatched out several chicks. She was out in the yard running around, trailed by a half-dozen little yellow puffballs.

Per my training, I opened up the top of the coop and saw three eggs still in the nest. I picked up the first egg, took a deep breath, and threw it far out into the bushes. I picked up another egg, and did the same.

Then I picked up the last egg, turned it over, and saw a hole. As I stared down at the hole, a tiny beak poked out. I might have screamed a little. Okay, I screamed. And almost dropped it. There was a chick inside!

What on earth should I do? I wanted to keep it warm, so on impulse I stuck it inside my bra. It seemed like the safest place, lying there right over my heart.

I finished my work, moving slowly and carefully.  As I drove home, the egg felt warm and after a while I could hear a very faint peeping. I was delirious with joy and excitement, and kept laughing out loud as I drove.

At home I quickly prepared a box with a soft rag and a heat lamp and nestled the egg inside. A few hours later, a little miracle broke her way out into the world, soft, warm, fuzzy, and peeping. She’d had a close call (what if I hadn’t seen the hole?) but she’d made it through and she was very much alive.

That experience reminds me so much of writers and their ideas. Some writing ideas are incubated and hatch easily, like the chicks running around outside with their mother. They seem to emerge into the world with little effort.

Some ideas are nonstarters, because they just don’t make sense or we can’t figure out what to do with them, or they just come and then fade away.

But some writing projects are like the egg I found—an idea discovered and carried around, close to your heart. It’s alive, you can hear it faintly peeping, and it brings you great joy. But at some point, you have to let it hatch. You can’t keep it in your bra forever.

What would have happened if I had held on to that egg? If I hadn’t released it, let her hatch, dry, fluff out, learn to use her feet, and stand up? What if I had never given her a chance to live out a life in the sunlight and fresh air?

Your writing idea is the same. You can’t carry it around forever. When you hear the peeping, it’s time to take it out and let it begin to break out of its shell. The world needs more beauty and inspiration. Let it hatch.

“On Eggs, Ideas, and Writing” first appeared on Tim Fall’s blog. He’s amazing–a thoughtful, careful writer who always makes me think. His blog is called “Just One Train Wreck After Another.” Please go visit him and say hello. He ALWAYS answers comments the same day. I don’t know how he does it!

[image error]

I should be working, but I’m sitting here at the cabin watching gnats.

We have a place in the mountains, a structure beaten up and neglected, and we bought it on a whim with some extra, unexpected money and cleaned it up. We go to it with delight, sometimes for just a day, sometimes for a year. It’s our refuge.

It sits in the middle of an old growth forest of massive oaks and cedars and firs and pines. Some are so big you can’t get your arms around them, even with two people holding hands and trying to reach. I hug the trees and talk to them and name a few. Last year we lost Grandpa, a massive Ponderosa pine 200 feet tall with a rotten spot at the middle. The top broke off in a windstorm and came thundering down, taking out a few smaller trees and embedding itself several feet into the earth from the weight and the length of the fall. We marveled at the size and the destruction, mourned, then cut up the wood and made use of it.

Though it’s ragged at the top, Grandpa’s remaining trunk is still alive, still rooted, still growing. He’s resilient and doesn’t want to go quite yet. He stands next to Grandma, just eight feet away, an equally large and aged and beautiful tree. Perhaps their roots are intertwined and she supports him, helping him to stay alive and enjoy a few more springs and summers, daylight and starlight, whispering breezes and rainy baptisms.

Deer graze around his feet, the squirrels chase and chutter, and wild turkeys pick their way through the undergrowth, strutting slow and talking amongst themselves as they turn their heads this way and that, black eyes sharp and watchful. At night the bobcat, mountain lion, bear, and coyotes materialize from their own secret places for their nightly rounds along unseen trails, along with the legions of smalls—raccoons, opossums, flying squirrels, bats, and ringtails about their business. And then there are the ravens, the smarties, the observers, the reporters of the woods calling out to the other ravens and letting them know whenever there is something new going on below. And there is always something new.

I sit, and watch, and drink it all in. When I come up from the city it takes a few days to adjust to the ancient ways of the woods. The trees live in a different time frame. To an old growth tree, a hundred years is a brief moment in time and a two hundred year old tree is just an adolescent, growing and discovering her purpose and learning, learning, learning how to make her way in the world. She will learn that a tree alone is a tree in peril, and a tree surrounded by friends and interlinked both above and below ground—connected by thousands of miles of intelligent and communicative roots and mycelium and microscopic messengers in the rich forest soil—is much more likely to live and to thrive. Even when broken in half by the fierce winds of a Sierra thunderstorm.

A logger came to look at Grandpa and said, “We should cut it down. It’s going to die anyway.” He was a grizzled, lean old man and he knows trees. He’s practical. It is logical because if we don’t, the tree might struggle along for a while but still die, and die slowly, eventually falling and taking out other trees. Taking it down would make sense.

Robert and Teddy and I think about it. We talk about it. We walk by and look at it, the remaining branches still putting out fresh green beautiful growth each spring. The old tree still stands in sunlight, a larger circle of it now the top half is gone. I read about light this morning in Psalm 36: “How exquisite your love, O God! How eager we are to run under your wings, To eat our fill at the Banquet you spread as you fill our tankards with Eden spring water. You’re a fountain of cascading light, and you open our eyes to light.”

I still talk to the broken tree and hug him, the puzzle-shaped pieces of his rough bark/skin pressing into my cheek. I tell him thank you for living, for being, as I breathe in the scent of the dry red pine needles underfoot several feet deep, the older ones even deeper below slowly turning back into earth.

On the edge of Grandpa’s meadow are the gnats I love to watch from my kitchen table. I’m mesmerized by the tiny little insects zigzagging through the sunlight, propelling themselves who knows where to do who knows what. Like tiny golden flashes of light, these daytime fireflies flit around and between the ancient trees like little Tinkerbells, their lives quick and ephemeral. The forest and the light-gnats and Grandpa and Grandma’s intertwining and sustaining love fill me with Eden spring water at this Banquet, broken though I may be, and open my eyes to the cascading light.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I’m standing on what Grandpa has made and what he leaves behind. It’s beautiful, springy when I walk, and it holds me up. Grandpa is still here, still broken, but still alive. He’s part of Grandma, part of the forest, and part of us. He still basks in the light.

Mycelium is a system of intertwined fungal roots which connect at a cellular level to tree roots deep in the forest underground. Trees use these fungal root systems to share information with other trees and to share nutrients such as carbon, nitrogen, water, and phosphorous. These root pathways create a communication network. Using this forest internet, an older tree can recognize the needs of a younger tree in the shady understory and will send the young tree needed carbon for survival.  An injured or dying tree can send its nutrients to nearby growing saplings to encourage new life and growth. Older established hub trees, or Mother Trees, connect to hundreds of other forest trees to assist their survival.  Diverse tree species will help each other.  https://ecologyottawa.ca/2016/09/01/trees-cooperate-and-communicate-on-the-forest-internet/

The Message version

 

"Knight in Shining Camo: One upon a time a girl from town met a boy from the woods. Even back then, it was all about the hair. I was at Connie Sue's in West Monroe to get my long hair colored, cut, and blown out. When he opened the door and walked in, I looked up, and there he was. Jep."

It's one of the best love stories I've ever heard, or written about. Read more about Duck Dynasty's youngest couple, with Jep & Jessica Robertson's story of grace and forgiveness in The Good, The Bad, and the Grace of God, launching June 23, 2015.

The Good, the Bad, and the Grace of God: What Honesty and Pain Taught Us about Faith, Family, and Forgiveness

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