Lost Summer

This summer I lost a good friend to cancer.  Another close friend was diagnosed with a recurrence of cancer and began chemo.  And I wrote a book.  Lots of conflicting emotions and pressures.  I thought I handled it all pretty well.

I didn't, not entirely.  Because I lost the interest in life's curiosities and humorous moments that compels me to post on this blog.  I know that now, because it has come back.  And so I will take a moment to catch up.

I mentioned back here when noting my horse's 31st birthday that he would look much better once his summer coat came in.  This is what I meant:

Much better, yes?  That was a month ago.  Now he's shedding those fine hairs, replacing it with a thicker winter coat.  But still looking good!  You go, Fritz!


We also added a member to our family.  My friend who passed left a lot of pets - a little too many for one person to care for.  One of them was a dog we fostered for 6 months during my friend's first round of chemo.  She loves us, loves Nikita, and loves cats, so she passed the entrance exam with flying colors.  She lives here now.  This is Lily:

 

 

It's kind of weird to have a dog that barks an alarm when she hears someone come up the driveway.  After thirty-five years of friendly-but-stealthy huskies, we finally have a tough little watch dog who greets visitors with, "Stand back or I'll cut you!"  Good girl, Lily.

 

I also enjoyed the annual trip my mother makes from Florida to spend the summer with us.  With my usual writing deadline that keeps me busy, she had a lot of time to fill.  She read a lot of books - I didn't keep track.  But I did keep track of the jigsaw puzzles she did:

 

I helped a little.  I can't walk past a jigsaw puzzle in progress and not stop to find a piece.  Or twenty.  But my book was done on time, the puzzles were all finished, and summer is over.  Moving on.

 

 



Watching the Watch Dog

That's Nikita in her cage, with her cat buddy, Harley the Fearless The cage is a permanent fixture in my family room.  This is NOT my idea of chic home decor. 

Nikita's not there because I told her to go there.  She likes her cage.

When we adopted Nikita at one year old we were her fourth home.  She was insecure, ignorant of boundaries, and only half-housebroken, and had to be confined when left alone, like a puppy.  I thought it would be a temporary situation.  Hahahaha, I can be so naive!

Whenever I put my shoes on or jingle my keys, Nikita runs to the cage.  If I don't get there to close the door soon enough, she bounces back out, watching me and making false moves toward the cage, tail wagging.  Making sure I don't forget to lock her in.  Because my job is to protect her.

But if anyone ever breaks in, man, watch out for Harley.  She's tough, and she's not locked up.

Dog Heroes

While my Rock flipping waits for drier weather and man-help, there's something else I've wanted to post for a long time.

We have owned and loved seven siberian huskies over the years.  Two of them had the privilege of saving lives, many times over.  They were blood donors.

Never heard of it?  Neither had I, until my vet held a testing clinic to find volunteer donors.  Not all dogs can do it - they have to have the right blood type, and they have to weigh at least 50 pounds.  That ruled out most of my dogs, but two qualified. 

Lasher was the only dog we've owned with a championship pedigree.  I mean the kind you'd brag about if it were yours.  Like, mommy was Queen I'm-So-Perfect, and daddy was King Big Shot.  But in dog terms.  Literally every last pooch on his family tree had earned a "Ch" in front of its name.  Except Lasher.  He was considered too big for the show ring.  Size discrimination!

But he made his life count for more than any fancy title.

Juneau was a rescue dog, about four or five years old when we got him.  How anyone ever lost him is a mystery to me, because he'd stick close to us, and get anxious if I left him.  A real sweetie.  The Siberian Husky Rescue League pulled him out of a pound and kept him in a foster home in hopes they would find someone who would take an adult dog.  Best move we ever made.  He had ten more years of love and devotion in him, and we got it all.

On average, Siberian huskies don't usually have the universal donor blood type, but Lasher and Juneau both did.  So we signed up, and every few months someone would call and ask if we could come in to donate blood.  I admit, the boys were reluctant heroes - Juneau lay stoically on his table while blood was siphoned from his jugular vein, with an expression that clearly said, "I'm only here because you made me do it."  Lasher resorted to pathetic whines, the big baby, but he got through it.

Lasher and Juneau donated until they were ten years old, when it was considered best that they stop.  But the program goes on - in my area it's called Buddies for Life, and is run out of Oakland Veterinary Referral Services - www.OVRS.com .  If you have a healthy dog that meets the qualifications, they would like to hear from you.  It's a small sacrifice on your part to take them in when called, but a warm feeling you will never forget when a thank you card comes in the mail from the family of the dog whose life was saved simply because your dog donated blood.  Heroes.

De-skunking

Nikita got skunked last night.  I knew it from the first vague whiff, without even opening the back door and being felled by the odor.  It had to be the dog.  We're pretty far off the road and there's not much traffic, so skunks never seem to get hit by cars.  Dogs are about the only other thing that pisses them off. 

Cats know enough to stay away; in fact, cats aren't eager to meet any wild animal unless they intend to kill it.  It's likely one or two of my cats saw this skunk last night and crouched in the weeds, muttering, "Crap, it's you again.  Get out of my territory.  And wash yourself, why don't you?  You stink."  Cats are smart.

Dogs, on the other hand, will dash up to any critter just to get a reaction, the more startled the better.  Sort of a tag-you're-it mentality.  Wonderful fun, if you're another dog.  Not so much if you're a deer or a rabbit.  But if you're a skunk, then you're the one thinking, "Crap, it's you again.  Get out of my territory."  And then you raise your tail and make it happen.

Some dogs learn their lesson.  Mine don't.  So here's what I've learned:  Tomato juice turns your dog pink.  A pink, stinky dog is offensive in two senses.  Vinegar makes your dog smell like . . .well, really bad.  Like pickled skunk.  Whoever came up with these solutions had a light case of skunk odor and a black dog.

I rely on chemicals that claim to neutralize the scent.  Claim, because I've never achieved total neutralization.  They contain hope-inducing ingredients like citric acid and pine oil extract, and "fragrance."  I'll have to trust them on that last one, but I wouldn't call the result fragrant.  After a good dose, Nikita smells like a combination of modeling clay and Old Spice, heavy on the clay.  Not great, but better than skunk.  And she's not pink.

Anniversary

I did a head count today of all the animals on the farm:
Horses - 3
Chickens - 4
Dogs - 1
Cats, both barn and house - 13

Every cat and dog was a rescue of some sort, either a stray that found its way here, or an animal I was handed and just couldn't say no to.  Some have weird rescue stories - I'll save that for another day.  It was enough today just to see that grand total and flinch.  I am grateful we have the room to do this, and to my husband for putting up with my penchant for rescuing animals in need!

Yesterday was my anniversary, but my husband was out of town so we're celebrating today.  Two things I KNOW I won't get: a kitten or a puppy.  And that's okay!

Tall, Dark, and Handsome Dog

My neighbor works with a dog and cat rescue organization.  She will go on calls at a moment's notice, and sees things I don't even want to know about.  Most of the neglected and abused animals she sees come from the nearby city of Pontiac, hard hit by the economic bad times.  Ninety-five percent of the dogs are pit bulls, bred to fight.  I neither support nor villify the breed, but I do take a definite stand on the people involved.  I despise them.  I will spare you the few details I've heard, but you should know that unwanted dogs are often disposed of by having their throats slit.  Those are the lucky ones.

Except for the REALLY lucky ones, the ones who cross paths with my neighbor.  They get to see a new world with people who care for them instead of abusing them.

We "babysat" one of her rescues today, a nice looking guy awaiting adoption.  He spent a few hours in our back yard, just one of those handsome strangers who come through town and set every female heart aquiver.  Nikita took one look and suddenly turned into a girl, all coy and flirtatious.  "Oh, please be gentle with me, you big, strong, handsome man."  Gag.

I was so embarrassed for her - not exactly the strong type of woman I write about.  But it was all an act.  When he fell for it, she turned into a feisty little hellcat, with a lot of fake growls and pretend bites.  He was swept off his oversized paws, completely smitten.  Ah, romance.

If I Die, It Was The Chicken

I'm getting close to writing the end of my fifth book, still untitled.  That deserves a reward.  At least, that's the excuse I stand by for buying fried chicken fingers at the deli this weekend.  I know they're bad for my stubborn cholesterol level, but if I eat cardboard the rest of the day, I should be okay.

In the spirit of healthy eating, I pulled off a large piece of deep-fried coating and offered it to Nikita.  This is the dog who thinks horse manure is the ultimate treat, so naturally I expected her to scarf it down and go wiggly with gratitude.  She cracked her eyelids, sniffed the offering, then turned and faced the other way. 

Crap.  I ate something even my dog wouldn't touch.  This can't be good.

Nikita, the Siberian husky, roughing it in the air conditioned house: