Ducklebunny Tag

Chance, Rex and Spot are bachelor bunnies living with a duck, Quackers, in a very comfy straw-bedded horse stall.

The three buns met under unlikely circumstances, and getting acclimated to their duck companion was a bit dicey at first.

Who gets the carrots? Aren’t you going to share that duck chow? Hey, pal, that’s my branch!

But after a bit, the four figured out the bachelor pad arrangements, and for the most part, it seems to be a good roommate assignment. They share a heated watering station, and they have their choice of many hideys and cozies from which to nibble carrots, dream beautiful bunny dreams, and launch into riotous games of ducklebunny tag.

Sometimes, ducklebunny tag becomes as vicious as thugs playing paintball, and I have to be careful not to get ambushed! But everyone remains friends at the end.

In the summer, ice filled soda bottles are placed in the stall, and the bunnies luxuriate by stretching out along side them and rotating themselves for an even chill.

Quackers could care less as he splashes in his private wading pool.

But in the winter, large bales of straw are placed intact in the apartment, and the fun really begins.

Furious little bunny feet dig and tunnel their way through and under the bales. Soon, a complex maze of tunnels and hideys is in place.

Bunny tag excludes Quackers and humans who are too big to zip through the tunnels. And UP leaps a bun upon being spied.

SPIN, DIVE, ZAP!

Chance disappears into the maze.

Up pops Rex, closely followed by Spot.

But wait, Chance tags Spot and off they all go again.

Zoom bunnies!

Quackers roots them on with soft little duck calls.

Even the big horses, hearing the rustle and bustle, come to peer in through the stall gate which now takes on the appearance of a betting booth.

Around and around, up, down, in and out.

And there’s a winner by a hare’s breath!

After hours of this, they all settle down for bunny naps.

Quackers settles on his big webbed feet and shuffles in the straw until just the top of his back rises from the golden nest.

In the evening, with their supper, two shiny red apples are placed for them as a treat.

But instead of nibbling on them right away, the buns start a rigorous game of bunny bowling!

They butt and shove the apples across the straw. Now one. Wait, the other is behind. A team effort goes into keeping the apples rolling along with steady progress. Back and forth across the stall roll the apples.

After several close races, team bunny goes to work on the apples until not even the last bit of core remains.

Sleepy bunnies yawn and show gleaming teeth. Round, liquid brown bunny eyes blink, once, twice, and then start to droop drowsily.

The three bachelor bunnies snuggle closely to one another and snuffle in the straw. And yawn…and blink….and sleep…and dream contented bunny dreams

Dumpling

Dumpling, a regal, clear thinking Collie and a little something-else mix, had suffered tremendously.

She was found on someone’s lawn, and she looked for all the world to be dead. In fact, the homeowner called the dog warden to “pick the dead dog up” from his yard. When the agent arrived, Dumpling was lying still, but had her eyes open and intently gazed at the person who picked her up and gently laid her in the truck.

At the noisy dog pound, something about those eyes – clear as glass and with a steady direct gaze, made the warden call an animal rescuer and tell a pretty big lie.

“Why, this is a pretty, middle-aged Collie girl.” “You’ll like her, just come and see.”

When the rescuer arrived at the shelter, she was directed to the first pen on the right, where a starved, ancient old dog lay in a fetal position. Her gaze didn’t even lift up to look around. She had the look of defeat – that look that says, “I’m done in this world.”

Horrified, the rescuer struggled to regain her composure and simply told that agent that she would adopt the dog immediately. She paid the fee, and then put away the leash to kneel down to the old, shriveled dog.

“Would you like to let me carry you to a pillow in the car?” she asked the Collie.

Gently inserting her hands under and around her, the rescuer discovered that each rib jutted painfully through the frail skin and worn-away coat.

Carefully, akin to holding a gossamer strand of glass, she lifted the Collie up and into her arms.

The hind legs dangled at crazy angles, and the dog’s spine seemed curved and bent beyond what any rules of nature would allow. The old Collie hung her head and showed no effort to help or to resist the move.

Even the dog warden watched silently and held her breath.

The worn out Collie was placed on a large pillow in the back of the SUV. In spite of the sunny autumn day, the rescuer turned the heat up in the car, and covered the dog with a soft blanket.

She murmured in whispers to the dog on the way home.

“What’s your name? What is a pretty name for such a beautiful soul? How about Dumpling? Would you like that?”

Glancing at the dog through the rearview mirror, the rescuer didn’t see any signs of movement. When they arrived home, Dumpling lay still and in the same position as when she was placed in the car. She was carried into the house and placed on another large pillow on a bed.

The phone call to the veterinarian went thus: “I think she’s given up and that she’s in incredible pain. Shall I bring her in to be euthanized?”

“Let me see how she does through the night and whether she tells me she wants to fight or to stop the struggle. Yes, tomorrow will be fine. See you then.”

The rescuer gave the dog some warm baby cereal and broth, and Dumpling weakly lifted her head with help and licked at it. She stayed passive while a lambswwool coat was placed on her, and her overgrown claws were clipped and removed from the pads of her feet, where they had been embedded.

That night, she was placed on a large pillow next to the rescuer on her bed, and Dumpling went to sleep with the rescuer’s hand cradling her head.

In the morning, the rescuer bustled about, greeting the other animals and getting ready for the day ahead.

First thing on the agenda was to take Dumpling to the veterinarian to be euthanized.

Sadly she bundled Dumpling into the car, but she noticed that Dumpling was taking notice of her surroundings with an intent, clear gaze.

During the ride to the clinic, the rescuer was already grieving for the dog who had endured such agonies, and she didn’t quite see Dumpling struggle to sit up and look out the window.

However, when they arrived, the rescuer did notice that Dumpling had moved herself and was trying to sit erect, although her hind legs splayed out from beneath her in odd angles. When she went to lift her from the car, Dumpling struggled to stand, and the rescuer noticed how hunched and distorted her back and legs were. But Dumpling insisted on walking unaided into the clinic.

The vet spent a long time in listening to her heart and to her lungs and looking at her back and legs.

He thought for a long while and said, “Why don’t we take this day by day and see what she tells us? Let’s start by taking a picture of her spine and legs and feeding her good groceries.”

When the X-rays were developed, the vet and the rescuer collectively groaned.

For every part of the spine from the ribs back to the tail had been broken and left to mend on their own. They had fused into odd angles, and that accounted for Dumpling’s strange sideways and crab-like walk.

“She has to be in pain, so let’s treat her with anti-inflammatories and see how she does.”

Dumpling also had several large tumors on her back and face, and her coat was almost gone over her hips and tail. She was placed into a large tub of warm bath water, and for the first time, she let out a whimper. Of relief of being able to feel some comfort or just to acknowledge the pain, she relaxed into the bath.

Over the next few weeks, Dumpling ate and ate, and she walked a little bit more each day. What a surprise when she climbed up steep stairs on her own the first time!

Since Christmas was coming soon, and cold weather meant a need for more dog coats for the others, the rescuer planned a trip to Petsmart (www.petsmart.com), where animals are invited to shop along with their people.

Dumpling now stood by the gate, always waiting to be invited to ride in the car. Since she had visited the vet so many times, and each visit resulted in feeling better and receiving treats, she loved the car, and the good times the rides brought for her.

This time, Dumpling was helped onto her favorite travel pillow and eagerly looked at the passing scenery. Before long, she was “whooping” to let the driver know that the route wasn’t the way to the vet. By the time they arrived at Petsmart, Dumpling wasn’t at all sure about what was to come next.

She was carefully lifted from her pillow and placed on the ground. Wearing her prettiest collar and lead and sporting new and healthy hair coat on her back and hips, she sidled into the store and….

Hey! This store has dog stuff! And food! And people who pet you! And look over there…!

Dumpling carefully, oh so carefully, inspected each and every article found at Collie nose level. She greeted all of the other shoppers by coming up to say hello and placing a long Collie muzzle on their knee to pet.

She was careful to give not-so-friendly looks to other dogs, lest they interfere with her “ Petsmart” experience.

However, her Collie upbringing prevented her from growling or being unfriendly with them. Her clear, intent, and wise gaze was eventually fixed on the food manager of the store, who came over to meet her. Apprised of her history, his eyes softened, and he offered her a treat.

After visiting with the songbirds and listening appreciatively to their warbling and trills, Dumpling was finally ready to check out with her rescuer. Discreetly, she placed her conveniently elongated muzzle into the rawhide bin and selected three choice pieces as they were waiting on line.

By now, the manager had shared Dumpling’s tale with other store staffers, and her feat at the rawhide bin did not go unnoticed. Applause was given to the now regal Collie who once again was interested in living and giving pleasure to those lucky enough to be near her. Dumpling accepted her due with grace and calmly deposited her treats on the counter.

But I wonder, who received the finest gift that day?

Hobbes

Hobbes and I found each other when he was just a large puppy.

At that awkward age when puppies look like dogs but definitely act like puppies; Hobbes had been given up by his owners. A new baby, and a new apartment, and Hobbes landed with a breed rescue group.

He was produced by an anonymous backyard breeder. You know, the ones looking to make a quick buck with any old dam and sire. You see their ads in the newspaper classifieds and now on the Internet. “Collies, tris and sables, AKC Reg. $150 Parents on premises.”

Translated that means, “I bred the first male I could find to the first female I could find. The American Kennel Club doesn’t care –all the registration papers mean is that the family tree is known. Not that I give a hoot if it’s a good line of breeding. Vet care? That costs too much. Blind? How would I know? I need some extra cash for the holidays. And people always love puppies. What happens if they don’t get them altered? Why should I care what they do with them after they’re sold. Pet overpopulation? Not MY problem. I have RIGHTS, you know. This is AMERICA!”

And so Hobbes, his extra long collie muzzle ducking toward his tail, shyly allowed me to hoist him into my car and off for the ride home.

He was so shy, this tall, dark and handsome collie. I didn’t know that collies came in colors other than the TV issue “Lassie sable and white with a white stripe on the face.” But Hobbes had a rich dark brown coat with just highlights of sable eyebrows and sable legs and white stockings on his elegant feet.

By the time we arrived home from the foster family's house, Hobbes had crawled into the front seat and was leaning against my side very politely. We were fast friends as he bounded out of the car.

I learned of the official collie burp. It’s produced solemnly and with dignified presence. It’s subtle, yet distinctive, to purebred collies.

I learned of the fondness of a collie for a cool floor on which to luxuriate. Collies stretch from their noses to their tail tips, and Hobbes was masterful at his stretching.

And I learned of the collie’s absolute love and enjoyment of all things snow-related. Want to throw snowballs? Call a collie to be your partner. Snow Angels? Make that snow collies, too! Call a collie in from the snow, and you will find a collie with a large ball of snow attached to his nose. His face will have an open smile exuberance about it, or perhaps a hint of a pout for curtailing such wonderful fun!

Hobbes had an affinity to watch over his very own herd of cats, most of which were older and sedate. In the first Spring we were together, I have several pictures of Hobbes posing before newly blossoming daffodils, when in each subsequent picture; a tabby cat face a la the Cheshire Cat emerges from the yellow conga line of swaying daffodils. And then Sir Cedric Cecilwycke Tabby Cat (pronounce that with a “Sufferin’ Succotash” lisp), approaches the posing Hobbes for first a friendly nose to nose sniff, and then on the last frame, a very friendly full body cat rub on Hobbes, to which Hobbes is bent over Sir Cedric looking for all the world to be his biggest best friend and protector.

Later, when it became clear that a retriever Hobbes was not, the veterinarian checked his eyes and with alarming directness, instructed us to make an urgent appointment to see a referring veterinary specialist at once. He thought Hobbes was developing a large brain tumor at age two. I had visions of dealing with a very untimely demise of a much-loved dog.

At the visit with Dr. Wyman, the nation’s foremost canine ophthalmologist, I nervously held a calm and polite Hobbes during the eye examination. As he gently held Hobbes’ long muzzle, Dr. Wyman, without anything other than sincerity, soothed to Hobbes, “You are SUCH a fine gentleman.” And I knew exactly what he meant.

There was good news and not so good news. Hobbes had not a brain tumor, but he was blind. And he had been since birth. In collies, there is a condition where the cells that hold the retina in place, that in mammals turn wavelengths into vision; Hobbes had failed to develop the supporting structure. And so with the retina fallen flat into the eye orbit, there was nothing on which the wavelengths to convert to vision. Dr. Wyman stated that categorically, Hobbes was blind and always had been.

I was giddy with relief. For this dog had already been through obedience classes and had passed with flying colors. Hobbes was titled as a CGC – Canine Good Citizen, and that, he was! How he knew where to place his feet and his body, I could never tell. But until his last day, he was unerring in his footing.

Hobbes was such a gentle and sensitive soul, and he served as a greeter and big brother to uncounted animals who came into rescue and later the animal sanctuary that was founded in his honor. He is directly responsible for the rescue and rehoming of many animals that had been deemed unadoptable and un-savable.

Early on, Hobbes enjoyed car rides, and he went with me everywhere. As he gradually became more of a homebody, I often had to seek him out, as he stayed out of the general hubbub of younger and more energetic animals.

Over the past month, the other two eldest collies – both rescued from awful abuse situations and taken to high kill shelters, died after fading. Hobbes had been very connected with them, and I held my breath to see if he would survive his grieving for them.

We - the rescued dogs and I - celebrated his 13th birthday on December 22, and I knew that he hadn’t much time left with me here. Without much hearing left and with increasingly unsteady legs, he still enjoyed rooting for a passing bicyclist, but he was slowing a bit more each day.

On Christmas Eve, I insisted that he sleep inside, rather than on the three-season porch, as was his wont.

On Christmas Day, his gaze was unfocused, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. I knew that he was quickly leaving.

So with plenty of hugs and a liberal dose of tears, I released him to travel on and join his friends, Toby and Dumpling and Napoleon. And on Christmas night, I buried his body next to his other collie buddies and planted daffodil bulbs to remind me of other times and gentle breezes and young collie cavorting.

I miss my dear friend terribly, and I am so grateful that I had such a wonderful collie friend in Hobbes, the throwaway blind collie. But how I long for just one more time to find a long collie muzzle resting on my leg, demanding a pat and a smooch.

Three More Days

Yet more desperate applications for jobs which will never be. And more silence. One day closer to the end.

The most idiotic thing I have done with this blog is to give it a title which is an invitation to other people. What people? I live in a crappy suffocating putrid world which doesn't have real live people in it. Only peripherally do people appear, and then it is only to attack, humiliate, steal or defraud - and always, there are those who terrorize.

To whom, then?

I should have left it untitled - a void. That would have been accurate.

I am so exquisitely hungry for comfort and for relief. Every kind of unending pain. Words - I'm stopping, because words aren't a part of this enveloping, oppressive, stabbing, raw, electric pain. Unending, world without end pain. Only three more days to have to awake and deal with it. Alone. Silent.

If a human falls in the forest and there isn't anyone to hear, did she exist? No. Absolutely not. Did she matter? Only to the extent that the detritus of the body nourishes the worms and the ground. Worthless.

Project Propaganda

Here's what I wrote to Brian Williams, who in his Daily Nightly blog column, was peddling Peggy Noonan's Democratic-bashing tripe.

Peggy Noonan, on the "Opinion Journal" (and isn't the title a clue for you?) wrote only a single line which has some legitimacy: "Americans should not fear talking--and listening--to those whose views we loathe".

The rest of innuendo, unsupported fallacy and right-wing propaganda with the always-present Democrat bashing. It is readily apparent that Democrats are the people to which she references loathing.

Mr. Williams, your work on behalf of the Republican Party is legitimate when it is on your own time and your own dime as a private citizen. However, in this venue, as an employee of GE, to put forth political propaganda of any stripe is unethical and is just sleazy.

Stop it.

Wanna bet that it will never be posted in the comments?

Here's the seemingly innocuous lead in to Noonan by Williams:

After months in new (temporary) quarters, we're back on the 3rd floor of 30 Rock in our old space made new -- part of the huge consolidation of NBC News and MSNBC that will be complete in just a few weeks. Everything looks great, and while we will all head home tonight wearing the light white sheen of a day-long dusting, its exciting to stake a new claim to our old floor. Tags hang from chairs, workers come through armed with punch lists and my old trash can may be lost forever. Then there's the matter of tonight's broadcast...

First, what I thought was a terrific piece of writing by Peggy Noonan, artfully taking on a big issue here in New York last week.

Here's a noxious, but not lethal, sampling of Noonan's poison:

Americans should not fear talking--and listening--to those whose views we loathe.

You don't want to judge Christ by Christians, someone once said. He is perfect, they are not.

In a similar way you don't want to judge capitalism by capitalists, or the legitimacy of democracy by the Democrats, or the vitality of our republic by the Republicans. You have to take the thing pure and in itself, while allowing for the flaws and waywardness of its practitioners.

I say this because here in America we have reached a funny pass. People are doing and saying odd things as if they don't know the meaning of the thing they say they stand for. In particular I mean we used to be proud of whom we allowed to speak, and now are leaning toward defining ourselves by whom we don't speak to and will not allow to speak. This is not progress.

Conservatives on campus are shouted down. A crusader against illegal immigration is rushed off the stage at Columbia University. Great newspapers give ad breaks to groups with which they feel an ideological affinity, but turn away ads from those they do not, such as antiabortion groups. And they call this a business.

So much silencing. It seems so weak, so out of keeping with who we are. We love the tradition of free speech in America, but you don't want to judge its health by what we've done with it lately, or to it.

Not a single fact, no evidence, just innuendo, propaganda and slime. Oh, in Noonan's piece, too.

Blowing The Whistle

I did some research about whistle blowers. Selfish - to find myself a support group and resources. Stupid and naive - there aren't any because most whistle blowers die shortly after.

The collective conscience of the country is to demand people to "speak truth to power" and then to run the hell away from them as far and as fast as their obese stumpy legs can carry them when the whistleblowers do. We stand alone. You can't imagine how alone until people you know literally turn their backs to you, or pretend not to hear you, or run like cockroaches with their overladen grocery carts down the aisles to safety.

Imagine living years without speaking more than "please" and "thank you" to store clerks. Imagine a life going by where you play by all the rules and are figuratively and literally beaten to a pulp.

It's a death sentence of a lifetime of fully sensitized nerves feeling every volt of electricity. The sentence of being fully awake, eyes pinned open, ears alert, nose detecting the reek of ostracism and of condemnation.

There is no parole. There is no next chapter. There is no rehabilitation.

Once a whistle blower, there is only the prolonged death.

It is unimaginable, and so explaining it in writing causes people to flee. Turn the page, click on another site, avert one's head after rubbernecking and getting a glimpse of the carnage that has been wrought.

With my remaining time, I am going to write a book.

Chapter one: Whistle-blowing - what it is
Chapter two: What leads up to it
Chapter three: Immediate retaliation
Chapter four: Isolation, ostracism and shunning
Chapter five: Losing security - true terrorism
Chapter six: Losing family, friends, social supports, losing church (if you had one), losing social connectedness, losing career, losing identity, losing home, then shelter, losing humor, losing hope, losing humanness (all of this needs to be re-ordered)
Chapter seven: No health for you
Chapter eight: Death - the end of suffering, as a goal

Four Days and Counting

Four business days to find a job. My resources are gone. All gone. This week is just desperate flailing anywhere. Risk taking because to not take a risk is just as risky.

The probability of finality is exponentially skyrocketing. Not a single person cares. Not a single tangible shred of help, of support, of humanness.

Pretty damn sure I won't miss this world, even if the alternative (worst scenario) is a ring of hell. Hell? How can it be worse than this? I have lived an entire existence of hell.

I was born old - of two people who should have served as an advertisement for abortion or at least or effective contraception.

My life review - for that which I can still conjure up some sort of memory, is entirely devoid of any real human contact, of affection, of tolerance, or laughter, and of course, without love. What remains is an empty life lived in the strictest of isolation and ostracism. Shunning without recognition of it.

Not one single memory of pure joy, of a soul-affirming belly laugh, of anyone accepting and inviting me to share - a telephone call, a visit, playground games - nothing and everything has been hidden from me.

I remember no dreams of any kind. Not of future plans (ha), of careers, of families, of adventures. I remember only reviewing the list of events which convicted me of failure - to be - me, to be human, to explain the hatred always spewing over and through and under and behind and in front of me. Noxious and perpetual suffocation and drowning.

I don't know how I lived this long. I don't have any survival instinct or skills. I really don't want to have now, so that the parting is minimal cause for awareness of suffering.

My guess: there isn't anything beyond this miserable existence. Eternity - so what? Who would welcome me to it? I have no one to meet, no desire to replicate another earthly torture. No one is waiting for me. And to have to exist in eternity, time out of time alone? No thanks. Done that, too.

What would I like? To find a universe of true, kind, compassionate souls who are singing harmonically and joyfully and who experience the equivalent of unbridled laughter and joy who invite me to join, and with whom I can lend support as I am supported. That would be heavenly peace. And it is just another idea out of reach.