Minot's Ledge: Paramedics, Pitbulls, Ponies, and Poultry

I hope you enjoy this overview of some of my experience with the Connetticut river. These accounts are remeniscent of warmer days. There are photographs which accompany this post, which can be viewed here  http://picasaweb.google.com/Dhpc.Raptor/BestOfCTRiver?feat=directlink -Aaron __________________________________________________________________________             I've been on the Connecticut just about every summer for the past six or seven years, and more recently, the fall and spring too. I'm sure there is no one living in Northampton or the surrounding oblivious to its existence (after all, everyone traverses it once and awhile while crossing the Calvin Coolidge Bridge, route 202 or 116 on their way to Hadley, Amherst, or any other eastern lying town), But to fully appreciate this magnificent body of water, one needs to find themselves in some sort of water transportation. Extending over 65 miles in the state of Massachusetts (with the most navigable sections being south of Sunderland) The Connecticut is truly a gem still waiting to be discovered by many. The quality of the water has been controversial in recent years, but strong efforts have been made to restore and preserve the waters. Contaminants vary by season, particularly after a large flood, or during the spring thaw when sediments from nearby fields, along with anything else the water has picked up are carried downstream. These fluctiations in water level are normal, and ofren follow a large rain. Overall, there are very clean sections of the river, where visibility in the water can extend 14 feet or more straight down.              There are a number of ways someone can find themselves on the Connecticut. For the casual observer, the Rail Trail Bridge allows a walk over the entire river, with a nice mile and a half of visibility downstream. Want to get up close and personal? A variety of human propelled watercraft are available for rental, and If you happen to have your own canoe or kayak, the state access ramp is located on Rt. 5. Most of my experience on the river has come from my family's pontoon boat, which we dock at the Oxbow Marina during the summer season. A motorboat can be preferable, as currents can vary, and there are many miles of waterway to explore. During the summer months the waters are filled with boaters, water-skiers, people fishing, and swimming. Several excellent beaches, only available from the water are put to good use, sometimes by over 100 boats at a time during the busiest weekends. But for those seeking solitude, don't shy away. Between The Oxbow and Hatfield is the most traveled leg of the river north of the Holyoke Dam. Head up toward Sunderland falls, or down towards the Holyoke dam and your likely to be the only boat in sight.          The waters and shores of the river provide natural habitat for a wide variety of species of bird, fish, and other critters. Bass, trout, shad, and a number of bluegill are just a few of the fish you can easily net, if you know where to look.I've even heard there are eel lurking in the waters as well (yuk!)  The Arcadia wildlife sanctuary lines much of the shore of the Oxbow, and birds and waterfowl are a common site when passing through any part of the river. Some native and some migratory, the most interesting of these feathered flighted friends are the Great Blue Heron, Snowy Egret, The occasional Osprey, and Bald Eagle. These magnificent birds find serenity among the branches of trees, fallen limbs, and tall reeds of the banks. All of the above feed on fish and their hunting rituals are truly a spectacle to see firsthand. An increasing phenomenon however, is the fleets of mallards that have become accustomed to perusing motor boats, and ‘asking’ for handouts.  When you see 10-30 ducks all quacking angrily, it’s often hard not to respond with breadcrumbs or handfuls of crackers. I just hope these creatures don’t become completely reliant on humans to provide food for them, to the point where they can no longer feed themselves. Maybe people food just happens to taste better than algae. I’m no ornithologist…just speaking from experience.                                                    The Eagles are the most fun to observe, and a rush of excitement fills you when someone spots one perched on a high branch. What was once (from my understanding) a very rare species has now made a significant comeback, and populations right in the area are doing significantly well. Mind you, that the Riverbanks and shores of the Oxbow are the only places you’ll spot one of these birds in the valley.          Especially at sundown, the full tranquility of the river is exposed. With the sun gleaming red, reflected in the glassy still water, you can see the outlines of the Mt. Holyoke range, cast in shadow by the sunset. On one occurrence, (I’m not really sure of the true meteorological factors) the humidity and temperature were just right, to produce a ghastly mist, flowing like liquid on the surface of the water. The lighting was just perfect to make this thick white mist was a very beautiful sight.  Within a few minutes, it had blown away, leaving the orange sky to leave a final streak in the water just as it sunk below the horizon.                  Rowing on the Connecticut is a slightly different experience, but I’ll get to that in Part II. Thank you all for reading. I’d love to hear from anyone who read this and is interested, or would like to know more. I can be contacted via email at dhpc_raptor@yahoo.com I’ve also contributed extensively to Wikipedia’s article on The Oxbow

“You are an EGO MANIAC,” the woman shouted, spitting like a llama.  I continued to stand, considering how we had arrived at such impasse.  Princess and I exchanged glances; the Jolly Dog obviously felt we should remove ourselves from this creature.  Said creature continued to rave. I continued to stand as I was trapped in line between an elderly woman lecturing the teenage checkout boy about how the tip of a water can is called a ‘rose’ and this current demon.

         The day had begun nicely enough.  JP had worked the night shift so all the dogs had slept in the bed.  Multiple large dogs require a jigsaw puzzle sleeping arrangement.  I feel it is important, reinforcing our pack dynamic.  Sometimes I dream their dreams, effortlessly running through fields and woods, chasing something just out of reach.  In the dreams I have four paws and am light grey in color.  I have never bothered to try to figure out the rest of my appearance for who cares?  It is all about smell.

         Dog dreams are in contrast to my own dreams, where I am being chased by something and cannot seem to move quickly.  I wonder if the dogs ever dream my dreams, looking down at two naked feet and two hands, feeling the powerlessness of the human form.  Certainly they have nightmares from which they must be woken.  In contrast a dreaming dog looks peaceful, barking under their breath, paws beating out a slight pattern.  Even hour old pups dream like this, and I wonder what they find to dream of in their first minutes.

         The woman was telling me how service dogs were not ‘allowed’ to be dogs.  That made me smile, which was unfortunate. 
         “You think this is funny?”  She shrieked.

      Well, yes, I did.  However I chose to keep my mouth shut, using Mia’s practice of substituting nice words for an unpleasant situation.  I thought about gardening, about poultry, said the word sunshine in my mind.

         It was humorous that this woman believed my dogs were not allowed to be dogs.  As a professional dog trainer I have encountered hundreds of dogs that their owners had turned into neurotic wrecks.  Dogs treated like children, dogs that never go outside, dogs that are not allowed to wallow in mud, a beagle not allowed to hunt, the list goes on and on.

         The people in my house recognize the dogs as another species.  We respect their differences and do not try to make them into people.  In turn they respect the fact that we often cook roasts, keep poultry, and allow them to wallow in mud.  I may be the pack leader, but together we are team.  If Coco steals my cell phone, Lizzy finds it for me.  Princess helps me round up the poultry, her prize?  A few mouthfuls of chicken manure- Yuck! 

         The woman had some choice comments about the slavery of service work.  I was forcing the dog to give up all contact with human kind just to focus on me.  Now that made me chuckle, which again had the unfortunate effect of sending the woman into orbit.  Standing in front of the cashier now perhaps I would be able to escape.  The reason it made me laugh was that Princess really does not feel most people are worth any time or effort.  She is an excellent judge of need.  She always checks with me first, but she will initiate contact with people, but only a select group.

         Princess has a nose for sadness.  It may come from working at a middle school, but whatever the source, she can pick out a person in need a mile away.  If Princess thinks someone is worth her attention I always stop what I am doing so she can work her magic.  It is often the elderly, missing the dogs of their life, or missing their family.  Sometimes it is a child or teenager, equally lonely.  Occasionally it is someone who is in physical distress, or even dying, Princess always knows.

         When I worked full time as a Paramedic, lonely elders were very important to me.  I was always willing to spend a few extra moments talking to them.  I am not trying to make myself look like some kind of hero.  It may be guilt for not having spent enough time with my own mother, or misplaced grief from losing my father so many years ago.  Whatever the cause, the benefits are huge, allowing me to meet and speak to people who lived in a world that is difficult to imagine today.  My personal favorites are the WWII Veterans, a group of folks with some serious stories to share.

         The JFK student council helps out with a Council on Aging event, a birthday party for centenarians.  My students decorate, entertain, serve the food, and most importantly, mingle.  Their task is to ask the elders to talk about themselves.  These are middle school students; the ones that the American public believes to be self-obsessed devils.  The ‘Public’ should see those students getting the elders to talk and tell stories about what it was like when they were young.  The kids are fascinated and the elders have a lot to say to a receptive audience.

         A dog is a strong memory prompt.  Princess is delicate enough to gently put her feet up on an elder’s chair so that they may reach her velvet head. This brings out more information, as the elder will recount all the dogs and other animals of their youth.  It is delightful to listen to someone who is 104 bringing stories to life.  The students are always amazed, remarking later how they can barely remember what they had for breakfast.

         I was trying to edge away from the angry woman, but she wasn’t ready to let me go.  It is interesting to note that throughout this exchange she continued to try and touch Princess.  The dog, of course, would have nothing to do with her.  This reinforced the woman’s belief that the dog was being abused.

         “Look how she is hiding behind you!  You have turned her into a crazy thing.”  I did not blame Princess one bit, I would be hiding as well, but there was no convenient hidey-hole.  Yet, finally I had my receipt, and was able to carefully back out of the store.  The woman did not stop her diatribe, and I like to believe the cashier was being exceptionally slow to give me time to escape.  Walking to the car I considered the woman’s key points.

 

1.  Being a service dog makes the dog crazy

2.  Service dogs are not allowed to be ‘dogs’

3.  Service dogs give up the right to interact with other people

4.  Causing a dog to ‘work’ is akin to slavery

5.  Having a service dog means that I am a self-serving ego-maniac

 

Looking down at Princess I could see she was wearing her ‘what a stupid human’ face.  Due to her consistent interaction with the human world, Princess, like most service/working dogs has a vocabulary of at least 100 words, perhaps more.  She has made a thorough study of human body language.  She is capable of making decisions and forming opinions.  This is vital in a service dog, where ‘obedient disobedience’ saves the blind person from walking into unexpected obstacles.  Princess may gravitate to people who require healing, yet ignore people who are behaving in an obnoxious or ‘stupid’ manner.  If this sounds as if I am anthropomorphizing, consider that dogs recognize good and bad behavior within the pack, or in a stranger dog. 

         Cesar Milan refers to the phenomenon as ‘balanced’ or ‘unbalanced.’  These words work for me.  A dog or a person who knows how they mesh with the world is balanced.  A dog who is given mixed messages, treated like a four footed person, or not allowed to hunt/retrieve/herd will become unbalanced.  This woman clearly did not know how to mesh with the world.  Not only did she behave heinously with me, she ignored the non-verbal cues from all the other people at the register.   Our conversation was one-sided, the only thing I had said out loud (politely) was that a dog in harness was working, and should not be touched.  She supplied the other ten minutes of diatribe.  Mind you, this woman was typical for our town, well dressed and well spoken.   Adult, attractive, clean and neatly dressed, not looking the part of the harridan.

         The dogs needing to be dogs topic was just silly.  I considered inviting the woman to my house.  She could see the dog yard, the dog pool, and the poultry- with attendant poop for eating and rolling in, the acres for walks.  The dogs like to pursue and kill varmints.  I allow them to mouse in the garage, where they are more effective than cats.  Simba occasionally enjoys hunting the chipmunks in the ledges behind the house.  (He never catches them, and it seems more like a two species game than an actual hunt.)  Shaping the desire to pursue into herding allows them another outlet for their natural doggy nature.  Those that can swim are taken on adventures; which has left my car with a peculiar smell.  They do dog shows, obedience, conformation, and agility, and win.  That may sound egomaniacal, but this breed is competitive and loves to strut their stuff.  And then of course, there is the mud, and the endless holes to dig.  No, I think my dogs are dogs.

         The interaction with other people item was an interesting point.  I have a service dog due to a head injury.  I easily lose my balance, have visual disturbances, suffer from excruciating pain, and find the world a troubling place.  My symptoms come and go without warning.  The dogs are able to pick up on the incoming symptom before it hits.  Princess has a specific behavior that indicates that I should sit down, pull over, or call for help.  I have to decide what to do, but she gives me that critical ten to fifteen minutes that prevents a disaster.

         I am her main focus, that is her job, but she is also capable of maintaining an eye on me while still interacting with the adoring masses.  I say masses because I teach 8^th grade science.  It would be short sighted of me to prevent Princess from interacting with the students.  Teachers are always looking for the ever-elusive ‘teaching moment.’  The dog in the classroom provides a common ground, an area of interest for all.  The students are interested in how she was trained, how she perceives my problems, and what it takes to create a working dog.  This leads to incredible discussions about training, teaching, the differences in senses in various life forms, and genetics.  I wouldn’t trade that for anything, for an interested student is one who learns.

         The slavery issue smacks of PETA, or any one of the radical ‘animal rights’ groups.  I shall say it now, those groups are local terrorists, and their activities and hidden agenda should be made public.  An example?  At a dog show in Boston, at the old Expo Center, one of these groups snuck in at night and decided to liberate the show dogs from their ‘slavery.’  It was December: these were show dogs, not coyotes, jackals, or wolves.  The group released roughly fifty dogs from their crates and shooed them out the door.  Most of these dogs were hit by cars, (we are talking the South End of Boston) died of exposure, or were never found.

         I believe that humans and domesticated animals grew up together over many thousands of years.  We have developed a relationship that borders on symbiosis.  These animals do not require liberation; in fact, release may be a lethal event.  My dogs with their short coats and almost naked bellies are not designed to live human-free.  I spend a great deal of time and money making sure that they have authentic experiences while remaining safe.  I do not believe that my dogs would be happy if they were not asked to work.  They line up to be the ‘chicken dog’ of the day, to be my assistant, to wear the harness, either to assist or to pull the wagon.  I do not ‘pay’ them for this, it is a choice.  Ask anyone who has ever ran a pack of sled dogs, about how their wild packs lines up for those harnesses.  Ask a person with a border collie or a blue heeler about what that dog would like to do, all day, all night. 

         The egomaniac thing was the most disturbing.  I wondered if the woman had considered that I must be disabled in order to have a service dog.  Since my troubles came from a trauma, and are recent, I have a clear perspective.  I would love to wake up pain free, hell, I’d love to sleep through the night- but the pain is so intense that often I lie awake, just waiting for the night to end.  I would love to go back to working full time as a Paramedic.  It would be fun to just be able to leave the house without packing a pharmacy, a dog, and supplies for the dog.  I have to worry about everything I eat, whether or not a fan will be blowing on my face in a restaurant, and how to deal with visual disturbances.  I would love to have my husband be able to kiss me without both of us worrying if that contact will set off the pain.

         The service dog helps me through the day, but it does not make the symptom pattern go away.  Having the dog along also creates a subset of difficulties.  When I fly on an airplane, I cannot go to the bathroom as the dog does not fit inside, and she will not accept letting me out of her sight.  Think that one over.  To put a fine point on it, I am not complaining.  I have mobility, I have recovered enough from the head injury that I am capable of deep thought, I can speak again.  There are people in far worse states than I, people for whom a dog is not an option.  My service dog makes the situation tenable.  I am aware that the world does not revolve around me, and as a Paramedic, have deep compassion for people with more significant disabilities.  In all ways I am fortunate, my condition is not lethal, I have a supportive family, and I have a service dog that keeps a weather eye out for my symptoms.

         In the world of people with disabilities we have a phrase, the rest of you are ‘the temporarily able-bodied.’  Barring sudden medical or traumatic death, all people pass through some phase of disability.  I figure I am just getting some early practice.  The best way for me to deal with the pain and confusion is to see it as a learning experience.  It is also a time for teaching.  I try to persuade people with disabilities to look into service dogs for themselves.  A certain portion of every day is spent giving simple ‘dog advice’ as most of my co-workers see me as a dog-training guru.  That again, is largely due to the amazing behavior of my dogs.   Sure, I have trained dogs for a living, and have a pack of interesting and interested dogs, but most of it comes from the dogs. 

     The breed is talented and intelligent.  Despite their reputation, and don’t get me wrong, this was a breed created for bringing down wild boar, bulls for slaughter, and other dogs, but they have another side.  The people who bred them wanted a dog that could work, and I mean work, at any task.  The dog should be able to work all day, and still have lots left over for attending to their people.  Of the dogs I have sold, many of them have their own ‘children.’  A child watched over by a Pit Bull has a friend for life.  Do not forget that Pete the Pup was a Pit, and in fact, a direct ancestor of my line.  Thurber’s ‘Rex’ was also a Pit, “none of your English Bulls.”

         For the people who bring up the media circus of dog attacks I give you ridiculous owners, the ones who fail to lay down clear rules and limitations, who fail to exercise their dogs, who make poor breeding choices.  I will also point out that many dogs bite children, but the media monsters that are Pits, Rotties, Dobies, and other large dogs make much better copy.  No one wants to read about the child whose face has been damaged by a Golden Retriever.  I saw that exact bite, a niece left alone with an elderly Golden.  The parents told me the dog was a ‘baby-sitter.’  The truth was the child and dog did not know one another.  The child did not have any manners with dogs, and had insisted on pouncing on the Golden.  Finally the dog gave the child a disciplinary bite, as any dog would to an annoying puppy.  The child required surgery to put her lips and nose back in the correct locations.  Of course the dog was put to sleep.  In the back of the ambulance, all the mother could say was: “what about her modeling career?  She will be scarred for life.”  Parents are incredibly foolish at times.  The mother scared her child so much that I had the police remove the woman from the ambulance.  The dark side of me wanted the mother put to sleep for placing her ill-behaved child in a small room with a dog.  For considering any dog, no matter how well behaved, an appropriate ‘baby-sitter.’  Even my children, essentially raised within a pack, were never left with a canine babysitter.  The closest they came to that was Clarice and Medic keeping an eye out for bear in the back yard.  Even then, Medic reported to Clarice, and she to me.    

The worst bite I ever received, in years of dog training, was from a Boston Terrier; who bit the meat between my thumb and forefinger and would not let go.  I have permanent nerve damage to that hand.  Sure, a large dog can do more damage, simply due to their size, but they are not any more likely to bite than a small dog.   In fact, due to their more phlegmatic temperament, larger dogs often have a greater bite inhibition.  Small dogs have no idea they are small, are largely bred not only to hunt, but to take down game in tight quarters.  A delightful dachshund was designed to take on a badger.  Jack Russells were used to break a fox from its den, and have jaws for the task.

Princess packed herself into the car with a huge sigh.  I did a quick check for egomania.  It is quite possible that I am an egomaniac, but the blame should not rest on Princess’ soft shoulders.  Instead I believe that Princess and I are a team, and that she enjoys her work.  We call her the Jolly Dog due to her insane grin and googly eyes.  With her harness on, Princess, a perfect white heart on her nose, trots like a Saddlebred horse.  She hangs her tongue out the left side of her mouth and opens her eyes as wide as possible.  Anyone viewing her would see a dog demonstrating glee.  At this moment she looked pensive.  It could be that she was picking up on my own mood.  On the other hand, I believe that Princess is so astute in her observations of people that she was equally disturbed by the lecture we had just received.

Being attached to a service dog apparently gives strangers the right to comment.  It is like being pregnant, when everybody feels they can touch your belly, and ask you when you are due.  I am so accustomed to the presence of the dog that I talk to her as if accompanied by another person.  The vast bulk of my interactions about the dog are positive.  I reminded Princess of this fact.  With the beauty of dogs, Princess had already let it go, her expression entirely geared to make me be sympathetic.  Princess loves to be cooed over, but her point was simple, get over it, the woman was a nut, scratch my ears.

 

            Child of two writers, the sound of typewriters had been a constant backdrop to life at home.  My father worked at the kitchen table, cigarette dangling from his lips, ashes decorating the keys.  My mother typed in the basement, an eerie racket from below.  I did my writing with pencils, pens, and the occasional crayon.  I kept my eye on the typewriter and wondered when my turn would come.  There was no doubt that I needed to use my father’s typewriter, for my mother’s was a new-fangled electric beast, without the dramatic beat of the manual machine.

            In sixth grade we were given an assignment that needed to be typed.  My handwritten draft looked enormous, suddenly I was unsure.  I had never used the typewriter, and it would obviously take weeks to finish.  I approached my parents for assistance, many of my classmates had persuaded their parents to do their typing.  For my efforts I was seated at a large card table, perched atop a stack of old phone books.  The typewriter was placed in front of me with a fresh sheet of paper in its reel.

            This typewriter, an Olympia, hails from 1940, weighs about fifty pounds and requires a huge amount of force to work the keys.  It was my father’s pride and joy, the instrument upon which he rendered his work as editor and jazz critic for Metronome magazine.  The keys were sticky from years of cigarette ash and spilled drinks.  I sat silently in front of the monster for a full hour.  My father poured me a glass of cola, placing it exactly where his typing beverage always sat.  He did not offer me a cigarette.

            When it became obvious my parents were not going to help I began to type, tentatively at first, then with conviction.  It was a brutal way to learn, but by the end of the paper I knew where the major keys were placed.  I had the strangest feeling the next day giving the assignment to my teacher.  There was a sense of ownership that I had not yet experienced.  I was the only child who had done her own typing, and the teacher noticed.  I glowed with pride, and something else I could not identify.

            A new world had opened, not that it was without difficulty.  Suddenly there was conflict in the household, because I wanted to do all my work on the Olympia.  My father also needed the typewriter, but could not disguise the pleasure of watching his fledgling author.  I wrote for fun, to work out ideas, for the tremendous sound of the keys and the return of the reel. 

I had notions of being a world famous novelist, youngest ever, at ten years of age.  By paying attention to writing I began to see the power of language, how we influence each other with the choice of words both spoken and written.  It was time for a test, to see if I could wield that power effectively.   I stacked my telephone books and wrestled with the typewriter, producing a piece that I treasure to this day, a sales pitch for a dog.

            We did not have a dog, not because my parents did not like dogs, but because it would be one more thing.  There was already a menagerie at the house: doves, iguanas, fish, anoles, even a chicken.  The chicken laid an egg on the couch every day, proof of my parents’ patience for pets.   The solution to my pleas for a dog was for me to volunteer at an animal shelter.  This was a mistake.  Suddenly surrounded by people who knew things about dogs, and dozens of dogs that needed homes, I was sure that the right dog would come to the shelter.  First I needed to persuade my parents.

            The document I produced was twelve pages long, with hand-drawn illustrations.  It bore the terrible title “Why I need a dog” and was neatly bound in a plastic binder.  I had an introduction to dog ownership, a page devoted to each breed that I thought might be suitable for our situation, and a final paragraph that was part plea and part sales pitch.  My parents accepted the piece without a word.  

            The following week the shelter called to say that one of my preferred breeds, an American Pit Bull Terrier, had arrived.  She fit the bill, adult, spayed, and obedience trained.  Her name was Cleo, the name of the stuffed fish that I still had stashed in my bed, a remnant from babyhood.  I solemnly told my mother that it was fate, this dog was meant to be ours.

            When I came home that afternoon with Cleo, a big fat fawn clown, my father told me that he had been sold by my document.  He asked me to remember the lesson, the power of both the written and spoken word.  My mother acted as if she had planned to get a dog all along, but I could tell she was pleased.  For me, Cleo was the manifestation of my joy in writing, in being able to effectively communicate my ideas.

            The Olympia traveled with me, to the far reaches of East Africa, through the Caribbean, and all over the Eastern Seaboard.  Each time I carried it onto a plane the baggage clerk would open it up and examine it as if it were a weapon.  It resides now in my basement, high up on a shelf away from the dews and damps.  My sons used to take it down now and again to marvel at the very idea of ‘typing’ on such a beast.  Cleo has long since crossed the Rainbow Bridge, but I still write about dogs, for many have followed in her paw prints.

            I write each night, sometimes for joy, sometimes for sadness, and sometimes just for work.  If I am writing something that brings me to tears, the dogs all come in and bump up against me, offering comfort.  Other times they pile up nearby to keep watch. 

I know nothing about paramedica, pitbulls, ponies, or poultry. Or blogs! But I'd like to know more (about blogs, at least). So this is an adventure. If you don't hear from me it's because I've forgotten how to find this site, or my password, or both. Let's see, how do I send? I'll click save and see what happens...

            One of the flaws in poultry husbandry is the necessity of killing roosters.  It must be done, like weeding a flower garden.  To their credit, the roosters make it easy, as they so often become vituperative creatures, full of hate and sound.  Yet they can be strikingly beautiful, and I do regret their deaths.  On our property, a healthy percentage appears to be one rooster for every ten hens.  That usually means five birds from my house, and another five from Margaret, ten proud cockerels. 

If I were a sensible chicken keeper the hens who have ceased to lay consistently would join those ten.  Most poultry businesses do not provide a retirement community for non-laying hens.  A hen may live ten to fourteen years, and if only two to four of those years are egg-laying years, well, that is a lot of grain.  Truth is, I love my hens, their chuckling cluck, their color, their vehement defense of the nest.  I love the roosters as well, and some become pets, come when called, and are my helpmates in keeping the flock safe.  Yet a certain number must go, and on that day, preferably a cool, windless day, Margaret and I get together to slaughter.

         Once the blood has been drained from their bodies they become pale shadows of their prior magnificence.  Moments earlier they were strutting and calling; tossing their iridescent hackles in challenge.  Just catching them is a fight.  They puff up and hurl themselves at the wire, masculinity in a nutshell.

         Seized by the catching hook, all defiance bleeds away and they squawk horribly, protesting their fate.  This is where the terror comes in.  It is my job, as the killer, to make sure that their terror is brief, and does not proceed into agony.  I hang them upside down and stroke their beautiful feathers.  There is an element of science in this; carotid massage, or rubbing the carotid artery produces a sense of calm.  Once they have stopped struggling I call them by name and tell them what I know about their personality.  This one was a good forager, that one was a little too rough with the hens.  I call upon their spirit to accept death with clarity and to seek rebirth in a better setting.  Just for good measure I whisper several names of the Buddha into their ears.  If you believe in reincarnation, then roosters need all the help they can get.  While they are listening I swiftly insert the point of my knife into the carotid artery.

         Done correctly the bird bleeds out in several heartbeats.  There is some residual brain activity that causes dramatic flapping, but it is a gentler death than removing the head entirely.  Sometimes the knife fails to hit the sweet spot and I have to go back in.  These deaths are less than calm; often the rooster will actually pick his head up and look right at me as if to say, “this is terrible, why are you letting me suffer like this?”  In those moments of a bad death, terror becomes agony for the rooster, which in turn becomes more terror.  Even a being a simple as a rooster has the capacity for these primal emotions. 

         The real question of how to best ameliorate agony and terror may seem simple.  Don’t kill any roosters.  Unfortunately in almost all kinds of livestock rearing, male animals are less than fortunate.  I could make excuses about how it is cruel to keep too many roosters in one pen.  Or how it is cruel to the hens, this is true, as overcrowded roosters will injure the hens in their frenzy to mate. 

I could order female chicks from the catalog, but truth is if you buy 25 pullets, the hatchery always throws in a few cockerels.  Sometimes it is a mistake by the chick sexer, but most of the time, the extra cockerels are there purposefully, as live heating packs.  Five extra chicks per twenty-five may help to keep the entire group warm.  Consider that most chick orders are sent out while the weather is still quite cold.  I rarely order chicks, preferring to order eggs and incubate them, or allow my own good stock to replenish itself naturally.  As a result, there will be roosters.  During the school year several classes incubate eggs.  Over the years I have noted an unusually high ratio of roosters hatched in the school environment, for which I have no good explanation.  The good news is that these ‘school’ roosters are very tame and often make my best team players.

What it comes down to is that I hate being attacked when I enter the chicken yard.  And there is that small matter of the incessant crowing.  On the side of the roosters, my closest neighbor has told me that the roosters have saved him several times when he overslept.  The neighbor used to leave at six a.m., and the roosters crowed in sufficient time for him to eat and get dressed, even if his alarm clock failed.  What is fascinating is that this same neighbor has changed shifts, and now leaves at 330 a.m., right on cue at least two roosters have begun to crow at 3 a.m.

         For some time the chief rooster and I had it all worked out.  He would attack me and I would strike him with whatever I happen to be holding.  The extent of both of our injuries depended on how well I was dressed and or armed.  Flip-flops and shorts are not good rooster clothing.  I tolerated this rooster for a long time because he was very good to his hens.  For the untutored, a ‘good’ rooster does not pick out too many of the hen’s feathers in the throes of passion, he clucks attentively, locates new food sources, and keeps watch for hours.  When the chickens are loose, a watchful rooster prevents predation by hawks, in their house; he may give his life in the act of defending the ladies from a midnight intruder. 

For their part, the hens largely ignore the roosters, unless they make the sound that means, “Come here for I have found something tasty.”  Then they all rush over and he stands up tall and from my imaginative eye, looks indulgent, like a parent allowing a child to have a giant hot fudge sundae- and not even asking for a taste.

         Margaret had a wonderful chief rooster that was just a marshmallow.  He did not attack her, and was pleasant to the hens.  “Buffaroo” was a large golden affair, all poofy buff feathers and crimson trim.  My rooster, on the other hand, was hideous.  He was a Turken, which is a variety developed somewhere in the Russian steppe country.  This variety has no feathers on their neck, under their wings, or over their hips.  I have several of these birds, as they are hard-core layers of dark eggs.

A Turken resembles a turkey on steroids, other days- particularly when it is raining- a vulture.  Either way this rooster was black and grey with this awful red neck that just cries out for the knife.  My research suggests that this unusual feather pattern was bred for specifically to ease slaughtering and plucking of the carcass.  Even as chicks they are particularly bizarre.  

         Periodically the roosters grow too numerous to bear and the aforementioned events take place.  Roosters are the source of the best brown soup stock.  Their meat is a bit tough; fryers and roasters at the supermarket are capons, or castrated roosters.  Caponizing is done young, and without anesthesia, the roosters make it easy by carrying their testicles in their chest.  Two small incisions, a little finger action, and the testicles pop out like grapes.  Our birds are not caponized as they are not meat birds, but not to let anything go to waste, what doesn’t make stock can be made into dog food.  (It is also worth noting that an adult rooster has testicles that are as large as those of a big dog.)

This weekend was a killing time.  The weather was cooperative, (you laugh, but imagine plucking a bird in a high wind.) there were only five birds, and it all should have gone smoothly.  In fact, four birds died swiftly.  The fifth was another story entirely.  That bird simply would not die.  He brought to mind all the stories about chickens devoid of their heads, running around terrifying the neighbors. 

         I cannot tell you what went wrong with this killing, only that it was unnecessarily terrifying for both the bird and me.  As the knife went in I could tell there would be a problem.  Just as I developed a skill for finding veins for inserting an intravenous line, so I have a knack for finding an artery in order to kill.  Veins and arteries have a different feel.  The vein is full of valves, feels meaty.  The artery is pulsating yet vibrant.  It wiggles away from the offending point as if aware of its’ fate.

         The calmed bird, hanging, waiting, the sound of my voice calming its spirit, takes the knife.  The artery, on the other hand, does its level best to get away.  Something inside the bird knows it is about to die, and like all living things, clings to life.  In this case the artery won.  I hit a vein, and then worse yet, punctured the trachea.  As the bird struggled to breath, hideous sounds emanated from the punctured windpipe.  Bloody froth accumulated and spit at me.

         Knife at the ready I struck a second time, this time hitting the artery.  For reasons not easily explained, this did not end the bird’s struggle.  Now the bird was flapping and striking me with its wings.  Blood and foam were everywhere.  It was a moment that called for an axe, but none was handy, so I retreated.

         Back in the barn I regarded the rooster that had peacefully died only a moment earlier.  Margaret returned from checking on her father.  One look at me, covered in blood- I never get covered in blood- was enough to prompt an “Oh dear.”  From Margaret this is a multi purpose statement that covers everything from a woman covered in blood to dropping a newspaper in a puddle.  I love it the way she makes the phrase carry so many different meanings.

         “Oh dear” is usually accompanied by a slight shaking of the head.  Margaret is quite tall and elegant, and this movement further defines the “oh dear”.  She shook her head once, but enough to shake loose a lock of hair.  We stood together in silence and watched the bird.  When it was still she approached.  “Don’t touch it,” I said, but too late.   At the touch of her hand it immediately sprang to life and began to flap and shake.  She ran back to me, now we matched, spattered in blood.  It took too many minutes for that animal to die, and driving home with my chilled carcasses, I critiqued the event.

Returning home, I sought some solace in visiting my animals.  One of my favorite things to do is tend all my creatures and flowers.  This behavior is healing following a slaughtering; it is both a chore and a daily gift.  I waddle around handing out treats, food and water.  Each day there is something new, a giant dahlia flower nodding in the early frost, new fluffy coats on the rabbits preparing for winter, a fresh egg. 

         Today death had visited my house.   The rabbit hutch was strangely still at my approach.  Not a good sign.  Usually the occupants would be squeaking and leaping at my approach, as guinea pigs and rabbits are always starving.  Opening the top I beheld that another creature with a knack for finding arteries had been hard at work.  An unknown intruder had visited and bled out two adult rabbits and two guinea pigs.  All these animals were scheduled to return to their usual school setting that very week.  All four were classroom pets, well known and loved by many.  It was carnage.  One of the guinea pigs was still alive, I was not sure if that was better or worse than her being dead. 

         Shawanda, a guinea pig colored just like a squirrel, lay on her side, rasping quietly.  Both eye globes were punctured and loosing fluid.  She had one wound on her throat through which I could hear the raspy sounds of misplaced air.  These were wounds she could not survive; yet I had no killing left in me for that day.  The kind thing would have been to kill her myself, but I chose to be selfish.

         I made her as comfortable as possible in an indoor cage.  She lingered in a deep coma for another 12 hours.  Every few hours I would check on her and struggle to kill her.  Each time I would end up adding another little blanket and walking away.  Her fate was not to die at my hands, for I had done too much killing that day.  Perhaps if that last rooster had not died so badly then I would have had the courage to kill my pet.  Without a doubt I was shaken, and worried that I could possibly cause Shawanda more agony if I did not get it right.

         Lost that day were an Eastern Cottontail rabbit, Cocoa, a ‘lawnmower’ baby, saved from that fate nine years prior, a year old Rex rabbit that the kids had not yet named, an elderly tri-color guinea pig, Chocolate Chip, and of course, Shawanda.  None had been eaten, simply drained of their blood.  It was the beginning of the “Summer of the Fisher,” but I did not yet possess that knowledge.  The entire structure of the chicken flock would be altered, including the loss of the hideous Turken rooster.  But that is another tale for another day, the saga of “Frankenfisher.”

 

 

         Chicago was on fire today.  It started the minute I went out to fetch him.  He was standing in his paddock with the girls, baking in the sun.  All three horses turned to look as I walked through the gate.  I patted Sassy as I went by, Chicago and Willow were out of my immediate reach.  As I went by Chicago came over to follow me through the paddock.  I walked out into the field, dropping his halter at the edge of the fence.  Some of the jumps had blown down, or been knocked down by other riders.  I wanted to set them back up, and look for Willow’s shoe, which was still missing.

         Chicago stood patiently next to his halter, waiting for me to come back.  He nickered several times loudly, as if to remind me that I had forgotten something.  Rachel was out picking up manure in the paddock.  Your boy is waiting for you!”  She laughed.  “Look at him, he only has eyes for you!”  Indeed, there he was, gazing intently at me, what does he see?  I returned and put his halter on.  Rachel was still laughing because Chicago was examining me closely.  He always does, and again, I am not sure what sort of information he collects.  He checks my pockets first, all of them, with his nose and lips.  I am amazed at the dexterity of the equine mouth.  How a horse can lip a sugar cube out of a jeans back pocket is nothing short of miraculous.  After he has ascertained exactly what I am carrying, he sniffs me head to toe.  Then he arches his neck and looks at me, often initiating eye contact.  This is unusual among horses.  He always looks slightly amused, perhaps by what he sees?  His breath is warm and smells like grain and dirt.  He blows gently on my face and looks me in the eye again.  If I do not stop him here he usually licks my face.  I have never known a face-licking horse and am not entirely comfortable with the idea.  When I allow the intimacy he licks my jaw line on both sides, sometimes gently grazing me with his teeth.  He will carry this one step further and lick my eyes, which is one of the strangest feelings on earth.  His tongue is very smooth and strong.

         Today I did not let him lick my face because he looked very devilish.  “This will be the day he takes my nose off,” I thought, fighting him away.  He settled for burying his head against my chest and nickering again.  Rachel was making fun of me again, but that is okay, she has an intense love affair with her horse Reef.  However, Reef is a mare, so the dynamic is different.  Horses are very aware of the sex of their rider, and respond differently.  As Chicago and I walked out of the paddock, his neck under my arm, his head pressed into my chest I laughed.  Any man who loves a professional horse person will always play second string.  How could a mere man compete with this sort of loving?

         Once aboard my devil horse I could see the ride would be interesting.  He was vibrating with energy; I could feel his heart thumping against his ribs.  There was no real excuse for this behavior; unless putting my jumping saddle on him had raised his hopes.  This little horse loves to jump.  He has absolutely no fear, and so far has jumped every ridiculous object that I have requested of him.  Now, after the jump is a whole other story.  Then he is just as likely to throw his head between his knees and bounce around like a mad bull.  I believe this is physical manifestation of jumping joy. 

         Because of his mania we went out for a hack before tackling the jumps in the field.  I mistakenly thought it would take the edge off his excitement.  We walked down to the meadow, loose rein, relaxed.  The second his right front foot hit the grass he was off and running.  He had a mission; there was a log jump at the other edge of the meadow.  Luckily for me he wanted for us to go together, otherwise he could have tossed me off right then.  So I went along for the ride, gathering my reins, staying with him powerful and gathered over three fences.  Then we tore up the hill and into the woods.  Somewhere along the way I persuaded him to walk and we bushwhacked through the trees for a while.  He was spooking and dancing at the wind, and the chipmunks, and the dappled light on the ground, and every other little thing.  It was maddening. I finally got him out on a larger trail and set off in a gentle canter. 

         This is one of my favorite things to do, cantering on a trail with hills.  Staying in half seat above the saddle, weight in my feet, balancing with my abdominal muscles, the horse carries us like a boat over waves.  I could do this for hours.  Fortunately, Chicago likes it as much as I, and displays great courage and coordination.  Some of the hills are quite steep and rocky, and a less sure-footed animal would have fallen.  I depend on his ability to balance both of us while cruising along at fifteen to twenty miles an hour.

         A mile or so later his enthusiasm had not dampened.  Usually when he is wound up like this a good mile canter or gallop loosens the knot.  I will feel him drop into the bridle, and his stride becomes steady.  Today he felt like prancing, with a huge hump in his back.  Knowing how readily that hump becomes a buck I was reluctant to turn for home.  I did not want to stay out too late; there were still the jumps in the field calling us home.  As I brought him about he curled up his spine and leapt forward.  The gallop was manageable, so I let him go.  I did not dare go into a half seat, for fear of that buck.  He is so athletic that he can buck and gallop simultaneously, a terrible combination.  So I sat on his back as we pounded along.  For such a little horse he has a large stride at the gallop, and he really eats up the ground.  Since receiving his back shoes he has even more thrust behind, and he was throwing up rocks everywhere.

         At the last hill he decided that he needed to communicate his joy to me and jumped straight into the sky.  Because I was sitting on his back, and felt the wave rising, I was not jarred in the least.  It was some form of capriole, and I felt his hind legs kick out in merriment.  Again, what is he trying to say, and why?  It feels like an affirmation that this is the way things should be.  That galloping in the woods is one of the finest things imaginable.  It would be easy to misinterpret such a statement, particularly from this horse, famous for dropping riders left and right.

         We entered the jumping field on that note.  I had already decided to play it very safe, his attitude could get us both hurt.  He immediately tried to bolt at the oxer, and slipped on the grass.  We had to have a little discussion regarding who was driving.  He wants that oxer so badly; I do not know why it has such a pull for him.  Instead I offered him a little cross rail.  He was offended by this and trotted sideways, as if to say, “no, lets go the other way, over the oxer!”  I pushed him over the cross rail and he let out a grumpy buck.  With a little more discussion we did the cross rail until he stopped sulking.  As a reward I headed him to the green and white, and of course he bolted off again and sailed over as if it were a brick wall.  He is such a drama queen.  We jumped five more fences, and the last one was perfect.  He knew it too, and stopped dead immediately after the fence.  He went from gallop, to soar, to complete stop.  The he turned his neck around and bit my foot.  We were done, no questions asked.        

A service dog changes many things. On the plus side, the human partner feels a sense of freedom and safety heretofore denied. The canine partner gets to experience parts of the human world that most dogs never see. Some service dogs are oblivious to the wonders of the human world; others are more like tourists. For the human, a host of new interactions open up, from the positive greetings, to the hostile: ‘you can’t bring that dog in here.’ The dog becomes both the center of loving attention and the target of hostility.

My string of dogs demonstrated all this and more. Medic was the first. He was a ninety pound black and white pit bull with a head the size of the basketball. He was pro to the core, unflappable, supremely confident. His original training was in obedience and therapy work, which made an easy leap to service dog. Medic was one of those dogs that dog trainers dream of, a dog capable of generalizations based on original training. For example, it is difficult to train a dog to avoid overhead obstacles such as low hanging signs. Most non-hunting dogs do not look up.

Training a service dog includes determining what hazards the human will face and how best to avoid them such as crossing the street. Specialty training involves teaching the dog to activate 911, use elevator buttons, and to pick up small objects such as credit cards or tissues. Generalization indicates that the dogs is able to perceive seizures, pain, or other events that may require assistance. It is difficult to ‘train’ for these events, rather, one finds a sensitive dog that can achieve success in the first two categories and then tests the dog against the scenario. Certain dogs will put it together and alert to their human’s distress, either calling 911 or breaking a fall. Not all dogs are cut out to be service dogs of this caliber.

It is a well-known fact that ducks are the reincarnated souls of rampant alcoholics. My own flock of ducks bears this out. Made up of a strange crew of runners and East Indies, they are either very tall and multi colored, or tiny and so black as to be invisible. The ducks crept in slowly, almost without my notice, an egg there, a purchase there, and before long there was a flock. The chickens don’t seem to mind, except first thing in the morning. At that moment, when the first light of dawn shines on the pool, the ducks are overwhelmed. With avid joy they line up, jostling, politely, but still jostling, for their turn in the tub.

The tub was JP’s idea. He claims to dislike the poultry, but it is always he who comes up with some new invention for their comfort. One day I came home to find a large plastic tub installed in the corner of the poultry yard. Best of all, he had rigged it to be filled from one of the numerous springs that run endlessly about our property. The ducks stood around the large black tub like AA initiates that have blundered into a bar. Previous to this apparition, the closest thing they had come to open water was the tiny opening on the water fount.

Previously published in The American Orchid Society Magazine May 2004: winner of the 2003 Gordon W. Dillon/Richard C. Peterson Memorial Essay Award

I feel like a border collie. Eyes glued on the plants I gently herd them about, twisting a pot, picking off a dead flower, nudging another plant back into place. As I move around the growing tables the plants hum their appreciation. “Honey, you are not listening to me.” The words cut into my reverie, the hum apparently not coming from the plants but rather my beloved spouse JP. I can’t look away from my latest acquisition, a stunning white cattleya from Hawaii. Without turning I respond honestly that no, I was not listening and apologize. Then, before he can draw in a breath I implore him to investigate the aroma of this latest plant, distracting him from what might have been a timely reprimand.

So there I stood, angel food cake in hand, frozen with shock. How had this come to pass? What evil had visited that I should be standing in the garage, clad in fuzzy slippers and jammies, surveying a wall of putrid flesh? Even as I paused there was ooze seeping across the floor, threatening aforementioned slippers. “The cake, I must save the cake”, flashed through my scattered thoughts, and I fled.
The disaster had slipped in unannounced, possibly as many as three days prior. Perhaps a circuit breaker, or a power outage had precipitated the event. Whatever the cause, I now had a freezer fully defrosted, while still half full. This is no ordinary freezer. It is big enough to hold a cow, I know because I used to put one inside every year. Cut up of course, but nine hundred pounds of meat is no laughing matter. The freezer had come from Lorraine, who felt I needed it to make my life simpler. “Buy in bulk,” she advised, “You will save money.” This has not always proven to be the truth.