WonderVet: "I never see you wearing shoes.... Don't your feet get cold?"
Foffdaughter: "You wear shoes every time I see you... Don't your feet get claustrophobic?"
WonderVet: "No. Why would they?"

Olaf Update: 16-18 weeks old

Olaf got his third round of vaccinations today, and he weighed in at 4 pounds 11 ounces.
Speaking of testicles-
WonderVet mildly commented, "There is even a little set of seeds back there!"
My reply was grim: "Not for long."

Drafty Door

Dyl around 6 mo. (spring 2004?)
Foffmom will never live it down, but when Dyl looked like the picture above, she didn't think that he was special! I seem to recall he earned some pitying laughter for looking like a baby. So what if his ears were adult-sized and the rest of him was tiny? (He still doesn't know that his loving Foffmummy used to think he was a mule.)

Dyl 4 yo (May 2007)
Percheron dam (cold... kind and slow. Say no more) and Arabian sire (hot... intelligent, well-tempered, beautiful conformation...) somehow managed to make.. Dyl! 16hh, anvil-headed, warm-hearted, cold-thinking, hot-tippy ears along with the tail flip.
Plus he flaps his lower lip.
Which is disturbingly adorable.

Dyl at 6 yo (Sept. 2009)

Foffarm's old front door.... One of the many casualties of remodeling.

Oh those Silly Suits.

Articles of interest geared towards the general public (read as: a bit watered down by horse people standards)
"The Breeding Debate: Born to run, or sell?"
"Is Horse Racing Breeding Itself to Death?"
"Race Illustrates Brutal Side of Sport"

I feel bad for Big Brown; he can't get away from being mentioned when discussing stallions who should hand over their 'credentials' (as it were). If I rambled about each crop of foals being bred crappier then the last one.... I can't lie- Big Brown + progeny is guaranteed a mention. Do you think he would pass an assessment checking for positive qualities worth passing on genetically? If nothing outstanding/decent/desirable/average can be found, why the hell would you make more editions based off of cruddy starting material?

It isn't his fault! It is the two-legger's fault, of course. Big Brown may not be a positive contributing influence on newer generations, but he does have a calling. He is recognized as the rockstar of sires managed irresponsibly because it is lucrative. So what if he doesn't represent a good example? A calling he has found and mastered while having a face that is so freakin' cute. (Multiple edits to delete cheap snarky jokes about crappy hooves.... and legs..... *snort*)

Oh damn.
I am ashamed.

YES I heard about it.

Claudette's Call m, 06
(Johannesburg - Kissie, by Deputy Minister)
Not sold ($27,000) Keeneland sale Nov. 2011

Information without commentary or preference.

"Thoroughbred Growth and Future Racing Performance"

Forbes article regarding how many racehorses end up going to slaughter.

The original post focused on statistics regarding annual Thoroughbred foal production... for a little bit, and then everything just went a little haywire. I wanted to indicate that horse slaughter in the US is a secondary problem to the production of animals in general. Thoroughbreds were the example of excessive production... JC registered TB foals born in the US each year- in the range of 30,000. What the hell are we going to do with 30,000 foals EACH YEAR? Oh! Right! Well howdy there bud! That sure is a nifty little market for horse meat. I have extra horses, they need horses....! By golly- neighbor helping neighbor the lord sure spent time on this great nation 'cause AMERICA IS AWESOME 'cause of the blessings and whatnot. Oh the pride of being the two-leggy sort, a species notable only for its self-extinction program and the relationship equalizing pounds and volume, ensuring the religious slogan of the future: fatter is louder. Amen.


Rescues, neglect, slaughter, euthanasia..... Perfectly good, inoffensive animals of every species are screwed over long before a stockyard auction, unanswered adoption ad, or drive to country drop seals their fate. Why do we breed so many of these animals? Intentionally breeding can, of course, be a power of good.... but most of the time it is a greedy impulse made by petulant, spoiled brats. Unintentional breeding involving domesticated creatures, consists of a nice blend of arrogance and ignorance, doused heavily with oblivious ass-hattery, and a self-righteous sense of entitlement. Random conception goes uncorrected, and instead gets defended with car-wash-explanations (vaguely relevant concepts harmlessly wander around the oppositional enemy).

It seems like it is always some verbally handicapped, swaying, discolored sort of two-legger justifying their decision made by inaction. "Hell no my dog/cat/horse/gila monster will not get his balls chopped off (or 'she will not get cut open for no damn reason!'). I don't think it's right to change an animal's personality like that, and I love my pets for who they are." They cross their arms and make their shoulders broad, proving their love by defending their dog/cat/horse/gila monster from my gaze. 'So there,' they seem to say, comfortable knowing exactly where a set of testicles, other than their own, can be reliably found. I have a theory that these people are projecting pro-life crap on animals just for another excuse to get uppity about feeling wronged.

BACK to rescues, neglect, slaughter, euthanasia! Nearly unavoidable patching techniques that must exist in the absence of responsibility. Breeding less domesticated animals means that we, as a shitty species, get to kill less horses, dogs, cats, tame-but-likes-biting-off-ears raccoons, ferrets, outgrown ponies...... Humans are multiplying at a rate understood only by happy cancer cells despite the fact that there is no need for more humans. Putting down and/or slaughtering the excessive, unwanted, unhealthy two-leggers is a solution that hasn't quite caught on yet. Most of this blasted species is unhealthy and the whole of it is excessive and unwanted! A solution is readily available yet there isn't likely to be any logical consideration... Usually 'logical' is actually hysterical... and 'consideration' becomes dramatic holier-than-thou statements with less substance than Bazooka Joe. The supporters of this general solution idea are sporadically likened to historical figures best known for overseeing genocide. What the hell man?!

Legends... 12

"There is a legend

that fallen knights return as great horses.

He has seen what awaits you, and he will protect you."

Napping peacefully under a table... 'time to go?'... Wake up, sit up, bonk head on the table... 'not time to go? Okay then'... Lay down for more napping, bonk head on table.

A WonderVet perk: the joys of castration can be brought to your very own home.

National Geographic has a nifty chart.

Foffmom: Trip follow up

Reporting that travel with a service dog is really quite pleasant, and his human did a great job as well. But there's no place like home....

Olaf has regained his health, and is a hellion. He is just learning to socialize with the bedroom kitties (Calypso and Penelope), and they are.... well they can just get over it.

The Foffparents are bringing me on a weekend venture to elsewhere, and of course that means they are bringing Gibbs too. I was reassuring Foffmom, "Don't worry, Gibbs will be great!" She replied with, "It isn't Gibbs that I am worried about." Sigh. Well, I am positive that Gibbs WILL be great!

Foffmom: Final Nanny Goat Update

The nanny goats had caseating lymphadenitis and had to be euthanized. Our equine (I'm NOT a Goat Vet) vet once again came out, agreed on diagnosis, prognosis, and management. (Cull from the herd- as described in multiple sites on line.) The euthanasia was swift and that was a good thing, as they were so herd bound to one another that to have had one ever be aware of being alone would have been misery inducing.

I brought their bodies to a local business that cremates dead large animals, as the organism can supposedly survive in soil for years. I still have to finish sanitizing the stall before we can use it for the horses again. Yes, it is moderately contagious to horses, and mildly so to humans, although there is effective humane treatment in humans, but not in goats.

They were making such progress on becoming socialized. It was put to ironic good use, in that they were not crazy freaked out antelope when the vet walked into the stall. Sigh. Goats- they are not easy, at least not for us. So far.

Foffdaughter: Olaf's #s

Foffmom and I took Olaf to an unfamiliar vet clinic to assess the seriousness of his illness. It feels like cheating on WonderVet, but for some reason which isn't good enough, WonderVet decided to take off work for a day. Of course this only became apparent when I was calling to schedule a visit for that afternoon. Anyway, we all went to a new place to get the opinion of a vet since we could not reach the vet.

They estimated Olaf to be around 11-12 weeks old, and he weighed in at 1 lb 15 oz. An oz off of 2 lb. Kittens are supposed to gain one pound per month, and that makes Olaf a little behind schedule. I cannot wait until his health returns to him. His entire life has been handicapped thus far. Initially the problems were worms, fleas, ear mites and hunger, and then he was healthy for about a week before this sickness started to settle in. Anyway. Those are some numbers for Olaf.

Foffdaughter: Olaf

The newest kitten has finally gotten a name. Olaf. I didn't name him, and I am just grateful that the final title wasn't worse. Olaf isn't such a bad name. It is from a book - good start. It is the name of the villain - excellent. If you rearrange the letters, it spells Foal - brilliant. The adorable kitten has not been photographed just yet. Here are other things instead.

Note: above picture not Olaf. One cheetah has an average of 2000 spots.

Foffmom: What Consequences?

Updating on unplanned rat family.

About two weeks later, on second round of giving out treats, I was hovering over the end of the aquarium that held the roiling wriggling mess of rattins, now with fur. I was trying to determine if there were 7 or 8. Mother was not happy with my studying (eyes only mind you). I decided to offer her another treat. She bit me with a lunging intention I would have previously only attributed to a shark. Foffdaughter had shown me the movie at the end of Ratatouille which stated that rats can chew through stainless steel. So doing a pincher move piercing my index finger nail bed and my finger pad was an easy task.

You know in cartoons when a rodent bites a finger, the human then waves around the finger trying to shake the rodent off? While an unavoidable instinctive move, I do not recommend it, because the full weight of the rat swinging off your finger really really hurts worse than the rat bite, which hurts plenty. And no they do not turn loose to fly through the air, they wait until they are firmly planted to release you. I have not gotten an infection, and have an interesting puncture/blood bruise in my nail bed, that will grow out eventually.

The rattins are really really cute...
I think there are 8 of them..
Maybe.
Don't care as much now.

Gibbs: Graduated

Gibbs is getting a new ID badge to replace his current 'in training' badge, and then that is it. He will be so credentialed that it practically qualifies for diplomatic immunity. It is rather startling to admit how gloriously Gibbs has performed through virtually every aspect of this saga.

Even though it was not mandatory, Gibbs was held to the standard of the 'Public Access Test'. It has various scenarios that all fairly common and routine, and each one is scored based on how closely the testing dog matched the ideal behavior(s) listed for that scenario. Make sense? I don't care enough to really get into examples, but the bottom line is that Gibbs passed with flying colors when tested.

Kitten Update

Kitten (still unnamed) has been improving! He feels well enough to act all kitten-ish and playful... which is making it slightly more difficult to continue giving him the medications two times a day, but eh. He still has earmites, but they are clearing up. The flea problem seems to have been dealt with after two baths. WonderVet has wormed him two times in as many weeks. The kitten weaned himself off the milk substitute and seems quite content with gorging himself on kitten food. And there is a basic summary of his progress without random off-topic fluffery paragraphs. I must say... This way of updating seems much more efficient.

New Kitten

So there is this kitten...

We find ourselves with another kitten as of September 22nd. The circumstances surrounding the discovery can be summarized with the assurance that this was a rescue. There were three other cats in the same location, all of whom were feral and evaded capture. Yes there was an avid chase/hunt/scheme on my part to come home with four new animals instead of one. (Opinions differ as to whether the outcome was positive or devastating.) This little fuzzball was the youngest by far and the short legs are the only reason for my success.

The kitten was not happy to be caught. (I am saving your adorable fluffy ass, and promise to drastically improve your quality of life!) The kitten did not want to meet me. (Once I get those teeth unstuck from my hand, surely we will bond for life!) The kitten had no intention of going quietly. (I will just talk to myself over your yowling shall I? You will love home!) The kitten wanted me to fuck off. (Hey kitty- I love you.)

Several hours after getting back home, WonderVet arrived. I had called from the road and left a voice mail relaying the situation. Maybe there was more than one. Ach well who cares. WonderVet put the kitten at about 6-7 weeks of age, but very small and malnourished. The kitten was announced as a boy.

Well, there go Mork's testicles. Sorry about that poor little chap.... wait, no. No I'm not. He has now been here since June 15th, and has become an almost-cat!

Hopefully Sinyatta won't love him any less for his loss.

Mork and Sinyatta

Sinyatta has been with us since April 17.

Mork and Sinyatta

"What's one more rat, really?"

Going in to check on my three ratty girls, last thing before bed on Thursday, September 22. They were on their second round of treats, everyone was happy. I turned to leave, when I spotted something out of place at the end of the aquarium. I looked closer, and the pink mass moved, and I screamed a split second before my brain sent "Baby rats" into my mental void. I rather freaked out, having totally no experience with baby rat care, since these were unplanned baby rats, at least from my point of view.

I called Family Friend and woke her up, and she reassured me that the mother rat would do all the work, and said she could take the babies back when I chose to give them up. Of course, we will need to make SURE all my three are girls.

Doing the numbers, they have a 28 day gestation, and I had had them for 22, so probably the exposure took place under previous owner's custody. Studying up on this, one key point is you must separate the sexes by age 5 weeks, since by 6 weeks they are all systems up and running. And you cannot wean them before 4 weeks.
Oh, it took a few days to figure out who was the mother. Yep, it was the gray and white "extra" rat. Hence the title of this post. Head desk.

Foffmom: Nanny Goat Update #1

We involuntarily received two miniature female goats, dropped off by my father. Over my objections, I will add. Foffdaughter, who still had goat cage in her backyard, stepped up to the plate and put the two new comers into it, and cared for them. It took them 8 days to break out. Of course, on a dark and stormy night. Of course, after hours they could not be found. Of course, Foffdaughter had a miserable night, worrying. But lucky goats! (Not sure if lucky us) The trainer at the horse barn up the hill called at 830AM, to say the goats were in his barn. Foffdaughter was able to catch them, as they were wild as deer. She spent the afternoon reinforcing the chain-link fence on the goat kennel. She and my husband were unable to find a definite escape route, so she just used the plastic lock-ties on everything for hours.

This time it took them 3 days to escape. Again, hours spent by Foffdaughter, walking with binoculars and a can of food. (They would come to the sound of food shaken in a can.) No luck. She was standing in our kitchen, alternately worried and devising mock threats of what she would do if she ever got her hands on them, when our dogs began barking again. Only, it seemed they were more barky than usual. I glanced out the window. Wonder when the neighbors got two more dogs?? Wait a minute..."There's your goats!" I blurted.

Husband and daughter secured the goats in a horse stall. Seems I was wrong about one thing though. "These are YOUR goats." said Foffdaughter over her shoulder as she left for home. I couldn't really blame her.

Foffmom: Edwin

Edwin stands out from the others due to more than his tail. He is the only animal I picked up from the roadside that I felt compelled to search for his owner. He was wearing a very old, yellowing flea collar that had stained his fur. I thought this indicated someone somewhere must be looking for him. I drove all up and down our road and stuck notes in mailboxes, sure someone would call for him. Nope.

Initially Edwin would perch on something above the crazy, watching avidly as the dogs, cats, and kids would interact. He had a quiet wistfulness, that reminded me of the stereotypical "sickly" child from the Victorian era, watching healthy children throwing snowballs outside, as he sat at his bedroom window. That is why I named him "Edwin", it sounded reserved and formal, as he behaved. Foffdaughter was the one who figured him out. "Mom, I don't think he feels well. That's why he is so quiet." When no one claimed him, we called WonderVet, who did his thing.

In two days he was a hellion. I should have named him "Zorro", because he never hesitated to leap into the fray to claw-tag anyone. He loved to lean over the table and snag the big dogs on their heads, and then retreat. Foffdaughter would tease him with her long PJ hem, and then sling him sliding across the wooden floor. He loved it, and would slip and slide to grab on again for another "ride". He would often play the game whether she was "in the game" or not. And I will never forget the day he came trotting across the yard carrying a live unharmed snake, twisting around his head, held high to get the snake off the ground.

His manic manxness turned me on to the stub tailed felines. I sent a wishlist to the Universe to send me a dark tortoiseshell with white, a manx female kitten. I wanted a manx because of Edwin's zany personality That's why I have Holly, which is another story.

As the years have progressed he is noted for being a very round fat cat in winter, and then slimming down over the summer. In my experience, cats are always looking for an upgrade. If they are homeless, (and haven't gone feral) they are looking for someone to feed them. If they are porch cats, they want to be house cats. If they are house cats, they want your bed. Edwin is the only cat who, having achieved house cat status, is working toward a voluntary downgrade.He is currently hanging with the ferals in the barn. He is the only cat I have ever had go from the house to the barn. I will be curious if he come inside the house more once it gets cold. This playing feral has got to have it's limits!

One of Them: Edwin

Edwin arrived October 13, 2005... That picture is from the first day.

According to general opinion and therapy, posting pictures of something does not jinx its well-being. I am unconvinced but mature two-leggers don't admit to thinking that sort of bullshit.

So anyway, that is a cat... called Edwin. Edwin the cat. Foffarm's first Manx cat who is almost at year 6 with us.

Oy ve

"Is that a disabled dog?"
"No, he is perfectly able-bodied."

Foffmom: Not quite

I had wanted to post about a significant step.

Family Friend, who in 11 years has graced us with 7 cats, 1 goat, 1 miniature horse, 1 rat, and I think a snake, (details unclear) had called me about two weeks ago. She had kindly trapped, vaccinated, and gotten spayed a feral cat. And it needed a barn cat position. I have 3 ( or 4) feral barn cats already, and felt the newcomer would be challenged by the established colony, which includes a dominant female. I declined, a huge thing for me. "What does she look like?" I asked, wavering. "Well, what color cat do I usually give you?" That meant black. No more black cats, we have 3 already, all from her, and I have trouble keeping track of them. So I stuck to my "No". I felt guilty, but did not change my position.

Today, in a move most would not understand, we visited Family Friend to adopt 2 rats. She assured me I was only viewing female rats. After much opening of drawers to view scurrying nervous rats, I selected 2, a white one with a camel colored head and one spot, and a dark gray and white one with a blaze symmetrically located between her cute eyes. Family Friend then says "I thought you'd go for the gray and white one." "What gray and white one?" I ask. So that's how I wound up with 3, since I could not decide between them. What's one more rat, really?

As we were leaving Family Friend started to tell me about this cat. Her owner had died, the calico cat is 12 or so, and is living in the bathroom of Family Friend's mom, whose cat has declared war on the newcomer. Sigh. OK, I will try her with mine. And then, the updated tale of the black cat, who has been tried in one home and been attacked by the family dog, and is now back in the rural spot where she was found originally.

Sigh OK, you can put her in my barn and we can see what happens. As Foffdaughter said "I had to get you out of there, you kept getting more animals by the minute." So I almost said "No". But not quite.

Poptart

Battery

Foffdaughter: Of Course

Briefly expressed updates:

Mork had his third and final round of vaccinations, and weighed in at 5.7 pounds. Next up for him: parting ways with an obnoxious set of testicles. The testicles aren't actually obnoxious, but they contribute to Mork's hobby of rehearsing the contribution of his DNA to the next generation, practiced with the dedication of an Olympic-hopeful athlete. I am sure that the other cats (and all pillows, cat/dog beds, certain pieces of furniture, laundry, human limbs and others) will be grateful to see his paternal dreams get chopped off and tossed.

Three new arrivals for the Foffamily.

A neutered golden retriever has not been claimed or reported missing/lost, and so his home has been with us. It seems to be growing into a permanent visit, and I can't find a name he seems to mesh with. Currently we are trying the name Sponge on for size. One syllable names starting with an "sp" seem to get a response from him... sometimes. He is healthy, friendly, storm phobic, and slightly arthritic.

The other two additions defy my capacity for explanation, suffice it to say that two miniature goat nannies have found themselves a home.

Bea

Foffmom's Dog of Many Names

I am sure she had at least one before name, a name from the first people who had her. Before she wound up in a rescue, run by one person out of her home. Her before name is lost.

Her second name was Splash. She was just a picture on Petfinder, a brindle boxer with white paws and a white chest and chin. My 18 year old daughter had moved out of our house and was sharing a house with her best friend from childhood. Best friend had a dog. Daughter wanted a dog. Daughter wanted a brindle dog. Daughter wanted Splash.

“I am going to just check her out. She needs to get along with Monk. (Roomate’s dog) I am going to be an adult about this.” I was proud of how well she had thought this out. This was in May of 2008.

I was even prouder of her when it all fell apart. “Mom!” Her voice carried desperation and despair. “I have to get her out of here! She is in a kennel too small for her, with no water dish! She is one of 63 dogs and 14 cats in a doublewide. She is the bottom layer of three layers of dog kennels. I have to get her out of here!”

Well, she didn’t bring cash and the rescue only took cash. So the next morning she and roomie made the trip again, bringing home Splash. Daughter renamed her Battle Buddy. She was thin and had no muscle tone. She had permanent scars from lying against the side of the cage. But she would growl deeply in her throat if a stranger approached Daughter while she was studying on the porch swing. She was devoted to the humans in her house. But Battle came with many issues.

Any water was immediately consumed. Apparently the routine at the rescue was to offer water only when let out which happened twice a day. So Splash drank ALL of ANY water in front of her. Ditto any food, no matter that it was for the roomate’s dog, or for the cats, or for the humans. The large quantities of intake generated large quantities of output. She was billed as three years old. She did not know how to ask to go out if she needed to go to the bathroom. She had severe separation anxiety, destroying and excreting at random if left alone. She would leap onto counters and devour anything vaguely edible. She ripped into 40 lb bags of catfood and ate until she threw up and pooped and then ate more. When my daughter tried to kennel her when she went to class, she destroyed the kennel. And pooped on her roommates bed. Then she destroyed kennel number two. And then, that Fall, daughter moved home. We already had 5 dogs. I did not want another one.

We bought a huge heavy kennel, one so large she couldn’t brace against the sides to pop the thing apart. We began housebreaking her and kennel training her like a puppy. She actually learned quickly. But she had to be kenneled anytime someone wasn’t in the house accessible to her. We learned to shut our bedroom door as she would poop on our bed if given the opportunity. And then she killed Roy.

Roy was an elderly senile miniature poodle, one of a pair we had raised since puppyhood. He was fourteen. His senility manifested in two ways. Previously perfectly housebroken, he began to happily lift his leg in the house while looking at you watching him, totally carefree. And he began having rage attacks where he would viciously snap and snarl at one of the other dogs for about 20 seconds. He was almost toothless and I never saw any actual biting. But like a sudden storm, it was brief and terrifying. Our dogs seemed patient with this behavior. Alex would just stand and benignly look at Roy as Roy was seemingly trying to kill him. Dale, his sister, would cower until the storm passed. We were out of town. Daughter had been house/dog/cat/horse sitting. Driving back one hour from home, daughter called so upset I couldn’t discern a word from the sobs. Basically after leaving the dogs alone for 30 minutes , daughter came in to find Roy dead, a single bite around the circumference of his chest. Battle had blood on her white bib and mouth. Daughter was understandably hysterical.

Battle’s life hung in the balance. Daughter wanted to bring her back to the rescue. Or euthanize her. She felt bad about bringing this dog into our home. I was pretty sure Roy had just selected the wrong dog to rage upon. Battle did not know he was harmless and only bit him once in self-defense. But one bite -boxer to miniature poodle -was all it took. We buried Roy. We kept Battle.

Somehow after that she became more my dog than daughter’s. Daughter spent more time in the company of her new boyfriend and Battle did not get along with boyfriend’s dogs. The biggest setback was she and Molly, our dalmation/pitbull cross who had a history of being female dog aggressive, tried to kill each other. Twice. So they had to be kept separate. I thought she needed a name other than Battle, given her history of canine combat. I began to call her Bea. It could be derived from Battle Buddy, the name my daughter gave her. But actually, she reminded me of Aunt Bea, and Aunt Beast from the Wrinkle in Time.

She was maternal in a gentle way, a little in your business but only with the best of intentions. I don’t know how I knew she would be fine but just I did. She was so focused on the humans in her life. Slowly she learned that water was commonly available to her. Her kennel time was never longer than 4 hours. She learned to be good overnight even if our door was shut. She figured out if Lyra, one of our other dogs, was with her, she was fine. One of my happiest memories is seeing her actually play, zipping around the yard, running around me as I pretended to be a gorilla trying to get her. It took over a year to see that.

She snored to beat the band. Often, awake in the dark early hours, I would be treated to a duet, she and my husband snoring together. It was very reassuring. Her farts were legendary. She could fumigate an entire room. She loved cats, particularly Killer, a kitten Daughter had adopted when Bea lived in the roomate’s house. But she loved all cats, and they soon figured out that they could love her back. She was a vicious hunter, something that surprised me when she killed a young raccoon that had run off our rear deck. She avidly hunted opossums, and loved killing them. She would kill the same one, over and over, each morning and she never caught on. She was very focused on people. She would lay her jowls on your thigh and gaze up into your eyes. She would nap on the rug beside my bed when I napped. When bored with that she would lay her big head on the bed’s edge and look at me, wagging her stubby tail.

The best was her greeting. She wound her body into a tight C shape, wiggling her stubby tail as fast as it could go, making excited huffing noises as she would twirl around you. “Welcome home! My life is great now that you’re here!” She was so joyful. I loved watching her run fully stretched out up the hill to the barn. I would think of her in the rescue, confined to a too small kennel. I was so glad that she was free, running and rolling and eating horseshit. Well maybe not the last thing. We were never able to train her to the underground fence. When the alarm on the collar beeped, she froze. And stood to get shocked again and again. So we decided to try again later. Guess not. She loved riding in my husband’s pick-up truck. He was glad that last weekend he took her for a run to the garbage dump.

I had always felt Bea was older than her given age. Her muzzle and eyes were grizzled. She just seemed like an old dog. Everyone made fun of me for thinking that. Yesterday as she ran and danced around me begging for treats, I had noticed that she was more ribby than before, an odd thing in a dog that was a calorie whore. She wasn’t really thin, just three rib spaces were visible, but still, it was more than I could explain. But she was bouncy and happy. I was late with their dinner by an hour. Bea would follow me around with those big brown eyes to remind me that it was dinner time.

I feel bad that her last dinner was late. I feel worse that I didn’t pet her before bed. She went out to the barn and had a great time as per usual. I didn’t notice anything wrong, she ate her dinner with her usual vigor. I think she was old. And she died. In her sleep apparently. I guess that’s the best way to go for any of us. No illness, no labs, scans or tests, no health care professionals, no hospitals or hospices, just passing over peacefully without pain. But I am lost without her, this dog I did not want. She is irreplaceable, her sweetness and empathy are not common in any species. I miss her so.

I am grateful for the lessons she taught me. In a world where cash is king, queen, and the knave of hearts, Bea cared only for the person in front of her. She loved everyone, once introduced. I am most grateful that love and time were all that she needed to heal, that and consistency, which seemed very important to her. She was an old dog, and she loved her old people and we loved her. She may have been a dog with many names, but to me she was always Beloved.

Sleep sweet Bea

Hunting

Gibbs has finished the ultimate challenge: hunting for vegetarian prey with me at the grocery store. He was a total rock star. Nothing phased him. Not the squealing two-legger young, not the cooing elders, not the smells or the sounds. Sheer focus with a swagger to match. What a good boy.

Mork

Ultimate-Vet braved some pretty ferocious weather to visit Foffarm. Foffmum had a feline feces issue and I needed to for Mork to get his second round of vaccinations. I was hardly surprised when it came time for the weigh-in: Mork now weighs 4 pounds and 1 ounce. When the time comes for the final round of vaccines, it will be interesting to see how much heft Mork has gained.

A Foffarm triumph of petty glee- a summertime dog treat has been tested with enthusiastic results. Freezing beef or chicken broth into ice cube treats goes a long way to helping the dogs beat the heat. Gibbs is quite entitled to goodies in reward for his flawless progress as a service dog. His praise requires an entire post though.

Foffdaughter: Oh-Shit-Kit

Many of the Foffarm animals have been found while driving. We have found them eating some decomposing flattened creature on the road, laying in plain sight along the road seeming very domesticated, hiding underneath the railroad tracks... Ugh it hurts my metaphorical heart to try and place each animal, successfully caught or not, along this country road. There is an 'on-the-go' list of supplies I keep in my car at all times, and it is more more accurately thought of as the 'oh-shit-kit'.

note: belts are my favorite item. They can serve as a leash or lead rope when needed. Or they can just hold up your trousers, and this is a stellar task as well.

- kitten food (for feeding a feral or luring friendlies)
- wet cat food
- two leashes (loop through 'no-collar-counted-on' sort)
- dog muzzle (fear/injury can cause misunderstandings to occur.)
- collapsible cat carrier
- towels
- halter and lead rope
- tarp (always handy for whatever you need)

Less practical and more personal choice item --
- a lightweight shovel 

This sort of 'oh-shit' kit is the best permanent addition to my trunk that I have ever made. I would imagine that this preparedness brings a peace of mind to any mind in one piece.

Surprise!

So two weeks ago, daughter sent me a video on my cell phone. After much fumbling, I could make out a black kitten playing with a string in a car with a black interior. I then drove home, and mused why she sent me that video. She wasn't in her car, she was in Friend's car. Now Friend is rather famous for providing us with many animals down through the years, which is pretty good because she is only 28! But she is always rescuing something that she cannot keep, and we are on her go-to list. The last 4 cats she contributed to our house have all been black. I have accused her of being a witch in a past life, she seems to be a black cat magnet. OK. Friend's car, black kitten. Does that mean we have another black cat? Sigh.

My daughter agreed to quarantine kitten, as I lack an empty bedroom for this. She arranged for vet. She took care of newest kitten, and she is of course, smitten. Even better, I think he is her kitten!! One black cat is great, but any more and the logistics get difficult. Answering the most basic of questions, "Are the cats all in?" becomes really tough if three of them look alike, and you are counting as they are walking, running, hiding etc. Have they all gotten their flea treatment? At least there usually is a wet spot between their shoulder blades. Anyway, I have decided in an ideal world, one black cat is perfect. Of course I have 3 at this point. So I was very pleased that daughter kept the kitten now known brilliantly as Mork.

Dog is Good

Holy catfish I love my dog. Gibbs was a rockstar today, sashaying nonchalantly through the hospital, chilling calmly while waiting, and relaxing during the session with an almost bored air. What a total champion. Gibbs- I take back everything negative I have ever said to you. When I called you an 'infuriating overgrown dustbunny' for taking off so many times, I so didn't mean it. You, my dear dog, are proving to be far more stable than I am when we are out and about in the world. Thank you so much for being... not me.

On a different, more Mork-ish note: guess who is making solid stool like a professional?! Way to go Mork! We are all so proud of you.

Cheers

Foffdaughter: Wizard-Vet

Ultimate-Vet, what a kind soul, took pity on Mork's household. So very close to earning the 'day of shameless blubbering of gratitude directed at Ultimate-Vet day.' Explaining:

(On Thursday) While drawing blood for testing (FeLV, FIV etc), Ultimate-Vet predicted the results would be available by Monday. Asking and answering questions in turn, we shut the door isolating Mork, and walked to the Vet-Mobile. (As all additions are, Mork was put in quarantine on the off chance of illness of the 'contagious' shade.) Some chitchat comment regarding the lovely weather got halfway out of someone's head when Mork began his lung exercises.

Perhaps Mork has some Siamese heritage, or maybe being lonely frightens him, and it is possible that dozens of mutant-vicious mice were using their serrated fang-teeth to slice off Mork's delicate toes and face.... Whatever the reason, this kitten can belt out a tune without a detectable tune. Words cannot portray his 'my-soul-is-being-gutted' yowl. Anyway, when this barrage of noise replaced conversation, Ultimate-Vet seemed interested in the most distant and polite way possible, with an expression that I interpreted as, "This new soft jazz playing in the background has a lovely horns section."

Ultimate-Vet called me on Saturday (a first for me) from a number I didn't know (other than 9-1-1, Ultimate-Vet's cellphone is the one I know best...getting called from the home number was another first for me) to talk to me about Mork. Just a friendly phone call letting me know that Mork's lab results were clean and healthy, and his presence did not subject Resident cats to any health risk. Note: It is unsure whether or not mental health was taken into consideration.

Ultimate-Vet acted heroic, as heroes tend to do, and the masses (okay.. me) swoon in appreciation. So classy too... Despite never saying a single word about Mork's obnoxious sounds, never once chortling at any neurotic twitch I may have developed, and never making a sly joke at my expense.... The quality of life for the duration of that weekend would have been considerably less, had this merciful phone call waited until Monday.

Mork

(above) Mork and Catten Jack negotiating territory.





(below) lousy picture of the typical place for Mork to oversee events.