Animal friends

Two animals raised me, and trained me. Yes, my parents raised me, but I didn't respect them until much later. My sister had much to teach me, as did my grandparents who lived just down the road. But I didn't take in those lessons until much later. I'm a bit of a slow learner, I've found out.

Feather, my mare, and Smoky the dog though, I learned from daily. Maybe I could take it in because I thought I was the trainer! When we got Smoky, it was from someone who had to get rid of him because he had bit a child through the fence, as I recall. I never saw evidence of meanness though. He had not been taught to walk on a leash, sit, or other commands, which I did teach him. What I know now, is that developing the discipline to train a dog, also trains a child.

So later, when Feather came into my life, I was developing the discipline that helped me care for her at the end of her pregnancy and when Quill was born. I even was able to train Quill for awhile, until his testosterone became overpowering and I became scared to trust him.

That was when I convinced my dad that he had to be gelded. I remember the day well. After the vet gave him a shot, I held him by the halter as his eyes slowly glazed over, and he sank to the ground. They quickly cut his scrotal sac, and pulled out the testicles. They used steel nippers to cut the connection, and then quickly sewed up the sac, although I don't recall that part. I think by then I was just petting his neck.

Soon enough, he regained consciousness, and was able to walk back to the pasture. And I was able to continue training him first on the ground, then to the saddle, and eventually able to sit on his back and then ride him. Eventually Quill became my dad's horse, taking him on many trail rides in the mountains, and hunting trips.

Feather was an experienced horse, and seemingly could do anything I asked her to do. The more we rode together, the more we trusted one another, until I could ride her bareback in the field with no reins, and not even a rope to the halter.

As I went through tough times emotionally in my young teens, especially when my grandfather (Thomas Cowan, my father's father) died, I felt that Feather and Quill were my only friends, and closer than family. That was not true, but as my thoughts and feelings roiled, I felt I could say anything to them, and they would understand, and still love me. This is one of the things that animal companions give to us: unconditional love. Sometimes it is hard to give that to other humans, so I have so often been thankful to give it, and receive it from Brandy, Smoky, Feather, Jet, Rhys, Mollie, and Lilly. Alice? maybe. :-)

B. B. Brandy

B. B. Brandy was also "outside the house," but he deserves his own story. When I was in 8th or 9th grade, friends and I used to go riding on the local roads and trails after school, on the weekends, and as much as we could in the summer.

One day, Judy and I heard whimpers in the bushes next to the road, not too far from our house. It was a litter of puppies! Some cruel person had dropped off puppies, perhaps 8 weeks old. They had their eyes open, and the beginnings of their spotted coats, but still made those tiny-pup noises. We each grabbed one (were there only two? were there more of us riding together? I don't remember) and rode carefully to my house. My mother was out working in the yard or garden, and I ran to show her the sweet little puppy.

Before I asked, she said, "No, you cannot keep the puppy!" Mom......... c'mon. You can't be so mean. Should I take it back so that it DIES!?

"No, no, no."

In defeat, I asked if she would hold the puppy while I got back on Feather's back, so we could try to find a home for the poor little thing. Then magic happened. The puppy snuggled against her, and made those little puppy noises. And that was it, she fell in love.

Mom and my sister Kim named him B. B. Brandy, for unknown reasons. He seemed to be at least part Springer spaniel, and wow did he have the "springer" part! At this point, the door to the back patio was a door with a window on top, and if he was begging to get in, he could jump up as high as that window! It was so funny that even my Dad would let him in sometimes. Really, we all fell in love with him. Even Smoky our other dog enjoyed his company and playing with him.

This story has a sad ending though. One day I was late to the bus or it was early. The bus usually picked me up at the driveway. As I raced across the yard and down the little hill and through the ditch, I didn't notice that Brandy had followed me. I can't remember exactly what happened next perhaps because it was too awful, but Brandy ran right under the wheels of the bus and was killed.

The house was very sad for many weeks. In fact, on the anniversary of his death, even when I had forgotten the date, I came home to find my mother and sister sobbing in grief. At this point, I'm still missing him, but also smiling to remember his beautiful, loving, bouncy spirit.

Rest in peace, B. B. Brandy.

Bulbs - work now, for future beauty

A few days back, I finally planted the end of a bag of summer bulbs. The first of the bag are already up, but most of the last bit were at least sprouted, so I hope they'll bloom eventually, even if it's later than the rest. Bob changed the water in his fishtank today, and agreed to give them a bucket of aquarium water, which might help them along. We've had a few warm days, so I thought they might be needing a bit of extra love.

Planting bulbs gives me hope for the future. When I read the newspaper as I eat breakfast, it can be easy to focus on what's going wrong -- the wrong-headed politics, terrorists killing themselves in an effort to kill others, dictators grabbing ever more power over their people. But I plant bulbs, work in free and open software, work with students, work on documentation for people whom I will never know, because I do have faith that if we work together, think together, we can make a better future.

When I think back over my life, I sometimes wish I'd made some better choices, and been kinder to others along the way. Still, my mistakes hopefully have taught me some lessons, and my guilt over my sharp tongue or the times I should have stood up for someone and kept silent; those help me now moderate my tone, remain helpful even to resentful people, and speak up when I'm afraid, for those who are perhaps frozen in terror.

In my daily life, I try to leave everything I touch in a beautiful or at least orderly state, both for my later delight, or for others. I'm not a powerful person, but I try to use the power and privilege I do have as a relatively wealthy white straight married retired American to make the world a better place for every person on earth. Don't give up hope when the news is bad. Plant some bulbs.

The pendulum swings both ways; fear and selfishness will eventually change to hope and generosity.

Animals outside the house

Written while we were up at the cabin for a day, just because.

The first pets I remember are the cat Mousie (guess what her job was!) and Duffy, whom we got as a pup from the Carpenters, I recall, when Mom was pregnant with Kimberly. She was perhaps seven months along. I remember driving home with the pup in the front seat of the old Plymouth? station wagon, between Mom and Dad. I leaned over the seat to pat both the pup and Mama's belly. Two babies.

I think it was Mousie who came to a bad end.

When I was little, I slept in a crib just inside the door between the kitchen and what we called the utility room, where the washer and dryer were. I remember looking out of the crib at the linoleum on the wall -- white with red-outlined squares. I was moved to a cot behind the couch before Kim was born. At this point I believe we were adding on to the house, which until then was just one bedroom, one bathroom, the hall, the kitchen, and utility room. Underneath was the basement.

The house was on the side of a little hill, so the basement had a window on one side, into which we could throw the firewood, and a door with steps up to the backyard on the garden side. All the years I lived in that house, the shower was in the basement as well. Not good planning!

Because of the hill, the foundation for the bedrooms didn't have to be very high, but it was felt important to put a door between the basement and the dirt base under the foundation. Then the other bedrooms, one bath (never finished) and Dad's office were put on top. We only opened that door one time that I recall. I guess Dad stored long extra lumber in there, and wanted to get some. Or perhaps wiring needed inspection, or drain pipes or so. In any case, a cat skeleton and some tiny kitten skeletons were found. I'm not sure who told us (or why!) but I remember that feeling of mixed horror, curiosity, sadness and guilt. I'm not sure why I felt guilty, but I did.

Rest in peace Mousie. She never made it into our little pet cemetery that we made for the various pets who died over the years, on the side of a little hill just as you entered the woods at the end of the yard, on the way to the creek there (a little tributary of Issaquah Creek).

A few words about Snowflake, our white cat with one blue eye and one green eye. First, we called her Snowflake because were so imaginative! and her white coat, of course. She was the sweetest calm little cat. We dressed her up on doll clothes and rolled her around the yard in Kim's Chatty Kathy doll buggy. Then came the day that we heard a terrible screaming, only to find Snowflake caught in a trap! There were mountain beavers that dad wanted to catch (why? I don't know) that he set by their hole. Evidently Snowflake had a hunter side too -- and now her leg was broken. We begged Dad to take her to the vet, rather than shooting her, which is what he planned to do. Off we went to the vet, who set HIS leg. Oh, we argued with the vet, it is SHE. No, said the vet, while I parents laughed so hard they couldn't speak!

I have no clue how that cat put up with a cast on his leg, but he did. And my dad removed the trap, and I think never set another.

Cats in the House

Dad's rule was: no animals in the house. However, when he brought Soo-Ling home, a young seal-point Siamese cat, that changed a bit. First, he bought her a jeweled collar! Previous cats had never rated even a plain collar. Then when she was ready to have her first litter of kittens (spaying or neutering was not common in the Fifties), he fixed her up a box next to the stairs going down to the basement, and rigged a heat lamp above the box! The day she began birthing the kittens, Kim and I were allowed to stay home from school and watch. I'm not sure what Soo-Ling thought of all this, but she rather calmly bore those little bags, each containing a kitten, and then proceeded to eat the bag (amniotic sac, I now know) and lick each kit dry. She ended up with four kits: Jet, who was mine, Calico who was Kimberly's, Shadow who went to live with my aunt Kathleen, and another who we gave away locally.

It was so fun to watch her raise those kittens. Eventually the box was moved out to the back porch, but by then we were somewhat used to having cats in the house. That summer we discovered how to get our way without bothering Dad.

Our house was clad half-way up with pinkish brick, topped by one row of slightly-slanted short header bricks. We noticed that the cats could walk along the header, right at the window in our room that could be opened out! So we'd remove the screen and open the window once Jet or Calico passed, open the window, and in they would come. We just had to remember to put up the screen again so we didn't get caught. :-)

Washing the horses

Thanks to Charley Kempthorne for coming to the South King County Genealogical Society today, and inspiring this blog. This is the story I wrote this morning, after sketching out the floor plan of the house my sister Kimberly and I grew up in. I didn't get past the front porch, where the story starts.

Sometimes during the summer I washed the horses. They both, mother Feather and son Quill, were pintos -- white with patches of brown shading to black. They were so pretty once freshly washed!

Can't remember what sort of soap or shampoo I used, a soft scrub brush, and the hose -- cold water! They didn't seem to mind. Rinsing was key, though. Then some towels from the dirty clothes pile to dry them off.

One day when Quill was very young, I decided to show Mom how pretty he looked. So I led him up the steps, and through the front door, my sister giggling behind us. Then right into the living room!

My mother was shocked, but laughing. My dad wasn't home that day, but never tired of telling the story of the day Quill came into the house.

This would have happened when I was 12 or 13, so the summer of 1965 or '66.