Willow Oak

[chocolatepuppy]

I'll bet your sister Susan was a wonderful person. I'm sure she is missed. That's funny how she kept naming her dogs the same name, Marwen.

[Randi]

It sounds as if your sister had a great life, in spite of living with Down's syndrome, and her three Marwen's must have wonderful for her to have. Her grave looks beautiful and I see there's a nice wooden bench where you can sit and "chat" with her. Her gravestone is pretty much the same shape I chose for John.

Thank you for sharing.

I'm glad you enjoyed about Batman, I met him only a year before he was put to sleep - 11 years old.

How is the little newcomer, Taz, getting on? He's SO cute!

[Willow Oak]

How is the little newcomer, Taz, getting on? He's SO cute!

I don't know if you are aware, but I made a few posts regarding him in the dog rescue forum:

http://petoftheday.com/talk/showpost...9&postcount=14

http://petoftheday.com/talk/showpost...1&postcount=15

Basically, Taz is beginning to show his personality. Although he does play a lot with the other dogs (or attempts to) he does not mind being alone. I'll find him alone outside under a tree chewing on a stick when all of the other dogs are inside enjoying the air conditioning. He has himself a habit of crawling under the couch when he is inside, but he is getting too big for that. One day either he won't make it in or he won't make it out.

Every morning as I leave for work I tell the dogs to go to their rooms. I'll say, "Go to your room." At that each dog goes to his respective kennel or cage. I've learned to confine the dogs when I leave. Taz has his own kennel and he dutifully goes to it his just like the others go to theirs.

[Willow Oak]

No? Well, I just survived a heart attack, so I am allowed. As I may have mentioned in another post I grew up in the home of a strict, Victorian era Baptist preacher. My dad had two loves in his life: his books, of which he must have had around 30,000 volumes and his memories of WWII. Dad was a tail gunner on B29's during the war, and he talked about his experiences constantly.

I am presuming most of us cannot relate to the experiences of those who placed their lives on the line in times of war. Dad was in the Pacific theater, and I've heard him talk about having to shoot at and being shot at Japanese fighter planes while on a bombing run or whatever. Actually, Dad was in a reconnaissance group, and he brought back tons of photographs -- photographs of unimaginable devastation.

May I be afforded an aside here? Had the United States not entered the war the world may still be fighting the evil Nazi regime. Had the British not decided to take a stand the world would without a doubt be marching to the beat of a Nazi jackboot. All of the various allies played their part, including the brave French underground. The Canadians, the New Zelanders, the Indians, etc., etc. ..., Where would we be without that brave, selfless, and valiant generation?

Back to my story. My dad was Victorian-era. No vices had he. I have no images of my father sitting or lying down. Dad was always busy at work. One thing my dad strictly forbad was the consumption of any kind of alcoholic beverage. To this day, and I am 54 years of age, I have never tasted beer.

I have, on the other hand, tasted other kinds of alcohol. Back in the day I was a salesman, selling security systems, fire alarms, and burglar alarms. I had a call to make on a local tavern, but I was in the throws of a serious head cold, teetering on the brink of the flu. I made my call, apologized for my condition, upon which the tavern owner said, "I have something that will take care of that for you."

"I'm sure you do," I said. He excused himself and returned with a shot glass full to the brim with a pretty purple-colored liquid and said, "Drink this." Now I had never had alcohol in my system before, but at that particular moment I was weak and vulnerable and quite willing to try anything that might relieve my miserable condition, so I relented. It was delicious! I sipped excitedly as I presented my wares. He had given me the most delicious blackberry brandy, and was it ever so delectable! I fairly floated through my presentation, and by the time I had finished I felt like I had genuinely left the nasty head cold behind. Blackberry brandy is indeed the nectar of the gods.

I have kept a bottle of blackberry brandy in my pantry ever since. Mind you now, I have never been drunk. I do not now nor I have ever drunk alcohol for purely social reasons. I partake for medicinal purposes only.

However, one Christmas not long ago I was watching around me and noticed that everywhere people were embibing and enjoying the intoxicating pleasures of various potions with intriguing names like sherry and port and vodka and scotch. "What's all the fuss?" I wondered to myself. I had never drunk any of those -- nothing more than the blackberry [what turned out to be flavored] brandy that I kept in my kitchen cabinet, and that only to sip when I was not feeling well. So, I decided to check things out. I decided that I would settle the issue for myself once and for all. I would discover for myself what all the fuss was about. So I went to a local liquor store and asked for advice. I was given several small bottles of various renditions of hooch, paid the bill, and returned to my house.

At home on Christmas Eve I decided to give them all a taste. I opened each bottle in turn, but in each case I could not discern anything special. So I went through each bottle again, swigging and tasting then swallowing. "So what's the big deal?" I asked myself. I couldn't see it. What exactly is it that all these people see in these things? Nonetheless, I continued to sample these bottles of different colored liquid. Eventually I grew tired and went to sleep.

The next day was Christmas, and that morning I awoke with quite the headache. I went outside to drink in the early morning sunshine, and as I stepped out I noticed how warm it was. The sun was already high in the sky. I saw my neighbor from across the street (This was years before I bought Willow Oak, and I was living in a trailer park at the time), and exclaimed as to how gorgeous a day it was, being Christmas and all.

"Yes, Christmas day was a beautiful day at that."

"Was?" I asked.

"Yes." Then he looked at me and laughed. "Boy you had quite the party going on over there at your place."

"What day is it?" I asked.

"You don't know? Christmas was two days ago."

Like I said, I have never been drunk ..., that I am aware of.

[Willow Oak]

"Mister! Mister! Do you need a cat, Mister? I'm all alone in this world, and I don't have nobody to take care of me, Mister. Do you need a kitty, Mister? Mister, if you will take me home with you I promise I'll be a good kitty. Mister, I don't have nobody, and I'm all alone in this world, and I don't know what I'm gonna do. Mister, do you need a kitty? I sure hope so, Mister, because I don't have nobody, Mister!"

I'd heard these words before. Cougar had grabbed me that way a couple of years earlier. That one had worked out okay, but this one ..., looks more like trouble to me. But what else was I to do?

Words cannot tell the story of Thumper. Only pictures can do justice here.

Thumper was just a kitten when I snapped this shot. As you can see, from early on he was a genuine cut-up:



Thumper is ever on the move:



Thumper is so independent. Dogs? What dogs? Who cares? What's all the fuss? Lemme see if I can find me a place to relax over there:



Thumper and Oscar:



Thumper "kicks" it with Pookie:



Thumper thinks that Sam is just a big bore {{sleepy}}:



Silly goose:



{{{Yawn!!!}}}:



And, oh yea. Did I mention that Thumper ain't afraid of nobody? Come on, big guy. Show me what you got!

[gini]

I will take Thumper along with Sam! I love a jelly belly!!

[Randi]

I just couldn't bear the story of Yellow Fellow and Goldie - so very sad!

Thumper seems to get along great with Oscar - in fact with all the dogs. He looks so sweet in the first picture, and so goofy in seventh. What a gorgeous kitty. No wonder you couldn't resist him!

[Willow Oak]

I am not dumb. After all I am a college graduate. Of course, I didn't actually graduate until I was 35, apporximately 14 years after I originally enrolled ..., so maybe I ain't so smart after all. But I have learned a lot, and a lot of the lessons I have had to learn the hard way.

I saw the cats beginning to multiply. They weren't mine. They were someone else's. I lived with my mother, and my sister lived on the same property, and it was they who had been collecting these dogs and cats all these years, so let them deal with it. But they weren't dealing with it, and that's why there were so many dogs and cats. Sheba had recently borne her litter of four males, and there were a few more cats that had showed up since, among which were Charcoal, Boots, BKI and BKII (Black Kat I and Black Kat II), and others, and I had assumed the role of caretaker.

So I set about looking for a vet who would help me out and not require that I turn over my checking account number. I did eventually find someone who would do the lot for $200, so I loaded up the cats -- nine in all and headed for the vet.

I know that you sitting there with all of your years of experience, saying to yourself that you do not carry one cat, let alone nine, loose in your car, but hey, I was a newbie. I didn't know.

As long as I did not pull the car over and open the door I was okay, but when I finally arrived at the vet's office I knew that my car would never smell the same again. On the ride over most of the cats had pretty muchy freaked out -- almost all of them except for Socks. From birth Socks had been the calmest, coolest, most laid-back cat of all. Early on in life he had crawled into my lap and lay there. Everyday my lap was his destination, and if he was not in my lap he was in the chair next to mine. Without a doubt, Socks was my favorite. And on the ride to the vet Socks was the only calm one of the bunch.

As a matter of fact, Socks lay in my lap during the trip to the vet, and naturally he would be the first that I would carry inside. So I gathered Socks up first, opened the door very carefully so that no one else would escape, and headed for the door. I was carrying Socks in my arms when the door opened, and when it did Socks bolted. Off he ran into the woods adjacent to the building. That was seven or so years ago. I looked for that guy for days, and for weeks I returned and went all throughout the woods looking for Socks, calling out to him, but I never found him nor did I ever see him again. My heart was thoroughy crushed over that incident.

I managed to successfully deliver the other kitties to be neutered and spayed, but I really learned my lesson that day.

Lesson #1: When transporting your pet ALWAYS CONFINE YOUR PET TO A PET CARRIER OR LEASH until safely delivered inside.

This next lesson required required several incidents in order to be driven into my thick skull. Occasionally we would find the body one of our cats off in a field or some such place, seemingly in one piece but mussed up nonetheless. I was always puzzled as to the nature of the death, but eventually I did figure it out. Evidently sometimes a cat will get itself into a scrape with a pack of dogs, and this has happened several times. To be truthful, this is what happened to Shadow, Curiosity, and Sheba, as well as at least three other cats of which I am aware.

I made a decision long ago that I would not confine the cats to an outdoor pen. This has mostly worked, but there have been failures. Most of my cats understand how to navigate among the dogs, but even among my own dogs, who are mostly very friendly to the cats and each other, "accidents" can happen. So whenever I leave the house now I confine the dogs to minimize the incidents of "accidents."

Lesson #2: CONFINE YOUR ANIMALS WHEN AWAY FROM THE HOUSE..

However, I had to endure the demise of poor Yella Fella and poor Goldie and almost the demise of Cathy before I learned that even among friends, accidents do occur. I acquired first Yella Fella from the neighbors. He was in bad shape -- full of ticks and fleas and mange. I bathed him and administered Ivomec as I have done so often before, and within a couple of weeks he was well on the way to recovery.

I always quarantine a new animal for at least two weeks, and such was the case with Yella Fella. Within the allotted time Yella Fella had recovered well enough to introduce to the general population, and after the initial sniffing and snarling, the other dogs settled back into their normal routines. When I would go to work I continued to confine Yella Fella behind a child gate, but one day when I arrived home I found Yella Fella running loose but in one piece. I decided to leave him out. This worked for about a week, and then one day I arrived home to find his lifeless body in the back yard. Evidently, the other dogs had not quite accepted Yella Fella fully, but I was not aware of this. Poor Yella Fella. I truly did not know any better. Even so, I feel that your untimely demise was my fault.

Shortly after losing Yella Fella I acquired his sister. This time I would make sure not to make the same mistake again. "Goldie" was in much worse shape than her brother had been. She was all over sores and welts and fleas and ticks, but as with her brother I was quickly able to set her on a right course. In her case I decided to extend the quarantine period and observe the other dogs' behavior before I trusted them to be all together while I was away. Over the extended period Goldie grew and I observed on my days off and my time at home that the other dogs genuinely seemed to accept the newcomer. So the time came that I felt like it would be safe to leave her out with the other dogs when I left for work.

The day came to leave Goldie loose, and all day at work I worried. That was the longest day of my life -- all day I worried and sweated and wondered: had I done the right thing? After all, wasn't I risking Goldie's life by taking this chance?

When I arrived home all was very quiet. Eerily quiet. Too quite. Slowly and nervously I exited my vehicle. The dogs were all in a very abject mood as I entered the house. Ordinarily I would have expected Goldie to be bouncing around outside, as with all of the animals, but there was no Goldie. I knew before I even got out of the car. I knew before I even entered the house. I knew. I found Goldie's lifeless body under my desk. I cannot describe the rest of the scene. I cannot think about that now.

Lesson #2: NO MATTER THE DISPOSITION OF YOUR PETS(S), EXPECT ACCIDENTS TO HAPPEN..

I do often think that I have done a good job of rescuing a few animals and helping those in need to receive help. I do have a few success stories. But I have a few failures also. Sometimes failure is the only way to learn. Even so, learning can be so painful. I cannot blame myself for Yella Fella's demise, but I knew I was taking a chance with Goldie. With Yella Fella I sincerely thought all was okay, but with Goldie I knew there was the possibility of a bad outcome, yet I took the chance anyway.

There is a footnote to this story. Yella Fella and Goldie were litter mates. Their mother belonged to neighbors. She and I never met until one morning about 5:00 am. As I was pulling out of my driveway to go to work, Yella Fella and Goldie's mommy decided to chase my truck. Another vehicle was approaching from the opposite direction and hit her. I pulled up and exited my truck. She was in very bad shape. Here it was, 5:00 am, and here was this dog lying in the road, all beat up. What could I possibly do to help her? Well, I had to go to work; It was too early to find a vet open; her owner's were not awake yet; she was in very bad shape -- she couldn't possible survive.

As I was kneeling next to the mother of Yella Fella and Goldie I recalled an incident that had happened a few weeks before. Another dog, owned by the same neighbor, had been hit in approximately the same spot in the road. I had arrived shortly after it happened, and the owner had arrived also. The dog was in very bad shape and could not survive, but it was alive. After some consideration I retrieved my .22 rifle, and she called another neighbor to come and do the deed. I recall asking the guy if he would please put several bullets into her head, but macho as he was he assured me that one shot between the eyes would do the trick. I didn't argue, but against my better judgment I decided to stay and observe. He shot the dog once in the head. What happened after that I wish I could forget. The dog required several minutes to expire, but it was a long struggle. Oh, it was probably unconscious during the whole time, but I decided right then that the next time this situation presented itself I would do the deed myself.

Now here was the next time. I retrieved the rifle from my house and returned to the dog who lay beside the road. She was alive and conscious, but it was ovious that she would not survive. Never in my life had I done what I was about to do. It was very early in the morning and still very dark. The air was cool and crisp, and I love dogs -- all dogs. Yet I was staring down the muzzle of a loaded gun with the bead set squarely between the eyes of one of God's precious creatures, and I was about to take from it the greatest gift on earth. I had been in the same position a few years earlier when Sam first showed up at my place, and in his case I couldn't pull the trigger. But now -- there simply was no other choice. This time there was no long struggle. It was over in seconds. I pray God forgive me for doing what I felt like I had to do.

Yella Fella:



Goldie on the day I brought her home:





I give Goldie a bath in my kitchen sink:



Goldie, a few weeks later: