Willow Oak

[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]

In case you didn't know, and even though you could probably care less, I post to another site from time to time. It is of a different genre from Pet Talkers, but the people are the same.

I read in one post where someone had lost a beloved pet and was requesting prayer for the family. What is this? Is this the point in civilized society to which we have ascended that when a household pet passes over to the other side we are so grief stricken that we request others to go to their knees and request of the Almighty God that he bestow some manner of comfort on our souls?

I do it every day. So what? Anyways, I shared with that individual a link to the Willow Oak thread on this site, which thread we are in right now. Others on that site read the post and followed the link to here, and recently I received an email from one of those readers who shared with me the most wonderful story. With her permission I share that story with you:

You can find a bit more about some of our rescued (and other animal stories) at Momma Dawg's Multiply site. Auntie Mame's story goes something like this: My Second Daughter taught gymnastics in a small town about fifteen miles from here and her drive home is along unmarked county roads. While she’s used to seeing deer jump out, a possum or skunk along the edge of the road, she just couldn’t place what she saw in any of her known categories. So, at eleven at night, she’s stopped along the side of the road walking back to see what “didn’t belong there.”

Holding her own in front of this approaching human was a small kitten, mewling loudly. According to Second Daughter, who speaks Cat fluently, she was saying, “I’m trying to get to your mother’s house. I’ve heard that she takes care of kittens, and I need lots of help.”

The next morning when SD brought this buddle of skin stretched thinly over tiny bones, it was evident that she needed a lot of help! No cat food in the house, of course, and we knew that milk would only create diarrhea, so we mooshed up some dog food and the kitten devoured it. Yep, desperate – she’d never look at dog food now. She’s too good for that.

Her eyes were still blue, and she fit in the palm of our hand. She wanted to lick any skin that came close to her. Instead of being covered in soft fur, there were single strands standing alone. All of her strength had gone into surviving, not covering her body. You couldn’t tell what color her fur would be, though her skin was spotted grey and white.

We took her to the vet and this “free” cat came home worth $135, got her shots along with medicine to remove worms, mites and ringworm. Quite successfully I might add.

It took a while before we could figure out her name. We tried calling her by different names, but we got them all wrong. As her fur grew in and we understood that she was a gray tabby, we even tried Smokie, but she never responded. Princess, Ghost, Shadow – none of those caught her attention. We were sitting in the den about a month later, my husband and I, and I told him that maybe she didn’t have a name.

When I said “name”, she turned quickly and looked at me. I looked right back and said “Is your name Mame?” She came to me and jumped in my lap. I said, “Is your name Auntie Mame?” thinking of Rosalind Russell’s portrayal of that colorful character. She leaned over and licked me on my check, and she’s been Auntie Mame since then.

Her eyes eventually turned green, and being thin is no longer her problem. She became even more valuable with another trip to the vet to be certain she leaves no kittens to be found on the side of the road. Unlike Second Daughter, most people don’t speak Cat. During her recuperation, Beloved Husband (despiser of feline creatures) held her on his chest and the bond has only strengthened since then. I may be the one to feed her and clean out her bathroom (yes, she has one of her own -- it just worked out that way, it was not built for her!) but he's the one she goes to, settles in his lap, throws her head back so she can stare into his face then reaches out a paw to touch his chin and settle on his chest.

Ah! Contentment!

PS -- She remains fearful of cows!!

Auntie Mame: