When animals leave me, total strangers leave too, but I'm still here

Muddy in descent

"Spitting in the wind comes back at you twice as hard"

Lou Reed

I always resonated with that qoute from Lou. It can be applied to many things we do in life, or others do. But it also reminds me of the process of grieving–don't ignore it, don't toss it out because you want to move on to joy again...or it will come back twice as hard.

Whenever I have a wave of animal death, and they always seem to come in threes, I notice I usually lose a smattering of followers on the Apifera FB page. I don't necessarily know who they are [ nor is it a concern for me], and I probably don't even know them in real life, but it seems to be a consistent action some people take. I post pictures of beauty and life, and that includes the curve of life, the depths of life which includes death, and grief. It is not only how I process any moment I feel I need to process, it is a document of my life here. That's all it is.

Years ago, I asked a follower I hardly knew, point blank, why she unfollowed. She was embarrased and I realized it is not a question I have to ask, nor do I anymore. It's her choice and I realized I put her in an uncomfortable place. But at the time, I was surprised, and she told me she just got attached to my animals and then they would die. And she couldn't take it and needed a break from it. She has every reason to caretake herself, and step away from what makes her sad, that is her duty to herself.

A break from the death of my animals...I suspect that is why some unfollow after a string of deaths at Apifera. I never get to step out of the grief part of the work here, and have never expected to. I've never thought to myself, I have to step away from this part of my life, this death part and I'm grateful that somehow I'm wired like this.

Don't take this to mean I never cry, or ask why to the sky. I do. But instead of trying to walk away from it, I just walk through it. I write about it, I take photos to process it.

Do you know one of the beautiful moments with Muddy when he died, was holding his beautiful head in my hands, my face pressed up into his chocolate velvet ears-the ears I kissed evey morning when he walked into the bedroom. I said 'bye'...and he released. I could feel it.

For me, to not participate in the death of my animals, is cheating them and me. I mean, why would I write about the joys of birth, or the joys of the arrival of Pickles, but hide everyone from when one of my old soldiers finally falls? For me the mystery of birth is right up there with the mystery of death. Our society is very good at cutting them right down the middle, which is why we have elder people shut up in buildings right now-nobody wants to deal with it.

It is sad to say goodbye. But my writings and photographs and art are entwined with both life and death. If only our society could be entertwined with both...our elder years would be very different.

Muddy leaves a hole but Bear and I shift

Bear and Mud the night before he died, constant mates

If you follow us on social media, you know of our hard loss yesterday, which we had planned for. Muddy was helped out of pain at one o'clock. I was grateful the vet agreed to come to our farm to do the procedure. We were able to hold him and I lay with him in the garden before and after.

I won't rehash the day. I documented it in earnest on Instagram, something I felt compelled to do, from the night before, to the morning of and then through the burial. I always say, for me, it is important to share the sad with the joy, it is the same balancing act we all face daily in our own lives, it is the human condition, it is Nature's law book. I had not told people what day we were going to put him down, so those that tuned in saw the lead up to the moment, through emotive images of Bear and Muddy. I think some or most had a sense of the buildup I was feeling on the death day. It was not a comfortable feeling and I was emotional much of the day. I tried not to be gushy in front of Muddy, but I shared a lot of things with him in the final week.

I really wasn't sure how Bear would respond once the burial was over and we returned to the house, without his buddy. He definatly knew Mud was gone, in the grave, he saw it and smelled it, he got it. Animals know. But sitting in the garden at night with us, he kept smelling the air. He sat by me most of the evening, in the house too. I know he was a bit aimless.

This morning, he was very quiet, rather than vocalizing at a certain point in his crate to 'Hurry up, I want to get up". He was fine, but he was less puppy-like-squirmy. We've been working on that. He also shifted his position on where he would lay down, and has been laying down nearest to whereever I am.

I told him this is our restart together as a team. We bonded from the moment we met, we really did. And we had our early training at Cove's Edge where he was just a super little therapy guy, calm, smart, fearless, quiet. I've been a bit short with him in the past couple months, since I was overprotecting harm to Mud and his bone. So now, we can work again together, we did some obedience work today and he was fine, he knows the commands, we will get that down quickly. He just needs to know I'm here.

The lead up to the event was worse than the finality of the burial. Yes, I miss him so much. But when I walked out this morning with Bear, I was relieved for Mud that he didn't have to limp out with me, put on his wagging tail face and feel the pain that we knew was only growing. We had two extra months with him and are grateful.

But there is a hole.

If you aren't afraid of where you came from then fear not where you go after death

Muddy yesterday morning

I've written about a friend who was diagnosed with ALS, a very cruel disease. She shared a thought she had read by Parker Palmer about dying, from his book On the Brink of Everything. He didn't fear where he came from before he was born born so he realized he should not have fear where he was going after he died.

I thought this was a very wise statement and made much sense to me. It also resonates with me because it shows the continuum of life-but that life is entwined with a million deaths and rebirths. We are constantly dying–our skin, our hair, teeth and bones....we walk around living but are dying passively. The flowers in the garden are alive now but are on the path of death. If we can see death as a partner in life -for me, it helps.

But goodbyes as a human are hard.

We ran to the vet on Friday for more pain meds for Muddy who has been diagnosed with terminal bone cancer at the age of 10.5. So we have been ruminating on how many more days is the right number of days for him. We are of course hanging on to each day, but it is exhausting carrying the power around of being the one that holds his final number of days in my hands.

I've done this long enough to know that things can seem manageable in pain and pallitive care one day and then the next day they aren't–and that creates a rushed, less peaceful end for both human and animal. There is nothing we are doing that is treating the cancer we are simply hoping for painless days. But on Friday he showed signs of more pain, and we added another pain pill into the mix. It seemed to help a lot.

But we are still left with the duty of asking, and answering how many days? What is one more week for him–is one more week for him as important to him as it is to us?

And so...I thought of this statement that my friend shared. She too is facing an earlier death than she had imagined due to the ALS. But if I don't fear where Muddy was before his birth, I won't fear where he is going.

Muddy and Bear yesterday

The long goodbye...but what a gift

Muddy and Bear, yesterday

At a routine vet visit on Tuesday, I found out the Muddy has terminal bone cancer. I had him to the vet to see about getting stronger arthritis meds for him, but the vet immediately looked at his new bump on his front leg elbow, which had come on about 3 weeks ago, and wanted to do an xray, and I assumed it was all arthritis related since that was his gimpy leg. I knew by his face when he came out with the xray.

The option of putting a near eleven year old dog in surgery and removing his entire front leg right up to the shoulder and then doing chemo, all to get him another 6 months [some live a year or so]...well, I didn't even question it, I was not putting him through that. The vet agreed. I know there are examples of pets making it another year or more, but I want quality not quantity for him.

I'm heartbroken. And shocked. Just envisioned another couple years of Gramps and his puppy friend.

I asked my vet if it was his dog [he has a lab] would he put him down right now? "No, take him home and let him live his days out...but you guys have to prepare yourselves."

He said it could be a week or weeks or maybe a couple months. He didn't seem to feel it would be a year. He said that in most cases [most] when the lump is visible it already means the cancer has spread, and the next organ effected will be his lungs.

I've never brought a dog home to live out the final days or weeks. They have always failed and needed to be put down for one reason or another. I have never had the uneasy feeling of waking up each day and looking in the big brown eyes and knowing what I know..."You my friend, are dying."

Its like one long goodbye without an end.

I remember when my father was in home hospice. He started hospice in January. He died in late March. Leading up to the final days, I remember my mother -who I talked to every day- saying,

"It's time."

It was time for him, but also time for her.

I think in my experience when I know an animal is failing, and I keep trying to help if at all possible, there is a point of clarity that you have done all you can do. The animal has probably let go, and it is time for you to let go.

If I see anything compromising, I will act. Any breathing problems, any signs of depression...for now, I love on him double. Muddy always comes into my room after Martyn leaves at 6:30. He makes these sweet talking sounds, always has. I smoosh him, his chocolate ears are so soft. I tell him I love him, he knows. Then he follows me into the bathroom, more talks...and on and on. At night we help him onto the couch, he can still do it but he's getting the royal treatment.

He still is eager to get up. He still loves his baby bro. He still can be Muddy.

When he can't be Muddy, he will cease to be himself.

But it is a long goodbye.

Just as I feel Bear came to me to help John, the elder gentlemen who got to be Bear's first and favorite therapy contact at the elder home [he died in March], I too think Bear came for me, for us, not only to be a transition after Mud's death, but as a transition for Muddy. When Huck died at age 12, we had only been in Maine less than a year, we still had a younger Muddy who then was only 6. Muddy was vibrant and alive, and even though they were blood brothers and it was hard to lose Huck, Muddy helped. He played, and cared for old blind Hughie. In a very short time, Muddy took on the role of elder. He seemed to age overnight, about a year ago, his face greying earlier than Huck's did. Now I wonder if he had the cancer even then. He couldn't do his moves with his frisbee, and now plays tug of war instead of running. He sleeps a lot.

It also does not go without noticing that about a month or so ago, we noticed that The Goose was pecking and preening Muddy's feet and legs. I thought it was The Goose noticing the arthritis, but now I think he could sense the cancer, or at least the pain it must give Muddy. The Goose is after all our resident intuit.

Long goodbyes are especially exhausting, for everybody. They are limbo land. But, if you told me I could have had another month or so with Hughie to ease into a goodbye, I would have taken it.

This is a gift.  Even though we new Muddy would not live forever, the knowledge that his days are shorter than we thought means each day is like a new theatrical play you have been waiting to see forever come to the stage. Each day, he will show up and I will watch him like he's Marlon Brando performing at his peak. Standing ovations each night.

So I will relish, although with a lot of sadness, this long goodbye....with my beautiful chocolate boy. And he has taught Bear a thing or two. And Bear will stay on ...and run and jump and do all the things we have watched first Huck, then Mud, do. The chocolate legacy.

The Goose is a fine tuned sensing machine-we take him seriously

Oh, Lord, these two

Mud split a toenal so I bandaged to stop slight bleeding

"What happened to your foot?" Bear wonders.

"I'll live, don't worry, little fella."

My blue hangover was worth it

Yesterday, Muddy came bounding into the bedroom at 5 am like always, pushed his wet nose under the blankets and flipped them up sending a shot of cold air on my skin. He does this every morning. But this particular morning was his 9th birthday so I sensed he was a tish happier than normal. Muddy starts everyday with enthusiasm,

"It's a new morning! Isn't it great?!"

Yep, yes, it is, Muddy, especially with your wet nose on me.

The excitement of the day's voting was also part of the energy and I was excited, but anxious. I know many were. In Maine, we overwhelmingly sent a message to the sitting governor, president and current political believers of the administration–NO MORE.

We elected a moderately leaning Democrat woman, and put the house and senate in Democratic hands. We voted against another Trumper business man for governor - and we have suffered through a horrible governor here for years. What I'm proud and relieved to see is there were no tight races, this was a mandate, with most Dems getting over 60% of the vote, and turnout was high.

I have hope. I think what I hope for most is that there will be an effort, somehow, for politicians to come together more in the House. Dump is not going to change, but he at least won't go rolling down a hill without brakes out of control without any speed bumps. He has wasted no time going right back to his onslaught of the media, and lies, pointing fingers, and we're right back into the circus.

One thing I feel needs to happen is to bring more understanding to the city elite and progressive leaning people about their rural neighbors, and that somehow rural people with certain views have to be more clearly heard and understood. I'm not talking about persuading either side to switch views, but I live and work with many people in my rural villages that are good people that voted for the current president. I do not believe everyone of them is a racist. I do however feel after two years, that sexism, and racism has to be acknowledged by everyone. If you can't see it, I believe you need to be educated on it...but I'm sick of rural people being designated as ignorant and uncaring.

To me, many [not all] of the city elite saying these things sound as elitist as the white men of the Senate and former House they love to criticize.

SO I was excited for the voting results. I also realized as I was in my little town hall in my village of 600, how much I love where we are, and how we are truly meant to be here. I feel a real sense of community here. When people went in to vote [it's the old school building that is now the town hall] there were-mainly elder-towns people there volunteering, and then there was a long table of sweets and goodies manned by other towns people. People stood and chatted. I stopped to get my trailer license, and someone said,

"Oh are you the ones who live at 315?"

Two years ago that might have freaked me out. Today, I feel we are becoming part of the community and region, and we are also giving back to it with our work. I walked out of there just feeling so positive how the universe brought us to this exact town, and house and at this time, for a reason. It's all part of our path here.

I also feel the current administration-which is exposing the underbelly of America that has always been there-is also meant to be here, at this specific time, for a reason. I don't like it, and we can change it, but it is teaching us all many different things-be it the fact that whites are born into privilege no matter their income, and that racism is alive and thriving, as is sexism and every other ism.

But I felt hope again last night. And I do have a tish of a blue hangover, after a bit too much wine runneth over. But one has to let off steam.

And besides, it was Muddy's birthday.

When I'm with an animal, I check my intentions

Muddy is going on nine later in the year. He is still very athletic and most, including vets, think he looks much younger. But I've noticed in the past six months or so he is getting the old dog look. Sometimes I think I see Huck when I look over at him. They were five years apart in age but out of the same parents. I did that on purpose, knowing someday Huck would leave us, and Muddy could carry on, in his own way of course. The two dogs were very different. Where Muddy could run all day, especially with his frisbee, Huck became a lay-around-and-just-be-me-lab, pretty much when Muddy showed up as a pup. He played, but it was as if he thought,

OK, good, they have reinforcements, I can relax a bit now.

I spent all day and everyday with the Huck, and when Mud came along, Huck sort of became more of my at-your-side-guy. When we moved to Maine, Huck was still healthy, although gimpy, but by the next spring his behavior and changed a bit. I saw deep thoughts in those brown eyes, and he began sleeping away from Mud, by my side at the bed. When I found the large mass on his neck, which came on quickly, I knew something was wrong. It was a wasting cancer, and we helped him on his way. He was 12. It was a horrible goodbye for me and Martyn. "End of an era," as Martyn said.

Muddy is a talker. He talks in a series of lip movements, lip curling, and yawning words. We walk together and he loves that. He seems so very happy when he sees me put on-not my Muck boots-but my hiking shoes.

That is the thing about dogs, they just want to partake in simple, but important, rituals with their owners, like a morning walk to sit by the cove a spell. They could care less about my aging face, but are completely tuned into my intent of the moment. They pick up on that, which is probably the best training lesson I can remind myself of with any animal-check your intentions with an animal, because they sense it.

Dreary day...stuff yourself into a dog bed

It is a dreary day. The beautiful snows we've had this week are now being rained on, and it is grey. I have been in a quiet little funk all day, but...take heart, I say to myself, I will have soup tonight after a hot bath, some tea, and to bed early. I really just want to get in bed today, I don't usually feel like that, but today the relentlessness of the rain and grey is getting to me, plus I'm tired.

I should just follow Muddy's lead and try to squish myself into a pug bed!

Christmas faces-our feelings get worn on our sleeves

It's really like any other day here, the routine is the same no matter the occasion. It's the routine the animals come to expect, the routine that keeps them feeling secure in knowing food is on the table morning and night and water buckets that iced over are replenished.

We are in the middle of another big storm. I'm grateful we aren't traveling or even driving a short distance. Just getting to the barn in the winds and hard pellet snow was a nippy endeavor, and there are slick spots [but thanks to some loyal Apiferians I have really good boot cleats that work wonderfully].

As I came back from the barn this morning, I took time to just stand in the field, the wind howling, the tree limbs bending with a light layer of ice from yesterday's morning rain. I breathed in deep, I felt it all, I left myself in it all. It was seconds, but is part of the wonderful time between Christmas and New Year's, like I said in my post yesterday-it is full of hope, and plans. I have a personal challenge I am determined to face, and I told the sky realm keepers I was going to do it. I felt strong.

I took extra time in the cat room too, grooming Maxine, sitting with the new arrivals, talking to them all, or not, just sitting. When I came in it was already lunchtime and I had a cup of Martyn's homemade soup he left for me.

I am loved.

The dogs were watching me. Time for some more Christmas Garland festivity and I wrapped The Old Blind One Eyed Pug in it. The way Mud looked at me, the way the pug looked at him...it's Christmas, every feel gets worn on our sleeves.

The importance of Mud walks

When I lived in Minneapolis, I walked almost every day with my dog, usually at my favorite lake, Lake of the Isles. I'd hop in the car and drive about 5 miles to get there and walk the three mile periphery. Winter did not stop us, and while it required dog boots for Louie Louie the fox terrier due to the salt, we loved our winter walks probably more than the summer ones. When I moved to Portland, Louie was very old and had a heart issue and I was told not to walk him anymore, and sans canine, my walks never tok off at my new home. Once at the farm, I rarely walked, even though I tried, but it felt odd walking the country roads. I realized it was important for me to have a destination to walk to. So I chose the pioneer Pike Cemetery which was about a 2 mile round trip. Mud and Huck and I would go, or I'd ride Boone up there.

But I never got back into my daily walk. And of course, I had lots of manual labor to attend to. But manual labor is not the same as walking.

Once in Maine, I really wanted to set a new precedent with a daily walk and Mud and I started, but the busy main road was such a drag, and I fell of the wagon, again.

But now more settled, I have been getting up early to walk with Mud. I now have a better feeling for the front road and have acquired skills I always had but forgot, to block out negative aspects of the traffic. It is also much quieter once the summer crowd leaves. I also have two properties where I've been given permission to ride and walk on, and I have a little loop I can do that feels like I have a destination to walk to, and keeps me off the road.

I love my walks, and I love getting up early again, and going to bed super early. I also love my bed, and I do a lot of thinking there in the first waking moments. I thought I was wasting time going to bed before nine o'clock many nights, but now, I realize it is simply what my body and mind want and need right now-early to bed, early to rise.

I took this photo of Mud as we sat for a spell down by the cove, the tide was out and on this day there were no clammers, but usually there are right into winter. I am still learning the land here, the tides and all things Atlantic ocean. Yesterday was very chilly, about 25 and really strong gusts. I am still a huge admirer of the wind here from the ocean. It is much different than the wind that blew from the coastal range in Oregon.

I also love that when I wake up, I see the sun rise over the cove, and that seems so...grounding, to know that the sun is rising right there over the Atlantic, right on the edge of the country. It is much different than the sun rising in Minneapolis, or Oregon. The sun is up earlier here than any other placed I've lived-it seems fitting that I too am up earlier than I ever was in my former homes-except when I was very little and I was up at 4 am ready for a new day of adventure.

I felt tied to my land in Oregon. I realized in my last weeks of walks, the land here is waiting for me to make my move. It is letting me figure it out...kind of like how I feel about New England in general. And I am simply trying to connect in my own way. But my walks have reminded me of something I always felt even as a child-I am interconnected with everything, we all are.

We celebrate Muddy

Today is Muddy's 8th birthday. It is hard to fathom it was that long ago a ball of chocolate came into our lives, back when his brother Huck was only five. So many frisbees have been thrown-for if you know Mud you know that frisbee is his passion and he has long standing relationships with his frisbees, Fred and Kevin.

Muddy is his own guy, but he can resemble Huck more and more as he ages. In certain light, or certain stances, I take a double look. I'm so glad we brought Muddy home - the thought was that as Huck aged, and we knew would pass on some day, we would have a younger version to keep us happy, and mindful of his old brother. But the two are very different, which as it should be.

Once you stare into chocolate eyes surrounded by chocolate fur, you can never get over it.

Happy birthday, dear Muddy, there will be extra bowl licking tonight-if we can keep your elderly, blind one-eyed brother pug away for long enough.

Are you distracted?

I've been talking to a lot of people about the current climate and news cycle being such a distraction to the creative spirit. I am never in a creative flow in August, but I do start getting percolations and the itch to be in my studio once I feel autumn coming. There is so much to do on the farm in summer that my writing and art take a bit of a backseat.

But the current world situation and the constant chaos in our country right now really has a lot of people feeling agitated and ungrounded. We are charged up in many ways but I for one am now going to make an attempt to tweak how I go about the day. I've fallen into the habit of checking news online a million times a day like an addiction. This is not necessary, and certainly isn't really helping me in any way. This happened after 9/11 too and I remember people were being encouraged to step away from the TV. There was no Facebook [oh how glorious!] but still we became addicted to checking the TV to see if anything else had happened.

I am lucky I have so many chores. It grounds me to go the barn and work with the animals twice a day, muck stalls, carry buckets, look at trees and faces. Today I noticed the shifting sounds of the seasons-fall is upon us and I love fall more than any other season. The leaves sound different when the wind blows this time of summer and the insects are rabid right now-to get as much biting and blood in so they can lay eggs before dying.

The animals are not impressed with news nor do they need it. They have no idea the turmoil we are in right now. They don't fear global war or white supremacists or leaders lacking in morals or empathy. But I do. Can my art change any of it? I don't think so. I think all it can do is calm me, and maybe others. If I'm calm at least half the day, I can project the best parts of me to the world-which means standing up for the downtrodden, or speaking up when I see something that is racist or unfair. Not checking news all the time doesn't mean I will shut up. We can not be silent.

I've been doing more morning walks with Muddy. He knows when I put on my Muck boots I'm going to the barn but when I put on my walking shoes he gets to walk down to the sea's internal cove with me. He just is so happy when I put on the walking shoes and looks so disappointed when I put on the Mucks.

In this small way-walking with my dog, being engulfed in the Queen Anne's Lace, feeling the dampness of the fog-I am reminded of one thing-I'm of Nature, and Nature is not evil. It might throw a storm our way and take down a tree or flood our villages with mud and rock-it can kill us without motive or ego. But as part of Nature, I'm reminded on my walks that I breathe from the ground up, the air comes from a spiritual space and allows me to live. I do not breathe from the heart of ugly, misinformed people and I will not let their hate or bigotry drown out my creative spirit.

Muddy and Kevin, or is it Fred?

You might recall last winter Muddy lost his beloved frisbee, Fred, in a snowball. It was a scary time for Fred who stuck it out until spring. Of course before the thaw, along came a gift for Muddy, and his name was Kevin.

So I don't know if this is Fred or Kevin, but Muddy still has a strong friendship with both of them.

You can see the animated movie about Muddy and his beloved frisbee friends here >

In the Wood, out in the light

I walked the entire Wood today with Mud. It's only about a mile loop, but I really love The Wood in the winter, especially since it is marsh in much of the center so can't be walked the entire way in spring. It's fun to watch the tracks of deer and coyote, and we suspect a bobcat.

The winter here has not been that hard on us, in fact, Oregon is having a harder time since even 1/4 inch of snows freaks everyone out and the roads come to a standstill pretty easily there. There is a difference here in that nobody complains about the weather that much, it is just weather. Much like Minnesota, or my days in upstate NY. I was taught as a child by a mother that lived in the furtherest north city in North Dakota,

"It's just weather, don't whine about it."

And I rarely do. So many other things to whine about it.

We are beginning to comprehend what we want to do to our acreage, and of course that will evolve too. We have lots of plans and ideas, dreams. Martyn has already begun to push the growth back from the existing pasture. We plan to create more open space on part of The Wood, a place that was obviously pasture at one time. It has some old growth apple trees, and is above the marsh and stream spots. I like it over there, it borders the Quaker cemetery.

Our little farm is very different here than in Oregon. I am adjusting to that. There are still days I have some pangs for 'what was', but...it's not necessarily the farm itself. It is something else and I haven't figured out the words to express that, and maybe I won't have to. We have been here eight months, that is not long at all. I remember how long it took in Oregon to feel rooted. And I'm not sure it has anything to do with being here, versus "there". I think it has more to do with the realization, the fact, that my decades on this earth are coming to an end. I'll be 59 in March. That's not old, but, a decade zips by. There is so much to do here, that we want to do, and it just feels different thinking ahead at 59 then it did at 42.

To be honest, I feel a bit fat, a bit old looking. I was pretty once, that was nice to experience. It means nothing to how you live your life, what kind of heart you have or what art you make. But, I can now say, I've entered that place where 'pretty' is not the word I would use to describe anything about my appearance. In fact I don't like looking at myself much. I think this might pass. I'm sort of in the 'between' stage of aging.

So walking in The Wood helps with anything. Touching old trees, hearing the stream under the ice, and Muddy was so happy to be with me.

In the meantime, while we gave up the Big Sky feel of the West, we have huge clouds that are closer to us here, and lots of days of beautiful sun and blue sky. The snow comes and goes, and it has been an easy winter so far as regards to snow. But of course that can change, but no matter, we are fine. And t was nice to look over to the new barn and see the flock, and the smoke coming from the house chimney.

We are the Insides

The Insides live in the house. You might know the story of Big Tony. When we arrived at the old farm in Oregon, there was a new litter of semi feels in the barn. Before I could trap the very industrious Mama Kitty-it took two years-she had another litter. The litters were all spayed and neutered, and continued to live out their lives at Apifera.

When I began trapping the cats, I never thought I'd land a 20 pounder the first day out. But there he was, lying contently in the trap, having just finished off the tuna that was placed their to entice him. He was charming and dignified throughout the entire transport to the vet for neutering. Within days of losing the responsibility of procreating, Big Tony made his way to the front porch, accompanied by several of his children. At the time, we had no indoor cat, just the dogs. Each night I'd casually alert Martyn that Big Tony was there, and each night I got him in the living room for longer and longer, until Martyn gave up and soon after Big Tony was sleeping in the bed. But not on my side. He liked Martyn's side.

It's the story that has repeated itself with Apifera cats, as it did years later with Itty Bitty.

So Big Tony is still with us in Maine. He is a complete grandpa now, losing weight off his backbone, but still able to jump. He has several favorite sleeping baskets in the sun, one in my office where he spends most of the day. But it is still Martyn he likes to attend to while we have our wine, or watch movies. He has a routine of putting his paws up stretched and staring into Martyn's eyes. Later, when I go to bed, he comes int to be with me and sleeps on my side of the bed now. Sometimes I wake with his paw on my hand.

The One Eyed Blind Pug II, aka Hughie and his chocolate sidekick have a very easy life, complete with beds by a fire, toast crust in the morning, and bowl licking at dinner. And now they have birds singing to them in the morning.

The Insides make daily life nicer.

Inside creatures

The house is less full without Huck, but I think of him often, and when I do, his face and that Lady Di look he would give me comes into my head; it is our current way of being together.

Muddy in some odd ways has taken on more of Huck's personality. He doesn't come up the stairs, which is so like Huck who was even concerned if he had to go around a scary door jam. He checks on me more and he worries more about some sounds and comes to my side for reassurance. He sleeps more but he is going on seven. We joked that Mud will go out of this world as a pup, where as Huck came into this world as an old man. I've seen this often in the past years of animal care taking-when one of a pair dies, the other often shifts, sometimes by blossoming, as Sophie did after victor passed, and sometimes by becoming more like the lost buddy. I think Mud is just fine. He actually played with Hughie the other day and it was pretty funny.

Big Tony is aging. He is at least 15 we think but could be older. What we've seen in the past months is his hind end is weakening. We have makeshift steps all over the house for him, to get up to his food dish, to get up on his perch, to get up in the bed. He is not cleaning himself as well either and often comes to bed with poo in his hind paws. I figure it will happen to me, unable someday to tidy myself, so I care for him and place no shame on him. He sleeps by my head at night and we have talks. I told him,

"You are the cat I should have written about. You are here."

He is in the book. The book is struggling to get birthed. I can't deny it. Many have come on board, many who usually do, have not. I'm done analyzing it. We even got named a "Project We Love" by Kickstarter, and I'm appreciative of that. When I first wrote what was then called "Raggedy Love' back in '08 era, I worked with a top notch, well known freelance editor who used to be an in house editor at Chronicle and Workmen. He was very helpful and I learned so much from him about keeping a book focused. He also pitched that book to about 12 houses, and it was well received, but it didn't get picked up. He told me something though that was very true and something for all artists/authors to know:

A book has a life of its own.

He went on to share stories of an author's book not getting picked up, and the author went on to make another book, or more, and years down the road, the first book gets picked up. That was true with what would become "Donkey Dream", I had to birth it myself years later, but it sat in a pile for years. So, this Itty book has its own life and I don't have a magic ball to predict its future, or demise.

I do have a really exciting project I'm creating and I can't wait to share it, but it will be after the Kickstarter campaign is over, no matter what the outcome.

Muddy and I walk on

There is no better day than the new day.

I've been wanting, planning, thinking about getting back to my walking regime which I had in Minneapolis, and fell out of it for way too long. Not that I wasn't physically active all these years, but not as aerobically as I need at 58. So Muddy and I began our new venture together-walking.

Not only is it good for my body, this is helping my soul. As I walked the road, people waved, I saw backyard glimpses of houses I'd only seen driving by in car. I noticed how many of those trees we'd been flying by were apples, birthing their fruits in the culverts. I made mental notes to come back. I found hawk feathers and wild turkey ones too. I passed some horses and got to know the road better so maybe I could take Boone that way in time. And we walked down to one of the many bays, and Muddy got to see the next best thing to the ocean.

Last night, Huck came to me. His face was right up close to my vision in the dream, and he simply looked at me, deeply. I felt he was saying,

I'm okay, now you be okay too.

I can't say that was the catalyst that finally made me go for a walk, but I was happy he came to me like that. He is okay. He got to whatever place he is supposed to be.

A friend sent me one of the most beautiful and moving poems I've read in a long time. I am sharing it because it is so appropriate and I hope soothing to any of you who lost a dog, or loved one of any species. I found it evocative and it captured everything about this loss. Thank you for all the messages too. Huck's soul stunned a lot of people, I realize now, even those that had only met him a couple times, or through his eyes in a photograph. While Mud is a completely different dog, I can say this-he tries. He tries to sit still and let me hug him close like Huck did, he tries to not wipe out wine glasses with his tail, he tries to show moderate enthusiasm for Mondays, or any other day of the week but he can't contain his enthusiasm because he is Muddy. He is not Huck and we will not project that on him.

He is beautiful, athletic, goofy, carefree, happy to be alive Monday-Sunday, frisbee addicted...Muddy.

The House Dog's Grave

I've changed my ways a little; I cannot now

Run with you in the evenings along the shore,

Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a moment,

You see me there.

So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door

Where I used to scratch to go out or in,

And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor

The marks of my drinking-pan.

I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do

On the warm stone,

Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the night through

I lie alone.

But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet

Outside your window where firelight so often plays,

And where you sit to read--and I fear often grieving for me--

Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

You, man and woman, live so long, it is hard

To think of you ever dying

A little dog would get tired, living so long.

I hope that when you are lying

Under the ground like me your lives will appear

As good and joyful as mine.

No, dear, that's too much hope: you are not so well cared for

As I have been.

And never have known the passionate undivided

Fidelities that I knew.

Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. . . .

But to me you were true.

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.

I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures

To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,

I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.

Robinson Jeffers, 1941

Mud on Muddy Hill

Mud and I went for a walk today, or tried, but as we got on the gravel drive we saw lurkers at the gate-people most likely driving by the place after seeing the listing. I have no problems with that, but didn't want to engage, so I decided to run up Muddy Hill a few times for a much needed aerobic break. Mud loved it, running on his namesake hill, the sheep up on the upper horizon with Otis and the donkeys.

He is a beautiful dog, a very happy creature. While Huck carries the worry that I might express at any given moment, Mud holds no pessimism in his mind. He is one of the happiest dogs I've known, a goof ball at times, a weapon carrying guy when his tail is with him which is always so hold onto all breakables.

Huck can't go on walks anymore, which is sad, as his face shows disappointment when Mud and I leave. It is only relieved when we return, and he looks so soothed that we are back.

Apifera's most optimistic member turns six: Muddy!

Today and all day we celebrate the birth of Apifera's most optimistic resident, Muddy. Of course, every day is a celebration to this guy. Each morning just before he senses the sun will break, we hear him yawn. Then footsteps tipped with toenail clipping sounds into our bedroom. His tail will hit every obstacle in its way-out of jubilation. he pokes his nose into my sleeping head,

"Hey! It's Monday!!!!!! It's such a great day!"

"Go flat..." I say softly, his command to go to his couch and lay down until we are up.

Minutes later, he returns, this time to poke Martyn.

"Hey, it's Tuesday!!!!! It's going to be such a great day!!!!!!"

And so it goes day in and day out, no matter the weather, Muddy is just happy to be here.

Muddy came to us six years ago, form the same parents as Huck. But the two could not be more different. Where Huck will ask politely, and with little confidence,

Is it okay if I pass the chair you are sitting in so I can get to my cushion?

Muddy will leap over anything to get where he needs to go.

I would also like to officially apologize on this public platform to Muddy-for if anything goes wrong, usually he is blamed. This is due to the fact that as a pup and well into his second year, he ate just about everything-living, dead, or man made. Even my terriers were not as destructive. We have a household joke that Muddy walks away from us when he is scolded, singing the old song about Charlie Brown-

Why's everybody always picking on me?

He's a goofball. He talks a lot. He has a separate entity attached to his rump called a tail. He obeys. He adores his Frisbee and must be chaperoned with it or he will die of exhaustion. He is happy. He is loved.

It's coming

The season has changed. One word was heard as a muffled voice flew over the farm,

Finally.

A teacher nearing retirement in my grade school, as she listened to me in spring anticipate summer break, admonished me-

"Don't rush the season"

She was right. And of course, as my age advances, the metaphors of passing seasons does not go unnoticed. However...I'm glad to see this summer end. The heat, the dryness, the flies, fleas, lice, everything associated with heat-I'm ready to move on.

Last night it was chilly and as I did barn chores I suddenly began thinking of soup, and planned the cauliflower and pepper one I would make. We finished putting eight tons of hay in the barns–nothing feels better to me than getting the hay put up for the winter. I suppose it is like a mother knowing she has canned enough to feed her family through the winter. On the days we haul in hay, it is like Christmas in the barn-Boone is the most ecstatic. I give everyone extra hay that day-I mean it would be like someone bringing loads of cookies into my house and not sharing one or two.

Last night I sat on the deck, in a sweater with the pug buried under the blanket we shared. The light is shifting, the sky has become crisper, the leaves can be heard more clearly now as they get crisper hanging on to life for their final month. Birds were pecking the walnuts in the tree outside the garden. I love this time of year. I think most people do. I was thinking how it must go back to our primordial days and instincts. Autumn brings with it the innate desire to nest again–nesting brings with it survival and comfort.

We had many losses this year, as you know. As certain creatures leave, it gives me moments of repose on the deck at night to think of them, but also to think about how many new creatures will arrive, new adventures come with them and life goes on, even after the chill of autumn brings winter. Huck has taken to wanting to be inside instead of on the blanket on the deck when we do our evening sit down. This saddens me, but it part of the life with an aging friend. He is not sad, he just has shifted his comfort levels. I suppose in time, I will need a certain chair to be comfortable. Still, it leaves my relationship with Muddy an open window, and a new kind of bonding begins with him and me.

Itty stood on the railing last night-but she was not Itty Bitty. She was Big Etta, her outdoor name. The five pounder grows into a mountain lion when she is outdoors. I truly understand that when she looks at me from a high perch she is saying,loudly,

I am Big Etta and I am as huge as a house and strong as a lion.