Harry holds court

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Aug 7, 2020 at 3:22pm PDT

In the high heat and humidity, it pleases me to turn around and see Harry's ears in the wind. While I have a window unit I retreat too, just going out in it for chores affects me physically, not to mention mentally. The animals are such pros at weather, they don't judge it, they just deal with it. Score one for the animals. I am the weather loser in summer.

I took Harry over to Lincoln Home. It was the first time the elders could be outside with Harry, but still no touching! I will do anything they tell me, we all agreed it is a tiny step back to something normal. I know the management is being extra cautious, but we all had masks on and stayed 6 feet apart. Harry basically held court in front of them. It seems if they petted him, and then they could have hand spritzer, and when they return inside, wash hands -the latter they would make them do anyway.

But, it brought them joy, for moments. My experience is elders are just so happy when you show up, and talk, and listen. We will continue to do that.

Harry holds court at Lincoln Home

Opie returns to his healing practice and Pickles comes along

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Aug 6, 2020 at 12:33pm PDT

We returned to our old friends at Wiscasset Green and it was so wonderful to see them again. It is the first place we went with Opie, and he made regular visits there. We made friends, lost many of them over that two year period...and now we have made some new friends there and three of the original residents are still there and they were very happy to see Opie. I wondered what Opie would do, since he has not been on a therapy visit for awhile due to Covid. But he just fell right back into place, he visited each resident on his own, and then he gravitated to a couple of them as he always does. When we went to leave, he did not want to go, he stuck to Evelyn's side. I know she was hurting as she told me how hard it is not to be able to touch or hug their families. We got a kick out of Charlie. He was one of those guys that might not have shown interest in seeing a goat, but clearly got a kick out of Pickles. Pickles even fell asleep in Sylvia's lap.

I promised them we'd be returning for regular visits. The new care manager really understands and believes in what we are doing, and like me believes in the power of animals and how they can heal, or help heal a wounded heart. And I think all our hearts a pretty wounded right now.

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A dragonfly reminds me to never stop believing

{written last week}

Almost two years ago, my friend Jason died by suicide.

After his death I was blessed to get close with his mother who of course is grieving. We share stories together.

One day after his death, I saw a dragonfly...it was huge and quite blue, bluer than others I’d seen...and I just knew it was him. I told his mom about it. As weeks went on I saw him one more time or maybe two...sometimes I knew it wasn’t him.

Well this year when the dragonflies started returning, I didn’t see Jason. I was telling his mom that he maybe has other forms now, or maybe he knows we don’t need to see him as much...that was about a week or so ago. Last night, we sat outside at dusk and lots of dragonflies came-more than I’ve seen of late and they were zooming in and out. There was one that kept getting really close. I told Martyn it didn’t feel like Jason but I wasn’t sure.

We’ll, this morning I went in the barn and all of a sudden this dragonfly falls out of nowhere at my feet. Never had one in the barn. He hopped right in my hand and I could not see any damage to him but he stayed right there on my hand. I took him outside and placed him on a leaf in the lilac. He sat still for seconds and flew off. I think Jason wanted to tell me to never stop believing he is a dragonfly...and I won’t.

When you lose a dog...explore the spaces that are left-that is where the healing and opportunity lies

Some followers are wondering out loud if Bear needs a new dog friend. Perhaps in time. But right now, it is my time to be with Bear. Bear and I were just beginning to evolve into what ever our partnership was meant to be, back last winter when he arrived as a pup. Then the virus took over everyone's life. I am so grateful Bear and I went out right away when he arrived and did therapy visits at Cove's. Our time their together was so important to us, and of course the memories of Bear and John and all the others is a warm spot for me. I've written before, there were times after the virus arrived when I wondered if Bear's main purpose at the time was to befriend John in his final months.

So, back to getting another dog–I expect someday there will be another dog. But right now, Bear and I are exploring the spaces created by Muddy's departure. After someone or something departs, we survivors have to feel the spaces, spaces that are both physical and emotional. It is often painful. But there comes a time in loss when one can see those spaces as opportunities for new encounters, new adventures, new friends...and yes, new dogs.

Bear had a lot of good training early on. He was a smart and calm pup when he went on therapy visits, everyone commented on that, and even I thought I had truly found a born healer. Once the virus took over, Bear was not out socializing with people, he was home with me and Mud, being a pup, a dog. And then at some point, Mud was diagnosed with terminal cancer with weeks or moths to live, so my focus shifted to Mud. While I didn't neglect Bear, I most certainly was heart pointed to Mud, and Bear knew it. So did Mud. I think Mud wanted me to be focused on Bear, so he could let go. At some point I discussed that with Mud, and told him not to worry, that Bear and I would rise again to do good work together.

If I went out and got a dog now, spaces would be filled for Bear, and me, by another dog. Bear and I need to fill the space first.

I've been doing a fun training game with him. Our old house is unusual in that, despite it being built in 1760, each room has two doors, so you can do a complete circle from room to room. So I make Bear sit and stay in a room, then I walk to the next room where he can't see me, and make him wait for my 'come'. It's sort of more like a game this way and is fun.

Bear still becomes the pup I brought home that day, the pup that clung to me with his front legs for many days if he was scared. Bear will still sometimes come to my side of the couch and try to get in my lap like he did as a pup. I tolerate it so long to show him comfort, then make him stop. He is learning to be outside for longer periods while I do chores inside. Initially after Mud died, he got scared. I mean he is only 6 months old.

Bear is allowed to do night chores in the front barn with me. It is is the barn that Marcella lives in and although she can't see Bear when he is in that barn, she knows he is there. Bear can not go in and out of the barn at free will, only if I am there. This is the first house dog I've allowed in a barn like that. Bear can also nose White Dog on the other side of the fence. He has goats, a goose, a Pickles, and he has me and Martyn. And he loves the house cats and often goes to sleep near them, or lick them.

So...that is the update. There are spaces to feel, and we are feeling them. So there will be no new dog for now. Unless, like I said, there comes a knock on the door and a blind one eyed pug with a suitcase shows up.

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.

Sir Tigger's big journey...sweet passage, old man

Sir Tigger as he begins his solo journey last night

Sir Tigger has died. He was 20+ years old.

Tigger was an important cat to me and I told him this often this week because I knew he was getting ready to go on his journey. He came to us from the shelter in 2016 and along with Anna and Yume were the first cats we adopted out of the shelter. He was important because when we arrived in Maine I was excited but was also mourning my old Oregon farm -having Tigger in the barn felt like home and he truly helped in my transition. He also looked like Big Tony who came with us from Oregon and went onto live another year. So after Big Tony died, Tigger also helped me.

Tig started failing this year and a couple days ago it was clear he was dying. He was in no distress and yesterday morning I held him and knew he was hardly there. I put him in a basket and checked on him all day. When I left him at dinner I said goodbye knowing he would be gone. He died shortly after from all indications.

Tigger came to us after his elder owner went to a home. He lived another 4+ years and had a peaceful passing. He was his own cat, never one for snuggles, but accepting scratches and a hug or two. In the end,, he was so tiny, he was like a wisp of his former self, like little old men you might see walking who barely have a waistline anymore. I am grateful he could die in his own terms-that is so him, to be on his own terms.

Sir Tigger last year

Twinky Twinkles arrives

The new elder, Twinkles, on top, and Fuzzy on the bottom

We took on another elder into the elder cat suite and she is a dear. She is 18 and I'm told to consider this a hospice case. Twink was living her whole life with a couple, who grew older, but they had taken her to the vet right up to about 6 months from her arrival here. I can't go into detail, but there was some real drama and trauma in those last 6 months or more in her household with her people. The husband died, and the woman had to go into a facility.

It is believed she has stomach or intestine cancer which has been causing diarrhea, and she is on a steroid. I have not witnessed any, so let's hope. But no matter, we will take care of her. She is very lady like to get her pill so that is good.

I spoke to her on arrival and told her I knew there had been traumatic events in the house. Who knows what parts of those events she witnessed. But I wanted to acknowledge them.

Pickles, pickles and more

Here is the current column from my "Tails & Tales" which I write monthly for the Lincoln County News.

I was having a coffee break in the garden near the barn when I heard approaching hoof steps. I saw little Opie the goat peering between the picket fence at me.

“Mrs. Dunn! Mrs. Dunn! It’s Pickles, she’s stuck!” he said.

I took a breath, counted to three and headed to the barn where I found a bunch of small, wide bodied pygmy goats staring into a corner.

“Pickles, what have you done?” I asked as I pulled her stuck head out of an opening into the hay area.

“It’s another pickle for Pickles!” said Henneth the blind hen.

Pickles is a baby pygmy goat that we brought home a couple weeks ago, along with two elder pygmies to add to our herd of elders. I wanted to add some youth into the elder mix. I thought Opie would enjoy a youngster to get old with too.

“I told her not to do it,” said Ollie, “but she never listens to me.”

I pulled her little head out and held her for a bit.

“I’s sorry, Mrs. Dunn, can I go now, I’s busy!?” said Pickles. And she ran off.

“Nothing to see here, everyone, move on,” I said as I returned to my now cold coffee.

Opie followed me to the gate, “I think she gets in more trouble than I did, Mrs. Dunn.”

“I think so, Opie. We might just have to pickle Pickles if it continues,” I said and chuckled. Opie looked at me perplexed, and returned to the barn.

Later that day as I began chores, I heard deep sighs of worry, and chattering in the barn. I looked in a side stall to see Earnest and some others gathered around little Opie, who was doing all the sighing. They had a cook book opened. How do they find these books, I wondered.

As always, I kept my ears wide open while I worked.

“Now, Opie, Pickles is not a pickle, she is a goat. Mrs. Dunn was employing what we call satire when she suggested she would pickle Pickles,” Earnest the pig said.

Henneth the blind chicken chimed in to console Opie in her own blunt manner, “Pickles wouldn’t physically fit in a pickle jar, Opie.”

Just then, Ollie the goat appeared, out of breath, and said, “Pickles is in another pickle, Mrs. Dunn!”

I looked out to see Pickles in the pumpkin patch, on the wrong side of the fence of course, but she could’t squeeze her wide belly through the picket fence to get back in. She was crying out to the herd,
“Help, I’m in a pickle!”

I climbed over the fence and lifted her out.

“I don’t know how I got in there, Mrs. Dunn, it just...happened,” said Pickles.

She is so irresistible so I held her, secretly smiling. She put her head into my shoulder, and whispered in my ear,

“Mrs. Dunn, please don’t pickle me.”

“I won’t,” I said.

Burial: a farewell evolves

Burial is an important ritual to partake in with my animal work. Until the body is in the ground, everything feels unbalanced. Moose was put down on Friday, a hot, humid day. I knew where we'd bury him but had to wait for Martyn to help with the grave. So Moose resided in the feed room. Every morning I'd open the door and there was his little body at rest. It was always sort of a surprise...oh yea, Moose is dead.

So today we were able to put him to rest. I laid a daisy on the dirt. I like to be the one that places the body in if I can, and place their head properly.

It just feels better when you know they are safe, in the ground, they are on their way to feed the worms and the spirit is completely free. It must be horrible to not have a body of a loved one that dies in war or other circumstances. I would think it hinders the realization the person is truly dead. I've seen so many dead animals now that it just is part of my moving forward with my work. I also know that not being there for an animal if they are put down is something I never want to do again. With my first cat, Gracie, I chose to let my vet put her down but I was afraid to be there. It was the first animal I owned as an adult and Gracie had been with me for 18 years. I got her at a shelter in NYC and she lived all over with me. I was a different person then, death was much more of an intangible 'thing' that wasn't comfortable to think of. I loved my vet and it is not that what I did was cruel, it just was something that did not help me in my grief, to not have been with her. It did not help me visualize her reality-that she was gone.

Farming out west for 14 years was one of the biggest gifts I have had in my life. It taught me so much about where I stand within the earth, the food chain and it taught me about my own boundaries with animals. There were conflicts I had with raising sheep, I wrote at length about it back then and have no need to rehash it all. But I would never trade any of those experiences, it all brought me to this point, where I continue to learn not only about other spirits and creatures, but about myself.

But I would trade a day to go back and be with Gracie on her final day.

Perhaps she looks down from time to time and acknowledges I just wasn't coded then to handle it.

Goodbye Moose....

Taken last night...the last photo of Moose

I had to say goodbye to a friend today. Moose is gone. On the one hand I’m relieved for him, on the other it is sad it came to this. Once a spitfire of a little goat, he got through goat polio in March but was never quite the same even though he responded to treatment. Then two weeks ago it was like he relapsed and we treated him again but he did not improve. He was neurologically damaged somehow unable to do basic things like eat, backup, drink normal and he was constantly grinding teeth a sign of pain. He gets stuck in corners because he couldn’t figure out how to back up. My vet and I assessed it all and we had run out of realistic options.He might have had a brain tumor that was causing the symptoms. So I let him go. It was sad.

Moose came to me as a baby...my mother had died and I wanted a baby goat in the mix that would grow old with me...so I secretly found one, and at the same time Martyn found one for me. Moose was born on my bday and Goose was born on Martyn’s. Moose was such a personality that his last months were hard to watch. The herd knew he was damaged and he was getting pushed around a bit more. We put him down outside under the lilac. I sat with for awhile after he died...and I noticed that the goats were not that interested in viewing the body as is the ritual here. I really think they knew days ago Moose has already left...he was not the Moose they had known. He is pain free for that I am relieved

Fuzzy needs a spoon

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jun 30, 2020 at 7:44am PDT

In the flow...new work

"Moth out of fog over the peonies" 48"

Summer is usually not a good creative month for me with painting...there is the garden to tend, vegetables to grow, pastures to maintain...and...well, the flies and heat. Maine is much more tolerable than out West [except for the bugs here] and we usually don't have days in a row of heat or humidity. And I do have an AC unit. So I was asked to get some new canvases going and it inspired me. I haven't worked on big pieces for awhile. My studio is so small making it hard but I'm really enjoying these.

I plan to have 5 more or so done by end of July if all keeps flowing like it has been.

The second piece might go on the shop if you are interested.

"Dragonflies over daisy field" 14" on wood

Work in process 4*" canvas

The gift of the 103 year old...the most meaningful of gifts

The birthday boy shows his pony bells through the window

There was a very special birthday gathering at Chase Point this week. One of the residents, David  turned 103 years old with his daughters and family members gathered outside a large picture window as David sat inside, looking out. Due to the restrictions and CDC guidelines due to the COVID 19 virus even family members can not visit inside.

But the birthday boy had another special guest–Harry the llama.

David loves animals and back when he was 101 he first visited Apifera Farm where he met all the animals including the llamas. He was able to visit again when he was 102. But this year, due to the virus everyone is in lockdown. When I heard David’s birthday was coming up, I immediately wanted to bring Harry to the gathering and contacted David’s daughter  to confirm a Llama Birthday Window Walk with Harry.

I was going to try to do a daisy chain for his neck, but opted to decorate him in bells [these were gifted to us last year by a follower who had collected them during her many travels.] Now I realize picking the bells was one of those divine moments.

When David saw Harry’s bells he was delighted. He started to talk about the pony bells he had hanging in his room. It’s hard to hear through the window,  but the staff translated, and his daughter explained to me how he loved his pony bells. The staff went to his room and brought the pony bells down so everyone could see them through the window. David had found them long ago in his travels to India and where ever he lived he always took his pony bells. Then he asked the staff to take them outside so I could see them closer, and I was thrilled to ring them and show Harry. Through it all, David sat inside smiling through the window watching his favorite pony bells being rung. Minutes later, another staff person came out and said David wanted me and Harry to have the bells.


Verklempt moment.

I just welled up with tears, I looked at him through the window and patted my heart with my hand, and he mimicked me. It was probably the most caring, beautiful and most meaningful gift I have ever received.

As Harry and I  left with our new special bells, the family was able to visit more with David outside, under social distance guidelines. There were no hugs allowed or birthday cake, but there were smiles from David.

My birthday wish for David is he gets to be with his family up close...soon...very soon. And when we all get through this lock down, I want to get David out to the farm, and we will ring those bells.


And a postscript...It had slipped my mind...but this was also Birdie's birthday. I know she was present. She probably helped me find Harry.

Harry looks in at the birthday boy

David meeting Birdie the llama when he was 101

Katherine wearing the pony bells with honor

Opie got his wish!

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jun 26, 2020 at 8:46am PDT

What should we name her? And Opie's special request.

Joliet and Auntie Bea the elders, and the baby

We brought home three more goats. Two are elders and I treated myself to one of the available babies. I like to balance out elders with youth, just like it should be in life [and I wish our elder care system in USA was more like in Europe where nursery's are housed near or within elder homes]. I am expecting some losses this year, hard losses. I don't tell you everything...that is a burdone I don't think you need. But I wanted a youngster to add to my mix....selfishly for me. So there.

But I haven't named her. It takes time sometimes, but I do need a name. She is active, pretty fearless but not a boss mare type [yet]. She is joyful. She is a delight to watch romp and twist and I'm soaking in those moments since they don't last. I hope Opie will play with her. he is surrounded by elders and I also thought a young girl would give him some fun in coming months and years. I picked her because I loved her markings. In show world-something I am not opposed to but never had any feelings towards- I am told that due to the fact her 'belly band' is not what it should be she would get marks against her. But I love it, especially now as we face, as a nation, a crucial time in understanding our black brothers and sisters and all people of color. It should be equal, like her little body of black and white, but it isn't...yet.

And then the elder two. Well, the black one came with the name Joliet and I like that. Joliet is so sweet. She had to be nursed back to health due to rotten teeth and that is why she is quite personable. In fact on arrival, she kept by my side as introduction were made, and still does. She is not a bossy girl at all. I like her already.

The buff elder came with a name I can't even remember but did not resonate [no offense to the past names, I just feel an animal takes on a new life and for me the naming is or can be symbolic of that if needed.] This old girl bred out babies her entire 10 years. That's a lot of work for a little body like that so she gets a nice retirement now. I had picked out the name June, sine it is that month.

But then Opie came to me, quietly, away from the earshot of the others.

"Mrs. Dunn," he said, " I was thinking."

This felt like another Andy of Mayberry moment [he is named after Opie in case you missed that].

"I know this is my herd family here. But I did come from a mom. And she had a sister. Since I'm the littlest one here, and the youngest, sometimes I wish I had my mom and Auntie around," he said.

"I know that feeling, Opie," I said.

"Really? I was wondering if we could call June something else...like Mom, or Auntie?" Opie asked.

I thought for seconds. Years ago we had an old goat that fell ill, I loved her a lot, and we tried in vain to save her over a month long bought,  and she fought so hard. I had named her Aunt Bea.

"How about we name her Auntie Bea?" I asked.

"Okay!" said Opie and he ran off to the barn.

I turned to go back to the house and aw the new arrivals out in the orchard, and Opie was running up to who had once been June and he said,

"Mrs. Dunn says you can be my Auntie Bea!"

The Wrong Side of the Fence {A philosophical discussion between goats}

Cheese on the right side of the fence

“Out of there, right now!” I said as I came out of the barn to find Opie and Cheese, two stout pygmy goats, with their heads squeezed into the garden fence.

“My head is stuck!” said Cheese.

“Like Pooh!” said little Opie.

I pulled Cheese with gentle force and he popped back out.

“You have all that grass and clover out there, you don’t need to eat my garden,” I said.

“I have clover for breakfast, and grass for lunch–I like daisies for an afternoon snack,” Cheese said.

“The daisies are on the wrong side of the fence,” I said as I huffed back into the barn.

I was working for the next hour in the barn loft and I kept my ears open for any suspect behavior below.

“She sure gets grumpy about her daisies,” said Cheese.

Just then Ollie bounded in and said, “DAISIES?! Where?”

“You can’t have any, they are on the wrong side of the fence. We are on this side, and the daisies are on the other side,” said Cheese.

I came down from the loft just in time to partake in this philosophical discussion.

“How do you know what side of the fence is wrong, or right?” asked Opie.

Just then Earnest the pig sauntered into the conversation.

“We are on the right side. Whatever side we are on, is right, or we would not choose to be here,” the pig said. “Therefore, the daises are actually the ones on the wrong side and can be eaten,” and he left to take his usual afternoon nap.

I rolled my eyes and said, “Let me put it another way– you are not allowed to eat anything past the fence, period. That’s my garden and my flowers.”

“You can’t own the flowers,” said Opie. “they are of Earth, they feed the bees too.”

“Which is why you should not eat them,” I said.

“I have many bee friends,” said Opie.

I walked through the garden gate to go back to the house, and cut some of the daisies closest to the fence so the goats wouldn’t eat them.

“My God, you wacked there legs off!” cried Opie.

“I am making myself a bouquet, to enjoy in the house. It brings Nature inside and makes everything better, it makes me happy,” I said. As I shut the door, I heard Cheese say,

“Cutting the flowers makes her happy, but we can’t eat them, makes no sense really.”

A few hours later, I stepped out of the house, and could hear little feet scurrying away, rapidly. It was Opie, running out of the garden. At my feet on the stoop was a haphazard little bouquet of daisies and buttercups.

“I want you to be happy!” said little Opie as he ran for the barn.

How did they get the latch open, I wondered. And then I saw Cheese pushing an old apple crate from the garden gate.

I sniffed my bouquet and was happy.

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 gardens of a landscaper combined with a weed caretaker

There really is no flower called a 'weed'. A weed is simply a category to lump a whole bunch of beautiful natural growing specimens into a negative label.

When I got together with Martyn, I had started my garden on my own in Portland. He lived next door, we met and began seeing each other, but more than that we began the first of our three gardens. Each one is better than the next, each one I've cried when we had to leave but then the next garden is born and I wouldn't go back to the last one if I had to leave the present one.

Back to weeds. When we started our combined gardens, I learned a lot from Martyn. He is after all a horticulturist by education, and had landscaped professionally since he was a young guy. There were so many new plants to grow in Oregon, versus my homeland of Minnesota where I had left to live in Portland. MArtyn would spurt out the Latin names. He still does this. I found it endearing then and still do.

We had to learn to mix our gardening styles. I like prarie free flowing gardens. I don't like things lined up in rows and then little plants in the front. And I love to add in what most consider weeds-buttercup in spring, Queen Anne's LAce mixed in everywhere, and clover. I introduced a really beautiful buckwhaet this year by mistake-oh the color! But I pulled it, knowing it would take over.

Martyn has learned to leave my weeds, or make 'suggestions'. He knows he must never, ever touch my Queen Anne's Lace. He has even become fond of my knack for growing clover as it is so lovely right now, but I've learned to pull it earlier than I use too.

Martyn is pretty much in control of the front gardens, except for my hollyhock grove and coneflower area. He does whatever he wants in his garden and I don't interfere, I just admire it and ask questions. About this time of June he can get a bit bossy about my weeds. Yesterday I found him in my weediest area, laced with clover and Queen Anne's Lace, and he was pulling stuff from the ground. Not so fast Charlie. In fairness, it was a heavy rooted grass, so I forgave him.

Everything is popping, each day something changes. We noticed last night how the little daisies -all planted from seeds and transplants from the fields- are so sweet and pretty even though they have not quite opened becasue they look like little white lights at dusk. The peonies -oh I can't wait, salivating to see them.

Having a garden together is probably one of the most fun things we do as a team, and enjoyable. We never consider it work. It rewards us in so many ways.

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