"Could you scooch down, please?"

Just a tip to help provide the best environment possible for the feline in your life.





Get into your bed. Fluff up your pillows, in my case, I use 3 pillows. Layer the pillows, one on top of the other, then lie on your back, pushing the back of your head into the pillows. Lie there for at least 15 to 20 minutes [this is a key step in winter months].

Once the pillow area has reached a warm temperature, invite the cat up onto the bed, or if the cat's already on the bed, invite him to the pillow area. Be polite. Saying, "I'm all ready for you, my King," in a sweet motherly tone works well.

Let cat find his comfortable position on the arranged pillows. If necessary,scooch down, leaving more room for the cat. Let cat kneed your scalp, even if it hurts, this will relax him to sleep, and invigorate your hair follicles. Once you hear the cat purring excessively, DO NOT MOVE! Lie still, even if you have an itch. It's important to let cat rest comfortably. Keep your eyes closed - this will prevent retinal damage if your cat chooses to stretch his paws out over your eyes.

If you follow this procedure, your cat will dream peacefully through the night.

Art sales helped more old animals

If you follow my blog, you know I donate proceeds to places helping senior animals. While art sales are a bit down in this economy, I was happy to donate a little to our friends up at New Moon Farm in Arlington, WA. Hopefully we can do more soon. This is also the place where Guinnias was placed before we brought him home to Apifera. Ellen does a wonderful job caring for many goats and sheep she rescues. She is down to earth and a wonderful photographer too. She has the Apifera stamp of approval, which we stuck to her forhead after we picked Guinnias up. Really, she has helped so many, and does it all out of her own pocket and donations.

Molly [on the left] is a 12 year old, black-belly Barbados sheep. She came to the rescue about 2 years ago, when her whole herd got picked off, one by one, by coyotes. Finally, when only Molly was left, her owner contacted New Moon Farm. Since she is such a sweetheart, Ellen made her one of the permanent residents at New Moon.

Nestle is a 10 year old Oberhasli doe. After spending her whole life in a dairy herd, she was no longer producing enough volume, and was no longer "useful" to the breeder. After a kind soul saved her from going to auction last fall, Nestle came to New Moon, all the way from Oregon. Bravo to that kind soul! Nestle is looking for a new home, with her friend Ellie.

Big baby crib awaits

I sat with my camera on the orchard bench, sipped coffee, and let Martyn do all the hardest work on the new gate we put into the orchard area today. Guinnias enjoys being around when we're working, it's pretty sweet. Frankie was napping in the barn, and donks and sheep were in the field, so it was quality time with the old man, and the mate.

As usual, we marathoned it all weekend. I wanted to get this new gate up for better acces into the orchard area, as it's handy for pre-lambing, and I can keep a shepherdly watch for labor signs from my studio window.


I was convinced one of the ewes was going to lamb Friday nite and separated her out. But it would have been only 20 weeks, and we always lamb at 21 or 22 weeks. I was wrong, and she put up with my hovering about, checking her udder, giving her back rubs. I won't say which ewe, and you can still the lambing guessing game. I could be all wrong on which one I think is going to blow first. We gave shots this morning, and I got all my other stall prepping done, so I'm ready for those babies.


It was nice working outside all weekend with my handy man. He wore his farmer stubble, and I my trademark green hat. I tried to take some arty shots of me and Guin, but my hat just kept taking over.

Stella and Iris

The sun rose like it did everyday, but today being Wednesday, it was just a teeny bit earlier than yesterday. So noted Stella, the largest of the two Boer goats sitting on a wooden pallet, surrounded in mud with the heads of new grasses peaking out.

Visit Tails & Tales, the short story site of artist/Katherine Dunn to read this story.

Pick a sheep

The anticipation of lambing is palpable on the farm. It's been heightened by all the new borns spotted in various nearby farms as I commute to town for errands - lambs, calves, all wobbly and new and fresh. Pink noses. Teeny hooves. Wiggly tails as they drink from the natural milk bar. Some will grow and provide other creatures of earth with food, some will continue on and nourish their own creatures for seasons to come. Some are named, some are numbered, but all are perfect in this first month of life. It's only the creatures that walk on two pads that have learned to discern their imperfections, culling some out of the herd. I like Spring because even as two pad walker, I can see things freshly. The word 'hope' is being bantered about quite a lot these days, but it is in and of itself the best word to sum up spring. And if any activity best encompasses spring, it's lambing.

So, we're getting close. Like any doting mother, or I guess I'm a grandmother, I just want everyone to be healthy, especially my ewes, who I've come to admire more each season. They make it through breeding season with nary a complaint, and then wallow through winter rains, their bellies full. They put up with shots and wormer and feet trims, and then each spring they lay down on a wooden floor, all alone, and birth a pair of beauties. I taught them nothing about the procedure, they instead taught me, and continue to teach me each year as new circumstances are presented.

So, who will lamb first? For all you city dwellers yearning for the farm, live vicariously with me and anticipate the first arrival. Throw in $5 and on your Paypal comment section write down the name of the ewe you think will go first. Your name will be placed in the jar and I'll pick 2 winners - On the day the first lambs are born, I'll pull a name out of the jar, and that person will win [winner's choice] either one of my sepia archival animal photographs, or an archival art print [5x7 image sitting on 8.5 x11" archival paper. View some over at the store site]. Then I'll take all the entries who picked the correct ewe, and draw a winner from that group.

I only bred 5 of our ewes this spring, so when you enter your $5, don't forget to write down one of these names in the Paypal comment section: Rosie, Daisy, Coral Bell, Blue or Lilly. We are predicting 3/1 - 3/7 to be the dates lambs start popping out.I'll take some of the proceeds and send a check up to Guinnias's old home to help out the goat rescue.

Entries are closed.

Yea, love

Thanks to one of my music fairies, I now have Levon Helm's'"Dirt Farmer'. As an old fan of The Band, Levon's voice always makes my bones twitch. I think this song just sums me and my dirt farmer up. Spread love to the ones you love.

Well I got me a woman she's a pretty good woman at that
We live with a monkey and a Chinese acrobat
She calls me Tex, makes me wear a cowboy hat
But I don't care, she's a pretty good woman at that

Nuthin'in the world could ever make me treat her mean
She shaves my beard and keeps my tractor clean.
She burns my bread and makes me eat turnip greens.
But I don't care, she's the best little woman I've seen.
Some folks move out to California, some stay in Tennessee
I don't care where I'm headed, as long as that woman, she stands by me.

The Life of Junk

Driving through any rural farm area, one is confronted with a fact of life: Junk. When we first moved to our property back in 2004, there was Junk everywhere, underground, in the old barn, behind the old barn, and some invisible under years of unmaintained blackberry bushes. There was Junk that passed for cabinets in the house and Junk that was left as 'Hey, we didn't have the energy to take this to the dump, and we're cheap too, but we're out of this place so we're leaving it for you." Gee, thanks.

Now, messes and piles of crap have always made me anxious. I am not a neat freak - I'm sure anyone who has visited Apifera can attest to this in the comment section. But I like to think that any of the Junk on our farm has a distinct purpose, even if it's a future purpose, unknown to the present beholder. Reading Annie Lamont's book last night, 'Bird by Bird", I was reminded of the learning power of the messes that come to us in life, or the messes we make. She points out that the child must make a mess of blocks to get to that final structure, and the writer, or painter, also starts with a mess of words or colors and sloths through it to make sense of it. It's that process, of course, that teaches us not only more about ourselves, but might shed light on other mysteries too.

As a lovely, freshly clean, slim single gal, I controlled my Junk. It's much easier to control one's Junk as a single person. I had areas where said Junk resided until I needed it, but I knew that Junk like the back of my hand, and what was there and wasn't. I knew I could go down in the basement and find a series of old wood rods that could be used for all sorts of things. I knew where to find an overflow of tin buckets, in case I needed to paint one for a gift. All my Junk resided in a special Junk Place, pretty much out of site.

But life happens. Whether or not your Junk is hidden or neatly arranged, it does not stop life from happening. In fact, relying on orderly junk to make you feel in control of daily life is just delaying a cold fact - life is hard, even on the best, most glorious days. But so what? Is that so bad?

When we moved to the farm, I boldly told myself we would not keep Junk in our barn, or scattered about like wild flowers. I immediately set out to tackle the Junk. Now, in fairness to myself, some of this Junk had to be dealt with. The former owner felt it was OK to throw anything out to rot, including rugs, cans, and glass. Unbelievably, they ran horses in this area. We spent most of the first year hauling off their Junk, unearthing even more junk. We are still hauling off junk. This is why I use a capital letter "J" for the word Junk - it is an entity of it's own, with a past, present and future life. Junk is like dirt, or snotty kids, or barking dogs - annoying to deal with it when not your own.

I soon learned that when we hauled off one load of Junk, another load is quietly being made, either by me or my husband, who is notorious for bringing home Junk from his landscape projects. He took to throwing some of his Junk up in the upper hay loft, unknown to me, until I spied it one day. That led to some Junk rules. "All Junk must have a future purpose, and Junk finder must have a remote 5 year plan for said Junk." We have created many fine functional things from all this Junk, like garden doors, bird houses, garden sinks, trellis arbors...It's the 20 year supply of white irrigation pipe that gets out of hand.

The longer one lives in a rural area, the more Junk one sees, everywhere. It becomes understood that sometimes, it even makes sense to buy Junk, like this red weather vane. It came to us non working, and hasn't worked for the two years we've had it. In fact, it's in worse shape now than when we brought it home, as it kept falling because Frankie likes to rub on it. That's why it is propped up by the chicken coop - it leans there to remind me we have to fix it. If I hide it away in the barn, I won't remember to fix it.

When I work on our Junk, like taking an old door with whole bunch of dairy cow manure on it, probably from the farm's 1960's era, I think all sorts of thing - are the cows buried here, where did this door get used, how old was the farmer when he put it up, did that scratch mark come from a cat wanting some fresh milk? That Junk had a life, and we give it another. Someday, long after I'm dead, that door might still be here, maybe off the hinges again, and being used as a little girl's tree house landing. She'll notice the words I've carved in it, "Apifera, 2009, still here", and she'll let her imagination flow along to another place, all because of my Junk.

When goats get gifts

I suppose now that the post office knows the donkey gets mail, and a lot of it, they won't flinch if they knew that the recipient named "Guinnias" on today's box is a senior citizen goat.

A very thoughtful reader from way out east sent the old man his favorite - animal crackers, and Teddy Grahams. I told her on this gloomy, cloudy, snow sprinkled day, I was tempted to get back into bed with a glass of milk, and dunk my way to oblivian. But that would be stealing, not to mention selfish. She had meant to send them for last Friday's Guinnias Day, but the late arrival is the same fun as getting a birthday present from afar a week later - it just makes the day being celebrated a bit longer.

To my delight, Ms. Elida also enclosed a copy of Anne Lamott's book on writing, and pointed out that Lamott makes the statement "Writing makes you a writer." I am so thrilled to get this book, and will jump into it tonight. It seems like an encouraging message out of the sky, as I just finished Chapter 3 of the my novel, so perhaps my guides are all amused and delighted, and wanted me to know. It's wonderful when people I've never met, [although, my gift giver is a loyal follower of my blog and my art] reach out with morsals like this, encouraging me, and just making the world seem like a pretty darn good place to be, if one has to carry a body around.

A funny part of the story, when Elida went to buy the animal crackers, she was buying a lot of snack stuff for a super bowl gathering. As the cashier checked it all through, she came to the bags of animal crackers and said, "Oh, you're even getting them these fun cookies," and Elida said, "No, those are for an old goat in Oregon."
It's wonderful that some how the whim of Apifera has touched a checkout woman in Conneticut.

So, to my fairy from afar, Guinnias is appreciative, as am I. And to let you all know, last Friday's special Guinnias Day was very special - the weather was warmish, and he and I spent some of it together in the vegetable bed which we are prepping for planting. At the last minute, I decided 'no guests", which allowed him to enjoy some time around me and cookies without getting banged by Frankie. We did enjoy the company of late arriving chickens. I neglected to make a special head piece for him, but one knows, clothes and accesories don't make the goat.

No gym required

I've been conversing a lot with fellow freelancers about how to combat fear and anxiety in these rather unsettling economic times. I've fortunately got a few things on my side - a sense of humor, the ability to play, and a [usually] optimistic look at life. Plus, let's face it, I live with donkeys. And most imporatnatly, I love what I do, even when I'm not making money, which is key to anyone's longevity in a career, and life.

However, making a self employed household operate has its challenges, and one can fall into habits of coping that in the long run can back fire.Last year in February, my father was in hospice, and the entire election process was in full swing. Listening to cynical rhetoric of talking heads, together with the reality of life and death can lead even a happy-apron wearing- pie baking-shepherd girl to console herself with...well, bounties of the earth, such as apples and grapes. Only you put the apples in a butter crust, and the grapes get squished by toes and put into bottles and then served in a nice bulbous glass.

So after a year of consoling myself, and then a few months of rejoicing after the election, I felt I needed to make some subtle changes in daily existance and sustennace. One is the the little squished red grapes in the bottle has been cut in half. Second is, my walking schedule has been upgraded, which Huck likes. And now I've added a 30 minute a day dance time out in the studio. When I lived in Portland, I took my first Nia class and just loved it. I had always wanted to try modern dance, but never did. And Nia gave me that outlet, together with incorporating healing arts for my body and muscles. The walking is great, but the dancing gets my heart pumping, and it just feel good.

If you are near a Nia class, try it - of course a lot can depend on the teacher, and I lucked out with mine. My second teacher was trained professionally in ballet, and had a much more aggressive and dictorial class. So don't give up if you get a bad fit of a teacher. Nia means "Neuromuscular Integrative Action," and fuses dance movement, the martial arts and healing arts into an invigorating cardiovascular fitness program. In essence, Nia combines elements of tai-chi, yoga and dance. Nia allows you to find joy in moving, and the joy in loving how your body moves. I find when I dance like this, I feel free, vital, and I feel like ME.

This week, I've been dancing to an old favorite, "Little Creatures" by the Talking Heads. When I lived in Brooklyn way back when it came out, I listened to it obsessively on the subway commute from Brooklyn into the city. It's still good.

And as you see from these pictures, you don't need fancy work out clothes-in fact holey ones work, and you don't need a gym to dance. And your pigtails will enjoy it too.

Reciprocate

We are all caregivers in our own ways, but many take on much more than others, and maggie davis[maggie does not capitilze her name, just an fyi] is one. She is a writer in Maine and has written a wonderful book,"Caring in Remembered Ways" and I encourage anyone who is acting as a caregiver to read it. I found the book very helpful while my father was in hospice - I couldn't be with him, but somehow reading the many stories in this book helped me. This is the kind of book that will resonate with mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, seniors, grandchildren, teachers, nurses, or hospice workers - in other words, everyone. I do not use any of my blogs as vehicles for standard advertising, but I do like to pass on gems like this book. And the price is right.

Recently, I had this lovely note from maggie: :
"i've been wanting to tell you what a huge effect i know you are having on the world. these influences cannot be measured. i can barely explain how i feel when i'm at your site. not only is it beautiful and welcoming. when i'm there i've feel i've come home--home with a capital H, the kind of place most people long for.
let me search for words: a true fairyland, and within reach--a noble place--sanctuary--Light--color--real--haven--colors of life. i have been shown again and again that anything we do with love and mindfulness wings it effects throughout the planet and into the galaxies. it's only logical. if only "big footprints" were important than a hero one day would be "nothing" the next were s/he in an accident and confined to bed, unable to "perform." if only "big footprints" were important, a child alone and abused, bereft of kindness, but mustering heart to pat his dog, lovingly and mindfully, would be nothing. this can't be! from our first to last breath we are a gift; we are potential for good, however we choose to manifest that power and the good we are has effect we will never know completely."

From barnyard to page

Here's a sneak peek at some children's illustrations I'm working on - these are crops from two pieces. I hesitate to show the entire images right now, as I want to pitch them as a series. But I'm having fun with them, and really enjoy creating these little personalities.

I was really interested in yesterday's NPR interview of Neil Gaiman who just won the John Newberry Medal for his children's book 'The Graveyard Book'. Not only did I love the idea of his story, but hearing him talk about how he wrote it as a book, not necessarily as a children's or adult book, resonated with my style of writing. Now that I'm working on my first novel, I glean whatever I can from wherever I can. I am taking the bold position of "I am a writer", and just writing. I used the same approach in 1996 when I declared [to myself, and maybe the dog] "I am an illustrator". When I moved from Minneapolis to Portland in '02, I told myself I felt like writing. It wasn't until '06 when we had settled a bit at the farm, and someone suggested I start a blog [Thank you Stephanie, see what you've done?], that I started writing little stories and realized how much I liked it.

Since I have no formal training in writing a novel, I am stumbling through it in my raggedy fashion, I percolate the same way I do my paintings or art, usually before I go to sleep, and when I first awake. I have had the first sentence of the book written for a very long time, and have a glimpse of an ending. I have no concerns the middle will fill itself in as I go.

Of course I'm not writing it alone. When I'm working on those characters, I swear, they come to life. Or they are living - I walk to the barnyard, and I see a donkey skirt by. It looks just like the stance and posture of the donkey in my book. It's as if I live in two planes that are on level fields. Stepping in and out, from one plane to the other - at some points is not necessary. It all meshes together. Let me make one thing clear, I know my animals are animals. But by making them 2 dimensional in a book, and then adding stories and words and thoughts, they are 3 dimensional to a whole new set of readers - just like they are to me. Not only can I amuse readers with their stories, I can perhaps share their essence and subtle compassions, fears and imperfections that we as humans face every day. It's just something I want to do.

Dreaming briefly

I had a short but powerful dream last night. I dreamt I went to the barn, and there in the corner were two pygmies nursing over 10 baby goats. I went back to the house and told Martyn. That was the whole dream, but it reminded me of the excitement of lambing season. Each season, we get to start all over, be surprised, amazed. Later in the day, I did some garden work, and marveled at the buds on the fruit trees. The little seeds always working out of site making flower children, even on bleak winter days, remind us hope is always within if we choose to see it. The little naked plum tree will once again bear fruit, and my wisteria will once again feed the bees. It's good the universe figured this all out, as these hopeful glimpses of pre-spring are helpful to our human souls.

Mark your calenders

Guinnias hung out today while I did the semi annual burn pile. He talks sometimes,as you can see here, but I have decided to keep some of his conversations private. I don't want to exploit him, or the other animals, if I can help it.

I have decided to declare February 6th "Guinnias Day" here at the farm. He was most likely born sometime in February or March. That together with the fact that lambing season gets busy, and then of course there's Martyn's 50th in February, and, eh hem, my birthday in March, and Huck's birthday January 31st, and all the donks and sheep and Boone have birthdays in March...so...I thought, why not give the old man a special day In February.

Rather than serving pie, I will be serving only little graham cookies - you know, the ones that look like teddy bears or animal crackers. He adores them. If you'd like to send him some teddy graham cookies or animal crackers, you may do so at "Guinnias c/o Apifera Farm, 14710 NW Tupper RD, Yamhill, OR 97148".

Cat guarding young tree

As the picture shows, Miss Prarie Pussytoes takes one of her many farm jobs seriously. I swear she has saved this tree from many a goat bite.

I was thinking today as I did barn chores, and watched Tomentosa roll around in the compost area, entertaining himself and honing his prehistoric hunting skills, how nice it is all these cats are able to live without the confines of a shelter, aren't living near a road, and are free from having the burden of litters. I've loved each and every one as the unique individuals they are. Their personalities have come out over the years, as they grow to accept their place in the pecking order, and understand they are safe, and have food and shelter.

I am revving myself up to neuter Samuelle Noel, the newest stray, such a beauty, so gentle, so appreciative of touch and being held. I think it will be pretty easy to get him in a crate. I do have this anxiety that once neutered, he will disappear, as Phinias T. Barnum did. This is somewhat irrational, but I have bonded now with Samuelle, and don't want to see him go. I took this blurry picture of him, I'm thinking he might be of Big Tony's line.

Cultural restrictions

I was inspired by an article I read recently on women in Muslim cultures trying to break out of the restrictions put on them by their cultures. I have empathy and respect for them. And I give thanks for being free from any one man or church or country.

To those who have asked if Paco has more stories to tell me, he did, but he is slowly transcribing them. I hope to illustrate some for later posts. He said it was a very personal journey for him, and he does not want to be rushed, so I will respect that. In the meantime, he inspired some of the animals to write letters to the new President, and I have been asked to retype them and edit them, so I'll be busy doing that. Frankie is wondering if perhaps she is more suited to have the name Sasha, but I encouraged her that her current name is much more fitting for her unique personality.

Wrapped in age

I think turning fifty or there abouts is a marker, a place to stop, briefly, and look back, but then forward. One can not escape too many days in your fifties when a person who used to be fifty is, suddenly, ninety.

Life is just a flash. For me, it gets flashier, with each year zipping by. I'm with Neil Young who recently said, at the age of 60+, "I don't feel old when I play my guitar, I just look old". I don't feel old as I paint, or walk the dog, or brush my horse, but I know I look older than I did even a year ago. One looks in a mirror and says, "Is that what I 'really" look like?" I have come to a point in my life where I really don't like to see pictures of myself. It's not that I hate the way I look, but the photo can often confuse me, and leaves me wasting a good couple minutes pondering physical changes that have nothing to do with my energy or ability to contribute to my life and yours.

I think the concept of one's own body, one's own 'look' is very hard to grasp from the inside looking out. I had to go through some old photos to find one of my grandfather. I saw a movie in paper play out before me as I saw pictures from my youth, teens, college, 30's and on. I analyzed the year my more youthful skin and looks made a tiny turn to looking like the mid 40's I was. And now, I see it pretty clearly, I look every day of 50 & 10 months. It's ok, but it can leave a melancholy. The melancholy is not for sadness of lost youth, it's for the realization of the things that were there in your youth. I awoke in the morning from a dream, a dream where I was with my good friend from high school, and we dined with my parents. I lie in bed, thinking how good they looked, what were they in the dream, sixty or so? I read that in our dreams, the dead come to us in the age that we perceived them to be at their optimum in our lives. And I guess, my parents in their 60's was a good time. Still healthy, able to travel and fix houses, still working, still buying dogs and rose bushes. While my mother still lives, she is tied to activities that make her feel safe from falling. She recently told me she didn't like flying alone anymore, because "If I die, who would be there with me, strangers."

I read a blog recently where a 35 year old woman announced boldly that she "was no longer young". Wow, I thought, she needs some perspective, but I guess that's what life gives you, perspective.

Fable from afar

One of my art patrons, and avid supporters of my animal efforts is Deborah Weber. She recently posted a beautiful fable and asked permission to use a piece of art [which she just bought a print of, so $25 will go to a senior animal soon!]. It's a wonderful little fable, and I hope you all can take time to read it.

Boone & Angelo at your service

Today we were called as a nation of people to reach out and serve. Hopefully, the people that served today will be inspired to do more service, in their own style, within their own individual communities throught out the year.

So I called my friend Annie and said, "Boone and I are doing litter pick-up on the bridge", and she met me there with Angelo [Pino's father] at her side. Angelo and Annie picked up litter for the 1 mile walk to the bridge, and Boone and I picked up litter for the mile from our farm. We met in the middle, and shared graham crackers and soaked up sun.

We did this last season with Angelo and Lucia, but I think Boone did great. He needs a job, and since he used to be a cow horse, I think he felt good carrying his sack of litter, and having a purpose. And I'm glad when I can use those old feed sacks for something.

We are all glowing in the aftermath of the wonderful DC concert on Sunday, and I don't know about you, but I always tear up when I sing 'This Land is Your Land". We spent the early morning listening to the full Martin Luther King speech of 1965 and the juxtaposition of that with Tuesday's events, it's just a good feeling.

Paco is safely home, and I have promised the barnyard that I will get a TV rigged up out there for them.

Paco sighted on the Big Ear train!

I had written in yesterday's post that Paco had not attended the Big Ear Dress Rehearsal, being led to believe he was in the barn quietly and grumpily preparing lights for Tuesday's real Big Ear Ball. But after doing barn chores this morning, I found a note tacked to the water bucket: "On the Big Ear train to DC. Will email. Home on Sunday. Love,Paco."

Well, at first I was upset, worried, and angry he had gone without my consent. I never would have let him go. He is not worldly, and to be honest, I'm worried to death. But with all the secret service agents, I have hope he will remain safe. I can't imagine them letting a little donkey on that train, but, it appears he is there now and is part of history.

Near the same note he left, I found a pad of paper. At the top it said, "In case I am called upon to speak to the herds." Their were many crossed out words, and it clearly stated it was a draft. As I read it, I yearned to be there with him, to applaud him for his thoughts. For Paco, the one member of the farm who is so misunderstood by so many, seemed to capture a real spirit of optimism we are all capable of. His grumpiness covers a heart and soul that just need some encouragement and a safe place to fail.

So I will share his speech with you, as I really doubt it would ever be covered by the media, if he were to be called on to speak. "It is time to put down our sticks, which can only serve as a symbol of our cynicism masked in grumpiness and fear. And while we must defend our own herds, we must not lose sight that we are also here to teach our herds, help our herds, bring them food and adequate medical attention. We must strive to stick together, and understand that when the water buckets are empty, there will always be a rainfall at some point. We must care for our lands, and poop on them, but spread it around to help all the little grasses, and yes, even the weeds. We must remember, two footers, four footers, winged ones and those that crawl on your bellies - that we are all here together, and we all have something to learn, and teach, and share. One must understand the fences we have around us are to protect us from the night lurkers, but we must never frown or kick at the aged cat that might wander in our fields. We must not judge the species that are weaker, or smaller, or come from far away places simply to eat our wheats and grasses. For they bring with them the same thing we possess - hearts, souls, the capacity to serve in the herd for the betterment of all. And in closing, I urge all of us to love one another, no matter what kind of ass appears before you. God Bless my farm, and my herd, and God Bless President Obama, and also I'd like to bless all the apples and pie too."

I can't wait for him to return on Sunday night.

--The End--

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Big Eared Dress Rehearsal

In which the stunning event mentioned in the last post is revealed to my readers. Proceed with an open mind, or don't go in at all....I had no idea Angustifolia played guitar, and certainly not at this level. We could hear the variety of hooves and feet stomping to the beat, and amazingly, even little chicken feet resonated.

Visit Tails & Tales, the short story site of artist/Katherine Dunn to read this story.