My Father and the Baboons

The male members of my family have a history of acting oddly (read: poorly) at the zoo. Growing up, my brother was just awful with any and all animals, from teasing a raccoon until the poor animal went berserk, reached into my brother's shirtfront pocket and stole a ballpoint pen which it then refused to relinquish, to which a zookeeper in turn went berserk because the raccoon had what amounted to a lethal weapon, right up to teasing a cage full of chimpanzees until one of those poor animals also went berserk and ripped a glass soda bottle from my brother's hand, thus sending yet another zookeeper into paroxysms of hysteria at the sight of a chimp with a sharp glass projectile. But to be fair, he came by this behavior honestly, having been taken to the zoo many, many times by our father.

My father, a quiet and emotionally reserved man in virtually every area of his existence, for some reason known only to him, stepped wildly out of character and became a blathering lunatic when it came to baboons. Only the baboons, or as my mother refers to them, "You know, those monkeys with the blue bottoms and the long, striped noses?" My father would jump up and down, make faces, flail his arms madly about and make ridiculous noises until the baboons would charge at him and repeatedly fling themselves against their cage front in an attempt to stop him from making a complete spectacle of himself in a very public place. This was in the midwest in the late 1950's (thankfully predating my birth by quite a few years) and at one point the zoo actually closed for many months while the complete operation was moved to a brand new zoo on the other side of the city. And sure enough, when the new zoo opened and my parents and brother went to visit their favorite animals in their new home, those baboons, even after not having laid eyes on my father for many, many months, instantly recognized him and tried to attack him once again. To which, naturally, my father immediately resumed his bizarre taunting of them. I'm sure it was a mutual thing, with both sides getting something out of it and everyone involved finding themselves quite satisfied when all was said and done.

And so it is with no wonder whatsoever that my brother behaves so deplorably around poor caged animals. Look who his childhood role model was.

Fur Sucks (Unless it's Still on the Living Animal)

While PETA can often be accused of going overboard with some of their tactics and ideas regarding the ethical treatment of animals, the ad campaign, "Here's the Rest of Your Fur Coat" is brilliant by any standard. Not that the people who love fur and like to shove their "look-at-me-and-my-luxuriously-soft-and mad-expensive-dead-animal-coat" in your face will give a damn. When you wear fur you automatically don't care at all about the poor animals who gave their lives for your stupid rich people fashion whims, or how they suffered, and you certainly could give a shit what their bodies look like after being mangled for your own pleasure. But for the rest of us, the humane ones who would rather go naked than kill an animal to look hot on a night out, this picture speaks volumes.

Shelter Dogs

I've been searching through shelters for a dog who can be a best friend to my little Edison Jack, but so far I either haven't really found a dog that I like enough to want to spend the next decade or more of my life with, or I if I have liked a dog and think it could work out, Edison tries to tear its face off upon meeting it.

The thing with shelters is that they're very depressing to visit (so I can only imagine how awful it is to live there). No matter how clean and bright the environment, it's ultimately a dumping ground for unwanted animals, troubled animals or animals that have just been dealt a really shitty hand in this life and have never had anyone to love them. And all shelters look like prisons, regardless. I try very hard to not feel badly when I am actually in the building looking at the dogs because I know they can sense what I am feeling. I try to be calm and gentle and not be wearing my "oh these poor things" heart on my sleeve, but it's virtually impossible for me to get out of there without completely losing it.

This past week I met two dogs that I spent some time with while considering making them members of our little family. The first was a shepherd mix who had been run over by a car and left for dead. Not only had she been seriously injured, but she was also pregnant. She had been watched over for several weeks outside a police station in Puerto Rico (best not to get me started on what I really think about Puerto Rico and their stray dog "problems") where the men fed her scraps of food, yet no one thought to bring her to a vet or even get her out of the elements. By the time a good samaritan had brought her to a doctor, her babies were dead and her seriously broken leg had healed wrong so now she has a permanent limp. Many humans would have given up after having this happen to them, or at least be left suffering from some pretty serious depression, but this was a very happy little girl. She was gentle and sweet and her tail never stopped wagging. Griffin really liked her and she was a little darling, so I thought, "okay, let's do this" and then Edison, who clearly couldn't sense her sweetness or didn't even remotely care how loving she was, tried to bite her in the face several times. So much for dog #1.

The second dog was absolutely beautiful. A lab/boxer cross by the looks of him, black with white socks. This was a dog that has been in a shelter every single day of his life and for the first ten months of his short twelve on this earth was never interacted with at all. The people in the shelter in Arkansas where he came from ought to be flogged. This is now a dog who simply cannot allow a human to get close to him because he doesn't trust. No one has ever held him or patted him or kissed him. No one has told him what a good boy he is, how beautiful he is or played any doggie games with him. He'll let you walk him, and during the walk he'll even begin to stand a little closer to your legs, but try to reach down and pat him and he'll try to run away from you. There was nothing but terror in that dog's eyes. He'd give you a look like he desperately wanted to be loved and given attention, but when you made a move to show him kindness, it terrified him and he'd frantically pull away. He was afraid of Edison, who in turn was completely indifferent to this pretty boy. That's rather symbolic of this dog's whole life: if he hadn't been ignored so much he'd have more social skills and be very adoptable. For the person who is willing to give him the time he needs, this dog would make a lovely pet, but only if they lead a very quiet life. This is not an animal that you could take out in public, especially in any crowded areas, nor would he be good with company visiting at home. Most likely, this is a dog who will spend all his days in a shelter as very few people have the knowledge, time or patience to rehabilitate a dog this withdrawn, and that's unbelievably heartbreaking.

So my search continues, which unfortunately means more trips to shelters, which never gets any easier. I would rather find our next little friend in one of them though, than to go through a breeder again, simply because the act of giving an unwanted animal a second chance at life and love is a very beautiful thing for the dog and for us. I guess I'll need to dig deep and find in me the motivation that keeps these poor dogs going in spite of all their own difficulties. If they can survive the horrors they have lived, then I can survive the horror of walking into a shelter and hearing their stories and hopefully giving one of them a long and happy life in a loving home.

Canine Couture

What is it that makes a normal and sane person (relatively speaking) suddenly start to do things they swore they never, ever would simply because they now own a tiny little dog? I have never been the type of person who has ever given a thought to dressing up an animal since I was about six or seven years old and routinely dressed up my poor cat in baby doll clothes and took her for a ride in my doll carriage, yet now I am doing it all the time (less the doll carriage of course). I even go shopping with the specific purpose of adding new items to my dog's already burgeoning wardrobe. Granted, I have on occasion seen little dogs being walked down the side of the road and have done a double take with an "oh my god that is so cute!" when seeing something outrageously adorable, like two miniscule yorkies being walked in teensy matching tutus made of lavender and pink tulle, but that's the exception. I don't believe I have ever reacted with more than an occasional "nice sweater" when seeing a larger dog strolling by in a hand knit. So why now that I own a small dog am I compelled to dress it to the nines every chance I get? Does this sort of behavior automatically become compulsory when one takes possession of a toy dog?

Don't get me wrong, I don't go for those silly little t-shirts with glittery slogans such as "spoiled rotten" and "#1 pet", the trailer park trash, bar whore outfits of the pet world. No, I'm more a hand knit sweater and ultra suede jacket type of person, with the occasional longing for an expensive Juicy Couture coat. Maybe it's because my dog is a male that I have managed to rein in my new and truly unexpected behavior with more serious clothing. What I need is to add a second dog, a female, to feed my newfound desire to dress a canine in frilly Pollyanna dresses and tutus of my own made of lavender and pink tulle, with maybe the occasional pair of tiny gossamer fairy wings included. Then all I would need to worry about (with the exception of my family riding my ass twice as much as they do now about the supposed indignity of it all) would be more closet space.

The Great Horned Owl

Even more exciting than the realization that my backyard had been transformed a few weeks ago into a turkey suburbia was the discovery of a Great Horned Owl in one of the trees at the back of the property. She might not be nearly as cute as a turkey (if you even would consider a turkey cute- I do), but she sure is a far rarer sight in this area.

She was there in the early morning when I went out to water my birds and she stayed straight through until dusk. It was amazing to watch all the smaller birds swoop down and dive in regular waves at her tree hour after hour, shouting and calling to drive her away. One little male cardinal was especially driven to scare her away, though he obviously had no luck. Neither did the dozens upon dozens of crows that taunted her and flew at her head for the better part of the day. The noise was extraordinary all day and could be heard clearly and quite loudly even inside the house.

And while there wasn't a single small mammal to be seen anywhere on the ground throughout that entire day, there was one poor, unfortunate little squirrel who was just feet from the owl and who had laid himself flat out on his branch not daring to move so much as a muscle for the full ten hours she was perched there in the tree. Poor thing, caught suddenly in the midst of his morning squirrel business of snacking and burying, he was stranded and paralyzed there for hours. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and the terror of that day must have chipped years off of his already brief little life.

Still, the visit from the owl was a simply magnificent gift. I cherish the chance to see such rare and beautiful birds in such close proximity to my home. Nature is a joy. Nature is perfect.

Cordelia Mabel Marks

Cordelia Mabel Marks
June 13, 1991 - December 3, 2007
Loyal Unto Death

Cordelia Mabel was the first dog I ever owned on my own as an adult and one of the all-time best dogs ever born. When Griffin was two I decided it would be nice to have a family dog so we headed to a local shelter to see what they had to offer. Among all the young and adult dogs were three little black puppies just a few weeks old, one of which had a cloudy eye and was believed to have sight issues. The little damaged puppy chose us before we even had the chance to crouch down to greet the litter. She came right over and jumped onto David's lap, gave him a sloppy kiss and our hearts were instantly stolen. On the ride home with our new child she was named Cordelia (the Mabel came later when she was such a naughty little dog she needed a middle name for emphasis when she was scolded). Cordelia: King Lear's youngest daughter, faithful and loyal until death.

Puppy issues aside (she ate rugs, furniture and even a pair of expensive leather florsheim shoes which didn't go over so well) she quickly became a second child to us and she thought so too. When David, Griffin and I would go for a hike and Griffin, who was barely three at the time, became weary and asked to be carried, Cordelia would too. And there we'd be, our small family of four: David carrying Griffin and me carrying Cordelia who was far heavier than a child but as David flatly refused to "carry a dog on a hike. How ridiculous is that? She's a dog" I did because I couldn't bear to see her begging to be picked up and whimpering when it was refused. After all, Griffin had been picked up, so why shouldn't she? She saw no difference between herself and our son. To her she was another child of ours. If Griffin had a sliced apple as a snack, I would give Cordelia an apple as well. The first time I did this, Griffin's apple was peeled, sliced and put in a little dish for him and Cordelia's was unpeeled and set on the floor. Cordelia flatly refused to eat hers. She looked at hers, then at Griffin's, then at hers, then at me and back through again and again. After asking her why she wasn't eating her apple, I finally figured out what she was telling me. I peeled hers, sliced it like Griffin's and put it in an identical dish and she sat happily with him and they ate their apples together. I never made that mistake again.

When Griffin was tiny and would dance when he heard anything that even remotely sounded like music (as most toddlers will), Cordelia would run over to him, stand on her hind legs, and throw her front legs around his neck and dance with him: she'd sway if he swayed , she'd perform dance steps if he did. In the beginning she was far taller than he, towering over his head as she led him around the floor on her hind legs, fully embracing his little body. But as Griffin got older and grew taller, those years were marked by how much taller he had become than Cordelia, until even on her hind legs she barely reached his waist. What a lovely way to mark the passage of time with a boy and his dog.

She learned to speak, almost too well. She was a startlingly good mimic of what she was hearing, and even though she often sounded like Astro on the old Jetson's cartoon when she spoke, speak she did. She even picked up a couple of very naughty words which when she would say them would have people laughing until they cried. And as she's a big fan of his, my mother taught Cordelia to say "Elvis" plain as could be. If she saw you with a treat in your hand, it didn't matter what the snack was for, or who it was for, she would sit and begin to go through her vast repertoire of words, without prompt, hoping to win the food.

She was a wonderful watchdog, protecting her family and her home. She alerted us once to a robbery in progress on our property one night many years ago, as well as when a carpenter working on a nearby construction site broke into our home through the kitchen door to gain access to our cellar to turn on our outside water source so the crew might steal it for mixing plaster. I was upstairs at the time and her incessant, violent barking brought me downstairs to see what was happening. She so intimidated the man, and even tried to bite him, that he panicked and crawled out through the bulkhead rather than attempt to come back through a house he had clearly thought was unoccupied during the midday hours. But the dog who hated intruders loved to have company come to visit. From a solitary friend dropping in for a short visit to a house full of dinner guests, Cordelia was in her element, mingling and soaking up the attention. When my uncle, the animal raising and animal loving cowboy who I hadn't seen in over a decade came from Arizona to visit, I told him not to worry, Cordelia loves everybody. Moments after he settled in she pinned him on the couch in the living room, teeth bared, mouth foaming, until we dragged her from the room and locked her upstairs in a bedroom, where she stayed for the remainder of his visit. Go figure. She may not have always been the best judge of character, but she certainly stuck to her convictions.

She suffered from anxiety and fear aggression her entire life, which made it difficult to take her out in public, especially in large crowds. In spite of this, everyone she did meet thought she was absolutely adorable. We must have heard "look at that adorable face! What a sweet face!" a million times during her life. It was the same wherever we went. Everyone wanted to love her, and that was as it should be, given her very unloved and unwanted start in this world. And she had so much love to give herself. From that first moment at the shelter when she chose David, she was full of kisses and hugs. Especially for David. When we lived within walking distance of the train station we would often walk in the evenings to meet David's train from the city and as soon as all the people began to disembark, she would jump up and down on her hind legs trying to see David in the crowd, and when she did finally spot him, would squeal the most horrible, loud, shrieks of joy at the sight of him (those same screeches that would have shoppers looking at us like we were torturing our dog when one of us would leave her in the car to run into a store- you could hear Cordelia wailing from inside the shop, even when the car windows were up and closed- a deafening noise that would not end until you were safely back in the car with her). Everyone at the train station would walk by us laughing and shaking their heads at the howling, hopping dog but we didn't care because we found daddy. From that point in her life on, she always loved trains probably because she associated them with David. We would frequently walk the tracks and when a train came by she would jump on her hind legs and bark joyfully until it passed and if David was with us, she'd then jump on him in happiness. Trains and daddy were love.

We had some silly ritual games we played together from puppyhood. When she was very small and still had a pink puppy belly, she had on her tummy a nearly perfect map of the United States in white (it's still there under all that fur), and I would tell her to show me her belly. When she would lay down and turn her tummy upwards, I'd rub it and tell her what an intelligent girl she was as she had the whole United States on her belly. She'd get up and squeal and jump around me. She also liked to play the "piggy toe game" which consisted of me trying to put my feet on her feet, while she put hers on mine and she would try to play bite my feet to get them off of hers. While this game was fun, it was slightly less fun for my mother when Cordelia began to enjoy sleeping at the foot of my mother's bed. When my mother would move her feet in the night to get comfortable, and her feet would bump into the dog's feet, Cordelia, thinking the game was on, would bite her feet in a bid to win. That was the end of the piggy toe game until she was too physically feeble to get up on the bed, yet all those years later, she remembered the game when I began to play it once again.

She had her brushes with death, as anyone would if they lived as long as she had: the vet who performed her spaying lost her on the operating table but managed to miraculously resuscitate her, the day she slipped out the front door, before we could catch her, to chase a dog walking down the other side of the street only to be hit by a car in front of our home, horribly, right before our eyes and get right up with only a handful of bruises, or the time she got into over a pound of chocolate and ate the entire thing, foil wrappers and all and survived with only an upset stomach.

Cordelia Mabel lived a very long, very rich life full of joys and sorrows, good times and some not so good times, but always, always with absolute love. She loved us, her people, unconditionally and with a pure heart, and we loved her the same. To those people who abandoned her at that shelter so many years ago: thank you. Your indifference and selfishness gave us the greatest gift we could have ever been given. She was exceptionally intelligent, had a silly sense of humor and was an absolutely beautiful soul carried in a furry black body for longer than most dogs dream of living. She was a joy to be a companion to, as she was a joy to be my companion. And she was a joy to be our companion and best friend to all of us in the Marks house. Cordelia Mabel: faithful dog, faithful family member, faithful friend, unto death.

You are missed today. You will always be missed. You will always be loved with all our hearts, where you will be carried in the warmest embrace of love until the day we meet again. Bye bye for now, beautiful dog.

Doing the Turkey Trot

With my ducks and chickens all over the yard, you'd think I'd get my bird-lust out of my system and not be at all interested when wild birds stop by for a spell, but you'd be wrong. While I do enjoy song birds and crows (I'd love to have a pet crow like Uncle Billy in It's A Wonderful Life, who my husband is quick to point out is a) a drunk who nearly ruined George Bailey's business and life, and is b) a fictional character besides), it's the more exotic wild birds I can't get enough of. Maybe because I don't get to see them so often, they remain an exciting novelty.

We've had a flock of wild turkeys who've been passing through our yard fairly frequently. Living on such a busy street, I'm always afraid that one or more of them isn't going to make it from the woods across the street over to our yard, but make it they always do (which is no small feat given the fact that turkeys are not the brightest birds in the world). No wild turkey pancakes in the road yet, thank god.

The other day my cat snuck outside and when this happens, if you wait patiently enough, it becomes fairly easy to find her. All it takes is listening for the wildlife that's going berserk nearby. If I give her a few minutes to find something interesting to stalk, then she's easily grab-able. Squirrels loudly scolding, birds freaking out en masse at the top of a group of trees, or should she escape after dark, moles squealing in the grass like tiny pigs going to slaughter, there you'll find Maia Louise basking in the chaos she has wrought. Sure enough, the ruckus in the woods behind my next door neighbor's house led me right to her and while I was picking my way through the underbrush to get to her, I saw a small gray shadow moving off to my right. I stood very still and sure enough, it was one of the wild turkeys. A few steps more and I had to freeze again for another wild turkey followed by several turkey chicks. I was thrilled to know that two of the original flock had splintered off and were raising their family in the safety of the woods back there. When the turkeys saw me they beat quite a hasty retreat further into the swamp, putting as much distance as they possibly could between them, myself, and my delinquent cat.

What a lovely discovery, and just in time for the Thanksgiving season. How wonderful to have turkeys out in our yard to celebrate the day. Gobble, gobble.

Edison Jack: One Savvy Chihuahua

This is Edison Jack, my new best friend. It's common knowledge that chihuahuas are very intelligent little dogs and Edison is no exception. He has an incredible fashion sense that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he wears sweaters on chilly days to curb the Little Dog Shivers (which makes sense because David truly hates the fact that Edison occasionally wears clothing as he says that dogs who are forced to wear clothing have their poor little doggie dignity destroyed which I don't mind just as long as said clothing keeps Edison snuggly warm while undermining his sense of self esteem). No, Edison can tell when my choice of clothing is not up to snuff.

As an artist who spends a great deal of time outside of normal society (read: alone and making stuff up in my head) I don't need to dress unless I'm venturing out into the world, a physical act that doesn't happen every day, and so I spend a great deal of my time in either old sweats or flannel jammie pants and tee shirts. But when I do choose to put on a public face, I put on "real" clothes, or as I like to call them, "my big boy pants". At first when I would be getting ready to go out into the big, bad world, Edison would simply watch me getting dressed and grabbing my bag and it wasn't until I headed to the door that he realized "Oh shit! We're going somewhere today!" And it wasn't long before just the trucking out of my big leather bag signaled a car ride. Now, even before the bag comes into play, he knows when we're going somewhere simply by the fact that I'm putting on real clothes. When the schlubby old jammies come off and jeans or a skirt go on, he goes nuts and runs to the door in ever widening circles.

How sad it is that even my dog can tell that I'm a complete pig when in the privacy of my own home. Yet I find it interesting that even a dog can recognize a decent outfit for what it's worth, which is more than quite a few humans can do.

Baby Turtle Orphan

Our house used to sit all by itself in the middle of a big field until a builder bought all the land around us and built a bunch of ugly houses, and in doing so, drastically changed the way our property drains after a heavy rain. Each time it rains for more than an afternoon of showers the water from the surrounding properties runs down the street, down our driveway, and forms some pretty substantial pools on our back lawn that only my ducks could love (and believe me, they do). And given that it's been raining like a bastard here, we've had more than our share of water come flooding down our driveway. Only this time, it carried a tiny surprise with it.

Last Sunday morning my husband was returning from an errand and as he got out of the car, called me over from tending the duck flock to come see what he'd found upon stepping out of the car: an impossibly tiny baby snapping turtle, no bigger than a quarter: golden yellow belly, sharp little claws and an unbelievably little pointy snout. As Sunday was the first dry day in many, and quite warm, the little turtle was horribly dry and barely moving. I couldn't wait to hold him, but while David examined him, I called Griffin to come outside to see the little guy before we let him go.

David carried him down to the small marsh behind our house and setting him gently on a twig that rested half on the shore and half on the water's surface, we watched and waited. He didn't move at all, so we decided to go about our business and leave him be for a bit. Maybe he'd find the courage to move into the water once he was alone.

I then walked up the street and back down it from where the water usually originates during heavy rains, just to be sure that there weren't any other baby turtles who had been stranded in the deluge, but both the road and my neighbors' yards were empty. About ten minutes later as I was returning to my own yard, I realized that in the excitement of setting him free, I had completely forgotten to take a minute to hold him before we set him free. I dashed back to the water's edge, but the twig was empty and the little turtle was nowhere to be seen (of course, a head that tiny could never be seen poking above the surface anyways). I was both sad and glad. I wish I'd had the chance to hold him, but I'm so happy to have a beautiful turtle living and growing in our wetland back there. I've checked to see if I can spot him several times since that first day, but with no luck yet. Soon he'll be bigger and then maybe I'll be able to see him swimming and sunning out there. I can't wait!

The Beauty of Nature in My Own Backyard

Living with a wetland behind my house has its advantages. It has its disadvantages too, like a cellar that floods when it rains for days on end, an often funky "swamp stink" during the hottest days of summer, and a lot of mud on the banks and thus on your feet when you stray too far from the back lawn. There is, however, a tremendous amount of wildlife that lives just a stone's throw from my back door.

Every spring and summer wild mallards set up their household back there. They always come up to the barn to visit my domestic ducks, sauntering cockily around the pens, stealing the odd tidbits from my birds, and generally causing a great ruckus when my own ducks go territorially berserk.

Two weeks ago I discovered a female groundhog has been digging a burrow and a nest back there. She's simply adorable to watch: ambling about stuffing bits of grasses and leaves for bedding material into her chubby cheeks, shifting them about with her front paws to make room for a few more pieces of grass, stopping here and there for this and that. And always stopping every couple of steps to adjust her treasures with those little feet. One afternoon we spent a good half hour calmly watching each other with tremendous interest before we both went about our own business once again.

There's a great blue heron that flies overhead several times a day, but never lands close enough for me to get a good, long look at it. The wetland extends for quite a ways and as the beautiful bird seems to live more towards the other end of it, I never get to see it land. I do, however, love the way herons carry their long, graceful legs straight out behind them while they're flying, feet held daintily together.

I also love the sound of the hundreds of peepers out there come nightfall, chirping away in their attempts to find a mate. The rhythm of their calls is a wonderful way to be lulled to sleep. I only wish the deer who use the wetland nightly for a watering hole would stop eating my hemlocks. Tasty as they might be, my trees now look like crap no matter what angle you view them from. But all in all, everything else out there is as close to perfection as you could want.