Author: www.untoldanimalstories.org

by

Part III – I Was Born on an Amish Farm in the Middle of Winter

DSC_0225For part I:   https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/13/i-was-born-in-the-middle-of-winter/
Part II: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/20/part-ii-i-was-born-on-an-amish-farm-in-the-middle-of-winter/

I do not understand why Gracie doesn’t want to play.  She runs from me, and when I tackle and bite her, she doesn’t reciprocate.  She just hisses and yells.  I suspect she needs training on how to play, so I do it again and again.  I keep waiting for her to clobber me, but she never does.  Mostly she skulks around trying to avoid me, looking left and right before exiting a room.  My surprise attack is one of my favorites, but she doesn’tDSC_0219 seem to like it.  Her lack of playfulness makes no sense to me.  I overheard my people say that I have no skill in alternate perspective taking.

DSC_0348Eventually, I get bored with Gracie—there’s only so much enjoyment one can derive from being hissed at.  I turn my attention to my people, swatting them as they go by my perch and occasionally chewing on them if I’m more rambunctious than usual.  I mean it in the nicest possible way, of course, and I keep my claws sheathed, but they don’t seem to like this.  What’s wrong with them?  Over time they’ve started referring to me as Bothersome Bean instead of Mr. Bean.

There is one game my people and I have enjoyed: fetch.  It originally went like this: they threw a toy for me, I chased it, I dropped it, they walked over, sighed, picked it up, and threw it for me again.  This game had minimal appeal to me because it was always on their terms (strict) and their timetables (limited) and, sadly, they became bored with it quickly.  I changed up the game, and they seem to have caught on: I bring them a toy—pop-off milk carton rings are best (and they smell of fragrant milk and remind me of my early youth)—they throw it, I chase it and bring it back to them, and they throw it again.  They’re able to do this even when they’re busy doing other things—and they are always busy doing, doing, doing—so this suits me perfectly.DSC_0096 - Version 3

I can happily play fetch for 20 minutes at a stretch, panting all the while.  I’ve heard my people complain that this does not seem to tire me out, and they also complain about “my behavior” in general.  They think there might be something wrong with me—as if biting Gracie were an issue.  They know nothing.  Still, they’ve tried many, many things with me: admonishing me, ignoring me, distracting me, and implementing ideas various people have suggested.  Nothing works because there is nothing wrong with me; it’s they who are the issue.  They just don’t understand.  Even the Jackson Galaxy (My Cat from Hell, on Animal Planet) website jingle tries to tell them.  It goes like this:  “You’re a bad cat.  I’m not a bad cat.  You’re a bad cat.  I’m not a bad cat.  You’re a bad cat.  I’m not a bad cat. . . I’m just misunderstood.”

I know this: although I am Bothersome Bean to them and to sweet Gracie, I know I am essentially good, and I trust that I have found my forever home with them.  They said so.

to be continued…
Part IV: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/10/04/part-iv-in-the-middle-of-winter/

Do you have ideas on how to gently stop kittens and cats from biting?  Please share them with us—via our contact page or untoldanimalstories@gmail.com  Thank you!

by

Part II – I Was Born on an Amish Farm in the Middle of Winter

DSC_0131For part 1:   https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/13/i-was-born-in-the-middle-of-winter/

The man and woman said thank you to the people, talked to me kindly, and we left.  As we moved along, I saw a flash of gray fur streak across the field and into the barn.  My brother.

They took me to a family who adopted me.  There were new smells and places to investigate, and two kids who cooed, named me Mr. Bean, and almost never put me down.  Best of all, there was another cat, Gracie.  She looked like a paler version of my mother.  I walked over to her, excited to have her company.  She pulled herself up to her full height, narrowed her eyes at me, and took a few aimless swipes.  The people scolded her, scooped me up, and held me.  They commented on how sweet and docile I was.mr. bean 1-27-13

I divided my time between being held, trying to make friends with DSC_0174Gracie, eating, and sleeping.  I slept a lot because even though I was happy and warm, I didn’t feel all that well.

The vet came to the house and sat on the floor with me, prodding and poking me, which I did not appreciate.  She told my people I had worms and gave me foul-tasting pills.

One morning I woke up and felt different.  The sun came blazing in the window and my body felt alive, so I tore around the house like a maniac.  Gracie took to high ground.  I paused, mid-stride.  It occurred to me that she was a wonderful, large target….DSCN2609

to be continued
For Part III: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/27/part-iii-i-was-born-on-an-amish-farm-in-the-middle-of-winter/

by

Part I – I Was Born on an Amish Farm in the Middle of Winter

Mr. BeanI was born on an Amish farm in the middle of winter.  I divided my time during my first six weeks between playing with my siblings and nursing when I could.

Sometimes my mother wasn’t around, and the six of us youngsters pushed each other aside to drink the trickle of cow’s milk that dripped down from the metal pipes carrying it away from the cows, away from us.  There wasn’t much milk, but it at least sometimes it quenched our thirst.

One day an older cat wanted the milk I was lapping from the pipes.  He rushed toward me and I lost my footing and fell.  I—with all of my 3 pounds—jumped on his back, expecting him to tussle playfully like my brothers and sisters.  He had other ideas, though, and bit off a chunk of my ear.  I learned to be wary.

Over time my stomach became swollen and filled with worms.  I was always hungry, and I became sickly and quiet.  The barn was icy cold, and the wind crept through the cracks.

One winter day a man and woman came to the farm.  They looked different from the people I had known—no long skirt, no hat.  They spoke with the farmer.  The farmer’s little boys found me and delivered me to them.  The woman told the boys that the kitten was going live in a house.  The boys, wide-eyed, said, “Nooo!”  “Yes,” she said laughing, “and the kitten is going sleep on a bed.”  “Noooo,” they said, and squinted at her as if she might be crazy.

To be continued…
For Part II: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/20/part-ii-i-was-born-on-an-amish-farm-in-the-middle-of-winter/

by

Erna’s Garden

purple tulips ID-100139402Erna’s home carried the scent of roses and crisp cotton sheets.  The kitchen was sunny, with flowery curtains billowing in on the wind.  It was as if the worn oak floorboards themselves contained comfort.

These days Erna’s gardens are overgrown with tassel-topped grasses waving in the wind.  The shutters and gutters are slightly askew, and moss grows on the white clapboard.  Sometimes I come to watch the weeping willow’s arms sweep the pebbly driveway, and to remember.

I knew Erna long before she knew me.  From the woods where I lived I watched as she carried a basket on her hip to the clothesline. . . as she tilted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. . . as she weeded the garden and gathered an armful of flowers for her table.

One afternoon I sauntered over to her as she was pegging out the laundry.  “Oh!” she said, “Oh!  Wait here.”black and white cat ID-10029960

She came back with remnants of a pork chop and a small bowl of water.  Each afternoon after that I visited her.  She sat next to me on the patio as I ate, talking about anything that occurred to her.  I think she was lonely.

Cold weather came early that year, and the wind bit through my fur.  One day, as I waited for her on the patio, Erna held the door wide open.  “Well, come on,” she said.  I walked in and made myself at home.

By day I kept her company in the kitchen as she worked, her shoulders soft and rounded, her hands moving in and out of shafts of light.  She hummed tunelessly to the soft, repeating clang of the wooden spoon in the mixing bowl.

By evening we sat by the fire in winter, and by the open window in summer.  Erna worked with her hands, always, making afghans, quilts, and linen napkins, always in shades of green.

By night I slept on the window seat under the dormer, the stars glimmering overhead.

In time, Erna became ill.  People came and went from the house.  I slept curled by her feet, keeping an eye on her, caring for her as I could.  She passed away anyway.  I watched them carry her from the house, but it wasn’t her.  I sensed her around me, free.

A neighbor woman took me home with her.  I’ve made my life there with her family, and it’s a good life.  But sometimes I like to come here to Erna’s garden, to sense her, to feel our life together.

•Images, in order of appearance, courtesy of chaiwat & foto76/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

•Interested in having your story/rescue story published? untoldanimalstories@gmail.com

by

Full Moon Coyote

ID-10072636...coyote I walk the narrow path along the edge of the lake, through the whiskery sedge and muddy wetland into the beech forest.  The indigo sky darkens toward black.  Night creatures stir and an owl’s call echoes off the water.  I walk on, each footfall sure and deliberate.

I know every hollow and swell of this land.  I know how to read the wind.  I know the sun and shadow on the water, the yellow greens of spring and dark greens of summer, the scent of a summer storm.  I know the phases of the moon.

The humans that share this land with my tribe do not trust us.  They call coyotes “tricksters,” but isn’t it they who are prone to taking more than they need, to spoiling the land and water that feeds them, to being far removed from the earth’s rhythms, to sidestepping inconvenient truths?  Across the lake I see their house lights reflecting long streaks across the water.  I keep my distance from them.

The path meanders upward through a grove of soft grasses, through a white pine forest, over the tumbledown rock walls.  I walk on.  At the edge of the woods I pause and watch my kin arrive from every direction and converge on the ridge of the hill.  Their fur is silver and silhouetted against the rising moon.  I join them, touching nose to nose in greeting.

In unison we lift our throats to the sky and begin singing, our voices weaving in and out of each other’s and rising to a crescendo.  As the moon rises above the horizon, we sing of summer sun and winter snow, of ancient starlight, of brotherhood.  We sing into the wind, our song carrying across the hills.  I imagine the humans in the valleys hearing us and sensing something deep and familiar resonating within. ID-10041295

Photos courtesy of Hal Brindley and illustration courtesy of Nixxphotography, freedigitalphotos.net

by

The Black Panther’s Stride

freeimage-5279799-webIn certain angles of light, my spots are visible.  They call me a black panther, but I am really a black leopard.  When I was young I roamed with my mother in the riverside forest of Thailand.  At my mother’s side I learned stealth and patience, how to slip silently through the forest, to drink from the rushing river, to kill only as much as we needed to sustain ourselves, to respect the boundaries of other, to know freedom.

By night the scent of the forest was fragrant with flowers and the earth was cool beneath our feet.  By day the forest was a dozen shades of green.  We slept cradled in the boughs of trees, safely hidden by the tangle of leaves.

One day we came across some tree branches plaited together on the ground.  We walked around them, sniffing, exploring.  My mother put a tentative foot on it and the ground gave way beneath her.  She tumbled into a trap from which she could not get free.

I stayed by her through the night into the next day, when humans arrived.  They talked excitedly when they saw us.  I retreated into the forest, but not quickly enough.  I was captured, my mother was killed, and they took us out of the forest.  My mother’s body was used for ceremonies and luxury clothing.  I was too little to be of use that way, so I was sold into the exotic pet trade.

I changed hands many times.  Some of my owners, as they called themselves, were kinder than others.  Eventually, I traveled across the water and came to this place called a zoo.  My cage here is bigger than the cages in which I was accustomed to living.  I can stride six paces in one direction, turn, and stride six paces in the other direction.  People come to look at me, and mostly I ignore them.  Sometimes I turn my golden-eyed gaze on them.  In the eyes of the bigger people I see a tinge of fear.  In the eyes of the little people I see only wonder.

There is a man who brings me food and water and talks to me in a calm voice.  He told me that soon, soon, they will build me a bigger enclosure and I’ll have rocks, trees, a little trickle of a stream, and space in which to move.

Sometimes when the night sky is black and the stars glitter, I feel pulled toward my wild nature.  My urge to roam is deep and strong and visceral.  I close my eyes, and in my dreams go to the riverside forest and remember the fragrant night wind, the soft earth beneath my feet, the sound of the rushing river.

Panther©Enjoylife25|DreamstimeStockPhotos|StockFreeImages

by

The Kingfisher’s Flight

kingfisher photoThe pond’s edge is glassy, the middle wind-rippled.  From the birch tree I peer into the water.  Pondweeds corkscrew up to the surface, blooming tiny flowers.  Lily pads open themselves to the sky.  I wait.

On the far shore a beaver slaps her tail.  The woods creatures pause and look, then return to foraging.  I wait.

Sun and shadow move across the far hill and meadow grasses sway.  High summer has passed and the earth exhales toward autumn.  I wait.

As the sun sinks toward the horizon, ephemeral insects dip and dance above the water.  A flicker of silver rises toward the pond’s surface.  I lean into the wind and dive.  As the fish spirals out of the water, shedding sun-glinting droplets, I intercept it.  Then I spread my wings and fly, hearing the whoosh, whoosh of my wings in the wind.

–

UntoldAnimalStories.org is a nonprofit organization that seeks to invite small acts of kindness toward animals.

We welcome guest bloggers.  If you’re interested, please contact us at untoldanimalstories@gmail.com or via our contact page.

by

He Wasn’t Much of a Hunter

He closes the door of the red pick-up truck, repositions his gun over his shoulder, and sets off into the woods.  Despite trying to ease his weight onto the twigs and leaves, toe first then heel, his footfalls snap and crackle and echo through the pre-dawn forest.

A doe lifts her head from foraging, her button-black nose twitching with scent-taking.  With noiseless ease, she lopes off, her white tail high.  A groundhog stands on the crest of his mound-home squinting into the distance, his forepaws tucked up to his heart, his teddy-bear ears angled forward.  He squeaks and retreats inside his burrow.  A flock of quibbling sparrows wheels off into the sky.  Only the cat remains.   She is motionless except for the white tip of her tail.

The hunter walks on, pausing from time to time, looking around, then moving on.  The cat follows, unnoticed, at a distance.

When the sun has climbed well above the horizon, the hunter sits down on a large, sunny rock.  He opens a thermos of steaming coffee, crinkles flat the wax paper covering his sandwich, and munches thoughtfully, his head angled to the side.  Sun-warmed and drowsy, his shoulders relax and he closes his eyes.

The cats comes closer, soundlessly.  She sits a few feet in front of him and looks up.  The hunter opens his eyes and startles, then feels foolish.  He mutters something about cats—he’s never liked cats.  He glares at the cat and looks into her gold eyes.  She holds his gaze evenly.  He sighs, then he breaks off a small piece of cheese from his sandwich and tosses it on the ground.  The cat eats it and looks up expectantly.  The man breaks off a larger piece and holds it out to her.  She gracefully leaps onto the rock, and with one paw on the hunter’s leg, she gingerly takes the cheese from his hand.  The hunter slides his broad palm down her back, then offers her the rest of his sandwich.

After a while, he gathers his things, slings the gun over his shoulder, and sets off.  The cat jumps down and follows.  Twice he looks back over his shoulder.  He opens the truck door and sweeps his arm wide in a welcoming gesture. The cat jumps in, settles herself on the passenger seat, and washes her face.

Two seasons have passed since I found my hunter.  He wasn’t much of a hunter, really—I could read that much in the way he moved.  It was plain to me that he wasn’t really interested in hunting as much as he was playing a role.  It was also plain to me that he thought he didn’t like cats.  Most people who give cats a chance find they like them after all.

These days I wait by the window for my hunter.  He comes in with a blast of cold air.  I jump down and wind my way around his legs.  He stoops to pet me and says a word or two.  Then we pass a companionable evening in silence.  His gun is in the attic, tucked away forever.

 

• • • Have you ever rescued an animal?  Please tell us about it: Untoldanimalstories@gmail.com

by

Kuruk: The Little Bear that Could

We have the pleasure of featuring a guest post by Kuruk (with Julianne Victoria)   

I was born near Wasilla, Alaska into a large pack of 170 Alaskan Malamutes.  That’s much bigger than wolf packs, but we haven’t been wolves for thousands of years. We much prefer to be with people, helping them work and lounging with them.  But my pack was trapped in this place that humans call a puppy mill.

I vaguely remember playing with my siblings when we were very small and free to wrestle in the snow and explore a little.  Mostly, though, I remember being on that four-foot chain, like all of my pack family.  I tried to make the most of it by learning how to play without getting all twisted up.  I must have learned well, because my Mama now says I am like Houdini (whoever that is) and can get unwrapped no matter how tangled I might get my leash.

My puppyhood was not easy.  Often we didn’t have enough to eat or drink and survived by eating snow with a little dirt.  I didn’t like it, but I didn’t know anything else.  When I was about one year old, things got even worse and some of our pack started to die.  The grandparent pups told us kids stories about warm, dry homes where pups lived alongside humans and got lots of food, water, and best of all…treats!  I didn’t know what that was, but they made it sound awesome.

One day when all seemed hopeless, some humans came and put us all in crates and trucks.  I was terrified.  I had never left this place I called home.  They took all of us to a shelter where we were inspected by doctors.  My anxiety was so severe that I was put on medication.  I don’t know if it helped because I was still very nervous and shy, but at least I now had food.

After a few months, four of us were put into crates and flown to Seattle by the Washington Alaskan Malamute Adoption League (WAMAL).  They gave me the name “Kuruk,” which means “Bear” in the Native American Pawnee language.

After a short stay in a kennel I went to live with Foster Mama Miss Cindy and her two snow pups, Tara and Timber.  She took us hiking a lot, but everything was so new that my anxiety was bad.  After about a month I started to understand the leash thing and even like the hikes.  Tara was my shining star—she showed me to trust humans and enjoy nature.

And then a lady named Mama and a big Malamute named Simba came to visit me. They asked if I would like to live with them.  I was shy and nervous, but I said ok.  The day before my new Mama took me home, I approached Miss Cindy for the first time and crawled on her lap to say thank you for all she did for me.

My Mama took to my very own home.  The stories the grandparent pups had told us were true—I couldn’t believe it!  I still needed lots of healing, but over time I got better and better.  Big brother Simba taught me everything he knew, and Mama poured lots of love into me.  I gained 50 pounds since being rescued, was quickly off the medication, eventually stopped pacing all the time, and slowly got used to people.  Children were especially frightening, but now, two years later, I like to give them kisses.

It’s been a long journey.  Sometimes I’m still a little shy around strangers, but usually I will say hello.  Mama is very proud of me.  I even had the courage to start my own poetry blog, www.haikubyku.com.  I am also working on completing a book about my rescue story, including some haiku, and will donate a portion of the proceeds to animal rescue groups.

I am so thankful for being rescued, and I want to help other animals like me.  We all deserve to be loved!  Wooooowooooooo!

—

• When you buy dogs from pet stores (and some private owners), you are likely buying from puppy mills.  The exceptions are PetSmart and PetCo, which feature adoptable pets from local rescues and shelters.  Please adopt from rescue organizations/shelters.  One in four pets in shelters nationwide is a purebred.

•• To view a video about Kuruk’s rescue, please view: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZeBOs9gqXQ

•••  To be a guest blogger, please contact us via our contact page or at untoldanimalstories@gmail.com   We’d be delighted!

by

Frank Sinatra

Why they named me Frank Sinatra, I am not sure.  The neighbors laugh every time they say the name.  From what I understand, Frank was a singer.  Perhaps they named me because of my voice.  I wouldn’t say it’s mellifluous, like the birds that live at the borders of our pasture, but to my ears the intake breath sound of Hee and outflow breath sound of Haw have a nice, solid sound, like large farm machinery scraping across the floorboards of the barn.  I like that.  It makes me less lonely for my kin.

I do have a friend.  He’s a horse who shares the pasture and barn with me.  His name is Fred.  No last name.  Wherever he goes, I follow.  Mostly he doesn’t mind, but sometimes he swings around toward me with flattened ears, so I back up a few paces.  A little later, when he’s not paying attention, I sidle up and stand near him.  I’m quite a bit shorter than Fred, but I feel that my being near him somehow adds to my stature.

We came here from different places—here being this roomy pasture with a barn, and a man and woman who live in the stone house.  Fred traded hands many times.  He made friends at the first few places, but with each subsequent trade he kept more and more to himself.  He told me, What’s the use in making friends when humans can decide at any time to send you somewhere else?  Horses have no choice.  We’re compliant, and we withstand all sorts of things.  But that doesn’t mean that our hearts are resilient.

Fred came here five years ago.  I don’t think he or I are going anywhere.  That’s the feeling I get from our people, and I’ve overheard them talking about letting us live out our days here.  Still, Fred keeps himself a little apart from me, just in case.  Once in a while, Fred touches my neck with his nose and I bow my head in gratitude.

The man and woman take him on trail rides now and then.  Sometimes I go along, led by a long rope.  I like the change of view and I’m happy not to have all that saddle and gear strapped to me.  We go down to the end of the pasture, out through the gate, across the cool stream, and up into the woods.

Unlike Fred, I wasn’t so much as bought and sold as shunted from one place to another.  Children at one barn rode me a few times before becoming bored with me, so I went to another place where men in straw hats and suspenders and women in long, dark dresses worked me hard.

I pulled some contraption across a field, back and forth, back and forth.  I wasn’t fast or strong enough to suit them, and more than once they lashed my back harder than necessary to get their point across.  I strained and tried and sweated, but it was never good enough for them.  They believe that animals were put on earth by god for their use.  Never once did they touch me with kindness.  I closed my mind to it, but I never got used to it.

Eventually they stopped working me and brought in a broader, stouter donkey that pulled whatever they strapped to him.  In the pasture, though, he always stood with his head hanging low, his eyes half-closed.

I was sold at auction to the man and woman I live with now.  They coaxed me into the trailer and then out of the trailer, down the ramp, and into a pasture of tall, sweet grasses.

I kept waiting for things to unravel—for the food to become meager, for a command to pull something far too heavy, but it never happened.  Gradually I came to trust them.

Sometimes at night the man and woman sit on their porch playing wooden stringed instruments.  The woman sings.  Her voice is like a wisp of wind spiraling up into the sky.  Sometimes I’m inspired to sing along with her.  When I do, Fred stands nearby and listens attentively to the sound of our voices in harmony and the kind, kind laughter of the man.

-UntoldAnimalStories.org – We tell animals’ stories from their perspectives.  Gentle in our approach rather than shocking, we invite connection, compassion and, from that, action.  We also provide tips on what you can do to help animals, and we seek new action ideas, as well as animal and rescue stories, from you….  Please contact us at untoldanimalstories@gmail.com or via our contact page