animal stories

by

Ollie & Spuds – Chapter 2

(continued from previous post)   The cat’s name is Spuds.  The old man she’d lived with thought she looked like the color of yellow Finn potatoes.  He’d pulled her as a kitten out from under a bramble—mewing and shaking—on a busy roadside.  He gently stroked her fur with large, rough hands, looked into her gold-green eyes, and took her home.

Spuds had a life of luxury with him: curled up on the rug by the wood stove in winter, lounging on a sunny perch on the screened-in porch in the summer watching red cardinals and blue birds.  Spuds liked the old man, a lot; they understood each other.  But one morning when she went up to his room to remind him it was feeding time, something was different.  She jumped up on the bed and stood on his chest and peered at him.  She could sense him, but he wasn’t in there his body.  She called out to him.  Then she saw him in her mind’s eye, and his eyes were dazzling.  Then he receded and was gone.

Four days passed before anyone came to the house.  By then Spuds had clawed her way through the bag of cat food and found that fresh toilet water wasn’t completely undrinkable.

People came then, many of them, people who had never come before.  They pawed the old man’s possessions, argued with each other, and carried things out of the house.  Spuds watched.  A woman noticed the cat and picked her up, bangle bracelets clanging together, and put Spuds outside.  Spuds sniffed at the air, then turned to go back inside.  The woman blocked Spuds’ way with a well-shod foot.  “You’re free now kitty, go away.”

Spuds looked for a long while at the closed door.  Then she walked down the driveway and before turning onto the road, looked back at the house.  The windows glinted empty and cold in the sun.
Ollie & Spuds will be continued

Chapter 1: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2014/02/15/ollie-spuds-chapter-1/

Chapter 3:  https://untoldanimalstories.org/2014/05/04/ollie-spuds-chapter-3/

by

Ollie & Spuds – Chapter 1

There is a lane I recall, somewhere deep in dim memory.  I see it snow covered and winding and edged by black trees.  It is the way home.  I never returned there.
© 2014 Carolyn Cott

He lifts his nose to the wind and sniffs.  Something new.  With his head still resting on his paws, he opens his eyes and sees a flash of a ginger-colored cat, skinny and in pursuit of something, at the far end of the alley. red cat from free digital

Ollie climbs out from under a pile of rags and cardboard and stretches, keeping an eye on the cat.  The cat pounces and misses as the mouse leaps into a small hole in the brick wall and disappears.  The cat saunters into the one ray of sunlight angling between the tall buildings, sits down and begins washing herself.  The sun sparks on her ginger-colored fur.  Her movements are measured and deliberate.  Her eyes are slits, but she sees, she knows he is there.  She is watching.

•

It’s been three days now that the cat has appeared in his alley.  He thinks of it as his alley because he’s been there how long now?  Maybe two months, maybe four.  He remembers coming there.  There was snow.

The man had hunched over the steering wheel, his jaw set.  Ollie wanted to enjoy the car ride, but something was very wrong.  The kids weren’t there, although the back seat smelled vaguely of peanut butter.  The woman wasn’t there.  She had cried and stroked his fur before the man unchained him and yanked him toward the car.  The woman had whispered something to the man, who swung around toward her, his teeth clenched, saying, “No.  No.”

The man stopped the car on a deserted street.  He looked both ways before opening the back seat door, pulled Ollie out by the scruff of the neck, and sped off.

Ollie ran after the car as it moved farther and farther away, turned, and was gone.  He memorized the place where the car had turned.  It might be important.  Panting, he sat down, only then noticing the coldness of the snow.  He looked around.  The sun had just risen, casting chilly light on the faces of the buildings.  There were no people.  A tattered awning blew in the wind. A spear of an icicle crashed onto the sidewalk.

•

For two days Ollie ate only snow to quench his thirst, but it made him shiver.  He wandered the streets, looking for a familiar landmark and searching for food.  Then he found the alley.  It smelled of garbage and food.

Ollie tucked himself behind a stack of wooden palettes and waited.  A man in a stained apron pushed his way out a door and heaved a luscious-smelling bag into a dumpster.  When the door clanged shut behind the man, Ollie scampered up a pile of cinder blocks and bricks, dropped down into the dumpster, tore at the bag with his teeth, and ate.

He fell into a routine, wandering the streets in the night and returning to his alley in the early morning when cars and people came into the streets.  He had learned it was not good to be out when people were on the streets.  There was an afternoon when the boys chased him: chubby-cheeked, dressed in blue uniforms, with book bags dragging behind them, they ran after him pitching stones at him.  Most whistled past, but one hit.  He yelped and slowed down, and the boys laughed.  They were almost upon him when he ran again, cutting across a busy road and turning a corner to lose them.  Returning to his alley exhausted and thirsty, he went to the low depression in the concrete at the base of a downspout looking for water, where a small puddle remained.  Then he curled up into the tightest ball he could, and slept.

Ollie & Spuds…to be continued

Chapter 2: https://untoldanimalstories.org/2014/02/21/ollie-spuds-chapter-2/

photo by Dan courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

by

Wink

as told by Kim Kemple Cott

winkWink came into our lives one day when my mom, Helen, was attempting to adopt a different dog than Wink.  Six months after her rescue dog, Zac the Vizsla, passed on, my mom starting looking with very specific criteria: the dog had to be a small, manageable size and had to be a rescue.

I’d been helping her search for a month by contacting local SPCAs and humane societies and by checking on www.petfinder.com (as of this writing, petfinder.com is featuring 332,076 adoptable pets from 13,476 adoption groups nationwide).  The right dog hadn’t shown up yet.

A friend suggested we try a particular rescue organization in the next county over.  I called my mom, picked her up, and we headed out there.  We got lost en route, stopped to ask for directions, were given directions to a different rescue, and got lost again.  After getting lost a third, time, we asked a police officer.  He wasn’t sure where the rescue was but said that he’d find out.  He pointed us the right way and we arrived after having wandered through much of the county.

We walked up and down the aisles, drawn by so many sweet animals.  We settled on a little brown dog and went to the front desk to provide them with the kennel cage number.  While we were waiting in line, my mom noticed a small black dog sitting in the office of one of the shelter workers.  My mom and I looked at each other, both somehow knowing: this was the dog.  My mom asked about him and was told he was up for adoption; he’d just had his eye removed the day before (kids had beaten him  and he was found lying under a front porch).  One of the shelter workers had taken a particular interest in this Pomeranian/Chihuahua mix, named him Eduardo, and cared for him personally.

As part of the shelter’s adoption process, my mom’s landlord had to be called to verify that he allowed pets.  He was unreachable.  This was a problem, because we really, really wanted to take the dog home that day.  We explained to the shelter worker that the landlord had already given verbal permission, that my mom had a previous rescue dog living there, etc.  The worker looked into my mom’s eyes, then into mine and said she’d be back shortly.  We waited anxiously.wink black and white

She came back, stacking the adoption papers into a tidy pile, saying, “Everything is in order,” and winking at us.  We smiled conspiratorially, signed the papers, picked up the pup, and headed home.

He was tentative and scared at first, but well behaved, and he bonded quickly with my mom and me.  Mom named this sweet creature Wink.  She took him everywhere to help him socialize with people and dogs.  So many people were kind to him.

One day my mom took him into a consignment shop.  The shopkeeper said, “We don’t allow animals in our store.”  Mom smiled warmly, leaned in, and said, “I know, and isn’t it so nice that you let me bring him in here.”

•   With so many good, adoptable pets available—and with an average of 1 in 4 pets in humane societies nationwide being purebreds—why not consider adoption rather than supporting the supply-demand cycle of pet breeding.

•   From the American Humane Society: It is a common myth that pet overpopulation means there are “not enough” homes for all the shelter animals. In reality, there are more than enough homes, but not enough people are choosing to adopt from a shelter. Seventeen million Americans acquire a new pet each year—more than double the number of shelter animals. Only 3.5 million people, or about 20 percent, choose to adopt their new pet. The rest choose to buy their pets from pet stores or breeders, or they choose a variety of other cheap or free sources. 

Despite increased public awareness over the past 40 years about the need to spay and neuter pets, 35 percent of pet owners in the U.S. still choose not to do so. Many among this group intentionally choose to breed their pets, either for profit or for what they mistakenly believe to be a “fun” experience. Others choose not to spay or neuter out of ignorance, believing that their pets won’t breed accidentally.

by

Animal-Speak and Other Joys

IMG_2134 At the close of the year, I sit quietly, a cup of tea in hand and two cats nearby, and reflect back on the year.  What has been steady and true for me throughout the year is my family, my dearest, oldest friends, and my animals.  Each brings joy, peace, and comfort in their own way, and I’m deeply grateful for them.

The ones I spend the most time with—because I work at home as a writer—are my cats, Gracie and Mr. Bean.  Mr. Bean, who was infamously IMG_1924chronicled in the four-part “I Was Born on an Amish Farm in the Middle of Winter,” https://untoldanimalstories.org/2013/09/13/i-was-born-in-the-middle-of-winter/  blog post (several posts down, September 2013), is transforming gradually from over-the-top rambunctiously biting and playful to a more dignified, loving version of himself.  Even Gracie tacitly approves of him from time to time.

Gracie, though, I think she might be something akin to enlightened.  She is consistent in her loving behavior, and she never says an unkind word, so to speak, to anyone.  I suspect she sees things as they are, and despite what others might do, she acts unwaveringly in alignment with the principles of kindness, acceptance, and generosity of soul.  IMG_0072

IMG_0882A home with a pet feels different from a home without pets.  To me, homes without can feel spacious, but the space has a stillness and emptiness.  A home with a pet feels friendlier, fuller, as if the very air has love in it.  Animals give so much.  There are the antics, which amuse; the unconditional affection, which satisfies; the steady presence, which brings comfort; and, of course, the opportunity to do animal-speak.

If you don’t have a pet and are reading this, you’ll think the lot of us are certifiably nuts.  If you have a pet, I’m willing to guess that you do animal-speak:  the animal does something, and you provide the narrative of their thoughts and actions, in a slightly different voice than your own.

Animals have a different sort of wisdom than we do—one that is un-derailed by thinking and believing our own thoughts.  They trust their instincts above all else, seeing clearly beyond any veil of pretense and delusion to the heart of the matter.  These “lesser” beings, to some, have much to teach us.IMG_1873

by

Happy Holidays

Santa Hat & Dog courtesy of photostock and freedigitalphotos.net

Santa Hat & Dog courtesy of photostock and freedigitalphotos.net

Thank you to our Untold Animal Stories supporters, guest bloggers, and all those who take the time and care to treat animals with kindness.

Merry merry to all of you and your furry friends.

by

Lars

by Keith Barnaby*

securedownloadMy name is Lars. I used to be an outdoor cat. My people would let me out to roam my domain, explore, and hunt. Over time, other outdoor cats came and went in my neighborhood. I was friends with some, especially Shadow, another young male. We played and teamed up to defend against other cats who entered our lands.

One day Shadow disappeared, and his people brought home another cat, an unspayed female. She had many kittens, the kittens had kittens, and their ranks grew exponentially. Pretty soon there were lots of cats. Unlike Shadow, the young males didn’t like me and my life changed.

Now when I crossed onto Shadow’s and my old lands, I was the one being attacked. I fought but was bitten badly. My face swelled and my people took me to a man who made me feel better.

Why I returned to Shadow’s lands, I do not know. Why I stood my ground and fought the cats instead of avoiding a fight I could not win, I do not know, but I did so repeatedly. And this time I was hurt worse than ever before.

Once I healed, my people kept me inside. They made a new room for me on the side of my house with soft walls through which I can smell and see birds and passing cats. One day a cat came too close. I hissed and lunged, forgetting about the see-through wall. I bounced off it backward. The cat was so surprised he ran away. I acted like I meant to do it, and licked my paw in a dignified manner. Taught him!

I don’t mind being an indoor cat. My people put a little swinging flap in the front door so I can go out to my special outside room any kitty DSC01014time. When I see a bird, I crouch low, stare, and think, “One, two, three…gotcha!” Then I curl up and go to sleep.
—
A 2013 Nature Communications study estimated that outdoor cats kill more than 1.4 billion birds annually.  To protect wildlife—and your cats—please keep them indoors.
—
*Keith Barnaby owns www.youreldercare.com and helps seniors and their families save money, time, and pain with a flexible, customized elder life plan.

by

Angela Bassett Hound

by Cherie Damron (co-founder of Untold Animal Stories)

718848917_c1ad164ee0A few years ago I moved back to the small town in rural NC where I grew up.  I started volunteering at the local animal shelter, photographing adoptable dogs and cats for the shelter’s Petfinder.com site and the “Pet of the Week” feature in the local paper.  I’ve always had a soft spot for seniors and animals with special needs, shy pets, and animals needing assistance.  I started a small rescue service, taking as many of the dogs as I could that weren’t likely to be put up for adoption, finding foster homes for them or working with other rescues outside of the area (usually in the northeast).

One day in May 2007, Animal Control was called to come and pick up Angela, a 6-year old female basset hound, and take her to be put down.  Her back legs had become paralyzed and she was unable to walk or urinate on her own.  Had Angela gone to the shelter, she would have been immediately euthanized (there is no “hold period” for owner surrenders of high-needs/unadoptable pets).

The Animal Control officer knew I loved hounds and called me as she was leaving Angela’s house to see if I were willing to take her.  I met the truck before it arrived at the shelter and took Angela directly to our veterinarian.  He explained the surgery that was needed, which had to be done at a specialty hospital, and left it up to me and my partner, John, to make our decision.  There was no decision to make for me, and when John looked into those big, sad basset eyes as Angela sat crumpled in the corner of the exam room, he knew we were about to embark on a very expensive, difficult mission.

Off we went to the Veterinary Specialty Hospital in Cary, NC.  Doc called ahead to schedule surgery to correct the two ruptured disk in her spine.  The surgery had to take place within 24 hours of injury or the likelihood of her walking again would be slim.  Angela was taken in to surgery that night.

Angela came through the surgery very well, although bloodwork revealed that she is Heartworm Positive and has antibodies for both Erlichiosis and Rocky Mtn. Spotted Fever, 2 tick-borne diseases.  I brought her home from the hospital two days later.  Angela was still unable to walk or urinate on her own at that time; however, she had no problem wagging her tail!

By Day 4 Angela was going to the bathroom on her own and there was very slight movement in each of her back legs. By Day 9 she was still unable to support her weight or walk without a sling, but there was a great deal of movement in her legs and she “pedalled” in the air as if she were walking.567079651_8e08b6735f

Exactly three weeks after surgery, Angela took a few steps on her own without the assistance of the sling.  Five days later, she was walking completely unassisted by a sling, and although slightly wobbly, she was able to stand still and support herself without swaying from side to side.

A week later Angela had a setback—she became depressed, lethargic, and stopped eating entirely.  She had a temperature of 105.5, and a full-blown case of Erlichiosis.  Four days of hospitalization, IV fluids, and antibiotics later, she was on the mend but fragile.

567089635_de0fba56ecShe came through that, completed her Heartworm treatment, and just prior to her spay surgery, Angela’s teats started growing and she began “nesting” type behavior. There was no possibility of pregnancy, as she hadn’t been in contact with any except my pets, and mine were all neutered.  Our vet suspected a “pseudo-pregnancy,” which I had never even heard of.  We went ahead with the spay surgery and the pseudo-pregnancy was confirmed.

Finally the medical procedures were done and Angela could start being a dog.  Throughout her recovery her personality blossomed.  Angela Bassett Hound has become a fun, happy lady with a huge voice and a very, very big heart.  She loves everyone she meets.  Now, 6 1/2 years after her surgery, at almost 13 years old, Angela has moved across country twice, attended Basset Tea Parties” with founders, and although she is slowing down a bit, she now loves to run and play on the beaches of Cape Cod.  I am so very grateful that I’ve had the chance to have this wonderful being in my life.2011 11 26_0270

2011 11 26_0257

by

Frankie Valli & Phoenix – Part II

DSCN1401The sun set, and with it came a sinking feeling.  I looked around at the field where I had spent the day grazing.  I looked at Frankie, who had kept close to me throughout the day.  I looked at the evening sky and felt a longing I had never before felt.  I looked toward the road I had traveled earlier that day, and I walked toward it.  By the time I reached the fence, I had the momentum and force to press through it effortlessly, toppling the wooden post.

Frankie watched in disbelief, his head swiveling from me to the fence and back again.  He took a tentative step beyond the fence line, thought better of it, and turned back into his pasture.  As I rounded the bend in the road, I looked back at him one last time, his face a portrait of disappointment.

I retraced my steps from earlier that day, taking my time.  A car came up behind me, slowed, and followed me from a respectful distance.  At the bottom of the long hill, I turned right and then left toward my home.  I stood in the yard and peered in the kitchen window waiting for someone to notice me.  The people who had followed me knocked on the door and my family emerged, talking all at once and laughing.  I was home.DSC_0669

A few days later, we repeated the journey up the road to Frankie Valli’s pasture.  My people told me that I had to stay this time, that I would come to appreciate Frankie, that they would visit me.  Being philosophical and ruminative by nature, I decided to take this in stride.  I settled into life with Frankie.

When the chilly autumn wind swirled the leaves into the sky, the calf that had been growing inside me since the winter began to stir.  In early November, my baby boy was born.  Life is good.

by

Frankie Valli & Phoenix – Part 1

DSC_0679He’s a steer who was named for his breed (Jersey), and his gender (boy).  They dubbed this Jersey boy Frankie Valli.  Because his people find it odd to holler “Frankie Valli” across the pasture, and because he trots over to half that name, he’s just “Frankie.”

I’d heard my people talk about him, this young, comical, undignified steer.  The creed of cows is this: We turn slowly toward points of interest.  There’s gravity in our movements.  We study things ruminatively.  Frankie does none of these things.

I’d heard people talk of their plan:  I was to be moved to Frankie’s place.  I thought: nope.  People are peculiar.  They’re so industrious, always in motion and transporting things here and there, driving from place to place and back again, and talking, talking, talking.  We cows stand in the pasture and eat and observe.  Who is the wiser species?

The day came when they slipped a halter over my head, and a parade of people walked me away from my home to Frankie’s.  Walking at the center of the procession of children and adults, I enjoyed the view, gazed at the hills and the yellow and purple flowers dotting the meadow, and listened to the clip-clopping of my hooves and the people’s softer tread.

At the pasture, they set me free.  Frankie lifted his head at my arrival, pulled his neck back in disbelief, then gamboled over to the fence that separated us.  He kicked up his hind legs and danced.  I was not impressed, so he tried harder.  To settle him down, I strolled over and touched my nose to his.  This calmed him, and we walked along our respective sides of the fence together.

When the gate opened I went into Frankie’s pasture.  He playfully put his head down and pushed against mine.  Not a good idea.  I pressed him into walking backwards.  Once I’d made my point, Frankie behaved, and we passed the rest of the day grazing on sweet grasses.DSC_0663

When the dimming of the day came, I began to miss my family and the comforting scent of my barn and kin.

…to be continued

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/