Uncategorized

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

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

by

“But I’m Not Really a Dog Person”

DSC_0309I angle my head to the side when I try to puzzle out what Mom is saying.  Despite what you might think, I know quite a few words.  My favorite word, of course, is walk.  Mom takes me out on the wooded path every day and I trot alongside her.  Sometimes we go to the creek where I fish for minnows in the shallows.  I won’t go in above my ankles because I do not like to swim.  Mom tells me this is silly, because I am half-Labrador and labs are water dogs, she says, sighing.  She throws a stick into the water for me to fetch and I turn and give her a level look.

I came to live with Mom and the girls after living three other places.  I was born in a backyard, landed in a shelter, and then lived in a college dorm, where I stayed precisely three days.  A woman took me away from all the chaos and set about trying to find a home for me.  I lay on her kitchen floor listening to both sides of a phone conversation (I have excellent hearing).  I heard the woman on the other end of the phone say, “But I’m not really a dog person.  We were only toying with the idea of adopting a dog, maybe.  But a pitbull?”

“Pits are the most devoted dogs.  They’re only aggressive if people abuse them.  He’s a pit-lab mix, with brindle shoulders, velvet ears, a handsome blaze on his chest, and chestnut eyes.  A sweetie.  You could try him for a weekend.  Just a weekend.”

The woman got off the phone, patted my head, and said: “I think we’ve found you a home.”

A little later a mini-van pulled up.  Two girls jumped out, ran over to me, and hugged my neck tightly.  Their mother stooped down, looked into my eyes, and stroked my ears.

The woman who had taken care of me handed the leash over to the mother. “Thank you for this. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

I hopped in the back of the van, lay down, and dozed while the girls petted me.

I walked into the house, and sniffed here and there while the mother tucked a dog bed in a corner, put out bowls of food and water, and hung my leash on a hook by the front door.  Fastening a new red collar around my neck, she ran her hand along my back and said, “Let’s see how this works out.”

DSC_0349I looked up at her from where I lay.  She laughed.

That was five years ago, and I’ve been here since.  I have a self-appointed job: I take care of my family and watch over them.  It’s what I do.

When I sleep I keep one ear attuned to what’s around me.  I like it best when my family is with me and I can keep an eye on them.  I worry about them and wait by the window when they’re not at home.  When they return I wag wildly, welcoming them as if I haven’t seen them in weeks.

They love me.  I love them.

—About UntoldAnimalStories.org—We tell animals’ stories from their perspectives.  Gentle in our approach rather than shocking, we seek to invite connection, compassion and, from that, action.  In addition, we 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.

by

Mouse the Dog

-3They thought it was funny, naming me Mouse, but I didn’t mind.  Trevor held me up, my oversized paws and ears dangling.  I tried to lick his face and he laughed.  He turned to the girl and said: Mouse…I’ll name the puppy Mouse.  The girl laughed and laughed then slid a piece of paper across the coffee table toward Trevor with a tidy white line on it.  Trevor put me down, patted my head, and turned away.

Trevor and I lived in a second-story room in Austin.  People came and went.  They sprawled on the couch and loud music played late into the night.  The girl came there often, stooping down to pet me, talking to me in a funny little voice, and picking up my front paws and dancing around with me.  I didn’t mind.

What I did mind was that on occasion I was hungry.  Then I paced and whimpered and nosed Trevor’s hand.  He’d say, I’m sorry girl, I’ll deal with it later, and stroke my head.  So I would flop down and sleep to pass the time.

One winter night Trevor and his friends went out, merry and loud.  Trevor left the window open to clear out the smoke.  Then there were colored explosions in the sky, sparkles raining down, and people in the streets dancing and laughing.  I licked my lips and panted and paced, but nothing helped.  Another thunderous clap came.  I leapt through open window and into the sky.  It was a long way down.  For a moment I was held aloft by the air then met the pavement, hard.

Sometime later I felt myself being lifted by someone whose scent I did not know.  I rested my head against his heartbeating chest.  I awoke again later to the chaos of light, unfamiliar smells, and someone gently moving me and binding my leg.

Trevor came for me.  I licked his hands in gratitude.  He took me home and helped care for me, along with some people I had not known.  These people came from time to time, delivering bags of dog food and talking gently to me, and taking me on car rides to the vet’s office. They always delivered me back to Trevor.

The girl was there sometimes, the one who spoke to me in a funny voice.  One day she and Trevor argued loudly.  It hurt my ears and I got as far away as I could.  Trevor left, slamming the door.  The girl walked back and forth quickly, gathering her things and stuffing them into her bag.  Then she looped my leash around my neck and we left.  We never came back.

—

FriendsofMrsP.org funded Mouse’s surgery and provided food and rides to the vet for follow-up care until Mouse disappeared with Trevor’s former girlfriend.  Trevor searched for Mouse but never found her.  FriendsofMrs.P.org is a non-profit organization with 100% of funds going directly to the animals’ care and rescue.

by

The Round-Headed Cat

Four winters.  That’s how long I was here. I remember each icy blast, each deep snow, and the mice far beneath, tucked into burrows I could not hope to reach.  I slept beneath the bramble and awakened with snow perched on branch and fur.

On the days when the creek’s ice cracked along the edges and snow melted in rivulets toward the pond, I knew I would not go hungry.

Four summers.  That’s how long I was here.  Other cats came and went from this place, and I fought often and hard for hunting rights, for the right to walk this piece of borrowed earth for a time.

You saw me one summer’s day, skirting along the edge of the forest.  I saw in your eyes compassion and distress at my gristly body.  You turned and disappeared inside, then returned with two small, circular objects, one with silvery water, the other with luscious scents.  You placed them at the garden’s edge and spoke softly to me:  “This is for you.”  I blinked slowly at you, acknowledging.

The scent of food brought back fragments of memory:  an old woman, a petting hand, a warm house.

I ate and drank my fill, then slipped off into the forest.  You watched.

Four days.  That’s how long you fed me.  On the fifth day, you placed a steel box on the ground with food and water inside.  I walked around it, wary, sniffing.  It smelled of other animals, and I sensed that you meant to trap me.  What I did not know then was that you would have taken me in and cared for me.

You dreamed about me that night—do you remember?  You stood on the back porch as I walked away, leaning into the wind.  I turned back toward you, my face round and scarred, my eyes telling you wordlessly: I will not return.  Did you remember every detail of the dream as you awoke, as if it were real?

Four days.  That’s how long you continued to set the trap with food and water.  On the fifth day you peered for a long time at the place where you had seen me in the dream.  Then you put away the trap and scattered the food in the forest for other animals to find.