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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

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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!

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• 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!

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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

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The Raleigh Dama

raleighI was born under a porch where I nestled with my mother and siblings in the cool, shaded dirt.  We stayed put when she left each night; she didn’t tell us to do so, but she made it clear somehow.  We weren’t inclined to wander anyway—there were odd sounds at night beyond the latticework that separated us from the world.  So we chewed on each other, and climbed on top of each other, and silently curled around each other, awaiting her return.  She came back before first light.  We nursed happily and slept.

One morning there was commotion outside our hideaway.  Our mother stepped in front of us, tense.  There was a wrenching sound, then the latticework fell away and sunlight streamed in.  A man and woman stooped down and peered at us, making friendly little sounds.  My mother, wary, moved toward them, her thin body silhouetted against the glare.  She sniffed their hands then allowed them to pet her.  She turned to us and meowed, and we came to her.  The man gently scooped all four of us kittens up at once in his arms and placed us in a crate.  He called to my mother, who looked at us in the crate, glanced to the side toward freedom, looked at us again, then climbed into the crate.  We pressed against her body on the jostling ride.

We came to a place of meowing cats and barking dogs and talking people.  A woman carried us to a cage in a back room.  Another woman draped our mother across her shoulder, petting her, and brought her to join us.  There was a bowl of water, into which I dipped my nose and sneezed repeatedly.  There was a bowl of food that my mother ate, all at once.  There was a soft blanket on which we slept and passed the time together.

People came and went—tall people and little people, high voices and low voices, kind hands that pet us and fed us.  My mother grew less boney.  We grew bigger.

An older man came one day, white haired and angular.  He opened our cage and petted each of us with exquisite tenderness, then the spoke to our mother.  They regarded each other for some time, as though something was passing between them.  Before he took her away, he held her near each of us.  We touched noses with her, and then she was gone.

Two days later, two of my siblings were adopted by a young couple, and three days after that, my remaining sibling was adopted.  The cage had a lot of space to move in, but I missed the sense of belonging and deep comfort that came from my family’s nearness.  The people who cared for me were kind, picked me up, and spoke to me, but mostly they were bustling about caring for so many cats.

At night the shelter grew quiet and peaceful.  The moon came through the bars of my cage, bluing the floor and my black fur.  In its soothing light, I slept deeply.

One day a woman came and paused before each of the cages.  I liked the way she moved, like a blade of tall grass in the wind.  She lay her open palm against the door of each cage and talked softly to the cats.  When she came to my cage I stretched my arm out toward her and blinked slowly—the language of cat love.  She asked someone if she could hold me.

When the door swung open, I walked into her outstretched arms, settled in, and reached up and touched her face with my paw.  She laughed, a lovely, silvery sound, stroked my fur, and said something to the shelter person.  I went home with her.

Sometimes I dream of my mother and siblings, a far-off memory now.  In my dreams each of them has someone to love.

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Some have the mistaken belief that shelter cats aren’t adoptable, that they’re in the shelter for behavioral and other problems.  Generally this is not true.  Cats land in shelters because 2% of lost cats ever find their way home… because unscrupulous owners abandon them…because their people die…. Please consider adopting from a shelter.  There are 70 million homeless cats in the U.S.

About www.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 seek new action ideas, as well as animal and rescue stories, from you….  Please write to us at untoldanimalstories@gmail.com

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“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.

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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.

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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.

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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.