Winston & Bogey

After staying home with Samuel for over a year, I was climbing the walls; or if you’d rather, painting them.  My world, after being so full of humans at the chamber of commerce had become rather small, chiefly comprised of Samuel and Nic.  At first a world this size was enough for us. I was working at getting the rhythm of motherhood – simultaneously to an infant and a puppy -- under my belt.  Samuel and Nic both were just getting familiar with the world, itself, and we had each other for company. 

Gradually, Samuel began to notice other babies and wanted to play with them.  I tried joining a couple of mom-groups, but quite frankly I felt they devolved into what, among some are not-so-politely referred to as a “stitch and bitch.”  I had better things to do with my time than lament about the cost of pork chops and complain about how often my husband went out of town.  Things needed to get done around my house and because I wasn’t working outside our home, I felt the person just right for those jobs was me.  So, I appraised the ‘to-do’ list and started painting the place.  Samuel was underfoot and bored, so at first we tried the YMCA baby & mom gym.  That was fun but too short and kept me away from the paint cans. 

It was time for more drastic measures. 

That’s when I thought of Cottesmore.  When I was working for the chamber of commerce, we held our weekly public affairs forum meetings at Cottesmore of Life Care.  It is a nursing home that encourages the community to engage with them by offering up its cafeteria as fee public meeting space.  They also run a day care, started at first to care for the children of the nursing staff and then expanded to local residents.  Would they take Samuel one day a week so I could get back to schalacking those walls of mine?  Of course and he settled in nicely to the routine, which soon grew to two days a week – quite a luxury for a one-income family – so I painted up a storm and gardened like a fiend on those days. 

But I was lonely.  Flat out, I missed being around grown ups.  As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, while painting the kitchen walls one day the local telephone company called and offered me a job as their public relations and marketing manager.  Then, Samuel’s forays into day care became a five-day-a-week adventure.  Every morning, I’d trot into Cottesmore with him as I’d seen the other moms do two years before. 

And, there was this black and white cat.  It came in when I brought in Samuel one of the first times.    

“Oh my goodness,” I said to Maria, the receptionist at Cottesmore.  “I just let a cat in here by mistake.”

“Oh, that’s no mistake,” she assured my astonished self.  “That’s probably just Winston.  It’s okay.  He lives here.”

What?  I wondered.  A cat in a nursing home?  I’d heard of shop cats but that was a new one.  Later, when I mused on it some more, this actually made sense.  Most of the residents at Cottesmore enjoyed pets throughout their lives.  Why not bring a sense of normalcy and ‘home’ to what can be otherwise a very clinical, hospital-like environment. 

So, on most mornings when I came in, the cat went out.  And, when I went out the cat came back in.  Cats do these things. 

Then, one morning the cat went out when I came in and then was waiting to go out again as I left just a few minutes later. What?

“Oh that’s just Bogey, Winston’s brother,” Maria explained in answer to my unspoken question. 

Pamm Shelton, their activities director, told me later that Cottesmore had tried bringing in a dog for the residents, but it was just too jumpy and excitable. Then, just when the dog found a more suitable home, “Winston Churchill” and “Humphrey Bogart” came to the nursing home in an unexpected turn of events.

But when a match that’s “too perfect” between humans and animals comes together, I don’t think there are any coincidences. 

Winston or Bogey could be found curled up on a resident’s bed, enjoying a ride on a cart full of linens, or “getting a tan” under desk lamps at any given time throughout the nursing home.  “It is funny, but also amazing,” Pamm explained, “Those cats just seem to know who needs an extra bit of comfort and just when to do show up.”  They keep us either laughing or shaking our heads every day.”

A few months later, we lost our beloved day care center director and with that change, it signaled to me that it was time to move Samuel to a new daycare.  The next time I stopped into Cottesmore it was several months later.  I visited as a guest at the Rotary Club meeting, which happens each Friday morning in the cafeteria. 

At the end of the meeting one of the cats was stationed by Maria’s desk watching this large group of people leave, obviously interested in the goings-on.  Since both cats had black and white markings that were nearly identical, I couldn’t tell who-was who.  I bent over and gave him a pet and asked Maria how Winston and Bogey had been running the place lately. 

“Oh, Bogey isn’t here anymore,” she said, matter-of-factly. “He moved over to Olympic Alzheimer’s residence down the street.”

I nearly burst out laughing.  “You’re kidding,” I said. 

“No,” she said, straightening the papers on her desk.  “He and Winston weren’t getting along and we staff watched as it became clear that one retirement home full of a hundred and twenty residents wasn’t big enough for the both of them.” 

Seemed the cats figured that out first.

Later it was pieced together that they had been making forays together into the two acres of forest and houses that separated Cottesmore from the neighboring nursing home.  Soon enough, one day both cats went over and only one came back.  Bogey moved himself into Olympic Alzheimers Residence by slinking in the front door when visitors came in, just like he did at Cottesmore.  The staff at Olympic, some of whom worked at both facilities had a feeling of ‘what-was-what’ and called over to Cottesmore to let them know what had become of Bogey. 

And, just as he’d done at Cottesmore, right away he began curling up with residents, riding linen carts and warming himself under desk lamps. 

The founder of the Delta Society, and head of the Washington State University school of veterinary medicine, Leo K. Bustad, DVM, Ph.D, advocated often on the importance of bringing animals into facilities, such as nursing homes.  In his book “Compassion: Our Greatest Hope,” he cited many studies that showed that the presence of animals calm and soothe the residents of skilled nursing facilities.  And why shouldn’t it, he argues?  Many of these people lived their entire lives with pets or farm animals to care for. Why should that change because their residence has changed to an institutional setting? It’s still their home. 

When the nursing staff of Cottesmore or Olympic finds either a cat curled up at the foot of a resident’s bed and they are both sleeping peacefully, now that is inspiring.  It reinforces the basic tenets of our human-animal bond.  Our animals exist to love us and we are the stewards of their care.  It’s simply too perfect. 

Pohlease Hoarse

Image courtesy of... http://www.horseobsession.com/horsing-around-with-police-horses-in-paris-new-york-city/

At least once in your life, consider spending a few days before Christmas in New York City.  The department store windows are all dressed up for the season and flocked with sometimes more than just a wisp of snow from the brisk air.  Of course, adding to the fun are the holiday happenings, like skating the ice rink at Rockefeller Center or enjoying the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.  At the risk of reading much like a promotional brochure, in New York City during Christmastime there are glorious sights to see and a myriad of festive things to do. 

We rode to New York City by train from Washington, D.C., and arrived one cold evening at Penn Station to do it up right.  It was just like a picture postcard and exactly how I imagined the town would be.  We ate dinner at Le Cirque, a meal that included real goose pate in our first course, for heaven’s sakes.  If our hotel room was less than glorious, we didn’t spend much time there, so that was okay. 

Taking a taxi, the subway or just walking through the city was how we spent our time. Before heading up there, I’d read extensively how the Mayor and his administration devoted a specific effort to reduce crime and it showed.  Streets were clean and we felt ‘safe’ everywhere we went.  One day we walked all the way down to the financial district and along Wall Street, which was really small surprisingly enough. We ate lunch, a Reuben on rye, at a real New York Deli. 

Of course, like tourists do, after dinner one evening we had our taxi drop us at Rockefeller Center.  The entire area was ‘merry and bright’ and filled with people skating, walking together and enjoying a crisp, clear night.  Standing at the edge of the large square, we soaked in the scene. And up from our side came the slow, methodical “clip, clop” of horse hooves. 

Two mounted police officers were on their nightly patrols.  I’m sure they were there for the PR value of it all.  As we stood beside them they were swarmed by families with kids asking “can I pet your horse, officer?” As if the horses knew the questions by heart, they bent their heads down a little for an earnest pet-n-hug from the season’s littlest revelers. 

I smiled up at one of the officers who despite not saying a word had more than just a bit of mischief playing around his face.  He enjoyed the moment as much as the kids.  We caught each other’s eyes and so I ventured a brief ‘hello.’

“What kind of horse is he?” I ventured conversation by opening with a polite question.

“He’s a Pohlease Hoarse,” came his quick reply in a thick, almost surreal Brooklyn accent; his partner just about falling off his own horse in laughter.  Obviously, the question had been asked and answered many, many times over.  Boy, did I walk into that one!  I laughed too and got the joke right away.  Ah, tourists.  We’re so predictable.

“Well, he may ‘ave a little dawnkey in ‘im,” he followed, still playing the straight man and his partner snorting and guffawing at all the right moments.  Even the horses got into it.  Pohlease Hoarse numero uno shook out his mane and snorted while the other stamped his foot and offered up a noted tail swish.  I swear, the comedians Buddy Abbott and Lou Costello would have been proud. 

“Thank you for being here officer,” said a parent. Others chimed in.  It was a Pohlease Hoarse love fest right there in the middle of Rockefeller Center.  I imagine that for all the times those mounted officers had to work an unruly Times Square crowd on New Year’s eve or some protest at the United Nation’s Building, this was their ‘pay off’ – working for a grateful crowd.  We were all glad they were there. 

Later in the week, we had dinner at Windows on the World, at the very top of the World Trade Center.

I remember savoring our appetizers and drinks while watching the jets landing, late sunset, at New York’s La Guardia Airport.  They came so close to the buildings in the financial district I swear I could see the faces of the pilots.  Little did I know just over two years later I would wake to see on the news that someone else had the same thought, only with a much more destructive agenda.  Terrorists.  That beautiful restaurant, filled with elegantly dressed people gazing onto a sweeping view of New York Harbor.  All of it wiped out with two planes flown straight into the world trade center. 

When I saw the second plane hit the building on TV my first thought was of the pohlease hoarse and his mounted officer.  I wondered what they were doing and prayed for their safety and that of the countless other ‘first responders’ who would be going into the world trade center as the victims were streaming out. 

On September 11, 2001 the terrorists did just what they set out to do, striking fear, panic and chaos in the moment.  However, it did not last long.  And it included the help of both human and animal partners to restore order where it had been stolen.  Whether it was the pohlease hoarses, the sniffer dogs or the ‘comfort’ animals brought to the rescue and salvage sites to soothe the workers, I saw countless stories of animals that inspired many and brought a calming presence to an otherwise grievous situation.

There’s a song that quotes Matthew 18:20.  “Whenever two or more of you are gathered in his name, there is love.”  Sometimes the other that gathers alongside us is an animal. It’s unexpected and yet, just what is needed in the moment. 

Dega

You could say that my experiences with animals and the people they inspire over the past few years are somewhat unique; even special.  I feel really lucky to have been given this gift from the “Dog Gods” or whoever behind the veil bestowed this blessing on me.  It’s been a joy, a surprise. 

It took me a while to recognize the stories when they came my way.  I am still amazed at how they tumble out during phone conversations, or before a meeting starts, or while chatting it up with people in waiting rooms, even from the person sitting next to me on an airplane.

The giver often has to hit me between the eyes with it.  “Jacquie,” he or she will say, “this one’s for your book.” 

Oh, yeah, I catch myself.  Don’t question the gift, just honor it. 

I know this all came from loving and being loved by Chelsea.  She was such a specific inspiration to me.  Serendipity brought her into my life, as the “dog-next-door” and we fell in love.  Like all star-crossed affairs, she had a bright but brief stay in my life.  I mark my world as BC (Before Chelsea) and AD (after she died). 

If you asked me ten years ago what would open my heart to unconditional love, I would have naively answered you by saying, “oh, I’m already open to unconditional love.”

The truth is I never felt unconditional love until I was “owned” by that big, beautiful brown-eyed, bear-faced, honey-headed, apricot-and-white dog.  I burst out laughing the first time I saw a t-shirt that read “Oh Lord, please let me be half the person my dog thinks I am.”   

As you know you, I feel that after she died Chelsea visited me in a dream once.  Whether it was my subconscious desire to assuage my own grief or just plain truth, I still remember how I stroked her fur, embraced her and laughed with her as she wiggled and danced around me.  Then, as quickly as she was by my bedside and leapt up into my arms she was gone.  I feel so comforted and fortunate to have that memory.  I feel she came to say “I’m great.  I’m better than great.  I’m Super Chelsea.  I love you. Thanks for everything.  I’ve got things to do now, so I have to go.” 

I knew that I was the one left behind while she went off to greener dog-walking parks.  I knew that I was going to grieve her loss.  She truly was in a better place.  And, it was a tremendous comfort as I had agonized over the decision to have her euthanized. 

Since her passing, my experiences over the past couple of years replaced my sense of loss with a sense of purpose.  If there was any noble outcome from having loved and been loved by Chelsea, it was to honor her memory with a tribute to all of those who are inspired by the animals they care for.  I’ve gathered steam, and even feel at times I’m a quiet ambassador to promote the human-animal bond. 

In his book “Compassion: Our Last Great Hope,” Leo K. Bustad, DVM, Ph.D., writes about psychiatric and medical work that illustrate the healing power of the human-animal bond.  I’ve never met this man, but his words struck a resounding chord with me, somewhat like a tuning fork hitting the perfect note. 

His experiences make him well suited to serve in the capacity of encouraging scientific study to catalog the outcomes of animal partnership programs in a myriad of social, rehabilitative, and medical settings.  He is the former dean of the Washington State University School of Veterinary Medicine, a World War Two prison camp survivor and a leader of the Delta Society, a non-profit organization dedicated to demonstrating the incredible benefits that result from the special relationships between humans and the animals they care for. 

While reading his book, I had a “lightbulb” moment.  It was in his introduction when he wrote, “I believed that if we could mobilize … we could have a tremendous impact on many people—especially those who were lacking nurture and appropriate nurturing objects (which includes an ever-increasing segment of our society).”

Oh, you mean me?  Being so full of love and acceptance for myself and others as I am now stands in stark contrast to the person I was BC.  As a result of the chance I was blessed with to become an intimate part of Chelsea’s life and then ensure her peaceful death, I was a changed person.  It was a fundamentally life-altering experience. 

After a while, all this love and inspiration can go to one’s head.  I now understand the lunacy that can happen to someone after, for example, becoming a televangelist. Gradually, I settled into my new-found position as the self-appointed Keeper of the Flame for the priceless human-animal bond.  I soon floated in a sea of this universal love for my fellow man and dog…or horse or cat or any type of beast.  Animals seemed to know me; like a modern day ‘Dr. Doolittle,” I could talk to them…and their people. 

You know where this is going.  Soon you will hear a resounding thud coming from my spiraled fall out of this little slice of heaven. 

And so it happened on one fine June morning this summer that I needed to visit my veterinarian. My precious Saint Nicolas had now become a 90-pound golden retriever and a walking allergic reaction.  Even cotton, my gentle reader, can whip up acerbic responses in him tantamount to those caused by a flesh-eating virus.  It is a constant battle of me-against-skin to keep Nic comfortable.

I used to wonder why I was saddled with this great high-maintenance dog, sweet as he is.  However, with my position as Keeper of the Flame I finally accepted the possibility that it was in order to ensure my continued connection to my new “peeps”; my veterinarian and all-those-who-love-the-animals-who-own-them.

So, off to the vet I go, for a varied and sundry list of items.  I think it included some special kind of shampoo this time.  Oh, and along with me trots my now-three year-old son, Samuel.  He is the light of my life and so stinkin’ cute that entire rooms of normally lucid and articulate older women dissolve into a sea of knee-crawling, babbling idiots as they get down to eye-level with my son.  If you take a day in my world, it’s pretty much all about joy, love, controlled chaos and conversations with complete strangers that begin with the words “Isn’t he beautiful?” It’s a 50-50 split whether the compliment is directed toward my son or the dog. 

As I opened the clinic door, I scanned the room.  Off to my left I noticed a man quietly sitting there with sawdust on his boots.  He had his hands neatly folded in his lap as he stared down; counting the wood shaves speckled there.  Samuel, Nic and I entered the clinic with a foment of merriment and activity, looking like our own circus act and this man barely acknowledged our presence.  I recognized that face immediately.  It was the same one I wore while waiting for Dr. Lisa to tell me that Chelsea’s illness was incurable. 

Bringing an entourage into the clinic required my immediate attention.  Nic lunged toward people and dogs, trying alternatively to make friends and show off, while Samuel tried to disappear into the main treatment and kenneling area where the vet techs hang out.  Yes, we’re regulars.  Batten down the hatches, folks.  Here comes Jacquie and Her Boys, a.k.a. “The Wrecking Crew.”

After about ten minutes my business was completed, much to the relief of the clinic’s front office staff.  I began the process of exiting the building, taking with me one dog, one child, remembering also to take the items I purchased off the counter, and also taking inventory of my son to ensure we are departing the premises with the toys he brought in and leaving behind any items he may have picked up during our visit.  It’s a miracle I remembered my purse and keys. 

And, by the way, I did forget my keys.  So, after getting Nic stowed in his kennel and Samuel strapped into his car seat, and then undertaking a futile effort rummaging through my purse and pockets, I head back into the clinic.  On my way, I pass Dr. Kara, the clinic’s newest veterinarian, as she and one of the techs are walking out to the burgundy truck parked right next to my van.

On my way back out to the van, I see why they were headed out to the burgundy truck.  There, under the Snugtop bed cover, is the man in the sawdust-covered boots sobbing deeply over a giant, heavy-coated, gold-rust colored dog.  Dr. Kara and one of the vet techs are quietly exiting his space and I see Dr. Kara holding an empty syringe.  It’s right at that moment.  The dog is gone and so the man’s heart is actually breaking right there.   This gruff, dusty man, with logs and wood shavings scattered in the back of his truck is on his knees bent over the too-still body of his dog. 

I remembered that moment.  In stark contrast to this one; we were at my house.  Dr. Lisa kindly arrived with Elaine, her vet tech and with great compassion she helped make Chelsea’s passing a gentle, quiet time for our little family.  Afterwards we all together, she, I, my husband Sam, and my friend Nancy Wakefield carried Chelsea’s dead body out to Lisa’s car.  We all hugged and comforted each other.  This man had no one. 

I couldn’t stand it.  Knowing how much I needed help when Chelsea died, I could not in good conscience, get in my van and just drive away like who-knows-what.  Maybe that was why I was there that specific Saturday morning?  Maybe it was my turn to give back by comforting this grieving man?  At least that’s what I thought in the moment. 

Now, what’s that road to hell paved on?    

So, up into the truck bed I climb.  Kneeling in sawdust and dodging logs I sit quietly beside the sobbing man.  He leans against me and I gently lay my arm on his shoulder.  After a few moments, I ask, “What was her name?”

“Dega,” he answers, in between sobs. 

After just a few moments more, I tell him “When I lost my dog, Chelsea, I couldn’t stop crying for days.  Then she visited me in a dream, and her fur was covered in gold sparks.  I knew she was alright and I’d done the right thing.  Don’t be surprised if you dream about your dog.”

At this juncture, he actually stopped crying.  Wiping his eyes he raised himself up from his position bent over Dega and took a good look at me.  In a tone that expressed how absolutely incredulous he was, this man asked me, point blank:

“Who, who are you?”

I was so embarrassed I just about fell out of the truck at that moment.  He was right.  I could just about feel the splash of cold water as the bucket was thrown, proverbially, in laser-guided precision toward my face.  The next sound in my head was the “thud” of coming back down to earth in rapid free-fall descent from my perch, on high, as Keeper of the Flame.

“I’m just a person,” I choke out while trying to graciously swallow my slice of humble pie.  I think I managed to stammer something akin to sorry to bother you and I take several big steps back and around my van into the driver’s seat. 

Hearing the key turn over the engine, I take a quick check in the rear view mirror.  Samuel is playing with his truck and Nic quietly pants in syncopated, melodious rhythm from his kennel. 

And, I think:  What an absolute dip---- I am!

In one moment I imagine all the things this man could have done, from yelling at me to whacking me a whopper, all within an arm’s reach of my kid.  I ventured into his private, intimate, grief-filled space, a place that no one should go without an invitation.  Then, as the proverbial cherry atop the whipped cream dose of piety, I tell him some cockamamie story about how the spirit of my dog came a-calling from the Great Beyond.

He was right, who (the hell) was I?  Not everyone grieves the same.  Not everyone believes in the same things.  No one person can be comforted by anyone, for that matter, depending on the loss.  Moreover, when the platitudes include out-there-on-the-fringe testimonials from the self-appointed Keeper of the Flame, what inquiring mind wouldn’t ask the question:  “Who, who are you?!” 

If he has a generous sense of humor, I hope he’s still laughing about how some crackpot woman shocked him so much that he got wits about him enough to drive home.

So, wherever Chelsea is in the universe her memory still teaches me great truths.  Good thing the Dog Gods are teaching me humility with grace and mercy.  Grace, for giving me some things I don’t deserve, like the love of a brown-eyed, bear-faced, honey-headed dog.  And great mercies, for NOT giving me things I do deserve, like a Kapowie right in the smacker now and then.   

Chapter 4 -- Buttercup and Peanut

"Who ever said money can’t buy happiness never got a puppy."

  

So, all throughout my pregnancy, even with Chelsea walking merrily beside me, I gained weight.  Well, truthfully, I gained a LOT of weight.  Not as much as some, but more than I would have liked.  It’s important to say that during my pregnancy I craved BEEF.  I write it with all caps to emphasize the fact that I could not stand the smell of wimpy-ass chicken. Potatoes, even french fries, turned my stomach.  Yep, when I was hungry, I wanted red meat and lots of it. I should have known I was in trouble when the “large”-size pregnancy shirts got snug, but I was in a perpetual state PD, that’s Pregnancy Denial for you folks on the outside edge of this condition. 

I couldn’t imagine that the girth I was adding to my body was anything more than the baby in my belly.  And to put it modestly, I was in shock that it all didn’t fall off in the delivery room. 

For the first few months, as you know, I had enough to deal with between learning new motherhood and caring for Chelsea when she was ill.  Then, after she passed away and we brought Saint Nicolas into our new little family, I spent my time cleaning up after both the baby and a puppy…and not necessarily in that order. 

Amid the cacophony of activity in my ever-changing world, I’d step on the scale every week or so and now and then.  Occasionally, I’d cheer myself on with the loss of a pound or two.  Everyone around me said things like “you look great,” and “It looks like you got back down to the weight you were before having Samuel.”

And I took those comments for the charity that they were.  If stepping on the scale or looking in the mirror didn’t do it, the change of seasons brought out another set of clothes that I “used” to wear, which of course no longer fit.  In most cases, the zippers wouldn’t even zip, nor would buttons budge.  Along around mid-April I had to admit I had quite a case of the pudge.  And, no clothes that fit for the summer. 

So, in our little slice of heaven we call Gig Harbor, lovely clothing shops abound to help me fix that problem.  There, tucked in between the shops was a new clothing store, with the name Rebecca’s Closet beautifully swirled on the door.  And, there I was in the need of a new size of clothes for Spring. 

Oh, I’ll just take a look, I thought to myself.  Nothing harmed in looking. 

               

The place was fabulous.  Something in between Shabby Chic meets retro 50’s décor.  But, most importantly, she sold vintage clothing.  Not the smelly things you have to sort through at the thrift shop, but racks and racks filled with those favorite pieces you have in your wardrobe that you hold onto for years.  Then, she mixed it up with a line of new jeans and a few cuter-than-cute tops to make the inventory stand up and shine. 

I was in heaven. 

Sitting at the counter was this young girl, looking all of sixteen.  I asked her about the shop and, absent-mindedly mentioned something about how much she must enjoy working here. 

“Well, I do, actually, because I own the shop,” she answered, smiling politely and petting a small Chihuahua. 

Whoa.  Hold the presses.  This young girl owns the shop?  I felt terrible and apologized immediately.  She just smiled and said something funny, like how looking so young worked well when she didn’t want to talk to salespersons.  She told them the shop owner wasn’t available, which was technically true because she didn’t actually want to talk to them anyway. 

I introduced myself and she did so, in turn.  “Hi, I’m Rebecca and this is Peanut,” she said, introducing me to the little whisp of a dog curled protectively in her arms.  I noticed her dog was quivering and I wondered if I was maybe scaring him. 

“Oh, no,” she explained. “You’re not, he’s just cold.”

Those who don’t own tiny dogs (like me) don’t know that even though it was nearly 75 degrees outside on this warm spring day, the physiology of Chihuahuas and other very small dogs makes it easy for them to get too cold.  With the air conditioning going ‘full-tilt-boogie,’ the shop was a chilly 65 degrees.  Peanut, as a result was shivering from being cold, and nestling in his “mommy’s” arms to warm up. 

He was also wearing a dapper “Dog shirt” which led me to remark about his fancy attire.  “That’s another thing I do,” Rebecca explained. “My mom’s business has grown so much that I also help her market and sell our line of clothing for small dogs.”

After Rebecca bought Peanut, she and her mom both liked having the little dog around so much that they decided to purchase another pint-size companion, Buttercup.  Peanut was bought through a breeder in Texas and this time, they found Buttercup from a breeder in California.  Just like people, not all dogs are the same and while Peanut was a relatively healthy small dog, Buttercup was a bit more sensitive.

When Rebecca’s mom took Buttercup in for her immunizations, she developed a reaction at the injection site, which ultimately formed a cyst that needed to be surgically removed.  “She wouldn’t stop biting at it,” Rebecca told me.  Her mom, a former clothing designer, whipped up a small shirt in a soft cloth.

It was a big hit. “Wearing that clothing helped soothe Buttercup, and she stopped nipping at the incision so it could finally heal.  Plus, it kept her warm and she was a lot more comfortable all around.”

Being an entrepreneurial family, Rebecca’s mom started making small lots of clothing for dogs.  She developed a web site and named the clothing line after…you guessed it, “Buttercup and Peanut.”  If you visit their site, you can find anything from a simple shirt, like the one made for Buttercup when she was healing, to elaborate wedding attire, when you want to make an “honest woman” out of your dog about to be mommy herself.

In the years since we met, Rebecca’s closet has closed.  Nowadays, Rebecca and her mom can be found designing and marketing a top-brand clothing line, though it’s for our four-legged, not two-legged fashionistas. Rebecca’s closet is full again, but this time it is with clothing designed for the fun and caring of the smallest companions. 

Buttercup and Peanut inspired Rebecca and her mom.  Good karma is the gift that keeps on giving.  With their entrepreneurial spirit and their love of very small dogs, Rebecca and her mother have lots and lots of it.  You can visit them online at http://www.buttercupandpeanut.com/.  Happy Shopping!

I checked in with Rebecca recently.  She included an update, it’s below…enjoy:

Peanut passed away two and a half years ago from a heart condition from birth called mitral valve regurgitation. He lived to be six years old.  My mother’s dog, Buttercup, is still with us at eight years old. Now, my husband & I have two little girl Chihuahuas, Daisy & Paris.  They are both three years old.  I got both of them from the Chihuahua Rescue & Referral.  We got Daisy as a puppy, just a month after Peanut's passing.  We just couldn’t stand not having a little one to hold and it helped with the healing process. We got Paris just last year when she was two.

Becca wrote poem for Peanut.  I included it as I know you will understand its heartfelt message:

My Sweet Little Prince: March 1, 2002 - July 12, 2008

My sweet little prince

Oh how I miss you

Your broken little heart held so much love

and I am blessed to have been your mommy.

To know you and the love you gave to everyone you met. 

Your sweet little kisses and the looks you'd give me will always be in my memory.

You are still my good boy, my sweet little protector & friend. 

Now you are with Jesus and showing your love to those in heaven. 

Now you are my little angel watching over me.

You have changed my life in more ways than you will ever know. 

You have given me the love I needed and I know you still love me and your daddy. 

You may be gone from my arms but you will never be gone from my heart. 

 You have left your little paw print there. 

You have touched so many lives with your little

waggily tail and your soft little tongue. 

You are missed but never forgotten. 

Now your heart isn't broken.  It is as healthy as it can be. 

All because you are with Jesus, the healer of all.

I may cry for you but I know you are happy.  You were always a happy little puppy. 

Keep Bamma Gramma company, and play with Ebony.  Tell all those in heaven we love them.

I love you for always, I'll love you forever.  Where ever you are, my baby you'll still be.

I love you my sweet little Peanutty Buddy.

Love,

Your Mommy

Chapter 3 -- Jolly Old Saint Nicolas

To say that I did not enjoy celebrating the holidays with my relatives for my son’s first Christmas, and Chelsea’s last, was a complete understatement.  To say that my relatives can put the “fun” in dysfunctional is truly not without humor, however ruefully put. 

So the season started off with its general, run-of-the-mill frantic Christmas gift list-making frenzy.  I, the new mother, was busy taking care of Samuel and keeping a watchful eye on Chelsea.  At the time she seemed better from her November episode but she was just not her usual perky self.  Of course my husband was deployed again, to return home five days before Christmas and three days before his parents arrived to spend the holiday with us.  So, that left me to buy all the Christmas gifts, get the tree, bring home the groceries and prepare the menu for our festivities honoring jolly ol’ Saint Nicolas.  Oh and did I mention performing all these dazzling feats with a two-month-old in tow?

Even the Christmas tree lot guy felt sorry for me.  I got the seven foot Alpine Fir for twenty bucks, with a Christmas wreath thrown in as well. “Honey,” he said with his hands on his hips.  “You’d better tell me your neighbors will help you unload that tree or I’m coming over to your house myself.”  Of course I assured him all was well and I’d be fine, but my body was still reeling with new-mommy hormones and I shed not just a few tears for myself on the way home. 

Undaunted by my frantic foment of pre-Christmas activity, Chelsea and Samuel watched me ready the house for the holidays.  During nap times and at night, Chelsea was there at my feet while I surfed the Internet and let my fingers do the shopping…I’d appointed myself Mother Christmas.  In hindsight, of course in its 20-20 vision, I wish I’d just blown off any gift-getting and just spent time on the floor playing with the baby or stroking Chelsea’s fur.  But, I digress.  You must know the rest of the story, first.  Or, nothing else will seem miraculous. 

Throughout December, in between breast-feeding my baby every three hours, I was whipping up a meal or cleaning up from one. Early Christmas morning, I put out all the gifts under the tree.  Only Chelsea knew or appreciated how much of a feat I’d pulled off.  When I gave her a new dog bed and special dog biscuits dipped in white chocolate she seemed surprised and genuinely grateful.  She sniffed the bed all over, ate her treats with glee and kept coming over to say ‘thank you’ in her special way; wagging that beautiful bushy tail and smiling with a happy pant.

My gifts were grim and included a cartoon statuette of an old lady in garden gear and an ergonomically correct pillow that arrived unwrapped two weeks earlier.  If it wasn’t for my husband who managed to order a few things when he’d gotten some computer time at a stop somewhere in the Middle East that twenty-dollar Christmas tree would have been completely devoid of anything with my name on it.  Oh well, I surmised, I guess that’s what happens when you become Mother Christmas. 

On to the turkey.  For the rest of Christmas day, I was making breakfast, cleaning breakfast, arranging hors d'oeuvres, prepping turkey, stuffing, et al.  Chelsea and my new little son faded into the background as I whipped into culinary high gear, only stopping once every three hours to feed the baby.  That old Enjoli song kept humming around in my head.  You may remember it going something like “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan…” and, if you can actually believe it, at the time I actually wondered why? 

They say God gives special insight to mothers and about an hour before dinner I suddenly knew three things with absolute certainty:  My relatives were reaching a decibel level rivaling a 727 at take-off, the Jim Beam was half-empty and dinner needed to be served ASAP.  For those of you who want to know that my holidays were over at this juncture, I apologize. The alcohol + relatives combination continued through Boxing Day.  I didn’t know we celebrated Boxing Bay in the U.S.  Ah, relatives.  Predictable. 

You know, during those few days, I’m not sure when I fed the dog.  Chelsea was always so generous with me, but never so much so as during that holiday season, which was sadly, her last.  It was also my only year to serve as Mother Christmas.  Up to that point, I was working hard to learn the lesson of NOT being the family DO-er or the resident PLEASE-er. I totally exhausted myself and had such a horrible time that I finally GOT IT! If there were any true gifts from those holidays, I counted them as those I learned--to love myself, to do the things that felt joyful, only, and to shed the rest.

My New Year’s resolution was to take a family vacation.  That is, a vacation from hosting anyone at Christmas except those who will savor our time together and have a reverence for the holy season.  I’m not a religious fanatic; just don’t ever want my Christmas dinner to devolve into a frat party.   That lesson was enough of a special gift given to me during that holiday season, or so I thought.  

As you know, Chelsea died just a month after my “horrible holidays.”  The next week, a small piece of paper kept falling out of my wallet. Written on it was the name of a golden retriever breeder I’d met by chance at a pet store/vet clinic with Chelsea two years earlier.  I wondered why it was still in my wallet.  I remembered the note, but thought I’d discarded it long before. 

At the time, I thought it was too soon for the Dog Angels to send me another.  However, I tried to visualize what it would be like when one did come my way.  Would a dog just show up on the doorstep in a box or with a bow on it?  After yet another day of that tiny scrap of paper finding its way into my hands, I decided what the heck and just called the number I’d scribbled down years before. 

“You may not remember me,” I said in the voicemail.  “Met you at the dog store.  Big peach and white colored husky; lost her too soon; kept finding your phone number on a scrap of paper in my wallet; wonder what that means.”

The return call erased any doubt of why I kept finding their phone number.  This picky breeder who only has one litter a year had a litter at that moment.  The pups were about eight weeks old and ready to be adopted soon.  Two were already spoken for, but the third, a big fluffy male, she had been thinking about keeping for herself.  My phone call changed that.  “You can have Nic if you like, I think I was holding onto him waiting for your call,” she said as if it was a perfectly rational explanation for the unexplainable.

“Nic?” I queried.

“Oh, you can change it, but we named him Saint Nicolas because the puppies were born on Christmas morning.” 

At that moment, I thought of Chelsea.  In my heart was this feeling she sent me a gift.  One final gift from her, for the big dog bones, the bed she never used, for the way we loved each other.  I said “thank you,” told the breeder I would be a good dog-mom, hung up the phone and cried – again.  I’d done it so often over the past few months.  This time my tears mingled with both joy and sorrow.  Khalil Gibran never spoke about those twin cups, equal in capacity to one another, being full at the same time. 

That first month, it was more than a bit of a challenge to orchestrate life smoothly.  My husband left for another deployment to the Middle East one week after Nic arrived.  If I had ten dollars for every pile of poop I cleaned up, Nic’s or Samuel’s, I’m sure we’d have gone to Hawaii the next Christmas. 

Getting Nic to the vet, with Samuel in tow, was a sight to see.  I kept visualizing the scene like one from an old silent movie:  Get Samuel in the car seat, lug the dog crate into the van, find a pile of poop in the hallway, clean it up with a note-to-self to put pup into room with vinyl flooring when prepping for next trip, load stroller in van, remember purse, cell phone and oh, yes, car keys.  Reverse process at vet clinic, to the hilarity of all on-lookers. 

I imagined it as if it were filmed in black and white – no voice over, just piano music and periodic cut-aways to subtitles.  Charlie Chaplin and the Keystone Cops would have been proud.  I still laugh when I think of it.  It’s my joy.  Heaven knows, after loving Chelsea, my big beautiful apricot and white dog, I’m gaining a great capacity for it. 

Chapter 2 -- Buddy

I met Darla by chance at a summer country music concert in Oregon sponsored by my great telephone company.  In the way things tumble out as they are supposed to, somehow I told her about my beloved Chelsea, and how she inspired me to love and to become a mother.  There in the warm night air, I watched Darla and her husband, Troy, exchange knowing glances.

“Buddy,” they said simultaneously, more to each other than to me.  I recognized a love, too perfect, immediately and asked how I could reach Darla to talk about Buddy.  By the way, what type of animal was he? 

“Buddy’s my horse, and I’d love to talk about him anytime,” she replied eagerly, handing me her business card.  Glancing at it, I read the words “Strawberry Mountain Mustangs, a 501©3 Non Profit organization.  Did she train mustangs? I wondered to myself. 

“Troy and I rescue them,” she answered to my unspoken question. I stowed the card in my pocket and then filed it for safekeeping knowing that in the right time, I would be ready to hear this story about the love between a horse and his girl. 

Life being what it is, with a kidlet, a full-time career and all the stuff we juggle in between, I was well into the Christmas season before that time actually came.  On a quiet afternoon I finally dug through my “Too Perfect folder,” and with a sigh of gratitude came out of the morass of papers with Darla’s card in my hand. 

As I read it closely, this time I noticed these words:  Adopt ~ Foster ~ Donate ~ Volunteer.  Below that was their website:  http://www.strawberrymountainmustangs.com/.  Even though I was eager to talk to Darla, I decided to peruse her site and learn more about the organization, first.  Then, we could spend time talking specifically about Buddy and how he inspired her. 

As the site came up, I was humbled and dumbfounded.

There on the homepage was a photo and eulogy to Buddy, who died from colic at the end of August, just a short three weeks after my chance meeting with Darla. 

His was a story that needed to be told.  I read the eulogy, cried, slept on it overnight and then the next afternoon, I gave her a call.  Even though it had been quite some time, Darla remembered me and graciously accepted my request to hear her all-too-brief love story about Buddy.

“I’d always had horses growing up,” Darla explained, after I asked her how she had the courage to take on wild mustangs.  After graduating from college, working in the world, and then marrying Troy, some years had passed. 

“Then we bought 110 acres and I thought, maybe it was time to bring a horse back into my life.” 

Little did Darla know at the time what could come from owning just one horse. 

“My dad and I liked palominos, so he went to work scanning the want ads and Internet bulletin boards for one,” she explained.  “I wasn't really looking for a horse when I found Bud.  I kept bugging my dad, but we weren't really out "shopping" or anything.  It was a friend of his who had Bud.”

So, the trio decided to go out and take a look.  “At the time he was only a scraggly little yearling.  Still half wild...and a long ways from being the big "golden boy" he would turn into,” she remembered.

“I was trying to be level-headed before I got there,” she laughed, remembering.  “I said to myself, if this isn’t the right fit, I can walk away, I don’t have to go home with the first horse I see.  Now look at me, I have 28 of them.” 

When they got there, Darla found him to be a gentle giant, standing well over 16 hands.  The owner explained the big boy was an adoptee from a mustang herd and she was more than just a little surprised.  Mustangs, as many know, are thought to be descendents of the compact, nimble Spanish “Barb” horse breed.  These animals arrived on the continent several hundred years ago aboard explorer ships and took up residence in the open plains of North America.  To see this big beauty one would think ‘thoroughbred’ or ‘quarter-horse’ – definitely not ‘mustang.’  Darla was intrigued…and smitten.

They loaded him in the truck that afternoon and after he settled in at home, Darla got curious about his history. 

“You see, I knew right away that Buddy wasn’t a typical wild horse,” Darla said.

“How so?” I wondered.

“Well, horses that are rounded up by the Bureau of Land Management, the BLM, get a freeze-mark on their necks.”

“Why?” I asked, learning as I went and grateful that Darla was an eager teacher.

“That freeze mark is a series of numbers that identify it as a government animal and gives pertinent info on the history of the horse.  Buddy didn’t have that mark and I wanted to know why.” 

“What was important about the BLM freeze mark?  Why did they do it?” I asked, curious.  I’ve never seen a wild horse up close and personal much less see the freeze mark that Darla was referring to.”

“That freeze mark means the horse can’t just be sold at auction by the adoptee.  Whoever adopts a BLM horse must own it for at least a year.  It’s a better screening method for potential adoption and the person can’t sell the horse for slaughter, for example.”

“Horses are still slaughtered?” I was clearly naïve and uninformed. 

“Well, I found out that Buddy came from Sheldon Wildlife refuge and at the time, a person could just drive there with a big rig, load up as many horses as possible, and then drive straight to the rendering plant.”

“Buddy was part of a large group that somehow got to Oregon and he was adopted as a colt and he had just one owner before me.  He was very lucky.  But so was I,” Darla observed. 

After adopting Buddy Darla found he was an easy keeper.  “He was so gentle, so big and so beautiful people just couldn’t believe he was not only a wild horse, but an adoptee as well.”

“Buddy was willing to do anything I asked,” Darla told me with as much pride in her voice as we mothers have for our children.  “He was just a big, golden horse that could carry a two-year-old as well as a three-hundred pound man who had never ridden a horse.  And, so after a while he just became an ambassador not only for wild horses but for animal adoption in general.” 

Darla began rotating through her ranch a small handful of other horses that were, for lack of a better word, projects.  She would get a horse, rehab it then find it a home.  “In one case, I bought a horse from a gal who needed bail money,” she laughed. 

The horses came to Darla in a myriad of ways.  Some came free, given by people who lost interest or had a problem horse.  Others she had to buy.  As the horse angels do, I suppose, once those in her care found better lives, the word seemed to spread around the universe and the ones needing her most found their way to Darla. 

“Did Buddy help the new horses adjust to their life at the ranch?” I asked

“Oh no,” laughed Darla.  I was surprised and she sensed the question.  “I know I said he was an ambassador, but that was for humans not for other horses.”  Buddy, she explained, was very mischievous and especially picked on the newest horses to the herd. So, he had to be kept only with those who wouldn’t put up with his hi-jinx. 

In researching Buddy’s history, Darla made a connection with the woman who ran Sheldon’s adoption program.  By then, she knew of Darla’s budding interest in horse rescue and rehab and in trying to do the best thing for the program, one day she called Darla in desperation.

“I know you have land and you’ve got the experience,” said the woman with near-panic in her voice that afternoon.  “Darla, I have a round-up of wild horses standing outside my window in holding pens and the wild horse sanctuaries they were supposed to go to just backed out. Can you take fifty of them?”

After Darla picked herself up off the floor, she replied with the appropriately dumbfounded response of “huh?”

These horses were so wild that they were almost like deer. “They were feral,” was Darla’s simple explanation. It was such an overwhelming thought:  Fifty wild horses? How in the world could she do that?  What would Troy say? 

The woman understood.  “If you can take a dozen,” she offered, “I’ll have them trucked to your ranch in Oregon.”

So, in the fall of 2004, Darla and Troy received their first load from Nevada’s Sheldon Wildlife Refuge.  Soon it became apparent that with all the costs for feed, farriers, veterinarians and the general upkeep around the corrals, they needed to become a full-fledged non-profit organization, with all the rights and responsibilities therein. 

With Buddy by her side all the way, Darla grew her rescue and rehab herd to hover around the thirty-head mark.  “But Buddy was my star,” Darla said.  “Everywhere I took him, he taught people about Strawberry Mountain Mustangs and dispelled negative notions about adopting and owning a wild horse. He was an easy keeper and such a gentle giant.” 

Buddy’s story has touched hundreds, if not thousands in the region and made a major impact on the practice of selling truckloads of wild horses for slaughter.  A local newspaper article said it all when it quoted Darla, “Buddy would make horse-people out of anyone.”  Currently, Sheldon Wildlife refuge can not operate its horse sales program. 

That summer seemed too perfect.  Income met expenses most of the time, enough to ensure feed, and all the other necessities.  Buddy, who had visited a nursing home and had no problems around the many wheelchairs and other equipment, was being prepped for more community outreach visits. 

Then it happened.  Buddy was hit with a terrible case of colic and died suddenly, leaving Darla too soon. 

On the jacket cover of his book, True Love, my favorite author Robert Fulghum wrote “every love story has an unhappy ending, sooner or later.” To expound upon that notion in his introduction, Fulghum explained “love is the grand prize and the garbage heap.  Love is a spiritual root canal and the only thing that makes life worth living.  Love is a little taste of always and a big bite of nothing…The love we really live is all the love we really have.  And the love we really have is the love that’s true.” 

Some animals come into our lives to open our hearts to love, to help us become better people.  These stories are important, so that we appreciate the role of animals in connecting us to the divine, to help us become closer to God and to trust that we can love and be loved unconditionally. 

However, some animals come into our lives to do more.  They inspire us to accomplish great works of service and fulfill an important mission here on earth.  Buddy inspired Darla to do just that.  In his brief time with her, he not only nickered his way into her heart, he drew her to help many, many other horses and their people.  Darla, along with her husband Troy, is now an ambassador like Buddy was.  She is also an advocate; a protector and healer for those equine friends in her care. 

She observed with a rueful chuckle at the end of our conversation that afternoon, “after all I’ve seen through the rescue group, I’ve come to believe that you should have to get a license to reproduce – anything:  kids or animals.” 

With that hudspa, I know Darla will find peace and understanding at Buddy’s too-soon passing.  Much of that will be due in large part to the mission she now fills in his memory. 

I wrote her the other day, to let her know I would be publishing Buddy’ story.  Here’s her update: 

 

Things continue on here @ Strawberry Mountain. We focus more on programs now than ever, knowing that there are just too many who need rescue, maintaining right at about 15 horses on site, with almost that many in foster homes around the state.  Our continual goal is quality over quantity. We work closely with local law enforcement, taking in all breeds of horses, even the occasional llama, stray dog or cat...but deep in my heart I still have a love for the wild ones…especially those on Sheldon.

One of our most recent cases is Grace - the most emaciated case the county - and most of the country has ever seen.  I started a Facebook page to chronicle her recovery.  It now has nearly 6000 (yes, SIX THOUSAND) fans from around the world. 

Buddy's legacy lives on through horses like Grace. Because of him, I've been able to communicate with people as far away as Bulgaria about rehabbing a starved horse there.  I've been able to educate people that "old does not equal skinny” and share information on the best way to rehab and feed emaciated or older animals.  Here’s Grace’s FB site:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Grace-the-little-horse-with-the-big-spirit/149993988359361   As you’ll read…she’s Grace:  the little horse with the big spirit.  Make sure to click on albums and look at the very first pictures.

Please also read on to see Darla’s tribute to her beloved Buddy.

On August 28, 2007 we lost a legend. 

Born in the Nevada desert with a pedigree written in the sands, he was as pure as the air he breathed.

From the inside out, he was pure gold; soft and gentle, yet tough enough to survive the brutality that would have faced him in the wild.  He belonged to Mother Nature and no one else, but he CHOSE me.

His amber eyes shone and melted the toughest of souls.  If the eyes didn’t do the trick, a persistent lick would.  He won over the heart of even the toughest cowboy.

Towering at 16.2 hands, some would call him a giant.  I called him my friend.

He won no races, no ribbons, no trophies.  Instead he won hearts.  He never competed in a halter class.  Instead he spent his time visiting elderly at assisted living centers.  That was where he chose to stand at attention, perfectly still, for those in the wheelchairs to judge him.  

He wasn’t a reining champion.  He did no fancy rollbacks, sliding stops or quick turn-arounds.  Instead he chose to move carefully, cautiously and slowly so that he didn’t dislodge the rider from his back.  Whether they were two or 62, Buddy took care of them.  I think he earned more “high points” this way than any other national champion ever could have.

Saddles and bridles didn’t fit.  Maybe they were never meant to?  After all, he had much more important things to do in his short life.  Instead we went bareback and with a halter and lead.  We didn’t need anything more.  We had each other.

Buddy was a wild horse from the Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge in Nevada.  His heritage was cavalry, old stock run by ranchers for our military.  It was in his blood to serve, to protect.  He did just that.

The lives he saved are countless.  Mine was just the first.  He showed me what true passion is, that there was more to life than a paycheck and that even a small town girl could make a difference.

Buddy went on to save hundreds of equine lives as well, many of them the wild horses on Sheldon.  Lawmakers and the media have learned about the inadequacies of a poorly run adoption program there and the danger our wild horses are in.  He also brought us the quiet survivors of abuse and neglect cases.  The malnourished, the broken, the beaten and the forgotten.  He stood back and watched them all come in, for us to care for and mend, and he waited patiently for his turn to shine.

Webster’s dictionary defines legend as:  a person or thing that inspires.  I struggled with the term I wanted to use when writing this.  Was Buddy an icon?  An idol?  A legend?  After reading the definition, it became clear.  He was my dream, my hope, my love, my reason and my inspiration.  He is, and will forever be, my legend.

Darla Clark, September 8, 2007