Angry Swans and Other Oddities...

I had no idea swans were so protected in England. 

Odd way to start a blog, I know.

I found this out directly after googling and reading countless articles on angry swans.  Apparently some swans do have anger management problems.  Swan to human encounters can be pretty dangerous.  Because they attack relentlessly on the water if they are threatened or feel their territory is threatened, they have actually been deemed the cause of quite a number of cases of drowning.  One swan, in particular, had to be moved to a new location because it capsized canoes and kayaks with its 7-foot wingspan.

I knew none of this before my encounter this evening with THE ANGRY SWAN.  In a way I am glad.  Sometimes reading sensationalized material can make things way more scarey than they really are.  So I went into the encounter with no prejudice.

I'm a bird lover from way back.  I had a parakeet when I was very young.  I don't remember its name.  It said one word.  I don't remember the word it said.  It also whistled.  I do remember what that sounded like. 

After the parakeet I graduated to a rooster that belonged to my grandparents.  They had a lot of chickens.  The rooster was a Rhode Island Red (I was older so I remember more).  It had an innocuous name like Roo or Buddy.  But it wasn't harmless.  It was kind of angry.  All the time.  Because my grandparents owned these birds as a food source, one day the rooster was gone.  I think he was the protein source for a batch of chicken soup.  I was angry.  But then again, I thought about it and decided that the fate of angry things in my family wasn't a good one.

It's funny how history repeats itself, because we are the owners of a Rhode Island Red rooster named Eugene.  He is never angry.  He loves us, and turns his head sideways as if he is listening every time we say his name.  He has learned we are a food source and we are good providers.

I marvel at gray herons, I watch for egrets, I see the red-tailed hawks buzz our property, I see owls fly in front of my car up the long drive access road at night, and (no, I am not making this up) I even had an encounter with what seemed to be a TAMED grouse that used to wait for me by the mailbox.  I love birds.

So for many weeks I've been thinking about driving over to a local farm and taking some photos of the swans that float lazily on their pond.  This farm has a small roadside stand that sells produce.  I stop there a lot, but never seem to have my camera.  I needed some ingredients for a stir fry and decided to hop over to the farm to grab the goods, finally remembering that I wanted to take this photo of the swans, and throwing my camera into the car.

Some of the flowers growing near the farm stand.

I've gone to this farm a lot.  It's an honor system farm.  You pick what you want, leave your money in the box.  Everyone is very good about it.  You can also cut fresh flowers, or lettuce, or rhubarb, or herbs.  The pond is just down from the stand, near a great barn, so after buying what I needed and putting it in my car, I headed down with my camera toward the water.

I have never noticed the sign on the fence gate that reads "Do Not Enter. Stay Out. Angry Swan."  Luckily, you don't have to enter to get to the water.  I do believe in signs that might warn of impending doom.  I figure people put them there for a reason.  Knowledge is power.

So I walked along the outside of the fence noticing that the lovely white swans were NOT in the water, but on land tonight.  Not daunted by this, I decided that the photos of the swans on land would still be photos of the swans (the key ingredient), so all was not lost.  To get a good photo of them, however, I would have to get close enough to the fence, placing my camera right against it, in order to not have the fence appear in my picture.

I must have looked suspicious from the get go.  I mean, first - I'm an unknown human entity.  Second - I am carrying a large black object that makes a beeping noise when I turn it on.  Third - I am clueless about angry swans.

The largest swan, now has a bead on me and has puffed himself up to twice his size and is making some guttural noise that almost sounds like huffing.  But, he is not hissing (which I have read is something angry swans do as a warning). 

I do remember being chased once by a very angry, hissing goose.  At the time I was faster than the goose, but I'm older now and I don't think I would be faster than a swan.  I'm thinking that the swan can probably fly over the fence if it wanted to.

This sunflower was a great diversion and took my focus off the swan.

Do you not look an angry swan in the eye when it is getting angry?  I have no skills here.  So, I did what seemed reasonable and what my cat, Harry, would do.  I pretended not to be interested at all in the swan.  I stood within five feet of him with a fence between us and turned my camera on the flowers that were growing so lovely to my left.  Focus, lens motor whir, beep, press, snap.  Focus, lens motor whir, beep, press, snap.  I became really interested in the flowers.  I knelt down to get a better angle on flowers low to the ground.  Focus, lens motor whir, beep, press, snap.  Then I remembered the swan and looked over.  He wasn't so fluffy anymore, and he was looking at me sideways, somewhat like Eugene does when I say his name.  He was entranced by the sounds of my camera.  And my camera isn't that loud.  So swans must have some really good hearing abilities.

I also noticed at the start of the swan-fluffing, that a number of ducks came down to the water's edge and were hiding under the overhanging brush.  I think they had come to see what happens to the likes of a human who might not be able to read a warning sign and take heed.  My guess is they make duck bets.



You can see the orange feet of the ducks hiding behind that bush.  They are
trying to act nonchalant, but they are sure I'm going to get creamed by the

   angry swan.

So I stood up again and walked the remaining way down the fence line closer to the water, where I snapped some photos of the lanky cygnets floating around.  They are teenager types.  Pretty soon, unfluffed swan has followed me down and is standing there starting to fluff again.  He is winding his neck back into a tight loop.  I've watched videos on this since my encounter and realize the neck scrunch is in preparation for a possible striking out.  Like a coiled snake.

Some crazy stuff runs through my mind on a daily basis, but I have no idea why the song Red River Valley suddenly popped into my head.  I started to hum it.  Loudly.  Almost fluffed-up-again swan has probably never had an encounter like this himself.  Humming, whirring, beeping, snapping woman was just too much for his senses.  He stood down.  You could see all his feathers retract, neck loosen up.  Music does indeed soothe the savage beast....and, apparently, the angry swan.  I walked back up the bank, still on my side of the fence, and right up to the little crest near the fence to snap photos of the other white swans relaxing there.  He didn't follow me this time.  Just cleaned his wings with his beak.  After that he pretty much ignored me.  Mission accomplished.  Swan photos captured.

I did not, in fact, take any photos of the swan while he was angry.  First, the fence was in the way.  If I could have gotten close enough to put my lens against the fence, I'm sure I would have payed the price of an even angrier swan.

I have no doubt he is an angry bird and very territorial.  Swans may be beautiful, but don't let that suck you into a feeling of security.  Be smart, obey all warning signs, and when in doubt hum Red River Valley.

Aaaarrrrrroooooo!!!

 (For the resulting photos of the swans, visit i got the shot on Facebook, or check out the website http://www.igottheshotphotography.com)

With a Chick Chick Here and a Chick Chick There...

Ee I ee I....OH!

We've had chickens for about three years now.  How we got into them is documented somewhere in this blog, as is the great chicken dusting saga. 

In all those years and all the additions, we've never gotten into purchasing baby chicks.  Instead, I would purchase chickens of laying age from a farm about 40 minutes away that raises and sells layer hens.

We've had some transition in our chickens.  Through general chicken population loss, or that clever fox that somehow managed to attack three in broad daylight, we basically have TWO of the many chickens we started out with.  Greta and O'Brien are our two laying hens that remain.  We lost our lovely Delaware rooster Screech, as the winter came to an end, to an illness.  Despite doctoring and mentor advice, he did not make it through.  Greta and O'Brien were lost without him and for days would not even come out of the inner coop area.  Screech had been with us a bit over two years, and he was extremely friendly and did a fine job as a rooster.

When I made the announcement on Facebook that we lost Screech, a friend wrote me that she had a rooster for me, and that's how we acquired Eugene.  He is a beautiful Rhode Island Red rooster that was only 7 months old when we took him in.  He has quickly found his place leading his harem of two and is the best hawk spotter I have ever seen.

Left to right:  Greta, O'Brien, and Eugene

We live among the red-tailed hawks who patrol our skies.  Some have buzzed us so low our dogs can leap into the air and just about grab one.  We also have raccoons, skunks, possum, and other chicken predators in our woods.  That probably explains why we built the Fort Knox of chicken dwellings last summer.  We like our chickens to free range, but now we only let them out when we are going to be working on the farm for great lengths of time and/or our horses are turned out.  The horses seem to keep predators away and chickens tend to stick to the horses fields and immediate barn/coop areas.

Every chicken loss was a great one here.  I was the one to find the fox attack.  After an extensive CSI crime scene investigation, internet research, and talking to other chicken owners, "FOX" was clearly the culprit.  We do also have coyotes, but they live off many rabbits and squirrels in our area, and rarely come close enough to our farm.  After a bit over two years with no attacks on our chickens, we felt that all was well in our poultry coop design and we were impervious.  Armies have probably fallen because of this kind of thinking.

The chickens even survived my mother staring at them longingly and telling me which ones would "make good soup."  (My mother's family raised chickens and ducks and during the depression the foul they raised were their primary food source.)  I keep telling her we don't eat anything we name.

The chicken "bunker."  If anything gets into this, they deserve to.
 

So in all this time we have not gotten into baby chicks.  We take the eggs from our brooder.  Even though Greta has a tendency to become broody at least twice a year, we manage to get her over that by either physically removing her from the nest or bribing her with treats.  It's amazing what a bag of roasted sunflower seeds will do when shaken vigorously.  Greta never misses that snack.

This year I was at our local feed store buying fly spray when I heard the peeping noises coming from the "chick" room.  Then, I did what I shouldn't have done.  I went in.  There were loads of chicks available, also ducklings.  And in that moment of cuteness and "how-hard-can-this-be-ness" I caved and bought six baby chicks.  Four Americanas and two Barred Rock Bantams.

When I got home I broke the news to my husband who is well versed in having animals thrown at him quite unexpectedly.  We totally cleaned the enclosed coop area and put the one week old chicks inside.  Unfortunately, this was during a period of time when we were going through unseasonable spring weather and our nights were dropping down to 42 degrees.  Even with our heat lamp, the internal coop temp was only coming up to 70 degrees.  Chicks need 80 degrees and above.  On that first night we decided to ready a large Rubbermaid trunk and bring them into our downstairs half bath, which is very warm as an interior room in our house.  It also made it easier on me for the vast amount of cleaning that needs to occur with baby chicks, since they insist on pooping in their feeder, in their waterer, and all over their bedding about 90x per chick per day.  This also gave me a chance to handle them at least once per day so they got used to me, and got used to the idea of my hand offering treats.


The chicks in their internal coop on the first day home.

I also got to observe baby chick behavior, which can be very humorous.

Within one week they were starting to grow and more feathers were coming in.  They began to learn about treats, which I gave them in limited quantities, especially meal worms, which they love.  It's so much fun to watch them grab a meal worm and run so that none of the other chicks will get it.

Within two weeks they were flying everywhere within their Rubbermaid trunk (and sometimes NOT within their Rubbermaid trunk), and often I would find one or two of them sitting on the edge of it.  We made them a perch within the trunk which they used instead of the edge.  Still, once in a while, I'd hear a volley of peeping like someone was being massacred, and go in to find one had flown completely out of the trunk and could not figure out how to fly back in.

This past week we moved them permanently to the inner coop with their heat lamp and reclaimed our bathroom.  It was starting to look like a frat house party site, so I'm glad to be able to have it back to normal.  The chicks have so many more feathers, are so much bigger and have so much more room to fly.  There is a great perch inside the coop, which we lowered for them until they are bigger, and their heat lamp keeps the temps at about 75 degrees at all times.  They seem quite happy, and have now begun to play chicken games with each other.  Queen of the perch seems to be a favorite.  I laughed the other day as the smallest of the bunch made herself as big as chickenly possible when you are "chicken little" and ran full throttle flapping her wings at her buddies to be sure they understood just how menacing she can be.

Our other three larger birds are living temporarily in the original coop we had within our barn (a converted hay room--we have two hay rooms, so it was easy to reconvert this one back to a chicken abode).  Once the chicks are large enough we will start segregating them from the larger birds so that they can see each other but not interact.  Eventually all things will work out.  We are keeping our fingers crossed that all birds stay with us for a long time.  I'll keep you posted, and hope to get updated photos soon.

Aaaarrrrrooooooo!




1984 and All That...

I'm sure that, unless you've been on a deserted island thanks to Gilligan, you probably have seen all the news reports about our government's access to our phone records.  For years I have had an aversion to phones, probably since watching movies like "When A Stranger Calls" and other B-rated cinema classics.  So, I'm going to admit right here and now that I'm not too worried about this.  Heck, I'm probably the most boringest (<--clearly made up word) person on the face of the planet when it comes to calling/being called/conversations/texting and all phone usage.  Too bad they aren't looking at my Angry Birds app usage.  If they ever find a connection between Angry Birds usage and the most-wanted, I will absolutely be pretty high on that ticket.

This did get me thinking, however, about the things that strangers know about us that we never seem to complain about.

My local Starbucks sees me just about every day.  I order the same thing.  In fact, I am so predictable, they often just start making my drink when I walk in the door.

It can throw them for a loop when I order, oh, let's say, a green tea lemonade sweetened, instead of my grande wholemilk hazelnut latte.  (To set the record straight here, my husband really screwed up my Starbucks "Cheers" thing I had going on, when he started being COMPLICATED in his order and getting his latte with "no foam, extra hot."  Now, for some reason, the barristas think I want mine that way too and I've become way too wordy ordering a grande wholemilk hazelnut no-I'm-not-the-one-who-likes-it-no-foam-extra-hot latte.)  So here, clearly, is a piece of information that many people know about me from this one organization.  (Pssssttttt.....this is what SHE orders!)

The other day I drove up to Pet Supplies plus to purchase some dog supplies.  Dog food (canned and dry), cat food, doggy treats, etc.  We just added six baby chicks to our household and they are living the high life in our downstairs 1/2 bath.  It's reminiscent of a tailgate event in there, short of the keg parties.  I decided to buy them some meal worms, since I read that I could start introducing them to certain treats soon.  I get up to the check out counter and the young lady is ringing me through.  I am one of those card-carrying members they see every week like clockwork.  Suddenly she picks up the jar of meal worms, crinkles her nose, looks at me and asks "so who are these for?  You don't usually buy these."  (Pssssssttttt......she bought MEAL WORMS!!!! What is she building in her basement?)  I explained the chick treat and all was right with the world.  No investigative reporters met me outside. (I found a great link about raising your own mealworms, which I may try so as not to raise suspicions any further about my mealworm activity.)

Every day on line I'm being traced and tracked and 117 cookies are deleted every night when my scanning system goes into overdrive on my computer.  Spybot warns me every third google search that some ungodly activity is going on behind the scenes. And Amazon?  Forgeddaboutit. 

They know when you've had kids, how many, what their ages are now and when to send them a birthday card.

My hairdresser used to record my color next to my name in a little book when I got my hair colored.

The supermarket keeps track of ALL my purchases and every time I return to the check out with a new order, an appropriate coupon appears with my receipt reminding me that I liked General Mills cereals the last time I shopped.

If we went back through all the things that are accumulated on just me every single day we'd have a profile to make NCIS records envious.  So maybe tomorrow, when I go to Starbucks I'll order a tall half-skinny half-1 percent extra hot split quad shot (two shots decaf, two shots regular) latte with whip.  That ought to throw them for a loop!

Aaaarrrrroooooo!!!!!

Google Loop Anyone?

Okay, so it's been a while since I blogged on this particular blog.  But that doesn't mean I haven't been busy.  I've been keeping up Danny's Facebook page, doing lots of photography work, packing away the hours looking at Pinterest pins and wishing I had the time to build a guest house, make lights out of cardboard lanterns, and lived on the Isle of Crete.

It isn't like I haven't thought about blogging.  I have.  Late at night after editing my next load of photographs (which I've also spent some time getting pretty proficient at doing), or watching a new video from my photography class, I've thought about getting back to "At the End of My Leash."  Many times I've been AT the END of my leash.  I wanted to tell you all about them.

So why haven't I?  Google.

You know as you get older, if you don't mark absolutely everything down on a piece of paper, you forget it.  Especially passwords.  Or how you originally got into certain accounts. (Sigh...)

I have a little, spiral bound notebook I got from a printer who was trying to sell me stuff.  I keep it in my desk drawer and now I mark every single, solitary account note that I can into that little book.  If a thief got into our house and located this little book, it would give him or her the access to an entire world of blogging, email, facebook, pinterest, websites, photography ecommerce, etc.  How EXCITING!

I keep waiting for the movie starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie about just this subject!  Cracking the Pinterest codes.  Why no one has done a social media mission impossible type movie is beyond me.

So, today, I decided that I would return to my blog.  Then I realized why I hadn't.  Because every time I try to return to my blog it asks me to "LOG IN."  And apparently, in a more non-lucid moment, I decided to create an entirely new email account that would apply ONLY to my blog.  Then of course, I forgot what that email account was.  And not only did I forget the email account, but I forgot the password to the email account I forgot (this is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the most lost thing you can do as a human).

I created this albatross of an account when I wasn't writing things down in little, spiral-bound notebooks.

On and off, all day, between doing real noteworthy things, like going to buy the rest of my garden plants, cleaning stalls, etc. I tried wracking my brain and the account log in screen to figure out what in the heck I could have named this particular account.  Most unsuccessfully I kept seeing this:
.....there is no account by that name
.....there is no account by that name
.....there is no account by that name
.....there is no account by that name (you stupid idiotic mere human that you are)
.....there is no account by that name (ha ha ha ha ha....we machines win and you lose)

Okay, so my mind was making up the rest, but this quickly became the WAR OF THE TECHNO WORLDS: MAN VERSUS MACHINE: MACHINE VERSUS GOOGLE!!!!!

Google gave me some options.  They basically can be summed up into this loop:
"Hi silly human!  You are here because you've forgotten who you are.  We are going to torture you for a while and then if you are smart enough, and you can get around this continuous loop of non-help we are about to provide you, we will allow you access back into whatever you are seeking.  But you have to be smart.  We only let smart people out of the loop.  And it's pretty endless.  Have a nice day!   MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!"

So, I was given a few ways to find my way back.  First it asked me for the name of the account I could not remember.  Uh huh.  Scratch that one.

Then it asked me to answer some questions.
"When did you create this account?" Month, Day, Year
WTF?  If I can't remember the password, how am I supposed to remember when I created the account?
"Oh, if you can't remember exactly, go ahead and guess." (I am serious.)
Guess number one entered.
"What's the last password you remember?"
I don't.  I don't remember.  I freakin' don't remember my name some days. 
Guess number two entered.
Four more just as invalid questions later I finally check SUBMIT and get this:
"SORRY, YOUR INFORMATION IS INCORRECT."  Really?  All those guesses you told me to make are incorrect?  Go on!

It's about this point I am wondering who designed any of this.  Do you think there is a two way screen somewhere and they are watching through my computer eye and seeing me pull every strand of hair out?  I needed a haircut anyway.

But, finally, I began to think like the machines behind this loop.  I began to think that maybe, somewhere, at some point, I was sent something that would give me a clue and I would be able to finally say:  IT WAS COLONEL MUSTARD IN THE DEN WITH THE KNIFE!!!!!

And I was right.  I found a clue.  I found an old email from 2011, when apparently I created the account, and it had the exact email address in it that I needed.  Then it was only to find out the password.  That in itself is another whole blog post.  But suffice it to say:

And the account information is in the spiral binder in my desk drawer, so chances are you are going to see more blog posts.

Aaaarrrrrrooooooo!!!!!!!!!  (Humans win....)

Oh What A Beautiful Morning...

Sometimes we have expectations for a day.  There might be a plan in place, a schedule, a sort of outline in our mind of what we expect to accomplish in that day, but the unexpected always seems to sneak in.  The unexpected can be happy or sad, frustrating or benign, simple or complex.

Yesterday started out with a sketch in my head of what needed to be done.  First their was the usual:  coffee in the morning while checking email, head to my mother's house to prune her hedges and plant her plant boxes, fuzziness in between to do what I felt needed to be done, and finally meet a friend and trail ride our horses late in the day.

It was a beautiful, sunlit day.  The air was so dry, the sky so blue. It was the kind of day that almost makes you want to sing. I loaded up all the gardening tools, electric clippers and other items I would need for the job in my Mom's yard and headed out.  First stop, coffee at Starbucks, followed by a quick purchase at the plant place.  I selected some lovely annuals to put in the planters at my mother's.

The yard work and planting took me a few hours.  I then drove to my Dad's grave site to plant some plants there, weed and beautify the area.  I had just enough time to get home, let the dogs out for some play time, give the horses more hay, eat something, get changed, and meet my friend for that trail ride.

That's when hell in a handbasket came to visit.

My lovely android phone has been in a time warp lately.  Text messages seem to get stuck in cyberspace, then, purely on whim, arrive in my phone, sometimes many hours, sometimes a day later.  I heard the familiar ping of the text messages as I was finishing up at the cemetery, so I checked it.  It was almost a day old text letting me know about my horse which is boarded.  He seemed to have acquired some type of bug bite which was swollen under his neck, and his back right leg was red.  The boarding facility is very good about getting in touch with you immediately.  I wish my phone was as good.

Quickly, I recalculated the day.  I could run down to the boarding facility and check this horse before I did all the other stuff.  The trail ride was going to occur at a different facility, where my other horse is at the moment getting some training and solving some problems which have manifested.  He is there for two weeks.

I think our roads need to be added to the worst commutes
in America list.

Interstates in my area right now are a disaster.  You have to avoid them as much as possible if you don't want to be standing for hours watching grass grow on the berm.  Time lapse photography is faster.  So I selected back roads and headed toward home and the barn to check horse #1.  This route took me very near my house.

On the road from my house to the barn, I realized a cat had been hit by a car and was laying near the berm, a bit onto the road.  It was an orange tabby.  I felt bad.  I always feel bad for cats that have been hit.  There are alot of farms in our area who allow cats to breed.  The cats are ultimately feral, intact (unspayed or neutered) and all over the roads.  I deliberately drive very slowly along these roads because many times these cats will run just in front of my car.

I continued on to the barn, finding, alas, that even this back road was encumbered by a road crew, down to one lane and trying to rectify a telephone pole which, beyond anyone's imagination as to how, was split in half, hanging precariously between the wires and the street and the roof of someone's home.  I am still wondering about that.

Once at the barn, I went out to the field to examine horse #1.  The bite was a good sized one, from what I do not know, but the leg was not really all that red anymore.  I had used a medication on what seemed to be a bit of leg fungus (common to horses) on the cannon bone and either the medication caused the red reaction, or I needed to apply sunblock to the skin on this leg after removing the fungal material.  Horse #1 was as happy as a clam with no ill effects, so I headed back home.

I don't know why, but I decided to go back home the way I just came, even though it meant going through road crew hell and past the hit kitty again (something I don't usually like to see for a second time).  As I approached where the hit cat was located, something made me stop my vehicle in the road.  I decided to move the cat's body to the bushes and off the road, so it wouldn't be run over again.  I had a pair of heavy duty gloves in the car from gardening, so I went to grab them.  I started walking toward the cat, and that's when the cat lifted its head.

Do you see what I mean about a day?

My heart was in my throat.  This was truly a dilemma.  The cat was obviously injured very badly.  I'm no vet, but my estimation was that life #9 was used up here. It was also feral and was now using whatever energy it had left to hiss at me and try to get away.  Unfortunately, it could not move its back end.  What to do?

I had a towel in my car.  I got it.  I laid the towel over the cat's head and very carefully picked it up.  I then put it on the mat on the floor of my car in the back seat area.  I had to drive home to let my dogs out and give the horses hay.  I wasn't very far from home.  Time was now dwindling down.  I hadn't eaten anything all day, and I needed to get changed.  Somehow, I now had to try to figure out what to do about the cat.  I could not have left it there.  I knew it couldn't be saved.

After pulling in my driveway, I acted like I was on a game show of mad dash.  I literally RAN to let the dogs out, RAN to the back fields to give the horses hay, RAN into the house, RAN upstairs and changed clothes, RAN downstairs and grabbed a highly scrumptious meal--mango peach applesauce and a mueslix bar--grabbed a drink for the road, left the dogs outside (my husband had phoned that he would be home in 10 minutes, so they would be fine for now), and went to my car.

The first thing I did was peer in the window at the towel where I had left the cat.  To my utter shock, the cat was not on the towel.  Now I had a feral, very hurt cat in my car.....SOMEWHERE!  I slowly opened the door (think horror movie waiting-for-the-thing-to-jump-out mode).  I spotted a striped orange tail on the other side of the back seat area, sticking out from under the seat.  Okay.  Fine.  At least I knew the cat was still in the back.

I jumped in the car, grabbed my cell and started driving.  My vet's office is on speed dial.  I called them first.  This was later in the afternoon.  My vet was not in, the technicians were not there, and there was no one who could euthanize a cat.  There is an emergency clinic.  But I wasn't sure I wanted to go there.  I decided I would take the cat to the Humane Society.  I knew that they usually had a euthanasia technician on site, and perhaps they would help me.

I need to remind you that this entire time I was very stressed over the situation.  I was working on pure adrenaline to keep me from not breaking down, stopping my car and sobbing in the middle of the road.

I arrived at the Humane Society location and found two people sitting behind the desk.  I described the situation.  Luckily, there was help.  Two women accompanied me out to the car.  They devised a strategy to carefully open the door and extract the cat.  I offered my gloves but they had their own.

Slowly opening the car door, the technician didn't see any movement.  Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the kitty had died.  She removed him and placed him on a towel lovingly and examined him.  Confirmed he was intact, and very badly injured.  He would not have survived.  It did not make me feel any better.

They thanked me for caring enough to stop and pick the cat up.

Sometimes I hate who I am.  I hate the fact that I am compelled to stop on the road and move dead animals.  I wonder about the kind of person who could hit a cat and not stop.  How long had that kitty been on the road suffering, scared?  I was extremely upset at that point.  I no longer needed the adrenaline.  This was the worst "down" of the day.  That feeling of utter helplessness, where you know you can't touch something and bring it back to life.

I'm still sad today.  I will probably be sad for the rest of the weekend when I think about this, or for that matter, whenever I think about this.  Because I know I'm going to see more of this on the road.  And I know I'm going to have to stop.....again.

I did make the time to meet my friend.  I didn't end up trail riding, just riding in the ring, but somehow just being around my horse helped alot to dispel some of the sadness I was feeling at the end of what started out to be a beautiful day.

Aaaarrrrooooo

Hibernation Nation

This is the top of our hill looking down from our house.
It's what we have to travel down to escape in the winter.

I have decided beyond the shadow of a doubt that I am a fair weather person.  By fair weather I mean, over 70 degrees, bright sunshine, with as little humidity as possible.  My favorite place to be is the beach or near some body of water (a pool can qualify) on a nice day.

I've come to this conclusion in the last several days while cleaning out my horse stalls in freezing weather.

I try to make this experience as energizing as possible.  First, I tell myself that I have the benefit of doing weight bearing activities, which keeps me young, builds muscles and bone density.  Guiding a wheelbarrow full of muck the necessary distance to the manure pile, lifting water buckets, hay bales, shoveling bedding...all this helps me stay away from the gym and barbells.  I hate barbells, and videos with barbells or hand weights.  The elipse has nothing on a morning in the barn.

I also have oldies on the radio channel in the barn, and I sing my way through morning chores.  The chickens look at me sideways, but I think they get it, because while I'm singing to the oldies, they are bedding down in the sawdust in the aisle and doing their daily cleaning/dusting routine.

I visualize past days on the beach in sunny weather, lounging and reading a good book.

Summers in Rehoboth, DE offers night sites like this one.

Not even the dogs want to stay out beyond a certain threshold time in frigid temps.  Today it was 6 degrees in the morning, and Burton was holding his paw up like it would fall off from the cold at 01:01 minutes into the outside activity.  Winston lost his mind and was actually trying to play with a green ball to stay warm.  In they came, where they immediately grabbed all the warm seating as if to say "please don't bother us until it's at least 40 degrees out there."

The cats go out the front door and within seconds appear at that back patio to come in.  They never believe what we have to say, because, well, they are cats and have to "experience" it for themselves.  They don't have really good memories either because within a half hour we are repeating the revolving door scenario.

I know that layers are the up and coming trend in fashion, but I don't think the industry was thinking of my layering schemata when they started marketing those pretty camis with lace that go under a shirt.  Here's the must wear barn gear:  underarmour or cuddle duds (tops and bottoms), zocks lining socks, wool socks over the zocks, turtleneck, light layering sweater, heavy wool sweater, jeans, fingerless wool gloves (the ones with the mitten covers), fuzzy hat, jacket.  Sometimes, if things are really bad, the carhart bibs come out and go over the jeans and sweater layers, then the jacket.

Oh yeah...this would be warm.

In fact, now that I'm on the subject, if you look in a fashion catalog where they are selling winter wear, sometimes you will see a lovely model dressed in a down vest with a wool patterned sweater, hat and gloves doing some outdoor activity like walking a dog or holding a horse on a lead rope, or sitting on porch rail holding a cup of what I always think is hot chocolate.  She is smiling and happy and looks warm despite there being major snow in that photo.  My thought is this...please have her do a few horse stalls in 6 degree weather and then ask her to pose.  That will tell us two things:  (1) does that clothing really keep you warm? and (2) how much does she REALLY like winter?

We've been lucky in Pennsylvania to date.  Very little snow.  Above average temperatures.  So why am I complaining?  I'm complaining because I can.  Because I'm not a winter person anymore.  Yes, I ski.  Yes, I go see ice sculptures. Yes, I make snowmen sometimes, and snow balls, and enjoy the first romp in the snow with over excited dogs.  Yes, I like seeing our horses prance in the powdery snow when it first falls in mass quantities.  Yes, I've even taken trail rides in the first snow fall of the season.  But now I look at that person like some crazy lunatic part of me that I don't even know.

I need some dry/arid climate that holds a temperature of about 70 - 88 non-humid degrees in the summer and 40-50 in the winter.  All suggestions welcome.  I'm off to put on another layer and take the dogs out for their one minute pee break.

Aaarrrooooo!

Higher Power Intervention or Coincidence?

Yes, I know it's been a while since I blogged.  I have alot to blog about actually.  And my comeback to blogging was not going to feature what I'm about to cover.  Instead I wanted to talk about summer vacation.  I'll still do that.  But not today.

I haven't had the best week.  I've thought about going into a church and dousing myself with Holy Water.  My grandmother used to say this was a cure for anything.  In fact, she had a bottle of it stored in her kitchen cabinet and if you were sick or troubled, that stuff came out and you were doused.

To start out, I somehow, in a fit of Darwinian-stupid-human-tricks, backed my car into a pole.  Now, when people say they backed their car into a pole, normally you think:  back bumper gone, back lights done in, etc.  No no...not me.  I made a big sweeping turn out of a parking lot that had a pole inopportunely situated in the middle of it, and crunched that pole right into my driver's-side door.  I did a really good job of it too.  Perfect crunching.  I had my mom in the car at the time and at first thought I was hit by another car.  Then I looked to the left and saw the pole glaring at me through the window on my side of the car.  My question was:  "Who put that pole there?"

My insurance company is great, and fast, and probably still laughing about this.

The day after this occurred, I went to ride one of my horses in the morning.  I had a nice ride.  It was a bit blustery that day, and colder than it's been, and a slight drizzle was still hanging around.  Nevertheless, I was in good spirits despite the car incident.  When I was finished I went to the car and put my combination into the driver's side door, then remembered....it didn't matter that the combination would open my locked door, because the HANDLE DID NOT WORK ON THE BASHED SIDE, so I wouldn't be able to get in.  The secret of getting in the car now, until it is repaired, is to crawl onto the passenger seat and lift the handle on the driver's side door and pop it open from the inside.  I forgot this when I LOCKED THE CAR DOORS and LEFT MY KEYS IN THE CAR.  I always leave my keys in the car because I use the combination to get in my vehicle.

Okay, so I resigned myself to the fact that I was walking home.  That would be an over 4-mile walk, in MUCK BOOTS.  Here's a photo of MUCK BOOTS to show you how really stupid a 4-mile walk can be while you are wearing them.  (I leave my riding boots at the stable, and they would even be more uncomfortable to walk home in.)

Lucky for me, the gentleman who does the barn clean up in the morning, was still there and offered me a ride, as he was going that way to deliver round bales to a farm near me.  I didn't want him to go out of his way, nor did I want him to try to turn his vehicle around with the round bales attached, so I had him drop me off at a farm about 1.5 miles from my house, and I walked from there.  Just as I got out of his truck and began my walk down the road, it started to drizzle.  Yep.....I wasn't suprised.  I was starting to think about where the nearest church was so I could bathe in that water.

Later in the day, my husband came home from work and we took the extra key and went to retrieve my car.  He took me to Starbucks first for a coffee.  I must have looked pathetic and he felt sorry for me.  Nothing like some caffeine to get rid of that whole "can't believe I did that" feeling.

Today, the sun came out and I decided the safest place for me was in the house.  However, I did need to take our dog, Moe, to his allergy vet for a check up.  This vet's office is in a city South of us, and about 50 minutes from our house on a good traffic day.  So I piled Moe into the car in the early afternoon, after, of course, crawling over the passenger seat to pop the door on the driver's side, buckled myself in and headed for the vet's office.

I am happy to report this was an uneventful trip, but one that took me to a point where I would be heading home in end-of-day work traffic once the appointment was over.  The problem is this:  we have plenty of interstates, but most of them are PACKED with cars and crazy drivers and I was already having a pretty bad week, so I carefully planned the route in my head that I would take.  It was NOT a route I would EVER take under normal circumstances, but more of a back road alternative which would eventually put me on the Turnpike and headed home.  Our Turnpike is not heavily traveled during normal days, but during holidays and weekends in the summer, it can also be an option to avoid.



Moe.  This is about as excited as he gets.

 I also normally do not STAY at the vet's office.  My husband works in that area, so we do a pass off, he stays with Moe and Moe gets his check up, and I head back home or to the store to food shop or elsewhere.  But today I stayed.  AND, I usually have my husband drive Moe home, but today, I took Moe with me for the return trip.

I don't know how many of you believe in divine intervention.  I have believed in a higher power of intervention for a long time.  I call my higher power God.  But many people have different names for their higher power.  Some things, yes, are simply coincidence.  But some are clearly not.  And what I'm about to describe to you, in my book, is clearly not coincidence.

I drove off of Market Street onto Wyoming Avenue in Kingston (those of you who live near me will know this area, so I'm giving you a visual).  Following Wyoming Avenue through Forty Fort and into Wyoming, you eventually come to a light at the Eighth Street Bridge area.  Once you cross over that main thoroughfare, the road goes from a two lane to a one lane, and there are houses and side roads to the right that all lead down to the Susquehanna River.  It was right here, where the lane begins to go from two lanes to one, that I spotted, out of the corner of my left eye, a dog bounding into the road with a leash dragging to his attached collar.  At about the same time, I noticed a woman off to my right, standing with her hands up to her mouth clearly upset and somewhat in shock.  And quickly the scene played out in my head that this dog was going to die on this road because this area at work traffic time is a non-stop thoroughfare of fast moving vehicles.  Luckly, there wasn't a single car coming from the opposite direction and the dog ran back to a lawn on the left side of the road, all the time bouncing around.  He looked young....like a lanky, growing puppy.  And, yes folks, he was an orange belton setter.  You don't see many setters in my area, but I knew immediately what he was.

It was right at this time that I stopped my car right in the middle of the two lanes coming to one to halt the multitude of traffic vehicles behind me.  I know some of the cars behind me saw the dog because no one honked.  Again, this is most unusual for Northeastern Pennsylvania at rush hour.  And within about four seconds of my totally stopping my car, the dog ran directly in front of my wheels so that I could not see him and off down a street on the right.  If I had been moving, I would have been the one to hit him.

Without even thinking about it, I turned right down that street, parked my car on the corner and got out.  The woman, by this time, was headed down the street too, and I called out to her "Is that your dog?" To which she quietly replied, "Yes, it is."  She was still very upset.

I went around to the passenger side and got Moe out of the car.  You see my line of thinking here?  What dog can pass up the opportunity to meet another dog, especially a puppy that was bounding in happiness at having slipped its owner's grasp in heavy traffic.  Another car on the side street had stopped and two women got out, clearly as concerned about the dog as I was.  I shouted to the owner, "I have my dog with me...maybe your dog will come to him."  No sooner had the words come out of my mouth and the puppy spotted Moe and ran right to him.  I let them sniff each other and quietly leaned down and grabbed the leash.

The owner was clearly relieved and kept saying "Oh, bless you, bless you, God bless you."  I handed her the leash and said, "Hang on tight," and Moe and I headed back to the car.  Moe does not understand what a hero he was to this woman, nor that we were playing out a plan that was well laid out for us to follow.  I know it was waiting for us, because there was no hesitation, no second guessing, no question "should we stop?" "should we turn here and wait?" "should we get involved?"  Nope.  None.  It was played out like we had practiced it for weeks, and a young orange belton happy-go-lucky puppy was saved.

In the light of what could have occurred, my week wasn't really that bad.  I'll save the Holy Water bath for another time.  God has already blessed me.

Aaarrrroooooo!!!