I know it's been a long time between posts. I didn't have much time to write for a while, as I was getting ready to move from Full Moon Farm and needed to clean up computer files, consolidate email accounts, etc. And nearly the whole month of December I spent hospitalised. The major depression, social phobia, anxiety and agoraphobia (Think that's enough?) that I've been battling my whole life, finally broke through all the walls I thought were so strong. I'll write a lot more about it later (and about Full Moon Farm. I no longer have - or want - any affiliation with the place.), but in short, I planned to kill myself. Thanks to my kind neighbours, I was talked into a stay at the state mental hospital. Signing those papers was one of the scariest things I've ever done. It has also turned out to have been the stupidest, as it has cost me my beloved dogs, Guenny and Oengus. The director of Full Moon Farm (who knows precious little about mental health) says she will not let me have them. And, as they are officially "property of Full Moon Farm," there is nothing I can do. Please pray for them.




I'll be updating this journal when I get computer access. Right now that means getting a ride into town to use the library computers, but it shouldn't be too awfully long before I have a computer to use at home once again.

I hope you all had the holidays you wanted, exciting, relaxing, warm... whatever you desired. And I'm sending out best wishes for the next year.

Our little old man, Washi, was lovingly and gently sent on yesterday afternoon. I knew that he most likely wouldn't make it through the winter, but I didn't expect him to leave quite this soon. Nancy came to tell me he was down, and I took him to our vet. He was in heart and liver failure. But we already knew he was going. When we were carrying him to the van, I told Nancy she should say her goodbyes, as he was already seeing the other side.



He was at least 13 or 14 years old, and had had a hard life before coming into rescue. (If you look at his photo, you can see where his little muzzle was crooked. Someone had hit him in the head with a shovel, breaking his jaw. He healed well, though, and I told him it was actually very cool because he could sniff around corners!) Once he got here, though, he had a very good life... more space than he could use, good food and treats, toys (his favourites were a little stuffed elephant and a small white plastic football), and a lot of love. He lived with Cherokee, his companion of ten years, who had apparently said her goodbyes and come to her own place of acceptance by the time we knew he was leaving us. She's a wise soul. In the tradition of female wolfdogs everywhere, she could be a pain. Sometimes she wouldn't let him in their house. Sometimes she took his bowl instead of hers. But he was always tucked in there with her if it was really cold... and there was always food, no matter which bowl he ended up eating it out of.

When I was taking his body to its resting place, the clouds began a very gentle rain, little more than a mist, that continued just until we got there. It was as if the sky itself were offering acknowledgment and tears over his passing.

I buried him near the other beloved rescue dogs who have died here. A friend, Andrew, had kindly dug the hole while I was at the vet's, and had lined it with hemlock boughs. Washi was laid to rest with a rose quartz and a beautiful amethyst crystal that a friend had given me for my birthday. There was no shovel. I kneeled on the ground and used my hands to cover him with earth and sang him into the next life:

Washi,
Little teme.
Washi,
Little teme.

To the forest
I send you.
To the ground
I send you.

To the sky
I send you.
To the river
I send you.

Washi,
Little teme.
Washi,
Little teme.

Wanishi,
Little teme.
Washi,
Little teme.

"Teme" means "wolf" in Lenape, the language of some of my ancestors. "Wanishi" means thank you.

I covered his grave with the orange and gold and red of autumn tree shed, and placed a rhododendron branch, which still bore leaves and even the new life promise of buds, on top of his fall quilt. I asked Beo and Chenna and all the others to welcome him. I asked Odin to welcome another wolfdog to his mead hall and give him meat and a place by the fire.



Wanishi, Washi. You brought all of us much joy.


(Photos by Melissa Ray Davis and Joye Ardyn Durham)

In looking back over my journal recently, I noticed rather a preponderance of post about deaths. And I was going to write something about how that's not all my life's about here, and try to find some fun little thing to
break up the litany of laments, but then I thought... "Why am I writing this journal, anyway? Is it for the amusement and edification of others? Or is it for me?" And I've come to the conclusion that, mainly, it's for me.

I'm not a social person. Outreaches are hell for me. Even going to the grocery store takes a lot of my emotional energy, and I have to know I'm going well in advance, to be mentally prepared for the onslaught of people and their emotions... and for just being out there in public. If I weren't a human, I would be an animal that slips through the shadows... a leopard or a sloth. No grazing elk out in the middle of a field, or social baboon hanging out in plain sight under a banyan.

So I don't call people and whine about how I'm feeling or what's going on in my life. I never have and I doubt I ever will. The only thing that keeps me going to my therapist occasionally is that she's paid to listen to me. I've always been the listener. Even in high school, I recall hanging out in the yearbook office, and people telling me about their crushes or typical high school gripes. And me, I would go home and close myself in my room, put on music, write poetry... awful clots of teenage angst. I mentioned that to a friend (yes, I do have a few) yesterday - a friend who needed someone to listen to him that day - and he said maybe that's what I'm here for.

Someone I know fairly well had an intuitive reading recently, and the reader got some information concerning me, which she taped and sent. Some of it didn't make sense to me... like moving to the west coast. I'm too far away from my beloved Atlantic Ocean as it is, and, no offense meant to my western readers, you would have to hogtie me and kidnap me to get me to the other side of the country. I'd like to visit Oklahoma, as that's where my Lenape (Delaware) ancestors were (after that nation got treatied all the way from the mid-Atlantic to Indian Territory, and then lumped in with the western Cherokees... Guess that was just one too many nations for the BIA to keep track of.), but that's it. Anyhow, one of the things the reader mentioned several times was that I should be part of a small community, that besides my creative gifts, I had a lot to offer people, that I almost "show them a doorway." Maybe that's the listening. Often, when people talk, they find their own way.

So, anyhow (no, I didn't forget there was a point to this), with the exception of the Blogathon efforts, it's for me. If what I write touches somone, that's even better, but I'll write when I need to write. Lately it's been a way to deal with losses. And there are some big changes afoot here, so future posts will most definitely deal with those.

Just to warn you, I'm not good with change.

We lost a wolfdog today.



A bright and beautiful, mostly-husky girl named Cheyenne. From all indications, bloat took her away. Took her away too quickly for us to even start for the vet’s office. We are having an autopsy done, to be sure, and to see if it will shed any light on the respiratory problems that had plagued her for the last few years. She’d been to numerous doctors – conventional and holistic – who were all stumped. Maybe death will tell us what the doctors couldn’t.

Even on the days when her coughing was at its worst and her pretty face was puffy from what doctors resorted to terming a vague, “recurring environmental allergy,” still she shone. She pranced. She cavorted. Always graceful, even when she was pouncing her poor mate, Delaware, away from a bone. Always a dancer, even when she was running the fence and "talking trash" to her neighbour, Indy. That husky heritage made her light and lithe, made her feet twinkle. Nancy said Cheyenne had "sparkle"… and she did. A crystal northern night sky’s worth.

Delaware was moved to a small "Fort Knox" pen – the only containment we can be sure will hold him – after he began dismantling the pen he and Cheyenne had shared.



It’s going to be a rough few nights and days for our handsome boy. I hope he’ll do all right. He and Chey had been a bonded, tightly bonded, pair for the last four years, and he’s never taken her absence well, whether she was at the vet’s for a day, or just temporarily out of his sight at the local Christmas parade. I’ll keep giving him Rescue Remedy, and we’ll both keep a close eye on our big sweet boy.

It was a day of visitors and volunteers, and – as is so often the case – grieving had to put aside. That’s the way it is in rescue. This is for Nancy and all the other rescuers who haven’t the luxury of grieving when bad things happen, who lose the ones they love and keep on going… to save the rest of them. And for Cheyenne. We have yet to grieve.


we cry at night

we lost a dog this morning
first check of the morning
she was down
her legs were cold
she had bloated
I’m slipping away
she told me.
I asked if she could hold on for a while
I don’t know
she said
but it came so faintly
frantic calls to the vet
find the stretcher
get her in the van
cover her up
let her mate see her
and then she did
slip away
the telltale stretching back of the head
then relaxing and falling forward
as if into sleep
then no more breaths
and after a while
no more heartbeat

and at the moment of death
neighbours come to visit
no, can’t break down now
we cry at night
be polite, be friendly
then get her body to the lab
before vital tissue and chemical breakdown
no crying now
you do this, you do that, you come with me
and those staying here had wolfdogs to feed
wolfdogs to move
changing pens and changing dynamics
fencing needed to go up
pens needed to be cleaned
and we needed to grieve
but no
we cry at night
more calls to make
a call from work
a call from a friend in crisis

and so the rest of the day went
business as usual

ignore the voice inside
that’s screaming
that wants to lie in the dirt
and sob for the loss
not now
we cry at night

evening comes
and there are more calls
and there are more emails
and one has to be strong
and one has to go on

then late in the night
when the body can take no more
and the mind is weaker
and the sadness seeps in
and finality follows
and your see her face
every time you close your eyes
and sometimes when you don’t
and it’s time to go to bed
and it’s time to be alone
then the tears may come
then you may give in to the feelings
you’ve held inside
all day

we cry at night



(Photos: Cheyenne by James Fisher, Delaware by Mark Gunter)

Okay, most of use who know me know that I'm not a prime person for adopting a human baby. I'm a loser. I have all sorts of long term mental problems. But that doesnt' mean I don't love human babies....and know how do take care of them. (Remember, my teenage years were spent being a babysitter.....I do know *something* about children!)

Today, I had the pleasure of taking care of Grove, a 10 month old baby whose mom is a member of the board and a wonderful photographer. We're lucky enough to have an article about Nancy coming up in next month's issue of "Western North Carolina Woman" and we're also lucky enough to have the editor wait for photos of Nancy taken by our own board member and vice president, Melissa. Yay, us.!!!

I had the pleasure of spending time with a baby today. Do you realize how special that is?

While his mom spent time with our director, taking pictures for an article in a local publication, I got to walk around with this little guy.

His mother jokes that every time he spends time with me he gets a new nickname, but honestly... Prince Goldenrod. What's wrong with that?

We went to visit many wolfdogs, some of whom licked his hands, to his delight.... some of whom barked and carried on and scraped the ground... which made him laugh.....

We walked around and discovered all sorts of plants.... I was covered by bits and pieces of leaves by the end of it. Botany lesson!

Oh, there's so much to tell, but I'm so very tired....more tomorrow, okay?

This morning was tremendously busy, but the results were well worth it. We moved Banjo and Yeddy, two very high content, social wolfdogs into a large pen where they can better see and be seen. We moved Pandora, who has osteosarcoma, into Banjo’s and Yeddy’s old pen, so she can spend however much longer she has in a large enclosure with trees, a little log cabin, and room to run. We also moved Sunshine, a scared yearling male whose placement last year didn’t work out, into the pen with Pandora, who – after informing him in no uncertain terms that she’s The Boss – decided he was actually fun to play with. Jera was neutered yesterday, and was happy to be back in his pen after a night recovering in a crate. And Little Autumn, one of the Shadow’s Den wolfdogs, after a night in a crate recovering from spay surgery, got a new, bigger pen.

Little Autumn (who has said she wants a new name and, now that she’s in a larger pen, I can go sit in there with her and we can figure out what she wants to be called) came with a reputation for being hard to handle, to put it mildly. She supposedly didn’t get along with any of the other females, and in fact had a large scar and large skin tag on her face – the result of being attacked by her mother, Tehya, with no veterinary care afterward. We’ve had her housed separately in a small, temporary pen and she’s spent her time so far living up to her reputation… sometimes listening to us quietly, or touching our fingers gently with her nose, then leaping up at our faces, barking. Feeding and watering her has been risky, as she would charge our hands and snap at us. I wondered whether she might be bluffing (We have one here who has bitten others, but bluffs with me occasionally.), and discovered that no, she was definitely serious. (Lucky for me, I moved a little faster than she did.)

She was due to eventually be transferred – with Mojavi, a very shy male from Shadow’s Den - to another wolfdog sanctuary, Night Song, where they specialise in animals with "issues" and other nonadoptables. I knew she’d be well cared for there. Like Nancy, the woman who runs it always, always, puts the wolfdogs’ needs first. She’s compassionate, has infinite patience, and lets the animals be who they need to be… but is always there if they decide that at least one human might be worth making friends with. And they often do. However, Mojavi turned out to be not quite as spooky as we thought. He lets me pet and kiss him through the fence, and now runs around and play bows when I go in to feed him and his pen-mates. He’s not exactly "pet quality" right now, by any means, but he may not be strictly a "sanctuary animal," either. And it was decided that Night Song will instead be taking a relative of a wolfdog they used to have - a fulfillment of a promise they made to that wolfdog - along with her sister. And part of my heart sang, because I really, truly… and selfishly… wanted to be the one to make a difference in Little Autumn’s life.

During her spaying, I asked that they also remove the skin tag on her face. These guys are so sensitive to emotions, and - even though I think she’s beautiful, inside and out - even I had a little bit of an “ew” feeling whenever I saw the deformity on her face. And if I felt it, I knew everyone else did. And what was that doing to her already fragile psyche, having everyone that looked at her find her repulsive or pitiful? So, I requested a little cosmetic surgery (though, hypocrite that I am, I just said I didn’t want her catching it on anything and tearing her face further).

Today, she’s in a much larger pen. She’s got a dog house, which she’s already learned she can either go in, or lie on top of. She’s got a plastic milk jug, with about half a teaspoon of old milk left in it, just to make it interesting, and she’s finding that milk jug quite fascinating. She’s got a stuffed animal, which she’s sniffed, carried, chewed a little, and rolled around with her nose. Every time I’ve been by her pen, I’ve stopped and talked to her and offered my fingers. And every time, she’s come up and touched my fingers with her nose. And every time, she hasn’t leapt up at me or barked.

In fact, every now and then, her tail – that very, very tight over-the-back curl that most of the Shadow’s Den dogs have – would give a little wag. An almost wag. Just a quick movement about an inch to one side, then an inch to the other. Sort of trying it out. "Is this… 'contentment'? Is this… 'happiness'?"

And all it took was a comfortable space, a shelter, clean water, food, a couple toys… and people to believe in her.

It doesn't take much, does it?


(old picture of her from the Shadow's Den site... before her injury)

Before I begin, many of you know that we helped our darling old girl, Callie, to the Bridge this past Friday. It was time. There was no doubt about it. I'll write something about her soon, but I want to do it right. She was a grand old dowager Malamute and she deserves more thought and care put into her memorial than I'm up to right now. Suffice it say for now, she is greatly missed, but we're happy that she is no longer in pain and is reunited with her mate, Beowulf, and her first mom, Jane.

And now, how was your day? Fine? That's nice. Mine? Why, thank you for asking...

Malachi


and Tirza


are going to their Forever Home Saturday night or Sunday. We're all thrilled for them. Their new mom and dad sound wonderful, they're going to have lots of room to run around and lots of attention. But before we take them anywhere, they have to have health certificates.

Okay.

First of all, let me just tell you that if you want a soothing activity, trying to get a bonded pair of very social, very energetic wolfdogs out of a muddy enclosure that has a gate that opens outward, across a muddy field and into their respective crates in a van... by yourself... is not it.

Once that was accomplished (Notice how I gloss over the details here. Repression, repression, repression.), we head to the vet's office, which is about an hour away. They ride fairly well, except for Malachi. I made very sure to place his crate at a slant on the van floor, to keep it from tipping on the winding mountain roads. Three minutes into the trip, he's dancing around in his crate and manages to knock it over onto its side. This was before we even hit any curves. I took one curve fast, afterward, just to see if I could get it back upright, but that didn't work. So, Malachi rode to the vet sideways. And actually seemed quite comfortable when we got there.

Once at the vet's, I decide to take them in separately. Though they both walk moderately well on lead, there are two of them, one of me, and who-knows-what in the waiting room. So I decide to start with Malachi, who's lower on the CNS. That's the Completely Nuts Scale. And lower means about a 95 out of 100, to Tirza's 98.

We walk to the building. Malachi has more than enough time to water bushes and fertilize grass should he choose, but he opts for going right in. Great! This is gonna be a breeze!

First, we try to get a weight on him. It takes a while. He keeps trying to sneak one of his back feet off the scale and onto the floor. Ah, ah, ah, Malachi! We know that trick!

We go into an exam room to wait and the moment the door is closed, he begins a little hunching motion and... yes.... he's Assuming the Position. MALACHI! Poop on the floor. One good plop. Another. Another. And one more, a small one, sort of like a little fecal "ta da!" Fine. This isn't the first time this has happened in this room, I'm sure, and I know where the paper towels are.

So... I'm wiping up the floor and I hear behind me... yes... the unmistakable sound of urine hitting tile. MALACHI! More towels. More cleaning.

We're still waiting, so I take a seat, and let him roam around the room and explore on a loose lead. He checks out the other chair... the wainscotting... the exam table... the wastebasket... the wastebasket... the wastebasket... MALACHI! And manages to mark it before I can pull him away.

We finally get his exam, rabies booster and certificate and I take him back to the van and try to bring in Tirza. However, in lieu of a phone booth, Tirza the Fearless has apparently used her crate to turn into Tirza the Meek Who's No Way in Hell Getting out of This Crate. Lucky for us, Dr. Beverly has decided to come see her outside (after hearing me tell her that Malachi was the "calm" one), so miss Scaredy Pants only has to face the outside world for about a minute, and scuttle back into her lair. And then proceeds to throw up, ten miles down the road. (She's okay now, if the fact that she tried to eat Malachi's dinner as well as her own is any indication.)

Yes, indeed. Do I know how to have fun or what?

Don't really have time for a long post today, as we're getting ready for an open house tomorrow, and a few other things. Just wanted to mention that yes, that's me in the new pic up in the corner. I'm the one on the right. On the left is Daunkette. I love her. She's not everyone's cup of tea, as she "doesn't play well with others," to put it mildly (except with her mate, Howler, who has a tendency to bite. What a lovely couple!)

I decided to take down Guenny's picture, at least for now. Anyhow, you'll all see enough of her when she manages to take over the world and her face pops up on every tv screen and computer monitor, with the words "Attention, stupid humans. I am now your queen. Gather all your meat and cheese and await my further instruction."

I just took her food bucket out and put it in the bleach bin for washing. I talked to her littermates, Colby and Satinka. I talked to her daughters. I sat in her old pen and talked to her killers, who stood at the far end of their enclosure, and shook and shook and occasionally fear-barked.

Tehya died yesterday, killed by her packmates. This is Tehya.



We were supposed to be friends for a long time.

I’m not going to be able to write much about it for a while. For now, know that she went down fighting, but it was two larger dogs against one. She fought hard to live throughout the day, but her body was too broken inside. Skoll and Hati killed a part of me yesterday, as well. We buried Tehya this afternoon. I took a blood oath at her grave to spend my life doing what I can to keep things like this from happening to other wolfdogs. To help the wolfdogs who are hurt by others, physically or mentally. To keep people from creating the kinds of problems that lead to deaths like this . And to take revenge against the people who caused this one.

Ves heill, Tehya. I’ve petitioned the Gods to watch over you and care for you until I can be there to do it myself. You've earned your rest, little warrior. The fight is mine, now.


(Photo by Melissa Ray Davis)

Chenna is gone. She was tired, she was in pain. Losing control of her body was frustrating – and frightening – to her. She told me it was time, Friday night, and we made the arrangements. Our wonderful vet came out to the Sanctuary yesterday and helped release Chenna’s soul while I held her poor, debilitated body. It was very peaceful. Chenna met death willingly and well. Even knowing what an huge step she was making, she faced it as she faced everything in life: with courage.



When I moved here two years ago, Chenna and Chance were living with a neighbour, farther up the mountain. I got to meet them when that neighbour ran out of people who were willing to feed them when he was away, and called me. Chenna had bitten or tried to bite everyone, including him. The first time I went up there, it was clear that she was not immediately inclined to make an exception of me. She growled and bared her teeth at feeding time. But I didn’t see it as a problem. She had food issues. So do a lot of wolfdogs we get at the Sanctuary. So I made sure she and Chance had two bowls each. I’d go in with the full ones, put them far enough away from each other so they wouldn’t squabble over them, then picked up the empty bowls to fill the next day. Simple. And Chenna soon realized that food was coming, the empty bowl leaving meant nothing, and food would come again the next day.

The first few months I was getting to know her, I was still careful around her. The potential to snap or bite was always there, but she was fair about it. She always gave warning. Always. It was often very subtle, and you had to be watching for it, but no one could ever say they weren’t warned. They just didn’t listen or see or understand.

When our neighbour moved away, Chenna and Chance came down to Full Moon Farm and my friendship with Chenna deepened. She was still snappy with people, whether strangers or people she knew, earning her a red plastic “do not approach” tag on their pen. But I was blessed to be able to lay my hands on her, anywhere, to hug her and kiss her. And I was extra blessed by her hard, intense licking of my face. It was her way of kissing. And it meant something. Everything Chenna did had meaning. She wasn’t someone who did things just to be doing them.

I keep looking out at their pen. Chance is sleeping in the doghouse Chenna spent most of her time in. He’s a couple years younger than Chenna was, probably about 11, and spent most of his life with her. He seems a happy-go-lucky little dog, a dog with emotional teflon. He seems to barge through life without things much sticking to him. But last night he looked bewildered. I gave him a whole bowl of “squishy food” (canned food), which he loves, and instead of tucking right into it, he hesitated… and looked around… and then began eating, but not with his usual gusto. Something was missing, but he wasn’t sure what. He needs someone to sit with him this morning, I think, so I’m going out to do that.

I loved Chenna. I still love her. Mostly I’m still numb, though. It’s stupid. I knew this was coming, and had plenty of time to get used to it, but nothing can really prepare you for coming face to face with loss.

I write these poems... It seems to help me deal with hard realities if I can write about them, and not have to worry about sentence structure and putting together coherent paragraphs. Usually they flow in rush.. a creek overflowing with torrential rain, a dam breaking. I sometimes go back and tinker with them later, but as they stand, they capture a moment in time, emotions still raw, before I start overthinking things. A moment I want to keep. I’ll never be any place’s poet laureate, but it’s a catharsis of sorts, and writing itself is soothing. This is Chenna’s tribute.

Chenna

You should have been
laid in a longboat,
set afire and set adrift.

You should have been
placed on an altar
and offered to the sky.

I should have
carried you over Bifrost myself
to your home with the Gods.

But here in this place,
they bury their dead,
they dig holes for their loved ones
and mound them with dirt.

All I can do
is to send you over that bridge
with gifts.

An apple,
Idunna’s timeless fruit,
as a promise to keep your name alive.

The jawbone of a deer,
that you always have good hunting
and a belly full of meat.

A piece of pink quartz,
a rose in snow,
for the piece of my heart
that is buried with you.

A hemlock bough
to blanket your grave.

Rune protection.

A dragon-stick prow
facing into the west.

I could not give you
more days than you were destined.
But I can give you honour in death.
And I can love you forever.


T. Nesbit
05 August 2006





(Photos by Melissa Ray Davis. Thank you, Melissa.)

Yesterday, as I was coming out of the house, a slight breeze stirred what’s left of the large wind chime hanging over the creek. There are only two or three pipes that haven’t blown off and disappeared during various windstorms, and whoever hung it back up put it up slightly cockeyed, so the clapper only hits one note. And oh what a note. It was the sound of a bell buoy, straight out of Penobscot Bay, and it nearly brought me to my knees.

Sucker punched by a sound.

I’m homesick. Deeply, to the bone, homesick for Maine.

Well, I’m fully recovered from the Blogathon, and even got in my votes for the awards. (And let me tell you, checking 283 blogs on dial-up is no quick little chore. I surfed different blogs when I could, during the Blogathon, but I was so nervous about doing things right and posting on time, that there’s no way I could remember the names of the blogs, even the ones which especially stood out. All of them were entertaining, though, which was a real treat. Thank you, fellow bloggers!)

I still have my thank-you emails to get out to my sponsors, and I need to write something for the Full Moon Farm website, so I’m not quite done with all this.

Now that I’ve begun, however, I have to figure out where I’m going with this journal. How much of me do I put into it?

When I first started thinking about an online journal, a friend reminded me that not everyone who reads or comments is going to be supportive, and to think about the ramifications of people reading what I write. So, I don’t know. I guess I’ll just start writing and see where it takes me. If the “long, dark tea-time of the soul” moments start turning into five-day dark Roman banquets of the soul, then yeah, I may need a new blog especially for the more “interesting” parts, and maybe that one should be anonymous.



Banjo: Does my breath smell 'possumy to you?


(Photo stolen from Mark Kahn.)

I just wanted to let people know that yes, I love getting comments. But the way things are right now, I'm probably going to be a little slow answering them. And, to be honest, sometimes I may not be able to answer at all. (Plus there's the fact that I'm still figuring out all the ins and outs of LiveJournal and Thunderbird won't let me post back from it. Grrr.)

If you have a question, though, and I don't answer it - either in a reply comment or in a journal entry - and you want it answered... don't hesitate to remind me, okay? I'm not always clicking along normally when it comes to mental processes these days, so I won't mind the prodding. Honest.

I do read every comment, and it means a lot to me that you've not only waded through my rambling but bothered to say something to me about it. Thank you.

First of all, I want to let my sponsors know that I will be emailing each and every one of them... those who aren't anonymous... with a thank you. (Oh, and The Sponsor Formerly Known As Anonymous who emailed me will be getting one, too.)

And I need to correct something in one of the early Blogathon posts, "Cast of Characters": Foxy is not Nancy's dog. She actually belongs to Nancy's daughter, who is stationed in Germany right now. So Nancy is Foxy's grandma. (To be honest, though, I think if you asked Foxy who she belongs to, her answer would be whoever's got a snack at that moment!)

More later... Right now I have to go pick up all the stuff KittyBoy's knocked to the floor before Nancy gets home (Nancy, if you're reading this, Bullseye started it!), unload shavings before it rains, and all the usual stuff.

Thank you to my sponsors for helping Full Moon Farm fulfill its mission… to Alicia for blogging for Full Moon Farm, too… to Melissa and Morgan for doing chores so I could post… to Katie, my monitor… to the kitties for moral support and purrs… to frykitty and all the supportive and fun people that made this a great experience… and most of all to the wolfdogs, who teach me so much every day and make all the work worthwhile.

Oh, and my hopes for a peaceful nap? Silver and Huyana just started a rumble in the dogloo...

But that’s nice. Will they stay quiet when this is over and I get to nap? Ha!

But this is probably a good time to remind you that you can still Sponsor Me! for the next 48 hours! So you have plenty of time to help



Sakari, Sky and Nita

and



Kodiak

and



Hanta (Yes, he was that skinny. Even skinnier when he first got here. In fact, he could barely walk.)

(Photos by S. Bowers.)

Sugar Bear’s story is here. He turned one year and four months old yesterday and is a shining light in my life. Every time I see him, I remember the hours spent sleeping on the floor by his crate so that I could hear him if he had a seizure. I remember giving him formula, and how excited I was when he’d finish half a bowl. I remember watching, even before he regained all of his eyesight, and his strength and coordination, as he gamely played with his stronger brother, Ramses. So much heart. So much spirit. I gave him the first name of Beowulf after one of our seniors who had died shortly after Sugar Bear was born. Beo was such a noble and strong wolfdog. A good name to live up to.



Ves heill, Beowulf Sugar Bear! I love you!

Yes! Unequivocally, undeniable, absolutely YES! Where else are you encouraged to write, write, write without feeling guilty... in fact, you can feel quite virtuous about it!

"Sorry, no. I can't mow the lawn today. I have to write. I'm committed."

"Hello? Oh, yes. Can I call you back? No time to chat. Must write!"

And no one can say a word about you being at the computer all day and night. You get rewarded for being a nerd!

And best of all, you help a cause that's dear to your heart. You have a chance to make things better.

The best of all worlds. I'll be back.

Birdsong everywhere. Stillness. The air has the faintest green shimmer to it. Morning in the mountains. The occasional “woo-oo” or “wrowr” of a yawning, waking wolfdog. This is actually the time when I usually get my best sleep. After the Barkies, when they’ve all calmed back down… recharging their batteries for a new day’s havoc, I guess. This is the time when I usually reach out for the whichever kitties are on the bed, just to touch them, just to know they’re there, and smile, and snuggle down into the blankets…

Whoa. Dangerous talk. Coffee. Back later.

I want to post a poem I wrote earlier this year, about a wolfdog here that I absolutely adore. Her name is Autumn. She’s about six years old and, well, a little unbalanced. As in maybe today she’ll like you, maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll like you this moment, but next moment, uh-uh. And if she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t just walk away and ignore you.

Autumn wasn’t sure about me when I first came here, two years ago, but we developed a mutual respect, and eventually affection, for each other. But when her pen-mate, Fang, with whom I was particularly close, developed cancer, she transferred her fear and anger to me. When Fang was released from his pain, as I held him in my arms, it changed things between Autumn and me. It was as though she blamed me for his death. We’ve moved through a lot together and are finally back to our old relationship, maybe even a little closer, and I’m so grateful for that.

This is for you, babygirl…



A quandary, a challenge,
quicksilver in fur,
beloved and fearsome,
a wolfdog named “Autumn.”

Away from your jaws,
your snarls and snaps,
we joke and tell stories
of our narrow escapes.

But you,
my dear,
you are no joke.
Behind narrowed eyes
lies a sense of humour,
but what you find funny
can kill.

Every day we start over.
I force my racing heart to calm,
make soothing, shooshing sounds
to gentle you,
to gentle myself.

And every day I reach out to you.
I lightly touch your beautiful face,
softly, slowly, stroking your muzzle,
daring teeth,
daring harm.

Every day that you let me
into your world
is a gift.

Every day
I say to myself,
should there be no more gifts from you,
still, I would be as happy
and grateful
as a person could ever be.

And then,
the next day,
with growling benediction,
you bless me again.


(Photo by Melissa, of course)

There’s a wood thrush singing outside the house. Sunrise is officially about 10 minutes away as I write this, but it’s light enough to see the enclosures. Light enough to see that everyone’s still tucked into their houses, snoozing away. I don’t expect the peace to last long, though. Let’s just wait a few minutes…

Ah. Right on time. It’s The 6:30 Barkies! Silver started it, the Shadow’s Den dogs take it up, and it’s spreading around the Sanctuary. For some reason, a ruckus breaks out about this time every morning. Normally, I wake up and listen just long enough to make sure it’s only the customary clamour, then go back to sleep for a bit. Today I get to see what they do after The Barkies. (Before the Shadow’s Den crew arrived, it used to be The 7:00 Howlies.)

Oh, that's what they do. They go quiet again and... go back to sleep? They wake me up for this? Wolfdogs.

Check this out! Bella’s incredible. One of the neat things she does in the shop is to take bills from customers and give them to Kate… and then bring the customers back their change. (Kate says teaching her to give change back was the hard part.)

Kate sponsors Coal, one of our wolfdogs.



Some wolfdog sponsors are more involved than others. Kate is very involved, and comes out to visit Coal whenever she can. And Coal adores her. He’s not a very social guy, normally. Hasn’t a whole lot of use for humans in general. But when Kate comes to call, he’s all smiley and excited. And he knows when she’s coming up the driveway, no matter when it is, no matter whose vehicle she’s in.

They have a bond. And it’s pretty amazing.


(Photo by James Fisher)

This is another one of the Shadow’s Den wolfdogs. She is Queen Bee among the girls, and nobody better forget it. She turns to mush when none of the others are around, though. You see those scars on her face? Many of these guys have them. Satinka also has a bad left hip that’s going to need care. It was bothering her a bit tonight again, but she was putting weight on that leg. Tink is one of my favourites. So rough and tough on the outside, but definite marshmallow potential inside. You can’t really tell from the picture, but her overall structure is all off… like many of these dogs. The vet believes some of it is from malnutrition. The rest is bad breeding. Poor Tink.

Well, she’s beautiful to me.



(Photo by S. Bowers.)

The dang frogs have finally stopped. I guess frogs have got to sleep sometime! Bullseye is sleeping under the lamp, Ball kitty is stretched out in the middle of the day bed (I always have to move him to get into bed.), Lili and the babies have had a snack and are lying around like tiny, fuzzy beached whales, and Spooky is snoring. KittyBoy has knocked a jar of pencils, penknives and assorted other things, along with a bunch of mail, off the table in his effort to make some space. (He needs his space, my KittyBoy does.) He also, somehow, managed to knock five leashes and a collar off the hook on the wall opposite the table. Is he a cat or what?

I don't believe this. I’m just about to post this, and the frogs are starting up again.