Sasha the Dog

Sasha is a blessing in fur; she is the most polite, obedient dog I have ever owned. Don't get me wrong, she has her moments of rebellion, but for the most part she's nearly the perfect model of a dog. I found Sasha in a small county animal shelter through Pet Finder, a site I highly recommend if you have it in your heart to adopt a homeless or fostered pet. Sasha's name was Dixie when I saw the photo of her expressive eyes imploring me to save her from death row. Through a serious of very fortunate events, I happened to be working from home that day and struck out to meet the skinny dog on my lunch break. I feel certain that had I not been able to visit her that very day, poor little Dixie would never have become the beautiful Sasha; only God knows what might have become of her.

When I got to the shelter and walked to kennel 4B to see the skinny rust-colored dog who talks with her eyes, my heart knew that instant I had to take her away from that four-foot square concrete cage and give her a home. I signed the papers within twenty minutes (and after a phone call to Luis) and her an appointment to pick her up in a few days, after she was spayed. The poor little girl dog of approximately eighteen months had already had a litter of puppies, all of whom were adopted well before their neglected mother. I suppose I should tell the story of how Sasha, who was called Dixie in her former life, came to be on death row.

I only know the story as it was told to me by the shelter workers. According to what was on paper when I found her, Dixie was purchased as a puppy by a family out in the country. The family did not know much about dogs, or just did not care, and left Dixie in their yard to fend for herself. When Dixie was about eleven months old she was impregnated by a stray dog and gave birth to six puppies. After the puppies were born the people who named her Dixie and stuck her in their yard became annoyed by the hungry cries of the puppies and carted mother and pups away to the shelter. When they arrived the puppies were six healthy little bundles, thanks to the heroic efforts of malnourished Dixie to feed her babies. The puppies were quickly adopted through the shelter, leaving Dixie alone and with the clock ticking down the days until the eighteen-month-old mother of six was deemed unworthy of kennel 4B; that's where I came in and Dixie became Sasha.

When I picked her up, Sasha was still feeling poorly from the operation, during which they gave my baby a peace sign tattoo on her lower underbelly to let the world know she had been spayed at a shelter. On the ride home from the shelter Sasha simply licked my hand then curled up into a tight little ball on the seat next to me and went to sleep. When I brought Sasha home to meet Luis and Sam she was five pounds underweight; you could see ribs and backbone, her teats were enlarged, skin was dry, coat was dull and her eyes made you want to cry with their longing for affection. I promptly took our new baby to the vet to find she had a case of worms and would not gain weight until they were out of her system, which took only a few days thanks to the powerful medication. I started her on a limited ingredient diet and fed her the vet's prescribed amount twice a day. Sasha quickly began to blossom under the new diet and the copious amounts of affection lavished on her from the start. She was already crate-trained, thanks to her stay at the shelter, and we shortly found out what a quick learner Sasha is. It took less than a week for Sasha to learn sit, wait, down, come, and how to walk properly on a leash; what a miracle!

Sasha has become my second shadow and follows me around wherever I go, seemingly to make sure I'm alright. She waits patiently outside any room I enter without her and when I work from home she rarely wanders away from her spot on the rug next to me. She is hysterical to watch when she wants to play with Sam because Sam just get annoyed and Sasha never seems to get discouraged about this fact. She is also so obedient that, with an upraised paw, the cat often tells her to calm herself and lie down...and she does it! I have been meaning to capture this phenomenon on camera but rarely remember to have the camcorder handy; very few people me when I tell them the dog does everything the cat tells her to. For the moment I must take a break from talking about my beloved Sasha to let her run around in the back yard for a few minutes.

To be continued...

The Princess

Sasha is enjoying the comfort of a patio chair to keep her paws dry and thinking about what to eat...what a little princess!

The Household Inspector

Sam is inspecting my blog. He said "so far so good...for a beginner" and thinks there should be more written about him (go figure).

Daily Dose

Hello, dear reader! I trust you are well and having a fabulous day? If not, then I am sorry for your condition of body or mind, whichever happens to be plaguing you this day, and hope you feel better soon. I have been thinking a lot lately about what I would like to accomplish in my lifetime. Do you ever think about those things? Is there anything you say to yourself, “If I do nothing else, I would love to _______”; feel free to fill in the blank. I would like to write a book. My husband has been encouraging me to write one but I haven’t the foggiest idea what to write about or in what style. My tendency toward waxing eloquent in my writing is the style of old and I fear went out of fashion long ago.

If only I lived in the days when books were actually considered literature, as in the days of Anne (decidedly with an “E”) Shirley. I can identify with little Miss Shirley for I, too, think in depths of tone with descriptions dripping from paragraphs (see what I mean?). I have a hard time tearing myself away from this tendency for when my fingers start to strike the keys of my generic black keyboard they become rebellious and refuse to do as I command. Generally, when I make an effort to change the way my thoughts express themselves in print, the product seems bland and lacking ingredients; like attempting to make brownies without chocolate. Oh, to live in a time when writers composed literary symphonies with their sonnets and novels. We live in a time when people prefer to turn off their brains when they pick up a book and authors who can barely conjure sentences containing proper grammar and punctuation are the lauded norm. Do not think for a moment, darling, I believe my own writing worthy to be mentioned in the same breath as the classics I adore. I simply wish I were in a time when such works were appreciated by the masses as everyday reading and not relinquished almost exclusively to be the subjects of dissertations by the depleting ranks of Classic Literature students; then at least my style might have been appreciated in a magazine or newspaper as a space-filler. Oh well.

So, I will attempt to practice a more simplified style and chop down the metaphors. Maybe tackling a mystery or suspense story would help harness my willful fingers; it would seem strange for a thrilling plot to be coupled with such imagery, would it not? What do you think, dearest? What should I write?

Lightning

This was written when I was 15.


Lightning flashes, parting the night sky in a jagged line. In the instant light two stallions, eyes wild, manes flying, rear with hooves flailing in every direction seeking, striking, crashing down.
Thunder starts as a low rumble and rolls across the plains getting louder as it goes, finally fading away in the distance. Another flash, this one longer, reveals the silhouette of a large herd huddled against the mighty storm, young and old alike.
Only the fighting stallions are apart, alone in the night, left to battle. As the thunder roars and the storm continues so do the combatants. They rear and plunge, kick and bite. They are ruthless in their anger. One is the master of the herd, father to all the young and ready to fight 'til the death to protect what is his. His rival is a wandering stallion who has found the herd he would have for his own. They both know only one will see the light of the next day. Each fight to be that one. Their shrill cries of pain and rage pierce the darkness as the lightning only to be carried away on the wind and drowned by the groan of thunder. The mares pay no heed, the foals stir only slightly. They know the strongest will survive and they will be better off with the victor.
It is late and the battle drags on. The stallions are both hurt and bleeding. The wanderer, a striking red-bay of five years, young and bold, suffers the least. The herd stallion, a sleek black of nine years, older and wiser in his ways, more knowledgeable in the harsh life of a mustang; yet he is not stronger than the challenging bay, his energy is dwindling.
The bay rears, standing, waiting for his opponent to rise. The black follows as the bay knew he would. The bay reels quickly, landing square and plunges, teeth bared, for the black's unprotected belly. He bites hard, not caring where, and holds on until the black, in great shock and pain brings his front hooves to the ground with a jolt. The thunder claps louder and louder, the lightning creeps closer and closer. The foals become restless and whinny in fear and anticipation. The mares calm their young with smoothing milk and low murmurs.
The black has a deep gash in his right side. Bleeding and worn he tries to stand his ground. He won't last much longer. The bay knows seizes the opportunity and rears, towering above the older stallion with a savage look in his rolling eyes. He lets forth a shrill cry holding all the pain and rage within.
The black tries with all his depleted strength to kick at his opponent. He knows he'll never again see his favorite mare or her colt. He won't feel the wind caressing his mane and tail as he stands on the hill watching his herd graze in the spring grasses as the year's foals play on spindly legs. He knows this.
The bay stands as if suspended in time, strong and mighty before his foe. With ears flat against his head, teeth bared and sharp hooves ready he is silhouetted against the moon and flashing lighting. His coat is red, the color of blood lost. The bay strikes with all his might, crashing down upon the black's broad back. The black stumbles, loosing his balance. The thunder moans. Lightning parts the sky. The black lets loose a slitting shriek. He falls with a dull thud to the wet ground. The bay rises and strikes his fallen enemy again and again. The black is still.
Lighting flashes, this time at a distance. The low, retreating roll of thunder can be heard. The rain has ceased. The bay, victorious, rears in victory and flails with triumphant hooves glistening red. He gracefully returns to earth and walks, bristled, to the black's body to snort his approval at the lack of life.
The bay canters to the herd. The storm has ceased. The sun is creeping over the horizon. The herd begins to graze. The bay trots into the midst of the dripping band of nomads, snuffling each mare with her baby. They sniff noses in turn, greeting their new master. They return to their business of eating and tending to the foals. The bay takes his new position on the hill overlooking his new herd, his coat still flecked with blood. He rolls in the sweet wet grass to sooth his cuts and rid himself of the clinging remnants of battle. He rises and shakes a fine mist of water into the air. The brilliant red of his coat gleams in the morning sun. The deep charcoal of his name shimmers silver, covered with soft beads of dew. He rears once more in delight, the colors of the sunrise behind him. The mares of his herd watch. As he glances over his mares something to the side catches his eye There, playing in the tall spring grass, apart from his mother is a young colt. The colt is black.

Thoughts

It has been raining for nearly four full days now and I am beginning to feel as though I am on the set of Twilight. I have been scouring my brain for topics to blog about today and have not been very productive. I ended up digging through some old stories I wrote many years ago and trying to decide which to share with you, if any at all. It is very new and slightly scary to think about sharing such intimate writings in such a public format for I find myself worrying about what you, my reader, might think. Will you laugh? Will you think I'm silly or boring or just stop reading my blog? These thoughts race through my mind at a thousand miles per hour but then, when it all comes down to it, aren't I doing this for me more than for you? So why should I be concerned what you think or if you read or not? So, my darling, I have made up my mind to finally share the things I held dear for so long. I hope you will share your honest thoughts on anything posted here without fear or regret.

Sam the Cat

Sam (the cat) and Sasha (the dog) are two of the most unique pets I have ever known. They were adopted, both under very different circumstances. They are the same color, but other than the fact that they are a cat and dog, they also have decidedly dissimilar pedigrees and upbringing. I will tell their stories here and in future posts so you might get to know and love them as I do. Here is your introduction to Sam:

Sam is an Abyssinian registered to The Cat Fancier's Association and his full name is Grand Premier Khamsin's Sam. He was born on April 15, 2003, which makes him a middle-aged cat at the respectable age of six.
Sam came to my husband and I when he was two-years-old as a retired show cat. He won the title "Grand Premier" because he actually did very well in the show circuit, but Sam has a big problem; he cannot stand the company of other cats. Sam is thoroughly convinced he is a human stuck on four legs.

I found Sam by pestering various Abyssinian breeders, asking each in turn to keep me in mind should he/she need to find a home for an adult male cat. I was set on having an Abyssinian because of its personality and looks; it also did not hurt the breed's appeal to know that an Abyssinian starred in the 1978 Walt Disney movie, The Cat From Outer Space directed by Norman Tokar (if you have not yet seen the movie I recommend it as a classic).

When Sam first joined the family he was a bit shy and kept to himself; that lasted all of three days. Ever since he became comfortable in our home Sam has not ceased to amaze all who meet him with his antics. Sam is one of those rare felines who actually craves human contact and cannot live without a person close at paw. He talks quite a lot and sufficiently scolds Luis and I if we leave him home alone for too long or are not out of bed at what Sam considers a respectable time (which, on the weekends, is generally 10:00am). Sam has made up many games, most of which include ambushing unsuspecting feet. Even as other cats his age begin to slow down, Sam's zest for life will not be hindered and he has even begun to play his games with Sasha. I believe, if given the chance, Sam would ride a person's shoulders all day long just to be at the same height as everyone else in the room. It seems he considers his natural height a great disadvantage and it is likely the only thing he would change about himself if you had the opportunity to ask him.

At the moment the furry little guy is sleeping on the chair behind me and there he will likely remain until I leave the room, at which point he will resume his self-appointed role as my shadow, and a more mischievous little shadow there never was, nor a more curious. While other less interesting cats would rather relax and watch the bugs outside, Sam is much more interested in anything and everything his people do or bring into the house. He is the inspector of all things and it thoroughly annoys him to be left out of something exciting. Even when we go outside and Sam is relinquished to the indoors, he can be counted on to stand at the window and yodel his protests to whomever cares to listen.

For all his little quirks, Sam really is the most lovable cat I know. If you attempt to sit on the couch for any reason he insists on being nearby, if not in your lap. Until Sam, I had never met a cat who actively seeks human contact and is upset when it is denied. What a unique little furball, indeed!