Helen the Raccoon

For the past week I have been busy with (okay, obsessed over) a baby raccoon.

I discovered she was both blind and deaf on June 21st when I approached with food and her siblings ran for the woods, and she did not. I could slide food right under her nose, and she had no idea I was there. Her nose was in perfect working order, however. She loved peanut butter sandwiches.

I named her Helen (as in Helen Keller). Often I saw her sitting by the kiddie pool, where the critters got their water, eating kibble…alone. The size of a basketball, she would have been easy pickings for a dog or whatever to kill her. When I spied a stray yellow lab eating kibble by the pool, I knew time was running out. I had to do something.

I called my veterinarian, who advised me to contact a local wildlife rehab. I made inquiries and today spoke to Petra of Mississippi Wildlife Rehabilitation in Lake Cormorant. I barely got the words blind and deaf baby out of my mouth when Petra said, do you have her trapped? Well…no. I have enough cats to know what goes into their mouths comes out their bottoms. I was not going to catch Helen until I knew I could hand her off immediately.

A live trap would not work on Helen. I would catch every member of her family before she stumbled into the trap. I knew I would be somehow handling the baby, but I didn’t want to scare her. Petra advised me to put a blanket over Helen, sweep her up and put her in a box, then call her. Uh…too simple. Which meant I had to put my own sweet spin on catching her.

I didn’t like the idea of throwing a blanket over her. I have never caught an animal that way. I prefer luring into a baited live trap or cage and slapping the door shut. It worked several times on the wildest of stray cats, so that was the route I decided to take with Helen.

I found a large box, an old blanket, gloves (I’m no fool) and was making two peanut butter sandwiches when my husband called.

I told him what I had planned for the day. He made a scoffing sound. “What?” I demanded.

“It’s not going to be as simple as you make it sound,” he said. “Its never simple with you. There is always a bigger story.”

I got huffy, assuring him I could do it. We agreed to disagree and hung up, with Ray saying he couldn’t wait to hear the bigger story, and me sticking my tongue out at my cell phone.

It didn’t take long before I spied Helen out with her family, scrounging for kibble. I waited until the others returned to the woods. Then I grabbed the box, gloves and sandwiches, including the plastic lid from a large storage box. I walked right up to Helen and set the box on end so she would walk into it. Meanwhile…Gidget decided I needed her help.

Gidget is a year-old ex-stray and has watched her dad, Jesse the Wonder Cat, smack raccoons when they try to grab his dinner. I’ve seen Gidget copy her dad…so I did not want her around Helen. As it happened, Helen smelled Gidget and became frightened. She backed into the woods, and climbed a tree a pathetic 2 feet up.

I went back inside to wait for Helen to return. When she did, I put Gidget in the laundry room. I also said a prayer that I would be smart about trapping Helen. I didn’t want to frighten her. Imagine being deaf and blind, and suddenly something grabs you!

Helen sat in the middle of the kibble munching happily. She has a perpetually happy smile on her face. I hated to upset her. 

I placed the box between her and the woods, and baited it with a sandwich. Then I tore off a small corner of the other sandwich and slipped it under her nose. She went right for it, biting off tiny pieces. I gave her a really small portion, but it took her like, ten minutes to eat it. Meanwhile I’m standing over her, baking in the sun, itchy from the flies buzzing around the damp kibble and Helen.

When she finished, she picked up another piece of kibble. My patience was wearing thin. I was ready for both Helen and I to get on with our lives. But then she smelled more peanut butter and headed for the box, only to stop and sniff the strange object. She backed away. I held my breath. And then she walked in part way. Ahhh, the power of peanut butter!

While she was busy working on the sandwich, I used the plastic storage lid to gently nudge her further in, at the same time tipping the box up on end. Helen fell into the bottom and before she could make a sound, I had the lid closed and taped shut.

Yep. I taped it shut, using two strips of tape designed for sealing storage boxes. It had to be good stuff. My husband doesn’t buy cheap-o crap.

Then I called Petra, who cheered, and we made plans to meet half way. I released Gidget, closed up the house, then carried Helen in the box to my car backseat. She road quietly for ten minutes. I could hear her working on her sandwiches. Then…she finished her sandwiches.

Ruh roh!

The box in the back seat with the happy smiling deaf and blind baby raccoon began to rustle. I had one eye on the road and one eye on the box…not easy to do unless you’re Marty Feldman. I was thankfully on a Mississippi backwoods highway with nary a car in sight. Very thankful when I turned around for a third time and saw Helen sticking her nose out of the box top.

Looked like Ray’s theory that I always had a bigger story was about to come true…which pissed me off.

Yeah, I had taped the box shut. Two whole pieces! Dirty rotten cheap tape. Ray’s tape! I had something to blame on him!

Feeling much better about my circumstances, I pulled off the highway and shook the box, thinking Helen would huddle quietly in the bottom for the rest of the drive. Nope! She ramped it up. Deaf and blind—yes. Raccoon with claws—damn straight!

I finally flipped the box upside down, with the cheapo-taped top against the seat, hoping Helen would sit on it quietly and I could drive and…

Nope! She continued to dig at the bottom, making me recall the time I thought I had a feral cat safely in a cat carrier on the seat next to me while driving to my veterinarian in Jacksonville…except the cat kept head-butting the door and actually punched it out so that he crawled out of the carrier…while I’m driving…one eye on the road, the other eye on Tony now head-butting my windshield less than two feet away.

Ruh roh!

I threw my purse on top of Helen’s box, and held it down with one hand while driving at a slightly accelerated speed for my exit. The box rocked and rolled. I tapped on it, hoping to…not scare her but…communicate! Yes! My tapping was me spelling w-a-t-e-r to Helen, assuring her she didn’t need to be panicking cuz I was doing enough of that for both of us.

I prayed my exit was coming up next. It was. I then prayed Petra would be pulling into the gas station parking lot at the same time I was…and she did. Thank you, Jesus!

Petra got out of her van with paperwork. Clearly she thought I had everything under control and we could do a little business before making the transfer. I guess my wild eyes and shriek about Helen wanting out of the box NOW made Petra change her plans. She tossed aside the paperwork and opened the car door. Helen’s arm reached out from the box’s crap-o taped bottom formerly top. Petra pushed the paw back inside. Helen then punched her nose out the hole she had chewed in the box’s top formerly bottom. I think I yelped. Not sure. Everything went black for a second.

When I came to, Petra had a small pet carrier and a yellow bath towel. She actually opened the top and peered down at Helen. She then dropped the towel into the box and scooped my raccoon up like they had been made for each other. 

I watched with envy while Petra held Helen up to inspect her eyes. Helen hung limp like a rag doll, nothing like the boxed maniac terrorizing me down I-69.

“She has no eyes,” Petra finally said. “There is nothing there.”

Aw. I felt bad for thinking of Helen as a maniac. She didn’t have eyes!

Petra determined Helen was 3 months old, and was amazed she had lived that long. I wasn’t. Helen had been born to the right raccoon mom, who—generations before her—had set up camp in the woods behind my house. Since 2007 when we had a bad drought of 100+ degrees for weeks, I had set up the pool and kibble routine. Helen didn’t have to go far from her bed to get food and water. We have quiet neighbors. No dogs. No children. Ideal in every way to nurture a baby raccoon with birth defects.

I wrote out a fat check and Petra and I hugged twice. I was teary driving home, relieved Helen would have the care she needed, and would be safe from harm. Relieved there are Petra’s out there to devote their every waking moments to Helenesque creatures in desperate need. Relieved I wouldn’t have to worry about the helpless little basketball of fluff groping her way around my yard.

Before we parted Petra gave me powdered canine dewormer to sprinkle on the coon kibble. She said she appreciated my help caring for the wildlife and told me she currently had 20-some raccoons in her care, one of which had a broken leg. Clearly God put Petra in my path. Who better to take Helen than someone totally devoted to the species?

Channeling Ellie Mae Clampett

Deep ‘n dark confession: I luvs me critters. There! I said it.
I’ve shared my life with dogs and cats and birds and fish…but critters… Critters like raccoons, opossums (or possums as we say here in the South) make me physically weak.

I love watching possums eat leftover cat kibble, usually standing on the plate while peering nearsightedly around them. Meanwhile a cat perched on a table above them is scowling as they watch their dinner disappearing into a supersized rodent.

I also love how possums, in winter, will seek out a cozy cat bed in whatever shelter I’ve provided my strays for that season. Last winter one possum took over a former cat carrier filled with a pillow and thick blanket. Since he put his stink on it, the other cats avoided it, so that bed became his alone.

I love the way raccoons scrunch their noses up and down as they chew.

I love watching them piece away one dog kibble from the rest, hold it, perhaps wash it, and then lift it to their mouths and nibble. I love how they turn their backs to the food, then back over it, literally sitting on top of it so they can have the lions share of whatever they’re eating.

I have been providing food and water for raccoons since 2007 when a heat wave sent the Mid-South temps over 100 for well over a week. I saw them drinking the stray cats water and grabbing their food, regardless that it was high noon. I bought a kid swimming pool and a 50# bag of Old Yeller dog kibble, and put them along the wood line behind our home. They’ve been coming ever since…generations later.

We have one female white raccoon with an imperfect body who has never reproduced. She and her scruffy-looking pal with one bent ear were among the first to take advantage of my hospitality in 2007. Now in their golden years, they prefer to eat away from the younger generations, so I set aside food for them, closer to the house.

This week I discovered the teeny tiny coon baby I’ve been watching for a couple weeks is blind and deaf.

I have seen her alone, eating with intense concentration, long after her mom and siblings have left. We don’t have dogs and kids running through our yard or neighboring yards, so I did not fear for her safety during the day. However at night, you never know what hungry animal may happen along.

I went out to check on her, and was shocked that I was able to get close enough to take photos without a zoom lens. She never indicated she knew I was there. And I wasn’t deliberately quiet.

It’s clear she smells me, and perhaps recognizes my smell as I’m out there with food and changing pool water every day. However when my husband went out to see her, she did react with fear, and felt her way back into the woods, to a tree where she climbed as her mom had taught her. She went up perhaps two feet…not high enough to protect her from any serious danger.

And so…what to do?

What would Ellie Mae Clampett do?

Well…she’d ask Pa if she could keep the lil’ critter, and surely Jed would say, yes!

However, I’m already overwhelmed with indoor cats and outdoor cats, not to mention a husband whose patience could evaporate any moment.

And so, the darlin’ lil’ blind raccoon, “Helen”, will need to be removed for her safety.

I have a wonderful veterinarian in Olive Branch, MS. Dr. Ann Dye of Cat and Cow Veterinary Clinic. The clinic sits on her family farm and yes, she does have a farm animal veterinary business, as well as one for the usual cats and dogs. She has a cougar that hides in a large, tall grassed pen, and a monkey in an enormous outdoor cage. Rumor has it the monkey doesn’t like men.

There are guinea hens running through the gravel parking lot, and dogs and cats, all ex-strays, constantly under foot. In the waiting room, one of the strays will make himself comfortable on my lap, or on top of one of my cat carriers, staring down at my upset cat with a smirk.

In the exam rooms, a stray will join us, either lolling on the window sill, or perched on the counter while one of my cats is examined. When checking out…a cat, like tabby Nick, will either be sleeping in the basket used by the doctor for patient charts,

or will drape across your checkbook. The women who are at the reception desk work around their furry coworkers, and even provide a fur-filled bed for Kit, the Turkish-Persian to nap.

It’s a wonderful clinic, and I have hope that Dr. Ann will be able to provide Helen, the blind baby raccoon, the kind of care that will help her to grow into a well-adjusted adult.

Feelin' Kinda Sunday

When I was a child, I had my own interpretation of saying my evening prayers. "My Father who is Art in Heaven." What I failed to grasp until a bit later was that my father's name was Howard, not Art, nor was he in Heaven...but rather the assistant principal at the local high school.

I remember Dad as a career man, visible at school functions, either playing donkey basketball with the rest of the faculty, attending football and basketball games, or glad-handing local celebs when he was out about town. I didn't know much about his work at the school, other than he had an office and a secretary, but I did recall Jac LeGoff, a Detroit Area news anchorman for WJBK during the 50s thru 70s, walking through my living room to attend the party in the basement, so that sealed Dad in my eyes as a local celeb.

Howard Guy Robinson climbed a steady success ladder right out of Denby High School, Class of 1947. He went on to graduate from Michigan State in 1951 with a BS Degree and teaching certificate, and later a Masters in Business. He went into the Army and was assigned to the Cryptographic school as a teacher. In 1953 he was hired to teach mathematics at South Lake Junior High School, and in 1956, he was promoted to Assistant Principal at the age of 26. Ten years later he was promoted to Principal of Lake Shore High School (1966-1969). In 1969 he was promoted to Assistant Superintendent of Lake Shore School District, and finally, in 1985, Superintendent.

He joined the Kiwanis Club in 1963 and was the longest serving member of the club for 47 years.  He served as President and was given the Hixon Medal and Tablet of Honor awards.

Behind every successful man is his wife and family...telling him what he's doing wrong. He met my mother, Nancy Dehn, in the 10th grade. At 17 they had their first date, a Sadie Hawkins type of dance where Mom invited Dad out. The date was recorded for posterity in the local newspaper.

They were married in 1951 while on Christmas leave from the Army, and lived in Georgia while Dad at stationed at Camp Gordon.

They were a handsome couple, with my petite, dark-red-haired mother supporting his image in the community by threatening to kill my sisters and I if we so much as crossed eyes when out in public.

Mom was a typical 1950s housewife, raising children and keeping the homestead fires burning while Dad carved out a living. Dinner was always at five o'clock. Dad walked in the door and we sat down to eat. Mom wasn't much on cuisine, so we had liver and onions, Brussels sprouts (which to this day make me gag!) and Swanson's TV dinners. On Friday, always, we had chicken pot pies. I'm kinda understanding now why Dad elected to eat out at so many school and community functions. You can only take just so many Swanson dinners before you cry Uncle!

Being the only male in a houseful of women, Dad tried to deal with our hormonal mood swings and volatile tempers, but eventually he carved out a place for himself in the basement, an office, closed off with a partition and a door. There he read his Bible, wrote in his journal, and occasionally invited us in to hang out.

One such time for me was to record a father/daughter melody previously recorded by Frank and Nancy Sinatra called Feelin' Kinda Sunday. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3f26_MlCjf8  To this day, my heart swells when I hear this song and while our recording is gone, disintegrated on an old-fashioned kinda of tape recorder, I can still hear his voice blending with mine...albeit both of us off-key.

Dad loved to camp, and dragged my family around Michigan, Canada, the East Coast, and out West, pulling a pop-up camper behind him. All I can say is...bless my mother for going along with that idea. Three sweaty, bratty kids in the backseat pinching and fighting with each other must have underscored every trip. Still, I can picture Dad standing on the edge of a cliff, binoculars focused on some distant mountain (probably wishing he could find a way to escape us and have a real vacation.)

Being a teacher, our vacations had to have some kind of historical value for Dad. We never saw a beach or an amusement park. However, we saw Mount Rushmore, Mount Vernon, Gettysburg, Williamsburg, Quebec; Booth Bay Harbor, Maine (where I got food poisoning for the first of many many times--yes, while camping.) Later in life, his favorite vacation places were Tobemori, Michigan and Corpus Christi, Texas.

Dad was an avid golfer throughout his life. Golf was a major part of our family while growing up. My mom golfed, and subsequently, so did I. Dad shaved down his wooden golf clubs (can you imagine...wood!) to make me my own set when I was about six. I promptly gave my baby sis a black eye when she stood behind me while I swung. I was then sent to Golf Lesson Hell at Burning Tree Golf Club. I have a memory of me and my friend, Karen Baxendale, who was the daughter of my parent's friends, lugging our clubs around the course, grumbling about how we didn't want to golf, but rather play in the pool and eat brownies.

When Mom passed away unexpectedly at age 42, the light went out in my Dad. He remarried, but it didn't take. He tried again...nope! I told him, three strikes and you're out. Just enjoy life without commitment. Yeah, I was giving my father permission to live in Sin!  But he decided he would honor his Lutheran teachings and just date. He brought a few of his lady friends home to meet his family, but the one we enjoyed the most was Carole Krantz, who had known Dad when they were 14 and in the same catechism class. In fact, I have their photo from their catechism graduation, along with Don Rutter, who's son became pastor at St Paul's Lutheran Church where my sisters were baptised, and my Dad, in June 2009, was given a proper send off to his final reward.

That my dad passed away a couple days before Father's Day, 2009, doesn't sadden me as you would expect. As a Christian, I knew he had gone on to a better life, without physical ailments and heartbreak. And as a Christian, he too knew there was something better coming his way. He didn't fear death, that I know.

I left Michigan shortly after my marriage, went into business for a number of years, and came back for occasional visits, especially around the holidays. But in between there were phone calls and letters. Dad was a journalist, and a letter writer. I have some of his journals, and many of his letters written throughout the years. And then later, his emails when my sisters and I dragged him, kicking and screaming, into the Age of Technology. Dad savored the feel of putting pen to paper. The whole email computer thing felt impersonal to him. In fact, he would write out his emails on a legal pad and then transcribe them into the emails. You might be thinking, awww, he really loved the old-fashioned style of correspondence, but actually I'm thinking he wanted to make sure he had a back up copy of what he wrote to us, just in case he got called on the carpet for some misunderstood word choice.

In those journals and letters, I am able to understand my father far better than I ever was in person, talking to him. Dad was kind of clueless about women in that...he never truly understood my sisters and I. He tried, though. He supported us, and took an active interest in our lives. But he was wired from another time, and that time didn't always jive with the women we had become, especially in light of growing up without a mother to guide us into womanhood. We had to do that with a stepmother or two whose ideas and personalities were at drastic odds with the woman who gave birth to us. But in the end, we all turned out okay. My sisters went on to have families, making our father a grandfather, and I went on to have cats...but that's another story.

And so, this week, on June 16th I think about how that day was the last time I heard his voice, in a phone call. We talked about what, I can't really recall in detail...but I know we said I love you, and the talk, while brief as Dad was not a chatty phone conversationalist, made me warm and fuzzy when it ended. Two days later he passed, after a pleasant night out on the town with his best girl, Carole. I'm certain in my heart, Dad would not have wanted to go any other way.  He passed with dignity and knowing he was loved by his daughters.

Happy Father's Day, Dad! I love you! Kim

Stormy Days and Crazy Cats always get me down...



Buddy keeps an eye on the storm

 Spring in the Mid-South brings rain and strong winds and humidity, all of which leads to tornadoes. The sound of warning sirens gives me instant stress.

Back in 2009 I was pulling into my garage with a baggie of fish for my aquarium when the sirens went off. I thought I handled the situation well. I gathered my six or seven cats (I never know how many I actually have) and put them in the kitchen walk in closet inside cages. I gathered up beloved possessions and then, exhausted, grabbed myself a glass of tea before deciding to join them.

I recall turning around from the refrigerator to see tree tops covering my back door. Tree tops? A huge tree had fallen and taken out my yard and half my roof. I commend myself for being the ultimate in calm. I picked up my cell phone and dialed a tree service that I had used in the past. I figured the storm was bad enough that they would be very busy in the coming days. I needed first dibs on them. And they came, bless them. That day. The tree covered half my driveway and made a huge mess of everything but thankfully no one was hurt.

My first thought is always for my cats. Outdoor ones come first. Tonight I grabbed father and daughter, Jesse and Gidget and put them in my laundry room. I have two beds, a litter box, a lamp, food and water waiting for them. I spray Feliway to keep them calm but they're both pretty chill cats to begin with.

Then I set up Chauncie and Jack in my fenced yard. Chauncie is neurotic so she cannot come inside. Jack keeps her company under the chaise longue pushed against the house with a second chaise on its side butted against it. They seem fine about the arrangement and they are protected from weather.

My indoor cats are another story altogether. They. Are. NUTS.  If I have to grab them to put in the cages, I have to walk around like nothing is going on and catnab them one at a time, starting with the most hysterical (Barney, Opie) and ending with the least punchy (Herm, Nick, Buddy). If I make a sudden move and there is any sound of commotion, a feline warning siren goes off, alerting them Mom is going berzerk and to take cover. I have back problems. I cannot move as fast as I used to. So I try to be as calm as possible to avoid personal pain.

I am not an alarmist but I take these storms seriously. Unlike my husband who walks around munching Cheetos, poo-pooing that anything will happen. Tonight he thought he'd mow the lawn before the rain started. The storm is moving at 50mph and is sitting on the other side of the Mississippi river and he thinks he has time to mow. He drives me NUTS!  More than my cats, and that is saying a lot, my friend.

Inspired by a Snake, Dirty Laundry and a Dentist Appointment

Nick performs reenactment of snake episode.

I have no idea what it's like to have Writer's Block. In fact I suffer from Overplotters Disease, but hey--that's better than staring at a blank page.

For me, the key to writing a story is imagery. And...hyperbole. Exaggeration. Taking a simple incident and expanding with humor and vibrant prose.

I have a scrapbook of news clippings filled with reports of human nature, Mother Nature, man against nature and the assorted odd-balls and weirdos to assure I'll never be at a loss for characters.

I keep a blank book filled with verbal bits, creative wording, quirky characteristics and Rayisms among the listings. The last is the stuff my husband says. He has a flair for imagery and a sharp-edged humor that has kept me laughing for over 25 years.

My life has given me enough incidents to keep me writing well into the next century. I wish I'd kept better journals through the years. I've done things that make for great character development in my stories. Instead I have to rely on memory.

One memory ended up in my romantic comedy, Southern Exposure.

Ray and I were living in Jacksonville, Florida. I had just waved Ray off to work, turned and there was a snake in my kitchen. It was not small either. I didn't whip out my ruler to measure. Instead I yelped. At first I thought it was fake. A Ray prank. Then it moved.

This is the so "me" part: I had a dentist appointment and feared I would be late. So I tried to broom it out the door. Instead it slithered under my cupboards. This was a cheap patio home and there was an opening under the dishwasher and cupboards. So I decided to stuff dirty laundry in the cracks and then deal with the snake when I got home.

Then the snake peeked from between the clothes (and I swear winked). I had to deal with him right then. Again, I swept him toward the door. It was spring and kinda chilly, so he battled to stay indoors warm and snuggy among my laundry. This went on for a long time. Felt like hours, more like minutes I'm sure.

Eventually, with my broom wailing, I sent the snake flying into the morning dew. A few months later we were scheduled to move from the state. The moving man removed my stereo from the armoir and asked if I wanted to keep the snake skin. He held up a skin about sixteen inches in length. I understood then why that snake fought me so hard. He lived with me! And what is so incredible...I had three cats in this tiny house and not once did they alert me to the snake warming himself behind my stereo. I'm still shuddering when I think about this and its been twelve years.

So. How did I use that experience in Southern Exposure? Here's the scene:

Kat awoke before dawn to wonder why her hair moved when she lay perfectly still. She had gone to bed with her head wrapped in a towel because Dean did not own a blow dryer. She would sneak aboard her yacht later to stock up on female essentials, but in the meantime, why was her hair moving?

With a quick hand she threaded her nails through her unbound locks, and brushed something the size of a pink school eraser. The eraser felt warm, fuzzy and squishy... with ears.

Unable to stifle a blood-curdling scream, Kat bound to her feet and danced around the room, shaking her head. The faint moonlight seeping into the room through the loft window did nothing to reveal the whereabouts of her assailant.

“Kat?” Dean stumbled up the stairs, looking dazed. “What’s wrong?”

Kat managed to turn on the lamp. “You have rats, Dean.” The lamp illuminated his horrified expression. “There is a rat in here. It’s huge. Loaf of bread huge.”

Dean grabbed the lamp, turning wildly in search of the monster. “Get downstairs.”

Already halfway down them, Kat fled into the kitchen where Dixie’s boys were crowded together.

“Look, Aunt Kat.” Hootie pointed at something in the corner. “Mickey’s hungry.”

Kat saw something small and black move between the boys’ feet. “Get out.” She flung each boy by the arm through the door onto the side porch. There she saw the broom she had used to sweep suds. Her heart slamming against her ribs, she ran back inside to face her enemy.

The black rodent sat on its haunches, gazing up at her. His white whiskers moved with the constant twitching of his nose. He had one white ear and a white spot on his tummy. Kat raised her broom and with the force of an avenging angel, brought it down--only to stop a fraction from its head. She had never killed anything in her life. Not a spider, not a fly. She loved animals, more than humans. But this rodent had been in her hair. She did a little impromptu dance at the ickyness of the thought.

Whimpering, Kat used the broom to push the mouse toward the door. It scurried under the table, and ran along the baseboard. She followed close behind, determined to rid Dean’s house of the pestilence. The mouse darted into the open and she pinned it to the floor with the brush end. “Ray-Bob, hold the door open.”

“But, Aunt Kat...”

“Do it.” As the boy obeyed, Kat position the mouse in front of the door. She saw Hootie and Bobby-Ray in the way. “Stand back.”

Once the porch looked clear, Kat lifted her broom. The mouse streaked for the kitchen closet; she wildly swept it back toward the door, and with a final thrust, sent it flying through the air into the early morning dew. Exhausted, she sunk to the floor. “You boys okay?” When they nodded, she asked, “It didn’t bite you, did it?” She scanned their hands for signs of festering wounds.

Hootie knelt next to her. “No, Aunt Kat. Mickey doesn’t bite.”

She ruffled his hair. “This isn’t Disney, honey. That mouse could have bit you. It could be sick with rabies.”

“Uncle Dean wouldn’t let Stevie have a mouse with rabies,” Ray-Bob said from the door.

The boy’s words took a moment to seep past the hysteria ebbing through her mind. “That was Stevie’s mouse? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Where’s Mickey?” Stevie’s scream ricocheted through the house. She bolted into the kitchen, her eyes wildly seeking evidence of her pet.

Kat rose to her feet, using the broom to keep her knees from buckling. “Stevie, I...”

“You killed him,” Stevie accused, her eyes blazing. “You killed Mickey.”

“I didn’t,” Kat defended. “I just put him outside.”

Stevie bolted through the door, her hysterical cries rising along with the morning sun. Dean entered the kitchen, his expression confirming he had heard everything. Kat buried her face in her hands. “I’ll replace him.”

Dean nodded. “Good luck.” What else could he say?

Putting yourself into a scene ensures it will spring to life. Even now, rereading how Kat battled Mickey, I again found myself in my kitchen battling that snake. So if you're struggling to bring a scene to life, look at your own life first. Unless you live in a cupboard under someone's stairs...I'll bet you have an experience worth writing about.

Blinky Balls, Bumpy Balls, Chirpy Balls and Mangled Mouse

Okay, I've had it. I am not buying any more "cat toys." My house is overrun with blinky balls, bumpy balls, chirpy balls and one extremely mangled mouse...oodles of catnip toys galore. And yet what entertains my brats? A box. A pen cap. A piece of dog kibble. The small bungee cord I use to keep the French doors to my office closed when I’m desperate to work and need to keep them out.

Last night I watched Opie romp on the stairs, flipping something all the way up, then all the way down with much enthusiasm. Peaches joined in. Together whatever they had was the kitty be-all and end-all of cat toys. I had to see what it was: a pompom foot off of Mangled Mouse.

I used to do the eccentric thing at Christmas...crazy cat lady fills stockings for her kitties. Everyone had their own and Santy Claws would stuff em with kibble treats and absurdly-priced toys designed for cat people to buy because they were adorable and yet highly impractical in that the beaded eyes and yarn tail made toxic choking hazards. My cousin has taken up the slack I've dropped at Christmas by giving my cats catnip puff balls and Party Mix...to my gang from Aunt Sandy and their kitty cousins. Actually the catnip puff balls are a huge success. They're fun to smack around, easy to carry in one's mouth and smell great. They also destroy quite easily which makes for designer-looking hairballs when they come back up.

Watching Opie and Peaches turn inside out with pleasure over a stupid pompom has solidified my resolve not to buy any more cat toys. When Christmas 2011 arrives, I'll just upend the junk drawer into their stockings. I'm 100% positive my brats will be thrilled.

The Littlest Angel by Janice Robinson

I've been in the dog business for many, many years. I have been brought to tears more times than I can count, both with joy and anger. I take the health and welfare of all pets very personally. I would be a total failure as a rescue foster because I would never be able to let go. 

I attended, as a vendor for Dog Zone Training & Activity Center, the Guardians for Animals Pooch-A-Licious Fashion Show last night at the Royal Oak Farmers Market. I know there are a lot of people who roll their eyes at the thought of dogs being dressed up and paraded down a catwalk. But they are not getting the point. The point of this event was to generate interest in a society that has become numb to the plight of thrown away pets. Rescues are constantly trying to come up with new and inventive ideas to bring interest and therefore, possible new pet parents to view these babies that so desperately need new homes. It's not easy by any means.

The evening was absolutely beautiful, well thought out and executed. The pets on the display seemed to enjoy the attention and hopefully most found a new loving home. The various rescues decorated their areas, had their information at the ready for any perspective parent that might inquire, and put their best foot forward. 

I've been to more of these events than I can count, I see the same people over and over. As I packed up my Jeep and slowly drove home at 10:00pm, I thought about them, I knew I wanted to write this note.

I really don't think that the general public knows how much time, effort, blood, sweat and tears goes into rescuing. Honestly, people casually walk by a cage, give a glance or two and move on. They haven't a clue what went on before, during or after. I'm not going to comment on the actual art of rescuing. It's too intense, too detailed and really, I don't want to cry right now. My comments here are targeting the events they go to. The very physical labor and mental process for each and every event is overwhelming. Rescue people have families and jobs but they spend all their free time trying to find homes for the homeless. Take a good look at what they do, walk around and ask questions at the next adoption event. This is hard work and emotionally draining. They do it because they cannot walk away from any pet saying, no, I don't feel like helping you today, I would rather do something fun. It's not in their genetic makeup. They can't look into those sad eyes and turn away. Their hands automatically reach out to help.

I watch as they pull up, each car packed with crates, cages, toys, blankets, water bowls, treats, food, medication, grooming supplies, clean up supplies, decorating supplies, paperwork and most often tables, chairs and tents. Each set up with the care and comfort of the animals in mind. I've seen frozen water bottles and fans in the heat of summer and extra blankets, sweaters and jackets in the winter. All are hauled in to their designated space, set up, rearranged and made to look spectacular. Then each pet is brought in, pottied, groomed, bows or bandannas and information packs assigned. Dogs are constantly taken to go potty throughout the event, along with hugs given for the nervous and excited. 

Throughout the event they talk each pet up, answer questions, go through debates, weed out the crazies, change cage papers, feed, groom and talk some more. It's exhausting. Then in the end, they pack it all up, take it home, just to do it all over again and again.

I'm here to say, these people are saints. Really, could you do this every weekend? No, most are out enjoying the sun, sleeping in, making plans with their family, taking vacations. Rescue people are a different breed. They give up their free time in hopes that one of their foster pets MIGHT find a forever home. They are dedicated to a cause that is endless. They spend their own money and often do without so a homeless soul could have a better life. It's a thankless job. The best they can hope for is to hear a success story from an adoptive parent. It's what they live for.

I also want to acknowledge Guardians for Animals, a non-profit organization whose mission is dedicated to helping these rescues and sanctuaries save the lives of abandoned, abused and neglected animals. Without Alex's help, many rescues would not have the funds to do what they do. She has done more for the rescue organizations than can be counted in a lifetime. Many a pet owes their very life to her efforts. Please take a look at GFA and see if a donation might be the right move for you. http://www.guardiansforanimals.org/

God bless them all, for if God knows when a sparrow falls to the ground, he certainly is looking down kindly on those that are there trying to catch them. My sister Kim, though not involved in an organized rescue, has more than done her share of rescuing cats from Florida to Michigan. She has a special heart for it.

So the next time you hear someone comment about how much a rescue costs, please tell them that not only are these pets healthy, vaccinated and spayed/neutered, but the amount of time and love that has gone into them is priceless.

Support rescues, every bit helps. Bring food, blankets, toys, check that box on your tax returns, check into the donation opportunity on your Kroger/grocery store swipe card and if you have a bit of extra money, please send it in. It's so desperately needed. Every dime is appreciated. If so inclined, say a prayer for them all, I'm sure it is needed too. Take the time to tell these people, thank you, thank you for all your dedicated work. We appreciate what you do. They deserve that much and it's nice to hear.

And above all: Adopt, you both need the love.

The Angel in the picture is a sweet baby whose leg was so beyond repair it had to be amputated. The owner was going to euthanize her. But a rescue got her first, today she is healthy, happy and oh so beautiful. She is loved.

Dog Zone Training & Activity Center as Rescue Rates. We want to do our part to help a newly rescued dog adjust into their new home. We can also help a foster dog overcome certain issues to help them become more adoptable. I really hope people will take advantage of this and not return a pet for something that could have been solved.

Hugs to you all. I for one, appreciate all that you do. Janice Robinson

Note from Kim: Janice is my sister who has devoted her soul to the love and caring of strays. She shares her life with numerous ex-stray cats and one heckuva great Italiano Spinone named Grissom.