A Boston Terrier, he's my gent in a tux.
He's 6 months old.
He follows me everywhere . . .
He smells like gingerbread, somehow. . .
His name is Abbott . . .
And I love him madly.
P.S. Hi Sophie!
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Friday, January 14, 2011
Meet My New Boyfriend
Once our eyes met, I knew I would belong to him forever . . .
A Boston Terrier, he's my gent in a tux.
He's 6 months old.
He follows me everywhere . . .
He smells like gingerbread, somehow. . .
His name is Abbott . . .
And I love him madly.
P.S. Hi Sophie!
A Boston Terrier, he's my gent in a tux.
He's 6 months old.
He follows me everywhere . . .
He smells like gingerbread, somehow. . .
His name is Abbott . . .
And I love him madly.
P.S. Hi Sophie!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Warm Chicken
It particularly touches my heart when people find it in their own hearts to care for the very least of us: the animals.
Some of the animals most in need of help are the battery hens. The ones who have probably made your breakfast a time or two . . . or twenty.
A battery hen is a hen that has been kept in a large egg-production factory farm all her life. Their quarters are so tight and the conditions are so poor for these poor dears, they are often deprived of darkness (and therefore valuable rest) and even room to move. And once these hens fail to produce eggs at their maximum rate, they are typically destroyed. Quite a sad little life.
The good news is, there are incredible human beings out there who rescue and rehome these hens.
Little Hen Rescue in the U.K. is one such collection of awesome human beings.
They take these hens from the battery farms and organize to find new, happy homes for them.
If you have it in your heart, you might consider adopting a few ex-battery hens. How rewarding it must be to watch them roam free in the sunshine for the very first time.
Perhaps you would like to help in another way, . The way I have chosen to help in the past is to knit up some little hen jumpers. That's right, chicken sweaters! It's not as silly as it sounds. Most ex-battery hens suffer from some degree of featherlessness. When they are removed from their tight conditions, they are bald and cold -- having become accustomed to sharing the body heat of their neighboring hens. While they regrow their feathers, they are helped by wearing a little sweater to help keep warm and secure.
If you're interested, you can find patterns for knitters and seamstresses here. Just whip one up and send it to the address they have listed on their page. I bet you can't make just one!
Decency and good deeds abound . . . if you only look for them.
Some of the animals most in need of help are the battery hens. The ones who have probably made your breakfast a time or two . . . or twenty.
A battery hen is a hen that has been kept in a large egg-production factory farm all her life. Their quarters are so tight and the conditions are so poor for these poor dears, they are often deprived of darkness (and therefore valuable rest) and even room to move. And once these hens fail to produce eggs at their maximum rate, they are typically destroyed. Quite a sad little life.
The good news is, there are incredible human beings out there who rescue and rehome these hens.
Little Hen Rescue in the U.K. is one such collection of awesome human beings.
They take these hens from the battery farms and organize to find new, happy homes for them.
If you have it in your heart, you might consider adopting a few ex-battery hens. How rewarding it must be to watch them roam free in the sunshine for the very first time.
Perhaps you would like to help in another way, . The way I have chosen to help in the past is to knit up some little hen jumpers. That's right, chicken sweaters! It's not as silly as it sounds. Most ex-battery hens suffer from some degree of featherlessness. When they are removed from their tight conditions, they are bald and cold -- having become accustomed to sharing the body heat of their neighboring hens. While they regrow their feathers, they are helped by wearing a little sweater to help keep warm and secure.
Now how cute is that . . .
If you're interested, you can find patterns for knitters and seamstresses here. Just whip one up and send it to the address they have listed on their page. I bet you can't make just one!
Decency and good deeds abound . . . if you only look for them.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
(Almost) Wordless Wednesday
Peace on Earth,
Good will toward All,
From my pets to yours!
This dog is being nominated for sainthood someday!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
My Girl, Lester
Have you met my Lester? Lester is my little mourning dove girl. We raised her from a naked, featherless nestling. We tried to be careful to preserve her "wildness," but somehow she imprinted on our dog. She now lives a dog's life.
She bathes in and drinks from the dogs' water dish. . .
She sleeps in the dog's bed:
She greets family members at the door when they arrive back home . . . how she doesn't get stepped on, I'll never know . . .
She likes potato chips on the occasion we crumple a bit for her . . .
When she feels giddy, she'll attack our toes and tickle, tease, and play . . .
She is a nosy little girl and must know all things my kids are into, especially if they are on the floor:
She hangs around the yard and expects to be let in at her pleasure:
And she feels quite entitled to my son's favorite blanket . . . her favorite, too:
She recently took up residence in a houseplant . . . laying her eggs and then sitting on them for almost 3 weeks, her personal best so far in her almost 2 year life. I didn't get a picture as I didn't want to push my luck. I was the only one allowed to approach her or even enter the room, so I didn't feel it was appropriate to intrude on her with a camera. So you will have to imagine the picture of a broody mourning dove all hunkered down in a past-its-prime poinsettia plant in the window of the kids' playroom. I would sprinkle some seed and refill the little medicine-cup water-dish each morning and each night, and she would thank me with a little hum and a nestle. She finally gave up on her nest two days ago, and I am so happy to have her back.
(Though not on my head! . . . which is her favorite perch . . . she knows it drives me buggy . . . teaser that she is.)
I just love that little bird.
She bathes in and drinks from the dogs' water dish. . .
She sleeps in the dog's bed:
She greets family members at the door when they arrive back home . . . how she doesn't get stepped on, I'll never know . . .
She likes potato chips on the occasion we crumple a bit for her . . .
When she feels giddy, she'll attack our toes and tickle, tease, and play . . .
She is a nosy little girl and must know all things my kids are into, especially if they are on the floor:
She hangs around the yard and expects to be let in at her pleasure:
And she feels quite entitled to my son's favorite blanket . . . her favorite, too:
She recently took up residence in a houseplant . . . laying her eggs and then sitting on them for almost 3 weeks, her personal best so far in her almost 2 year life. I didn't get a picture as I didn't want to push my luck. I was the only one allowed to approach her or even enter the room, so I didn't feel it was appropriate to intrude on her with a camera. So you will have to imagine the picture of a broody mourning dove all hunkered down in a past-its-prime poinsettia plant in the window of the kids' playroom. I would sprinkle some seed and refill the little medicine-cup water-dish each morning and each night, and she would thank me with a little hum and a nestle. She finally gave up on her nest two days ago, and I am so happy to have her back.
(Though not on my head! . . . which is her favorite perch . . . she knows it drives me buggy . . . teaser that she is.)
I just love that little bird.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
And The Clucks Have It!
WE WON!!
Chickens remain legal in my city!
It was a beautiful thing to watch. It was a unanimous decision. All five council members spoke and once they had finished, our argument had been reiterated and agreed with in total and our petty neighbors had been scolded.
The defeated neighbor left the meeting room in a huff before he could congratulate us.
Thanks to all who lent their support along the way. It certainly helped propel us.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Chicken Fight: Final Round
Well, tonight's the night . . . but not in the way Rod Stewart meant.
Tonight is the night the City Council will debate and vote on the proposed chicken ban in our city.
All letters have been filed.
Petitions have been foraged. (okay, maybe not foraged, but I suspect the signors are not real)
Pleas have been made.
I have to tell you. . . we have really debated even going. I don't know how much longer I can be nice and sit there and stand in line to pretend to beg humbly to do what I want on my own darned property.
It is not against the law.
It is not hurting anyone.
And who are these five people who may decide that it is anyway?!
I feel a Norma Ray moment coming on if they don't knock it off soon.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Faith Comes In a Child (And a Parakeet?)
Once upon a time, there was a little boy and a stray parakeet.
The little boy was running and playing in his yard after dinner when a stray parakeet swooped through his yard, landing on the fence.
The parakeet chirped and chatted.
The little boy was enchanted.
The boy quickly realized the parakeet was lost, for parakeets are not native birds in his area. He called his parents outside to help.
They tried and tried to catch the clever parakeet, but with each effort, the parakeet grew less trusting and finally flew away.
The boy was sad.
He tried everything to lure the parakeet back.
He sprinkled seed all around the fence and upon all the tables and chairs throughout the yard.
He fashioned gentle traps out of nets, shoe boxes, popsicle sticks, and string and waited hours for the parakeet to return.
But the parakeet was not to be found that night.
The next morning, the boy arose enthusiastic with more ideas to find and save his new friend.
He watched and waited all day.
He searched every tree and fence in the neighborhood.
No parakeet.
The next day, the boy continued, determined to find and capture the lost parakeet.
No parakeet.
The boy grew distraught.
He lost sleep.
Despite his parents' assurances that the parakeet must have found his way back home, the boy would not give up.
There had been no sight of the parakeet since that first night.
The boy's parents watched the boy, so sad, yet so determined.
After the boy went to bed on the third night, the parents, certain that the parakeet would never return, bought a parakeet just like the one who had visited and put it in the cage the little boy had prepared for his phantom friend.
When the little boy awoke the next morning and found the parakeet in the cage, he assumed it was the little lost parakeet. His parents did not correct him. It would be better that way, they reasoned.
The little boy spent much time with his new parakeet, making him toys and trying to train him.
The new parakeet wanted nothing to do with the boy. The bird bit and fought and refused to play with the boy.
After months of trying to be friends with the bird, the little boy gave up, lost interest, and left him alone.
The parakeet grew bored and lonely.
Realizing that the parakeet still needed a friend, the parents then bought another parakeet.
The lonely parakeet was so happy to meet his new parakeet friend.
They chirped and played and were as happy as could be. They shared toys and swings and flew and played all winter long.
One spring afternoon, the telephone rang. It was a worried neighbor. She had spotted a parakeet in her yard and needed help catching him.
The mother hurried over wondering whether it could possibly be the visitor from last summer.
It was.
It was the same turquoise parakeet that had visted all those months before. All those feet of snow before. All those freezing nights before. Miraculously, the parakeet had survived the bitter winter.
The bird, being nearly exhausted and starved after the long winter, was easy to catch this time.
The mother brought the parakeet home and watched with delight as the bird ate and drank and ate some more.
Then the bird fell into to deep sleep.
The bird slept and slept, waking only to eat and drink for a few moments at a time.
But what would the little boy think? He had thought the lost parakeet had been with him all this time. How would this be explained? How much would the boy realize?
When the boy came home from school, he noticed the sleeping bird in the small cage.
He smiled and looked on wonderously, thoughts visibly swirling about his head.
He watched and smiled.
And watched some more.
And then he said,
"It looks like God sent us another parakeet.
The faith of a child.
The little boy was running and playing in his yard after dinner when a stray parakeet swooped through his yard, landing on the fence.
The parakeet chirped and chatted.
The little boy was enchanted.
The boy quickly realized the parakeet was lost, for parakeets are not native birds in his area. He called his parents outside to help.
They tried and tried to catch the clever parakeet, but with each effort, the parakeet grew less trusting and finally flew away.
The boy was sad.
He tried everything to lure the parakeet back.
He sprinkled seed all around the fence and upon all the tables and chairs throughout the yard.
He fashioned gentle traps out of nets, shoe boxes, popsicle sticks, and string and waited hours for the parakeet to return.
But the parakeet was not to be found that night.
The next morning, the boy arose enthusiastic with more ideas to find and save his new friend.
He watched and waited all day.
He searched every tree and fence in the neighborhood.
No parakeet.
The next day, the boy continued, determined to find and capture the lost parakeet.
No parakeet.
The boy grew distraught.
He lost sleep.
Despite his parents' assurances that the parakeet must have found his way back home, the boy would not give up.
There had been no sight of the parakeet since that first night.
The boy's parents watched the boy, so sad, yet so determined.
After the boy went to bed on the third night, the parents, certain that the parakeet would never return, bought a parakeet just like the one who had visited and put it in the cage the little boy had prepared for his phantom friend.
When the little boy awoke the next morning and found the parakeet in the cage, he assumed it was the little lost parakeet. His parents did not correct him. It would be better that way, they reasoned.
The little boy spent much time with his new parakeet, making him toys and trying to train him.
The new parakeet wanted nothing to do with the boy. The bird bit and fought and refused to play with the boy.
After months of trying to be friends with the bird, the little boy gave up, lost interest, and left him alone.
The parakeet grew bored and lonely.
Realizing that the parakeet still needed a friend, the parents then bought another parakeet.
The lonely parakeet was so happy to meet his new parakeet friend.
They chirped and played and were as happy as could be. They shared toys and swings and flew and played all winter long.
One spring afternoon, the telephone rang. It was a worried neighbor. She had spotted a parakeet in her yard and needed help catching him.
The mother hurried over wondering whether it could possibly be the visitor from last summer.
It was.
It was the same turquoise parakeet that had visted all those months before. All those feet of snow before. All those freezing nights before. Miraculously, the parakeet had survived the bitter winter.
The bird, being nearly exhausted and starved after the long winter, was easy to catch this time.
The mother brought the parakeet home and watched with delight as the bird ate and drank and ate some more.
Then the bird fell into to deep sleep.
The bird slept and slept, waking only to eat and drink for a few moments at a time.
But what would the little boy think? He had thought the lost parakeet had been with him all this time. How would this be explained? How much would the boy realize?
When the boy came home from school, he noticed the sleeping bird in the small cage.
He smiled and looked on wonderously, thoughts visibly swirling about his head.
He watched and smiled.
And watched some more.
And then he said,
"It looks like God sent us another parakeet.
He must think we take good care of them."
The faith of a child.
Blessed are they who witness it.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Chicken Fight
Do you realize I am intolerable? Yes, yes. And I am single-handedly wrecking home values and bringing disease to millions. And I'm just generally icky. Yes, you wouldn't believe the things I do.
I . . . I . . . keep chickens.
Last night, we attended a city council hearing on the keeping of chickens in my city. Currently, up to six hens are allowed, no roosters. Apparently, all it takes is one ridiculous citizen. (No, not me.)
My ridiculous, complaining neighbor found a couple of realtors to come to the hearing with her. They stood up and spoke about how backyard chickens will diminish home values and, therefore, should be banned. My neighbor, herself, waxed hysterical about salmonella run-off from our property, rabid animals being attracted, and just general "ickiness."
My husband and I sat there waiting to speak, feeling defeated and mischaracterized. Then, one by one, people began to file into the hearing room. First, a woman carrying an egg carton. Then someone with a basket full of eggs. Then a mother and son, both wearing bright yellow shirts saying: Poultry Club. Slowly, these people filled up the room. When it came time to speak, they formed a line behind the podium and took turns speaking for the next 90 minutes. We spoke as well. It was heartening to see so many people there to support us and the concept of pet chickens. The council will make their decision next month.
Either way, we will be able to keep our chickens due to a grandfathering clause. But that's not the point.
Whatever happened to "live and let live?" Whatever happened to neighborliness? How about kindness? What about tolerance? Or is that reserved only for the most violent among us?
One woman displayed a painting by her teenage son and read his accompanying poem. And then she expressed my sentiments perfectly. "We're all different. Of course we're going to step on each other's toes sometimes. Of course there is going to be something about me that may make your eyes roll. But we're all people. We live together and we live life together. Our differences are what make life interesting. Let's stop trying to make everyone the same."
I don't know what is becoming of the traditional individual. It seems to me we are all for diversity when it involves something very new, something never before tolerated, and that's great. But where is the tolerance for the more traditional among us? It seems those people are being asked to give over the things we most enjoy and hold dear and that ask far less of society in general.
Chickens? Chickens as pets? That's where we draw the line, I guess.
I would be discouraged, but for the amazing support of our local poultry club. They were prepared, eloquent, and impressive. Chicken keepers . . . articulate. Who'da thunk it?
She also regularly complains about laundry being hung out on the line.
Just try to take my clothespins, Honey!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
*
Talk to me,
Coo to me,
Bow to me,
Listen to me.
And I will teach you
To fly with me,
And I will love you
Like no other.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
My Favorite Photo (How Can I Choose?)
I'd like to thank Penny at The Hen House for tagging me to show and tell about one of my favorite photos. I had such fun seeing and reading about hers; be sure to pop over and have a look.
Mine takes some storytelling and understanding. Mind if I start with that? So better go grab a cuppa, because this is a tale . . .
(Please bear with me, a photographer, I am not.)
In early June, 2008, I was on my way to pick up my son from school when a terrible storm overtook our area. In a few short minutes, the skies darkened and water poured down. The winds tore through the trees, causing me to take stock of each one as I waited in the stopped traffic on the rural road . . . if it fell, would it reach me?
Eventually, I made it to the school and the worst had passed enough for them to release the students. We wound our way back home slowly, carefully . . . most of the roads had been blocked by fallen trees, the very roads I had just traveled to school.
We had been lucky. No trees on our property were damaged, but most of our neighbors weren't so fortunate. Trees were down everywhere. Once everyone had returned home, everyone pitched in to help where help was needed.
As they finished helping our neighbor clear a fallen tree, my husband and son found a tiny baby bird in the grass. No nest to be found. No parents came for him. Such a little, cold, wet heap, no one in the neighborhood thought he could be saved. So they brought him home. We made a clean, dry, warm nest for him and put him to bed on a heating pad; at least he would be dry and warm. I steeled myself to find a dead little baby bird in that nest that next morning. I made sure to get up before the kids and head them off, saving them such a sad sight.
This is what greeted me the next morning:
Mine takes some storytelling and understanding. Mind if I start with that? So better go grab a cuppa, because this is a tale . . .
(Please bear with me, a photographer, I am not.)
In early June, 2008, I was on my way to pick up my son from school when a terrible storm overtook our area. In a few short minutes, the skies darkened and water poured down. The winds tore through the trees, causing me to take stock of each one as I waited in the stopped traffic on the rural road . . . if it fell, would it reach me?
Eventually, I made it to the school and the worst had passed enough for them to release the students. We wound our way back home slowly, carefully . . . most of the roads had been blocked by fallen trees, the very roads I had just traveled to school.
We had been lucky. No trees on our property were damaged, but most of our neighbors weren't so fortunate. Trees were down everywhere. Once everyone had returned home, everyone pitched in to help where help was needed.
As they finished helping our neighbor clear a fallen tree, my husband and son found a tiny baby bird in the grass. No nest to be found. No parents came for him. Such a little, cold, wet heap, no one in the neighborhood thought he could be saved. So they brought him home. We made a clean, dry, warm nest for him and put him to bed on a heating pad; at least he would be dry and warm. I steeled myself to find a dead little baby bird in that nest that next morning. I made sure to get up before the kids and head them off, saving them such a sad sight.
This is what greeted me the next morning:
June 5, 2008
Such a precious little thing!
We had no idea what kind of bird he was, quite the odd face he had, along with a soft beak. And try as we might, we could not get him to eat. He was quite the going concern that morning as I knew time was passing without him having eaten. Then it dawned on my husband, he was a mourning dove. Yes! That explained his face, his soft beak, and his refusal to open his mouth for food. Doves are not gapers, they are force-fed.
So I fed him water-soaked cat food, prying his beak open and pushing food into his throat. It worked. I could just see it nourishing and strengthening him. Those first few days, he needed to be fed every 2 hours.
He stabilized and then strengthened and grew.
June 6, 2008
June 9, 2008
Eventually, he could stand.
By this point, we talked about him a lot, and thought he deserved a name.
We named him, "Lester."
June 11, 2008
And soon, he would pick up some seed.
June 14, 2008
And then he began to be a real mourning dove.
June 20, 2008
And soon, it was time to let him go . . . and he went.
And I knew I'd miss him.
June 30, 2008
He hung around the yard for a while, and I was thrilled.
July 2, 2008
And then he disappeared.
And I was heartbroken.
It was about a week later,
when I peered out the kitchen window and saw this . . .
July 10, 2008
My little Lester had come backl!
I was overjoyed to see him.
He hung around the yard all day and night,
Snoozing on my laundry line,
peeking in my kitchen window,
resting on the deck railing.
And one day, another storm began brewing.
As the wind swirled . . .
And the skies darkened . . .
And all creatures headed for the shelter of home . . .
Lester followed us right in the door and stood in the middle of the dining room.
And she's never left.
(Favorite Photo)
***
Thanks again to Penny.
Now to tag a few of you to participate:
and
Tag . . . you're it!
Post your favorite photo and tell us about it. Then post a comment here at Tara Cain's blog to be part of the photo display.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
First Snow
It was the first snow of the season on Saturday. Here are some scenes from our own backyard:
The pigeons, Chicken & Dumpling, finally blend into their surroundings . . . their snowy white usually beams like a beacon.
Look at my sweet, little Dumpling . . . he thinks he's fancy -- and he is! Sometimes he looks just like a big snowflake with a beak.
And here is my little Chicken. She's not a chicken, she's a pigeon, but we named her that because we thought she looked like a chicken . . . that is, until we got real chickens. Anyway, I love her and she feeds my soul . . . when I look at her, I hear a soft music box play in my head. She looks just like something out of a nursery rhyme.
My son tried to get a chicken to come out and play . . . it was her first look at snow; her answer was a resounding, "No!"
Delusions of Reindeur!
Such fun he is in the snow.
Even St. Fiacre, patron saint of gardeners, had to just pause and behold, for it was such a beautiful day.
And finally Winter,
with its bitin', whinin' wind,
and all the land will be mantled with snow.
~Roy Bean
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