How We Roll . . .

     I said goodbye to a friend today. Like every farm-visit request I get, I anguish over the time.
     But given tomorrow, she moves to another country, I concluded we may never pass this way again.
     Before setting sail, her life packed in boxes, she drove miles out of her way to have one last authentic take on farm life in Tennessee...my world in real time, otherwise pretty in pictures on Facebook.
     She arrived just as I was meeting with the county. When they come to check your fences, you don't leave 'em waiting.  I had workers on the clock who needed me to sign off on things....make a list of materials we'd need on site by tomorrow.
     While she waited, my goats jumped on her and dogs slobbered on her nice pants. But if authentic is what she was after, authentic she got. Farm work stops for no one, and though our time was brief, I was happy we were able to grab a few minutes...Long enough to eat a tomato sandwich.

   
     So here's to you, my fellow traveler...Etch it ever in your heart.
     Here's the garden that I write from ... Those two poles, they mark the start
     of the rows I've still to harvest ... Rosey ever on patrol
     Skies behind us roll with thunder...as I hum, "Then sings my soul"

     Godspeed on your journey. May your time spent in these parts be forever in your heart. And heartfelt thanks for all the joy you've brought to ours.

Contemplating Kitties

   

    On the one hand, the last thing I need is another mouth to feed...(much less 2).
     On the other hand, I killed a snake 3 weeks ago and the next day found a mama mouse with 5 suckling babies in my garage. (Sure don't need that snake's mama coming after me.)
     On the other hand (I have too many hands) Boo left me 2 mice just last week (which means they got in! Probably from the basement.)
     Feral cats are a "cat"egory all their own; one I've never quite embraced as these aren't the kind you get to cuddle. Basically all I know is they're wild as haints and breed like bunnies.
     When a friend called in a panic saying he was overrun with cats (he had not one, but two litters of feral babies born within a week of each other because his girlfriend started feeding the mamas)...well, suffice it to say the man is rich in cats.
     Big trick with feral is to fix before you commit. Cat babies can take over in no time and while there are stories out there that'll make your skin crawl, conservative estimates say a female cat living a 12-year average lifespan can be responsible for some 3500 descendants.
     Every farmer I've spoken with agrees: You got chow. You got mice. And if you don't want snakes, a cat is the other alternative." (And yes I know. Black snakes are our friend...They take care of mice and other rodents while keeping poisonous snakes away. But much as I want to believe you, it's in my DNA to scream every time I see one, so while I work on my snake-loving skills, I'm thinking it's kitten time for me.)
     One more round of questions and google searches and I'm probably adding to my menagerie. But like everything else around here, it's gotta work for its keep.
     (Anybody else interested in a tipped* and snipped barn kitty, shoot me a message on FB. As for my friend, it'll be 2 down, 9 to go come next week.)

*Eartipping is the universal symbol for a spayed/neutered feral cat. The procedure involves removing about a quarter-inch of the cat's left ear in a straight line cut, done while the cat is anesthetized for spay/neutering procedure. Think of it as kitty-ear-piercing. For more information go to: http://www.nashvillecatrescue.org/feral-stray-cats

Life on the Farm (is far from laid back)

    We interrupt this blog to bring you a garden...
    If I've learned nothing else, it's that time and Mother Nature won't wait when the crops come in...
    To my friends and family who've witnessed my past 3 gardens, you  know not to take it personally when I go MIA.
    To those who have written, "That's impressive" may I just say we use "impressive" and "exhaustive" interchangeably around here...  
     Rewarding? Yes. But not for the faint of heart.
     (Nor is it a solo sport...Thanks to the team who helps keep it green. Pat, that would be you.)
   
   
   

Unintended Consequences

     I gave myself permission to take all the time I needed to grieve Minsky's passing....and to say goodbye to Layla...
     The house is now quieter. Two girls have moved on to new forever homes--one with God, one with a family, so bursting with love when they met her it made my heart burst too. I was at peace. The healing had begun. All  that's left is time...
     But just when I thought I was ready to move on...more lessons to live...more love to feel

     I hear a soft, murmur of a whimper. I stop what I'm doing to listen closer. It's coming from Rosey. I speak her name and she sighs. I get up, check her paws, check her collar... It doesn't appear physical, but it's pain all the same.
     Lethargically she turns, drops her head and then readjusts her huge body on the floor... One big sigh, and then small whimpers again.

   

"They're not coming back, are they?"

      Unconditionally here to absorb our pain, but who absorbs theirs? How can I even come close? In my distracted sadness seems I failed to take note of just how deeply this would hit her, after all, she not only lost her best friend, but for Rosey this is her identity, her job~
     Pyrs are protectors by nature, but Rosey's wiring runs deeper yet. Having babies changed her ...it deepened her focus... expanded her heart. That her babies spent their first weeks within these walls changed her boundaries. If it comes through these doors, it's on Rosey's turf. And she takes the job very seriously.
     The outside guys each have their charge. Each even has his/her own favorite goats. Rosey's guard was Minsky, then Lilly, then Layla. Today it's down to Boo and me. Boo comes down the steps and Rosey lifts her head to take note (but even Rosey knows you can't herd a cat).
     Only now does it hit me...
     On the one hand, there's nothing so helpless as watching someone you love hurt. On on the other, this IS love...how we cope and move through these life moments are what make for bonds. More than meaningful..it's life encapsulated...a microcosm of what the whole thing is about.
 
     I stop what I'm doing, get down on my knees...With her head on my shoulder, I hug her as hard as I can. She rolls belly up ...puts a paw on my heart...she pushes as if needing to look in my eyes... At arm's length we stare and we stare and we stare.
      I recently read dogs hug with their eyes...Scientific research reveals there's a release of oxytocin when dogs hold eye contact with their human.  I recall the study all over again, and I hold the stare for as long as she wants.
     "It's ok girl," I tell her "It's ok...It's ok..."
      I hold her. I rock her. Then together we give it one more good cry.
   
   




   

Dog Guilt

     I have a dear friend who loves animals...dogs, cats, goats...you name it...She has lived on farms, in communes, worked in shelters...she's done it all.
     As I grew to know her better, I realized how deeply she missed all this life in her life so I invited her out to share mine.
     As you might imagine, she was a hit with the goats, and especially good with the dogs (both the big white fluffy ones on the outside and the little cute grey one on the inside). I could tell as she reminisced about living with hers (all past tense) this woman was a dog woman through and through. She didn't live on a farm anymore, but a dog person minus a dog, is like picker without a guitar. And this was one angel of a dog person, I could just tell...When she told me she no longer could have one it simply broke my heart.
     I assumed it something physical...Allergies? Fixed income?
     "Oh no. Nothing like that" she replied "I have dog guilt."
     I laughed, but she was serious. She might as well have said emphysema.
     Anyone who's had a dog knows dog guilt. It can happen with cats, but nowhere to the extreme. Dogs require our human interaction. Cats can take us or leave us. But with dogs no matter what you're doing, how much you're spending, how responsible you are, there is this thing called dog guilt that comes with the territory. (Can I get a witness?)
     I recall an interview we once did with a man obsessed with his dog. So for Fido's 15th, he set out to create the greatest birthday ever by asking himself "When is my dog happiest?" (Answer: When I walk through the door!)
     On Fido's special day, the man alerted his secretary, re-arranged his schedule, and mapped a plan to walk through his own back door every hour on the hour...8 brilliantly timed love gifts dispersed in hourly increments culminating in what could only have been grilled filets and a Lassie marathon.
     While obsessive, it was creative. (I was a little jealous I'd not thought of this myself.)
     Just then, a caller came on the line asking, "Did it ever occur to you what makes your dog saddest?" (Such as, every time you walk out the door?)
     All this to say, whether you rescue, foster or are simply a decent, responsible dog owner there is always room for guilt. You are not alone. You could be the Mother Teresa of dogdom (and I am not, but I have friends who are) guilt comes with it.   I have a lawyer friend who takes his dog to "Doggie Day Care" on his way to work, and picks him up for "Pup Scouts" after... Super guy. And one of the most guilt ridden people I know. All to say money and education have nothing to do with it. You got a dog, there will be guilt. It comes with the dog. . . No, I take that back. It comes with caring.
     When I asked my dog-loving friend how she overcame it, she said "I had to get rid of my dogs."

     I share this to say there are no easy answers. You know the day you fall in love with a puppy this day will come. Personally, I have dog guilt in spades. And if you feel dog guilt over the little things, you can only imagine the angst of those final days and the bitter guilt and pain when the options dwindle down.
     It begins with "Who am I to make this choice?" countered by "Who am I to let her suffer?" We are accused of playing God when we take up this topic, but I contend we play God every time we fill a prescription. That we can now extend life with steroids, pain meds, steel rods and surgeries.... is magnificent. But at what point does all this give way to what is most humane?
     To love something is to suffer. Anyway you cut it, there will be suffering...Theirs. Yours. Those who love and hurt for you in moments like these. It's a side effect of caring. The deeper the love, the greater the pain. But given the choice of all this vs. never loving at all...what options do we have, but to love and pray for strength.
     The gut-wrenching anguish of our past few days I must weigh in the balance against the love, the joy, the wisdom of the 15 years we shared.  I turn to my Rosey, my TJ, my Hix, my Rosebud...I have a choice as I feel this pain...Do I distance my heart lest I be here again? Start now to hold back now as if I could minimize future sorrow?
     Or do I open my heart up full throttle...loving even deeper and even harder, knowing every day  is but one more chance to live life more fully and to experience love in new ways... at new depths.

In My Father's House

   
     My dad and I used to laughingly say if we ever made it to heaven, it would be easy to find our mansion as it would be the one with the pee-stained carpets...

     On a day set aside for remembering, I think not only of daddy, but all the dogs we've loved before (someone should really do a remake on the Willie Nelson song~)

     To Daddy, to Darby, to Biskit and Dumpy...
           To Ike, and to Bella, and now my sweet Minks
     Here's hoping you're peaceful, the dog treats eternal
            Go romp in those lilies, enjoy those gold streets!

     Happy Father's Day in heaven, Daddy.

     Wanted to get you something special, so I asked for God's help...
     I thought and I thought and only today did it hit me... Nobody loved pups like my dad...
    Why that's where this whole thing began~

     I didn't see the plan unfolding but seems now to make sense...Like the first day I met her, Minka said "Pick me!"

     I trust she arrived safely.  I know how much you loved her. Please give her a hug from those of us back on earth. It brings my heart great comfort to think of her arriving just in time for Father's Day...and her forever home being really forever!
     
     Here's to the reunions that await us and love that surrounds us still...
     (And to shifts in perspective otherwise known as miracles.)

The Lessons of Layla

   

     Last week, goodbye to Minsky...This week, goodbye to Layla. As obvious as it would seem you'd keep one to replace the other, it doesn't work that way...What's more, for all Layla's been through, she's in need of her own brand of attention...Therapy walks for her leg, now with steel rod removed...Lots of space to run, a yard of her own without big dogs intimidating her. Someone to give her undivided attention and a forever home of love.
     Will it be sad? You betcha. Not only have I grown to love this girl, I've grown to admire her. Her strength in healing, her determination and focus in overcoming the pain....She is my hero in these, but most of all it's her faith and her trust that I marvel at most...Time after time I've tried to imagine the fear, her unknowns...her future in God's hands...her care left to the kindness of strangers.  From her perspective I can only imagine...each stage brought a different twist... unknown settings, unknown people...
     

     First a broken leg...the excruciating pain...Will I limp this way forever? Will I lose my leg entirely? And who will love me then? Who will take care of me? What if I can't protect myself if I need to run and hide?
     Next thing, someplace strange...Were you getting rid of me? Did I do bad? I tried to be good...oh please don't leave me. It made me shake and cry. Next thing I know I'm in a strange room, lots of lights, feeling drowsy. I wake up to a cold, steel rod coming out of my hip...What is this? Things were bad enough...now they're worse! I walk worse, I sit worse. What is happening to me?
     Then the crate...the dreaded crate! Days and days in dog years in that crate. Am I being punished? World's longest time out...How much longer? What comes next? Will I never run again? Tight quarters. Short walks. Some dogs like me, one dog hates me. I lose my little bud, Minka...
     I'm trying so hard to be good...I'll do anything, ANYTHING, just don't leave me...Who would take care of a broken dog? Who will keep me fed? Who will me love? Please promise me it's going to get better. I promise to be good

     Yes, Layla. I promise you all these things. That you've been here through some of the deepest losses of my life these past 8 weeks, is not lost on me. God must've thought we needed each other...I not only got an angel, I got a daily reminder of what real faith looks like every time I looked in your eyes. Layla girl, you've touched a lot of hearts...and you'll forever be in mine. We've got a lot of folks to thank...and you've got a lot of folks who love you. For a little girl with a broken leg, you sure pack a lot of lessons and love.
     You will be missed like you won't believe,  but you will be loved like never before. The life that awaits is ready to spoil you rotten. You'll be safe. You'll be loved....and you'll never go hungry again. I promise.
     I love you Layla, and will miss you with all my heart...But I will never forget the gift of YOU in my life...God never gives us more than we can handle they say...Guess that's why he sent me you. Thank you for your presence in my life. You have touched my heart at depths I didn't know existed...and I'll always cherish you always...my Layla, girl with the forever smile~

Farmers Unite!

   

     Don't know when your label shifts from gardener to farmer, but 4 years into the sport and you start to hear (by reputation if nothing else), of fellow farmers whose operations have become synonymous with getting it. (And by "it" I mean the juggle of it all...There is more to this farm living stuff than meets the eye. For a career so wholesome on the outside, I take small comfort in knowing it is just as pressure filled for everyone I meet who is likewise driven to farm, but stretched too thin in doing so.)
     Fortunately, there's a wealth of support through things like UT ag campus and extension offices. And there are non-profits, educational initiatives and cooperative efforts like Master Gardeners and Pick Tennessee on top of networking opportunities and field days to keep you up on the latest and in touch  with others. If anyone needs a support group, it's farmers. I keep thinking there should be a 12-step program...some Farmer's Anonymous to keep us sane through drought and blight and heat and bug infestations, but who would have time to attend?
     It was an early morning drive that I nearly talked myself out of, owing to the fact that I was behind on a number of things having cried my weekend away over the loss of a pup. But we rallied, we fed critters quickly and we made it to beautiful Spring Hill just in time for kickoff of the "Fruits of the Backyard" symposium where we met and talked with other Tennesseans specializing in everything from blueberry farms to canning to land trusts.
     I come away from these things in a state of sensory overload, marveling at the depths of knowledge it would take 10 lifetimes to absorb and the genuine people whose lives make it possible for us newbies to even think we have a shot at figuring it out. Like today, I start out wide-eyed and hopeful, looking for some tidbit of trivia to help me better maintain the balance of growing and learning...  some sage wisdom from the masters bestowed upon an ambitious though naive weed hopper like me. While I learn something, the constant take-away is an even deeper sense of awe and respect for a profession too often taken granted and a renewed sense of overwhelm for all there is to learn on top of all that waits back home just waiting to be weeded.
   

Love of All Time

     There is nothing like the bond between people and dogs. No one knows us like our dog knows us... They see our every mood...know our every flaw and secret, and they keep it to themselves. That they love us anyway...and not just love/love, I'm talking deeply committed, PURE, unconditional love.  I can think of no other thing...no other person that comes close to embodying this capacity.That they love us like they do despite our human frailties is why they grip our hearts so. It's why we grieve so deeply. I'm convinced it's as close as we'll ever get to experiencing unconditional love on this side of the clouds...And the hole it leaves when they're gone is unfathomable...

     City dog/country dog, Minsky lived both/loved both...adjusted well to any setting
     In the city, we had our parks... our play dates...our pals.
     Country life's more laid back as I had Rosey to share in the duties...Each morning I'd let Minsky out, instructing Rosey: "Go with her girl..Watch out for Minks" (I'd say the words purely as ritual. You need not tell Rosey to protect and certainly not her Minka. Like me...we're turf. What's more, we're family.)
     I would stand and watch Rosey follow her down the steps and into the yard, which would in turn trigger the big dogs to start pacing and barking alongside her from their side of the fence. All this would in turn, trigger the goats who'd come galloping out of the barn. Minsky's morning routine meant the day had begun. She was wake up call to our world. Like a conductor tapping his baton on the stand cuing the music, Minsky's first step out the door was the "instruments up" signal to a symphony of critters...critters who'd come running her way at this point, because Minsky's  morning pee and poo meant food's coming next. But to Minsky it meant "They love me. They really love me!" (And they really, really did.)
     Minsky loved taunting TJ. Something about her 18 pounds turning his 150 into pure submission brought her great joy. As committed as Rosey to her protection, but with a big honking fence in between, TJ would whimper like a baby when Minsky hit the grass. Lord did he want to play. Minsky did too, but TJ's intimidatingly large body and jowls the size of her head made her cautious. One fence inspection just to confirm no gates left open and it was: game on. Walking right up to his face, nose to nose through the fence, she would jump. He would jump. She would pounce. He would pounce. A few rounds later, he'd whimper again. She'd look to me as if to say "Are you catching this Mom? Look what I can do!" He'd  look to me as if to say "Why? Why? Why can't I be Rosey ?"  Something about knowing she had the power to turn this white fluffy mass of muscle and testosterone into a whimpering wuss, really made her happy. She'd hold her tail high as if to say "Sniff this big boy. Sniff it and weep." And he would. Sadistic I guess, that she loved his frustration so, but hilarious to witness. These are the things I cherish.
     To know her was to love her. Minsky never met a stranger. Around here, she was the was the queen bee. Smallest only in stature, alpha in every other way...One bark I'd open the door...knowing Rosey had her back.  Another bark later, Rosey had her herded back to the porch.
     From the garden to the flower beds, down lavender lane, Minsky would wander. I'd go to hoeing, plowing, digging...She would walk the rows, check the plants...If I needed to go grab a tool, I needn't worry. All I had to do was spot the big white dog and look down...
     At the end of the day, same rituals in reverse...nothing more beautiful than the garden at sunset...
 When time to come in, I'd whistle... once again to see one big angel guarding one little angel ...
 (An image forever in my mind...)

     Today one little angel guards us all...
 (An image now and forever in my soul)

Rest in peace Minka-girl.
There's a hole in my heart so big I can't stand it, but I wouldn't take anything for the journey...
I love you more than words can say...and thank you so for the love, the lessons, the life I was privileged to share... You're a good gurrrrl...

Happy Anniversary Heffner!

     When studying journalism at the University of Tennessee, I took a course called the Psychology of Humor, in which we studied the physiology of humor on the human brain by breaking it down to its finest components. In a nutshell, humor is not only a coping mechanism, it's a pressure valve for the brain, without which we would go insane or die or both.
     Mark Twain once wrote, "There is no humor in heaven," pointing out that "the secret source of humor is not joy, but sorrow." Break down a joke, you'll find it's what goes wrong that makes it funny... not something gone right. Punchlines come at the peak of the buildup..They take what is flowing towards a bad ending and break it to smithereens before you have time to absorb the shock of the sorrow. Without a punchline, you simply have a sad story of human frailty, error and imperfection.
     I recalled this as I popped open my laptop this morning and happened upon (quite unintentionally) some pictures from last year (one year ago today to be exact) when my little goat, Heffner embarked on an adventure...a hilarious story now...a stresser of magnanimous proportion for me when living it then.
     Looking back I now laugh, but at the time, it was sheer torture over a decision I'd made while feeling the pressure to do things more professionally when it came to raising goats.
     For the full story, you can check last year's blog entry, but the pictures tell it much quicker.
                        http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2014/06/awe-and-amazed.html
    For the record, serious goat herders (i.e. those who make money) do not name their goats. Like good retailers, they do not fall in love with the merchandise. It's a savvy business of buying, breeding and selling-- the girls, for milk and babies; the boys, for meat. (Even writing this makes me squeamish, but these are the facts. I could sell you on the virtues of goat meat over other protein sources, but that's not the point of this blog.)
     Point of this blog is I stay stressed. A lot. Mostly because I empathize to the point of neuroses. Yes, I roll, and laughter is my greatest ally, and the good far outweighs the bad, but the reality is, for every precious face I post, I feel a load of responsibility that often comes as guilt, which would make for bland reading as no one cares to hear your woes, given everyone's got stresses of their own, and after all I picked it. Personally, I think we're all taking on more than we can process and much as I love it, I believe social media is largely to blame. I'm convinced it has placed a chip in our brains that falsely persuades us into thinking we can a) live up to all our happy pictures and b) respond to, visit with, spend time with 3,000 friends when logistically it is just not humanly possible to do so as there aren't that many hours in a day. (Again, another blog for another day. What would we do without Facebook. I can spot it, but I'm just as addicted as the next person.)
     That said, it was 1 year ago today that I let Heffner go to auction. As a business move, it was wise. As a genetics move, it was time. Heffer has fathered more than half the goats on my farm and not to separate him out could make for sickly goats or malformations (or a nice herd of one-eyed unicorns, as I laughingly say). Selling him off would provide gain for others' business and a few more bags of chow for the girls, plus selling one goat is cheaper than building another fence. (Today we have another fence.)
     So after much turmoil and inner debate, I allow Thurman (whom I respect greatly and who knows selling goats like the back of his hand) take my boy to market. I know what will happen. I try not to think about it. Heff stinks. He's not pet-able. I have other males to take over his duties. I need to deal in reality. Thurman comes at dawn, doing all the work for me, after which he'll bring me a check. It's a no- brainer, but it WAS an all-hearter...And despite the fact that Heff was now out of sight, he was far from out of mind. In the days to follow (4 of them to be exact) I lost sleep. I lost weight. I lost heart. I lost tears.
     I share this as a matter of fair and balanced reporting. What you see in the slide show was not what was going on inside of me at the time, but given the ending, I have to agree, it's funny as heck now.
     Tis not for the faint of heart, this caring stuff. That said, it is what it is, I am who I am. As a girl who loves to learn and digs for meaning at every turn, I am never at a loss for lessons (even when they come the hard way).

On the 8th Day God Made Steroids

   

Gotta admit, never saw this as my future...
But if it's true, we get more of what we subsidize,
So be it.
I'm becoming an animal hos-ka-tittle ...
The things that sustain me, not only comfort me...
They strengthen me.

     No sooner do we get Layla on the mend, does Minsky take a turn. Over the past few weeks she's developed a horrible hack of a cough that turns into spasms, sounds from which will make your sides hurt. First thought: fur ball. As it deepens, you Google.
     My friends voted: allergies, something I'm blissfully ignorant about as she nor I have ever experienced these (thank God). Still I know there's a first time for everything. Just wasn't aware what to watch for.
     At 15 years she can't see well, can't hear doodley squat and has a dislocated disc. I am keenly aware of the aging process and can do math in dog years. That said, her sniffer and pooper work fine and she loves to eat, so we will ride this thing through the end. My commitment to her: no pain/no suffering. My co-pilot through thick and thin, Minks is also my first time experience with a little dog. She and her twin brother Ike, (who passed a few years back) were rescues from a puppy mill bust in 2000. Before her I had huskies. Here lately it's been all Pyrs all the time.
     You hate to admit money's even a factor, then again my line item for vet bills has been a little off the charts this season. As a hopeful preventive I gave her half a Benedryl. Knocked her out for an hour; but by dark she's hacking all over again, her misery, breaking my heart. (For the record, Googling in times like these is both blessing and a curse. Symptoms ranged everywhere from kennel cough to congestive heart failure. Given the latter was even on the list, this was no time to take a chance.)
     So I feed the goats...feed big dogs...tell Layla to hang tight. I call to warn 'em I'm coming and swoop up Minks. Last clients standing, we await test results as they're closing down the hospital for the weekend.
    $200 in X-rays and 3 'scripts later, we are home. Diagnosis: collapsing trachea, made frail from incessant coughing due to some respiratory allergy of unknown origin. For this we get cough suppressants, pain meds and steroids. (Good news is her heart is good, then again, Minks always did have a good heart...Heck, if it's blessed every time someone says "Bless it" that alone would keep her going for years. Always wonder if those who post "Praying for you" really take the time to do so. Words are cheap after all, and they're free on Facebook.  Right now we're feeling the love. You folks who said it, must've meant it.)
     Given we didn't walk out with the worst case scenario, I take her through a drive through and thank God for one more day.
    As for Minks, she is peacefully sleeping right now.  I 'paws' in heartfelt thanks to let you know we are grateful....so very grateful.
    Love your families... Don't take one single moment for granted.

Huffles of Gratitude

I swear I have never known a more grateful pup than Layla. A walking bundle of humility and gratitude, Layla is so appreciatively expressive, she sometimes huffles. 

You know the huffles?

Those times when emotion's so strong, your feelings outweigh the ability for your tear ducts to flow 'em out... That's when the huffles hit...those brief little mini tremors that help your body catch up with your heart.

Every now and then Layla huffles. I call them "huffles of gratitude"... They only last a few seconds, and they're always followed by a sigh.

Last time, I was massaging her back. Having watched her adjust to a leg that can't bend and a rod that's not natural, I've marveled at how her muscles worked to compensate to the awkwardness of it all. Unable to fathom how painful that must feel, I wonder if a massage might help.

Slowly I begin...Slowly she starts licking (the closest thing in front of her...which in this case was a stair tread)

Licking, I've learned from Minsky, is doggie code for "keep going"...(Provided it's not themselves. That's another ballgame entirely.)  More personal than a tail wag, licking is a pup's way of doing back to you what you're doing to them...a little "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" quid pro quo.

Only in this scenario, Layla couldn't bend backwards to reach my hand,  so she just licked what was in front of her...closing her eyes in pure bliss.

And then...out of nowhere...came that little poof of huffles,  

followed by... big sigh.

Such wisdom in these moments... life lessons come in the smallest of gestures.

Be it dog or human, life seeks a balance, and balance demands we stop to process the emotion of it all.

Keep 'em pent up and the dam will break. 

Better to have several mini tremors along the way, I've learned, than one big quake that takes you down...

That's why God invented huffles, I'm pretty sure.

(I've just never seen a dog do it. Then again, I've never met a dog like Layla. Inspiring doesn't begin to describe it.)

Soak, Rinse, Blanch, Inspect: Broccoli Worms I've Grown to Know and Loathe

   

Last survivor...Soon to be voted off the island!

     For those who grow your own, or those of you buying organic, the number one complaint you'll hear about broccoli is "Beware of the bugs!" (They're worms, actually. And odds are good you've eaten one.)
     Never did excitement turned more disappointing than my first grow-round with this plant. For the record, this was one that my farming mentor Thurman was least helpful on, mostly because he doesn't like broccoli. I will forever cherish the memory of his helping me lay out my first garden. I announced I'd like broccoli on my very first row. (It's a winter crop; one of the first to plant and one of the first to harvest.) and was told "Grab some at the co-op and I'll help you stick it in the ground." I return with a full plat of starter plants, basing the calculation purely on how many impatience plants it took to cover a six foot flower bed the year before, only to hear Thurman yell, "Lord child, how much broccoli you gonna eat?" (That was the year my neighbors, friends, church groups, UPS guys and total strangers got free broccoli all season.)
     The plant grew exceptionally well for me. One of the more beautiful plants in my garden actually, only I couldn't SEE the pests. (Nature did her finest camouflage artwork on this one.) Your broccoli head can look and be perfectly still until you turn it over and go to chopping.  Identical in color to the buds of the plant, these little buggers are the original tree huggers. They hide underneath the florets and hold on for dear life when you're trying to dig them out. It's a microcosmic jungle in there, for which my little human fingers were not properly equipped for the guerrilla warfare that was to ensue.
     For the record there are pesticides for this, which we do not use, and a natural product know as Bacillus thuringiensis (BT for short). Purely organic, this bacteria makes the little worms sick in their guts, and kills them before they reproduce. (Same buggers like cauliflower, lettuce and kale and cabbage too, so head's up to you who dare grow it... Literally.)
     Good news is BT is safe for plants, humans and bees. (Bees being my very welcomed, but proving high maintenance guests.) Bad news is, even if you think you got 'em all, (the broc worms, that is) you probably didn't spot 'em all, which is why I soak the heck out of things, wash, rinse, blanch and inspect like a banshee before eating or serving or freezing. (If you do eat them, not to worry, you will live. They are actually a very good source of protein. But it will gross you out first time you see your broccoli salad doing a little dance on your fork.)
     So before you go beating up on your organic growers or return your broccoli head to Whole Foods thinking the big guys shoulda caught it, just know this is a sign they're aren't lying to you about the organic part and it's a challenge for everyone. Best remedy I've come across is soaking in a combination of salt water and vinegar (2 tablespoons of each to a tub of water).
     (For the record, little guy in the picture above came from a broccoli spear I was testing by boiling first. You don't want to start here, as you'll boil out your nutrients, but I wanted to see if they would sink or swim when met with hot water. Turns out they do both. As this guy was the last man standing, taking one for the team, he gets a blog post all his own, and his picture spread across Facebook.)

          I'll even dedicate a song to him...Here's to that Circle of Life. (Copyright credits are purely Disney's. Found the clip on You Tube, so if it doesn't post, hum your own.)
          (Where is that Pumbaa when you need him?)

   

Life After Funerals

     We no longer call them funerals; they're now called "life celebrations"...That said, a rose by any other name is still a rose.
     While every fiber of my being believes that life goes on, that there's more to it than what our worn out bodies might attest, this doesn't fill the void when you're coming off a run of them. Only God and time can heal I suppose. Some things you just have to wait out.
     Oddly enough, the funeral's the easy part...a scheduled appointment...a place to be. At least there, we have each other...Others to be there for and others there for you. It's the days that follow you have to watch out for. The finding a new normal when all you want is to go back to the one you had.
    Was talking with a friend today, three weeks after losing his wife of 27 years. "There's a reason they tell you not to make big decisions..." he offered, as he tried to describe the fog...It's like landing in a foreign country... Nothing is familiar, and what is familiar hurts.
     I recall several years back getting a call from a friend's husband three days after her funeral. Out of the blue he had broken into tears...his meltdown brought about by bed sheets he would never wash again.
     Yesterday it was a closet full of T shirts for me ...each came holding a story...a memory...a phrase she had championed...a race she had run.
     Easy to get lost in a pity party.
     The rain didn't help.
     Tears come at the oddest times, but to be fair, small comforts creep in too...Like hearing she saw her daddy on the other side... Like knowing there was family greeting her there, just she was leaving us here.