Wisdom, compassion and patience wrapped in a soft fur coat.

`The world lost a good and worthy soul today.  His name was Zachary Binx.  He was preceded in death by his good friend Bryte and he is survived by the entire Hester Family and more recently his rescuer, Jeannie Musick.  Zachary, more commonly known simply as, 'Binx' was sixteen years and eight months old.  He was our dear and beloved cat.  I found a 'cat years' calculator on line and am told by it that Zachary Binx was roughly 84 years old by human calculations.  He was a venerable old gentleman.

Binx's membership into our family began on Samantha's ninth birthday.  We had just moved to England, and Samantha begged to have a cat when we got settled in.  Binx came from humble beginnings as a simple farm cat. Little did he know, curled up amongst his tiny British litter mates that one day he would travel the world and end up living in Nebraska. 

On her birthday Samantha stood with skinny arms outstretched and eyes closed tightly as commanded as I deposited the tiny, furry bundle into her unsuspecting hands. She was ecstatic.  She immediately declared that she would name him Zachary Binx as an homage to the great Zachary Binx of Hocus Pocus fame.

Zachary Binx had many fine qualities.  Patience would probably top the list.  I know first hand of his infinite patience based on the number of times I found him dressed in a nighty, tucked away into Samantha's wooden cradle or bundled in her arms as she read books to him.  I would pop my head into her room and there he would be, lying on his back with a night cap on.  He would look up at me with pleading eyes that shouted, "Please just shoot me now".  But there he would stay.  You see, he loved Samantha dearly and would do anything for her; even endure great indignities so long as it entertained her.

Binx was also a great provider.  As mentioned, he loved Samantha completely, but realized early on that she wasn't much of a hunter, so out of concern for her well being (and much to Samantha's great dismay), he would go out most every day and hunt, not for himself, but for her.  After a successful hunt, he would proudly deposit a freshly killed dinner at Samantha's feet.  She was not amused.  However, she had read a book explaining that cats only do this when they really love their humans and so she endured his frequent gifts of mice, baby rabbits, and the occasional hedgehog. 

Restraint was another of Binx's many strengths.  In 16 1/2 years, I never heard Binx hiss, I never saw him bite (a human...he bit plenty of other critters), and the only time he ever scratched anyone (intentionally at least) was when Samantha convinced Chi that Binx, just like the rest of us, needed to be baptized.  I think that under the circumstances, the laceration that marked Chi's stomach for years to come, was completely justified, most especially since we believe in baptism by full immersion.

Binx was also a great friend.  Our neighbors had a cat too.  His name was Jasper and they were best buddies.  Each afternoon, Jasper would come to the lounge door and paw gently at the glass.  When I slid the door open, he would sit very nicely on the stoop and say, most politely, "Is Zachary Binx about? I thought we could go out and have a romp in the lilac bushes."  I would then ask him to wait while I summoned Binx and he would curl up patiently on the concrete.  I would run off to find Binx where ever he was, (most often trapped in Samantha's doll stroller) and ask him if he would like to run off for a bit with Jasper, to which he would reply, "Why that would be lovely, thank you".  Binx would follow me back to the lounge where he would welcome Jasper heartily and as they headed across the back garden, Jasper would shout over his shoulder, "I'll have him back by two" and off they would go.  Upon their return, Jasper would thank me for allowing Binx to have an outting with him and state that he would be back at the same time the next day.  This was a routine that they followed for many months.

Binx was also a warrior. He got into frequent scrapes with some of the local feline crowd, but one night he came home quite late looking much the worse for wear. By morning his face had swollen horribly and he was looking quite ill. I took one look at him and bundled him into the car and whisked him off to the vet. I told her that I thought he'd been in a cat fight, but after examining his wounds she informed me that he had not been in a cat fight and that by rights, he should be dead. As it turns out, he had ticked off the wrong rat, specifically, a Norwegian Wharf rat, also known as a brown rat. On average, they are about a foot long and apparently kill cats for entertainment. She was amazed that Binx had come out of it, beat up, but alive. I think he pretty much steared clear of anything larger than a field mouse after that incident.


Surprisingly, empathy was one of Binx's greatest strengths.  This tough little country cat, had such compassion for others.  Our English Setter, Bryte, became terribly ill, and developed an absess on her side after drinking water from a stream near a chemical plant.  As Bryte lay on her bed, ill and in pain, Binx would lay beside her, curling up with her and licking her wound frequently to help heal it.

I'll be honest, the original plan did not actually involve taking Binx back to America with us when we moved back.  The idea was to find him a loving home right before we left.

Then he did an amazing thing.  When Samantha was twelve, she contracted Meningitis.  She was terribly ill and battling the infection left her too weak to even walk for weeks after she was out of the woods.  When she was home and ensconsed on our living room couch, he would not leave her side. Twice a day, day in and day out, he would excuse himself to use the litter box and eat and then right back to Samantha's side he would go.  Sometimes he would curl up nuzzled into her neck, other times at her feet and sometimes pressed against her side, but never more than a few inches from her.  He would talk to her and tell her that she would be well soon.  He would recount tales of his adventures with Jasper.  Go ahead, try and convince me that cats don't talk.  I won't believe you.  He comforted my very sick daughter.  He made her feel better.  We bought him a plane ticket to Nebraska.

There are so many more stories.  Dozens of them, because inside an average sized cat, dwelt and huge heart and an above average soul, but I think you get the idea.  Time passed, Samantha went off to college and then got married.  He stayed with us. He lived a long and healthy life up until about a year ago, then time began to take it's toll. He started losing his eyesight and developed arthritis, much like me. Our house became difficult and daunting for him.  It turned into 3,000 sq ft of stairs and hallways and rooms and in spite of putting litter boxes on every floor, he had issues with finding them.  I work from home and clients aren't really fond of the smell of cat pee soaked carpets and we had to start casting about for options.  My sweet and huge hearted sister stepped in and offered to take him to live in her apartment on a trial basis.  Never once in eight months did he pee on her carpets.  The vet said our house was just too intimidating for him and that he was more comfortable in a smaller, more confined space.  He and Jeannie quickly became the best of friends. I am so grateful to her for rescuing him and giving him eight months of unqualified love. 

In the past couple of weeks he deteriorated rapidly.  A mass was found. He quit eating.  Pancreatic cancer was suggested. Today, we decided to show empathy to a soul who had shown so much to others and we let him go. 

There is a big hole now where he once was, but as Samantha said when I called to tell her, Bryte will be there waiting for him and what stories they will have to share.

Thank you Binx, for sixteen years of you.

A Touch of the Blarney

It occurs to me that over the years I have often been told that I am funny.  I have long suspected that this was a reference to funny - peculiar, rather than funny - haha but, assuming that the latter was being implied, I would like to take a moment to clarify the reality of this indictment.  It seems appropriate as this is St. Patricks day to discuss the topic of blarney.  Blarney has for many years been the basis for much of our humor.  I am, frankly, blarney-less.  Blarney suggests a tall tale, something made up.  I am incapable of fiction.

My friends I assure you, I am not funny.  I have a saggy bum, turkey wings under my arms (in spite of having developed some lovely bicep muscles , the wings remain), I have arthritis in half my joints and my face has melted to the point that I am beginning to have the jowls of a Basset Hound.  These things are not funny.  They are a travesty .

So I am here to make this clarification.  I am not funny, but life is freaking hilarious!  If you can not see the humor that abounds all around us, then you should seek medical attention immediately because either your humorous or your funny bone are malfunctioning (do you see??? Bad puns are just not funny and yet there I go using them).  No, I am not funny, but here is the thing.  Every moment of every day I look around me and see things that are just so very amusing.  I find politicians particularly amusing.  I find it funny that they take themselves so very seriously and have such a withering grasp of hypocracy and yet maintain such astonishing self-righteousness.  On a less global scale, I find it deeply amusing when I have one of those fraught ridden days where not one thing or two things are going to go wrong, but absolutely everything.  That day when, after you have lost your keys, found them in the refrigerator, then lost your purse which you set down while you were looking for the keys, then answered the phone only to discover that your favorite aunt has passed away, then found your purse only to discover that your wallet isn't in it (you don't discover this until you are in line at the grocery store with 10 people behind you, after the cashier has rung everything up)....deep breath...that you stop;  stand there staring at the ceiling with your hands pointed upward in a gesture of supplication and say, really Lord?  You think this is funny?  Cuz I'm just not that amused.  But then, a tiny part of your brain starts to giggle and you see the twisted humor amongst that catastrophe that is your life. 

It is this brand of humor that keeps us going.  That entertains us when life isn't the adventure that we might have dreamed of.  I have had the adventures.  The world travel.  The mishaps. The triumphs.  The all out disasters (no really, actual bonifide disasters.  Natural ones on several occasions).  And I cherish every moment of these things.  I love that I used to train dolphins.  I love that I have been a singer and a pianist and that I have traveled and that a very large volcano erupted in my back yard.  But what I love and cherish most is that I can find fun and humor and adventure in each simple day.  My daughter has this gift.  She and her two beautiful daughters find fun and adventure in everything they do.  My other kids also have this gift.  They find humor all around them.  WE aren't where the humor comes from.  Life is. 

I have been told that I have led an adventurous life.  So has everyone.  It is all about seeing the adventure in everything we do and most importantly finding the humor in everything around us, because this is what keeps us sane.  It isn't until we lose our sense of humor that we are in danger of losing our perspective. 

So to all of my sweet friends who think I'm funny, thank you for the compliment because I think humor is a spectacular thing.  But it isn't me.  It's all of those people and places and situations in my life who bring humor to me, so on this day of blarney, I leave you with a heartfelt and blarney-less thank you.

............I just have to add at this point that as I finished writing this heartfelt and emotionally charged Ode to Humor, I looked up from my laptop only to discover that quite literally, in front of my face, my dog, with the stealth of a covert, black ops mission has managed to quietly shred at least 10 napkins into a pile of white fluff which has caused the room that I vaccummed less than have an hour ago, to resemble a recently shaken snow globe.  All this was strategically accomplished by shredding the napkins hidden behind the 13 inch square that is my laptop screen so that I wouldn't see.  Now, I don't care who you are.  That's just funny.

The hounds of hell approach...

I have a busy day ahead, but I am taking this few moments before I get started to share my morning walk with you. I know I'm jumping the gun just a bit on the weather, it was actually a little frosty still this morning, but I was desperate. I can't take another moment of winter and there was a beautiful sunrise, so I decided it was time to introduce Chumleigh to the forest.

Have I mentioned that we are blessed to have a beautiful forest just off our back garden? Well, beautiful might be a strong word at this particular time of year, but expansive works and in just a few short weeks, beautiful will be an insufficient description. So Chumleigh and I headed out excited about our adventure. My sweet little dog has managed to pack the heart of a true explorer into the tiniest of bodies and he was excited; I could barely keep up with him. I watched with pleasure as his tiny little legs propelled him from one exciting scent to another. He would jump on top of fallen logs and stand straight and alert at the apex of each log. I could practically hear his Tarzan call warning the other denizens of the forest that he had arrived and they should beware!

Compared to the vastness of the forest, he seemed so tiny, but certainly up to the task of traversing the uneven terrain. My one question was, why he has such a penchant for pooping under my piano, and yet seems to think that soiling the forest floor is such a sacrilege. Apparently nature is sacred ground because in all the times I have taken him on a walk, he has never once pooped outside. I'm starting to feel that the socially responsible little blue camo bag of poop bags that I purchased was a waste of money as I'm fairly certain that my carpets are the only pooping grounds that he is interested in. I'm sorry, my bitterness has caused me to digress. We were busy adventuring.

We finished navigating the steep hill that leads to the stream and arrived at the forest floor where I found a lovely fallen log to sit on and prepared to relax and listen to some music on my iPhone while Chumleigh explored around me. He darted this way and then sniffed over that way. He was a mighty jungle terrier who knew nothing of fear until...yes, there is always an until with Terriers; until, somewhere off in the distance a wild pack of suburban canine warriors apparently got into a tussle. There was an outburst of snapping and snarling and barking. Now, clearly it was several blocks away, but it seems that Chumleigh has an aural depth perception issue. He looked at me in a blind panic and the next second bolted, at top terrier speed, back up the hill. We have established in past blogs that he is a very tiny little dog, but I have to tell you that those tiny little legs can really move. He tore off in a blur of speed with me bellowing for him to come back. I would catch occasional glimpses of his retreating form as he would bound, in a single, freakishly high leap over fallen logs and rocks. I used my firmest voice, the one that made my children quake in fear, but it had no effect on him. I raced after him up the steep incline. For a brief moment he stopped at the top of the rise in response to my insistent commands to come, but he just looked at me with wild incoherent eyes, glazed with fear and said quite clearly, "Are you crazy? The very hounds of hell are practically ripping me to shreds and you want me to stop?" After that, he turned and ran and it was the last I saw of him.

I searched everywhere. I called, I yelled, I pleaded, I promised dog biscuits. I even said he could poop on the carpet...okay, that parts not true, but I did plead. I couldn't find him anywhere. I finally headed back to the house in the hopes that he would be there.

As I trekked down the last stretch of meadow I looked towards the house and noticed a tiny little shaking dog standing behind the sliding glass door, next to a two inch opening in the door that he had somehow managed to squeeze himself through.

I like to think that he looked a little relieved that the hell hounds hadn't gotten me, but I suspect he was just glad that I was there to protect him. As I type this, he is nestled safely in the hat and glove basket at the foot of the stairs. But he keeps eying the piano, so I'd better go now.

Have a great day and stay away from hell hounds.

Update: It's been about three hours since our ill-fated walk and Chumleigh has permanently adhered himself to my ankle. Anyone know any good doggy therapists?

It's The Little Things...

It has been my experience that it is the milliseconds in life that make everything interesting. We tend to live for the big things, waiting for grand adventures and momentous moments and sometimes, because of this we forget to notice and appreciate things like a glance or a single word. Maybe a breeze rippling across the grass, or a wisp of fragrance that reminds us of our third grade teacher. We can miss out on a lot by being too busy to notice those tiny moments.

That being said, I must tell you that I have recently acquired a dog. Well, almost a dog. If he was a little bigger he might be a dog. On the day that I picked him up from the breeder, this dynamic doggy weighed in at a whopping 2.4 lbs. His name is Chumleigh and he is a very cute Yorkshire Terrier. He has grown quite a bit in the past couple of months and now weights in at just a hair less than 4 pounds. He may be small but he packs a lot of personality into such a minuscule package. I mentioned him in my last post. My ankles are healing nicely, thank you .

Aside from a penchant for chewing, one of Chumleigh's most developed personality traits appears to be stubbornness; a trait that I personally know very little about, of course, but am trying to temper in him. Unfortunately, because of this character flaw, he and I have recently launched full tilt into a battle of will. It is an epic battle, so fraught with drama and peril that it would make the battle between the Titan's and the Gods of Greek Mythology look like a family scuffle.

As with any battle, there are two points of view. His point of view is that he should be able to pee and poop anywhere he chooses and my view is that he can't. So far he is winning, but I am holding my ground. The thing is, let's face it, he's a Yorkie. We aren't talking about huge, smelly, steaming piles of poop here, it's something more akin to a miniature tootsie roll, but that isn't the point! The point is, it's still on my carpet and more importantly, I'm NOT going to let a three pound dog ride roughshod over me! I WILL prevail!

I looked on the Internet. On all of the websites I found, there were happy little blurbs about housebreaking your dog and how easy it actually is. There were little testimonials and success stories. My own daughter has a black lab that they have trained to ring a bell when she needs to go outside. Doesn't that sound civilized?? I got a bell...Chumleigh loves the bell...he loves to chew on the bell...he hates to ring the bell.

You know what else I found on those websites? Caveat's. "We can show you how to housebreak your dog in 5 days!...unless he's a Yorkie. If he's a Yorkie...well...is your carpet really that nice anyway??"

So we do battle. I read a special website all about housebreaking Yorkies. Yes, it's true. There are websites about breaking everything other dog breed ever classified all lumped into one, and then there are sites about breaking Yorkies. Just them...because...it turns out that stubbornness is their number one, primo personality trait. Yup. 5,000 breeds of dog out there and I had to pick the stubborn one. Why does this not surprise me??

So on this special Yorkie Housebreaking site, I am told that I must never let him out of my sight. He either has to be in his playpen (yes, I have resorted to using my grandchildren's porta-crib as a playpen for my dog) or he must be with me. Always. So I follow him around and I watch him and he watches me back. He says things to me too. Maybe not verbally, but it's there in his eyes. "What? What are you looking at? Can't a dog get two seconds of privacy? I'm not gonna do anything...reallly...nothing bad...at least I don't consider it bad...hey! Was that Bigfoot????!!!" And the second I turn my head he is off to poop under the piano.

I suspect by now you are wondering what all of this has to do with my initial topic. Well, fear not, I haven't derailed. I'm getting to that part. The part about the tiny moments.

Last night, Chumleigh and I were having one of our watching contests. I watched him and he tried to look all innocent and I tried to look stern and severe. I was getting tired of the contest. I have a cold and and I was tired and sick and he was winning, so I decided to trick him. I casually turned my head and pretended to scan the room for Bigfoot. The second my eyes broke free of his he made a break for the piano. Aha! Victory. With lightening speed I whisked him off the floor and through the sliding glass door onto the patio and a second later had deposited him onto the grass. The round went to me. He looked dejected and scuffled over to a patch of dried leaves and proceeded to do his business. Much like a suspicious employer administering a drug test, I required visual confirmation that he had in fact made the requisite deposit. As I watched him I realized that I too was being watched. I turned my head to the right. In my haste to get Chumleigh outside I had not noticed that a few feet from the edge of the patio a deer was peacefully grazing on my lawn. This isn't unusual, (though if it were summer he would have been grazing on my carefully tended flowers), but normally I notice them when I first open the door. There we stood. Me staring at the deer. The deer staring at me. Our gazes locked in uncertainty. His gaze clearly said "Well, this is awkward". I looked at him and shrugged my shoulders as if to say "Hey, it's my yard. I'm SUPPOSED to be here." Instead of bolting, he backed up a few steps and then side stepped to the other side of the yard. I heard him say, quite clearly..."Well...um...I'm just gonna go over here and...umm...ya know...eat or something..."

That's it. There it was. A moment; comprising only a couple of seconds, but it kept me chuckling all evening. I know many of you will not believe that a deer could have a socially awkward moment, or an embarrassed expression on his face, but...well...you weren't there and I was and he did.

It's a little thing but if you pay attention, those little things can make an otherwise tedious day a little more fun, a little more adventurous and a lot more satisfying. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some poop to clean up...

Downward Facing Dog is Harder with a Pirahna on your foot

It is a little know fact that I took up yoga several months ago. I did this after a breast reduction surgery I had last summer, which is an entire blog all by itself. Several, in fact, but that can be addressed later. I have found great enjoyment in learning each yoga position and it's unique name. I love the earthy sound of the poses. Horse stance, warrior pose, cat pose, downward facing dog...I find that nothing reduces my stress levels quicker than a nice yoga workout, however, I have recently added a new position to my routine that I'm having a little difficulty with. It's called "ankle gnawing pirahna". This particular pose requires extra equipment in the form of a 3 lb., hyper-active Yorkshire Terrier, in my case, named Chumleigh. In order to accomplish this pose you first move into the appropriate stance for, say, Downward Facing Dog (any pose will work). This particular pose is done by standing bent into a V shape with your feet shoulder length apart with knees bend just slightly, hands also shoulder length apart, tush pointed towards the ceiling. Once you are in position, you should firmly attach the yorkie to your ankle by his teeth and then try, through deep breathing and meditation, to block out the sensation of tiny razor sharp teeth piercing the flesh of your ankle. As you master this pose, and gain control over the pain, the "pirahna" can help you take this pose to new heights by expanding his level of involvement to include chewing on toes, calves, knees, arms, buttocks, and any other part of the body that he can reach. The key to success with this pose is to be able to concentrate completely on your stance, blocking out the intense pain and distraction and to complete your workout without finally just flinging him across the room and into the wall. I have not mastered this step yet.