Buddy went to the vet early this morning and was diagnosed as having “inflamed gums” and “allergies,” so she is now on medications.  The fill-in vet (my regular is working at the county fair) suggested that due to Buddy’s advancing age I “…may want to have kidney and liver function tests done on her.”  I don’t think so.  Buddy eats, drinks and makes merry and seems very healthy other than her sore mouth which should heal quickly thanks to Clyndamyacin.

            Buddy may be an odd name for a female cat, but when the late Margie (dog victim of a rare aggressive cancer) found Buddy as a tiny kitten in neighbor Bill’s shrubbery I foolishly presumed that the orange kitty (which became Margie’s best friend) was a male. Bill said he had seen a car throw the kitten from the window and speed away the night before and that he didn’t want it.  It seemed incredulous to me then (and now) that any person could witness such an act and then ignore the helpless subject of such cruelty.

             I named the kitten Buddy and made an appointment to have him neutered.  How embarrassing to receive a call later that day from the vet telling me they had spayed Buddy!  Buddy says she couldn’t care less that she has a masculine moniker. In fact, she likes it.

            While waiting at the vet clinic I could hear a conversation through the wall between the exam rooms.  A older man with an Appalachian inflection in his speech was telling the vet tech about his dog.  I could also hear pathetic canine moaning.  It was a sporadic whine-moan; the sound that accompanies pain.  The man told about finding the dog and having him for fourteen years.  Throughout the conversation during which the vet tech offered the standard compassionate responses, the dogs discomfort was obvious.  Then I heard him say, “I’m ready to let him go.”

            My heart broke.  He was trying to sound brave and manly, but even without seeing him, I knew he was suffering that worst kind of pain—letting go….  The vet tech must have left the room because all talking ceased.  Occasionally the dog wailed.  Then I heard the door open again and the dog being carried away protesting in raspy barks and moans and I knew where it was going as the sound grew distant and faded.  It had been taken to the surgery room far at the end of the building.  All was quiet.  

         I also knew what procedure the vet had performed before coming into my room to look at Buddy.   I felt so sorry for the poor man whose face I never saw, but whose pain I felt through the sage-colored walls.

            It’s about 8:00 PM and I’m having a glass of wine to formalize the close of a day fraught with petty aggravations, but also to celebrate a day of blessings.  Unfortunately the bad events launched my day. 

            People who live with animals expect unpleasant surprises, but when they come before dawn in the form of projectile cat vomit that demands immediate attention, it makes one want to pull the covers overhead and start the day later. 

            Okay, I cleaned up the mess and poured the first delicious cup of coffee.  I am a coffee snob and in my book, few things are as bad as bad coffee.  My coffee is always fresh, good quality and something nice to anticipate each morning.  Coffee IN the mug is good.  Coffee OUT of the mug is bad.  Spilling the coffee ON oneself is definitely not good. 

            So, I cleaned up that mess and tried to put on a happy face.  After all, they were just minor issues, right?  I went up to my office and turned on the computer expecting it to work as it always does, but that turned out not to be the case.  How do things change overnight?  Especially when I shut everything down before retiring?  Long story short; computer was all screwed up and seemingly unfixable (by me).  A call to the repair shop informed me that they are “…about a week behind.” 

            After spending hours fiddling with things I know nothing about it was time to meet my daughter for a belated birthday luncheon.  “Let’s try that place…, they have some vegetarian offerings on their menu….”  We met at the proposed restaurant only to discover this is a place that should not be serving food.  In fact, what they served barely qualified as food!  We were very disappointed and not at all satiated, but then things took a dramatic turn for the better. 

            At Jill’s home I met the five rescued kitties that need a home.  (See them on  Petfinder under Cripple Creek Ferals and Friends.)  Jill is someone I genuinely like.  I’d like her even if she were not my daughter, so we had a very nice afternoon and I returned home with what I considered to be the absolutely perfect gift—several bales of wood shavings, thus saving me the lung-clogging, eye-burning, filthy job of going to the mill for shavings myself.  I was and am delighted!!! 

            As if this were not quite enough good fortune the phone rang and it was my certified arborist friend Dick Drake, who after reading my blog lament about the defective wheelbarrows here not only brought me a refurbished heavy-duty replacement, but also took my two junk wheelbarrows and created a second heavy-duty model that should last the rest of my life!  He called to say he was delivering the remodeled workhorse.  It is wonderful and better than a brand new one.  I loaded the bales of shavings in the sturdy new (to me) wheelbarrow and did barn chores with ease.

            Last year I hired Dick to trim my beloved big Norway Maple and he did an outstanding job.  Through this experience I learned the drastic difference between a certified arborist and simply a tree trimmer.  Dick is an honest and competent businessman and a kind person, something rare in todays world.

            Finally, after wasting much time earlier in the day being annoyed over cat vomit, spilled coffee, a broken computer and the worst lunch in memory, I realized how stupid and foolish I was to expend that energy when so many nice things followed in their wake.  After a tally of good stuff versus bad I see the good stuff in my life certainly outweighs any bad. 

            Tomorrow will be a better day.  The cat is going to the vet.  My computer fiddling has paid off somewhat and things are almost working as they should.  I will enjoy another mug of good coffee in the morning and I will never return to the rotten restaurant.  Life is good—or it will be….

            The phone rang.  It was Ginny.  “Hey Karen, I’m cleaning my freezer.  Come on over here.”  It was a vague and strange order and I thought maybe Ginny needed help, so after dinner with friend R. I drove up the long lane towards Ginny’s neat-as-a-pin cottage at the top of the hill.  Ginny and Mitzi, her toothless dog were sitting in front of the big window watching a trio of deer by the pond.  Ginny looked tired, but why shouldn’t she?  She’s always busy, always working.

            We sat and visited for a long while, enjoying the antics of two fawns, their mom and two darker deer which were probably young bucks.  Then the doe moved and I saw that her right front leg was useless and broken.  She’d most likely been hit by a car.  The fawns crossed the creek and the lane and came right toward the house.  Ginny was like a little kid, so delighted, but also worried about the fate of the broken doe.  “Oh, I hope they’ll be safe down there.  That pond water just isn’t very good anymore since the farmer (who leases her land) uses all those chemicals,” she said. 

            I watched the face of my friend who is just a few months short of marking a century of farm life darken.  The changes she has seen in agriculture sadden her and she frequently comments on how she and Emmett used to work the land, each on a separate tractor, taking days to plow or harvest what the current farmer does in a few hours.  She shakes her head in dismay.  Ginny is still as much a part of the land as the big maple trees that grow along the lane.  The current farmer may plow the fields, but he isn’t part of the land.

            I’d almost forgotten why I was there in the first place.  “I’ve been cleaning out my freezer in the basement and have a bunch of stuff maybe your chickens will like,” she explained as I headed down the cellar steps.  There at the foot of the stairs sat two big bags of frozen food, all grown and put up by my tiny friend.  The bags weighed no less than a hundred pounds.

            “How in the world did you get this stuff over here,” I questioned.  It was all I could do to lug them up the steps.  “Oh, I just dragged them along.  ‘Want me to help you,” she asked.  So there I was, a strong healthy woman struggling with weighty parcels an eighty pound woman of almost a hundred years had managed on her own.  I declined that offer and loaded it all into the back of the truck where most of it remains this morning.  The donkeys had corn and peaches for breakfast and the chickens had several bags of the same.  I’ve called neighbor Sandy and soon her sheep will be enjoying Ginny’s generosity too.  There’s far more than my critters can eat before it goes bad.

            “…and when that’s gone I’ve got at least that much more, so call me,” ordered Ginny as we hugged goodbye.  “…and don’t run over my deer.”

            Admittedly I frequently have some bad ideas, but going for a walk this morning must rank as one of the worst.  It’s hard to imagine that going for a walk could have anything but positive effects, but not so.  The short jaunt up the road to the lane leading into Ranger Ricks woods might just as well have been a ten mile trek in the wilderness considering the challenges the dogs and I encountered.
            Although this little road was in good condition, resurfacing it was on the township schedule.  I saw one of the big trucks going up the road early this morning and should have abandoned the notion of a meditative walk in the woods right then, but instead I leashed up the dogs and off we went.  Half of the road had been tarred and graveled, a process called chip and seal.  Why didn’t I recall what happened the last time they chipped and sealed this roadway?  Chip and seal now means stay at home! 
            The last incident was when Ernie was still young and just learning the meaning of “heel.”  He was however a big boy.  The road had been resurfaced a few days earlier when we headed northbound on a bright Sunday morning.  Ernie stepped in front of me.  My sandal came off and I pitched forward, falling in a heap on the sharp new gravel as the confused dogs circled, effectively tying me up with their leashes.  Neighbor Karen ran out to help and wanted to load me and the dogs in her van since my leg was bleeding profusely, but I foolishly declined her offer.  “Oh no, I’m fine, really….”  By the time we reached the woods the pain was so excruciating I had to sit on a log to recover enough to head back home.  That memory should have aborted the jaunt this morning, but it didn’t.
             We were almost to ET’s corn field when the convoy of huge trucks bearing hot tar, gravel, graders and vehicle of unknown purpose started toward us.  The only safe place was the ditch.  Picture the narrow road with a deep ditch on either side from which rises at a 90 degree angle a brambly ascent to adjoining fields.  With approximately 250 pounds (conservative estimate) of terrified dogs on tethers the four of us huddled in the ditch.  Ernie again freaked out and keeping him at my side was almost impossible.  Had he escaped I know he would have bolted into the path of the trucks. There was no way we could climb up the steep side to the safety of a corn or bean field.  We were stuck! 
           Enormous truck after enormous truck beeped and ground its tedious slow path toward and past us, coming within inches of the ditch.  I’m sure the guys on the crew got a good laugh out of my predicament.  When at last they were beyond us we raced out onto the sharp stones and made our way to the first mowed area which happened to be neighbor Sandy’s.  I could hear the trucks reversing gears, thus heading northward (our direction) once again.  The lawn chairs under Sandy’s big maple tree never looked so inviting.  No one was home, but we sat in the shade and waited.  My own house was so near, yet so far.  There was no way to get there other than the roadway and the project made that exodus impossible.
            After what seemed an eternity we raced toward Rick’s gate.  Inside the gate I unleashed the terrified dogs and we started down the lane toward the woods.  Less than fifty feet into our sanctuary a big groundhog sat defiantly daring the dogs to take one more step.  This current collection of dogs is well-behaved and stayed at my side when ordered to, “Leave it….”   The late Rudy or Nettie would have been on that poor critter in a heartbeat, but Ted, Ernie (dimwit that he is) and Julie all obey. 
             The groundhog didn’t seem to know what to do, so he raced like a thoroughbred around and around a brush pile until we were safely past and finally into the woods which were all aflutter with monarch butterflies.  Never before have I seen so many in one place.  There were hundreds, like a flurry of leaves in a breeze.  It was quite beautiful and amazing.  Things were looking up, but the distant noise of the heavy equipment meant a return trip on the road was out of the question.  The only option was the oil road. 
           For two decades the oil road was a sacred place that my dogs and I walked every day.  It only existed as an access path for the big tanker that collected oil from the pump jack at the end of the week.  Bordered on the east by crop fields and on the left by a dense hedgerow that was habitat to so much wildlife, the oil road was glorious and I cherished every visit there.  That was before the land was sold and a house plunked on the east side.  At that house live two big unfriendly dogs.  I never walk the oil road these days, but this morning was an exception.  Thankfully Kujo and friend were not out and we made it past without an encounter.  Whew.
              Since this route is no longer used, the path around the crop field and into my own woods doesn’t exist anymore, so once again we were forced to another off-limits route through neighbor Bill’s back yard.  Neighbor Bill is a lawn Nazi and his property looks like a golf course bordered by my wilderness. The dogs and I scurried through the neatly clipped greenery and cut through to my nature trail which has never looked so welcoming! 
             A dog walk is always meditative and relaxing, but today was anything but.  The dogs are zonked out and I plan to spend the day safely in front of this computer.   

           All of yesterday afternoon I laid on the porch reading Louise Erdrich’s Tales of Burning Love.  She’s one of my favorite authors and this book, like all of her others is a ‘can’t put down’ treasure.  The air was still and heavy and stupefying.  With the stealth of a thief in the night the temperature had again crept up to ninety degrees.  It seemed to defy the steady drift of autumnal leaves from the ash trees around the porch.  By 5:00 PM T. and I decided it would be far more pleasant to read on the water, so we loaded up the kayaks and headed for the lake.
               A new state park just opened this weekend.  Prior to this designation it had been a private 700+ acre hunting and fishing club for employees of Goodyear.  Now it’s owned and managed by the Ohio Division of Wildlife and in spite of the throng of visitors it was lovely!  The lake is bigger than the one we usually paddle and the variety of birds was amazing.  I paddled into a lily pad-clogged section and just sat quietly, apparently unnoticed by the incredible array of wildlife all around me.  Several Kodak moments presented themselves, but of course the camera was at home.  I’m in the process of shopping for a small digital camera, something less cumbersome than the big Nikon.  If only I’d had it then….
            Today I witnessed an accident just as it happened and just as news programs replay catastrophes in slow motion, that’s how the event appeared.  Rush hour traffic was heavy and speeding along when the bird began its flight across the line of cars.  I remember thinking that he wasn’t going to make it and he didn’t.  The car ahead of me hit the catbird and whether aware of the collision or not, the driver didn’t stop.  The bird fluttered like a tissue and landed in the gravel at the edge of the pavement.  I stopped and picked up the gaping pile of blue-gray feathers and diagnosed its injury as head trauma.  Since it seemed reasonably alert considering that it had just impacted with two tons of metal I poured a few drops of water down its gullet it seemed to perk up a little more.
              What to do?  Take it home with me, which would have meant driving with one hand (I have a 5-speed) and then trying to find a place safe from the cats, or put it in the safe shelter of the bushes alongside the road?  After holding it for some time I opted for the latter.  Had I left it where it landed after the hit-run driver knocked it out of the air, it surely would have perished, so if  it isn’t there tomorrow I’ll console myself with the notion that it revived and flew away.  As far as I’m concerned, every creature counts.