Words written on paper

Rupert age 6 (he was with his family 5 1/2 yrs) One of six who have gone to the Bridge.

People often wonder why I am so adamant about my dogs safety, where I live, how I live. This story will explain all. Rural Clackamas County is a wonderful place to live if you are a responsible owner of canines like mine, Pierce County, WA is not. These are not my animals, they were the furkids of a dear friend.

Words written on paper…

Sorrow disbelief, and frustration fill my heart. A rule, words written on paper have caused the intentional death of 6 beings. Their only crime was carrying the bloodline of recent wolf heritage. They lived in secure containments, and were cared for by responsible owners.

The animals themselves were all rescues of one sort or another. Saved from unfortunate situations and brought to safely and a loving home in a rural setting. Each one had a story, each one special and unique.

In the 10 years there were wolfdogs on the property there had been not one neighbor complaint, no escapes, no bites, no threat to the community. Just a family of people and animals dedicated to loving and living, a reward for past abuse.

I really had to stop and think isn’t that why legislation is written? To make sure animals are contained, cared for, while posing no problem to surrounding property owners? The spirit of the law was kept, the letter wasn’t, couldn’t be. There is no way to legally register and license an illegal animal. Sadly had there been written proof these guys were 10.5 years old or older they would have been legal by description, and not classified as dangerous animals. All requirements could have been met. This because of a grandfather clause included when the law was adopted. As the fates would have it they were 10 and under, and having been rescued there is no proof of even that.

Words written on paper, a decision made in Pierce County WA in 1999 pre-determined these animals were dangerous. Interestingly in the same year the Oregon State Vet did an extensive investigation and determined that wolfdogs are no more dangerous than any large breed canine, and the same good citizenship should and would be required by both. That remains the standard of the state to this day. There is no way to justify the decision made by a political committee in WA but their words, their prejudice, and their power put on paper caused the death of 6 innocent beings. The Commissioners legacy is a sad and ignoble one.

One day last week a worker cutting brush for the BPA visually invaded private property that had been hidden from view. What he saw were 6 wolfy looking canines. They didn’t threaten him, or probably even see him. This “rule keeper”, felt compelled to do what no one who lives in the area had done in 10 years. He alerted Animal Control. I wasn’t his business, but his determination to be a whistle blower created a situation that ended in death and loss.

Friday Animal Control paid a visit, after they left with their intimidations, accusations, and threats the pack seemed to know what lay ahead. They were relaxed but subdued. Tails moved side to side, eyes watched their family, and they knew. At the same time there was an assurance they seemed to communicate, “its okay, we understand, we’ll be fine, don’t worry”. Decisions had to be made, AC would be returning on Tuesday to review documents, documents that didn’t exist. Rather than face darting, forced confiscation, incarceration, and the routine sentence of death for dangerous “hybrid” canines the family made a choice. It would be a peaceful leaving. Surrounded by those whose love they had shared for much of their lives. They were held, good byes were said, tears were shed, and they were released with respect to the bridge.

Where there once had been happy animals there is now a 10ft grave that will be planted with wildflowers. Six crosses painted white will bear a ceramic, wolf print plaque. Each name, Grimalkin, Falcon, Hunter, Jessie, Patience, and Rupert will be held in memory

This tragedy did nothing to make the community safer, it was never in danger. This madness of creating laws that are written to further organizational agendas has to stop. It is time to take a stand, create the vocal community that says NO MORE!! We will not have our families torn apart, by knee jerk politicians. I don’t know how, but I know when. And the time is NOW!!!!! It’s time to come together and create good to replace this terrible wrong.

Please when you give your support to HSUS and other animal rights groups your money is going directly to support breed specific legislation (bsl), the legislation that created this mindless law. Don't do it, give your support to your local Humane Society, they never see a dime from the national group. Animal Welfare is the goal not animals rights adgendas that seek to strip good owners of their animals just because they aren't beagles or boxers.

Who really is Queen of the bed???

Who really is the Queen of the bed??

I have often considered myself a Queen especially when it comes to my favorite spot, my yurt bedroom. It is a little jewel box, looking out the front door there is a view of the pond. In the warmer months at night we are serenaded by the frog kingdom, and always there is the murmuring of the ducks. There is a rich brocade comforter in chocolate brown and wine burgundy. Pillows and dust ruffle to match, a bouquet of roses permanently sits on the antique pie cabinet. A TV, faux fireplace, and red velvet armchair.

Often as I listen to TV and knit my beautiful dog Shawnee will join me and stretch out on the bed. Especially in colder weather I will have the mattress cover pre warming the bed ~ a favorite of hers. The boys Thunder and Storm are not allowed in the girls boudoir, at least not for long. They are quickly escorted out by Shawnee Marie; there is a definite “Girls Only” sign on the door when she is in control.

Normally all is well and benevolent as we two Queenie’s relax and unwind. Shawnee will stretch out her long wolfie legs and cover 75% of the bed, I will have my feet up sitting beside the bed in my red velvet chair; she is so beautiful as she sleeps. Her double coat a soft tri color perfect right down to the natural black eyeliner, a marker of her wolf heritage. And of course the big white teeth, what a beauty she is.

Eventually it is time to turn in for the night. I hang my knitting bag from the rafters as not to become a chew toy for the dogs during the night and turn off the TV. Then the war of the kingdom begins.

Tug, tug, on the blankets, “Shawnee scoot over.” I see a thinly disguised look of irritation and could it be…doggie contempt? She seems to say “Excuse me We are reclining here, take your demands and requests elsewhere.”

“OK Shawnee move it”, this time I have her attention and I see more of those pearly white teeth than necessary ~ let the growling begin.

Tug at the blanket again, more growling and doggie disgust. “Okay Girl that’s it I’m bigger than you”. I put my hand around her muzzle and hold it firmly, look in her beautiful amber eyes and say “MOVE IT!”

She says. “GRRROWL”, then slowly moves off the bed. Front feet on the ground first, a long stretch, back feet down and then sashes out of the room with a walk reminiscent of Rue McClanahan in the Golden Girls.

Ah, slip into bed, stretch out, fluff up pillows, breathe deep. Uh Oh guess who just came back through the door? Why Miss Shawnee. “Hi Mom!”, “Hi Girl.” Hops up on the bed, spins around, finds just the right spot, plop down she goes. We settle in, and so it is, every night the Queen Mom and her Four legged Queen Girl fall asleep dreaming of the adventures tomorrow will bring.

She is so pretty when she’s asleep, but oh my what a challenge as we once again establish who really wears the crown in this yurt ~ me of course…no me…no me…grrrr.

Growing into a grownup

As I watch my wonderful grandchildren mature and grow I think of how the pressures of this life will mold and affect who they will become as adults. Like a master pruner, clip a branch here, take a lot off this one, not so much on that one. All so the tree will grow and become all it can be. Everything must be balanced, otherwise in a strong storm branches will be broken, maybe it could even become uprooted and die. Take too much off and it might not have substance to survive.

But in life the trimming can be painful. I wonder if trees hurt when you prune them? I know sap immediately begins to run to the wound to cover it and begin the healing. Oh well, I guess that’s a question for the tree and god. What I do know is some pruning is necessary for the overall well being of the tree, and so it is for people.

Remember the days of free growing times? Unhampered, no boundaries, just enthusiasm at full throttle. At my age I know that kind of unbridled expansion cannot be sustained. It seems our strongest base comes from our most difficult times. The times when we were forced to expand our roots beyond that what we believed we could endure.

Oh how I wish I could keep those painful, but necessary lessons from my grandchildren, smooth their path. I want to say “I’ve walked the same road, I made those mistakes, dealt with that betrayal, caused that hurt. Listen to me, be careful, don’t choose that path it is a brutal dead-end.”

But that’s not reality, not the way it must be. Each one will face their challenges, create their own heaven, and live their own hell. I see them becoming the strong, compassionate, connected beings destiny intends them to be. Their parents and I can be a part of their base, the mulch and added nutrients need for healthy growth. As a gardener cannot grow their garden, we cannot grow for them. We will provide the healthy soil, fertilizer, water, add sunshine. They will face their own storms, their own strong winds, and ice, and they will thrive. Growing someday to be an elder, to replace the ones who have finished their time on this earth walk. They will become the new forest, the strong ones that nurture the new seedlings for generations to come. As it is and always will be.

The day the coyote came ~

Life was forever changed. The voices and promise of two brooding female ducks were silenced. There would be no continuation of the Coco and Peeps line.

Our beautiful black and green iridescent feathered Peeps was gone and so was her mother. They had chosen a site for their nesting away from all the commotion of the backyard. Down in a quiet space, adjacent to one of the dog yards. There was concern that they had picked a spot that too far away for safety, but it was within and area observed by the arctic America and his enclosure mate Chance. Surely a marauder would be scared off by the part dog, part wolf vocalization and scent. Most coyotes cut a wide swath away from anything that sounds like or smells like wolf. Wolves being the top dog on the canine totem pole for millennia.

Even when the females are sitting their nests they will take breaks and make their way to the pond for a bit of food and refreshment. This procession of two females and their three males always included the raucous sounds, duck voices murmuring and quacking. Their own language, one that I always found comforting. Then the females would be escorted back to their nests by the three male entourage. The duck boys protected the females from unwanted advances by the other competing duck camp, which includes three males and a sitting female of their own. If there was any raping or pillaging of their females it would be done by them, thank you very much!!

All the unique sounds of the duck community had filled the air, had become a shinning thread in the tapestry of my life lived in the country. Then it was gone. Only a sad silence filled the air, my life had a little less humor and sweetness.

That day started with a surprise and ended in sadness. I had just come out of the yurt and was headed up to the house. All of a sudden I saw ducks flying by 3 feet off the ground headed for the pond. I had never seen them leave the ground before, they don’t fly! It was crazy, like they were being chased…and they were. Standing about 30ft away, outside my fence was a coyote that had been in duck pursuit. My mind couldn’t process what it was seeing. Was it one of our dogs? How did it get out? No, too small, why aren’t the dogs reacting? No noise, nothing, time stopped. The coyote stood at the ponds edge and we locked eyes. “Hey! Hey! Get Outta Here!” He looked again at the ducks then back at me. “Hey What Do You Think You Are Doing? Get Outta Here!” waving my arms helplessly. Then he was gone, back the way he had come, by America and Chance’s yard.

The dogs never said a word, they fluffed out, tails up, on alert, but not a sound. If a dog could stand slack jawed then that is a good description. The fierce wolfdogs I live with once again proved to be great watch dogs, they stood there and watched the whole thing unfold.

I am sure that is when we lost Coco and Peeps. The remains, black and white feathers, and one lone egg were found a couple days later. I understand the circle of prey and predator; I understand survival and natural instinct. But the loss, the empty space is still there. There won’t be the loud squawking of Coco as she assumed her role as the matriarchal power of the flock. There won’t be ducklings to watch grow and mature this season. Even the males look lost.

As with all things death is the loss of those left behind. The empty space, dreams that seem too quickly ended, silence where there had been connection. So it is and always will be. If the ducks had not lost their lives to coyotes, in a few years natural causes would have claimed them, will claim us. Interesting isn’t it? We all board the life train when we come to this earth, we all have tickets that will bring us to that final destination we call death. No excuses, no exceptions, it’s just the question of when and where. So I have decided that for me, each day is a privilege. A privilege to live, a privilege to explore and consume. More precious on a day like this when I mourn the loss of two beings that brought humor, beauty, and connection to my life.

Bye Coco, bye Peeps you will be missed.

San Francisco Road Trip

Imagine walking through a large specialty mall in San Francisco, Abercrombie, Hollister, Aeropostale, and American Eagle. Carrying so many handled shopping bags your ability to go through doors is compromised. Tissue wrapping dynamite tops, chic jeans, and a bit of luscious make up thrown in for good measure. Was I in the company of a Rock Star?!? Almost, I was on a shopping spree with a vibrant beauty we in the family call Lauren Elizabeth.

Why did this most delightful trip come about? As a celebration of their 13th birthdays I had offered my grandkids an adventure with Nana, all the while knowing I would enjoy it as much as they would. Shelby chose Colorado, Kendal adventured in Disneyland, Taylor a Mariners trip, and Lauren a shopping holiday.

This was to be a no holds barred shopping frenzy. Lauren is a perfect petite size, gorgeous and glowing. There is nothing she puts on that doesn’t look better because she is wearing it. It was decided, a trip to San Francisco for fun, sightseeing, and shopping.

I rented a fancy car that had a satellite radio. Lauren was the music director as we cruised down I-5 looking mighty fine. The weather was great and we arrived at the Embassy Suites without a hitch. Our room was a spacious two room suite, one side was the shopping Queen’s the other was the Nana’s. Perfect!

The second night, after a very strenuous day of shopping we went downstairs to the lovely garden restaurant for dinner. We had a late lunch so weren’t super hungry. After looking at the menu we decided we didn’t want dinner after all we just wanted dessert. So that’s just what we did, we ordered an ice cream sundae, chocolate cake with raspberry sauce, and a slice of cheese cake. Decadent! What we couldn’t finish went back to the room with us and became breakfast ~ oh so naughty, and oh so much fun. There was no grownup there telling us what to do.

On the third day it was time for sightseeing. We hopped a ride on an open air limousine called “Mr. Toad’s Scenic Ride”. Really! We toured, and were taught, all about history of San Francisco. Up hills…OMG down hills ~ Eeek! Had a lovely meal along the old dock area, and of course shopped a bit more.

On the fourth day it was time to put the luggage, bags, sacks, and us, back in the car. I put on my new sunglasses and we were “on the road again”. Lauren had convinced me to buy a pair of DNKY sunglasses, ones I would never have chosen for myself. Glamorous, as usual she had impeccable taste and they have received many a compliment in the years passed.

To this day when the sun shines, a warm breeze is blowing, and I’m headed down the highway, I put on my shades. I am once again on a road trip filled with fun and adventure and my very own Rock Star. When can we do it again Lauren?? It was a blast…

Generations and Sunday Dinner ~

Last weekend we gathered for Sunday dinner. A tradition we have cultivated for many years. The first beginnings were sown 17 years ago.

Gary and Tracy had spent the early months of their marriage living with us. And of course to my delight, that included their first born daughter Shelby as part of the family threesome.
I can’t communicate how wonderful those first six months were for me. Rocking that blue eyed beauty in a chair that had been my great grandmother’s. In my childhood I had rocked myself in that chair, I rocked my daughters, and now this wonderful being named Shelby was in my arms. We rocked and we rocked and we rocked. No matter how difficult my day had been, that chair, that child, had been the healing balm.

But of course, as young married couples do, Gary and Tracy sought their independence. A house to rent was found, actually half a house, the main upstairs part of an old Victorian in Sellwood. Arrangements were made, boxes filled, vehicles were lined up to transport the little families belongings. The day had come ~ MOVING DAY. Out to the truck went the couch, the bed, the rugs, the TV. The temporary apartment downstairs once more became just a room, an empty room, blue tile, a few dust bunnies floating across the floor. The most vivid memory I have of that day was looking out of the kitchen window and seeing the pickup pull away, one of the last items they had loaded was Shelby’s crib. There it went down the street, there they went down the street, and there I stayed.

The tradition of Sunday dinner began around that time to reconnect after a week of commerce, cleaning, things of the work-a-day world. A re-gathering of the community we are. Other folks might have their hobbies, mine was orchestrating a delicious meal that began with appetizers, and ended with a yummy dessert. A real spread conceived and carried out with love.

Everyone was invited, everyone was family. The regular core totaled at least a dozen with assorted friends and neighbors welcomed each week. Many who came to enjoy a time of food and community would never have crossed paths otherwise. It was a great scope of interests, age, and backgrounds. Yet as we shared that pot of stew, crusty bread with real butter we were family. Dogs romped; children played or sat and listened to a story being read just for them.

Shelby was my right hand gal. Even at a very young age she would wear her little apron, sit on the counter and help me cook. Tearing lettuce, tossing the salad, stirring something that needed to be stirred. Later with her cousins Kendal and Taylor, and little sister Lauren it was peeling veggies, chopping, oh my! what a wonderful time it was.

Depending on the season there would be a fire in the fireplace, fragrant candles lit. Or maybe the Cubs would have a Sunday night game, we would cheer their wins, bemoan their defeats. But always we would sing “root, root, root for the Cubbies” and “it’s one, two, three strikes yur out at the old ball game!!”

A few hours a week, a time of tradition, sharing, fortifying the foundation of the clan, the pack, the tribe, the family we are. As simple as a pot of soup, as complex as the very glue that holds a diverse community and it’s generations together.

Generations, and Sunday dinner, a perfect combination. Timeless and precious.

"Hawk" my very special companion remembered

April 17, 2007

I had an overwhelming melancholy today. Of times past, joys remembered. I was at Meldrum Bar Park in Gladstone around 5 tonight. I was there to see Shelby and meet her soccer team. She is a coach for the "Kung Fu" girls. (Nine year olds) How fun to see her nurture the young ones in the way she was taught, at the same place even! Meldrum was her home field for years.

I caught a scent in the breeze, felt a sense of something so familiar, then the memories tumbled in... From the time Hawk came into my life, until he was 5, we walked Gladstone everyday. The perimeter, from Oatfield, along the Clackamas, to the Willamette at Meldrum bar. We knew the land there, the paths, the trees, the flow of the river, the community gardens. We knew by the smell of the air what season it was, knew when the hawks and geese would follow their migratory pull. When they and the heron build their nests. We knew the flow of the river, how each season felt. Tonight there was a gentle wind, mild yet starting to notice a cool change in the air. It would of been one of our favorite nights for a walk. Enjoying the longer days, watching the kids play ball, the fishermen on the river, or bank fishing and casting their lines. Young families walking, pushing strollers. Hawk loved people, and they loved him. It was an honor to walk beside him and hold his lead. To see people rush over to him and eagerly ask "can we pet him?? " To which he would almost bow as if to say "of course you can. In fact you must!"

What wonderful times those were. Just me and my dog. Living in a town that was, and still is so special and unique. There really is no point to this post, just sharing a part of my heart. And allowing me a way to acknowledge how grateful I am for the memories. Hawk was one in a million, and he is truly missed but even more he is truly remembered.

at age 50 should you have to ask "who am I anyway"?

It is August 1994, I am standing at the back patio door looking out at the magnificent oak tree. The Grandmother Tree totally enfolds my house. The canopy her limbs provide places a protective cover over the whole house. The sun is slowly inching westward and the late afternoon shadows are forming. I stand at the door and hold myself, both arms closed over my chest, holding on tight in a self embrace. I am alone. For the first time in almost 50 years of life on this earth I am totally alone. My husband of 30 years has made the choice to make his first attempt at personal freedom. Taking his shaving kit and my overnight case filled with a change of clothes, he left for a new and different life.

We hadn’t fought, in fact we are still good friends. It was as if my oldest son was leaving home. “Can I come back if it doesn’t work out?”

“Sure this is still your house too. Do you need to use my truck?”

“No, I’m not taking that much.” Not taking that much, isn’t it funny ~ 30 years later and it’s a couple of personal items in a suit case, and he’s gone. There is a big hug at the front door and I kiss his cheek and send him off with a wish of good luck and friendship.

“Bye, see you soon ~ take care ~ I love you”

“I love you too” and he is gone. Driving away in that summer sunshine, off to begin a new life. Just like we had done 30 years before. Then it was a sunny April day, friends had stood and waved, wished us luck, hugs, kisses, and we were driving away to begin a new life.

Where had the dream gone wrong? Or had it gone wrong? Were we meant to be the safe haven for each other as we grew up and created our own family? Then graduate from that life and continue our lessons apart, during this earthwalk? The girl of 18 who drove off that day went from being a daughter and a sister to being a wife and within a couple years, a mother. As the woman who stands looking out my patio door I am filled with a scary yet empowering knowledge. I am responsible to no one but myself. For the first time in my life there is no one to consider but me.

What reckless freedom! I can stay up until 2, get up at 5 and then turn on the stereo. No! Wait, I can turn on the TV in the living room the kitchen, and bedroom, and leave them all on at once!! No one will follow me around and turn them off. No one will tell me what to do. But you have to have someone tell you what to do, don’t you? There is no one to consider but me…but who is me??

As it turned out that was much harder question to answer than I had ever answered in my life. Where do you begin when you have spent your life doing your best to be who and what you were suppose to be, doing what you were suppose to do. Here I was a clean slate ready to be written on and I found I didn’t know how to write, not if I couldn’t copy someone else’s work. Who am I anyway??

What is sweet in your life?

I was asked the question “what is sweet in your life?” The time this excerpt was written was the Fall of ’96 but this story had its beginning September 19, 1991. The magical day I became a grandmother, more specifically a Nana. True sweetness entered my life in a way I could not ignore. Later, with the addition a 5 more grandchildren, I am filled with humble gratitude at the abundance and wonder of this space in time that is my life.

What is sweet about this? The continuation of life, the unbroken circle. I witnessed my first grandchild being born, generations stood in that sacred space with us. I had never seen a child being born, though I had given birth to two daughters of my own. As Tracy worked and labored we women held her firmly in our arms. Her mother and her mother-in-law, the treasure and value of the past, our combined blood was bringing forth a new being. We pushed when she pushed, played cheer leader as she rested before the next contraction. Women together with a common bond, my generation, my daughter’s, now her daughter. How many times had this scene been played out in that very birthing room? If not a birthing room, a cabin, a hut, a woman’s lodge?

With each minute dilatation the head further worked its way out. As an anti-climax the (male) Dr came into “assist” in the delivery. The work was dispatched quickly as men are want to do. Then a little weighing, charting, checking. But first a heartfelt cheer !!! It had happened, that beautiful baby girl had arrived. Shelby Dianne Todd was here! That wonderful repository of genes, traits, history and tradition. One day that amazing little girl will probably spend time in a similar delivery room. I hope that all the same attendees will be there rooting her on. The promise will be renewed yet again.

Was it that way when I was born? Were there women there cheering ? No I am sure that was a time when girls where looked at as more of a problem, not as a promise. A time that because we were daughters not sons, we brought conflicts and responsibilities, unrest that was not evident had we been boys. Life has changed in the years that comprise my lifetime. I’m hoping it will change even more. Change to a culture where babies will be nurtured, encouraged, and valued as the innately perfect beings they are no matter their gender. In that value, they will find joy and be able to express compassion and empathy for all living beings. Life will be sweeter still, as life is lived as the expression of the unique spark of being we all are. An amazing piece of the One.