Lessons in Bravery from a Scaredy Kat

I woke up to a sunny day. It's been raining on and off for three days, which I love, but quite honestly, I've missed the sun. No, can't look at it that way because in reality, this is perfect. This way the plants are sufficiently watered and now the sun can give them the energy to grow. 

I jumped out of bed to let Katness, our foster dog who is not housebroken, outside. If I can get her out as soon as she starts to stir, she will most likely pee and possibly poop outside instead of in. I beat her to the front door even though I notice she's pronging like a pronghorn, springing up as she propels herself forward towards the door. I had not seen her do that before. What a lovely sight! The sunshine must be intoxicating for the dogs who have been cooped up and now can freely run. 

The other four dogs make their way outside as well. There's the usual cluster as they cram their way through the door. It's all friendly bumping and growling. They always make me laugh, their personalities coming through as each of them slides past me to the patio and beyond. 

Then, there's Dorothy, the Queen, taking her own sweet time, I rush her only because the mosquitoes make their way into the house the longer I keep the door ajar. 'OK, OK,' she tells me as she picks up her pace. She gives me a look like, 'You know, I just woke up!' and 'You know, I have short legs.' With a side-eye she says, 'I'm going. I'm going!'

With all six dogs outside, I go into the kitchen to make coffee. Peter is still in bed. I tidy the kitchen, putting away dishes I've left on the drying rack, and wait for the coffee maker to finish brewing. As it does, I prepare our coffee, scooping the mixture of coconut, cane and white sugar into the mugs. We like our coffee medium-light and sweet. I take the tin cup out of the freezer and fill it 1/4 of the way up with half and half. I pour the fair trade dark roast into the mugs, stir, and start to froth the cream. I top each mug with a healthy dollop of fluffy white milky goodness and even before giving Peter his cup, I put some in each of the dogs' dishes. They like frothed milk too. (Don't you judge me, they've had hard lives, I give them little things like this to bring them joy.)

Peter is awake and scrolling through his phone. He thanks me and gives me a kiss. I let the dogs in and they race to their dishes knowing I've given them their morning "Joe" too. We have various dogs greet us with morning kisses before Peter and I start our day. . . the dogs start to lick our faces telling me they're hungry for breakfast so either Peter or I will dole-out their morning meal. 

This is typically how my day goes. I will most likely go check out our yard, taking pics of new growth or flowers. I post them if there has been rain. I create content for my many FB and IG accounts. I like sharing my day. From the comments, my Social Media "Friends" seem to enjoy seeing what I post. I don't post to get likes, although it's nice to see my views, interests, ideas validated. I don't post to make anyone jealous, I'm 60. I think those "influencers" who do crazy things and brag about it are much younger than my children, even! I post to keep connected with friends, to share my current state of affairs, to help support an org., a business, to help someone find a missing dog, to help show someone how to get involved, and sometimes, no, many times, I post to right a wrong. 

Because, you know what? Sometimes life is not all about orchids blooming, well-behaved dogs, our beautiful children, or helping your aging parents. Sometimes people fail you, folks misunderstand, and you shamefully overreact when your 88-year-old mom keeps repeating herself, not because she's elderly, but because she's stubborn. Sometimes you post the positive reaction you should have expressed to a crappy situation not because you are deceiving your followers but because that's how you would have "liked" for it to go down. Posting about it in retrospect gives you another chance to see the problem and learn from it. Maybe, you even get some closure and can move on. 

I guess what I'm saying is that I need to write. What I need to write about is my life, my world. Like my social media posts, I want to share my thoughts, what goes on in my life and my views on what's happening. But mostly, I'm going to be writing from a perspective that brings positivity to my life and the world. I'm not sugar-coating, bragging, or aggrandizing anything. What I want to do is express how I feel and try to bring an uplifting message that will inspire someone to do something, see something in a more hopeful light, spread happiness and joy. 

There's so much hurt all around us. I hurt. I have hurt others. I want to stop hurting. I want to heal. 

I have these dogs who Peter and I are helping to heal. They were traumatized by hurricanes, have been left to fend for themselves in the bush, were tied up, given little food, kept for breeding, dumped because they are unwanted, beat, and one most likely because she has such a sweet disposition, she was used as bait for dog fighting. Over the years living on St. Croix, we've fostered and adopted at least 100 dogs. Some we've spent years providing love and affection to in order to give them enough security to live whole-lives. 

Most recently, our foster dog, Katniss Everdeen has exhibited a profound change. She has come out of her shell. She has shown us that she trusts us, that she feels secure enough to risk being rejected by us, being attacked by our other dogs, and just today, she zoomed three times in a row because she could actually go outside and not fear the wind; the sound of a leaf being blown across the driveway; me as I raised my hand, not to hit her, but simply to brush back a stray lock of hair. Today, this usually terrified dog brushed by me as I picked up a mop to clean up her pee! And she had no fear. 

This girl has learned trust, security, affection and love. If Kat, our scardy-cat, can do it, why can't we? 

Pandemic Pause

Billy and Buster, our latest fosters

I wake up around 6am to puppies nibbling my toes, lapping at my ankles, eager to be fed, but getting in my way so it takes longer to get to the kitchen. It's a joy to wake up to. Makes sequestering more bearable.

When this pandemic first hit, Peter and I really weren't affected by it. He and I work from home. Aside from not being able to go to restaurants, limiting our trips to the grocery store, pharmacy or Home Depot, not much had changed. We were thankful for that. 

Also, come to think of it, being on St. Croix is a huge blessing. We were kind of thrust here due to Peter's job. I debated whether or not to move down, preferring our home in New York State. But look at us now? A beautiful place to sequester, great weather, the beach minutes away, and the fresh food!

Locally grown banana varieties

Just four years ago, I became violently ill when I ate raw food. I couldn't even have a lemon in a glass of water or lettuce on my burger without becoming sick. But when I started coming here, I introduced some raw foods into my diet. Mint leaves in my mojito, a lime in my dark and stormy and pineapple juice in my Crucian Confusion. Then, I discovered fingerling bananas, and of course, mangoes. Whatever probiotic stomach ailment I had disappeared just in time for me to fully enjoy my life here.  

The only socializing Peter and I have done
since the Pandemic was a boat trip with friends
to Buck Island.

Today we had yet another a family "talk" about the Coronavirus, and I was overwhelmed by what we weren't saying, what I couldn't articulate, my real fear. Only after Macallan had left did it hit me. 

This is the problem I see:

• We're all afraid in various degrees of what this virus can do, will do, and how this will change our lives. Because, come on people, this is not anything we could have predicted, have experience in, nor is there a timeline that will keep us safe, keep us sane. 

• Our daughter studied environmental impacts. Young scientists in particular have seen that our planet has been crying out to us for years, for hundreds of years! The problem is not "new" but now, with this virus, it is worldwide. Our planet has been telling us something and we haven't been listening. Icebergs melting. Sealife dying. Ozone layer thinning. Drought. What more does Mother Earth have to do to get our attention? Oh yeah, disease. Better yet, death.

• This virus has us staying put, being alone, reflecting on our past, speculating about our future. But mostly, it's requiring us to be present. Where are you? What are you able to do safely? Who are you able to be with without danger of infection? 

St. Croix, unspoiled and secluded.

These questions: Who, What, Where, are really what we should be asking ourselves, asking of ourselves every day, with or without a deadly virus. 

Which leads me to these insights:

I believe wholeheartedly that the "universe"guides us. I believe each of us has a mission, a purpose, a reason for being. 

And with that belief, I think the world instituted this universal virus not to "punish" the "sinners" but to guide humans into reflection. Who am I? What am I doing here? Where am I and where am I going?    

My children, my husband and I have much to be thankful for; ; puppies, getting over food allergies, safe harboring, beautiful settings. Although we all do still worry about our futures; my family has our basic needs met. We're lucky. We're grateful. This time of pandemic gives us an opportunity to gain understanding about our lives. Four months so far. It may seem like a steep penalty but in reality, it's really the universe forcing us to press that pause button, asking us to stop, and giving us a chance to meditate, reflect, regenerate and recalibrate our lives.

Sure, you can resist, rail, retaliate but really why and to whom? We don't have a choice but to look at how the virus is spreading, try to adjust our lives so that it's less likely to infect us, and take each day not for what we want from it, but how we'll use it to live. To live on. 

Ruff Draft: Ode to the Perfectly Imperfect

Sierra was her name. 

We fostered her and her much taller, more developed sister and brother. She was the runt of the litter. 
She had this large head, with ears that flopped down at the tips. Her sleepy eyes were a light hazel, in some light they matched her fur. Well, what fur she had since she had a mange that left paisley patterns around her shoulders and neck. At first, I thought they were spots, and I guess they were, bald spots. 
She had a body the size and shape of a Haas avocado with spindly legs that could barely support her head. 
One day, she was wandering around our house when she spotted me in my office. She got all excited. Was she looking for me and finally found me? Was she just trying to get away from her siblings and found refuge. Was she looking for someplace to take a nap and thought this was the perfect place? I don’t know. 

But she saw me, stopped her forward motion, tilted her gigantic head sideways and propelled her body towards me. What I mean is that, unlike her brother and sister who were agile and competent in their movements, Sierra was not. 
Since she wanted to come to me, she cocked her head to the side but her legs didn’t move forward, two paws at a time, no. They seemed to be going all which ways with her head as a rudder. I half-expected that soundtrack you hear in cartoons, the one that plays when a character’s legs would go a mile a minute but they just stayed in place. 
Anyway, I described it to Peter who wondered aloud if she was all there. I said, "What do you mean?" "You know, maybe she’s not firing on all cylinders." he said. I said, "Don’t be silly, of course she is." But in retrospect, who knew? I certainly didn’t care. She was adorable. 
I didn't record that, but I did record her as she timidly sidled up to Dorothy, unsure if she would be "allowed". She had done that a few times with me too. She decided she wanted to sleep next to Peter and me and gingerly crept up and gently lay down touching us both. She stayed very still as if she was afraid we'd notice her and chase her away. When she determined the coast was clear, she closed her eyes and actually grinned, a very self-satisfied grin.  
To be the recipient of her affection, as scared as she was to give it, was beyond fulfilling. She kissed me once because she was so intent on the feeling, so wanted to give me that kiss, that she couldn’t help herself. Have you ever been kissed like that? The feeling was just unstoppable. I think she surprised herself.

One morning, she was whining along with her brother and sister, asking to be put on our bed. Up went the brother who immediately sniffed the perimeter of the bed. Up went the sister who gave me some kisses and when she saw I wasn’t going to give her any food, proceeded to lick Peter’s face, then Dorothy’s. And up went Sierra, who clambered up over me and settled down between Peter and myself. After a few minutes she wound up on her back, letting her paws droop, with her huge head tilted backward. Then, she began to snore. No, that’s not right. She had a high fever and had trouble breathing. It was more a wheezing than a snore. It endeared her to me all the more. 

I cry thinking about her. 

She was only with us a few days. As tiny as she was, she was already 8 weeks old. Along with her brother and sister, all three went to the Animal Welfare Center to be fixed then off to the Adoption Center for their forever homes. 
I called about her the next day. I was worried about her fever. No, I was told, she was well enough to be operated on and was at the pet center. 
Later that day, the first day at the adoption center, I found out she was adopted. 
See? I wasn’t the only one that could love a hurt, less than perfect, a little bit mangy, a lot underdeveloped puppy. Of course her sister was adopted the same day. She was gorgeous! The brother was adopted a day afterward. Makes me feel good that I contributed to them having a better life. That they got to be in a home where they were cared for and loved. That they understood that humans weren’t all bad. That living in a house with other pets was a good thing. Our family, including our rescued dog, Dorothy helps save a life with each fostering. 
We’ve helped a dozen or so dogs so far, but I tell you, there were more than a few that we considered keeping. There was Piglet, who was only 8 days old and so very needy. There was Forest who was so frigging cool and chill and was rock-star handsome. Then there was Jackson who insisted on sleeping on my chest. I can’t forget Skye, our first feral dog, who by the end was sweet and loving. But to-date, Sierra will be the dog I’ll always wish I kept. Her disadvantage compared to her siblings, her weakness, her awkwardness, and her mange. The first time I reached out to her and she rested her entire head in my hand, that defined love for me. The helplessness of this underdeveloped dog, this underdog, will forever hold my heart. 

Be well, sweet Sierra. Enjoy your new home. Entrust in your new family. And always know, I love you not for what you will be, but all that you are and are not. 

What I Got From Fostering Puppies

Dorothy greeting the week-old puppies, fast asleep.

When we first got these roughly 7-day-old puppies, they were under 1-1/2 lbs., their eyes were just opening, and they could barely stand up on their pink padded paws.

Today, at 41 days old, they are being spayed and are ready for adoption.

I agreed to foster these puppies, who were found at a dumpsite with six other litter mates because we had the room, the time, and Dorothy.

I believe two of the puppies didn't make it. The mom was not with them at the time of rescue, but there was a shy female that the shelter was calling their aunt. "Auntie" provided a clue as to their genetic make-up; she was a small-to-medium-sized beagle mix.

Which of the six puppies we took home was totally random. The other foster families had shown up at the same time, so each was given two puppers. It was happenstance which ones we ended up with.

Marit, the Polar Bear

One looked just like a baby polar bear (scientific name, Ursus Maritimus) so we named her Marit. And what a long-legged, rambunctious, funny puppy she turned out to be. She's smart and fast and gets into all sorts of things but is also so loving and a snuggle bug. I believe she eats as much as a cub, screeching and jumping at me to hurry up and feed her!

Piglet.

The other one was named by another foster, pointing out the adorable spots
on the top of her nose, making her look like a little pig. The name suited her, so, Piglet she is and as it turns out, she is true to her namesake. Piglet, like Winnie the Pooh's pal, is timid, sweet, laid back and a wonderful companion, so easy to love.

Over the last few weeks, Marit has grown quickly, scampering about on her lanky legs. She never walks. She always runs and skids to a stop. In the beginning, I made the mistake of introducing her to the couch. Big mistake. She likes it so much, she tries to jump on it herself. She was a bit too small at first, but now that her front paws can reach the top of the cushions, she would have been jumping up on it every chance she got.

Now, jumping down, that's a little trickier.

Marit calculating her trajectory.

One afternoon, after one of her many siestas, Marit jumped before I could stop her. She landed wrong and welped. I scooped her up and held her tight. She wasn't injure but she learned her lesson. She hasn't jumped down again and I learned my lesson, too. I put down towels in front of the couch to soften the fall. We're good.

From the beginning the puppies slept through the night. They rarely stir before 6am, which is when Peter gets up to get ready for work, so it works out. At first, they cried to be fed. Marit's voice is ear piercing! But now, they yelp to get out of their crate, not for food, but to pee. Pretty much every morning, their crate is dry. Such an amazing discovery on my part that dogs understand not to defecate where they sleep.

Another thing I've discovered while caring for such small puppies, which is a first for Peter and me, they are expensive! The St. Croix Animal Welfare Shelter  gives you everything you need if you foster through them but we wanted to do what we could to alleviate some of the expense, so we bought some of the baby food ($1.89/jar they eat 2 jars a day), puppy formula ($5.50/2 oz can of which they drank 2 cans/day), wee wee pads ($3/3 large sheets they went through 6/day), baby bottles ($6/2 bottles), baby rice meal($8 which lasted about a week), canned dog food ($1.89/can/day), bag of puppy kibble ($9/3 weeks), Clorox Urine Remover spray ($9), and rolls and rolls of paper towels, just to give you an idea of what puppies cost to care for. This doesn't include vaccines, tests, and the amount of work it takes to feed them every 4 hours, clean up after them and clean up the stuff you used to feed and clean up after them.

Of course, for me, it's a small price to pay to love and care for helpless animals who may not have survived on their own. And that brings me to the point of this essay.

Hamilton, our first STX Rescue

In May of 2018, I hadn't moved to St. Croix yet. Peter had been living here for 5 months while I went back and forth. One trip down, we had adopted a 12-year-old dog who had heart worm. He was spunky and sweet and so very cute. Hamiliton had a rough start with our big dogs in NY, but they found their way.

In June of 2018, I had returned to visit Peter when the animal shelter asked for fosters. The dogs were leaving for the mainland, they just needed some people to foster them for a few days. So I volunteered.

Peter was renting a very nice house. They didn't allow dogs, but it was only going to be for a few days.

We walked into the shelter. We told them we'd like to foster. Peter started to describe a dog he'd like, "A small dog that you can scoop up with one hand. A mellow dog who doesn't bark..." I stood there while he went on with his preferences, and when he was done, I pointed to a quiet, beefy, pitmix, in a kennel with a relentlessly yapping Chihuahua and said, "We'll take her." Peter was confused. I hadn't even stopped to coo at this one when we first came in. I had walked all around the adoption center and looked at all of the dogs available and he didn't see me stop for her at all. "Why this dog?" He asked. "I thought she was cute. I like her short legs. She's quiet but she hasn't taken her eyes off me." I shrugged. "I just like her."

Dorothy, on guard at the beach. 

Turns out, she was found after the hurricanes. She was adopted by a family who kept her for only seven months or so and surrendered her when they moved off-island. As we led her from the adoption center to our truck, she walked on the leash and allowed Peter to scoop her up and place her on the back seat. Only when we tried to introduce her to other people would we find out she was wary of everyone, particularly men. We found out that she had strange eating habits, but no food aggression because we could mess with her food as she ate and she never growled. She was house broken, leash trained, and like our rescued elderly Basset Hound, Clark, she fixated on one person and was totally devoted. We ended up adopting her and because there was no place like home, we re-named her Dorothy.

Over a year later, she is still skittish, hates to be in public, is quite dominant with most other dogs, and still makes us nervous she may bite someone when cornered.

But for all of her unpredictable personality traits, to me, she is "The Best Dog Ever!" She is eager to please. With us, she is gentle, loving and amicable. Outside, she follows us around and doesn't run away even when off-leashed. She rarely barks. And the most charming part of her, to me is, she feels compelled to take care of me and Peter. When we go in the water to swim, she will follow us, sometimes getting in over her head (with those super short legs, it doesn't take much!) and needing to swim back to shore. She will sit on the sand and watch us in the water. When Peter goes snorkeling and I am stationed in a beach chair, she will choose, reluctantly choose, which one of us to care for. She will growl and bare her teeth if anyone she doesn't know comes too close to me. And when there are puppies, she has been known to climb a vertical cliff to get to them.

And so, I thought, these seven-day-old puppies would benefit from her as a surrogate mom. And I was right. From day one, she took it upon herself to watch over them. She would even give me dirty looks if one of them got hurt while exploring or nudge me to get out of bed to feed them when they howled. Several days after the sisters arrived, she laid down and offered her inactive nipples to the babies. She definitely has had puppies at least once and was determined to mother these two.

Marit's long legs.

As Marit exerted herself, body slamming her sister, the bigger dogs, and we humans, Piglet would sit quietly leaning up against my leg, laying her head on my little toe, looking up at the big dogs or Peter and me with quiet admiration.

As Marit's slim body and legs grew with her constant feedings, Piglet's belly that would expand to such proportions that many times, it dragged on the ground as she waddled away from the food dish or after being bottle-fed. One day, she got stuck and whimpered until I found her wedged between a chair and the wall. Her head and shoulders cleared the space, but try as she might, her belly just would not go through.

To look at Dorothy and Piglet, I started to see such similarities. Both dogs' heads showed signs of what must be their American Stafford Terrier genetics. One day, as Piglet mimicked

Piglet was most definitely, Dorothy's Mini-Me.

Dorothy's stance, I noticed both their furrowed brows. And as I compared them, it dawned on me just how alike they both were in physical attributes and personality. Their stocky bodies, their muscles, their short legs, blocky heads and even their ears were so similar. There is no way Dorothy was Piglet's mother, but damn, if Piglet wasn't her miniature.

Just like Dorothy, Piglet was calm and loved to be cuddled, but not solicitous about giving and getting affection. She often sat back and observed, waiting for just the right moment to pounce, to take the toy you're offering from your hand, to wait to see where you sat down and then sidle up to you to be picked up. She has so many qualities that I love about Dorothy. And that's when it dawned on me.

Of all of the dogs we could have fostered, this one was not only a wonderful adorable love bug, but Dorothy, undamaged. As someone who deals with being abandoned, raising Piglet and Dorothy is so cathartic for me. With the number of rescued dogs we've had over the years, it still boggles my mind how anyone could just turn their back on their pet.

Lewis and Clark, our first rescues,
abandoned dogs we adopted in NY.

For example, our basset hound brothers, adopted after they were dumped in the middle of the Catskill Mountains. Both dogs were at least 12 years old. Why would you raise them for that long and then leave them to die?

Tico waiting for us in the trap.

Tico, our latest rescue appeared one day in our neighborhood. He made eye contact as we drove by and on several occasions tried to get into our car, he just didn't want to live on his own. When he walked into the dog trap we had set and sat there patiently waiting for us to retrieve him, Peter and I looked at each other and said, "Yup, he chose us." Tico came to us house broken, easily walks on a leash, was taught to sleep under a bed after you turned out the lights and in the morning, once he's heard us talking, he jumped back up and greeted us 'Good Day'.

Rescues are a unique breed, each and every one of them an individual onto themselves. And so, I wonder, what happened? What did they do that was so bad that their families decided they didn't love them anymore? What would an animal have to do to make their loved ones leave them in the woods to die? What circumstances occurred that their family could no longer care for them? How can someone forget about their pet? Why would you take a pet at all if you couldn't love them for the rest of their lives?

The pups, the day we brought them home.

Here were these tiny blind, immobile, helpless creatures who needing shelter, food, and water. They had to be bottle-fed; sought comfort when they fell; strove to be accepted into the pack; they wanted love. I was glad to take these puppies and so proud of our abused and abandoned dog, Dorothy, for finding it in her heart to care for them as her own.

I see Piglet as the broken promise made to Dorothy. Someone brought these dogs into this world, but there was nothing to ensure their safety or survive. And even though Dorothy is now 3-5 years old, what happened during IrMaria, the two category Five Hurricanes that hit the island in 2017? Was she already a stray even before the storms? Was she swept away from her home? Or did her family leave the island and leave her behind; which has been the case for most of the strays here on St. Croix?

The pups on their way to being
spayed, on their way to
their forever homes. 

Piglet won't remember her mother. She won't remember being left at the dump. She won't remember Dorothy or me. In other words, unlike Dorothy and me, Piglet won't feel abandoned. And that's good, that's so good because what I hope she'll have are not memories that make her skittish and afraid, like Dorothy, what I hope for her is to remain sweet, trusting, gentle and calm. I hope she finds a forever home where she is played with, cared for, and loved her entire life. Piglet is what Dorothy should have been and I'm so honored to have played a small role in giving Marit and Piglet the beginning of the life they deserve.

Thanks to the St. Croix Animal Shelter for all that they do, for giving my family the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of these puppies and rescued dogs we've adopted before them, and for the countless acts of kindness they perpetuate with each animal and person they come in contact with.