Dog Blog

Despite the latest attempt by the bank to foreclose on my sanctuary, I'm happy to report that there are options available that will enable me to "save the farm". I'm preparing to file Chapter 13 and while that may strike some as delaying the inevitable (foreclosure sale by sheriff), I'm confident in my ability to persevere. But in order to do so I must come up with $800.00 for the attorney by 11.4.08.

Over the past couple of months, I have secured three new board members, one of whom is my
"neighbor" (such as we are in our wooded rural setting), a professor at the University of Louisville. Specifically, Rick is a PhD and faculty member of UofL's Kent School. Not only does he love the land we live on but he's an avid wild and domesticated animal advocate, motivated in part by his fabulous wife, Mary. What has especially attracted him to the Board of Save that Dog Sanctuary is the program I created five years ago utilizing Animal Assisted Therapy ("AAT") for high risk foster girls and the elderly in assisted living facilities. My goal is to create a resource and certification process that will allow people from any walk of life to adopt dogs from my sanctuary--dogs that I've evaluated, trained and participated with in AAT--be they practicing faculty or graduates of The Kent School or Honor Students from local schools who want AAT to be the focus of their community service curriculum.

There is a "double edged sword" aspect to this and it's beautiful: I pull doomed dogs from--for lack of a better word--"kill facilities" in our area; dogs sure to be destroyed despite having gentle and therapeutic temperaments due to shelter overcrowding. Once I know that they are viable AAT dogs, up they go for adoption to like minded humans. Sweeeet. EVERYONE BENEFITS!
The shelters aren't euthanizing nearly as many animals (good for the critters!), city/county kill numbers go down (good for the shelter's image!), 90% of these dogs are given "jobs" that they thrive in (good for the recipients of their "work") and volunteerism grows exponentially! Of course, everything takes time but I'm no stranger to hard work. Currently there are about fifteen (15!!) dogs slated to be killed within the next two weeks (by November 2, 2008) and I refuse to stand by and do nothing. This particular shelter works with me, offering a greatly reduced adoption fee that includes spaying and vaccinations but they only have two empty kennels as colder weather approaches...dogs have got to go, one way or the other. All I need are donations.

I am hoping to get 20 people who can to donate $100.00 a month for one year. This will enable me to meet my monthly nut ($1,500.00), pay off the vet clinic that I still owe $3,000.00 to (and thus they will do no work for my animals until my bill is paid) and have $50.00 a month for me. I've got everything I need, y'all. My "overhead" is virtually non-existent. Quite frankly, I'll live in my camper with all my dogs another twenty years if need be. Somehow, though, I don't think that will be my destiny. I'm feeling very good about everything and am adhering to my plan, one that I've stuck with for a lifetime when you get right down to it. And on that note, guess who's turning 46 on United Nations Day this month? All I want for my birthday is to meet the aforementioned sanctuary needs because it's my sanctuary, too.

We're down to about a rick of last season's firewood so this weekend I fire up the Jonsered and...
TIMBER! I was born to be outdoors, born to live with my animal doppelgangers. Sitting around our fire every evening listening to it crackle, knowing we're as money-poor as the proverbial church mouse yet we're happy as the canary eating cat. Me and Them Dogs.

We had a hellacious wind storm on September 15 with 84 mph winds. Our electricity was out for 6 days and the telephone service is supposed to be repaired by September 26. In all honesty, my telephonic sabbatical has been quite nice. As you know, I prefer my isolated, rustic lifestyle--from catching rainwater in 50 gallon Rubbermaid receptacles (I get to play in the rain!) to building a nightly camp fire (I get to play with fire!) with the wood I've cut (I get to play with a chain saw!), I can't say the weird, rainless tornado we experienced ruffled my feathers. The weather now is divine. I can even listen to music without power. I pull my truck up close to HSH (Home Sweet Home) pop Jeff Buckley in, open the door and rock out outside! I've really enjoyed the quiet after the storm. As long as I had an ice filled cooler, I was cool--Katherine likes her milk to be very, very cold.

By the end of no-power-Day-4, I'm in my hammock, re-reading "Atlas Shrugged" (it's been years since I first read it) after a light supper of from-my-very-own-garden-garden salad with killer vinaigrette and chocolate cake--with the aforementioned cold milk. I listened to the deep breathing and sleep sighing of the 34 canine therapists laying beneath me. I felt that yummy sensation --I call it "The Drop"--when you're dozily gliding into the worm hole, finally letting go, "falling to sleep". I love that. I woke up around 1:30 and the Whippoorwills were still singing. I got up, left my book in the hammock and toddled to my bed. I love my bed. That's my sanctuary; clean linens, piles of quilts, big, fluffy pillows and ten different books right beside me.

As I put everything into perspective, I realize that while the threat of foreclosure is an ugly prospect at least I'm not in New Orleans or Galveston, let alone Africa or Afghanistan. I've saved myself from a lot of ghoulish situations: I'm very good in the eleventh hour...so speaking to no one but the dogs, I said: "We've got it great, kiddos. Sleep well."

And we did.

Dakota must have tangled with a raccoon, maybe a possum. He came up to me earlier today with half his nose gone. While awful to look at, their was no injury to his nasal cavity or septum. Surgery would be of no use as there's nothing left to cut off due to the relatively "clean" bite of his attacker (undoubtedly provoked by Dakota). I had to wait till he was napping so I could examine it more closely. The skin atop his muzzle was practically sliced off, too, but I'm hoping that it will graft back onto the cartiledge. As you may remember, Dakota was (and in certain situations still is) a feral dog. The only human he'll interact with is me but even I have to be careful when dealing with him when he's injured.

One day, as the dogs and I hiked through our woods, Dakota got his back left leg caught between downed trees he'd been walking across. He began to screeching this crazy scream. Naturally, all of the dogs raced over to "get rid of the weak link", as they are inclined to do within a pack. I got to Dakota first and as I worked to free his leg, he whipped around and grabbed me by the front of my throat. Literally. Broke the skin (yes, Dakota is vaccinated, as are all of my dogs, so there's no blaming my "eccentricities" on rabies...). After clamoring clumsily to my feet, hands on my throat, the "Wild Kingdom" in me took over and I grabbed my digital and got a photo of "The Bite"- it's a trip! You can clearly see the punctures: four canine ("fang") marks/holes throbbing brightly on my neck. Dakota had a "visceral response", his primal brain fired up. Feral dogs aren't wired to wait for, let alone graciously accept, help from anyone or anything. There were some concerned citizens suggesting that I put him down. That's seems kind of reactionary, don't you think? It will never happen again (I speak for both of us). It was a very quick scene and there was no real harm done. Yes, Mother, it did hurt but only for about 24 hours. In the end, it was kind of exciting. That's the "Mowgli" in me.

Nixon the Intrepid Coon hound got skunked, big time and he's ripe beyond measure. When he first came home, all the dogs surrounded him sniffing and whiffing...only to commence with lots of sneezing and wheezing. We haven't had an aromatic adventure since last late October when Duchess, Greta and Garth returned after a particularly raucous night of baying, chasing and poking their noses in burrows where they shouldn't have. As a child raised in a rural environment, the aroma of skunk was a constant one; one that I find it more fascinating than offensive...she says as she turns the fan on Nixon for the night.

And we all laughed.

Nixon is a treeing walker coon hound who came from Indianapolis. His people brought him to me at the beginning of August and while they love him very much, they knew that he needed room to run. They were relieved to find that my sanctuary is what I say it is: "dog heaven" although death isn't required. And while Nixon is not a city dog, he made a valiant attempt to be so on the mean streets of Indy.

As a sporting breed, Nixon is a true scent hound. Every night since he arrived, he follows Jones and Herman (no mere amateurs to the scene) deep inside our woods to do his "coon hound thing". Nixon is nose-to-tail the real deal. He staggers back prey ascended. His legs and stomach and ears and muzzle are covered in long, skinny scabs as he tears through our "hollers". Blackberries, greenbriar, and those big fuzzy burrs that stick to everything are all over the place, creating obstacles with giant, thick thorns. During these nightly sojourns, Nixon's (years restrained) instincts makes him impervious to his current pain. His post-hunt fatigue is a lesson in "melting" onto one's bed. Here in these woods, he is finally in his element.

Craig and Darcy Wiley (Nixon's previous human companions) donated a brand new lap top computer to our sanctuary. Now as you know, I am not computer savvy; in fact, for the most part I hate computers. First, I'm not a "good sitter". Two, they cause me to feel like the village idiot. Case in point: three days after getting my little Orwellian buddy, I bravely (and with an open mind) set about exploring the myriad of bells and whistles it contained--95% of which rendered me clueless. Craig and Darcy went all out on this. After awhile, I decided to use it to watch a DVD, in bed with the lights out. "Layer Cake" with Daniel Craig. Now that was a wonderful computer experience for me...

Unfortunately, it was not to last long. Due to canine induced clumsiness (yet still my fault) I closed my laptop computer hard...with my ear buds laying across the keyboard...irreparably cracking my LCD screen. I was so upset, I collapsed onto my bed where I remained for about an hour, filled with inertia until I embraced the fact that I'm an analog girl in a digital world.

Now I use it as a lap desk when I write in bed. It works great for that.

Without a doubt I had one of the most unnerving events occur at my sanctuary in preparation for my water to be delivered by Mr. Bagshaw...I have a 1500 gallon water tank which Mr. B. fills whenever I call. This water is basically for the dogs--providing their drinking water, filling their baby pools, and for my bath water (garden water, too, when my rain caught supply has dwindled). For my drinking water, I usually mooch a couple of gallons from friends who have running water when I visit the.

Typically, once the water tank is empty, I climb into it in order to wipe down the inside with bleach cleaner and paper towels. The bleach fumes are unpleasant at best yet the tank must be cleaned, especially in the summer when algae thrives. The opening to the tank is on the top, maybe one foot in diameter. I don't like being in there; I'm not a fan of small, unventilated areas. To this day, my stomach still lurches when I remember...I was almost four years old when I fell into a cistern (twenty five feet deep) behind my great-grandmother's house. I literally dangled by my tender fingertips on the inner edge well opening, screaming like a mini-banshee. I can still hear the smack of the screen door as my dear great grandmother, Edith, scurried to my rescue. I tried to use my feet to brace myself against the wall of the well but I knew it wasn't good when I began sliding down the wall of the well. Just as tears began to sting my eyes, I felt Grandma Edith's hands grabbing onto and squeezing my arms like oranges. Like a carrot in the ground, she plucked me up and out of the well-- and certain catastrophe. But back to 2008...

Each time prior to my immersion, I have an old five gallon drywall mud bucket that I drop into the empty tank along with the bleach spray and roll of paper towels. There is always a bit of residual water that the pump can't get. Therefore, I sop up the water (maybe 50-60 ounces), squeezing it from the paper towels into the bucket. Then I pour the contents of that bucket out of the opening at the top of the tank. Unfortunately for me this day, I dropped the bucket outside of the tank onto the ground and as it rolled away I realized that I had no way to get out of the tank...and the size of the tank? 6 feet in diameter and 6 feet tall, made of slick, thick poly plastic.

It's easy getting into the tank. All I do is slowly lower myself and kind of drop down into it. Getting out of the tank is another issue entirely. That's where my mud bucket comes into play; I stand on it when I've finished cleaning the tank's interior, lifting myself up almost like you do when getting out of a swimming pool (when you don't use the ladder). It always works without a hitch. I then take a hard rake, lean into the tank opening and use the rake's teeth to "hook" the mud bucket handle and like a fish, I lift it out slowly.

Mr. Bagshaw was due to arrive at 10 am, more or less, so I got into the tank around 9:30 am, leaving ample time to complete my cleaning chore. The dropped-bucket-scenario arose at about 9:45. At first, I actually thought I could jump up and hoist myself out of the tank. I was delusional. Despite the obvious impossibility of the situation, I continued to JUMP up and a couple of times caught hold, anxiously bracing myself in the opening of the tank with my arms, armpits, torso and back. After five minutes of this, I collapsed the floor of the tank, deciding to wait for Mr. Bagshaw (despite the increasingly claustrophobic sensation building within my central nervous system that was telling me to chew a hole through the tank so I could get the hell out of there).

I knew it had to be after 10am by this point and I hoped Mr. Bagshaw was close to arriving...and then the punch of reality: Mr. B always calls before heading my way. This is to confirm that I'm home (he prefers that I'm there to control the dogs while he does his thing). If there's no answer, there's no water delivery ergo no Mr. Bagshaw coming to my rescue. And don't you know that at just that moment, my phone began ringing, far from my grasp, up on the porch...

I started to feel a teeny bit hysterical; the bleach fumes were caustic and the only way to get fresh air was to stand on my tiptoes, my head tilted back horizontally in an attempt to breathe.
I must say that it was awfully uncomfortable but I kept imagining people in worse situations than this...compared to some, Katherine, you're in the pink... After a few more minutes of this I decided to try again to get out. With every failed jump, my panic began to build--the fact that no one would think it odd that they hadn't heard from me for a couple of days kept gnawing at my psyche; I am, after all, a reclusive individual who doesn't get lonely and doesn't like visitors all that much. All of my friends know this so what would be odd about not hearing from me for a few days.

The harder I tried to get out, the more I floundered. The fact that I was a gymnast for years made no matter; I was out of my element. Between physics, gravity, noxious fumes and the intense, anxious fatigue I was feeling, I felt powerless. Again on my tiptoes (and by then my calves had started to cramp), head tilted back again, I gulped some fresh air and started talking to myself: "stay calm, stay calm, stay calm"--like a mantra.

I started to feel sorry for myself, having to die in the tank, like the chick in "The English Patient", the one who dies in the cave. I admit it: I began to tear up. What is it with me, water and deep holes in the ground? I looked up at the opening again, pathetically preparing another "jump" but I just couldn't do it. I had maniacally exerted myself so hard and so fast that now all I could do was shake like a leaf, my numbed limbs trembling beyond use. I felt like I was frozen even though I wasn't cold. By that point, it's about 10:30 and indications are that Mr. Bagshaw decided to postpone his delivery until he knew I was home...after all, I didn't answer the phone.

...more air. I needed more air! In keeping my head tilted so far back, I began to feel dizzy, lightheaded, a bit faint-ish. Maybe my carotid artery blood flow was being compromised from distending my neck so radically. Now I know how little dogs feel having to look up all of the time. A few of the dogs-Larry, Otis, Emily, Fred and Bayly- gathered around outside the perimeter of the tank, listening to their food source whimper, keeping a sort of vigil over me. Larry, a true genius of a dog, started whining and tried jumping up on the tank in an attempt to climb in with me. Now the rest of the pack started stressing out as they sensed my ill fated mood. Needless to say, my aforementioned falling-in-the-well-at-four-years-ordeal only added to my relentless and suffocating anxiety, adding a little post traumatic angst to the picture. What in the hell am I going to do...?

Suddenly, a couple of the dogs started barking. Wait. Then a couple more sounded off. I could tell that they had started up our long driveway, barking, barking and barking. I stood very still,
cocking my head like my dogs do, straining to hear. I mean maybe you can squint your eyes to see better (or think you can) but you can't squint your ears...could it be him? My ears pricked; in the distance I was sure (?) that I heard the faint grumbling of a diesel engine. I waited. I shook. I listened. Then the dogs stopped barking. Nothing...

...I stood still, craning and straining my now rubbery neck, stretching to get fresh air from the tank opening. I was feeling sick. Throw-up sick. Suddenly, the dogs began barking again, and I knew it had to be my preserver in his gargantuan truck, chugging inch by inch down my very steep drive. Of course, it seemed to take an eternity as I listened to him turning around, getting in position to back up to my tank like he always does. FINALLY he parked and turned off his engine. Mr. Bagshaw has been delivering water to the dogs and me for over ten years so naturally the dogs love to greet him and they always do so with zeal. I started screaming his name but he couldn't hear me over the canine cacophony. I listened as he shouted over the din of dog talk, "where's my sunshine?" (that would be me). T he dogs were trying to tell him--Larry especially was pulling a "Lassie", trying to get Mr. B to follow him. Then, just for a nano-second, they all got quiet so I SCREAMED (hurting my own ears, I was so loud: "MR. BAGSHAW!!!" The dogs started barking again but now Larry is jumping on Mr. B only to scuttle back to the tank where he clawed and barked and whined until he made his point. It worked. A rustle of footsteps and there he was, Mr. B peering down into the tank, mouth agape. Shocked at the site of me crying, soaked with desperate perspiration, reeking of bleach and upended by exhaustion, Mr. B. asks, "why are you in there crying?". I rasped through my bleach burned throat, "FOR THE LOVE OF MAN, GET THE BUCKET OVER BY THE TREE AND HAND IT TO ME NOW-PLEASE!!". He scurried off and quickly returned with my bucket which I rapidly invert, step up onto and I gulp what was the sweetest of air. Pathetically, I start pawing at Mr. Bagshaw, begging him "PLEASE PULL ME OUT OF HERE!" My fresh bruises were already turning purple and throbbing. He hooked his arms under mine and for the second time in my life, I was plucked like a carrot out of the ground-- only unlike my childhood incident, I was fairly freaked out. All I could croak to Mr. B was, "I don't care where or what on my body that you'll need to grab, just get me out here now!". And he did. Just one of the things I do to keep this sanctuary running.

My bruises turned out to be unbelievable in size, depth and color. I've been so sore and strained that lifting 50 pound bags of dog food today is painful; usually I can toss them like bean bags. I've been trying to ease my self-inflicted pain by soaking in sun-warmed water, in my six feet long, two feet deep bathtub (actually an oblong, galvanized water container for livestock). I feel fairly sure that I can get out of this receptacle. The things I do may sound crazy but cleaning the tank gives me the illusion of civility while living "rusitcally".

I now have a new protocol for cleaning the Chamber-of-Horror-Water-Tank: from now on, I take a survival kit into the tank with me. It will consist of crampons, rope, C4, my late husband's compass and a bottle of tequila...just kidding. In all seriousness, from now on I'll always take my cordless telephone into the tank. I'll see to it that this never happens again. Much ado about the things I do. Or try to do.

Wasn't this tragic? What a heroine!