Remember the ten little piggies?  Well, they are not so little anymore.   They have become fast growing, constantly pooping beasties that even their mom will be glad to separate from next week. Maria still loves them and they like to curl up together but life is a never ending search for food, and more food.

Question: How much food can a pig eat at one sitting?

Answer: Nobody knows. They never stop eating long enough to find out.

They are still fun to watch and the center of attention for our visitors, but now it's more along the lines of, "Wow! Look how big they are!" as opposed to the "Aww, how cute!" stage. We will be keeping three and the others will find new pastures in about a month.
So in three months, they have gone from one pound to about forty pounds. Now that's a weight gain to be proud of for sure.

The Piggies Got Big!

The Piggies Got Big!

The piggies, still a few months away from being big enough to star in the touring stage production of "Hannibal," check out the camera.

As I said last blog, Maggie has turned into an ungrateful, unlovable bitch-calf!  The situation needs to be handled NOW. There is nothing more dangerous than a hand-reared animal—potentially weighing 1200 pounds—that has a bad attitude and no respect. 

So, yesterday I handed over some responsibility to the donkey, the horse, retired bull Rudy and the steer, Quinton.  They are kkind of like the gang in "Reservoir Dogs" (albeit minus the black suits and Quentin Tarantino's endless dialogue) or perhaps the Wild Bunch.  In the early morning, I lured Maggie in with a bucket of milk and managed to get her into the big pasture where this group of misfits reside together in pastoral harmony.   As soon as she saw them she panicked and galloped off into the distance. Fabulous.  Here goes my Saturday. But little ones are always curious and it didn't take long for her to see just how big and bad and ugly this group was. I knew they wouldn't hurt her, so I tackled other Saturday chores like finding where the cat had pissed this time and so on.

At dusk it was time to feed the beast again, but this time she came running up with her new family. She kept going behind Rudy, the immense Limousine bull, who, unbeknownst to her is her father.  What is she doing...Oh God!   She was busy trying to feed off him. I really don't want to get graphic here, but, suffice to say, this was inappropriate behavior (and illegal even here in the South) and Rudy was obviously getting annoyed. There was nothing I could do as I saw him raise his massive leg, which must weigh at least a hundred pounds, and draw it back to give a life-ending kick.And then, with incredible restraint, he controlled that kick so it was more of a nudge, just enough to stop her doing what she was doing.

It is at times like this that I really appreciate how much we can learn from these animals. Rudy has always loved the calves, and contrary to myth he is not vicious but loves to play and protect them. There is definitely a role that fathers play in animal groups and all too often they don't get a chance. Of course on a normal farm, a non-productive bull would be sent away, but normal and my life don't often collide in the same sentence.  I see Rudy as having an important role of protector, mentor and baby sitter. He is a gentle giant that deserves to spend the rest of his days, chewing that cud and remembering the days when he had twenty wives all to himself.

After a traumatic birth, Maggie the calf (apologies to Tennessee Williams) was finally dragged into the world from her mother, Mary Jane. Readers may recall that Mary Jane was the psycho cow that nearly killed my husband and was like a bull on steroids. Sadly (or not so sadly, depending on your point of view), she lost her battle with life and passed away a week after the birth. Trying to round up and separate a week-old, eighty pound calf from its dead mother is a lot easier said than done.  

As usual, I was dressed in the office best, and alone.  Why it never occurs to be to don more appropriate attire and wait for help is a question Florida's finest mental health professionals have failed to answer.  Where the hell is everybody when I need them?  It took a good, exhausting, sweaty hour but eventually I got little Maggie in the safest pen, the chicken pen.  Then the fun started. It's not like the movies where you bring out a bottle and the calf sucks enthusiastically, its little tail wagging. No!  I had to physically pin her to the wall, force her jaws open and try and squirt some of the life saving liquid down there.   At such a tender age, calves really need about two quarts per feed.  She eventually drank about one quart, and I wore the other.

It didn't take long though for Maggie to become demanding and the feeds increased to two gallons a day. I only wear about a pint a day now. But we are not bonding. Strange. The last baby, Faye, was gentle and loving. Maggie is aggressive and bloody-minded. I fear that she may have inherited her mother's bitchy personality and tendency for mayhem and has the potential to be even more dangerous. At two weeks, for no reason, she turned and kicked me square on the shin.  Yes, a calf is strong, and it hurts!  Now, I am a fairly reasonable person, and anyone can make a mistake, but this has become a habit.   The trouble is, recovering from pneumonia as I am, I just don't have the reflexes or strength to kick back, which is what should happen. She even kicked a chicken, sending it sailing through the air.

What to do...?

Remember, I wrote earlier about how Tango, the lab seeing eye dog-in-training, broke me in as a test blind person, wearing glasses that completely obscured my vision.  Here's what happened after the panic attack gave way to real panic:

After about two minutes being pulled along like a dead cow by Tango, it suddenly all became too much. "Stop! Stop!" I cried. "How do I get her to stop?"  It seemed odd. I had been shown how to go forward but that was the last thing I wanted to do right now.  It was like driving a car then finding out that no one had showed me where the brakes were.  I was told to just say "Halt!", so I did...and sure enough my wonderful guide dog immediately stopped.  Thank God; I needed a moment to regroup.

I was feeling ridiculously emotional and out of control.   And at the same time I felt so bad for this dog, who must have wondered what the problem was.   Did I mention this was all being captured on film?  Great!  Now everyone can see me lose it, I thought.  I took a deep breath and, grinning like a nervous chimpanzee, struggled forward again.   Suddenly, I became aware that the harness was not rigid under my hand but swayed back and forth so that I was very aware of Tango's body movement.  I was very conscious of her rhythm.   It suddenly reminded me of when I was being taught dressage riding by a German instructor who would not allow us any stirrups, reins or vision.  "Close your eyes!" he would scream like Frau what's-her-name in an Austin Powers movie.  "You need to be one with zee horse!"  I suddenly felt that way with Tango, and it was as though a weight was off my shoulders.  Tango immediately sensed the change in my psyche.  She walked faster, my pace picked up and I almost started to enjoy the walk. She took me across a road, around a puddle (I saw all these afterwards) and kept me in the middle of the winding path, which interestingly enough I had thought was straight. Even though I had seen the path before donning the glasses, I had no recollection of its curves

"Tell her, left, left, find the bench," said the instructor.  I did so and before I knew it I was instructed to reach down and find Tango's nose, and two inches in front would be the bench. It was. I sat down gratefully and took off my glasses with a great sense of relief. It had been an incredible emotional roller coaster. But the strongest feeling was how amazing, how truly awesome, in the correct sense of the word, this beautiful dog was. How did she do all this? Of course many hours of skilled training but it was more than that. She had picked up my apprehension and somehow, in the space of about fifteen minutes, won my complete trust. I bent down with tears in my eyes in admiration and thanks to her. She lifted her lovely head and licked me on the nose. Wow!

Tango, you just owned my heart.

Some days just stick in your mind for ever.  I had one of those a few months ago when I was invited to film at the Southeastern Guide dog campus, near Tampa. After getting lost and taking an unexpected tour of the crack houses of Bradenton, I was quite relieved to see the large sign indicating I had finally arrived at the right place.  And what a place!  Twenty-five acres of beautifully landscaped grounds immediately welcome you to this outstanding residential facility that has fine tuned guide dogs' incredible skills for 28 years.

First stop was the puppy hugging room, where litters of beautiful six-week old Labrador puppies were just waiting to be oohed and aahed over. Everything is done with great precision, discouraging pups from biting and jumping up too much.  The name of the game here is to really develop their socialization skills.  Obviously, you will appreciate what a hard assignment this was for me, but somebody has to do it.  Tearing myself away, I was told I would have the opportunity to work with a dog that was halfway through its training: doing a practical exercise along a winding, wooded pathway called Freedom walk. It is here that the blind learn to walk with the dog, cross a road, find a bench to sit on, etc. Sounds easy right? Fortunately, I had been warned by the training staff that this is sometimes very emotionally overwhelming and downright scary. They were right.

I was given a pair of wraparound black glasses that eliminated any light or shadows, completely.  First freaky moment.  All your anchor points disappear and you simply feel isolated and disoriented. I had had the chance to say a quick (sighted) hello to Tango, a young female Labrador, who was going to be my eyes for the next few minutes. My hand was guided to the harness handle and with the command "Forward" off we set, me taking tiny, soldier stiff steps and finding it hard to keep my balance.  How ridiculous that I felt so scared, sweat pouring off my body, accompanied by a rapid increase in heart rate. Was this a panic attack?

READ MORE TOMORROW AS I CONTINUE MY STORY OF HOW I LEARNED TO HAND CONTROL OF MY LIFE COMPLETELY OVER TO A DOG NAMED, TANGO.

Sometimes, life on the farm is a study in duality.  Life and death, pee and poop, panic and calm...you know the drill.  Case in point: a few days ago, my beloved husband Kent was nearly crushed to death by 1300 lbs. of fast-moving cow.  I can safely say that you have no idea how much of your old speed you've retained until you are being chased by a beast the size of a Yugo.  Kent dove (or more accurately, threw himself) over a five-foot rail fence and just barely missed being squished by Mama Cow. That's Psycho Cow in the photo, hiding behind the tree, just waiting for another chance.  I smell hamburgers on the air...

And then comes the duality: Maggie the calf, whose life we saved after her own mother died.   Cute as a button as all baby animals are, something right out of "City Slickers."  I don't know whether Psycho Cow will adopt her or what, but if she does, then it's a sure bet than one day, she'll grow to psychotic mama cow proportions and probably try to kill us.  Until then, she's adorable. 

Martha Stewart the chicken, you may recall, had been crippled and nearly killed by Brer Fox, and then while recovering from her injuries, set upon by family and friends in a vicious attack designed to finish her off.  It was terrible to watch, sort of like something from "Dynasty" or "Falcon Crest."  Well, we have had an interesting turn of events in her life, and it should give all of us hope that life can be turned around no matter how low things sink.

About a week or so ago, I got another frantic "Can you help me, I've found a ______ and don't know what to do!" call.   These come in fairly often around here and always keep life hopping.  While still on the phone, I started to prepare the shower for the next contestant in the Game of Life. This time, the shower residents were four tiny, day-old chicks, found in a dumpster.   Sometimes, I want to scream at people!  This was no accident. This was premeditated murder. No only do babies of this age need food, water and 85-degree warmth continuously, but any predator (and chicks are beset by a never ending list of them) could swallow them whole.  Also, this had been no ordinary dumpster.  It was a compactor.  The next person to close the lid would have would caused the compression machine to activate and we would have had...well, chicken paste, I guess. The rescuer, God bless her, climbed in, pulled them out and called me.

Can we save the damned chickens and start making Idiot McNuggets, please?   

Since chicken rehabilitation is a speciality of mine (how does THAT look on a resume?), they were settled in no time.   The problem was, what was I going to do when they were bigger?  They were too tiny to go outside, and when they did get big enough the Kelly Park Chicken gang (my pack of decidedly bitchy, unfriendly fowl) had already shown that no outsiders were welcome. Suddenly I remembered that Martha had always been a good mother.

I picked her up and put her in the shower. She didn't react to the babies with anything other then feigned indifference, but she didn't hurt them either. Yeah!  This might work. Within twenty-four hours, she was letting them sleep under her wings from warmth and had discovered that she did still have a purpose in life.  The whole bunch now lives outside in the dog run and M.S. mothers them as though they are her own. It's a nice ending and goes to show that even if your own family are assholes to you, maybe another one will come and teach you love, all over again.

Martha Stewart Comes Home

Martha Stewart Comes Home

Martha Stewart, special needs chicken, meets her new adopted brood in the shower, cheered on by April, the miracle cat who survived her 2006 tour through the clothes dryer. Never boring around here!

Martha and her new kids on the (non chopping) block

Martha and her new kids on the (non chopping) block

Two weeks after they met in the shower, Martha Stewart and her adoptees are happy residents of the dog run...and Brer Fox is nowhere to be found.

Apparently, a cat named Suki is expected to make a full recovery from a turn in a front-loading washing machine in Australia.  The feline was napping on a pile of dirty laundry (haven't we all done that?) when the busy mum threw her into the machine by accident.  Upon emerging limp and lifeless, Suki was rushed to a veterinary hospital, warmed and then placed in an oxygen humidor, and apparently is pretty much back to normal.

I bring this up because I've been there.  I wasn't present for the strange event, but by virtue of the sort of "animal weirdness halo effect" that I apparently radiate, a cat in my family once took a near-lethal spin in a laundry device.  In 2006, our cat April inadvertently crawled into the clothes dryer and went for a high-heat spin, coming out hyperthermic, brain damaged and basically barbecued. I was in Orlando at the book conference where I met my eventual co-author, Tim Vandehey, and got the news by phone by virtue of a screaming, panicked teenage daughter—not what any parent wants to experience.  

Fortunately, thanks to the quick actions of my eldest daughter (who just became a mommy for the first time a week or so ago, so she has excellent training should Mason ever crawl into the dryer), April was cooled down, revived and saved...and is still with us.  In fact, as I relate in the book's Introduction, she's a much nicer cat now than she ever was before.  So to the owners of Suki, chin up.  You may in fact have stumbled upon the greatest cat attitude rehabiliation system ever known: Laundry Therapy.  I think all elected officials in Washington should be required to take a spin, don't you?  The really stupid ones can go on high heat. 

Okay, we're the first to admit that sometimes we don't get the whole Farmville thing.  I mean, yeah, it's a cute game, but something that obsession-inducing should at least feature hobbits, Nazis or vampires, don't you think?  But the masses of Facebook fans have spoken--Farmville is a BIG DEAL.  And since we're publishing a book whose stories (at least some of the time) take place on a farm, Farmville is a natural ally, sort of like pigs and chickens (you'll have to read the book to get that one). 

So we're proud to announce the first-ever "The Pet Who Loves Me" photo contest!  Go to the Facebook fan page for "The Chimp Who Loved Me" and upload your favorite photo of your pet.  Once a day, we'll pick the best photo and send the winner a $10 gift card for Farmville.  How cool is that?  The contest ends Sept. 12, so get on it.  

Sometimes, you just need an excuse to publish pictures and videos from the farm to show what a wonderful and strange existence we lead out here amongst the critters.  There's me and my "nice ass" having a moment together, a sweet little calf trying to eat my hand, and me captured in one of my more macho moments at the wheel of our tractor.  On the video side, we have me scolding Maria about her personal hygiene (a really unfair thing to do to a pig, when you think about it), a jealous cow, and lovely moment with a dove that I took in (but which is NOT sleeping in my shower—so far).

How do you solve a problem like Maria?

How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Maria getting a lecture on hygiene.

Jealous Cow

Jealous Cow

One of our cows gets a little envious of the attention paid to a calf.

Conversations with a dove

Conversations with a dove

Occasionally you run across something so beautiful that even my cynical heart melts. This brilliant white dove was one of those things.

Many times we'll get an animal into one of our veterinary clinics that Kent, despite his prodigious skill as a veterinarian, simply cannot save.  Unfortunately, these are frequently the animals that touch us all most deeply.  One such example was Celeste.  Celeste means "a gift from heaven."  A search and rescue team found this tiny deer after she had been prematurely born and left by the side of the road, severely dehydrated in the 90 degree weather.  We did all we could to nurse her back to health, and she was such a sweet, beautiful little thing that everyone came to love her.  Unfortunately, her little body was too far gone, and our gift went back to Heaven having touched all our hearts.

But as often happens around here, something truly amazing came of even this tiny, sad story.  Ham, the dachshund, appointed himself as protector of Celeste and would not leave her side.  He even remained in her box for hours after she had died, watching over her.  It was such a touching example of how animals really do love and protect one another if given the chance. 

I wish there was a hint of fall in the air, but here at the farm in Central Florida, that just means it's a smidgen less hot (93 instead of 97) and a tad less humid. That means your hair stays decent for fifteen minutes instead of ten. It's is admittedly getting tiresome trying to round up the ten little piggies. They are, frankly, becoming like LA gang members, leading each other into no good and even pissing off Yummy Mummy Maria Pig. In fact I caught her in the act of doing a spot of piglet tossing, accompanied by much squealing from said hooligans.  Of course had PETA been here she would surely have had protesters camped outside her pen, rallying against her inhumane treatment of piggies. But, the little swine come back for more, and I am still impressed by her ability to control that five hundred pound body with such finesse.

At least we had a spot of fun when I used a simple garden hose to create a small piggy water park in one of the stalls.  These little escape artists are easier to amuse than a human toddler...and of course, there aren't quite as many objections when in six months you kill and eat them.  Hard to do that with your own kids, no matter how tempted you may be from time to time. 

So, we have reached a decision. This will be the last day of freedom for the ten little piggies. They have had the run of the place but after wandering so far from Maria they stand a good chance of meeting an early untimely demise at the hands of Brer fox, a neighbor's dog, or indeed a human pignapper looking for a nice little suckling pig.  I have just realized why they are call ed suckling pigs! Duh ! Blondie.

Speaking of which, Maria is also trying hard to wean them. She does this by spinning around and administering the odd well-placed kick from her huge trotters. In intensive farming, they take the babies away from the mom at three weeks...ours will stay with her for about three months in order to pick up good piggy manners.  Until the enclosing, I will once more go and try and count ten very fast moving piglets. One, two, three....one, two, three, four,five....no wait, I counted him already.  Damn.  Start again.

Piggies at the Water Park

Piggies at the Water Park

A simple garden hose becomes a water attraction for the little piglets, who haven't yet figured out that they can take a drop and a one-stroke penalty and avoiding trying to hit over the thing altogether.

Yesterday, we celebrated my birthday at the farm with a surprise party complete with live Brazilian Samba band and of course a chicken in the shower of the main toilet facility. As always, there was the odd guest who thought I might be unaware that said animal was in there. We had several cases of people coming up saying, "Did you know you have chicken in the shower?" and me feigning surprise by gasping, "No! Really? I wonder how she got in there?" There was a lot a lot of concern as to whether the chicken would mind them using the bathroom, which I thought was rather sweet. "Just don't wiggle anything too vigorously in there, or she may think it's a worm," I said. That was a couple of beers into a good night, but I did notice that most of the men chose to use a different loo from that point on.

As usual, as the festivities continued, farm tours were requested. This is always Kent's host contribution. Mine tends to be more along the line of shouting, "Let's all dance ‘til the dawn breaks and pretend we are young and giddy!" These midnight farm tours are always full of surprises, especially for the peacefully sleeping animals that have finally closed their eyes for forty winks despite the raucous partying. There is always some self-professed animal expert ready to show off his animal husbandry skills in public. In this case, it was a lovely young man, Joel, who is pretty handy around livestock, who decided to jump in with Maria, the mummy pig, and her ten little piggy babies. Rather pleased with his pig catching skills (and it really was worthy of a Rocky VII movie) he held a squealing baby high in the air....for about ten seconds before said mummy heard her baby and charged, full snout ahead. Joel left the pen a lot quicker than he went in.

Maria's piglets continue to be much cuter one on one than they are in an elusive group.  Mountbatten and Peggy Sue are showing quite the personality.  We're still working on a "piglet cam" and our naming contest. 

Pitbulls are surely the most misunderstood members of the canine family.  Yes, they can be aggressive.  Yes, there have been plenty of attacks, and yes they can be dangerous, but you can say that of any animal under the wrong circumstances, including "cute" beasts like chimps.  But the great majority of the time, the dangerous pitbull is the idiot owner's fault.  Trailer trash meth heads adopt them and then either abuse them, train them to be vicious or use them in illegal dog fighting.  Treated like that, you or I would probably turn mean.  I've been known to bite over the cork breaking and falling into the wine bottle, for heaven's sake...especially after a long day.

Anyway, it's usually the owners who want euthanizing, not the dogs.  Case in point: Dolly, who came to us not long ago after being horribly abusedby some bastard who used her as a bait dog in a dog fighting racket.  We gave the poor baby free medical care at River Oaks, because as you can see in the video she sustained terrible trauma to her muzzle.  Her mouth was so swollen that she couldn't eat, and so of course had been losing weight.  Despite this, Dolly was sweet and gentle when she had every reason to be defensive and a biter.  As you can see in the video, she recovered from her injuries to become an absolutely beautiful girl.  Erica Daniel, a worker at the shelter where Dolly first came as a stray, adopted her and has given her a lovely home.

I'm telling you, spay and neuter the dogs, but put down the owners.  You can see why this sort of thing makes my blood boil.  Dolly, we all wish you health and long life. 

Dolly the Pitbull

Dolly the Pitbull

Dolly's story

This is the story of Dolly from her first appearance as a stray to her terrible abuse by her first adoptive parent, to her return to health at our veterinary clinic, to her adoption by Erica Daniel.

You may have heard about the tragic story out of Cleveland, OH, where a 24-year-old man was killed by a captive black bear as he was opening its cage for regular feeding.  Well, now the bear has been put down at the request of the man's family.  You can find both stories here and here. 

That's two tragedies in a single story: the death of the young man and the death of a bear that, if left to its own in the wild might still be alive.  This is why I'm always on about the ridiculousness of people who think they can safely keep wild beasts at their personal residences like enormous fluffy pets and why I regularly get on my soap box against allowing animals to be treated like saleable commodities, whether they're bears, chimps or cougars. 

In the Cleveland case, the owner of the property where the animals were housed had a regular menagerie: four tigers, a lion, eight bears and twelve wolves, at last count.  Though some stories have called his property a "refuge," the fact is that it was in a residential area and the neighbors were constantly complaining about the racket made by the critters. Bottom line, this was a bootleg operation run by someone who may love animals but does not appreciate the kind of environment they need to thrive.

One problem is that unlike dogs or cats, domesticity is not bred into the bears, tigers, wolves, chimps and other creatures that tend to occupy these makeshift preserves.  Such animals can be docile for years and seem perfectly safe, as the unfortunate bruin in this story seemed to be, and then suddenly lash out as their predatory instincts take over.  These will never, ever be domestic animals or pets, and to treat them otherwise is not only incredibly foolhardy but ultimately destructive. 

Then there's the fact that the gent who runs the pseudo-sanctuary was letting people pay to wrestle the now-dead bear.  This is what raises my hackles.  This isn't a damned carnival act...it's a beautiful, dangerous creature that should be treated with respect, not paraded before the public like a clown!  A lack of respect for the beauty and power of nature, and a self-delusional attitude about what it takes to care for big creatures safely and with optimal results for the animals' health, leads directly to terrible outcomes like this one.  If the sanctuary owner winds up having his operation shut down, the remaining animals may well end up scattered to the four winds—some housed in the private homes of idiots who think it's neat to have a pet lion, others in preserves or zoos, and some even killed so their parts can be used to make dubious Asian aphrodesiacs.  Everybody loses. 

Plain and simple, keeping wild animals in residential areas is wrong.  Playing zookeeper without training and a background in biology, zoology or animal husbandry is wrong.  Treating animals like sideshows is wrong.  I wonder how many more animals will pay with their lives before we figure that out.