Animal Therapy

Animal Magnetism
I was watching the Animal Channel on TV the other day  (one of my favourite channels, the other one being Nat Geo Wild).  The program was called Animal Magnetism.  I am so in agreement with what they were saying there.  The show was about how animals help sick children - and adults - to live a full life, get over a debilitating handicap, or in some cases even cure one.

Growing up and living on a farm most of my life I have always had very close relationships with animals.  (My two  memoir books relate many of our liaisons with the special animals in our lives.) However now I live in an apartment that does not allow us to have pets and that is my only drawback to this place, though I can fully understand their reasoning for that stipulation.  Sometimes it is just easier to prevent a problem than to have to correct it. This kind of apartment building has potential for animal problems. It is just much better to avoid those hassles.

Luckily I do have a partial solution to that problem.  My daughter, who lives here in the city, owns a miniature schnauzer and I kind of have some dibs on dog-love whenever I visit there.  When I was ill this spring, I stayed at Carol's while I convalesced and Bentley was my therapy dog. He was a such a sweetheart, just lay quietly beside me, his soulful eyes almost infusing me with his good health and energy.  Animals truly do have a healing  influence and they just seem to know when you need comfort and peace!

Unique Pets

How is This for a Pet?

On nice days, especially in summer, I  like to take a leisurely walk down the promenade overlooking the verdant valley that runs through almost the middle of our city of Edmonton.   Along with the scenic beauty, I enjoy the fresh air and the relative peace and tranquility of an almost country atmosphere as the promenade is off the busy thoroughfare of bustling city traffic that seems muted and distant here. Many people utilize this area to just sit and bask in the sun on one of the countless benches along the promenade, for walking or running for their own personal exercise, or for walking their pets . It is our little piece of Eden within an urban setting and we all love it.

The other day, I had the pleasure of a very unique experience of seeing someone who was walking his pet - a tortoise - an African Desert Tortoise.  It was a most fascinating sight. Absolutely beautiful!  As you can imagine, this pet attracted the attention of just about everyone that happened to be on the promenade that afternoon.  That turtle was at least two feet long and probably about eighteen inches high.  it just ambled along slowly, oblivious to the admiration of his bedazzled fan club. The owner said it was fourteen years old and he had had it since it was tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
 You just never know who you will run into on the Promenade!

Walking a Dog

Walking Bentley

He tugs so eagerly on the leash
As he tows me forward so forcefully
He's barely bigger than a rabbit
Yet he's a Clydesdale horse to me.

My dragging gait must be frustrating
He pants and wheezes with all his might
Yet he's relentless as he tows me
Almost choking  in his collar tight.

I know he loves run afield
Or down the street with someone young
But this old grandma just can't do much
The garden gate or what's beyond.

So we struggle hard against each other
He's pulling forth while I pull back
After several blocks of constant pulling
We're both ready for some slack.

This half hour of strenuous exercise
Is most enough to set my day
But Bentley's ready for another
Oh how I'd love to feel that way.

Those carefree days are gone forever
As I amble so laboriously
But Bentley smiles in adoration
Just happy to be towing me.

Stress Therapy

A Perfect Stress Releaver.  Bentley is a miniature Schnauzer  and a very empathatic companion when you just need a friend to commiserate with.  He never lectures you, never tells you to "just smarten up",  never scolds and never, ever, passes  judgement.  He is simply there to listen and be your friend in need.  He is always happy to see you no matter what your mood. No matter how long you have left him alone or neglected him, he never holds any grudges! He will simply lie quietly beside you and before you know it you will have forgotten that you felt bad or had any problems.  He'll have you smiling in no time.

Jackrabbit Mania

                                                My front yard in Dauphin

                                                        My backyard in Dauphin
   
                                          "That Wascally Wabbit"
I look outside my apartment window and I see our own private Easter Bunny preening himself in our courtyard four floors below.  (I am on the forth floor of our Apartment Building").  I call him "our own" because he spends alot of time in our yard.  When I first saw him, when I moved in here three years ago, I cringed.  Oh, it's not that I don't like bunnies.  I truly do.  In fact, I had some very pleasant experiences with a jackrabbit that we raised from a baby when we were on the farm. (His story is related in this blog back on January 16.)  That was a GOOD jackrabbit. It's just that I have encountered BAD jackrabbits since, so I now view these cute rascals with a wary eye.
 When I lived in Dauphin, I had a resident jackrabbit that caused me no end of frustration.  I used to plant alot of flowers around my home.  (One year I even won a prize for my beautiful flowered yard.) 
However, those flowers did not come cheap,  thanks to a resident jackrabbit that had a penchant for flowers and my petunias were his special favorite. He would eat the young plants down to the ground and I would have to replant them again – and again. One time as he sat there chewing on my painted daisies near the fence, totally oblivious to my unveiled threats, I got so angry I took a slingshot and shot at him. Of course I could not hit the broad side of a barn. The pebble zinged by between his ears and just made him look up as if to say, “What was that?” Then, unperturbed, he just went on eating, unabashedly ignoring this neurotic woman that was attempting to cause him unnecessary stress.
 As a rule, I love animals and bunnies are particularly cute, but if I could have been a better shot, I would gladly have finished that moocher off. I used tons of paprika and cayenne pepper on my plants and all it did was delay him until the next rain or heavy morning dew, though I do believe he did develop a taste for spicy   salad. He never paid room and board. He just made himself at home on my lawn between feedings, relaxing, sprawled lazily out on the grass near the flowers like it was his own private estate!
So you can understand why I didn't trust the jackrabbits here in Edmonton.  But I'm eating crow now. Alberta bunnies are GOOD bunnies.  Our gardener plants alot of flowers and in the three years I have been here, the rabbits have not touched any of them.  Are Alberta jackrabbits specially trained to be GOOD???

Bruiny's Infinite Loyalty

Bruiny’s Infinite Loyalty

In the Kulish district, from spring till fall, my folks, (as well as all the other farmers around us) always pastured the cattle in the nearby wide open spaces of the Duck Mountain Forest Reserve. Nobody had private pastures in that area. The cattle were simply let out onto the road and they made their own way into the boundless bush  where they grazed freely.  They never roamed far out of range. We always found them somewhere within about a four to five mile radius of home. Every evening after school, it was the chore for one of the children to  bring the cattle home for the evening milking.  “Bruiny” our stately gold and white Lassie-type collie, was always an important aide on this errand. When Betty was home, this task was hers.

One time, she had plans to go somewhere in the evening so she was in a hurry. She decided to ride Jessie, the mare, to the bush to get the cattle. She didn’t ride often and we had no saddle so she rode bareback. Perhaps an hour or two later, she arrived home, breathless from running, no cattle and no Jessie, just old faithful Bruiny at her side.  Mom finally got the story out of her. She had come upon a bear, got scared, jumped off Jessie and run for home, leaving Jessie there in the bush. Jessie eventually came walking home by herself. The cattle missed their milking that evening because they didn’t get home till the next day.  Betty became the brunt of many community jokes for years after that incident.

Anyway, after that she never took the horse for cows again, but asked me to accompany her instead. I was probably eight at the time. What help she expected from me if we ever encountered a bear, I could never even imagine, unless she planned to use me as a decoy while she ran for cover. I would probably have just frozen in my tracks, too scared to run anyway. Still I obviously gave her a sense of security. At any rate, we never did meet a bear and those jaunts “into the tember” proved invaluable training for me, because when Betty left home for good, the responsibility of fetching the cattle home fell to me. I was eleven years old by then.

Every farmer’s herd had a dominant cow as a leader of the herd. This cow carried a “cowbell” permanently hung on a leather strap around her neck. Once in the bush, you stopped to listen and invariably the sound of that bell would tell you where your cattle were. Everyone knew the sound of all the bells so you knew if the bell you heard belonged to this neighbor’s or that neighbor’s herd. If you didn’t hear your bell you just kept walking or changed direction until you heard your bell and located your herd.

The area where the cattle roamed was a vast reserve of bush land.  There were only two trails, one curved its way westward and the other straighter trail led north. These were old roads now seldom used except for Seneca root expeditions by natives, occasional hunters in the fall,  local farmers for mushroom or berry picking sojourns or for bringing home firewood for winter. Otherwise there were only a couple of indistinct paths made by cattle who followed their leader.

Off the western trail was a place in that reserve that I particularly feared. It was a swamp area about a mile and a half into the bush just south of the trail, about two miles from home. I had been there with Betty once. It was all muskeg and spongy moss that sank under our feet.

If I heard our bell in that swamp, I would get Bruiny to get them out of there. Standing safely on the trail above the swamp, I would cup my hands around my mouth and yell at the top of my lungs: “Do domoo” (go home) to the cattle and “Bruiny sic’um.” Bruiny would take off into that swamp barking all the way and in no time, the cattle would be out of there and on the trail. I would then simply follow them home. Why I was so afraid of that swamp, I have no idea, but thank God for Bruiny, who understood my orders and always herded those cattle out of there on his own. Very rarely did I come home from that “tember” alone because I could not find the cattle. As long as the wind was quiet, the bell could be heard for miles.

I never lost my sense of direction either and that seems a miracle to me now because, put me in the bush these days and I can be lost within a single acre, let alone miles of boundless bush. All the neighbors used to go bring cattle home the same way and each of us always went alone. Primitive instinct, I guess. You do what you have to do. That training with Betty paid off. I never did encounter a bear in that bush either, although I often came across their dung piles both in the bush and even along the road to school, especially in the fall season. I saw my first live bear at the Winnipeg Zoo when I went to summer school for teacher training.

Bruiny was a faithful and loyal aide on all our cattle hunting missions and he probably would not have let me get lost even if I had tried. He never left my side in the bush unless I sent him off to herd the cattle. After he did that, he always promptly came back to my side.

When we moved to town, Dad tried to take him with us but he refused to ride on the wagon so we kept calling him and he followed us all the way to town (ten miles away). Maybe he thought we had a job for him there. The next morning he just went back to the farm. We got him to town twice more after that but he always returned to the farm. Dad gave up then because Bruiny just would not stay in town. I guess he was waiting for us to come back. The neighbor told us he would sit on the doorstep of the house there and howl all night. The neighbors took to feeding him there because he would not leave the yard no matter how they tried to coax him away. The second winter after we moved, Bruiny died (or froze to death) on the yard that had been his home for eleven years. I felt sure that he had simply died of a broken heart.

Bruiny, the faithful friend and servant

This is our Bruiny, a dog that that I remember for his willingness to serve and work and play with a family he loved so much he would have given his life to protect. I remember his loyalty with a lump in my heart.  A dog who died of a broken heart when his family had to move away and he just refused to stay in their new home but returned to his old home to wait and watch for a family that just never came back.

I looked for his picture and thought it was lost forever, but thanks to Marilyn, my niece, who had saved her dad's old photos, I now have this long lost treasure.

Good bye Bruiny.  Happy hunting in God's own pasture! Bruiny's story will be coming out in my new book. "Small Beginnings", next month,

A Horse's Kiss of Love

LITTLE MITE’S KISS OF LOVE

Carol's scream pierced through the air like the shrill whistle of a CN train.  Mite knew she had hurt Carol.  I don't know if it was remorse or fear of repercussion, but she took off like a shot, clearing the fence in one big leap, racing down the road at full gallop never even looking back. 

When we ran to Carol's aid, we found her bleeding profusely from the mouth, her cut lip hanging limply over her chin hanging on just by the thin outside skin, her whole body convulsing in fear and pain.  I quickly took her indoors, washed the wound and after controlling the bleeding with wads and wads of soft bread, I lifted the lip back into position and taped her face to keep it that way.  Sending Jim out by bike to look for Mite, we packed the two shaking girls into the car and left for Dauphin and a doctor, forty miles away.

Carol, unable to do much with her mouth taped shut, sat silently in the back seat, but Connie, through heart-wrenching sobs, kept insisting "Mite didn't mean it.  She didn't! Honest!  She was just playing."  I think both girls were more afraid for Mite than for Carol's lip at this point and were worried we might try to get rid of their beloved pet.

Doctor Stephen, too, thought this might be a good idea as he examined Carol, although I do believe it may have been said with a tongue-in-cheek fashion.  After all, he had never before had a case where a child's lip was almost “kissed off” by a horse!  He stared at us in amazement when we told him what had happened.  Shaking his head in disbelief and speaking in a voice which was a strange mixture of astonishment, bewilderment, amusement and seriousness, he suggested "I think you should get rid of that horse."

Carol, her mouth taped shut again, but her eyes almost popping out of their sockets was shaking her head violently from side to side, her mournful "MMMMMM" echoing like a ghostly moan through the room.  Connie, in sheer panic now, broke into a fresh round of frantic sobbing, rushed to stand before the doctor beseeching him "She didn't mean it, she was only playing.  Mite wouldn't hurt her on purpose."

Dr. Stephen looked at this crazy mixed up family in front of him, probably convinced it was some bizarre dream he was having and told us that since the skin was not cut on the outside, we might be better off not to have it stitched to lessen the formation of scar tissue.  The inside cut would probably heal on its own provided it stayed taped and undisturbed for a couple of weeks.  This would mean Carol would have to exist on a totally fluid diet, consumed entirely through a straw for the whole period.  Carol's head bobbed up and down eagerly in agreement before he even finished the sentence.  I asked the doctor if he considered this advisable and he said that if we got some nutritional supplement to add to her milk, she could do this for a couple of weeks without jeopardizing her health.

That settled, but with some misgivings in spite of Dr. Stephen’s reassurances, we thanked the doctor, picked up the supplement at the drug store and drove back home, the girls both silent now, Carol with her mouth taped shut and Connie too spent by the emotions that had ravaged, and were probably still ravaging her.

When we got home, Jim was out in the yard consoling Mite whom he had found almost three miles from home.  She had come to him out of the bush where she had been hiding, when he kept calling for her. "She came to me slowly", he said, "and then she just stood there with her head down.  She didn’t mean to hurt Carol.  I know she didn’t".  He spoke with a sob in his throat and we knew that he, too, though concerned about Carol, was also worried about the repercussions for Mite. 

Assailed by three sets of verbal and non-verbal emotional entreatments that "Mite didn't mean it, she wouldn't hurt Carol on purpose", and seeing Mite's obvious remorse, we decided to forgive her and “not sell the horse”.

To be honest, I don't think we had even given much thought to Mite in the first place.  Our main concern had been Carol, to the exclusion of all else.  Anyway, Carol lived on milk and other liquid nutrients for two whole weeks, her mouth taped shut, her requirements communicated by means of sign language.  Jim and Connie were her willing slaves, jumping at her every beck and call, still fearing, perhaps, that Carol's demands might somehow jeopardize the precarious reprieve they had secured for Mite.

"Little Mite" had come to us as a gangly skittish colt barely weaned off her mother's milk.  The mare had succumbed to the dreaded sleeping sickness and left her young foal an orphan at a stage when her very survival was questionable.  The mare's owner did not wish to be bothered with the pitiful creature that would require much more care than he was prepared to give, so the foal was up for grabs.  Word of the tragedy spread through the community and we packed our young family, eight year old Jim, five-year old Carol and four-year old Connie and drove to see this pathetic little orphan. 

It was "love at first sight" for kids and parents alike and Joe's apt description of "Little Mite" fit her so naturally that naming her otherwise never even became an issue.  Arrangements were quickly made and Little Mite was loaded onto the truck, transported over the miles and released into a new world, with a strange but doting family, but not another horse in sight, let alone the mother she still needed and missed so terribly.

We tried bottle feeding her but I guess she considered it the ultimate indignity and would have none of it.  However, after a few tries, she did learn to drink cow’s milk from a pail and although we thought that was rather unusual, we decided not to argue with success.  Eventually she started refusing the milk altogether, but by then she was grazing, feeding herself successfully, so life just took on a regular routine and Mite continued to grow on her own.

The kids adored her and showered her with ceaseless attention but at first she was not used to children and invariably would prance coquettishly away whenever they crowded her.  Day after day, she wandered aimlessly within the confines of the fence enclosing the yard, grazing, drinking, sleeping, but always jerking her head up and expectantly, perking up her ears at each new sound that assailed her audible range.  But her mother never appeared, never answered her mournful neighs.

The kids’ attention never waned however.  They followed Mite around, never out of her sight and eventually their perseverance paid off when out of sheer resignation she would allow them to approach her, stroke her soft nose and sleek body and hug her neck till she backed off as if to say "Alright, enough already, leave me alone!"

Spring turned into summer and Little Mite was no longer the pitifully shy creature she had been when she first arrived.  She grazed contentedly around the yard and became great friends with Faline, the docile milk cow, with whom she shared the lush green grasses of the farmyard and Bimbo, the shaggy, black dog that was as much a member of this family as she was.

She revelled in the love of the children and was always there when they played their games, running along with them when they ran bases or played hide and seek, often to the point of becoming a nuisance when their friends came to play.  The neighbours' children enjoyed this however.  They thought it was neat to have the friendly colt running along with them in their games.  All around, Mite had captivated the hearts not only of our family but those of the neighbours as well, most especially the kids.

When the rest of the cattle were brought home for the winter, Little Mite was beside herself.  A hundred head of cattle, all shapes and sizes, had suddenly invaded the yard which she had considered her own private domain.  Often she could not get near enough to Faline to recapture that camaraderie that they had shared through the summer.  Faline did not seem to mind, she was at home with these creatures but with Jim at school, the girls indoors and Faline oblivious to her, Little Mite felt rejected and alone.  She wandered into the far corners of the yard trying desperately to stay out of this huge crowd that overwhelmed her by sheer numbers.  Eventually, she learned to tolerate them, but she always gave them a rather wide berth at the water trough or the self-feeder where they all ate.

The advent of spring meant new calves on the yard and new avenues for the kids’ affection whenever they were outdoors.  Mite would follow the children around, jealously trying to divert their attention from the newborn calves, and inevitably get in someone's way, provoking a rebuke that she would unabashedly ignore.  She relented, however, when the cattle were penned for the annual spring branding, immunizations, and other pasture preparations.  Their struggling and bellowing in the chutes melted her heart and she raced helplessly around the holding pens in bewilderment, obviously upset by their discomfort.

Finally the day came when the cattle, including those attention-stealing calves, were herded out through the open gate and driven off to their summer pasture.  This left Mite queen of the castle again, with Faline and the kids all to herself once more. 

But Faline, too, was in calf and when little Tammy was born; Mite immediately adopted her and willingly shared the children's affection with Faline and her calf.  She appointed herself legal guardian of the kids, Faline and Tammy and would go frantic if a stranger or intruder approached any of them.

Faline, being a Holstein, was a heavy milk producer, yielding three to four gallons of milk twice daily.  Tammy could not consume this volume and it had been common practice over the years to milk Faline down morning and night.  Between these milkings, the calves always thrived on what was left over.

Originally, I used to be the one that milked Faline but that year, early in the springtime, I had an unfortunate accident when I almost lost my middle and ring fingers on my right hand.  This left my right hand heavily bandaged for more than two months so Jim had to take over the milking duties.  Mite got used to this and I guess she liked Jim more than dull old me.  Jim could walk up to Faline, anywhere on the yard, pail in one hand, stool in the other, Faline would stop and Jim would milk her down as Mite stood by peacefully and watched.  It was a different story though if I tried it after my hand healed.  Mite seemed to think I was doing indecent things to Faline and would run around, nudging Faline to keep her moving, not allowing her to stop for a moment to allow me to milk her.  On occasion when Jim would be away and I had to milk Faline, we literally had to close either Mite or Faline in the barn for me to be able to milk the cow in peace!

When September rolled around and the kids went to school, Little Mite moped around the yard like a forsaken bride.  With Bimbo often hiding in the shade somewhere, her only consolation was Faline, and her calf and she was never more than a few feet away from her side.  They became inseparable.  When the kids got home from school, Mite was in her glory!  As the school bus stopped to unload, she impatiently ran wide arcs around the yard neighing excitedly until the children reached her.  She pranced around like a princess, overjoyed to have them back and allowed the children to hug her endlessly without ever backing away.

Mite’s nemeses were the pigs!  To her, they were obnoxious snorting imbeciles that belonged in a secure enclosure, well separated from all decent animals.  When Jim would go into the pen to clean, Mite would go into a frenzy, distraught and frantic galloping around the outside of the pen, neighing her heart out, convinced that her precious Jim was in some mortal danger of his life among those terrible creatures.

One day when one of the pigs rutted a hole under a weak point in the fence and got out, Mite went wild.  Faline and Tammy were near the pen and Mite rushed to their defence.  We literally feared for that pig's life as Mite, head low to the ground and bellowing dire threats in horse language, sent that poor pig squealing for cover. 

To be fair to Mite, perhaps her kissing Carol was a natural and invited practice.  The kids often had sugar cubes, pieces of carrots, apples or some other treat for Mite to nibble on out of their hand.  Often if they failed to bring a tasty morsel, she would nudge them on the back with her nose as if to say "Come on, where is it?"  She would smack those huge floppy lips till they laughingly ran back and brought her a treat.  Carrots or apples, in particular were often presented to her from the mouth.  In addition, in their affection, the kids would often kiss Mite right on those big soft lips of hers.  It was on just such an occasion, as Carol was delivering one of those kisses, and Mite deciding to kiss her back, that got Mite into such trouble that day.  Her big lip caught Carol's bottom lip, pressing it against her sharp top teeth, thus cutting Carol's lip on the inside till it hung only by the outside skin.  It wasn’t meant to hurt Carol.  It was merely Mite’s “kiss of love”.                                  More on Little Mite  another time.

A Jackrabbit as a Pet

THE AMAZING JACKY

"He'll never make it.  There is no way that little creature can live with those things sucking away at its very lifeblood."

John's words made sense.  We knew that.  But this was a baby bunny in front of us and it could be so appealing if only those grotesque creatures left him alone.  So in spite of our better judgement, we selfishly pleaded for life for the poor little fellow knowing full well that along with prolonging his life, we were also prolonging his agony.

Our experience with Jacky began tragically one summer day when Jim, at fourteen, caught the baby jackrabbit on a field of summerfallow he had been tilling.  From his high vantage point atop the big tractor, he had a panoramic view of the field below him and as he advanced, he saw the gray, bun-sized fur balls scattering in front of him.  One of those fur balls seemed to be having a more difficult time than the others so to avoid driving over him; Jim yanked the gearshift into neutral, jumped down from the cab and picked it up.  He put it in the cab until he finished the field and brought him home.

“Look what I found,” Jim called excitedly, as he jumped out of the tractor cab and ran towards us with a tiny ball of gray fur in his cupped hands.

The girls ran to meet him.  Jim seldom showed that much excitement.  This had to be special!

“What, what, what?”  they shrieked in unison.

Our curiosity turned to horror when we saw the source of his excitement.  A tiny little bunny, no bigger than a tennis ball, pitifully looked up at us from tiny slits of eyes almost totally obscured by heavy eyelids punctuated with the swollen bodies of woodticks!  In fact, its whole body, but particularly the head, and especially the ears, inside and out, was infested with the little brown balls clinging tenaciously to the scruffy skin covering the pathetic little frame.  Most of them were swollen to round bulbs from the amount of blood they had managed to steal from their helpless host.  It was a wonder the poor thing was still alive!

“Uh, how awful!” with one voice we all agreed.  We inspected it further.  By this time, John had joined us and his decision was immediate.

“You can’t be thinking of keeping that thing,” he said.  “It’s half dead.  It’s just a matter of time before it’s totally gone.  The kindest thing you can do for that creature is to kill it and put it out of its misery.”

But Jim and his two younger sisters entreated him.

“Oh, no, Dad, please!  Can’t you do something for him?  Please, Dad.  You can’t kill it.  It’s just a baby.  Please Mom.”

“Come on you kids.  Be reasonable.  Don’t you see how it’s suffering?  Those ticks are sucking the life out of the poor creature.  How can it survive without blood?”

John looked from one to the other of the kids hoping for reason to prevail, for sanity to take over.

Jim faltered.  He understood what his father was trying to say.  It made sense.  But he looked at the bunny and his heart melted.  How could he stand to watch it die?  The girls would not even listen to Dad’s wise counsel.  All they could see was a beautiful tiny bunny that desperately needed help.

“Oh please, Dad, can’t you do something?  Mom, please, please.  You can’t just kill it.  You can’t!  Mom, can’t you do something?”

“Don’t you kids see what you're asking?  There are so many ticks on it you can never remove them and even if you could, that poor thing could never survive that kind of torture.”

But the kids kept begging, pleading for a chance at life for the poor wretched, little creature whose very own mother had probably given up for dead.  Especially the girls.  They just could not understand why we would not try to save it. 

Finally against my better judgment, I decided to give it a try. 

“Maybe we can at least try to get all those ticks off and see what happens,” I suggested to John.  “If it dies then at least we’ll know we tried.”

“You’re crazy,” John stated flatly.  “There isn’t enough life left there to withstand such an ordeal.”

Bombarded by “Please Mom, oh please, Mom” from the two girls, I abdicated.  Jim stood by hopefully now not taking part in the discussion.  He was older and he knew Dad made sense except he still could not prepare himself to watch the bunny die either. 

“Let's give it a try,” I said, but John would have no part of it.

“You go ahead if you want, but count me out.” he declared and walked back toward the shed, leaving me with three hopeful looking kids and a less than appealing task before me.

Under the watchful eyes of the kids, I set about trying to rid the poor bunny of his unwelcome parasitic guests.  I had heard of woodticks, but had never known them to be common in our area and had certainly never seen anything as gross as this.  My knowledge of treatment for this situation therefore, was at best, pitifully meagre.  Still I had been told that a hot needle, applied to the body, would cause the blood sucking parasite to release its hold on its victim. 

Fighting back the rising nausea that was welling up within me, I got two long darning needles that I put on the stove to heat up, and a pair of long needle-nosed pliers with which to hold the hot needles.  With Jim holding the bunny motionless, we went to work.  Running back and forth to the stove as each needle cooled, I gingerly poked each disgusting bulb with the hot end.  With some it worked, with others, it didn't, either they would not, or maybe could not, back out, so for the stubborn ones, I just applied the pliers as close to the bunny’s skin and yanked until it came out, bunny skin, blood and all.  John had decided to come back to the house to watch the operation but at this point was having no part of it.  Finally when I could take the repulsive procedure no more, and ran retching for the bathroom, John relented and took over to finish the job.

Finding the remaining ticks relentlessly retaining their hold on the bunny's skin, and blood oozing out of the wounds where ticks had been yanked out, John was about to throw in the towel. 

“It’s no use, he declared.  “These guys just won’t let go.”

But the kids had tasted hope by now and it seemed that success was too close to quit now.  The entreaties came fast and furious.

“No, Dad, please.  You can’t stop now.  See, the bunny is still alive.  It’s just a few more.  Please Dad.” 

Sensing defeat in this battle against the three kids, John took the pliers and forcibly yanked the rest of the heinous moochers off, bringing out a spurt of precious blood following each such extraction.  With the final tick out, the bunny was still alive, albeit bleeding from each wound, lying limp in Jim's palm.  John walked out of the house.  He was loathe to admit it but he had been as repulsed by the gruesome task as I had been.

This left me in charge once again and as the kids stood by expectantly; I took the lethargic creature and swabbed its wounds with antiseptic from the family medicine cabinet.  Then to complete the job, I went outside and called to John, who was busying himself in the machine shed. 

“Need your help for one more thing,” I called. 

Reluctantly he came back to the house to hear what I had to say.

“Get the Hypodermic needle and we’ll give it a shot of Penicillin.”

John stared at me in disbelief.  We had a large hypodermic needle that we used to inject Penicillin into the cattle when there was an infection.  It was huge - twice as long as the poor bunny.  Seeing that I was serious, he shook his head and reached for the Penicillin.

“How much do I give it?”

“Give it half of a cc.” I said dispassionately.  I just wanted to get this over with.  I didn’t think it would work either, but now that we had started, we may as well do everything we could and then let nature do the rest.

John filled the needle and feeling like Dracula incarnated, I held the bunny motionless as John poked the miniature thigh with the large needle sending a small dose of penicillin into the tiny body.

There!  We had done what was humanly possible.  The rest was up to God Himself, if He wanted to restore the poor creature to life or take it to a much better place. 

“Now take it to the cage,” I told Jim.  “That is all we can do for him.  We’ll just have to wait and see what happens now.”

“I’ll get him a bowl of water,” offered Connie.

“And I’ll get him some clover to feed on,” Carol shouted as she ran out towards the ditch.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the bunny would probably not be eating or drinking for some time yet - if ever.

Jim tenderly cupped the tiny bedraggled and very listless ball of scruffy fur in his hands and carried it out to the cage that we had used for a tame bunny the year before.  The girls brought the water and fresh clover and scattered it in the small enclosure but the bunny lay motionless where Jim laid him, sapped dry of effort and will.

The cage consisted of a mesh enclosed outer area as well as a little "rabbit house", lined with soft grass.  For the first couple of days, we never saw "Jacky".  He was hiding in his little house, probably too sick to move.  We considered giving him another injection of penicillin, but fearing that it might be too much, decided against it.  There was no local veterinarian and we had neither the time nor the money to go to Dauphin on what we considered a hopeless case anyway.  We would just let Nature take its course.  Each morning and after school, the kids would poke their hand into the cage to feel if the bunny was still living. 

“It’s still warm, but it seems to be shaking so badly,” they told us worriedly.

“Just give it time,” I said.  “It was very sick.”

So reassured by the warm body and the feeble tremors and breathing, they waited patiently for the bunny to make his move.  Daily they brought him fresh clover, lettuce, carrots and water but there never seemed to be any sign that any had been touched. 

Just about when the kids were ready to give up hope that he would pull through, Jacky emerged from his house on Saturday afternoon.  This sent the girls into a frenzy of excited squealing.

 "He's out, he's going to make it, he'll be okay".  We rushed to see and sure enough, there was Jacky, busily and peacefully munching on some of the fresh clover the girls had put in his cage.

From that day forward, Jacky continued to improve.  He was nervous if we came too close to the cage and would dart into his house for safety but as he learned that those giants around him brought food and water and never harmed him, he became less fearful and would sit outside in his "corral" eagerly awaiting the fresh greens that the girls always provided.  Every now and then, they would take him out of the cage to cuddle him, which he would reluctantly submit to, but he never seemed to enjoy it, no matter how long he stayed with us.

Bimbo, our family dog, quickly learned that this was indeed a treasured member of the family, like himself, and took to sitting guard over the cage peacefully watching the bunny.  At first, the sight of the dog would send Jacky scurrying for cover, but eventually because he was such a common sight, the bunny learned there was nothing to fear from this shaggy black mutt and he began to derive a kind of security from his presence. 

Other members of the "family" that had to adjust to Jacky's presence were Mitzy, the dappled gray mother cat, and Tommy, the striped orange tomcat.  This was perhaps the most difficult transition.  Both Mitzy and Tommy were good hunters and instinctively, they knew Jacky as a wild creature, a tasty dinner they were used to chasing, catching, and consuming.  Yet, here was one of their usual prey, protected from them by that mesh fence!  It didn't make sense to them at all.  They would prowl around the cage seeking an opening while poor Jacky cowered and trembled inside his little house.

Inevitably, one of us adults or kids would walk by, see them stalking, and give them a sound scolding, sending them away, feeling like they had committed a terrible crime.  It took a long time for these natural hunters to realize that although this was indeed a member of the wild species, it was, nonetheless, a protected and cherished member of this family.

To get them acquainted with each other, the kids would bring Jacky, Mitzy and Tommy into the house together.  By watching them closely, they were able to bridge a bond of tolerance, and eventually even friendship, between the three family pets.

The first few such encounters were hilarious.  Both cats knew enough not to attack Jacky outright in front of the kids.  But Mitzy was curious, and would approach Jacky hesitantly to sniff his nose.  Jacky would get up on his hunches, make low grunting, snorting noises deep within his throat and his front paws would go into a whir of boxing motions that no eye could follow.  Mitzy would jump back in surprise and alarm unable to understand this creature that just refused to accept her friendly gesture.  Or Tommy would try his luck at making friends and stealthily approach Jacky.  Jacky would wait until he was almost a touch away and then he'd use those long jackrabbit legs of his and leap lithely up and over Tommy to the other side.  Tommy would sit there, surprised, looking around and wondering where Jacky had disappeared.  

These games were so much fun to watch, the kids would often bring the threesome into the house just so we could sit and watch their comical antics as the three playmates cavorted around the house, chasing each other, leaping, slapping, boxing and just generally providing us with a great show.

The cats delighted in teasing Jacky.  They'd come near him and reach a paw to touch his nose which never failed to send Jacky into his boxing and grunting frenzy.  Even the kid's friends often would come to watch these shows.

"You ought to be charging admission," our friends laughed.

With these shows coming so often, the three performers became great pals, gleaning from each other a comradeship that mutually benefited each one.  Even outside, the cats would often play tag with Jacky through the mesh wire of the cage.  By then we were quite confident that they were only playing, that they would not seriously hurt Jacky.  I think Jacky knew it, too, because he never ran to hide anymore in his little house.

Jacky became quite tame as the summer progressed.  At first, the girls made a large corral out of chicken wire where they would let him loose to graze on his own as they sat nearby watching.  Then they would pick him up and transfer him to the cage for safety.  He got used to being picked up and let loose so that he no longer shied away when they approached.  He seemed to enjoy his freedom, but did not mind being penned in either.

As fall approached, we felt we should let him loose.

"It really is unkind to Jacky to be penned in like this," we explained to the kids.  "He is a wild creature and he is healthy now so he can take care of himself.  He should really be free."

"But he's happy here.  Why do we have to let him go?" the girls wailed.

"If he's happy, then he'll stick around.  But he should be free to choose.  You wouldn't want to live in a cage would you?"

Reluctantly, they agreed.  They took him out of the cage and set him free on the lawn as they had done so many times before.  He hopped around, munching on the green grass, twitching his funny little nose and looking up at the girls expecting to get picked up at any minute, but we all retreated to the house, leaving him alone as we watched through the window.  Mitzy joined him and they chased each other around in the now-familiar games.  

We left the cage doors open but did not put Jacky inside for the night, allowing him the freedom to do as he wished.  Next morning, the girls ran out to see where Jacky was.

"He's in the cage!" the girls burst through the kitchen door excitedly.  "The door of the cage is wide open and Jacky's inside." 

The kids were thrilled that Jacky had decided to stay out of his own free will.  He continued to go into the open cage whenever he wanted and he never left the yard as we had expected, but continued to graze on the familiar grasses and clovers on the grounds, not venturing far on his own.

When Mitzy produced her fall litter of kittens, Jacky put up with them like a doting godfather and as the kittens grew, the animal shows on our yard became even more interesting and captivating.  In the evenings, we need only switch on the yardlight and we'd see Jacky and his cat family frolicking in the spotlight.  It was as if they delighted in providing us with a good show.

I worried about my garden sometimes, fearing that Jacky would find my luscious carrots and cabbages and feast on them.  But he either never found them at all, or if he did, he may have thought they were too old and tough.  Whatever the reason, my garden remained untouched by his sharp teeth.

As the winter set in, Jacky stayed within the yard limits.  His now healthy fur coat turned to white and his long legs carried him in good stead as he darted in and around the more than a hundred head of cattle that always spent their winters in the yard.  He was left on his own most of the time, but he seemed content to stay nearby and join the cats for regular romps under the yardlight.  It was as if that piece of light in an otherwise dark night was an invitation to get in that extra added bonus of playtime out of each day because we would see him feeding or just hopping around peacefully by himself in the evenings when the light was not on.  Obviously playing with the cats was no fun in the dark.

The kids still put out lettuce and carrots for him and he would feast on them at his leisure but we also saw him feeding on the grain that spilled beside the grainery so after that we always made sure there was oats under the shed where he could eat in peace. 

We were told that he would strip our beautiful trees of their bark, leaving them to die, but we watched and he never damaged a single tree preferring, obviously, the ready-to-eat food that was always put out for him, like the grain, chop, and the vegetables with which the girls still enticed him on a regular basis. 

Spring came and Jacky was still around, though we expected him to leave, perhaps start a family, or something.  He remained around the yard for the following summer, providing us with many hours of pleasure as we watched the games that he and the cats played.  He wouldn't let the kids catch and cuddle him anymore, but he obviously still just wanted to live with us. He seemed to be content to just be around the family whom he knew and trusted.

He never attacked my garden that next summer either.  Somehow, it just seemed as if it was beyond his range.  He feasted on the lush green clovers and other grasses and was often seen cavorting with the cats on the yard.  He adopted more of Mitzy's kittens and enjoyed the company of Tommy and Bimbo.  Maybe he just never realized he was a rabbit - certainly not a wild one - living with people and cats and dogs. 

Jacky was almost three years old when his familiarity with cats became his Waterloo.  He never feared cats.  To him, they were playmates.  He probably never even made an effort to use those long legs of his for a quick getaway, expecting the unfamiliar neighbour's tomcat to be just playing with him.  That morning, we found the unwelcome strange feline feasting on the remains of Jacky.  John immediately went for the gun and blasted that tomcat out of this world but that did not bring our Jacky back.

It was truly a time of mourning in our house for the next few weeks as we realized that our wild little pet would no more frolic under the yardlight and provide us with those free performances.  But we remembered fondly all the happy times we had shared because Jacky had become a part of our lives for a while.  

A Mutt Called Bimbo

A MUTT CALLED BIMBO

From the moment he entered our house as a fat, roly-poly black bundle of supercharged energy, Bimbo started carving out a niche for himself within our hearts that was as deep and as permanent as the Grande Canyon itself.  He was one happy puppy.  If he missed his mother those first few days when he came to live with us in late May, you could not tell.  That little black stub that looked like a long pointed morel perched on the end of his thick haired, somewhat elongated round body would have quickly worn out a metal hinge had that been its tether.  It just never stopped wagging for a single second.  With eyes sparkling like huge diamonds from under that black mass of curls, looking at you with unconditional love, you couldn't help but adore him.  Even serious, sensible, Baba (as grandma was known by all), who took over for me around the house and with the kids while I worked out in the fields with my husband, was not immune to his charm.  Bimbo wooed her as fervently as he did everyone else.

"We'll call him Bingo", I had suggested when we first brought him home.

"Bimbo", echoed three-year old Carol.  Her tongue and her ears had not quite become synchronized yet so "Bimbo" was her version of "Bingo".  And so "Bimbo" joined our family.  

If his name were to have been taken literally, it would have been the biggest misnomer known to modern man, for Bimbo was as true as the world is round.  His devotion was unfailing, especially to the kids, for whom he would have gladly given his life had the need arisen.  He was our guard dog, our babysitter, our entertainer, our protector, our pet, our cattle dog, and whatever other responsibility we bestowed upon him.  He gladly accepted everything and all for the price of a little love. 

That first summer, the girls stayed close to the house, with directives from Baba, who found it easier to lay down iron clad rules than to chase rambunctious kids with orders and instructions.  Jim, being bigger was allowed to roam around the big yard with Bimbo waddling along at his side and Baba keeping a watchful eye on them through the window.  The two were inseparable.

Summer turned to fall and fall into winter and Bimbo grew much faster than the kids.  He converted his baby fat into surplus energy and spent countless hours playing with the kids in the deep soft snow.  By next spring, the kids were still kids, but Bimbo was fully grown.  Even though he was still a kid at heart, he was given more and more responsibility.  He welcomed the opportunity to be useful, and upon completion of a task would look up at us with those big bright eyes just sparkling with pride at his accomplishment. 

When it came to immunizing and branding the cattle that spring, he assisted us with penning the cattle and herding them into the chutes, but he got very upset if the cattle bellowed when the brand or a needle was applied.  He would stand there pleading with that whine that revealed his empathetic distress!  He seemed to have a natural instinct for herding duties or maybe he was just a fast learner.  Whatever it was, he was quickly becoming an asset to the farming operations. 

He particularly enjoyed the cattle drives to or from the far pasture, these coming during the spring and fall of the year.  He sensed the importance of the job and he raced around in circles, yelping excitedly, anxious to get on with it.  While we organized the details, Bimbo's eyes, glistened with anticipation and impatient to get going already.  Getting a hundred head of cattle out of the yard and on to the road was a wonderful and exciting game for Bimbo as he ran barking after each stray that kept getting behind a shed or a barn or some granary.  Mounted on Little Mite, I helped round them up and then rode behind the herd all the way to the pasture with Bimbo racing behind to keep the stragglers moving.  John went on ahead with the truck and a load of hay as enticement.  The older cattle had done this before and were easy to herd, but boisterous yearlings and older calves sometimes presented problems. 

After the drive, Bimbo would happily hop into the truck, and sit there panting proudly all the way home as if he had just done this very important job all by himself.  I think he loved the sense of accomplishment.  He loved riding in the truck and sometimes could be a real nuisance if his feet were muddy and he jumped in before he was invited (and wiped clean).

Each spring we bought a hundred chicks to be raised for meat for the following winter.  While the chicks were small, they were kept in a temporary pen near the house.  Jim was fascinated by the wee chicks.  He learned to open the gate and enter the pen.  Once inside the pen, he would try to catch the chicks, which would scatter in all directions, often resulting in some of them escaping from the pen through the gate that he had left open.  This not only upset the chicks inside but would necessitate rounding up the chicks that had escaped from the pen.

Time and again, Baba had instructed Jim.  "Stay away from the chicks.  Don't go near the pen"!  

Time and again Jim ignored the warnings.

With John and me out in the field, it was Baba who stayed home to take care of the kids and all the minor chores around the house.  She was not a young woman.  Chasing after small chicks was not only arduous work for her, it was also time consuming.  And it was definitely a chore that was NOT in her job description.

One day when Jim had sent the chicks scurrying all over the yard, again, Baba decided to chastise him with a couple of well placed slaps to his behind to add some punch to her orders.  As she held him to deliver the discipline, Jim's shrieks sent Bimbo into a frenzy.  He raced around barking and found it ineffective to stop the punishment.  In desperation, he gave a warning growl and grabbed Baba's long skirt with his teeth, tugging her back, growling menacingly until, taken off guard and alarmed by this suddenly savage attack from the angry dog, Baba let Jim go.  She never again dared to discipline Jim or the girls if Bimbo was nearby, no matter how much they deserved it.  

Jim and Bimbo wandered freely about the yard.  We had trained Jim to always answer when we called him.  (Until Jim went to school, we always called him by his Ukrainian name “Evaso” meaning “Johnny”).  At hearing his name called, Jim's voice would always come back "Hah", and we'd know where to find him.  If Jim was too far to hear, or was too distracted, Bimbo always heard and would bark, his keen sense of hearing always a dependable way of tracking their whereabouts.

One late summer day, John and I had been busily working on the yard, cleaning out granaries and getting ready for the impending harvest.  It was evening and we were concentrating on finishing our task so we failed to notice that Jim, who had been playing nearby, was no longer in sight.

I called for him but there was no answering "Hah".  I called again, louder.  Still no answer.  Concern changed to alarm and then panic as I yelled for all I was worth, listening intently for Bimbo's bark if not Jim's answer.  Still nothing.  There was a creek nearby and my mind envisioned terrible possibilities.  John had joined me by now and we called loudly alternating between "Evasu" and "Bimbo" as we frantically searched beyond the large yard.  It was obvious they were not within its limits.

Then, we heard Bimbo's bark, coming from somewhere out in the middle of the field of tall wheat beyond the shelter belt.  Heading for that bark, my heart pounding with renewed hope, we met Bimbo, who was leaping high with each step to see beyond the tall wheat as he ran towards us. 

"Evaso!  Go find Evaso", I told Bimbo and he took off, back into that wheat with John and me in hot pursuit.  Almost a quarter of a mile we followed Bimbo through that tall wheat before we found Jim, sitting peacefully amid the rows of tall grain, quietly stacking a bunch of pebbles into some imaginary fort.  We would have never found him without Bimbo.

Jim was seven the year we had our first problem rooster.  We used to let our chickens roam free on the yard then.  This rooster was a real cocky fellow and he was irrevocably convinced that he ruled the roost.  Any trespassers across his territory were always dealt with severely.  That is, he'd pick a fight with anyone that he felt he had a good chance of beating.  Jim was a prime target for this territorial self-appointed dictator.  He was small enough to tackle and best of all, he couldn’t fight back.

That is, Jim didn't fight back.  If Bimbo wasn't around to save Jim, the rooster would fly at Jim's neck, scratching him with his claws, pummelling him with his wings and pecking at his head with his beak.  This would set Jim screaming at the top of his lungs, bringing Bimbo and me flying to his rescue.  I'd pick that rooster off; give him a few sound kicks that sent him flying while Bimbo raced around barking furiously at the nasty villain.  Again I would admonish Jim to stay out of that section of the yard, again Jim would promise, and again he would forget after a couple of days.

One evening I was busy milking Suzy, our Ayrshire milk cow, when I heard Jim's scream that told me that rooster was up to his old tricks again.  Jumping off the stool, I cleared that fence with one leap trying desperately to fly rather than run to reach Jim faster.  By the time I got there, Bimbo had already grabbed that rooster and was holding him by the neck while the vile bird flapped his wings helplessly in a vain attempt to get away.  I had had enough.  I took that rooster from Bimbo and carried him directly to the chopping block.  With one swing of the axe, our troubles were over and there was chicken soup for dinner the next day.

There was also Jessie, the cow that was a problem to Jim.  She wasn’t trying to be mean to Jim but Bimbo knew that her games were difficult for Jim to fend off so Bimbo sent Jessie into retreat many a time by his growl and sometimes even a nip at her heels.  Eventually Jessie learned that if Bimbo was around, it was just better not to tackle Jim at all.

Bimbo loved kids.  Actually, Bimbo loved people.  But more than anything, Bimbo loved kids.  They were worth any pain, any discomfort, any sacrifice.  There was one family that used to visit us who had four small boys, aged three to nine.  These boys were ruthless.  They were fast, furious and into everything at once, an unrelenting, merciless, demolition crew.  They played rough - not only with each other but with everything - toys, animals, people, anything they came across.  And they came across Bimbo, simple, loving, trusting, Bimbo, who was willing to endure anything for a sake of some attention from kids.  One of their favourite games was to grab Bimbo's tongue and drag him around the yard.  I used to doubt Bimbo's intellect when he let them get away with it, never once clamping his teeth into those callous and cruel hands that caused him such indignity and discomfort.

But I think that he found these kids easier to take than another family, with three kids who were afraid of dogs.  Poor Bimbo was beside himself because he could not approach these kids with whom he would have loved to play but who, for some unknown reason, were terrified of him.  He tried so hard to show them he was harmless and friendly, that all he wanted was to love them, but he could not break through their barrier of fear.  He was relegated to sitting at a distance, watching longingly and forlornly, while the kids all frolicked together on the yard.

Bimbo was a friend not only to the kids.  He also stood guard over our calves, our cats, our rabbits and other animals as well as us adults.  Mitzy, our mother cat, never had to sleep on cold winter ground.  She curled up on a nice warm shaggy black cushion with built-in heat as she napped during cold winter nights.  There was never any dog/cat animosity there.  They were fast and loyal friends. 

As Jim grew older, his interests changed and he turned to books for his entertainment.  Bimbo seemed to accept this transition naturally and turned to the girls for company.  He was older now and more mature with a lot more responsibility with farm chores and he watched over his charges dutifully.  He also especially liked the fact that there were now almost always a lot of other kids around, neighbours’ kids, friends of our kids who came to play at our place.  He revelled in their company and in their games.  And the kids in turn all adored him.  It was a natural mutual admiration society.

Bimbo did have one bad habit though.  No matter how much we scolded him for it, he seemed to derive some fiendish pleasure out of chasing the cars that sped along the road by the yard.  He would race along barking and nipping at the spinning tires until the car was way past the yard.  Then he'd come back panting, his ears perky, his eyes bright and sparkling with pleasure as if he had just run some great marathon and had won.  He knew he'd get scolded and he didn't care.  He had chased that car away and he was proud of it!  There never was a hint of remorse in those dancing eyes after those chases.  We just could not convince him this was a dangerous game he was playing.

One day this game almost cost him his life.  John and I had gone to town for something and the kids, now seven, eight and eleven, were alone at home.  As a car sped along the road, Bimbo gave chase.  But the people who were inside that vehicle were malicious and cruel.  As Bimbo got along side the speeding automobile, they yanked the door open.  The impact caught Bimbo off guard, hitting him in the head and knocking him out.  The kids heard their raucous laughter as the car sped away from the dog that lay in a lifeless heap along the road.  

We came home a few minutes later to find the three kids weeping heartbrokenly over Bimbo's limp body which they had brought into the yard on a crudely fashioned hammock.

"They killed him," Jim sobbed brokenly.  "They did it on purpose.  I saw them.  And then I heard them laughing!  They killed him on purpose and then they laughed about it, honest Mom, I heard them," he emphasized through heart wrenching sobs.  The girls couldn't even talk.  They were crying too hard. 

John knelt down and inspected the still body.

"He's not dead", he pronounced and three sets of tear filled, bloodshot eyes turned to him with a glimmer of hope. 

"He's not?" they asked in unison, in disbelief, their sobbing arrested, their faces begging for affirmation.

"No, he's knocked out, but I think he'll be alright.  Animals can be strong that way.  Give him time." 

Three kids knelt down, hugging the shaggy still form gently, lovingly, willing the body to life.  They didn't leave his side and about half an hour later, Bimbo stirred and slowly, dazedly got up.  The kids were ecstatic. 

Bimbo was pretty lethargic for a while but he got back to be his normal self in a few days but he never again chased cars after that experience.  He had learned his lesson the hard way. 

That blow on the head from that car did affect him though.  It set a pattern of convulsions for Bimbo that plagued him from that day on.  The episodes were not frequent, but once or twice a year after that, Bimbo would go into spasms where he would fall, his feet kicking convulsively, his mouth frothing and his eyes rolled back till only the white was visible under the still open lids.  These episodes would last for about five minutes subsiding gradually until Bimbo would get up groggily and then go slowly to his dog house to rest.  He'd be listless for a couple of days but he always became himself again.  Until the next time.  This always worried the kids.

The fits came more frequently with each passing year.  It was just before Easter and Bimbo was ten when he had a particularly bad seizure.  His lethargy did not go away.  Within a week after the episode, Bimbo had lost his sight, then his hearing.  He could feel our touch but did not know how to find us.  So the kids and I would come to him.  We'd stroke him, pat him, love him, and our tears ran down our cheeks in rivers.  He strained to maintain that touch, to hold on to the contact.  We missed meals.  We forgot about Easter preparations.  We waded into puddles to lead Bimbo out onto whatever dry patches of the yard were left from the spring thaw.

We spent three days outside with Bimbo.  We walked with him, we talked to him, we kept our arms around him.  We maintained constant contact with him.  And we cried, all of us, constantly, uncontrollably.  He was so pathetic.  He so wanted our presence.  That was all we could give him now for all the love he had given us over the years. 

Then on the morning of the fourth day, we got up and Bimbo was nowhere to be found.  We searched.  It was no use calling.  He couldn't hear us.  We never did find his body.  Somebody later told us that a loving animal never dies at home.  It always goes away to die.  Bimbo must have known he was going to die.  He went away.  He spared us that final awful sight - the sight of his dead body. 

But in our hearts, Bimbo still lives.  He is still happy.  His tail is still wagging, and those sparkling eyes are still shining with that mischievous glint that he got when he'd done something great!