Posted on by Mike Firesmith · 1 Comment

Aqaba Thomas: The Cat in the Pack

The last time I tried to Cat, both Sam, Sam, the Happy Hound, and Bertrand the Muttibeasti were living with me. Wakita, the cat in question, tried to jump from one counter to another in the kitchen and Sam came within an inch of catching the cat in midair. Sam was waiting, watching, and meant to kill the cat, even though we had discussed this sort of thing.

            Furious, I grabbed Sam by the collar, but Bert body blocked me off him. I put the cat out. I gathered the dogs and we had a long and intense discussion about cats, hierarchy, the source of food in the house, and even if there was no violence, I did mention it a few times.

That was back in 2006 or 2007. Wakita was killed in the woods by an unknown assailant, and I gave up ever having a cat live with me.

Couple of days ago, Aqaba jumped up on the bed, started head- butting Budlore under his chin. Aqaba doesn’t trust Bud one on one, but with me there, Aqaba thinks this is the time to make friends with the only dog in the house I do not trust with That Cat.

Bud growls. It’s a soft, low, nervous type growl, but I grab his right ear and hold it. Not tight, not squeezing the ear, but just to let you know Bud, I have your ear. The meanings are a duality of sorts, because Bud knows what I am saying, which would be: Threaten the cat, and this ear is going to hurt.

Bud’s body language, which is everything in canine speak, relaxes, just a bit. Bud doesn’t like the cat, but he isn’t willing to start a fight. I’m mildly surprised, but I also know something about this ear. With a thumb and two fingers, I can pet both ears at the same time, behind Bud’s head, and he likes this a lot. Aqaba is still headbutting Bud’s chin, but the ears.

Bud starts going limp, puts his chin on his paws, and Aqaba moves on.

There is peace, perhaps an enforced peace, but it is what it is. Bud is alone in his dislike for That Cat, and he is fully aware of this. He will get no backup from Jech. Wrex won’t help him on the best days. Bud doesn’t like the math of going against all I want all alone. He does like both ears petted.

I do not think I have ever worked this hard, this long, to convince a Hickory Head Pack things have to be a certain way. Of course, Bertrand was the original heart dog, the best dog of all best dogs, and Lucas came along towards the end of Bert’s reign. After they were gone, only Wrex really reached deep inside, and now he’s aging, too.

I do not think I have ever an a dog work as hard to fit into the pack the way Aqaba Thomas Firesmith has. It’s stunning the amount of effort he’s put into making friends with the dogs, and doing the things I’ve tried to get him to do. Like every dog I’ve pulled out of the woods or out of a ditch, or taken out of a bad home, Aqaba has an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Mauled and starving, I was his last best chance of merely staying alive for a few more days. Aqaba has made the most of the time he’s been given. More people should think about this.

I have a lot of respect for the way this cat has taken to his new home. He seems focused, driven almost, to make this his place in the world. I’ve done everything I can think of to help him. Lilith and Wrex joined in instantly, and even Jessica Elizabeth (Come here!) has joined the new pack.

Oh Dear Dog, the help I have been given by so many Cat People, and Dog knows I’ve needed it, too.

And thus, a new Hickory Head Pack is forged. That Cat in the Pack.

And thus, it continues.

Take Care,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith · 2 Comments

Aqaba! Aqaba! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!

It doesn’t appear to be much in the way of life changing, this photo of a small cat running into the woods in fear. But this was the first photo of Aqaba back on 25 July, 2023.

I wasn’t sure if he was feral or dumped, but I know the dangers here are legion; hawks, owls, venomous snakes, alligators, dogs, bobcats, raccoons, and coyotes, all of these are real and present dangers for a small cat.

One day this creature trotted up my mama’s wheelchair ramp like he was going to come in if I opened the door. I did open the door but he fled. I named him Aqaba. It’s a port city in Jordon on the Red Sea. Long story on why this name came to me, but it did.

Aqaba would eat dog food off the porch, and would let me watch him, but he wasn’t trustful at all. If I opened the door he would run, but he began to undertand me calling out, “Aqaba! Aqaba! Kitty, kitty, kitty!” meant the bowl was full.

I thought we had lost him during hurricane Idalia, but much to my surprise, Aqaba returned right after the storm. Attempts to trap him were futile. I would set a trap and he would disappear for a couple of days. But it was clear after the hurricane, Aqaba wasn’t doing as well. I was afraid something would happen, and sure enough, it did.

At five in the morning, on September the 18th, 2023, I heard Wrex, my resident hound and hunter, barking in the woods. I went to investigate and my heart sunk. Wrex Wyatt was standing at the base of a small tree, and Aqaba was about halfway up, hanging on for dear life. I called Wrex and he broke off, and followed me inside, instantly.

My worst fears were realized. Aqaba had two wounds, one other either side of his neck, and was bleeding. He was eating, drinking and still running from me, but the clock began to tick. A small mammal with a neck wound was going to die quickly in the woods. I had to get Aqaba into a trap, and inside a vet’s office, and quickly. I bought another trap that day and set it the next morning. I had to go to work, but was willing to wait until I could catch him. An hour after I set the trap, I went outside to check it. The gate was closed. What was inside? It might be a raccoon, or an Opossum, or maybe a stray dog.

Or Aqaba. A wounded, and unhappy, and pissed off cat.

I bundled the trap up, not knowing if this cat had rabies or some other disease. This is where it began to get hard. He had been through so much, and now, finally, I could get him to a vet. I took Aqaba to Valdosta Animal Hospital in Valdosta. They would run tests on him to see if he had Feline Leukemia, Rabies, or something else that would doom him. If they could save him, I wanted him fixed, vaccinated, wormed, and basically anything that they could so, they would do, to save Aqaba.

I went to work and waited. A stray would likely have half a dozen diseases. I thought Aqaba was female at first so I worried about pregnacy. But at the end of the day, I just wanted Aqaba to be alive, and we would work on getting him healthy. Two hours later, a call from Valdosta Animal Hospital came in. It seemed too quickly for it to be good news, and my heart sank. But all the news was good. The neck wounds would not kill him or impair him. No diseases lurked inside this cat. Aqaba was clipped and ready to be shipped. I could take Aqaba home, and hopefully, find someone to adopt him soon.

I set him up a tiny box in the bathroom, and introduced him to mama. Aqaba had been a pet at some stage of his life, and mama is good with cats. Clearly.

This was a cat in search of a family. Aqaba Thomas, as he was named, was looking for love.

The injuries looked bad, but were healing.

Whatever happened to Aqaba, it had been a close call.

The search was on for a new home. Aqaba clearly could not stay here. Wrex Wyatt, resident hunter, had nearly killed Aqaba once. I could not allow it to happen again.

So Aqaba hired a defense attorney to defend Wrex. Okay, what actually happened was a friend of mine of social media, who actually was a defense attorney, was carefully watching the story of Aqaba and what happened to him. She asked me a simple question, “Did you see Wrex attack Aqaba?” and the answer was no. We talked about the evidence. Wrex didn’t have a scratch on him, and Aqaba had cleary fought his way out of the jaws of death. Wrex had left the scene of the crime easily, not like a dog with treed prey. And finally, I measured the canine teeth marks. The scars on Aqaba’s neck were just shy of an inch and a quarter apart. Wrex’s canine were over an inch and a half.

Wrex Wyatt was innocent.

Moreover, Aqaba was throwing a full court press into diplomacy.

Aqaba made friends with The Queen, Lilith Anne. This wasn’t amazing because Lilith loves everyone.

And finally, we achieved integration.

Honestly, it’s hard not to love this cat. Aqaba Thomas is fearless and daring, and wants to be part of this pack, to be a member of the family. After all, I rescued him. Why shouldn’t he be?

Mom bought Aqaba a tree. He approves.

A couple of days after we got Aqaba inside, this random raccoon walked around the backyard. Was this what nearly killed Aqaba?

We may never know where Aqaba Thomas came from, what happened on that early morning in September, or anything more than we know right now. There’s still no photos of Budlore Amadeus with Aqaba, snuggling and being pals. There may never be.

We also know something else. It’s been over twenty years since I adopted a cat. The time, effort, and energy to make this work since September has been significant. However, Aqaba Thomas is happy. He loves me. I love him. Those things we do know.

Aqaba Thomas Firesmith is home. This is where he is, this is where he will stay, the Hickory Head Pack now includes a cat.

Before I close this out, this happy ending to an odd journey, I would like to mention all four of my dogs were adopted from USA Rescue Team, based in Valdosta Georgia. Aqaba Thomas didn’t go through them like everyone else, but at the same time, that group of hardworking people have contributed so much happiness to my life, at this point time, I would like to ask you to donate to the rescue. Any amount will do. Tell them Aqaba sent you.

https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/usarescueteam

https://www.facebook.com/people/United-Saving-Animals-Rescue-Team/61550620899547

Thank you,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith

Dawn in October

Budlore Amadeus wanted to walk in the woods this morning, with just enough light to see, and because the weather is cool, I’m ready. Bud runs ahead, dips into the bushes like a bird diving for a fish, and then back on the trail again. I haven’t dragged the hurricane debris out, and perhaps won’t. What falls on the ground becomes part of the ground, having once been a part of the sky. Some trees shed big limbs, and others dropped smaller offerings.

The storm killed three trees. Two red maples broke, one in half and the other with a twisted break, and one water oak broke in half. They will return to the earth where they landed.

We walk around the area, still flooded from all the rain that’s fallen in the last two months, and Bud spooks a rabbit into fleeing. I see the white flash of the tail; Bud leaps after the bunny and then stops. It’s a sign of aging, for a much younger Bud would have pursued this prey. Bud’s muzzle is greying, his run not as swift, and his will to hunt diminished. Of all injustices on earth, losing Lucas before he had a chance to age, to grow old with me, to be the dog I would retire with, is a sharp one. Lucas and Lilith should have had the chance to be together for many years instead of just five.

The sun rises above the horizon now, and the light is clear, the shadows retreating. Bud snuffles a bush, then looks up at me, wondering which direction I will take. Like so many dogs before him, Budlore wants not to be in the woods but wants to be in the woods with me. I walk the edge of the flooded firepit and see ripples as frogs flee. Bud ignores the water, and I remember dogs who would have gone in no matter the temperature.

We return, the sun clear in the sky, its track more and more southernly as Solstice draws nearer, and Bud races to the house as if I might give chase.

Ever it may bring, I have the dogs that I have, and those I have lost are gone. These too, will go, and others will arrive in due time. Then one day, I will leave, just as all the dogs have, and someone else will walk the trail in the woods with dogs, looking at the sun and seeing seasons and light change.

Take Care,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith

Lilith Anne’s Mosquito Patrol

Lilith Anne makes the slow journey out, plodding along like a death row inmate heading for certain execution, but the trip is essential. It’s ten in the morning when Lilith has her daily bowel movement. I prefer she has it outside.

            It’s optimum she does this away from the house, and if I do not walk along with Lilith, she will deposit her goods close to the deck. We walk down to the old dog kennel, where a bucket of fresh water awaits. I  return to the house, and Lilith drinks deeply and then off to the weeds to leave her pile.

            Lilith likes to lay in the sun on the deck, and I noticed a few days ago, when she returned from the weeds, a swarm of mosquitoes followed. Regardless of what might be said, mosquitoes aren’t excellent fliers and fly poorly in direct sunlight. It’s their hope to withdraw some blood and return to the humidity and shade from whence they came. Lilith is old and slow, therefore, an easy and lumbering target.

            The leaf blower sat nearby, and an idea formed.

            Using the power button judiciously, the air coming out was strong enough to blow the mosquitoes back but not intrusive to Lilith’s slumber. Of course, they would return undeterred, but I kept them at bay. Then one or two flew too high, and I was able to blast them, and a strategy formed. I used the nozzle to form a barrier around Lilith, and if any of her tormentors managed to go too high up or too far out, I blasted them with a burst of accelerated air. Lilith dozed unconcerned.

            After a few minutes of this aerial combat, the mosquitoes were thinning out. I watched as none returned to the arena, and Lilith slept comfortably under the sun.

Take Care,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith

Fencing, After the Rain

Rain, more rain, then it rained. Yesterday was nonstop waterworks, and that meant the fence might be down. The hotwire around the perimeter definitely. Dawn arrived late, cold, wet, raw, and the wind drove all warmth away from bare skin. The dogs went out with me, but only Budlore Amadeus remained. Bud has a sense of mission, the idea if I am out in the woods working someone ought to be with me, and that someone has to be him.

Bud and I walk the perimeter first. I look for one of the giant trees to fall one day, or shed a large limb, and that’s going to be a job that takes an entire day, or many. Those huge limbs from older Oaks weigh tons, not pounds, and Live Oak wood is dense and knotty. I hope nothing like this has happened, but if I live long enough I know it will.

The perimeter walk shows only one small tree has fallen on the fence, but I’ll need to lift it from the base to move it. It puts up a fight, wedges itself between a larger tree and the fence, so I have to wiggle it up, work the end of it away from the bind. Bud doesn’t like me being on the other side of the fence, and he watches with his ears up, his body tense, and a look of concern in his eyes. Bud is a simple creature; if it is different it is wrong in some way. This is an animal that has some sort of working breed in his DNA. Bud is a guard dog, a protector, and the only way for anyone to be safe is for everything to be exactly the same all the time. The tree gets freed and I go back over the fence, and Bud is happy. But the hot wire is as cold as the wind.

The pack I have now is the most secure that’s ever lived here. Bud is not going to leave the yard. He’s been out there and he didn’t like it. He certainly isn’t going to leave Mom, ever, for very long. This might be the only real home Bud has ever known. His job is here. Mom is here, and Mom is Bud’s real mission. Jessica Elizabeth won’t leave Bud. She is his shadow and isn’t looking to escape. Wrex Wyatt has bolted out of the front door two or three times, but he never goes far. Lilith Anne can’t walk away from home, much less run. Lilith is not long for this earth, and it will be sad when she goes. Lilith is the last member of the First Pack alive. Her passing will mark the end of an era in my life.

Of course, minor branches, small limbs, and downed Spanish Moss litters the fence. That’s normal. None of this is enough to ground out the hot wire, but I’ve done this so many times before, so I know there’s got to be something. Finally, a limb that has pinned the wire to the fence is discovered. Small, and not a problem, yet it’s grounded out the wire. I remove it and put the tester to the wire. Four lights blink on and off, the pulsating power of the fence charger now energizing the tester.

Bud thinks we ought to walk the perimeter again, just to make sure, so we do. Bud zooms ahead, stops to mark his territory, sniffs the fallen limbs, marks them, and if I had ten acres he might die of dehydration. I find small stuff on the fence, noting serious, and pull a vine out that was creeping up the fence. But overall, it wasn’t as bad as I feared.

I’m cold. Bud is cold, and the wind picks up. We’ll have to do this again tomorrow morning, I’m sure, but for the moment, both Bud and I are heading inside to warm ourselves. The fence is up, the electricity is coursing through the wire, and Budlore Amadeus has once again kept me safe from anything evil. We stop on the deck and I scrub his back, pet his ears, and tell him what a good dog he is. Bud wiggles with excitement, happy that he got to go out and work with me, and happy to return to the rest of the pack, and the warmth of home.

Take Care,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith

The Light of Fog

Jessica Elizabeth heads into mom’s room after breakfast but Budlore Amadeus wants to go out. An odd species of weather sits over Hickory Head, directly above the stars blaze, but water droplets like rain fall from the branches of the trees, and when I turn the flashlight on the beam of light is home for thousands, maybe even millions, of tiny specks of floating water. Bud has disappeared into the wet darkness, and where he had gone, and why is wants to go there, will never be known.

The Big Dipper high in the sky, is clearly visible, but the fog hides the woods, the world quiet except for the sound of water dripping from the trees, and for thousands of years, maybe even millions of years, before humans, this sound was one of the loudest any animal might hear, other than thunderstorms.

This water, these water molecules, hydrogen and oxygen, do these individual molecules last millions of years? Could they have seen the dawning of dinosaurs, the extinction of those dominant beasts, and now watch as humans destroy themselves? Is water eternal? Are the tiny droplets I inhale in the darkness those same particles who have passed through the lungs of a T-Tex? Did a Stegosaurus, whose species died off into extinction long before the T-Rex arrived, breathe this same fog?

Budlore makes no sounds in the woods that can be heard, but he’s been out there for half an hour now, and light begins to seep into the edges of the woods, and the sky is becoming more defined. My clothes feel cooler, heavier, as they absorb the moisture in the air, that which is dry becomes wetter, that which is wet becomes drier, that which is darkness becomes lighter, that which is light becomes darker, somewhere, someone watches the sunset right now.

I hear Budlore now, running at speed, he realizes I’m on the deck, and he leaps onto the wooden boards and heads for the door. Whatever it was is no longer holds his interest, and Bud returns home again. He rubs noses with me, a greeting as older than language, touching faces, exchanging breath and moistures, and then he heads for a morning nap.

My compulsion is just as you see, to write, to put into symbols this dawn, that dogs, the water, the trees, and light of the stars, from which we are all made.

Take Care,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith

The Blindness of Sight.

The rain began in the deepest part of the morning, somewhere after midnight, and the metal of the roof announced the storm’s arrival. The wind might knock the power out, but it’s cool enough to keep things in the freezer and refrigerator from going bad for many hours, yet warm enough for the heat not to be on. At any rate, the blankets protect me from all things that are not nightmares, and the dogs snore softly.

There’s little lightning, a rumble of thunder in the distance that holds no threat, and I listen to the rain, wind swept rhythm, and hope the compost pile gets a good soaking. It’s another week yet until Solstice, and the heat of the sun will not return until March. Two cold and dark months left before I can start thinking about planting again.

            Drifting between sleep and rain, dreams almost appear, nearly form, but do not. Some of the dream is of drowning, but detached, not terrifying, and in this is the realization not being afraid of drowning creates a bypass for survival instinct, but these thoughts are misty and they, too, drift.

            Wrex Wyatt dreams. His legs jerk, and there are yips from deep within, so I reach out and place a hand on him, say his name, and the sleep returns to us both, unbothered by visions or memories. The rain pounds the roof and sleep comes and goes as if blown by the storm. It’s one or two, maybe three in the morning, no, not yet two, for time doesn’t exist in true darkness.

Primal and wet, the lack of light is the bottom of the ocean, where nothing is ever seen, but felt, and smelled and the sensation of the world around the skin is everything that light is two miles above the trench. What if your skin, the entirety of it as an organ, naked, and floating, was your sight, and could clearly discern a world that existed above, below, and all around you, all the time? Changes in temperature, pressure, heat, cold, the feel of chemicals released by others of your kind, the pheromones of those you were interested in, and who were interested in you, the smell of prey or predators, the feel of electricity in all things, the sensation of the life leaving an old one, their life finished, their body drifting to the very bottom to decay or be eaten, or to be buried by the currents, all of this, every moment, a full body experience.

            Sight is so limited.

            Yet even now, when the realization of this comes, I see a patch of sky that is less dark than before. The rain continues, lighter now, and the wind has stopped. The world is returning to light, slowly, easing into it as if she is loath to begin a day so limited by so little sight.

Take Care,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith

In the Woods with Dogs.

Budlore Amadeus, the Dog of the Amadai, wanted to go out after breakfast. It’s not that he wanted to, or needed to, go out, no not at all, he wanted me to go with him. It was wet, foggy, and damp outside, and going out into the woods with Bud meant my shoes would be wet, and I might pick up a tick or two. But when a dog wants to go into the woods with you, there’s an unspoken agreement that going out into the woods is the best thing ever, so out we go. 

I called Wrex Wyatt to go with us, and he hesitated, and once outside, he quickly doubled back and waited on the porch for us to return. Wrex is aging, and this is the first time I’ve noticed he didn’t join us. 

Both Jessica Elizabeth and Bud hit the trails at speed, and disappear. They’ll wend their way back and forth, closer then further away, no scent unsmelled, no trace of an interloper left uninvestigated, and in Bud’s case, no tree left dry. But Budlore comes in, staying just ahead of me on the trail, tail up, nose to the ground, and he steps over a small rat snake, as do I. There’s no reason to get excited, and the snake freezes, allowing us to go our way, as he will, too. 

Spiders have cast webs, trapping tiny drops of water, magnolia leaves have ponds on them, and the whole world seems soaked with dampness. High above, there’s some clearing, but close to the ground the air is a semiliquid that delays the dawn, and mixes shadows with darkness and gray. 

The overstory of the giant oaks acts as an umbrella, blocks direct rain, but leaking fog through. It’s a surreal and magical feeling, to be embraced within the atmosphere of such ancient and powerful creatures, who stand without effort or strain, reaching towards the nearest star, and the center of the earth, for every moment of their lives. 

I stop to take a photo of the trees, but the light isn’t right. Budlore comes in at speed, as fast as he can run, and I know to stand still, and he will pass. Bud zooms by, barely grazing me, his body a rocket with four legs. He makes the circuit before I can go fifty feet, and comes back again, this time to check in, to show me how happy and excited he is, too. Jessica, on the other paw, is somewhere in the woods, likely digging, but she’s getting to be more solitary now. Jess may, or she may not, follow us in, or she may decide to stay in the woods, and do whatever it is that Jessica does when no one else is with her. She’s becoming an adult, forming into who she wants to be, more and more each day. She likes the solitude of the woods, off the path, alone with the scents that draw her attention. I feel this, and understand it, too. 

Lilith Anne doesn’t go with us anymore. At ten years old, she’s no longer interested in leaf collecting, or whatever creatures are passing through the woods. She slowly chases spots of sunlight, finding a nice place to nap and be warm. This morning is not her type of day, and so the bed will have to suffice. 

Half the pack is inside, not motivated to go out. I’ve seen this before, many times, where a puppy is suddenly gimpy, ten years after arriving here. The very young become more independent, the old dogs become increasingly slow, and the cycle repeats with each new dog.

But Jess comes with us, following Bud, and as we head inside, I wonder why I never grow tired of walking in the same woods every day, sometimes more than once. The dogs never tire of it either, Bud running like he’s chasing the wind, and Jessica investigating the earth Herself. Light or dark, wet or dry, cold or hot, the woods are always the same, and never the woods they were an hour ago. Every space within gives life, feeds life, is everything there is in life, and that is why I am drawn to the trees and the undergrowth, the mushrooms and the snakes. Here in the woods is where we were always supposed to be, even if we never learn it as a whole, there are those of us who will always call this home. 

Take Care,

Mike

Posted on by Mike Firesmith · 2 Comments

The Lonely Grave of The Stri-ped One.

Many years ago, so many years ago now I have friends who do not remember the year for they are too young, and I cannot recall it because I am too old, there was a young man I knew who killed himself. He was an anxious man, full of restlessness and sadness, yet he was loved. He died alone, by hanging, and no one will ever truly know what his mind was doing right before he died. 

Tyger Linn was on Death Row, on the 5thof December, of 2014. A brindle pit stray, she clashed with another dog at the shelter and that was supposed to be enough for policy to have her put down. The call went out, and it does so often, still, and a saw a photo of a scared little girl dog, who had run out of time and run out of chances. 

I was once a very young man, and restless, and I was filled with anxiety. In High School, I mostly ate alone, and I drank alone, and I drank a lot. There was a brindle girl pit who would come to visit the school, and I would feed her my lunch, and she loved me. I can’t tell you her real name but I called her “Tiger” and I can’t remember the last time I saw Tiger. I can only tell you so many years ago, that love is still remembered. That’s why I took a chance on the dog I would name, “Tyger Linn”. 

On her second day with me, Tyger Linn clashed with my aging Greyhound/Lab, Sam. I pulled Tyger away and she turned and bit me on the hand and she meant it, too. The wound was deep and it was bloody. At that point, Tyger was still a foster dog. If I told the organization who owned her what had happened they would have had her euthanized on entry of the shelter. Tyger hadn’t had her rabies shots yet, so for about two weeks, I waited to start foaming at the mouth. Meanwhile, I had to tell the people I trusted, on the inside of the organization, what had happened. The choices were to adopt Tyger Linn, or to let her die. In January of 2015, Tyger Linn became my dog, legally.

This story never looked as if it might have a happy ending for Tyger Linn. She never made friends with the other dogs. She clashed with Lilith Anne, the Queen, and she fought with Tanya, the Destroyer. She and Lilith Anne got out and stayed gone for four days, and I thought I had lost them both. Lilith looked no worse for wear but Tyger was badly scratched up. 

Tyger clashed hard with Arco the Barko, last year. Arco was a lean white pit who was dumped twice in one day. Tyger went after Arco on his last day here and he hurt her badly. Tyger was a lot better at starting fights than winning them. 

Nothing she ever did, ever, stopped me from loving Tyger Linn. She was sweet and loved me back, fiercely, and she slept beside my head, to the right of me, every night. Tyger was a one person dog, and she was a one person heart. I thought we were making real progress, because she had settled down after the clash with Arco. 

Back a month or so ago, Tyger got stuck under the shed at five in the morning. She went after an armadillo and could hear her gnawing on its shell. I crawled under the shed to get her, and all I could see was her tail and the tips of her back feet. I had to crawl under without a flashlight and use both hands to drag Tyger Linn out. She was stuck, and I was worried about dislocating one of her legs. She made a really strange squealing noise as I pulled and when she let go of the armadillo she also peed on me. I was truly worried she might come out fighting, but she was too exhausted. I started calling her, “The Brindle Badger”

Two weeks ago, yesterday, I came home and Tyger was missing. I thought she might be under the shed so I went to get a good flashlight out of my truck. Her body was beside the driveway. She was just a few feet from where I parked but I didn’t see her when I drove up. Tyger had gotten out and gone after something; a coyote, a big cat, a wild pig, or maybe even the gimpy stray pit I’ve seen around lately. Tyger Linn had lost her last fight. 

I can’t say I was surprised. I was, and I am, heartbroken. Of all the dogs, Tyger was the hardest to deal with, the most difficult to train, and the one who loved me with everything she owned. Heart and soul, Tyger was mine, and I belonged to Tyger Linn. 

Where Lucas and Bert are buried, the hallowed ground where the great souls rest, is underwater right now. Tyger Linn was buried under an old tree that had fallen over, and she liked to climb it. I made a cairn out of branches to keep the other dogs from digging the grave up. Today I sat on the tree and promised my heart to another dog, yet unknown, maybe not born and perhaps born today. I’ll never stop trying to save the doomed, the broken, the abandoned, the death row dogs, and maybe, one day, I won’t fail as badly as I failed Tyger Linn. 

Take Care,

Mike

The Tyger 

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand, dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, & what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 

And when thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain, 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil? what dread grasp, 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water’d heaven with their tears: 

Did he smile his work to see? 

Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night: 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Posted on by Mike Firesmith

The Night of Barking.

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For all the drama it creates, you’d think I have about a thousand acres in back of my house. The reality it that is a rather small plot, just over an acre, but it generates doggy drama like it’s the size of a small New England state. Early this morning, about five or so, the dogs were restless so I just opened the backdoor and released them into the wild. There’s a fence with two hot wires on it and none of the current dogs, no pun intended, seem inclined to test it.

I hear the doggie door swinging and Bud returns. Then Arco follows him, and then Wrex. I put Arco in the crate, and suddenly, I hear Lilith hammering away in the woods. Everyone heads for the door, and I go back to bed.

 

By now, the Coyotes have to realize that the Cousins are gone. Those two packed over one hundred pounds apiece and that’s a serious amount of dog. Size matters when it comes to dog fights. But Lilith is still a low slung powerful sixty-five pound Pibble with an even bigger heart. She’s backed by Tyger Linn, fifty more pounds of muscle. I doubt either of the boy mean a lot to the Coyotes; neither of them are pushing forty pounds, but there are two of them, which means at any given time you have to tangle with four dogs. Raiding over the hotwire means dodging it twice. The math is wrong for this to be Coyotes. The return isn’t worth the risk, unless they’re trying to make a statement to the naked ape who owns guns. Again, risk versus return tells me it isn’t Coyotes.

 

Arco isn’t interested at all. I tell him to lie down and he does, inside the crate, and he doesn’t lift his head or voice again. He’s about got this thing figured out, where he gets to sleep inside, and he gets petted, and there is breakfast as soon as I get up. Hunger is a terrible thing, but it lends me a great tool for training purposes, even if I am trying my very best to eliminate it. Arco would learn to deal Blackjack and light cigars if he thought he’s get fed for it. Being silent in the crate seems a very simple thing to him. Whatever is out there, it does not give him breakfast. He is not interested.

 

Lilith Anne and Tyger Linn, in point of fact, are interested. I hear them both hammering away and whatever it is has to be inside the fence and likely up in a tree. Budlore Amadeus returns and Wrex Wyatt eventually follows, but they can’t seem to stick. One again, they hurry back to the sound of Lilith’s barking.

 

I drift in and out of sleep, mostly out, listening to Lilith’s voice and wondering what she’s found. Armadillo, likely, in one of the abandoned Cousin Caverns, perhaps, or maybe there were deer just in the other side of the fence. Either way, Lilith is lending her voice to the early morning stillness and everyone who is listening, and there are many listening, know her. Sixty-five pounds in this part of the world means she’s carrying more mass than most things that hunt for a living, and they do realize that Lilith is hunting. This may have a lot to do with this display. I’m not sure.

 

Ever else can be said about him, Arco Fenney isn’t interested in leaving the house to go bark at the dark. The other dogs can come, go, bark, not bark, but he’s good, thanks, and he’s content to sit this one out, whatever this one turns out to be. He likes to stick close to me when we’re out walking, but not to the point of being a Velcro dog. He’s happy in the kennel in the corner of the room when I’m writing. Arco is all about let’s see how long this regular meals thing is going to last here before we start asserting ourselves.

 

The first few days Arco stayed in a constant state of motion, trying to sniff everything, trying to figure out where he was and what was happening to him. It was difficult to get a photo of him because he was never still. But now Arco is beginning to get his feet under him. He knows the other dogs are not going to attack him. He knows I am not going to hurt him. He knows there will be food every day, and this is a concept he enjoys. Arco will put his paws on my shoulders while I am sitting on the back steps and allow me to pet him. Allow me? He’s getting pushy about it, actually.

 

This is the second dog since March I have taken in because they were dumped at the Humane Society building. We’re teaching people bad habits by this. But Budlore Amadeus lies on my bed asleep next to Tyger Linn. Bud was strung up by the collar to the building and left to whatever fate might bring. Now Arco. Another lost soul. Another abandoned dog. Another set of eyes looking at me through the grates of the kennel, wondering if there will be more heartache and more loss.

 

I make promises. I made promises to Bud, and I make promises to Arco. I make promises to myself, about how much I’ll invest in each dog’s heart. I make promises that I won’t take in another damaged dog, I won’t pick up a hard one, I won’t take in a dog that’s been wounded in some way. But that’s all there is. That’s all of them. That’s each of them. And in some way, that’s us, too. We’re all part of the society that shifts and bends things so dogs are left to die, or left without food, without water, without decent care, because we do that to our own, too.

 

 

I can hear the sound of Arco snoring gently from across the room. It’s the deep sleep of a dog who believes, despite all the evidence, that there is a human who will take care of him.

 

I promised him I would.

 

Take Care of them,

MikeIMG_3191