The Hardest Decision

One of the hardest things we animal lovers do is have to make the decision to put a dear pet to sleep.
My dear pig-friend, Ivy Mae, has been diagnosed with a tumor in her sinuses.  My pig doctor, Dr. Arlen Wilbers, who is the top pot-bellied pig vet in the area and who, I might add, is the most compassionate veterinarian I have ever met, advised me a few months ago when I had called him out to look at Ivy, that we would know it was time to euthanize her when she stopped eating.
The tumor growing in Ivy's sinuses has forced her to breathe from her mouth for the last month or so, but I certainly didn't expect to see fresh blood oozing from one nostril yesterday.  I cringed when I saw it, and as she walked, the blood dribbled between her front feet onto the barn floor.  And last evening she refused her food.
This morning she refused her breakfast, too.  So, I called Dr. Arlen, discussed the possibility that it was "time," and set the appointment to put her to sleep for this afternoon.  Then I emailed my best friend, called my mother, explaining to both about Ivy.  And then I called the excavator to bury her.
After I hung up, I went out to the barn to be with Ivy Mae for one of the last times in her life of fourteen years.  I carted with me a box of butterscotch Krimpets--her last meal, if she would take it--and the second she heard me tearing the cellophane wrapper, she looked up.  Because she had not eaten her breakfast, I didn't have great hopes she would eat the cake.  But she surprised me.  The blood had stopped running from her nose, and she opened her mouth, a happy smile across her face.  I gave her the Krimpet.  She swallowed it in seconds and then begged for more.  She still had an appetite--at least for junk food.
Then and there I decided to give her at least the weekend to live--to be ecstatic eating butterscotch Krimpets.  She is not suffering; otherwise, I'd have allowed Dr. Arlen to still come out.  Instead, I cancelled the euthanasia and the burial: Ivy has a few more days to live while I lace her Krimpets with higher doses of steroid in the hope it will reduce the tumor's growth.  While I know that the tumor will prevail in the end, I want to extend Ivy Mae's precious life as long as I can.  She is not suffering; therefore, I will hold out.
Every day of a life lived is a day that should be cherished.  

My Friend Evie

Hurricane Sandy did a number on my house: the largest tree in my woods fell on it costing my insurance approximately $200,000 in damages.  I want to thank and recommend Erie Insurance for being so concerned about me and my place; they couldn't have been better to deal with nor more accommodating.
I also want to thank Stellar Construction and, in particular, Tony Stellar, for his and his crew's timely response, as well as Brian, the general contractor lining up all the sub-contractors and workers in a timely manner, from taking the tulip polar tree off the house and getting the second story re-framed, roofed, shingled, dry walled, and spackled.   Dave is upstairs right now putting on the second coat of spackle on the ceilings over three bedrooms, the bath, and the staircase.  Yep, the tree caved in my whole upper story.

As if the hurricane hadn't caused enough misery, my favorite cat, Evelyn--Evie--suddenly went missing.  Evie is my feline house companion and has kept me company on many a lonely night.  She also watches "Family Guy," "Wipeout," and "Impractical Jokers," an absolutely hysterical show on Tru TV, with me in bed nearly every night.

Two days ago I had last seen Evie looking at me, her eyes wide, from the living room.  Evie is a shy girl, and silly and not-so-silly things scare her.  She is like a lot of us humans: when we get upset, we often don't use our heads.  Seeing all these strangers in her house and hearing them hammering, yelling, and spraying insulation into the second story must've sent her off her little feline rocker.  Late that evening when I noticed her absence, I called through the house: no Evie.  Perhaps, I thought, she had run outside as the men were carrying in the dry wall.  I had had to close the doors several times after them, so the distinct possibility existed that she could have escaped to the outside.  I called outside, but she didn't come.  I still thought that she was hiding somewhere in the house, but if she was outside, I hoped she would find a half-decently warm place--perhaps the barn--to spend the night and come back in the morning.

The next day I checked all the rooms and closets in the house: she was nowhere inside.  So, I began my search outdoors.  I trekked through the woods, the nearby fields, down to the barn across the street, and down to the neighboring woods: no Evie.  During my search, I imagined all kinds of  horrific things happening to my favorite cat: coyotes got her, she struggled in a trap, she ran and became lost in the hundreds of acres of fields surrounding my woods.  The horrific images crawled through my head like a nasty ticker tape.  By the end of the day, I was exhausted, having checked everywhere imaginable, including the basement for the fourth time.  One thing I knew for sure: she wasn't in the house, and she wasn't in my woods.

My little friend Evie was gone.

Last night the space on the bed comforter where Evie belonged was eerily empty.  Tears dribbled down my face as I imagined life without my black long-haired buddy.  This morning I dressed and went downstairs, opening the front door to the deck where, when Evie tired of playing outdoors, she always stood ready to come inside.  No Evie.  I called, and a few other barn cats ran to the door, but Evie wasn't among them.

Later this morning while Dave the spackler was spreading his stuff on the dry wall, he overheard my telling my agent and publisher about losing my best friend: my cat was missing and feared dead.  When I got off the phone, he mentioned that yesterday the dry wallers said they saw a cat run into the access hole leading to the crawl space above the dining and living room.  They had meant to tell me but forgot.  I ran upstairs, pried open the hole, and Dave shown his light around the sea of white insulation which they had re-sprayed yesterday.

There, in a far corner, two black ears peeked out of the insulation.  They belonged to Evie!

Dave tried to hold me back from going right in there and trampling down the insulation to get to her.  He recommended I let the access door open in the hope that she would eventually come out.  But I knew she was scared, and while I had her in sight, I wanted to get her before she disappeared again.  But this time I listened to the advice--sort of.  I leaned into the attic space covered with the ocean of insulation and called softly to my feline friend.  After several minutes of coaxing and rattling a cat food can, she began to walk along the back edge of the attic space.  In another moment I had her in my arms.  I guess she wondered why I was hugging her so tightly.

Then I brought her downstairs, fed and watered her, and she walked calmly away, cottony insulation clinging to her shiny black fur.

I was so happy I didn't know what to do with myself.  For sure I thought she was dead, hung up in an awful animal trap or eaten by a pack of coyotes.  I had had my most precious Christmas gift delivered early, for sure.  And, then, as I got used to the idea of having my Evie back home safely with me, I thought about the horrible death she would have suffered had Dave the spackler not told me about the dry wallers' conversation yesterday.  She would have starved to death up there: cold, without water or food, locked and withering away in that crawl space--one long day after long day and one long night after long night.

Thank goodness Dave overheard my conversation with my agent and publisher.  Thank goodness Dave cared enough to tell me about my cat.

Thank goodness a Christmas angel was watching over Evie.

And me.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Beware the Brown Recluse

I have always loved all animals, from the most innocent kitten to even having a deep admiration for the Great White Shark.  And though I’ll never ever see a Tibetan snow leopard in my lifetime, I can appreciate its mystique, its ability to elude capture by the most avid, paparazzi wildlife experts.  Ever witness via TV, newspapers, or personal experience to the atrocities man and womankind have perpetrated against others of the Earth’s creatures, those not of homosapien origin, I reserve respect, tolerance, and, yes, love for these animals who prevail despite human annoyance.  Though admitting to killing a few mosquitoes and flies in my lifetime, I cannot exterminate a stinkbug, the alien-spaceship-looking insect that commits, with a Br-r-r-r-r-r, Br-r-r-r-r-r, Br-r-r-r-r-r, its kamikaze flight into my wall at night.  Indeed, I have held nothing against snakes, beetles, or spiders--until now.  I may need therapy: I am in deathly fear of a particular spider—one I have never met or ever care to—a brown recluse spider. 

            Never in a hundred years would I have ever thought I’d be intimindated by a member of the Arachnid family, having always laughed and mocked girlfriends and guy friends who cringed at sight of an innocuous bug. What fun I had making them feel silly that a human of 150-some pounds could fear an insect weighing a million times less than they did.  And to prove my fearlessness, I would pick up the daddy-long-legger in the palm of my hand, as my friend scream-ran into the next room, and place him outside in a safe place so that my cats wouldn’t find him.  I was protective of spiders whose ilk was bearing the burden of being a pox on nature.

            In the last week, however, I must break out of my web of affection for all things eight-legged.  I do now fear for my life a creature I have never seen or been bitten by.  It haunts my dreams, interrupts my farm work with possible visions of its clandestine workings in a barn corner, grinds my calm to a screeching halt whenever I walk into a common spider web while walking my woods.  This Arachnid, my experience with which has only been through an acquaintance, now holds my bravery towards all things insectile, hostage.  Visions of a recluse spider crawling stealthily from under my boxspring at night, its hairy jaws flapping and salivating, honing in on what surely to him must look like a tasty morsel--my rump—interrupt my sleep.  I lie awake like Poe’s paranoid narrator in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” listening, fearing the inevitable, ready to tear up the floorboards to finally expose, not my guilt, but a murderously-poisonous monster.

            My fear has no real base, I readily admit, but my life has been impacted by a bite to a worker who was scheduled to take down a dead, sixty-foot tree that would surely come down on my house in the next thunderstorm or blizzard.  The man dropped his “bucket truck” on my property two weekends ago in anticipation of beginning the tree removal the following Monday.  But that Monday Joe never showed, his truck, with a boom and a wood-chipper attached, loomed large and ominous in my front yard. 

            By Wednesday afternoon I phoned him to see what was the matter.  He told me the news in a dead-serious voice: he had been bitten by a brown recluse spider one night while he slept on his pillows.

            “A spider?!” I marveled, ready to laugh.  “You’re not taking down my tree because a spider bit you!” 

            Joe said, “I’m afraid so.  Listen, I am in agony—can hardly even walk!  A week ago I was bit.  I didn’t think much of it—sort of like a glorified mosquito bite.  I’ve been putting over-the-counter stuff on it for all this time, but it’s been getting worse and worse.   I ended up in the emergency room last night!  Right now I have a red, swollen welt on my shoulder, and it hurts like hell.  I have a fever, am a bit nauseous.  I’m sorry, but I just can’t come out there to cut down your tree.  I’m on antibiotics and some other shot a doctor gave me.  And I’m telling everyone I meet to google “brown recluse spider” because these bastards are out in force, only coming out at night when you’re sleeping.  Did you know their bite can kill you, especially if you’re old or are a kid and if you have a weakened immune system.  I’m a strapping guy, so it should go away with all these meds I’m taking, but others need to look out.  This is one nasty spider; it’s a predator, and it takes no survivors.”

            Joe’s voice shaked as he clarified the recluse’s portrait: fiddle shape behind the head, long, choppy jaws—“All the better for eating you, Honey”—long front legs spread out to the size of a silver dollar.  He continued, “They come inside during the fall and take up in cluttered corners of the house.  Their web is not nice and symmetrical, like some spiders’, but it looks more like a cobweb.  Even their web is nasty-looking!”

            I cringed, worried that one could be taking up residence under my bed.  Other than that, I had little clutter around my place.  Still, if a brown recluse wanted a piece of me, he’d be able to find a suitable hideout, I was sure.

            “Seriously,” Joe said, “I’ve never had so much pain in my life.  I’m telling everyone I meet to get insect killer and spray it all around the house—outside and inside.  This spider can kill people, especially if it bites close to the heart.  And I’m not the only one who’s been bitten by a brown recluse lately—seems everyone I meet has been bitten, especially lately.  They’re out in force!  I’m advising you to call an exterminator and have him treat your whole house for brown recluses.  Trust me: you don’t want to get bitten by one.  This is the worst pain I’ve felt in my life!”

            I commiserated with Joe for awhile, wished him luck in healing up his spider wound, and hung up the phone, glancing into every corner in the office in search of a cobwebby spider house.  I saw none, but it didn’t make me feel any safer.  The bedroom would need a careful inspection, too.

            For another week Joe’s tree-cutting truck sat, a continual specter, before my house.  Every morning I expected to see Joe drive up in his car, wave, and get out his chainsaw, but he never came.  So, after the week had passed, I called him again—to make sure he was still alive.

            A weak voice answered, “Hell-o-o-o.”

            “Joe, is that you?” I said.

            “Yes, it’s me.”

            “You sound awful.”

            “I am worse.  I went to the emergency room again last night, and they switched the antibiotics.  You should see the spider bite.  It’s raised up about a half inch, it’s black, like it’s dead tissue underneath, and there’s a huge red ring around it, too.  I feel just awful—am really sorry that I haven’t been able to get to your tree.  But I just can’t.  I can’t move my shoulder, let alone climb a tree and use a chainsaw.  This bite really has me worried.  If I’d have been old, I’d be dead from it by now.  Did you get your house sprayed for spiders yet?”

            “No, I didn’t.  Can’t afford it right now,” I said.

            “Well, you need to.  If you get bit, you’ll know what excruciating pain is like.  Those bastard spiders are pure evil.  I’ve been battling this thing now for three weeks, and it’s not getting any better.  I’m really scared!”

            “Joe, don’t worry about the tree.  Get to it after you get over this bite.  I googled the brown recluse, but it’s hard to tell it apart from others.  And my woods is just loaded with all kinds of spiders.  I’m sure I’ve got recluses, too.”

            “Well, I caught two of them in my bedroom,” Joe yelped.  “I killed the bastards, too.  I’ll bring one along when I get to your place.  Then you can watch out for them.”

            “Yeah, that would be helpful,”  I sighed uneasily.

            Another week has passed; Joe’s truck sits stolid, unmoving, in front of my woods.  I should call Joe to see how he’s getting along, but I can’t stand any more cautionary tales of the brown recluse.  I’ve already developed a morbid fear of the animal—a characteristic I would never have thought I’d own--and I haven’t even seen one or been threatened by any.  On any day I deal with animals twice and ten  times my own weight: my pot-bellied pigs and the horses.  I have no fear of them or sharks in the ocean or other insects, reptiles, and such.  But I must admit that every night finds me, like Poe’s tell-tale victim, with one eye open, on guard, looking, watching, one eagle-eye gaping in anticipation of a hungry, hairy hellion on eight legs. 

www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet

www.gayballiet.com

www.adventureswithanimals.blogspot.com

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www.twitter.com/GayLouiseBallie

www.goodreads.com/Glballiet

Hummingbird

David Stearman

I’ve always loved hummingbirds. There’s something mystical about them. Maybe it has to do with their diminutiveness, or their seemingly spiritual manner of movement, I don’t know, but I’ve always found them captivating. I feed them. I photograph them. I study them. As a result of all this, my new novel Hummingbird has just been released. The back-cover blurb goes like this:

“She feels like a misfit. Who is she? Where does she belong? Is she Lexa, Alexandra, or someone else?
Forced to commit a crime, she flees south of the Border–and a vindictive bounty hunter follows her.
Will she escape? Find redemption? Learn who she really is and where she belongs?
The answer lies hidden in a tiny seaside village where wandering hummingbirds rest their wings.”

Here’s the video trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTmiXISuKnE

Now you might ask, what does a book about a criminal-on-the-run doing on Gay’s blog? Here’s the answer: my protagonist Lexa’s life, and the little coastal town in which she lives, changes dramatically through her interaction with hummingbirds (not to mention the eighteen-foot shark she adopts and names “M.C. Hammerhead.”) In fact, Lexa’s life becomes entwined with them to the degree that the villagers begin calling her Colibrí, which is Spanish for you-know-what bird.

So if you like Hummingbirds, feel free to check this story out. It’s a sometimes sweet, sometimes scary, always uplifting read I think you’ll enjoy. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and iBooks etc. Here’s the Amazon link: http://www.amazon.com/Hummingbird-ebook/dp/B008QMSBW8

David Stearman

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Guest blogger: Pola Muzyka

Hi there, fiction suspense lovers. My name is Pola Muzyka and I've been writing on-the-edge novels for quite some time now. Two of these novels are set to release this year in four volumes. Find them at Amazon Kindle, Barnes & Noble and ebook stores throughout the world.

The release began with Abducted to Kill, Volume I, The Terror Regime. Purchase at Amazon: http://amzn.to/OAh1My or Barnes & Noble http://bit.ly/NY7HDq or other fine ebooks stores.

See what AssistNews press has to say about me and my work: http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm

Be on the lookout for three more books planned to release before fall falls. They are: Abducted to Kill, Volume II, Sleeper Cells; The Freedom Inside, Volume I, Delicate Cargo, and The Freedom Inside, Volume II, Sober Vigilance.
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Today, I write about strongholds, but my life wasn't always this intense--it was worst. As an actress, model, and producer I was on the edge most of the time, so naturally my writing follows suit--it keeps you moving forward. My books, Stronghold Smasher Suspense, where faith and hope shine a light on evil, unravel some of the basic laws of spiritual defence. Hope you'll delve into them and discover how others overcome evil and how you, too, can be prepared for the unnatural disasters of this world while you learn about the world that lies beyond.

Okay, now onto the good stuff: I'm going to share something with you that may surprise you--I was raised on a sheep farm. My mother loves animals and if she didn't marry Dad, she probably would have become a vet. She would take out grubs from rabbits chewing at our lettuce, nurse lambs rejected by their mother in the back of our coal stove, bandage wounded birds and keep them safe until they could fly again, take splinters out of the paws of dogs, cats, and sometimes us when we were small. She would walk down our country road with three or four sheep, cat, dog, and chickens following. Course we tagged along as well--there were four of us, and we were dubbed, the Muzyka animal parade. Mom lives alone now, but not without an animal or two tugging at her pant leg. She keeps fish in a bowl and large pond on the property, feeds the birds more than they need, and even has a horse or two trotting through the grounds every now and then.

Life on the farm may have ended for me but life living with animals never ended. Even today, as I write, a little squirrel or chipmonk comes up to my window and peeks in as if to say, "come and play today". Hmmm. He's not speaking to me, but to my cat. If he only knew. Tuxedo would love to play, too, but not as he expects.

Hope you animal lovers can find the time to get a copy of my books and the books of my friend, Gay, who is posting this blog. Thanks for reading my work. God bless all y'all--that's Georgian for all of you. Until next time, by from Pola, Tuxedo, squirrelly and chipmunk.--Pola Muzyka

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Pola Muzyka
Visit Writer's Notes by PolaOr visit POLA'S BLOG, Stronghold SmashersAbducted to KIill� The Freedom Inside
Stronghold Smasher Suspense--where faith and hope shine a light on evil.

My Cat and Corn on the Cob

My Cat And Corn On The Cob

I love corn on the cob.  I especially love it when my brother-in-law buys it, my mother-in-law shucks and silks it, and all that is left for me is a quick 4 minute boil.  Yes, only 4 minutes is needed to bring this wonderful creation of God to its perfect point of consumption.  In my opinion, corn on the cob is the perfect addition to most any meal.  Show up at my house around dinner time, and you run a fairly good chance of having this tasty treat.

While eating on the sofa one evening, our cat, Carson, found the smell of corn on the cob to be quite interesting.  He came up to my plate, sniffed, and decided to stick around for a few minutes.  This is unusual for a cat.  Most cats are not interested in any item for an extended period of time, so his interest in my corn intrigued me.  When I looked away for a moment, he actually tried to retrieve the corn from my plate!  I was shocked.  He has never shown interest in table food.  Being the loving mother I am (just ask me – I’ll tell you!), I gave him the cob.  Oh my goodness did he have fun.  He took it to the front door rug, flipped it in the air, rolled it on the rug, chewed its wonderful remains, and smiled.  Yes, he smiled.  He was so happy with a corn cob!  Who would have guessed?

I think we can learn from Carson and his corn cob fun.  He didn’t require a store bought cat toy.  He didn’t even require a fresh ear of corn.  He was quite content with the cob only.  I hope I am good at enjoying life as much as Carson is at enjoying corn cobs.  Life is full of wonderful opportunities to stop, smile, laugh, and show enthusiasm.  Think about that this week.  Find the good.  Find the happy.  Find the unexpected.  Toss something in the air and laugh.  It feels SO GOOD!  Come back next week and Listen To My Brain Rattle.

Carol Howell is from Rock Hill, South Carolina.  Her book, If My Body Is A Temple, Why Am I Eating Doughnuts?, is available on Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble Nook.  www.carolhowellbooks.com

Kitten Love

www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet

www.gayballiet.com

Life is a bit of a struggle these days as I run my gentle-lady’s farm by myself.  The grass keeps growing; the horses keep eating but can’t gorge down enough grass to begin to keep the pastures tidy.  I’m trying to be true to my truck patch engulfed in weeds, but writing, riding, mucking horse stalls, fixing fence, and dealing with other things that go wrong here on a daily basis is getting in the way of “putting up” my specialty garden produce such as salsa, spaghetti sauce, and sauerkraut.  But I’m trying as best I can and am adamant that all the summer work here won’t get the best of me.

            The other day as I was mowing around the horse pastures with the farm tractor,  I noticed something black amidst the sea of green.  What is that? I thought, shocked.  The mower continued to purr, slicing the stalks behind, and I stopped the tractor and squinted at the dark lump.  A black and white kitten, no larger than a Campbell soup can, lay there.    I jumped from the cab, leaned over the fence, and scooped the kitten into my arms.  He  looked up at me with pitiful, glassy eyes.  It’s backbone protruded.  I ran down the driveway, into the house, and set him on the kitchen counter, where he lay, looking drawn and disoriented.

            Always prepared for a kitten or wildlife emergency, I went to the freezer for the KMR (Kitten Milk Replacer), which had always come in handy for raising baby raccoons and abandoned kittens that people dumped at my door.  This kitten had been left just inside my horse pasture—in the hot sun.  Had I not noticed it, the poor soul would have died there overnight or been carried away by a night creature as a meal.  Thank goodness I had seen it.  In minutes the kitten was sucking frantically on the titty bottle I had had tucked away in the medicine cabinet.

            Afterwards, I wiped the kittie’s face, lay him on a blanket, readied a litter box, and walked back down the driveway to finish mowing.  And then I had a fleeting thought: There’s never one kitten in a litter.  Where’s the rest of them?  Dread washed over me: I couldn’t afford to add one more animal to my critter family until the divorce was settled.  What if more kittens needed my help?  How would I afford them?

            Before I got back into the tractor cab, I looked up and down the fence line on the inside of the split-rail fencing.  My guts sank: two more kittens curled together on a pile.  So, I ran them into the house, fed them, and lay them next to the other kitten. 

           

            As I continued with my mowing, I wondered who had planted those kittens in the pasture next to where I had been mowing.  Surely the culprit had seen me driving around, had noticed that as I drove I had to keep an eye on the fence-line so as not to hit it with my wheels or the finish mower behind.  Whoever the kitten dumper was knew that I’d be looking in that direction and would probably notice the black kitten-lumps amidst the green, like red rescue rafts amid the blue ocean. 

            And whoever left those kittens for me to raise had a decent heart—a soft spot for those babies, so vulnerable, so weak, so undeserving of death by drowning or being taken to a kill-shelter.  Whoever it was knew that I would sustain them and allow them life, even at my own expense.

            That afternoon as I was taking a break on my swing, a truck pulled into the driveway.  A man carrying a white plastic bucket stepped out.  He said, “I have something for you?”  I didn’t recognize him.  I stood up, went up to him, and he tilted the bucket for me to see inside: two more kittens.  I looked at the guy, cursed him—a total stranger.  After all, I wasn’t the local humane shelter, and now my kitten stash would add another five cats to my already burgeoning feline crew.  But I knew if I’d refuse them, he’d probably leave them somewhere to die an excruciating death.  So, I reached into the bucket and took them into the house.

            Over the past week, my five charges have thrived under my care.  In fact, two of the kittens found a good, loving indoor home, thanks to other good-hearted angel-people.  The other three remain with me and always will if I cannot find good homes for them. 

            No one—not any human or any creature—should suffer a life unloved or uncared for.  Existing without love is worse than having a leaky roof or little food.  No one should have to endure lovelessness.  I believe it is that concept that the owner of the kittens realized, and that realization prodded him or her to place them at my doorstep.  And my dear friend, Terri, who put out feelers to her relatives and to their friends realizes, too, that all creatures deserve love and a chance at life.  I am so grateful for having a wonderful friend like Terri in my life, one who cares and loves innocent creatures.  And I’m lucky to have met, through her, a whole team of good folks who came together to make good things happen for these kittens.

www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet

            Thank you, Terri and Steve, Brandy and Joe, and Christen and Ryan for caring about and carrying out this kitten adoption.  Your actions will not go unrewarded.  Those kittens will continue to entertain you and love you in return for many years.