So Long, Sweet Albert

Albert found the food scoop

Albert and Timora, his surviving wife

Bundled up in a towel

Bath time

In the end, it was not a predator that claimed the life of brave Albert. It was an unresolved encapsulated abscess. Our little rooster, he who fought off skunk, hawk, snake, dog, cat, other roosters and human alike to safeguard his mate, his food, his domain, succumbed to mortality in a sadder and more mundane fashion than I would have anticipated.

I would have thought he would go out of this world in a blaze of glory, all blood and feathers and fury. I expected him to die as he lived, all out of proportion to his size. But, it was not to be.

Over a month ago, Albert sustained an injury, probably a puncture wound of some sort, in his right thigh. It became infected. Eventually, we noticed him limping. Examination revealed a hard hot mass in his thigh, one that quickly rendered him unable to walk. I called around to find an avian veterinarian at 1830 at night. After a succession of 'no's', I got a yes, at, surprisingly, Banfield's at PetSmart. $120.00 later, I had an injected chicken, take home meds, and a probable diagnosis.

When avian pus gets old within a nondraining wound, it becomes hard and dry, or caseous. It is difficult for the bird to reabsorb this nonperfused junk. It lingers for weeks. Sometimes, the whole mass of stuff is removed surgically. If I were braver or more experienced, I might have tried this approach. If I were richer, I might have asked a vet to it. But, I am neither.

I gave the first round of antibiotics and pain medication, then a couple weeks later, another round. I used the massage, tissue mobilization and physical therapy techniques I have learned over the years. I gave injections, special diet, sunshine, heat, love... I took Albert to Reno for a family birthday party in order to continue his treatment uninterrupted. I kissed him a lot.

Last week, he had a really good couple of days. He got up and walked, quite upright, and began talking in sweet little coo's and clucks. He asked to go outside and then alternately laid in the sun and in the shade, picking at the dirt and under the leaves for goodies. I was so tickled by the progress, I cried and laughed at the same time. When I kissed his comb, he shook his head, to free his face from my dripping tears.

But, like so many other animals and people I have known, he changed when the temperature at night dropped. He became weak and immobile, sleeping a lot and less responsive to me. In a few short days, he was gone.

I have a belief that ill and compromised organisms know when a winter will be too much for their own limited reserves, and choose an earlier, easier death over a chilling wasting away. I have always applied this graceful leave-taking with October, the month of true entry into winter's inescapable pull. My father chose that month, many of my patients choose that month. In the later hunting seasons, later October and November, I often encounter the remains of older or injured animals.

I think I helped Albert feel content and loved during his last weeks. He ate well and he was safe. He was affectionate and occasionally mobile. I never felt that he would have been better off dead. I would not have let him live if I had felt he was suffering. I was beginning to worry on the last couple days. But in the end, I would not have to make the difficult choice. Albert made it on his own.

He lived on his own terms, wandering free and taking on all comers. And, he died on his own terms, choosing his time. Classy little guy start to finish.

Go with God, little general...

False Advertising

I wonder, no, I doubt, if the 'ads' on women's tee shirts are really true. You know the ones: Juicy. Sinful. Hanky Panky. Torrid. Heartthrob. Hot and Wild. Too Much. Anarchy. Angel. Affliction. Baby Cakes. Hott.

I see the muffin tops with their fat bulging over low rise jeans that are three sizes too small sporting a shirt that proclaims that they are 'too hot to handle', 'too much for you, loser', or one of the in-your-face brand names that promise willing and prepared parts. It makes me sad.

Because I doubt it. I think it is a sad, 'whistling-past-the-graveyard' stance designed to make insecure, pathetic girls and women pretend to be something they are not. SEEM to be unaffected by their own hated obesity. PRETEND to be sexier than they will ever regard themselves.

Sad. Pathetic. Wrong. And Untrue...

Chicken Legs

Poor Albert, the Little General, he of upright stature and Viciously Protective Tendencies, is crippled. Like a wounded soldier, he bears the humility, immobility, and pain with a clenched mouth (beak) muttered '2' when considering his own pain on a scale of 1 to 10 (unlike the flip '10' offered by the twenty-something broken wrist who is eating pudding and watching 'The Kardasians'). Like a WWII vet.

I took Albert on the road trip to Reno for my brother's 70th birthday party (said bro is WAAAY older than I...just so you know...). In a clear plastic tote, so he could see me and not be cut off from stimulation. So I could give him his IM (intramuscular) injections of the third antibiotic in recent weeks. I also provide electrolytes and vitamins via his water supply, and will give oral antibiotics via his drinking water beginning tomorrow. I massage the frozen joint, and perform 'tissue mobilization', taking care to give an oral pain medication first.

Then, my son e-mails me from his home in Mexico, where he is playing professional soccer. Seems his contact 'family' has chickens. One is a wanderer, and they don't want him to escape. They don't want to build a coop. So, they laid out a little wooden/stick-type perimeter for him to stay in, and broke his legs so he couldn't get out.

'OMG!!!' I texted back. 'Even my dad in his worst moments of rage would never do that...' But, unfortunately, I get it. It is a reality in a third world country. Animals are 'things', people are all. The animals exist at the pleasure and use of the humans. And, often, that sucks.

But, it stands in stark contrast to what my son has known in his life, in his reality. I am glad that he is shocked and repulsed by the barbaric practices that often define animal husbandry in foreign places. It breaks my heart that my kid (he still is, you know...) has to learn about this lack of development in kindness, but I am proud that he is so impressed and sickened. He is the better, more fully evolved human.

I am proud of you, my son...

White Trash Taxidermy

I only wish I'd thought of this first...

White Trash Memories

Daddy kept a still in the pole shed where he conditioned his fighting roosters. He kept vats of fruit wine and green beer in different stages of fermentation. Once, when I was twelve and the green beer was ready for bottling, I helped cap the newly bottled beer. He instructed me to drink each bottle down to the right level and then cap it. He filled every bottle a little too full. Later, the world spun and shifted and I was scared when, on my knees, I threw up behind the shed while Daddy laughed. The next time, I didn't let him see me throw up.

White trash memories; bloody spurs and feathers

When I was a child, my dad held chicken fights at our place. Sometimes a hundred or more people brought their best birds to do battle in the round plywood pits down in our woods. Cars and trucks with license plates from a half dozen states lined our long muddy drive. The smells of coffee and beer mingled in the damp morning air. Cigarette coarsened voices softly called out bets. The stern command of the referee to 'Pit 'em!' broke the fog muffled surrealism. Bright feathers and flashing steel spurs entangled with the thump and shuffle of feathers and wings. The men hollered out their encouragement and predictions, cursing and condemning and celebrating in turn. Blood scented steam rose from the damp panting birds, sharp and stimulating. During breaks, the handlers in the pits opened their mouths wide and laid them across the saddle feathers to breathe hot air on the bird. 'To make 'em mad,' Daddy said. Once, I saw a guy put his plug of chewing tobacco into the bird's vent. 'To make him mad,' I thought. Soon the sounds of mortal combat would slow, then stop. After that, only the rustle of money could be heard.

White trash memories; hard life lessons

An organized rooster fight can be stopped in one of three ways: one bird (the winner) kills the other outright, a referee can declare one bird the winner if he has so badly beaten his opponent that there is no real fight left (this keeps the action in the pits moving along), and an owner can forfeit a fight before his bird is killed so that he might save it to use as brood stock or even to fight it again later.

After the referee declares a fight, the losing bird is in bad shape, full of spur holes and bacteria, suffering from blood loss and trauma. As a joke, the bird owners that came to our place for the fights sometimes gave half-dead birds to me, an eight to eleven year old, knowing I would nurse them and care for then the best I could, until their inevitable death. It was a joke on my dad, but I never knew that until I was grown. One such bird, a big Dixie Blue Shuffler, was my favorite. I was ten years old.

Every hour, I fed Dixie milk-soaked bread, cornmeal mush and water. I put medicine in his water. I set his broken wing with masking tape. I sang to him and covered him at night. He was getting better, I was sure. But, my dad kept pestering me to trade Dixie for a sleek and sparkely blue-black three-spurred Sumatra stag.

Finally, I agreed to the deal, knowing that Daddy was so much better at caring for sick animals. I figured that 'that ol' bird' would be up and around in no time, under my daddy's care.

In the hot July sun, we met in the middle of the barnyard, the Sumatra's tail feathers glistening against Daddy's faded bib overalls. I handed off Dixie, dirty masking tape trailing like streamers. I took the firmer and lighter young bird, trying not to crush his long dark feathers.

Suddenly, Daddy grabbed Dixie's neck and flipped him over and down. My father's arm jerked up as the bird's body reached the end of the arc and I heard the dull crack of neck bones separating and sinew stretching. I felt like someone had planted a man-sized fist in my belly. I managed to cry out, "Daddy--you killed my bird!" Daddy leaned down and looked into my teary eyes and said, "No, Fuzzy, I killed my bird. He stopped bein' your bird when you traded him off..." He turned and walked out of the barnyard, tossing the carcass onto the burn pile as he passed.

White Trash Memories

There were no light switches in our house. Light bulbs suspended from a wire coming through a hole in the ceiling. You had to screw in to turn them on, then unscrew to turn it off, but ya better lick your fingers first so you don't get burned.

Lullaby For My Children, Every Night For Twelve Years... Morningtown Ride

Train whistle blowing, makes a sleepy noise,
Underneath their blankets go all the girls and boys.

Heading from the station, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Mack is at the engine, Garrett rings the bell,
Emmy swings the lantern, to show that all is well.

Rocking, rolling, riding, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Maybe it is raining where our train will ride;
But all the little travellers are warm and snug inside.

Rocking, rolling, riding, out along the bay,
All bound for Morningtown, many miles away.

Somewhere there is sunshine, somewhere there is day,
Somewhere there is Morningtown, many miles away.

Thank you, Malvina, for the memories, the tradition, the little smiles and little squirms when each child heard their name sung in turn. Thank you for reassuring my babies that sleep was a gentle journey, not to be feared or fought.

With your words and your talent, you brought peace to a young family tattered by the time nightfall descended, and gave a sweet familiarity to the routine of bedtime. You gave a reason for my bad vocals to croon to my babies, a balm to us all. In their adulthood, they still remember me, and you, and the nightly journey to Morningtown...

Do I Hafta Go To School?

My horse, Cruz, is learning manners, the Parelli Natural Horse-Man-Ship way. Sounds cool, doesn't it?Well, it is cool. He has been under daily training for three months. And it has come to pass that I, too, must learn what he knows. So that I know how to lead him, manage him, give him direction. So that our future together is better than our past.

But, I have learned something new about myself. I have become intolerant, and resistant, even afraid of, certain learning scenarios. I don't want to drive for a half hour, ride slowly in an arena for an hour and try to follow instructions from someone else. No matter how much I like the idea of learning, no matter how much I want to know this stuff, I hate doing it. I have become someone who wants to stay in a comfort zone.

I wonder if it is because I spent three and a half years being worked to death, scared to death, studying like hell, attending classes and learning nursing skills under the strict scrutiny of evil instructors, living in another town from my husband and children, spending twelve to twenty hours a day trying to become a nurse. I turned fifty years old in nursing school. Then, I was ejected into the profession of nursing where I was sucked in, chewed up, spit out and ground down trying to become good enough to be respected and regarded. Even now, I regularly come face to face with self doubt and second guessing. It gets pounded into your head in nursing school.

I, in some ways, regret not having waited until the kids left home to go back to school. I feel like I missed so much of their lives in high school. I did take my eldest, Mack, to the town where I went to nursing school, and he completed his Associates Degree there. We were roommates in college, we tell people.

But, I think a direct result of all of this late-in-life learning, being micromanaged, being exhausted and overworked, is that I have little tolerance for any but short and sweet lessons or classes. I find myself judiciously avoiding being tied down to a classroom, being lectured at, being watched and judged, that is, feeling like I did in nursing school.

We nursing students joke that nursing educators tear you down and rebuild you in their own image. We cried, ranted, got drunk, laughed until we cried or threw up. We all walked around like zombies. We lost or gained weight, let our hair, nails and skin go to hell, screwed up relationships, got sick and had no time to get better, so we got worse. We all did, men, women, young and older. I would watch the young students drag themselves in to class, exhausted and ill and discouraged and scared of failure. And, I thought, if that is how hard this is on someone half my age, what the hell am I doing here?

Anyway, that is my hypothesis of why I resist classes, restrictions on my time and movement, and ongoing lessons and learning. Please understand that I love to learn; I consider myself somewhat of a renaissance woman, having learned and succeeded in four diverse consecutive careers areas, each lasting a decade. I have had to do things I don't want to do, many times. But, I think I am all done being stressed by learning or restrictions.

I want things to be easy now. I want to be left alone more. I want to feel accomplished and proficient. I want to decide my activities and the amount of time or energy to invest and where to invest it. I am looking for Life's Easy Button. Or maybe just an extended vacation where I can catch up on my sleep.

You Can Learn At Home In Your Spare Time! Make $30-$35 Every Dang Week!

Makes ya wanna be a nurse, doesn't it?

Can you just imagine being in charge of a 10 bed hospital? Gosh!

And The Beat Goes On...

from TotallylooksLike.com

This proves that history repeats itself, trends run in cycles, everything old is new again, however you want to put it. Justin Beiber, current singing heartthrob of young girls, and Donnie Osmond, past singing heartthrob of young girls (the author excepted; I've always gone for the older cowboy type), in a side by side comparison.

Quote

Due to a typing error,

Gov. Dukakis was incorrectly identified in the third paragraph as Mike Tyson.

--Fitchburg-Leonminster (Mass.) Sentinel and Enterprise correction

People of Walmart

People of Walmart is a site where pictures are posted of... people at Walmart stores. It is worth a look. I laughed so hard the first time I visited, my family was getting annoyed. Nearly as outrageous as the pictures are the comments that the administrator posts with them.

The pictures represent a glimpse of American culture that most of us want to deny exists. But, through this web site, you will realize that mullets, skullets, 'Flashdance' off-the-shoulder shirts with leggings and slouch socks, neon Spandex, and rotted teeth are very much alive, and at a Walmart near you as you read this.

Enjoy the examples...

http://www.peopleofwalmart.com

Either Grandpa dressed himself today, or someone hates the old fart.

More Tricks On Old People

Okay, so I play a few tricks on George... Some involving glasses/eyesight/whatever see post 'Tricks on Old People'. But, even when I don't, I get the blame. Geez, poor me.

George left his tee shirt outside last night with his reading glasses in the case in the pocket. This a.m., he went out to fetch them. He brought them inside, took them out and put them on. At which point he accused me of 'screwing with his glasses', thinking I'd blacked them out with felt tip marker again. No, I hadn't...