Sanctuary!

My last two posts have focused on slings, arrows, wolves, and various nuisances, calamities, and tragedies. This post is to remind myself of all the wonderful, non-calamitous things I've done lately.

1. Mendy and I went hiking at Pinnacles National Monument. Although we failed, once again, in our quest to see a California Condor, we had a delightful mosey along the Condor Gulch Trail.

2. Mendy and I saw Phil and Friends at the Warfield. It was the first show of an amazing series where the band performed the songs on virtually all of the Grateful Dead's albums -- in order.

3. Mendy and I went on a whale-watching trip with Sanctuary Cruises. We saw umpteen humpbacks.



We've always had excellent luck when we've gone out with these folks. One time we were in the midst of about 3,000 dolphins -- the largest group of dolphins the captain had ever seen.

4. Left Mendy at home this time and hopped on a train to New Mexico. A woman at a horse shelter there had emailed me, asking for my opinion on a blind mare they'd just taken in. Some of the board members were inclined to euthanize the horse, as they didn't think she would be able to have a good quality of life. I've owned two blind horses in my day, and have ridden both of them, and I think a blind horse can have a good life.

There was no way to assess their mare's disposition without seeing her, so I decided to go to New Mexico and take a look. The woman was supposed to meet me at the shelter, but when I got there she was nowhere to be found, and wasn't reachable by phone. (Turned out she'd eaten something that day that caused a terrible allergic reaction, and had been too sick to even call me.) After an hour or two the ranch manager arrived, and I hit it off with him by asking if I could do some chores (I wasn't trying to butter him up -- I hate being idle.) So I spent a pleasant hour shoveling horseshit with him and getting the lowdown on the shelter.

The land it's on was won in a poker game by one Mrs. Cash, who ran the local brothel in the early 1900s. Colorful, no?

I also got to know the ranch manager a bit. I had been feeling sorry for myself regarding all my friends who died recently -- but my troubles weren't worth a hill of beans compared to his. His mother and brother died in a tornado when he was seven. Two years after that his little sister drowned in a water trough. After that happened, his father thought himself jinxed, and had nothing to so with the boy for four years. On top of all that, the manager's wife -- the woman who founded the horse shelter -- had died of cancer two years ago. Sheesh! Despite all he'd been through, this guy reminded me of a verse in that old cowboy song "I Ride an Old Paint":

Old Bill Jones had a daughter and a son
One went to Denver and the other went wrong
He lost his wife in a pool room fight
But you can still hear him singin' from morning til night

At any rate, the manager gave me the run of the place and told me I could work with any of the horses, "just as long as I didn't get myself kicked."

So I spent two glorious days working with a motley crew of horses, many of which had been horrifically abused or neglected and were pretty shy of people (and who can blame them?). I worked mostly with Faith, the blind mare, but also spent some quality time with April, Bud, and Una. My most gratifying experience was with Una (that's her in the photo). The first day she let me touch her shoulder -- once, after I stood and talked to her for half an hour. (I didn't halter any of the horses in the pasture, but let them come up to me (or not) on their terms.) On the second day she let me touch her within five minutes of walking up to her, and within a few minutes I was petting her all over. She liked that so much that she followed me around the pasture, chasing off any other horse that tried to come near. I took that as a compliment.

It sure does my soul good to work with horses, and I hope to spend a few more days at The Horse Shelter in June or July.

Fire and Wolves

[Self-indulgent, whiney blog alert: Don't read this post if you don't enjoy self-indulgent, whiney blogs.]

"Why are you always so stressed out?" my friends keep asking me. I'll tell you why.

I reckon a large part of it is the incessant background noise of disgust and horror that comes from living in a Dick Cheney world. Eight years of atrocities is enough to give any thinking person the screaming meemies. Try as I might, I just can't stop reading the news.

Sure, I try to do my bit to stop the madness. I march in marches, I write letters (I scooped the New York Times by two months on the fact that the U.S. is holding about a thousand minors prisoner in Iraq), I send money to worthy organizations, I vote. But none of it has any tangible results. I'm worn out. I can only hope that a hard rain's gonna fall come November.

And then there's the seemingly endless parade of dead pals. I hate to keep harping on that, but it has affected my mood. Nobody's keeled over in the last two months, mind you (knock on wood), but last week two friends informed me they have advanced-stage cancer.

Another thing that's stressing me out is the usual litany of day-to-day problems: overdue bills, a dead car, a sewage leak, daily sleep deprivation because they're building a monster house next door, a soul-sucking day job at Microsoft, making preparations for a delivery of wolves.

Let me elaborate on the latter item. An acquaintance of mine named Harry operates a sanctuary for wolves and wolf-dog hybrids near the hamlet of Corralitos in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Last week a huge wildfire swept through the Santa Cruz Mountains, and Harry's home and kennels were in its path. On Friday I got a call saying that Harry and six wolves might need to spend the night at Bear Creek Stables, which I was managing that week while my boss was out of town. I was all for helping Harry out, as he has helped us out in the past, but the thought of half a dozen wolves bunking -- and possibly escaping -- at a stable that holds 70 horses nudged my stress meter into the red. I mean, can you imagine telling your boss "I'm sorry, but while you were away some wolves got loose and ate your horses." (I might be wrong, but I think most people's job stress is more along the lines of "I'm sorry, but my computer crashed and I'll be a day late with the Wilson Report.")

I'm very fond of these particular wolves, mind you (the photo above shows a couple of them snacking on my shoe), but I was't looking forward to having them stay at the stables. Fortunately, another friend offered Harry and his pack lodgings for the night, and the fire skirted his house, allowing them to return home the next day. So everything ended happily ever after.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that last week was a pretty typical week for me: wildfire, wolves, cancer-stricken friends, and all. And that's why I'm stressed out.

Enough with the cheery crap; my tadpoles are dead

Well, I just can't do the positivity schtick any more. Since my last post, five of my friends have died. And all 100 of my tadpoles.

An idiot named Frank killed the latter, and various diseases and calamities the former.

Tonight I was looking through hundreds of old photos to make an album in remembrance of Gil, one of the aforementioned dead people. As I looked through the photos, I realized what excellent tools they were for helping me remember trips, events, people, pets, and all sorts of things that would otherwise dribble out of my ever-dissolving memory. I found photos of The World's Largest Horse at the county fair; weird orchids in the Yucatan jungle; a visit with Elijah Cook, Jr.; LA street murals; me in some huge, Kim Jung Il style glasses in the '80s; a trip to Oregon to look for Bigfoot; and even an ex-husband or two.

Seeing as nobody but me reads this blog, I reckon I'll use it as a mnemonic possession: something to help me remember the remarkable and the mundane events that make up my life.

I hereby dedicate today's entry to the memories of Seymour, Charles, Heather, Marjorie, and Gilly. And the tadpoles, who I hadn't gotten around to naming.