Tuesday and Wednesday and Rain and Sheep and Tigers

 

 

Tuesday slipped past me—Tuesday is normally my Blog-day.

         

I’ve been working so hard on my Prairie Report, I haven’t thought of much else. Although I scared myself last night when I was complaining about the state of the state, not just Oregon, all of the states. I gave myself a headache as a result.  So, I went inside the house, took two aspirins, and got rid of it.

And ripped up those pages.

 

Wednesday

Morning, I am out in my truck again with Sweetpea and coffee. This time, I parked next to an abandoned house for sale on 126 acres, not far from where we live. I figured I could sit here, attempt to get some rays, and watch the sheep in the field while I write to you guys.

It has begun to rain.

And those sheep in the field are out in the wet, and so are their babies. They don’t seem to pay much attention to the water falling on them—I guess those coats are pretty water repellent, with all that lanolin coating them.

Those babies know which dam is their mother, although I see a group of youngsters running together—whoops, two twins decided to stop by their mother for a snack.

The babies are youngsters, not babies, and run with the pack rather than huddle under mother most of the time. The rain stopped almost as fast as their snack time.

The fields are immense, 126 acres on this property so the ad says. $1,475,000 for the property with a house built in 1915. The land is rented for the sheep although their aren’t many sheep on it, only about 50 spread out over the abundance of green that covers the land.

This is a Zillow picture, I was curious about it. There were no vehicles parked beside the house when I was there, and I don't see any sheep in the fields, but they were there today.

 

 

Wise words:

“Healing is so hard because it’s a constant battle between your inner child, who is scared and just wants safety, and your inner teenager, who’s angry and wants justice, and your adult self, who is just tired and wants peace.”

--vensachingautamtero

 

Good news--tigers

Praise for the people in Kazakhstan who are implementing a reforesting of the land and a return of the tigers.

Kazakhstan, a country in Central Asia bordering Russia, is gearing up to bring the tigers back by planting 37,000 new trees for refuge and cover.

Kazakhstan has been inhabited since the Paleolithic era, and the Botai culture there is credited with domesticating horses around 3700-3100 B.C. The nomadic people of the country were pasturing their herds at about the same time as they traveled.

Now a team is making a grand effort to bring the tigers back to the wild places in the country’s south along the IIe River and Lake Balkhash. This area once sheltered the big cats.

The re-wilding isn’t just about the cats; the team has carefully chosen willows, poplars and other trees known to support deer and antelope that the tigers need to survive.

Already, wild grazers are foraging among the new growth, evidence that the landscape is slowly coming back to life. And soon, a pair of Amur tigers from the Netherlands may become the first of their kind in decades to roam Kazakhstan.

I didn’t know where Kazakhstan existed. It’s among other countries that end in “stan.”

 

 

 

 

“Are You Playing in Your Playground?"

 

You never know where you will find your tiger.

 

I don't know where my tiger is, but I found an opossum in my hen house two nights ago. He's gone now—and my four hens are alive, with fewer feathers, one without a tail, but traumatized. I let the chickens out during the day, and they put themselves into bed at night. I go out after dark and shut the pen. Well, I waited too long that night.

One hen was wandering around lost. The other three had found a safe spot. The opossum was hugging the back wall of the second story of my little chicken house, and no matter how much I poked him with a 4-foot long 2 x 2-inch board, he would not budge. He would snarl and bare his teeth, though. I caught the hens and secured them in the other little house within the pen (it came with the property), and all's well. The opossum sneaked away while I set up a live trap for him. He must be home now, tending his bruises or visiting the neighbor's chickens.

 

That's on the home front. On the book front, I once stated in my little book "Where Tiger's Belch," that my protagonist decided she would find her purpose where tiger's belch," and thus she set off to find that spot. 

This week, I stumbled upon two books: John Strelecky's The Café on the Edge of the World and Return to the Why Café.

I loved them both. A third, The Safari, I just ordered. It was described as when your heart, soul, and story link up in perfect harmony. That's what I want for myself and my writing. I recently decided to write a series of short books and continue Jo's journey after she heard a tiger belch.

Strelecky asked the same questions I had asked, Why are we here? What's my purpose? I was enheartened because he is a best seller—that tells me that people are hungry for his sort of books, ones that inspire and ask the hard questions in a simple story. I aspire to write that sort. This came as a conformation to me that people do read those sorts of books, people do want to read of good things not bad.

We've been jerked around for some time now. I do not want to play in that playground anymore.  One of Strelecky's players asked a lady customer in the Café, "Are you playing in your playground yet?"

She wasn't. She was unhappily playing in someone else's playground—the corporate world's playground, where she was unappreciated and overworked.

As I walked through life, I passed many gates to playgrounds, peeked inside and said "Nope," not for me, and continued on my way.

I heard of a new playground last night; the "kids" of that playground found that the vilest thing they could write on Social Media got the most hits. And getting the most hits was the name of the game.

Pass on that one.

We are all travelers in this life—we are all together on the journey – although walking in different directions, not speaking the same language, nor following the same philosophy, religion, or mojo. The Jo of my Tiger book is traveling, something she feels drawn to do; she trusts her intuition that this will work out for her. She is playing in her own playground.

She is traveling the world.

I changed the final chapter a bit to make it clearer. 

 

For the Love of Dogs and Other Incredible Critters

 

Now for the blog. Here we go…

Abraham Lincoln loved dogs, and dogs loved him. 

“When Lincoln was elected president, he was concerned that Fido would be fearful and unhappy with the bustle of Washington. The Lincolns arranged for the John Rolls family to care for him. Lincoln specified that Fido could not be tied up alone in the yard, must be allowed in the house whenever he asked to come in and allowed in the dining room at mealtime. To help Fido feel at home, the Lincolns gave the Rolls the dog’s favorite horsehair sofa.

Abraham Lincoln’s dog Fido

"I am in favor of animal rights, as well as human rights, that is the way of a whole human being." 

--Abraham Lincoln

Talking dogs are now a rage.

Owners are presenting dogs with buttons that represent a word. The dog sends his communication with the press of a paw.

I watched a Sheep o’ poodle—something like that, a Sheepdog/poodle mix. This dog had 29 buttons, and she knew their meanings.

I watched as she pressed “Mad.” “What are you mad about?” the owner asked. “Stranger,” came next. “Ouch,” next. “Ouch? What hurts?”

“Paw.” 

The owner examined her paw and found a foxtail stuck between her toes.

Awesome. That foxtail was a stranger to the dog.

I talk to my dog, but I’m not doing the button thing. I’m afraid she will begin bossing me around, although both dogs do that already. However, it would be nice to know if something hurt or what they were concerned about. 

I find animals fascinating. And there is a lot of inter-species interaction. (When they have developed a friendship.) Our cat Obi licks Lafayette, the coon hound. But let the dogs see a strange cat—ho ho, not good. And a bunny in the yard—that makes them salivate faster than a steak.

I once saw a video of a polar bear playing with a husky. Chimps adopt kitties, and Zoos place a companion dog in with wild cats. Yipes. 

Animals love to please humans, except when it interferes with their desires. Or if they encounter a stranger, or an intruder, or like to announce, or take the center of attention. 

Like us.

Farm animals learn how to deal with the other animals on the farm and take the human’s food—well, being penned, they must. And regarding cleanliness, they must rely on the humans again to clean their area. 

Both the human and the animal probably think the other is stupid.

The dog, however, has a bit more savvy regarding human beings. He is non-judgmental. Oh, he can be hurt by humans, but has a great deal of tolerance for their owner’s bad behavior. He knows how to connect, how to communicate, how to be a friend, and how to love. Dogs love a job, and they perform theirs to perfection and will work for a human if they human knows how to teach him. 

I’m even learning about Blackie, our adopted chicken, who has free run of the back yard. I saw her agitated, going round and round the little chicken house, where the young pullets are penned.

The second-story door is open to the nesting box, and finally Blackie went in and laid her egg. She was like a pregnant woman about to give birth. I hope it was easier for her.

Blackie roosts on a chair with a paper under her, and in the mornings, I pick up the paper—chicken toilet.

The birds are partaking of the chicken food, and I have a stainless-steel watering dish with a hose steadily dripping in it. The other morning five birds were having a free-for-all fun bath in the watering dish.

This week I completed my paperback version of Where Tigers Belch. I’m calling it a novella for it is short and to the point. 

It follows The Alchemist’s genre in that it follows a young person’s quest to find their purpose.

In my case, a young woman’s quest is on a jungle trail. And her spot will be where tigers belch.

I don’t know much about tigers, except they are the biggest cat and are camouflaged with stripes. But orange? Why orange? Well, it’s pretty. You might wonder how an orange cat is concealed in the jungle. First, mammal’s fir cannot make green, but it makes orange very well. To most colorblind animals, a tiger looks green. 

 Viola’ big cat, not seen.

Tigers do not have the long-range running ability, so getting close to their prey is essential–thus the need for camouflage. And although we feel sad when a tiger kills an antelope or a deer, they miss 9 times out of 10. 

Why the title Where Tigers Belch? I just like Edward Abbey’s poem: 

“May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles, and poet’s towers into dark primeval forest where tigers belch, and monkeys howl…beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.”

Making a Kindle book is easy—but have you tried to make a paperback book? I thought it would be easy since I had done it before.

Not.

The ending of Where Tigers Belch gives me a smile.

A muse wrote it.

Link to Where Tigers Belch

Click on the cover

Whoa, I just hit my video link and the whole kit and caboodle came up here. Well, that makes it easy.

F