A note from Madigan, a super dog:
The humans in the lives of us dogs are of five types: 1) owners, 2)caregivers, 3) employers, 4) companions, 5) equals and friends.
Of these categories FRIENDS is the hardest for us dogs. For it involves patience, forbearance and tolerance. Or are these all the same? I have just learned it is also the hardest for our humans. This story I share.
My human is a gentle loving patient old woman, who rescued me from the death squad at the local pound. We share a small house, a generous yard, a sofa in the living room, a bed in the bedroom. Always available is good food, fresh water, ready scratches to ears, brushing of my coat, games of fetch, rides in the car. A wonderful life for any dog.
In case you do not know I am a Beagle with a need to explore and a mania for chasing rabbits. I am bold and fearless (check the previous Blog for my brush with the criminal element). Now here is the tale I wish to share.
Today I was compelled to chase a rabbit out of my yard, into the field past my yard, into the woods beyond the field. The tour of sights and smells spurred me on. Describing to you the power of scents works for you humans only if you are under the influence of a mind altering substance. It is all consuming, overpowering.
I never got too far from home. I kept seeing my human, leash in hand, no doubt treat in her pocket, wandering the field and woods. Several times we came within touching distance but then I ran full speed away from her to the next mesmerizing scent. Then she was not there.
Once I came near the house, but she was nowhere to be seen.
It was a warm day; I was thirsty; I was burr covered; I was tired. Then I saw her. "Madigan", she said, "Come."
I came. She opened the door, let me into the house, showered me with treats, watched me slake my thirst, brushed away my burrs, scratched my ears as I fell asleep on the sofa beside her. We were so glad to be together. That is friendship.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Madigan Witnessed A Murder
I have reported the extraordinary way my dog Madigan can talk to me. His ability goes beyond credulity. Just tonight he recounted a story I hesitate to share. You will likely consider me a candidate for the looney bin. Let me start at the beginning.
On a rainy afternoon a small beagle wandering aimlessly on the back road from Cartersville to Harris was picked up by Animal Control. His skin and bones body shook from fear and chill. Safely, if not happily, he was settled in the County Animal Shelter for weeks - for months. He was given food and water and shelter. And on a lucky day he was walked for thirty minutes by a shelter volunteer. No one knew his name. So Wimpy became B-4, the number of his cage.
Fearing he might be found by the wrong person, B-4 carefully eyed each walker. And he had reason to fear. For he posed a danger to someone who posed a danger to him. Three weeks before the fortunate rescue, two weeks before his aimless wandering, B-4 witnessed a murder.
His home, a shabby small cottage seven miles from the 7-11 near where B-4 was picked up, was neither safe nor happy. Frank, the owner, an unemployed mechanic, frequently for no discernible reason beat his wife Carol and children, Buddy and Suzie, ages 5 and 6. B-4 who witnessed these beatings was not safe from his own torture. Frank kicked him so often and so hard that B-4 avoided his food and water when Frank was around.
Then that night -- it was dark. B-4 had just crept from his hiding place under the porch for food when he heard the screams. He crouched near the door and watched. Carol was on her knees in the corner of the room. Frank struck her with a chair once, again and again. Buddy yelled, "Daddy, don't."
"Shut your fucking mouth, Brat, or you'll get it too."
Suzie rushed to her mother's side. Frank's flying chair crashed against he head. She fell. She was silent as she lay against her sobbing mother. Buddy crept toward his mother and sister. "Back off, Brat, or you'll get it too."
B-4 watched as Frank carried his dead daughter to the garden where he buried her.
Police came and went over the next few days to investigate a missing child, and mother and son who had suffered a beating from an unknown perpetrator. B-4's curiosity, or concern, or devotion led to his need to run. He was caught digging in the garden. The kicks were hard, unrelenting and brutal.
Madigan now, happy and healthy in his adoptive home, feels compelled to share his story, although
he does fear if he has endangered his mistress. For the case is still open. And he does not know what she will do with the information.
On a rainy afternoon a small beagle wandering aimlessly on the back road from Cartersville to Harris was picked up by Animal Control. His skin and bones body shook from fear and chill. Safely, if not happily, he was settled in the County Animal Shelter for weeks - for months. He was given food and water and shelter. And on a lucky day he was walked for thirty minutes by a shelter volunteer. No one knew his name. So Wimpy became B-4, the number of his cage.
Fearing he might be found by the wrong person, B-4 carefully eyed each walker. And he had reason to fear. For he posed a danger to someone who posed a danger to him. Three weeks before the fortunate rescue, two weeks before his aimless wandering, B-4 witnessed a murder.
His home, a shabby small cottage seven miles from the 7-11 near where B-4 was picked up, was neither safe nor happy. Frank, the owner, an unemployed mechanic, frequently for no discernible reason beat his wife Carol and children, Buddy and Suzie, ages 5 and 6. B-4 who witnessed these beatings was not safe from his own torture. Frank kicked him so often and so hard that B-4 avoided his food and water when Frank was around.
Then that night -- it was dark. B-4 had just crept from his hiding place under the porch for food when he heard the screams. He crouched near the door and watched. Carol was on her knees in the corner of the room. Frank struck her with a chair once, again and again. Buddy yelled, "Daddy, don't."
"Shut your fucking mouth, Brat, or you'll get it too."
Suzie rushed to her mother's side. Frank's flying chair crashed against he head. She fell. She was silent as she lay against her sobbing mother. Buddy crept toward his mother and sister. "Back off, Brat, or you'll get it too."
B-4 watched as Frank carried his dead daughter to the garden where he buried her.
Police came and went over the next few days to investigate a missing child, and mother and son who had suffered a beating from an unknown perpetrator. B-4's curiosity, or concern, or devotion led to his need to run. He was caught digging in the garden. The kicks were hard, unrelenting and brutal.
Madigan now, happy and healthy in his adoptive home, feels compelled to share his story, although
he does fear if he has endangered his mistress. For the case is still open. And he does not know what she will do with the information.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Super Dog Madigan
Let me begin by telling you this. If anyone looked in my window at night and saw me and Madigan, I am sure Madigan would end up back at the pound and I would be committed to a mental facility. I will begin at the beginning.
Stashed deeply in my psyche is a dancer. Born no doubt from a traumatic period in my life. My parents-- not my parents, but my mother-- forbade me to go to high school when I finished the 8th grade. I would, she believed, become worldly and forsake her values. My threat to run away elicited my father's intervention. I could go provided I agreed not to wear shorts in gym class and not to participate at all in the Friday folk dancing.
The long jeans in gym was not so so bad. Two other girls in my class wore long jeans because of a skin problem. But the folk dancing-- that was hurtful. I was the only one-- the weird girl-- who had to spend her Fridays in a small closet researching sports and writing reports. By the end of my four years I knew the rules of all major sports and some so rare most people never heard of them.
I managed to get to college. Dances--no dances for me. So self conscious with my lack of skill I avoided dances. Only I knew my insistence that I did not care to dance was a painful lie.
Now as an old woman who even when young put 'learning to dance' on her busket list, I still cannot dance.
But Madigan does not know that. Late night -- several time a week- my Madigan dances with me. He stands on his back legs, lets me hold his from legs and we move slowly and gracefully to music sweet to the ear and easy on old feet. Super Dog? You bet.
Stashed deeply in my psyche is a dancer. Born no doubt from a traumatic period in my life. My parents-- not my parents, but my mother-- forbade me to go to high school when I finished the 8th grade. I would, she believed, become worldly and forsake her values. My threat to run away elicited my father's intervention. I could go provided I agreed not to wear shorts in gym class and not to participate at all in the Friday folk dancing.
The long jeans in gym was not so so bad. Two other girls in my class wore long jeans because of a skin problem. But the folk dancing-- that was hurtful. I was the only one-- the weird girl-- who had to spend her Fridays in a small closet researching sports and writing reports. By the end of my four years I knew the rules of all major sports and some so rare most people never heard of them.
I managed to get to college. Dances--no dances for me. So self conscious with my lack of skill I avoided dances. Only I knew my insistence that I did not care to dance was a painful lie.
Now as an old woman who even when young put 'learning to dance' on her busket list, I still cannot dance.
But Madigan does not know that. Late night -- several time a week- my Madigan dances with me. He stands on his back legs, lets me hold his from legs and we move slowly and gracefully to music sweet to the ear and easy on old feet. Super Dog? You bet.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
My Amazing Superdog, Madigan
My husband of 50+ years died. 50+ years-- two thirds of my existence. So entangled was he with my self concept that it was like losing half of myself. I was alone -- except for our beloved dog, Petronius. Now my dog. Petro and I underwent a new bonding. His training to stay off the furniture gave way to our sharing the sofa evening after evening. Petro and I missed the master of the house, but we relished each other's companionship.
Alas Petro like his master was victim of cancer. He too died. I was alone!!
So alone!!
Within the week I was visiting the local Humane Society and the County Animal Control Center-- looking for the perfect dog. The perfect dog. The Super Dog. He/she would have to be older-- well past the energetic puppy stage. Small was important for I do have a small house. Freedom from shedding hair was critical-- who wants to be cleaning up dog hair every day, sometimes twice a day? My new dog had to be yappy to warn me of people and animals.
I found the perfect dog. Medium size, short white hair which falls out from a mere glance at him. He is near the end of puppyhood with energy oozing from every inch of his body and every breath he takes. But he is yappy. No deer, rabbit, bird, car or person approaches my house unannounced.
I ask you-- is not one critical characteristic enough?
I look at him and my heart leaps up. Only a Super Dog could rise above all my 'can't accept' characteristics. True? No?
This entry dedicated to Madigan who lies beside my chair as I type.
Alas Petro like his master was victim of cancer. He too died. I was alone!!
So alone!!
Within the week I was visiting the local Humane Society and the County Animal Control Center-- looking for the perfect dog. The perfect dog. The Super Dog. He/she would have to be older-- well past the energetic puppy stage. Small was important for I do have a small house. Freedom from shedding hair was critical-- who wants to be cleaning up dog hair every day, sometimes twice a day? My new dog had to be yappy to warn me of people and animals.
I found the perfect dog. Medium size, short white hair which falls out from a mere glance at him. He is near the end of puppyhood with energy oozing from every inch of his body and every breath he takes. But he is yappy. No deer, rabbit, bird, car or person approaches my house unannounced.
I ask you-- is not one critical characteristic enough?
I look at him and my heart leaps up. Only a Super Dog could rise above all my 'can't accept' characteristics. True? No?
This entry dedicated to Madigan who lies beside my chair as I type.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Madigan Needs A Publicist In The Worst Way
Ever notice how new parents and new grandparents so easily become boring with the endless accounts of the antics of their offspring? That also happens to us pet owners - especially older lonely owners, like me, whose only companion is a pet. That, I fear, I have become or am becoming with my dog, Madigan. Unless a dog has supernatural qualities there is only so much you can say. Chasing rabbits, fetching a ball or barking styles!! Chasing rabbits one day is like chasing rabbits on any other day. Variation in ball fetching? Really! Different bark styles? You 're (or more accurately am I) serious?
Thus my Madigan's antics have become repetitive and I must admit boring. Unless Madigan develops some Super Dog Quality his appeal must die or move into the realm of Super Dog Imagination. My Madigan is ready for that move. He is in his mind, he is in my mind, and soon he will be be in the mind of you the reader of this account, a dog the likes of whom you have rarely, if ever seen.
All I have to do is invoke the help of all Muses concerned with this, all the talent any god can bestow on me. It will come. I am so sure it will come. I eagerly await your next visit to THE ADVENTURES OF MADIGAN THE SUPERDOG.
Thus my Madigan's antics have become repetitive and I must admit boring. Unless Madigan develops some Super Dog Quality his appeal must die or move into the realm of Super Dog Imagination. My Madigan is ready for that move. He is in his mind, he is in my mind, and soon he will be be in the mind of you the reader of this account, a dog the likes of whom you have rarely, if ever seen.
All I have to do is invoke the help of all Muses concerned with this, all the talent any god can bestow on me. It will come. I am so sure it will come. I eagerly await your next visit to THE ADVENTURES OF MADIGAN THE SUPERDOG.
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