ELECTION SECURITY -- EAGLETS -- REMINISCENCES

Election Security

The release of the redacted Mueller Report has left us needing more answers to questions about  a foreign nation, Russia, intervening in our election process.  I find it extremely troubling that our President, charged with defending our democracy and nation’s security, has not evidenced a similar concern.   Some issues are described in this NPR article.   Our government officials, U.S. Congress consisting of the House of Representatives and Senators should all, regardless of their political party affiliation, be focused on investigating Russia-related issues to prevent any further threat to our democratic process, especially considering our imminent 2020 elections.  

Efforts to undermine citizen trust in the viability of our elections, weakening the Legislative and Judicial branches of our government with power centralized in the Executive branch jeopardizes our democratic republic system.  The Fourth Estate -- journalism/press serves as a check on government and big business but constant efforts to malign their credibility further erodes our system.  Preserving our freedoms is of the essence.  

Eaglets -- Reminiscences

While awaiting the Bald Eagle eaglets emergence written about in my previous posts I’ve been reminded of my first introduction at preschool age to the mysteries of new life beginning with wild bird eggs hatching.    I recall a bird house my older brother had built for tiny little house wrens when we lived in a Great Lakes state.   We didn’t have such a close intimate view of that nest as with the live cams focused on a nest in a tree as now. 

Living in So Cal these many years later, outside my windows I’ve been treated to seeing finches and hummingbirds building nests, laying eggs, the eggs finally hatching, then the fledglings first flights to seek independence, some not always without peril.

I don’t remember when I first witnessed an actual birthing process of other creatures, but I had been well-prepared from the early house wren years by my mother.  She gradually introduced sex education via the birds and bees, plants and animals, progressing to human concepts.

My first two and one-half pre-teen to early teen years I became fascinated with waiting for foul eggs to hatch when as a youth we moved to the country.   We had Rhode Island Red chickens, allowed hens to hatch some eggs, but mostly sold the fresh eggs, also cream separated from the milk of our two pet Guernsey cows.   Further new life emerged when our golden-hair German Pomeranian dog pair bore a litter of puppies.   Then there was the several hundred pound black and white New Hampshire sow birthing a huge piglet litter one cold winter night in the barn.   

Far from being dangerous as sows are said to be at such times, this mother pig had absolute trust in Pop as he climbed into the barn pen with her.   She laid on her side in the straw, would give a grunt with each birth, then lift her head to see him pick up each piglet to wipe it dry, then place it at one of her teats.   I hung over the edge of the pen entranced with this whole procedure.    She had more piglets than she had teats so one little pig eventually became a runt, disadvantaged with constantly having to fight at nursing time for a place at the table in the weeks ahead.

We had some other animals including a black cocker spaniel that loved to chase wild rabbits.  She had a litter of puppies but indulged her rabbit-chasing obsession while still nursing her little ones.  One afternoon she returned home late dragging her hind quarters behind her, paralyzed.  We were quite alarmed, but the days ahead we kept her inside so her forced rest allowed her body to recover all her movement, just as a veterinarian friend of the family had counseled would likely occur.   

I was introduced to fishing, but with the requirement I learn to capture night crawlers and must  bait my own cane pole line hooks.   This former city girl’s progress was such that I was advanced to using a casting rod with other types of non-live bait.  When Pop and I went fishing we had separate creek bank locations, so I was pretty much left in nature’s silence with my own thoughts those afternoon hours.  I recall the delight of seeing a flock of ducklings, soon to be followed by their mother, riding the creeks current down the stream through some rapids, bouncing about.  

Following his high school graduation a family member who became like a brother to me came to live with us for a year.   He acquired a coon dog he named Zip.   We soon discovered to our incredulous laughter he was zipping all right --  we would observe him racing full speed on a hillside opposite where we were sitting for the sole purpose of observing his behavior.    Zip’s nose was to the ground for a scent and he was bellering as only a coon hound can.    Hot on the trail he would eventually lose the scent, but merely turned around and back-tracked the route he had run, bellowing loudly as though he was headed straight toward his prey.  

We took Zip to the woods one night as part of his hunting regimen in training to see if he could stalk deer.   I learned to recognize the sight of a doe’s nest where she likely birthed a fawn and the unique musty odor indicating possible recent occupancy.   Zip had already run ahead seeking what -- we weren’t sure.   Walking softly through the trees the night was becoming darker the further we went.  Zip was making no sound so we didn’t know where he was.  We finally sat down, remaining silent to listen for Zip as we leaned against a tree.   Eventually the silence was broken by Zip’s sudden bellowing with shortened but increasingly exciting-sounding bursts indicating he had found something! 

My “brother”, the outdoorsman, immediately left to pursue Zip’s location while I remained seated by the tree, alone.  My senses became increasingly alert to every sound the longer I sat there --  a feeling of unease began to creep through my body.    The night was quite black now and I literally couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.   Once Zip’s baying stopped, what seemed like interminable time passed, though it was likely only minutes until I was startled by the feeling of something cold and wet against my cheek.    Momentarily freezing, holding my breath, I realized it was Zip, to my great relief.   The outdoorsman soon appeared and I learned Zip had, indeed, found a critter – he had chased a raccoon up a tree, who likely had a harrowing or humorous tale of fooling a hound to tell his or her friends.    Our evening had ended and we returned home. 

Weeks later the outdoorsman brought home a young raccoon he had come upon and decided he would tame this animal to become a pet -- just like the adult pet we had visited at a local farm.  Sitting in that family’s yard with their friendly raccoon pet on a leash, we had been intrigued as he busily went through our pockets looking for a snack, or anything else he could find.   So, outside our house, raccoon living quarters had been built and the taming process began.   I was cautioned to not touch the caged wild raccoon since a severe bite would be the reward for my friendly gesture.  

Outdoorsman always wore heavy leather gloves and was the only one who handled his raccoon.   He brought him in the house one time, but that was the last as retrieving the raccoon from in and around the dining room furniture proved to require an acrobatic gymnastics effort well beyond any activity anticipated, arousing my mother’s increasing concern.   Outdoorsman eventually decided his work hours and other activities prevented him from devoting enough attention to handling the raccoon for taming purposes, so he released him back into the wild. 

I also experienced the then accepted practice of some hunters and trappers, as outdoorsman had learned them from generations before him, when some wildlife was viewed and treated differently than today.  Accompanying him once when he “ran his traps” set along creeks for muskrats and mink he captured for their pelts, I was repelled by that process, and yet people bought those furs. 

He also harvested squirrels.  When his father had been younger and more able to hunt, he included ducks, snapping turtles as prey along with most variety of fish.  No creature was ever taken for sport, only the matured and only those whose meat would be cooked and consumed as part of the family diet.   These decades over half a century later much has changed including attitudes toward wildlife treatment.

King's History

(Sputter, sputter...I lost this post last night when my server connection ceased. Am having DSL or server problems almost every day, so appreciate readers' patience waiting for new posts.)

(oldoldlady, Naomi, at "Here In The Hills" asked why I had to give up my dog, King, as I described in my previous story, “Betrayal and Heartbreak,” so I am responding here.

BTW Naomi has been posting some fascinating color photos of multiple hummingbirds and bees in flight taking nourishment from some rare and unusual blooming cacti at her uniquely landscaped Hollywood Hills home. There are many interesting posts and photos at her blog. She’s a bit pre-occupied right now watching DVDs as she completes her voting for the Emmy Awards. She’s providing her readers with an opportunity to express their opinions on some nominees for later comparison with her own .)

KING'S HISTORY

I decided to elaborate on my dog story about King, since it was an unusual year in my young life. Our family then was composed of my folks and me. A couple of years earlier we had moved to the country which proved to be an isolating new experience for this city girl.

I had never lived in the country year 'round before, though I had always enjoyed visiting my grandmother at her rustic farm home for a week during several consecutive summers. My uncle lived across the road from grandma. He sometimes recruited me to assist with his dairy farming activities, often despite my grandmother's admonitions that he not ask me to do so, but that’s another story.

Talk of our moving began after only a couple of years residence in this country home. Pop was having an increasing number of medical problems including exacerbating breathing difficulties, all of which worsened in the cold climate where we lived. Doctors in those days often recommended to many patients with respiratory problems that they should move from the colder climes where we lived, to a sunnier drier climate. Pop's breathing and other medical problems continued worsening, so we joined those who moved to the desert. This was the impetus for my having to give up this young stock collie given to me as a pup to be "my dog."

Our house and acreage was sold to the real estate agent friend from whom we had purchased the place, and who had given me the puppy I named King. King was the son of this man's dog that had been trained for livestock herding. His dog was not utilized to work as much as the dog needed to do, so he was kept chained on the agent's big, generally unoccupied, farm. With the dog's herding activity limited, so was his human contact which was mostly with workers who regularly fed and watered him.

He broke his chain one day and got into a pen of young pigs weighing 150 to 250 pounds. For some strange reason he actually bit several of them, tearing huge chunks of flesh from their haunches. The owner and workers concluded he did this simply because he was bored. I wondered if he may have tried to herd the pigs in their small pen just to feel useful. Perhaps with no humans present to control the situation, the pigs could have fearfully attacked the aggressive dog, so he fought back. He showed no other signs of being dangerous afterward, continued to be able to herd various animals safely when needed. When he was chained, however, if any chickens escaped their contained area and wandered within the length of his chain, he lay in wait and snuffed out their lives.

I had always petted and played with him whenever I visited the farm. After the pig incident, I was cautioned that I should be wary and probably should avoid him entirely. I had never met a dog, however unfriendly and vicious they were purported to be, that would not make friends with me. So in the confident fearless nature of youth, remembering my prior relationship with this dog, I always sought him out. I knew he was lonely, and so was I some of that time. I did, however, stay at the outer edge of his fully extended chain whenever I petted him, and I rough-housed with him much less. He never exhibited any aggressive behavior toward me. The dog was sometimes used for breeding purposes, so when his owner was offered a pup from a litter he had fathered, the owner then gave the pup to our family for me.

Pop had a snooty little part Toy Pomeranian that he had spoiled rotten for years and was the focus of his affection. This spayed female was a snotty, snippy little prima donna who returned his allegiance. She barely tolerated the rest of us. Before we moved to the country we had acquired a German Pomeranian as a pup to whom I had given my beloved teddy bear to be a companion when the puppy cried at night for his mother after he first came to live with us. He soon transferred his attention to my Mom who housebroke him, met his daily needs of food, water and caring. He did play with me and was affectionate, but despite Mom's efforts to redirect his primary emotional attachment to me, he clearly preferred her.

The folks made the decision we would take the two smaller dogs on our move west, Pop's pooch and the young dog we'd had since a pup before King. I was told the latter dog, now 2 or 3 years old, would be mine despite his having bonded to my Mom. Since we were selling everything, and would live in a small trailer we pulled behind the car, there was no room for the larger dog my King would soon become. He was not made to live in such confined quarters anyway. Presumably he was to be trained to herd livestock as had his father who I had befriended earlier.

We had a public auction and sold all of our personal belongings, other than those that would fit in that Trotwood Trailer 
 (Our trailer looked like this video only brand new so neat and trim -- no mattress in the back as that was a sofa that opened into a bed).

We had to part with some possessions in earlier moves and now again with even more. Pop had the Trotwood sawed in half and added some footage to make it a bit longer. The sofa at the back of the trailer made into a bed which would be used by my folks. The front end of the trailer had a breakfast nook that
could be collapsed and became a bed where I slept. The interior was compact with some closets, drawers and shelf space, a sink, a small refrigerator, a stove on which to cook, a furnace, but no other facilities.

I was sad and excited, with a range of emotions in between, at the prospect of this move. In my adult years, as I have reflected on events, such as this, I've often thought about how experiences beginning in childhood serve to influence my perspective and attitudes toward life. I chose to look upon those geographic moves as great adventures and they were for me. I continue, as then, to learn about accommodation and adjustment. Perhaps these were early learning experiences for me in adaptation, coping with loss, preparation for my future. My memories of those years linger on.

Betrayal and Heartbreak

I remember when we first met. He was of quite small physical stature standing next to me, but I cared little about that difference in height between us. I looked into his eyes and saw his admiration for me so apparent. His gaze followed me wherever I went. I began to feel an unbidden affection toward him developing within me. When his brown eyes focused on my own, I was overcome with a sense of commitment to him.

We had considerable time together learning so much about one another through the ensuing months. We delighted in pleasing each other in a manner that required little effort. Neither of us had to sacrifice our own sense of individualism in that process to achieve the respect and retain the affection we both wanted.

We looked forward to moments when we engaged in playful teasing games. When we chased one another he usually could catch me, as he was much quicker and more adept at darting and dodging. I generally couldn’t catch him unless he wanted me to do so. In the winter we had fun making tracks in the snow. During the warm seasons, the two of us took long walks together along narrow dirt paths that I imagined to be hidden trails into some unknown world. On either side of the trails, tall growing grasses swayed in the quickening breezes. On an opposite hillside unseen fantasized figures emerged disguised as wild flowers scattered randomly in the field.

Then came the day when I was unexpectedly informed my beloved friend and I must part.
He was going to be fully engaged elsewhere in working activities he would enjoy.
We would no longer be able to spend time with each other. I was certain this was not his choice. I knew I could not prevent this separation. The only hope I had was to make our parting as painless as possible. I knew his departure would bring me such intense pain, that I believed I could not be present to witness his leaving. I was familiar with loss experiences from an early age, so was sensitive to the prospect of having even one more.

Also, I did not want him to think I had wanted this parting, nor did I want to mislead him into believing I endorsed his entering the situation to which he was going. The fact was, I did not fully know specifically what sort of situation in which he would find himself. All I knew was, at some unknown time in the future, he and I would be allowed to meet again, if I so wanted. Any such meeting was to provide me with reassurance as to his welfare.

The day came for his departure, and I hid in my bedroom. I heard loud talking, shouting, increasingly angry sounding voices outside. I was lured with great reluctance to my window to see exactly what was happening. What I saw was greatly distressing to me. My friend did not want to go. He was resisting all commands from everyone, refusing even to walk. Those involved with taking him away were resorting to force, dragging him, to get him into the cab of their large shiny new pickup truck.

He gave the appearance of being undisciplined, uncooperative, generally disobedient. I did not want him viewed from this perspective. I so wanted those with whom he would soon spend all his time to fully appreciate his fine qualities. He deserved to be treated with respect, would respond in kind when trust was established. I knew he was proud, truly regal as the name I had given him implied, he was "King."

So, I rushed from my bedroom to his side. He immediately calmed and walked with me to the pickup truck, entered the cab at my direction. He trusted me implicitly. My point of view was, I was betraying him to I knew not what. The cab door was closed and they drove away. I returned to my room, fell on my bed, sobbed into my pillow to muffle the anguished cries that tore outward from deep inside my body.

Many months later to reassure me as to his welfare, I was offered the opportunity to exercise my option of visiting him. I quickly accepted the offer, but with mixed feelings at the thought of enduring the pain of separation when we would have to part once again.

When we arrived where he was now living, before we even left the car, the man with
whom he had departed in that pickup truck came out to caution us that my friend had developed a rather unpleasant and dangerous habit. He approached people from behind, not just nipping but biting them in a totally unfriendly manner. I was shocked to hear this, as I knew this was not my friend's nature.

I exited the car with only slight trepidation. There was silence for some time, then I heard a scuffling noise coming from the dirt driveway somewhat in the distance behind me. I never turned around. Instead I stood stark still with my arms stretched out at my sides, the palms of my hands open with fingers extended. The noise drew closer and closer, evolving into a scurrying sound more directly behind where I stood.

Soon I heard cautious sniffs for scent, alternating with short slight bursts of air at my feet. I felt the breaths against my bare legs. My body posture remained rigid as though I was frozen in place. I heard increasingly rapid sniffs, the sound increasing in loudness with movement upward on my body. I then felt the airbursts against the palm of my right hand, finally followed by the touch of cold moist skin against my own.

The sniffing figure began jumping up and down, circling around to face me. He quickly raised up on his hind legs, placed his front paws on my shoulders as in an embrace, so I hugged him close to me. This was, indeed, my friend, who could hardly contain his enthusiasm at finally seeing me again. During our separation he had grown to become a full size handsome black colored stock collie trimmed in a golden brown with touches of white at his neck. We only had a short time together before I had to leave.

Somehow I think he hoped I had come to rescue him. Had it been within my power, I would have taken him with me that day. There was little doubt in my mind that my friend had been subjected to what I would have termed abuse, but which his new owner probably thought was appropriate discipline to train him properly. My heart figuratively broke that day as I experienced such feelings of anguish and sadness when we drove away. My tears were suppressed with even greater effort than I had to exert from the heartbreak I felt when we first parted.

During the years since that reunion, I have sometimes dreamed of him, fantasized about the life we might have had together. I wonder on the occasions when he lay sleeping, maybe rapidly moving his paws and legs as though running, perhaps even uttering a slight whimper, as dogs sometimes do, if he, too, would have been dreaming of me? I have remembered him always with such bittersweet memories though I never saw him again.