BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

When I was young I had a book called This is How We Live in the Town . I don't remember a thing about it except the pictures and the title, but it sprang to mind this weekend when I experienced some of the joy that comes with neighborliness. Last week, my dog ate chocolate. In the past, I've used hydrogen peroxide as an emetic to make dogs throw up in cases like this. I was all out, so I called a neighbor. Not only did Durand bring me some, but he went to the grocery store for it! In Scatchet Head, which is second only to Baby Island in its magical ability to be stupendously far away from everything, that's a testament to his generosity. Over the weekend, I was making a giant holiday dinner for my extended family when I realized I had rapidly browning pie crusts and no foil with which to cover them. I posted an entreaty on the neighborhood Facebook page and within 45 seconds, my neighbor Tara showed up with a roll of Reynolds Wrap. That same day, Nico stopped by to ask for ...

Sarri Gilman‚ a program leader at the Whidbey Institute and an expert on boundaries, shared some questions for end-of-year reflection in a recent newsletter. I enjoyed thinking about the topics she raised, and while I didn't do the journaling exercise verbatim I did spend some time reflecting on my relationships, my work, my health, and my finances. Overall, I'm proud of how 2018 went and eager to greet the new year! In the relationships realm, I am happily in love. I love his emotional availability, his communication skills, his empathy, and his kindness to me, my kids, my animals, and others. I'm getting better at expressing my needs and wants and recognizing what's mine and what's not mine to fix or change in others. I am proud of my kids, one of whom graduated in 2018, and so glad that my animal family is happy and healthy. The sudden loss of my beloved Fenway Bartholomule in June was the dark spot in an otherwise joyous year, and even that came with the blessin...

I'll never forget caroling in Wickersham . . . Fenway in his sleighbells, Arrietty in her antlers and wreath, the Cain Lake Stables gang, complete with goats and ponies and giant dogs. Those were some of my favorite Christmases. Dahlia and Rosie Cotton are going to be living in a walkable neighborhood soon. If I succeed in Rosie's halter training, we just may have a Maxwelton Beach caroling party in our future! 

Horse showing front incisors.  atliegilsson/RooM /Getty Images I'm irrationally proud of my teeth right now. 11 years ago I had fourteen fillings in one sitting. I'd been a cavity-prone kid, and I'd been neglectful of my dental health in my early adulthood. I was taking advantage of my last month of solid dental insurance, and the dentist thought it would be a good idea to go ahead and give my whole mouth an upgrade—replacing my childhood fillings in every molar and premolar and filling a couple of new cavities, too. When the novocaine wore off, I called my dentist to say my mouth hurt. "What can you compare the pain to?" he asked.  "I had a baby last month, in my living room. This is about three times worse," I said.  "Let's not do 14 fillings at once next time," he said. "Take Ibuprofen—and when you feel better, floss more." I started flossing as soon as that headache wore off, and I never looked back. I now floss daily, and alt...

The girls and I visited Arrietty in Sequim yesterday, and I was reminded that she's exactly where she needs to be right now for her health, happiness, and safety. Her weight looks good. Her feet look great. Her stall is warm and dry and her hay is sweet. The girls and I miss seeing her every day, but she's bonded with her new friend Zoe and we've enjoyed the leisure of mornings and evenings without mule chores. I'm really impressed with how clean and dry her paddock is (the Olympic Penninsula is mostly temperate rainforest, after all). Sue, her foster human, dotes upon her. Sue asked me—as I've asked myself—why I didn't pair Arrietty and Dahlia up, rather than leasing Arrietty out and adding a mini cow. Several reasons, including timing (back then, Dahlia was happily housed with a cow herd) and above all my conviction that herd animals deserve same-species companionship. Arrietty and Fenway were like a married couple—affectionate, bonded, physically and emotiona...

Since finding a beautiful pasture and barn for Dahlia near my home, I've been looking for a companion for her. I knew I wanted a small cow or steer for three reasons—1) cost of feed, 2) impact on the land, and 3) compatibility with Dahlia, who is a gentle cow with a submissive temperament. Yesterday, through a series of miraculous coincidences, a miniature belted Galloway heifer fell into my lap. I met her at 2 pm. By 4, she and Dahlia were safely tucked into a paddock eating dinner together like old friends. She needs a name, and quick! Bonus points if it has something to do with being red, small, sweet, or Scottish. In the meantime, I'm calling her Mei Mei—little sister—and my mother is calling her Petunia. Your ideas are welcome. Mei Mei and Dahlia are staying in Oak Harbor at Moonstone Farm Sanctuary with my mom until January, when they'll go to Ballydidean Farm Sanctuary for long-term boarding. It's 2 miles from my home, and absolutely beautiful. Dahlia and Mei Mei...

Thanks in advance, Universe, for your next miracle. A couple of days ago I learned that my cow, Dahlia, needs a new living situation. She's been very graciously boarded by a family in Coupeville, whose caretakers are good friends of mine, for the last couple of years. They're moving on to other things, which means Dahlia must move on too. Whenever one of my hoofbeasts has instability in his or her living situation, I get flooded with anxiety about living on a lot without acreage. I think crazy thoughts about selling the Ark or refinancing to cash out my equity. I imagine squeezing into a tiny house or building an Earthship out of tires and cans in order to somehow, once again, have my animal family together. These are old feelings, from childhood—the discomfort I experienced alongside my mother when we had our horses boarded in a succession of arrangements that ranged from too expensive and too distant to too muddy and too crowded. Buying five acres on Whidbey was her solution ...

photo credit greenbrier aussies As longtime readers may remember, I have a thing for Susans. I have blogged about my Susans before—women who have been meaningful as mentors, friends, and elders. Dear Susans—I love you.  I also have a thing for Kate—one Kate in particular, board chair of the Whidbey Institute and co-president of the Marnie and Kate Mutual Admiration Society.  I've been actively dreaming lately, and each morning I wake up with a thrilling dream adventure to retell. My nocturnal subconscious rambles provide extensive opportunities for conversation with my boyfriend and for self-analysis. Lately, I've even been having dreams which I believe to be my subsconscious mind's attempts to resolve what my conscious mind thinks my boyfriend's subconscious mind might be wrestling with—that is, I've been exploring his favorite landscapes and private longings in my sleep.  A couple nights ago, I had a delightfully lighthearted dream in which I met a litter of Aust...

Mr. Ark is up there on the roof right now—sweeping off pine needles, loosening moss, and hosing out gutters. He's been at it for two days now, while I've lain in bed recuperating from a cold and reading a Dick Francis novel and two entire magazines, including the advertisements (Outdoor Photography and Dwell). In Dwell, I found a men's ring so perfect for Mr. Ark that I now find myself wondering if a $67 Christmas present (already bought, wrapped, and hidden) is sufficient for a partner of such devotion. I show my love through gift-giving, and through cards and postcards, and through little notes hidden here and there. He shows his love through service, and always has the same reply when I try to thank him. "Service is my life, Ma'am." I'm a modern and independent woman—I earn a living, own my house, and can keep up with young men in a hay-bucking contest*—but cleaning roofs and clearing gutters is not on my list of strengths. My comfort on ladders only la...

I bought a journal with this cover a couple of years ago because I have a tattoo of a flying pig on my back, and because it's my favorite shade of teal. The message—"it's possible"–was fine. The pigs were what I was really after. My tattoo represents forgiveness, and thinking the best of people. When my first daughter was an infant I was really frustrated with her dad, and he gave her a Balinese crib angel in the form of a carved wooden pig with wings. The pig came to represent a lot of things, including the power of love and the futility of thinking anyone "should" do, think, or be anything other than what is. He and I became cooperative co-parents, and the crib angel became my second tattoo after the one of Mirri, my late great heart dog.  I like the message—it's possible. A world in which animals are no longer enslaved in factory farms—it's possible. A just and equitable human future, in ecological balance with the planet—it's possible. A care...

I brought my camera to work Tuesday morning, hoping to get a photo of the albino squirrel my coworkers have been telling me about. My daughter and I walked into the woods near the Sanctuary, a cedar and fir timber-framed building a few hundred yards from the office. We heard a high-pitched "chip-chip-chip-chip-chip" from the treetops, then saw a frantic squirrel battle: rolling, chasing, biting, tumbling, falling. The albino squirrel was being told, in no uncertain terms, to get off the turf of his reddish-brown cousin. S/he eventually made to an apparently undisputed tree, where s/he settled down for a snack of fir seeds. Near the horizon, a stocky buck whom I had never before seen skirted the edge of the forest. "Come closer if you'd like to have your pictures taken," I called out in his direction. Robin and I walked back to the office, where the cook offered us breakfast. We were sitting in the dining room enjoying fruit and oatmeal when Robin said, "loo...

About five years ago, I was working as a Humane Society of Skagit Valley employee and a 90 year-old friend of mine was looking for a dog. I've match-made before, connecting the right dogs with the right humans time and time again, but this was a special opportunity. I knew how greatly my friend needed the companionship of a dog as her mobility grew increasingly limited, and I knew how much love and lap-time her potential adoptee was in for. I connected P. and G. (names withheld for the family's privacy), and the rest was history. I promised G. then that if ever P. needed somewhere to go—a possible reality whenever you're in your 90s and adding to the family—I'd be there. In G.'s last days, I was on call, ready to scoop P. up and get her to her next home when the moment came. G. and P. brought a tremendous amount of love into one another's lives while they were together, and when G. passed away she was at home, with P. in bed beside her where she belonged. I'...

Russell (center) has dangerously low self-confidence. Yesterday, he reminded me of this by losing his shit when my friend D. dropped by around dinner time. Forgetting how heavy Russell's emotional baggage is, I let my daughter open the door while I stirred the onions. Russell freaked out and tried to save us, and I arrived just in time to grab his writhing form just before he slipped out the door teeth-first. I carried him to the bedroom, where he proceeded to have a total meltdown. He's valiant—I'll give him that. It's just that D. is the opposite of nefarious, and Russell seems to have missed the memo. Russell spent the first seven months of his life tied to a tree, during which time it seems he formed a few general impressions: 1) men are bad. 2) tall men are very bad. 3) tall men leaning over are very, very bad. As a result, no greeting of anyone even remotely mistakable for male goes down in my household without Russell being locked away, or at least a stern warnin...

For days when there's no time to write, there's slow motion dog video:

Clover and Shaila—two of my blessings. I saw something on Facebook along the lines of, "do you love your job, your home, your family, and your love life? Are you very happy with every aspect of your personal life? Do you wake up filled with joy and gratitude every morning?" And I thought . . . "yeah! Basically, I am, and usually, I do." Then I read the comments. It was a sponsored post, selling some kind of e-workshops with a self-help guru. People were pissed—in full denial not only of this guy's services but also of the general premise that it is possible to be pretty happy with every aspect of your personal life. Don't get me wrong—I get angry, sad, distressed, worried, anxious, irritated, blue. I'm pissed about Kavanaugh, enraged about family separation at the border, distressed on behalf of the animals suffering in factory farms everywhere, and devastated by the ways in which institutionalized racism and speciesism are upheld. I'm also occasiona...

I now have 8 baby citrus trees growing in pots in my home. My working theory is that the climate of Whidbey Island circa 2018 is roughly similar to the climate of Oakland, CA circa 1885, which is when the parent tree sprouted in what is now my brother's backyard. I plan to raise my shiny little trees indoors for a couple of years then dole several out to friends, plant one in my greenhouse, and pot one on for wintering indoors for as long as it can fit in the house. I might try putting one in the yard as well, though I'm nervous about its chances in a hard frost. Advice welcome. My brother's citrus tree is supposedly a pomelo hybrid. It has fruits which look and smell exactly like lemons but are the size of grapefruits. It's a fantastic tree, and though I'm not sure the offspring will share the parent's characteristics, I am very excited to have these shiny little green reminders from my brother's Victorian urban farm.

I won a first aid kit through my community's emergency preparedness Facebook page the other day. It's been a good resource for getting to know my neighbors, and I'm glad to know they're thinking about caring for one another in the event of a disaster. With my abundance of leashes, kennels, carriers, and crates, and with the nearest animal shelter 27 miles away, I've volunteered to be my neighborhood's companion animal assembly station in the event of a disaster on a scale that separates people from pets.  Survivalists and preppers have been the brunt of more than a few jokes in my lifetime, and there is something almost pathetic about someone who invests more life energy in building a nuclear bunker than in connecting with today's society. Preppers are often stereotyped as anti-government, right-wing radicals or commune-dwelling, free love hippies, but since Y2K and especially since 9/11, it seems that being prepared for at least a couple of weeks of societa...

I once read a book that suggested it's possible to speak to animals—really speak, and really be understood word-for-word. The book made me a little angry, to tell you the truth. It was like a tantalizing but false offer of the greatest gift I could ever hope to receive. Nonetheless, I believe I can speak to animals through my body language—through my touch—through the tone of my voice. I believe they can understand what's on my heart when my attention is attuned to them. I have two great dreams: one, that I might one day open a deer sanctuary on Whidbey, to rehabilitate injured and orphaned deer and to support the conditions for safer deer-driver interactions. Two, that I might die with enough money or fame to warrant the construction of the Marnie A. Jackson Memorial Wildlife Bridge, to allow safe passage of wild animals over Highway 525. **** I had an extraordinary experience last night. I was driving to the ferry to pick up my daughters at about 8:45 pm and I saw three vehic...

The Ark (not pictured) is a fixer-upper. That's why I was able to afford it, and I am grateful for the stained carpet, missing fixtures, overgrown yard, rickety porches, and dripping taps that put this home within financial reach. Thanks to the help of various hired and volunteer helpers in my life, it's now moving from the "needs repair" to "could use updating" column—in other words, it's safe, sound, and livable. The most recent project includes replacement of the 80's era beige toilet in the the upstairs bathroom, which has had a tricky flush valve since we moved in. It was off limits for most of the summer, with a "NO!" handwritten in sharpie taped to its handle. About a month ago, my dad pulled the beige toilet out and opened the box on our shiny new toilet from a big box store, only to discover the tank was cracked. Never fear! The friendly customer service team was only too happy to process our refund and reorder the toilet. It would...

I rented in this neighborhood for six months before I bought, and when a house I could afford came available I jumped. The thing I would not trade for anything—one of the most precious measures of home—is that my neighborhood is walkable. Going out my door and strolling with the dogs is a great source of joy to me. From our door, we can walk down a quiet wooded lane, descend from the high bluff through a dappled forest, traverse a mile of secluded beach on the shore of the Salish Sea, and hike up a quiet country road to return home. My other favorite place to walk is near X's home (below). There, I experience the feeling of spaciousness that I remember from my California childhood. The windswept hillsides, sun-soaked and dotted with trees. The golden grasses bent over and rattling. That sort of sprawling landscape feels, to me, like heaven. I'm grateful to this land for holding me as lovingly as the California hills once did.  Whidbey, isle of view.

Alison Fennell art I'll tell you a secret—I've always wanted to be an advice columnist. If you need advice, send me your questions. The advice column dream notwithstanding, I do have four goals in mind for this blog: 1) Share a little of the joy and humor that I experience every day at the hands and paws of my beautiful family. 2) Flex my writing muscles again, as I have come to miss the creative boost I experience when I have a daily blogging habit. 3) Deepen my roots here at the Ark—a new house for me, but one in which I'm starting to feel at home. 4) Provide fodder for my third book. My first book was a children's story, published a few years ago with illustrator Alison Fennell (she illustrated the bunny above). My second book is in progress, working title Shine. It's mostly about Fenway Bartholomule, but also about me. What do YOU want from this blog? Anecdotes on the animal family? Home improvement updates? Family status reports? Poetry, psychology, gratitude, ...

Someone hurt Russell's feelings once and he has never forgotten it. He is a very soft dog—a fast movement makes him cringe and a harsh word curls him up like a pillbug. Nonetheless, he also has a tremendous, oversized capacity for joie de vivre.  I have never seen a dog enjoy freedom as much as Russell does. When Russell was younger, he used to make a garbled sound like an emphysematic gremlin at the sight of any other dog. That sound, plus his curled tail and wrinkled forehead, made me guess he had a streak of basenji in him. Now that he's arrived at the dignified age of 6, he has a regular (though shrill) bark. He spends less time shrieking in the presence of caninekind and more time trembling with tension and curiosity. Russell spent the first seven months of his life tied to a tree, and after joining our family he tried to help himself to freedom in oversized portions. Backing out of harnesses, scaling gates, digging under fences, and squirming out of the cracked windows of...

Monday, a friend and I were talking about what made Brays of Our Lives work. Brays was my former blog, written from the point of view of my late mule, Fenway. He had a clear voice—earnest, baleful, wise, and wry. Writing for Fenway felt more like channeling than authoring. It was often a state experience—effortless, exhilarating, and sweet. My friend asked if the current animal family (three dogs, three rabbits, two cats) would contribute to this blog, and I said I didn't think so. They talk to me every day—with deep eyes, wagging tails, play bows and binkies . That said, they don't tell stories . . . not in the way Fenway did. Maybe I'll discover an animal voice in my blogging process—maybe one day Russell will look at me and say, "hey, Ma? Scoot over. I have something to say." I don't think so, though. I think one of the great gifts my mule gave me was the ability to hone my own writer's voice. Like Fenway, I have some wisdom and some humor to impart. I...

Brodie likes to sleep tucked in beneath his blankets. In winter, he likes to wear his blankets around the house.  F said he doesn't mind being blogged about as long as I refer to him with a different capital letter each time. He doesn't want anyone getting the idea his first name is Frank (it isn't) or even begins with F (it doesn't). Today is a Q day, I think. Q has many lovely attributes and habits, but one that I find most endearing is that he's very committed to tucking the dogs in each night. He spends extra time with Brodie, who is not as young as he used to be, and who is dealing with several chronic illnesses, and who can't see any more. I think Q's extra time with Brodie has less to do with the fact that for Brodie, time may be running short, and more to do with the fact that Brodie is just a great dog. He deserves more love than we could possibly show him in the years he has left. Q gets down on the dog bed beside Brodie and tucks him in beneath a...

Longtime readers may remember Dahlia, my Jersey cow. Some of you may even remember her as our Jersey cow—saved by 22 people, (the "Dahlia Syndicate") who contributed to her purchase so that she could join my family. She's had a very happy retirement, and has made many friends. Dahlia has spent most of the last year living on a 200 acre organic squash farm in Coupeville, on central Whidbey Island. There, she shares a couple of acres with two other cattle and spends her weekends being admired by visitors. Autumn is an exciting time to be an extroverted cow at a pumpkin patch! Dahlia gets a lot of compliments on her beautiful big brown eyes. They're one of her most distinctive features, and apparently one of her most vulnerable. For the last few weeks, she's suffered a debilitating case of pinkeye. We moved her, briefly, to my mom's farm where we'd have easier access to a headgate, in which she was restrained for a series of intra-ocular injections. That...

“To bring anything into your life, imagine that it’s already there.” Richard Bach I think one of the major contributors to my general happiness is my ability to get tremendous satisfaction out of my imagination, or perhaps I should say my intentions. To clarify, I can imagine something that is likely to come along down the road—that I'm planning for, and working towards—and it just thrills me, and is almost as good as the real thing. My front yard will be full of giant allium flowers and chartreuse euphorbia. I can see it already, in my mind's eye, and it is BEAUTIFUL. I get less satisfaction out of thinking of a front yard full of Scottish highland steers (beautiful, yes. Likely to come along down the road, no). In this way, I'd say I'm fed more by plans than by daydreams. “A goal without a plan is just a wish.” —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry Example : I replaced my washer and dryer yesterday. It was basically a non-event, because I'd known I needed a new washer and dry...

Living with sensory-impaired animals is interesting—there's so much to notice in how capable they are, and how much they achieve with the senses they do have. Paisley, our deaf Aussie (2002-2013), used to go into the master bedroom of our apartment on Billy Frank Jr. Blvd. at about four every summer afternoon to watch the ceiling. It confused me at first, until I stayed with him and saw what he saw—a glint of light like a flare slashing across the ceiling, signaling that the chrome bumper of Matt's truck had caught the light as it turned the corner toward our driveway. Master was returning. Brodie, my Labrador mix, is blind. He lost 100% of his vision in one eye and most of his vision in the other due to complications of diabetes this winter. He sees a little bit of light and shadow, it seems. He gets around fine, and you could almost forget he was vision-impaired if it weren't for the occasional "walk straight into a bush" or "run joyfully to greet the spot ...

The other night I dreamed that I was writing again, and I knew exactly how to begin. It was a simple thing—maybe one sentence, maybe two. In my dream it started with just that, and then the words flowed out of me and by dinner time it was a book. I don't remember the first sentence, but it had something to do with stepping on dog shit in my bedroom*. I then dreamed that I found a weanling mule wandering in the road, and I had nowhere to put him. No paddock, no pasture, no backyard, no garage. I roamed the streets beside him, feeling an obligation toward his safety and an utter, overwhelming lack of clarity as far as how to secure it. That dream ended when I saw the door to my home—the Ark—and suddenly the weanling was gone, and I was mounting the steps and opening the door and wrapping my arms around my boyfriend, who stood there silently awaiting me. It was the best feeling. A feeling of safety, of permanence, and of home . Moving to the country and owning acreage was my mother...

My mule Fenway died on June 1, 2018—the day before my 39th birthday. It was terrible, and unexpected, yet apparently painless and instant. I loved him so. I can't continue blogging without mentioning him, as he was the mule behind Brays Of Our Lives . Through my relationship with Fenway Bartholomule I found my voice as an author, my confidence as a communications professional, and my gratitude, in a time when I was overcome more often by sorrow than by joy. Today, I'm almost ridiculously happy most of the time—wonderfully fulfilled, wildly optimistic, and constantly grateful for all that is right in the world even while so much is wrong. Racism, environmental devastation, climate change, the kyriarchy —I acknowledge they're real and that I must play a role in dismantling them, but also that I work better with a joyful heart. I've sometimes wondered if I should have kept Brays Of Our Lives going in those years after I got busy doing paid work, writing not for my big brow...