BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

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...