a Great White Heron
on a log
in the Hillsborough River
in a frame
on your wall
take a picture
of a picture
of a heron
they can hold.
The blog is now a published book! It has both old writing and new. Quite a bit was cut as it was redundant or not what I wanted in the book. Overall, I am amazed that this long journey (five years) has led to this.
Thank you blog followers for helping make this book a reality!
Please see the publisher’s web page for the book. Here is the link:
Here is the link for the catalog. My book is under Non-Fiction
Brutus lies under the table as I write. His front paws are crossed. I check his back legs and, sure enough they are crossed as well almost yoga-style.He is big and bulky but graceful.
Brutus is a slow, slow walker unless we are heading for the water.Then, he trots before me, pulling me along versus how I usually have to pull him along behind me. Down the street, across a small bridge and through the neighborhood is a street that ends at the water’s edge. I sit on the cement wall or on the large broken pieces of concrete, avoiding the pile of dark green, soaked seaweed–unless he finds a ball–and then I sink in, figuring I can dry my “walking” shoes in the sun on the patio.
He climbs down the crumbled pavement into the water and walks out until water covers his belly, then he stops. And stands there… That’s the whole of his activity during our stay. He stands in the water gazing out into the bay, occasionally turning his big eyes back to check on me. I imagine he stands there because he enjoys cooling his belly–this is Florida, after all and cold days are possible in January, but rare. Probably he loves all the scents of the bay. I know how seaweed smells, akin to rotting spinach, but I wonder how salt water smells. Does salt have a scent? Likely, Brutus would say it absolutely does and why would I even ask such a thing?
Sometimes, before he enters the bay to stand, he finds a tennis ball sitting in the seaweed bed, enjoys chewing for a while and then glance at me to tell me I should throw it. Now, I “hear ” him tell me he is ready for me to throw the ball. And, of course I do. He moves quickly– for Brutus–and charges into the water swimming for the ball.Here is one of those times I am sure of our communication. He speaks to me through his eyes. How does that work, I wonder? Why can we hear so much without using words? Certainly we do this with people also. We hear this way always with animals. I realize that another reason for my love of animals is the silence between us. It is companionable and void of all agendas. We can also experience this with people, but it is likely only in the most special relationships, and not a matter of course. Presence. Pure presence we offer to each other at those times with animal or human. Precious, rare presence.
Our culture is starting to acknowledge the communication abilities and intelligence of c of animals. I feel the shift of attitude personally as I pay more attention to signals the dogs and cats send me via body language or eye contact, by barks or by mews. Even I, the animal lover all my life, followed the old school ignorance about animals before–‘he or she is just a dog, bird, cat, elephant…” Ugh. I am grateful we are waking up to understanding our fellow sentiment beings. St. Francis, the patron saint of animals, had it right, Buddhism has it right in its plea to not kill any living being.
Today marks the day I am beginning my new blog posts about adventures in pet-sitting. I will post about the places and the personalities and proclivities of the dogs, cats and people I meet as a part-time pet-sitter. Maybe this will be a book someday. Here we go!
I am staying for seventeen days with a dog , Brutus, who lives on Snell Isle in St. Petersburg. This dog has very nice and very wealthy parents who are generous and kind to me because I love Brutus, their lab mix. Most distinct about Brutus are his large expressive eyes and his “figure” which is blocky with only a slight indentation of a “waist.” It’s been hard to find the halter that would fit him comfortably, but I got one for him for Christmas, to the delight of Sally and John who live here.
I’m often here at condo complex called “The Water Club” because Sally and John are frequent travelers. The complex features a water view of the bay, a pool and a hot tub. My brother said I should pay them. for letting me stay here. I have nicknamed this place “the resort” and my friends know where I will be when I say “I’ll be sitting Brutus at the resort.” This is a lifestyle I am not accustomed to. People who live on Snell Isle are accustomed to this lifestyle. Sometimes it feels too Republican-seeming for me and I chafe at the correctness of the place with its tortured landscaping. I identify with the house cleaner more than the residents.
On our walk this morning, we encountered an old British women. There’s something so charming about old British women. Think Miss Marple and other old lady detectives. I don’t see this charm in many old American women (of which I am one). Something about the plain gray skirt and cardigan she wore, her white blouse, her visibly sagging breasts all added up to an unpretentious, yet dignified, sense of comfort. She seemed comfortable in her skin. So now I’ve decided to speak with a British accent, but forgive me for not embracing the obvious sagging boobs look. “The dog owners are in Inja.” Yes, that is how I will pronounce it now, “Inja.” Ta-ta for now.
by Pablo Neruda
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
My friend, Debbie Hart, lives on Martha’s Vineyard. We have started a collaboration of her photos and my writing.
pale over the meadow
like a promise
to the still tree
sure as the brown grass
that the promise
will be fulfilled.