Losing JP

 Recently over a single weekend, my mother fell - and for a time it seemed like she might die; my horse broke an in probably a career ending way, and I had to return my beloved JP back to the rescue.

Don’t judge me, but of the three incidents, losing JP is the one that haunts me.

Mom was/is getting the best possible care and so was/is Talen. There is absolutely nothing I could do for either of them that wasn’t/isn’t being done.

JP is different. I failed him. Repeatedly.

JP (Jackson Pollack)  came to me in July when he was five months old and 87 pounds. He is an absolute stunning, loving, sweet and huge Harlequin Great Dane puppy.The story was that his owner was ill and could not care for him.

While JP obviously was well-treated, he was barely socialized, had zero training and was fearful because of it. He also had a complete lack of boundaries. Zip. 

If he wanted something was on the counter, JP helped himself. Dalai or Jasper probably would too; but they would be furtive about it. 

I always instill a huge amount of Jewish guilt in all of my dogs. They may be naughty; but they feel really bad about it.

It didn’t take long for JP to catch on. He continued to counter surf,  but soon learned to slink up and give me guilty side eye to ask for a forgiving cuddle. He is one smart dog.

JP also has boundless energy. That was part of the attraction.

At seven and a half, Dalai is an old Dane, playing is way down on her list of fun activities.  Not so much for one and a half year old Jasper. For him, JP was the  Ever Ready Bunny buddy of his dreams. They chased each other for hours, leaping in the air and colliding with a crash like a pair of fighting T-Rexes, before eventually collapsing in a snoring, content puppy pile.

They adored each other and their good-natured devotion never failed to make me laugh.

Okay, I was genuinely pissed when they ate the guest bedroom’s mattress down to the springs, but I needed to replace it anyway. It was falling apart anyway. Sort of.

Because of his lack of socialization JP often missed picking up on other dog’s body language. Like Dalai, She was unimpressed completely with JP, but he didn't understand.

He’d gambol up to her bowing and trying to play. Usually she’d growl. He was a big dopey puppy, so would usually just bounce away, completely confused and upset by her irritation.

It all worked. Until it didn't.

In late November Jasper was neutered. Danes are prone to bloat, and the best way to prevent stomach torsion is a gastroplexy where the stomach is stitched to the wall so it can’t twist during a bloat.

I have this done when my dogs are being neutered or spayed, so they only have go through surgery once. It is major operation, but much safer than having their stomach flip.

I was a wreck, but Jasper came through it well. He never fussed with his incision so he didn't even wear the cone of shame. After a few days he  was feeling pretty good was nearly impossible to keep quiet.

When I separated the boys, they howled for each other, and JP quickly learned how to turn door knobs, so I gave up. They played, albeit a little fiercely than usual.

This was my first mistake. 

After a week I brought Jasper in for a vet check and he seemed to be doing great. He had dissolving stitches, so he didn’t need to return . He was good to go.

Weirdly, he started having mood swings. Jasper has the best temperament of any dog I’ve ever known. I literally had never heard him growl. Until he was neutered. The longer it was post-neuter, the crabbier he became. I chalked it up to changing hormones and figured it would pass.

Wrong.

A couple of weeks later I was replacing a garden fence that JP had blundered through and knocked down. Out of nowhere JP and Jasper got into it for real. This was not a small fight, WWE fake fight. This was the real thing. 

They were ripping each other apart. When they finally were separated , Jasper’s incision had burst open and JP’s head sported a gash that eventually took seven stitches to close. They each had a dozen or so other more superficial wounds.

I took each to the vet, separately since I was afraid to have them in the car together. It turned out that Jasper was desperately ill. Apparently he was one of those rare (Mega Millions rare) dogs allergic to dissolving stitches. His had become infected, which explained his bad temper, and while they were fighting, the incision exploded.He immediately went into emergency surgery.

The following evening, while Jasper was still in the hospital recuperating, Mom fell.  Ten hours later she finally let me call the paramedics to transport her to the hospital. Where she promptly became semi-comatose.

Oh, and the vet checked Talen, my new show horse the next morning, and found him worse after a miracle treatment. Good times.

That night I picked up Jasper. The boys were wary around each other. JP in particular was nervous. He was always a fearful dog, but now he was terrified. Every time Jasper approached him, he’d growl.

A smart person would have crated him and let them both calm down.  Not me, I put JP in his crate, but when when Jasper climbed on the bed, JP had a fit in the crate, I let him out. 

Stupid, stupid move.

All hell broke out. They tore into each other. It took about five minutes get them apart, and it was horrifying, like a scene from a massacre. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the dogs and I were covered with blood.

A return trip to the ER, (“Is that Jasper? Didn’t he just leave?”), proved that under all the gore, Jasper had no new injuries. They cleaned him up and I took him home.

I was in shock, but realized that JP was going to have to go. For his own safety. 

I spent the night with JP in Mom’s room with the other dogs locked in my bedroom. Even though JP was cut up and wounded, he curled up next to me and cuddled all night. As usual, he practically purred when he was close.

I cried for five hours straight and in the morning made arrangements with the rescue to return him.

Since I was incapable of driving a dear friend drove JP and I the three hours to the rescue. I cried the whole way. When we walked in, JP started to shake and clung to me. The rescuer had to literally pull us apart.

All the behaviorists and dog trainers and experts tell me I did the right thing. That the dogs would never get along again. That it was better for JP.

I don’t’ believe them. They didn’t see the look of betrayal in JP eyes as I left him. I have never, ever deliberately hurt an animal before, and I don’t know that I will ever recover – even though he probably has.

Mom has mostly recovered, and will be coming home soon. Talen is probably the same. But I'll never stop worrying about JP.

Mouse Apocalypse

Rodents generally don’t make me squeamish. At my mom’s old farmhouse, they are literally part of the woodwork. When they skitter in the wall behind my bed at night, I smack the wall as they pass by. It startles them enough to go somewhere else.

But in the past few weeks I not only trapped more than 12 of the buggers, but spotted one in the bathroom and the cat’s room. Tilly, the former feral cat, just glared at me and as if to say, “For god’s sake don’t you see that thing? Take care of it!”

She had a point. It was time to call out the big guns. It as actually well past the time.

I typed “Rodent Eradication” into Angie’s List. There weren't many choices. I didn't consider anyone using poison . Not only did I not want mice climbing in the walls to die, but more importantly, poison doesn’t just kill the mouse; it drives them outside where they can be eaten by birds and other creatures. Including my dogs.  Then it kills them too.

There were only a few companies left, but Rodents Stop! had great reviews, and an ridiculous lifetime guarantee.  Try and find that in New England! Just another reason to live in Los Angeles!

A few days later a man wearing a Rodents Stop t-shirt and carrying a ladder and a big flashlight was at my door. He grimaced a lot while he looked under the house, in the attic and behind my kitchen appliances. He shook his head sadly, muttering, “They are nesting here. And there. And there. Oh, man. You have a big problem.”

He informed me that my home was infested. The mice had turned my attic into a rodent Four Seasons. They shredded the insulation for their beds and were enjoying the good life. There was probably a little pool and Jacuzzi up there. And, by the way, there was “a LOT of daytime activity.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The idea made me shudder. I could feel mice surrounding me. 

We agreed that Rodents Stop! would come two days later. They would remove the pest-filled insulation and vacuum the attic and crawlspaces. Then they’d replace the insulation and mouse-proof the house. 

It would only cost the equivalent of a great used car.

I practically threw the deposit at them. I’d have done almost anything to get the damn things gone and my house back.

I have floaters in one eye, but I am convinced what I saw in the kitchen that night was mice. Even though all three Great Danes snore and fart while they sleep, I know I heard squealing and little mouse feet stomping around all night. Every time a dog tail touched me, I was sure it was a mouse.

I didn’t get much sleep.

Two mornings  later, at precisely 7:15 am, two trucks filled with equipment and nine men pulled up. The men yanked on gas masks and went to work.

By 4:30 that afternoon, there was shiny new insulation, fresh cement patches in footings and new screens to the crawl space. The attic was filled with traps to catch any mice that initially got away. 

Part of the deal was that Rodents Stop would come by  a few times a week to check and empty the traps.

I sighed with relief as I handed the supervisor the final check.

I'm not stupid,  knew there would be a few outlier mice that escaped the vacuums and the traps. Still, I about threw up that night when I opened my closet door and saw one looking at me.

I’m just surprised the police didn’t show up; I screamed that loudly. “God damn, MOUSE!” The dogs blinked at each other, they’d seen this show before and were unimpressed.

It’s been about a week, and I haven’t seen another.

Mouse apocalypse: Mission accomplished.

Behind Blue Eyes (and Black Spots)

Yesterday my sister-in-law told me that I was insane. It’s not the first time. It’s not even the first time this week. (I could mention that some people have 30 + goats, three dogs and five cats, but I digress.)

The point is, she’s not the only one. Since I got a third Great Dane that sentiment has become a chorus.

I did have a plan when I acquired JP, the five-month-old rescue. I thought Jasper, the 14-month-old Dane needed a playmate. He loves playing with Dalai the Dane, but at seven, Dalai no longer has the stamina to play for nearly as long as Jasper thinks is appropriate. That is, constantly.

Jasper loves his regular visits with Blue, a lovely, patient three-year-old Dane who just flops on her stomach while Jasper pesters.  Naturally I assumed he would literally leap at the prospect of having a new playful friend.

Like most crazy people, I am a little delusional.

The afternoon I picked up JP I had to literally unload him from the SUV. He didn’t know how to jump down, and when I helped him out, he slid onto the ground in 87 pounds of puppy mush. After a few seconds he popped up and started to bound around the yard in search of something interesting.

Then he spotted Poppy. JP thought she was fascinating. He gallumped up to her, brimming with dopey joy. In response, she snapped at him. He was shocked and tumbled over in surprise. (He tips over a lot – his feet are the size of soup plates.)

By then Jasper had shoved his way over.  JP was ecstatic to see another normal-sized playmate. Jasper, somehow knew JP wasn’t here for a playdate, but rather was staying.  Jasper was not pleased.

In response to JPs delight, Jasper knocked him down and growled. Again, JP was shocked.  

By the time Dalai joined the grumbling crowd, JP was confused and befuddled. Dalai just sniffed him and stomped away in a disgusted fury.

For the next day, that’s how it went. Dalai and Poppy ignored JP’s clumsy overtures, and Jasper snapped and groused loudly. Just as I was starting to think that this wasn’t going to work, Jasper and JP started playing. Hard.

They zoom around the back yard at top speed, leaping in the air and colliding as they hit the ground. Inevitably JP lands with an earthshaking thud, and before he registers what happened, he’s be on his feet chasing Jasper. 

Later when they are exhausted, they collapse on my bed, their feet tangled together a mass of spotted legs. They are inseparable.

I immediately signed JP up for puppy school. Other than housebreaking him, his previous owners had taught him nothing. Zip. He came with no boundaries. He counter surfs. He steals toys, often from Jasper’s mouth. Anything and everything in his path goes into his mouth.

It’s like living with a really huge, adorable, drooling, snoring toddler.

Since this isn’t my first Dane puppy I’m already in the habit of keeping food in cabinets, the refrigerator or inside the microwave. Needless to say, my shoes go in the closet with the door tightly closed.

For the first few weeks everything was easy. The weather was great, so the dogs blew off steam chasing each other around the horse paddock for hours. I walked each of them a mile a day.

Then it got hot. Surface of the sun, hot. For nearly three weeks in it was 90 degrees before eight am and topped out around 109. The dogs would charge out of the air-conditioned house and freeze as they hit a wall of heat.  They never stayed out for long and always returned panting, their eyes glazed with heat. 

Walks were out of the question; their paws would burn on the pavement.

We were all bored ,crabby and getting on each other’s nerves. 

Once I came home to the shredded remains of brand new package of poop bags scattered throughout the house. The ones that were ripped were draped across the furniture like streamers. At least the redecorating exhausted them.

During the heatwave, there was one day I had to be gone all afternoon and evening. I came home just long enough to feed the dogs and put them out. When I herded them inside, they were visibly vibrating with energy. But I had to leave again.

When I finally got home, I knew there was going to be trouble. But I wasn’t quite ready for absolute devastation. My mistake.

The first thing I spotted was the remains of that week’s New Yorker. I hadn’t even had a chance to read Talk of the Town . My bed was littered with scraps of book I couldn’t identify. Bits of a mouse trap were scattered in the living room. The guest room held the remains of a sponge. Tucked into the couch were my expensive sunglasses, the glass and arms gnawed beyond repair. Even my hairbrush was chomped.

Then there was the box of envelopes. It used to hold my checkbook, two books of stamps and a bunch of those return address labels charities send out. 

The box was shredded, the envelopes were missing and the check register was limp with drool.  The checks and stamps were gone. Completely eaten.  The address labels were untouched.

I surveyed the mess from the door and shouted, “Oh. My. God! Bad dogs! Bad! Bad! Dogs!” 

I stood stock still for a moment. JP blew past me into the yard in a full-on gallop. This was obviously not his first rodeo and he was getting out of Dodge and smacking range.

As I went room to room assessing the damage, Jasper followed me with an expression of complete surprise. He would have been more believable if a stamp wasn’t stuck to his forehead.

As I was picking up the wreckage, JP crept in and put his head in my lap. He was equal parts terrified and sorry.

It was far too long after fact to punish him, so I cursed and patted him. He sighed and climbed into my lap and fell asleep.

It’s not easy being a puppy. Especially one who is the size of a mini-horse at five months, and on his third home.

It’s not much easier being his person. But being nuts does help.

You're Never Alone with Three Great Danes and a Brittany

When Dalai the Great Dane joined my family, my friend Richard shook his head sadly and said, “You will never have another boyfriend.”

When Richard’s right, he’s right.

Since all was lost on that front, I recently acquired a third. 

It didn’t happen quite that way, but it might as well have. Here’s the real story: I’m insane.

My life was relatively peaceful. Dalai the seven-year-old  Great Dane, Jasper the 14 month-old Great Dane and Poppy the 11 year-old Brittany, were all happy. They played, barked and got along as well as three dogs in a small house can. Equally important,  I was happy. Naturally I had to make a change.

One day I was on the Great Dane Fanatics Facebook page, ostensibly to see puppy pictures. A woman had posted that she was looking for a rescue puppy.

Sadly, there are a lot of Great Danes available for adoption that are about a year or older. This is because people are stupid. They spend a small fortune buying a Great Dane puppy and when it’s keeps growing they realize 1) that it is a GREAT Dane, not a miniature Dane and 2) they should have trained it. As I mentioned, these owners are idiots.

Most of the dogs are fantastic, gorgeous and deserve a loving dedicated home. Due to awesome, dedicated rescue people, they usually land somewhere safe.

There are several good Dane rescues in Southern California, and one that poses as a rescue, but is actually a puppy mill. (For real. It’s run by a former child actor.) Actual adoptable Great Dane puppies are unicorns; they are legendary, but only exist in people’s dreams.

I was reading the responses to this lady’s question, when the person that runs the best rescue in SoCal posted a picture of a puppy. A Harlequin puppy. A Harlequin puppy that looked exactly like my late, heart dog, Murray’s father.

My emotions completely overruled common sense. I contacted Rene, the head of the rescue. He mentioned he’d only had the pup for a few days, and hadn’t even put online yet.

In one of those moments that makes no sense, except that it happened, I filled out the application and sent it. I figured Rene would be deluged with responses - there are about a million people on that Facebook page. And they are all Great Dane fanatics.

 I assumed I’d never hear from him again. I never win anything.

After I hit send on the app, I took Jasper for a walk. It was lovely. After a ton of hard work on both of our parts, Jasper  had turned into a very nice dog.

By the time we got home, there was a call from Rene. We chatted for a long time, and he told me the dog - his name, soon to be changed, was Reggie -  was mine.

I said I could pick him up in a couple of days. He suggested I come by the next day. Which is how, on one of the hottest days of the summer, I found myself driving to San Marcos with a puppy-sized crate in the back of my SUV.

I arrived at the address on a quiet tidy street. It was a normal-looking house. It was also really quiet. The only sign that this was a Great Dane rescue were the pallets of dog food by the door. I rang the bell and was greeted by the sound of a tiny dog barking wildly.

The door opened and there were three stunning, white, hearing/sight impaired Great Danes  (breeding harlequin to  harlequin, or merle to merle effort to create puppies with spots often results in disabled dogs) and a tiny, Dashound, who obviously ran the place. Rene, brought up the rear. I barely noticed him.

The three white Danes were beautiful, perfectly trained and not for adoption. Any one of them was better behaved than any dog I’ve ever owned. Or met. Did I mention they were deaf and mostly blind?

Rene took me into the backyard, which, thanks to artificial turf, was also impeccable.

“Are you ready to meet Reggie?” he asked.

I nodded, and he put the pretty white dogs in the house and disappeared around the corner to get Reggie.

A few minutes later an enormous, gangly, elephant of a dog came bounding towards me. He was almost the size of Jasper, but with the clumsiness of a puppy.

When he spotted me, the pup ran behind Rene and barked at me with a grown dog bark.  He clung to Rene like Velcro. 

Rene went into the house to get the paperwork, and the puppy followed, slamming into the glass door with a crash. He picked himself up and crashed into the door again.

No doubt he really was five months old. No question.

I sat on the ground and ignored Reggie (soon-to-be JP) while I talked to Rene and filled out forms.

“I brought way too small a crate,” I said. The puppy sidled up to me warily. He ran away, and then rushed back. He tried to stop but instead fell into my lap and drooled on me. I scratched his ear. If he could have purred, he would have. Instead he drooled more.

“He doesn’t need a crate.” Said Rene. “I took him to the vet this morning to get microchipped and he was perfect in the car. Oh, he was 87 pounds. “

I gulped. Jasper was 50 pounds at five months.

He added proudly, “He’s going to be big. Look at those feet.”

They were huge. His legs were the size of Murray’s, and at 35 inches at the withers, Murray was not a small dog.

“I imagine he’s going to be between 160 and 180 when he’s done,” Rene added merrily.

I felt myself go pale, and it wasn’t because of the heat.

It was a good thing that by that time I was awash in drool and in love.  

As almost an aside Rene said, “He’s not terrific on a leash yet. His owner got sick and didn’t have time for him.” 

Okay then. I felt a tiny twinge of misgiving, but I shoved it away. He was so cute.

Between the two of us, Rene and I  maneuvered the dog into the car.   Rene was right. JP was a champ in the car. It took forever to get home, but he settled into the backseat, with his head on the console and occasionally my right arm. By the time we pulled into my driveway, four hours later, we were bonded. And I was soaked with drool.

.

A social life is overrated anyway. With three Great Danes I’m never alone.

Way Out West and the Young Horse Show

In the spring of 2014 my heart hurt. My beloved and talented show hunter Blind Faith aka Lucy Van Pelt, was sixteen years old and had spent a year recovering from surgery to repair a torn suspensory. Prior to her injury she had never been better. 

But the surgery and time off didn’t work. Lucy was officially retired and I was distraught.

In that state, I made an entirely emotional and ridiculous financial decision to breed her. Luckily Lucy was exceedingly talented, and I found out later, carried good blood lines. 

Phew, she saved my butt once again.

My trainer and I started looking at potential baby daddies.  Since artificial insemination is the gold standard for sport horses, and thanks to innovations in shipping frozen semen, there is literally a world of stallions to choose from. That meant stallions from Germany, Canada and Ireland were all on the table.

The sheer number of choices was mind boggling; the process was like Tinder or Match.com for equines. The only limits are your goals and your wallet.

I was looking for an amateur hunter. That meant the stallion needed a reputation for babies that were amateur friendly and being able to take a joke. I'm not an "amateur" amateur. I'm a real amateur. I needed a regular comedian.

Lucy had a jump for days, but her movement isn’t the best.  So we also wanted a stallion with a great way of going to improve upon that. We picked Westporte, a Canadian  Warmblood who had all the attributes on my long checklist.

I wired a bunch of money to Canada and when Lucy’s obstetrician/vet decided she was at peak fertility, Lucy went to the clinic. Without even a Wham! Bam! or Thank you, m’am, she was knocked up. 

At 30 days, Lucy was confirmed pregnant. It was determined that she was carrying twins which is not good. So one was terminated (hopefully the untalented and lame one) and Lucy came home to hang her buddies for the next ten and a half months.

I spent the time watching Lucy’s girth and moaning increase. Other than the near-constant sighing, she was happy as a clam.

I  however, worried. Was she spending too much time out in the sun? It was 110 degrees, was the baby getting fried? Was she eating too much? Too little?

I was lucky enough to have secured a spot for Lucy and the baby at Three Wishes Farm, Anneliese Kannow's place. Anneliese is not only a smart lady, who knows seemingly everything about breeding sport horse, she is a very calming influence. 

Anneliese assured me everything was going to be fine, and because I was new at this and ignorant, I believed her.

Turns out, she was right.

The last day of February 2015, Lucy gave birth. I got to the clinic about 20 minutes after Faith did.

After an hour of contemplating her situation, Faith figured out how to use her legs and started to nurse. I thought she was perfect.

Now it's just a matter of time. You know, the waiting is the hardest part.

That said, baby horses are just about the most fun, ever. They are ridiculous, beautiful and constantly curious all at once. Did I mention how cute they are? Even the ugly ones are adorable. 

Faith and Lucy shared their pasture with another mare and her colt. The foals became inseparable. They would charge around the field, running up and down the hills and jumping over logs and sticks and invisible things. It was awesome.

Eventually the babies spent more time together than with their moms, which made weaning a non-event. Neither Faith nor Lucy found it nearly as traumatic as I did, which just figured.

I went out to visit at least once a week. I’d holler for Faith and I’d squint at her as she ran toward my handful of peppermints.

She inherited her daddy’s way of going. Yay!

We put the babies in a jump chute over tiny crossrails a couple of times. Faith didn’t have the greatest form, but she had ability. Like her momma, the height of the jumps was not going to be a problem.

This weekend was the West Coast segment of the Young Horse Show series.  It’s a relatively new program in the United States, but is an institution in Europe. It’s a way breeders can get their young horses judged on confirmation and jumping.  

When Anneliese suggested I send Faith with her babies to the show, I was in. It would be an invaluable experience for both of us. 

It would be Faith's first time in a trailer without her mom and she’d get bathed, clipped, have her mane pulled and braided and spend her first night in a stall. All good things for her future life as a show horse.

But mostly, a photographer was going to be there. It’s all about the pictures.

Faith was a superstar. She loaded and shipped well, when it came time to get her mane pulled and her whiskers trimmed, she was patient. Ish. She even put up with a bath and wore a sheet to keep clean.

When I arrived, I barely recognized the filly in the stall. Faith was all grown up. In two years she had gone from a zygote to becoming a horse shockingly reminiscent of her mother.

I had to walk away from her for a moment to take it all in.

As for the show; it was a blast. I sniffled a little when the handlers took her into the ring. She was following along like a real horse. 

Once in the ring, Faith moved well and her ability to jump was obvious, even if her style needed some polish. The judges comment were dead on, “Scopey,” they wrote. “But needs to find her technique.”

I can live with that.

Hell, I was so excited that the first thing I did when I got home was run to the backyard to brag about Faith to Lucy. 

Lucy was far more interested in her peppermints, than my news. 

The War of the Hummingbirds

I confess that I am completely pussy, horse, dog and canary- whipped by the other residents of Seven Hills Farm West. Morning till night, I’m at their beck and call. 

The day begins when Dalai the Dane says so. That's usually between 5:30 and 7:00 AM when she slowly slides off the bed. She moves through a downward dog pose that yogis would die for, and marches to my side of the bed. If her wagging tail whacking the wall doesn’t wake me, she shoves her big, black nose in my face and snorts. Loudly. I’m up.

From there, while I’m still in my jammies, the dogs go outside in the front and I feed the horses out back. Once the dogs and cat eat, I can make my coffee. No variation in this ritual is permitted.

I accept that this is my own fault. But I might, just might have reached the breaking point. It’s bad enough that my pets push me around; now, a wild hummingbird has started calling the shots. And he’s taking no prisoners. 

It started simply enough. While mom was staying with me, I thought she’d get a kick out of watching a hummingbird feeder. I got one and hung it on a pole directly in front of my dining room window. 

After making a pot of hummingbird goop (four cups of water, one cup of sugar and a little red food coloring) I filled the feeder and we settled down to watch the results.

I have seen dozens of internet videos of people’s yards filled with dozens of feeders and hundreds of hummingbirds. I knew that was unlikely, but was hoping for one or two.

It didn’t take long before the birds arrived. There were five individuals; two adult males, a female and two juveniles. We wore out my copy of Hummingbirds of Western America trying to decide if they were Rufous or Anna’s Hummingbirds, both of which are very common, and frankly to my eye, identical.  Both species are all about the size of a thumb, have greenish –brown iridescent feathers and a splash of red, and their wings make a metallic buzzing noise.

Whatever breed they are, my hummingbirds are voracious eaters. Keeping those tiny whirring burns a ton of calories.  After they stuff themselves they find a nearby branch to rest and digest before chowing down again. At night, they go into torpor to save calories. Seriously.

Eat, rest, eat, sleep. It’s a pretty good life for anyone, particularly a bird.

Recently I noticed that only the bigger bird, the one I had dubbed Wally, was still a regular visitor. Initially I thought it was because so many flowers were blooming and the other birds were organic eaters.

Nope.

I realized my mistake while I was in the backyard, watching Jasper the Dane splash in his kiddie pool, (Yes, Jasper has his own extra-large plastic pool. He gets hot. Don’t judge me.) I saw the smaller male, Clem, cautiously approach the feeder. Instantly Wally dove down from the top of my 50-foot pine tree aimed directly at Clem.

It was like watching a Mob hit. Clem never saw it coming. Wally knocked him so hard Clem bounced off the ground before he flew away, wobbling. Wally calmly sat on the feeder eating. Nothing to see here, apparently.

I crossed paths with Wally a couple of days later when I was picking tomatoes. Now this is a big deal for me. In the past when I’ve planted tomatoes I’ve babied them, watering and fretting over them only to have the one tomato in my crop chomped by sparrows moments before I picked it.

Not this year. After a five year gardening hiatus, I took a chance on two heirloom plants and plopped them in a raised bed feet away from the hummingbird feeder. To my shock, the plants took off. Not only does they look like a jungle, but there are dozens of juicy tomatoes.

I was admiring my bounty, excited well beyond reason. I heard a familiar metallic buzzing,  really close. Wally, who I now realize, sits among the tomatoes after eating, was pissed and on the attack. 

He was dive bombing around my head, as threateningly as is possibly in a itsy bitsy bird. Since Wally weighs less than an ounce, I resisted the urge to swat him, but I did feel a new kinship with poor Clem.

While Wally was busy with me, Clem saw his opportunity and swooped in to gulp a few snorts of sugar water before Wally noticed. That didn't take long, and Wally immediately chased Clem away.

That was it. Something snapped. I felt sorry for Clem so I bought a second feeder and hung it about 10 yards away. Clem's pretty happy now.

I do have a new fear: what if Clem transforms into a little dictator like Wally and before I know it, my whole place is dotted with private hummingbird feeders servicing mean individual birds? It could happen. That's probably how those the people in those internet video started.

As I pounded in the Clem's pole, I realized that it was already too late. At least hummingbirds are pretty. Especially in bulk.

Depression Rhymes with Possession. I'm Finally Owning It

I wrote my first will when I was about eight. I wanted to make sure that someone – specifically my parents – would feed my hamsters and canary after I offed myself.  

I did not consider this odd behavior. I didn’t think about it all.

That’s the thing about depression. To the afflicted, it not abnormal. This is what life feels like. A lot of the time it’s simply unbearable.

Most lucky people can’t even begin to understand. Everyone who is not a sociopath has been sad, and most have fleeting encounters with depression. It sucks, but it’s not the same.

Chronic clinical depression is exhausting. It’s painful. It’s frightening. Most of all it’s boring.

It sure as hell isn’t sexy.  Mental illness usually isn’t, unless you’re Angelina Jolie in “Girl Interrupted.” Or Brad Pitt in "Fight Club."

Most people struggling with depression are functional and cover it pretty well; no one wants to be around a miserable person. I surely don’t; I’m unhappy enough.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think most people know that I’m a depressive. I When I’m in a bad place I hide as much as possible. Additionally, I’ve managed my crippling thoughts with the help of medication. Most of the time.

For as long as I can remember I believed that everyone was brighter, more successful and certainly happier than I was.  I was partially right.

Normal children don’t write wills.  They play with friends. They didn’t spend hours in their room, afraid of not to measuring up.

That pressure was totally internal. My parents had no unusual expectations of me.

But there it is. Depression is a lot of things, but rationality it isn’t one of them.

Shrinks tried to convince me to go on early versions of anti-anxiety meds. Even as a child I knew those old meds were bad news. They barely worked  and simply  tranquilized patients, leaving them dull and fat. 

I made the conscious decision to remain thin, (it was a long time ago), creative and miserable.

By the time I was in my 30s there was actual medical hope. Prozac and SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) had been invented, most notably Prozac.

The problem at least for me, was the appearance of celebrity/author Elizabeth Wurtzel. Wurtzel wrote an incredibly self-indulgent, best-selling book, Prozac Nation, about her mental illness and how she was saved by Prozac. 

Or some bullshit like that. I could never make it through anything she’s written.

All I knew was that I knew Elizabeth professionally. I felt badly that she was depressed, but it didn’t make up for the fact that she was a royal, self-entitled pain in the ass. Or at least she was to me.

If she was the result of successful Prozac use, I wanted no part of it. It also became trendy, taking anti-depressives was suddenly some peculiar badge of honor. Blech.

Eventually I confided to a shrink that the only reason I got out of bed in the morning, was for the dogs. She asked me if I had suicidal thoughts. I laughed. Doesn’t everyone?

Apparently not.

She convinced me that in all likelihood I had a chemical imbalance, and to try Prozac just for a short time. It might help. If it didn’t, I could quit.

I couldn’t come up with a reason to argue anymore.

But because I am a competitive bitch, I didn’t want it to work. If it helped Elizabeth Wurtzel, it couldn’t be real. I had a real problem, and she was a poseur. Her dumb medication couldn’t help me. Right?

Wrong.

Prozac didn’t cure my issues completely. Neither did any of the other anti-depressives I tried. After all, they are only drugs, not miracles. But they help.

Now I’m functional.  Most of the time I’m at least on an even keel. If I’m not happy, at least I’m rational. 

Usually not suicidal.

I still hide in my house. I can go weeks without socializing except for the people at the barn. Occasionally I don’t answer the phone or call people I want to talk to the most because I’m too depressed to be interesting, and don’t want to bore them. 

I rewrote my will recently. It wasn’t because I was going to slit my wrists. Nope, this time, it’s because I’m old.

I guess that’s progress, right?