I have always loved animals. My earliest memories are of my grandparents’ dog, Tessie. I must have been two or three, and I think I remember the feel of her. I say “think” because it might be because of the many years of family discussions about that dog ingrained into my mind. She was a hero, a champion. She was a big, beautiful Doberman and photos of her with me demonstrate a bond created early in my life.
When I was about five, my grandfather bought two horses. One for me and one for a friend. I spent weekends riding horses, exploring the Platte River and meandering through the small truck farms that existed near my grandfather’s feedlot.
Horses consumed my interest until I was about 12 and then, sadly, teenage drama invaded my life. Animals became a bit secondary. On occasion I’d rescue a bird and be happy with a rehabilitation that included release into the sky. As I reached 18, I was finding dogs to rescue and release into the care of my mother. That seemed to satisfy my need for animal companionship even though I was out of the house.
I began stopping and talking to any dog or cat while I was in college. One day I met a gorgeous, gigantic Dane mix named Cecil. He stayed with me over Christmas vacation while his owner was home. In the spring, his owner had no intention of keeping him and I filled in as the new owner. Cecil didn’t do well at my parents’ house. He knocked down a fence. He ran off. I couldn’t take him back to college and my parents said no to his permanent residence with them. They already had a dog, one I had rescued a few years earlier. Her name was Little Arthur and while she liked Cecil, my parents did not. They rehomed him to another family. I’ve never quite gotten over that. It wasn’t a good home. They tied Cecil to a pole in their backyard. No. I’m still not over it.
I began dreaming of living on a farm when I was about 20 or so. I thought a small plot filled with goats, dogs, cats, chickens, and horses would well suit me. Soon thereafter, I began thinking of wild animals. I studied wolves. I fell in love with their pack formation, with their dedication to one another, to their monogamous mating. By the time I was 21, I wanted to live in Africa.
My African dreams were thwarted by the rescue of another dog when I was 22. He became, as some say, my heart dog. He would be with me for 16 years, through graduate school, a move to Kansas for a job, return to Colorado, marriage, the adoption of another dog as his companion, the addition of a whole bunch of cats, then the inclusion of our daughter, Alba. He was Cruiser R Roozer, a wolf-husky-Berner mix. He was 95 pounds of fierce protectiveness. He literally saved my life from a rapist-murderer one night while we were walking in Boulder. He continually ran off for hours, sometimes returning home and other times being picked up by animal control. He was half wild, half mine. He and I communicated in a way I’ve never known since. One day I got a call from an anonymous neighbor who said, “Keep your dog out of my garden!” When I tried to find out what had happened and how I could remedy it (I could replant), she hung up. Roozer showed up a few minutes later and I put him in the car and began driving around. At one point, Roozer “said” to me, “I had trouble at that house.” I heard him. I did. I stopped and went up to the door. When the woman opened it, she was frightened. “How did you know where I live? Do you work for the phone company?” I tried to explain but she wouldn’t listen. I offered to pay for the damage. She slammed the door while claiming I must be a witch.
Roozer spoke to me. There were no words but there was some sort of language. We understood each other.
When GB and I got married, I had collected Roozer and two cats and Barney, a Pyrenees mix. Roozer, Barney, and the cats were all great pals. They took walks together. They snuggled up together. I was 28 and my animal pack had begun to form.
Eventually that pack would expand to other breeds, my beloved Newfoundlands, more cats, a Lab mix named Shiney, a Shih Tzu named Ghengis, the Grifters, chickens, a bird named Paulina, and a variety of baby goats, lambs, and a turkey who needed rehab.
The adoration and sheer respect for wild animals never left me. One time, GB and I were in Yellowstone. It was a glorious, crisp autumn day and we were searching for wolves. We had watched bison, elk, moose but no wolves. And, finally as the sun was about to set, we came across a group of people with their telescopic lenses focused on a pack of wolves. It left me breathless and I just started to cry. They were magnificent.
I began loving elephants after a trip to South Africa. We spent a day at a water hole watching. Just watching. Elephants, wildebeests, nyala, zebra, warthogs spent the time drinking the water, playing in it or taking naps beside it. The female elephants were in proximity, just waiting for the damn boys to leave.
After my spinal surgery, I became involved at The Urban Farm, a nonprofit in Denver. I mucked stalls, kissed horses, played with goats, chatted with the sheep, cared for a very fat pig, and became obsessed with having chickens.
And so, we did. We began with a hexagonal shaped coop and created a yard space. Within a few days, I decided the space wasn’t adequate for the three pullets and they would need free reign of the garden. I’m not sure there were three happier chickens on the planet. They roamed freely, digging up plants and mulch, finding spots for sun and dirt baths. Chickens are amazingly curious creatures and within a few years we had hens roaming through our house after they discovered our open-door policy. The presence of chickens brought unwanted predators. Raccoons, skunk, Red-tail hawks, fox, and coyotes nosed around to find an easy meal. Sometimes they were successful. Other times, the Grifters would take after them. Newfs never bothered. Too much work. We replaced the chickens with more chickens, giving them old-fashioned hen names like Gladys. Or Henrietta. I’d go out into the garden, call their names and, oh my God, they’d coming chasing like crazy towards me. I know. The freeze-dried meal worms might have been the motivation.
The Newfs and the Grifters got on well with the hens. There would be times when they’d all snooze and roost together in the front courtyard. Now, a Newf seems to like to lie in a doorway, head out, rear end in. This made it difficult, at times, for chickens to wander in but they did. They’d squeeze themselves between the doorjamb and the prone dog. Newfies never cared. Keeping hens out of the house wasn’t in their job description.
My aching desire to return to Africa had not subsided. There was a particular place I wanted to visit: Rwanda. GB and I had planned a trip in 2020 but Covid hit. I revisited the trip two years ago. GB was too sick to go, and I was willing to go by myself. I didn’t have to. My friends Linda and Cathy joined. We trekked through the tropical rainforest to discover chimps flying through the canopy, then visited Golden Monkeys who simply had way too much fun with each other. The final trek was up the volcano to sit with gorilla. I’ve written about that before, but I can never say quite enough about it. I’ve been thinking about it lately. I guess because the Jewish holidays have me wondering about God. I’m basically an atheist in the traditional sense. Thinking that God ordains things. Probably not for me. But I like the concept of God; of understanding that there is something far more than us, that somehow nature has been created in a sensible fashion. The idea of it gives me comfort.
Gorillas don’t really see us. They’re used to our presence, and they aren’t bothered by it. We’re not a threat. We’re not food. We’re nothing. In the case of one small gorilla, I was a tree stump. Something to stand on while she chowed down on the fire ant colony beneath my feet. So, when I was surrounded by the rainforest and the gorilla, I felt like I was within God.
I have spent a lifetime loving, knowing, and learning from animals. I have spent hours immersed in the warmth of horses, adoring their soft nuzzles, soaking in their smell. More times than not, I could be found snuggling a dog or running my fingers through the hair of a cat. The sheer pleasure that Paulina, the Conure gave us didn’t leave although she left us so suddenly.
I hope GB and I make it to Tanzania and Kenya for the Great Migration. I hope we’ll adopt more dogs. They’ll be older because I don’t want them to outlive me. I hope I’ll ride a horse on a beach. I hope a little parrot will land on my shoulder and crawl down my shirt only to pop her head up to watch where we’re going. I’d like a kitty to offer her tummy for a tickle and then grab my arm with all four legs. Claws in, please. And, I yearn to have a visit from a big, beautiful Newfie. Many more times, please.
With each animal who has died, I’ve sworn I wouldn’t do it again.
Yet, I do.
Air. 
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