Troubling

I find myself deeply troubled by the story of Travis the chimp attacking and attempting to kill someone with whom he had a long acquaintance. The story just didn't make sense to me, but as details trickle in, the picture becomes clearer.

When you work with domestic animals and wildlife as much as I do, you gain a very clear understanding of the problems created by anthropomorphizing animals. I've often seemed like a very cranky chick when posting on NPR about the "cute" stories of human and wildlife interaction. However, it is a lot more difficult to keep that boundary than some would think.

The media, in an attempt to make the story salacious, is now reporting that the woman who had Travis in her care slept and bathed with him. My dogs sleep with me, and a close friend of mine takes her parrot into the shower with her. Parrots love running water, and it is play time for the bird. How cute do we think it is when a dog jumps into a swimming pool to play with children?

The problem, of course, is that the chimp is so humanlike. And once you begin to expect an animal, wild or domestic, to react like a human, you've let an important guard down.

Wild animals do react differently in some, but not all, circumstances, because domestic animals have been bred for . . . .domesticity! Domesticity to humans is companionability, docility, and adaptibility. While a wild animal can be tamed,it seems to me that they always retain some part of that wildness. First, they are far more alert to threat than is a domestic animal. Secondly, they react often with agression or show of agression, rather than retreat, when threatened. Lastly, they are expert at sizing up the opponent as to size, submissiveness and agility.

No matter how much you are around animals it is possible to make that instantaneous mistake that gets you in trouble. I had adopted a wild mustang as a 6 month old filly. I picked her because she had the conformation of an Arab, was very alert, and seemed highly intelligent. Good traits in a domestic horse. When she was about a year old, while in the corral with her, I managed to let her back me into a corner between the manger and the gate. She quickly turned her rear to me, and "trapped" me. I stood quietly for a bit trying to think what to do. While my mind raced, I spoke aloud, "Please don't kick me." Wham! Luckily I put my arm up and caught the blow with it, so she didn't hit my face. Lesson: a dometic animal may find the human voice soothing, a wild animal does not.

The detail that made the whole Travis story, tragic and horrible as it is, make sense to me, is that the injured woman held a toy up in front of her face and waggled it at the chimp to try and get him into the house. It's hard to say what happened next. Perhaps he grabbed for the toy and she tried to hold onto it. Perhaps the toy appeared to be a threat to him, like my human voice did to the little mustang.

There are no easy answers. I always remember that Jane Goodall, once back in the States, went to visit a chimp in a lab and had the top of her thumb bitten off.

I think one point the chimp's owner made that we all need to remember is that people kill people every day, sometimes in extremely brutal ways. That doesn't mean that all people are murderers. I hope that all the pundits who are finding people to say how dangerous chimps are will balance those stories with the incredible learning abilities that chimps have, their generally playful nature, and the incredible contribution they (unwillingly) made to scientific discoveries in this country.

Such a cranky Chick

What's the difference between someone who is observant and someone who is a cranky, cynical critic? I sure don't know.

Valentine's day night was quite the adventure here in small town land. I went to a local cafe to watch a friend's blues band play. And I saw a few things I found depressingly familiar.

At one end of the bar a couple canoodled and coo'd, holding hands and acting all goo goo eyed. They lovingly shared bites of each other's food, and gave the impression of a young couple in love. Until the cake came. Now it is a law of nature, that you can never gain more weight from a bite of food than that bite weighs. (I know, I know it changes your metabolism . . .blah blah blah) The cake was beautiful, a several layer chocolate cake with a delicious looking fudgy frosting, sitting in a puddle of raspberry sauce, and garnished with whip cream and what looked like sugared violets. I mean, I was tempted to mug them and take the cake for myself.

As it happened though, the man in this picture took the first bite of cake, and lovingly moved the spoon toward the woman's mouth. At which point she turned her head. I mean, if the boy hadn't been alert, he woulda deposited the bite of cake on her cheek. Hahaha they laughed.

Watching this I wanted to shout "Eat the damn cake!"

Life is short, my little fajitas, a lesson one learns when the voice on the other end of the line says you have cancer. Celebration comes rarely enough. Eat the bite of cake, share the cherry pie, have some fruit cake . . .okay, maybe not the last one. The moments of celebration far outweigh the little bit of extra time you'll have to work out to burn up the calories from the celebratory food.

So, next time you're at a colleague's going away party, remember my cranky voice, shouting for the whole room to hear: Eat the damn cake!

It's True

I never expected it. I mean, like everyone of my generation, I tried everything. Transcendatal meditation, which led to loud snoring. Scry gazing, during which I learned that it was time to start waxing my brows. High altitude sunbathing on granite surfaces to remove all wordly distractions, which was probably the best nap I ever had, except for the hideous sunburn. Catholic mass, til they played the Star Spangled Banner as a hymn. Past life regression, um, see snoring and naps above. Pychoanalysis, but I DO love my mother.

The purpose of all this was to determine the purpose for which I have been placed upon this beautiful blue orb. But like a good Zen buddhist being smacked with a pole by the master, it took an actual real life experience for me to finally get it. Today was the day of reckoning. No, I wasn't Joan of Arc in a past life. No, I'm not here to enlighten the world as to the true meaning of life, write the great american novel, perfect the new goat cheese cheesecake recipe. No, I'm not here to follow the path that God has laid out for me.

I am here to change the toilet paper roll. That's it. The die was cast the day I was born, and I can't believe how long it has taken me to figure it out. In every office I've occupied, in every home in which I've resided, and in every gym in which I've sweated away the hours, I appear to be the only person who knows how to change the toilet paper.

My favorite is the person who leaves the two squares on the roll, just so they won't have to actually remove that cardboard tube. Two squares? Honestly. I mean you can't even blow your nose on two squares of toilet paper.

Having finally discovered my true destiny, I am content at last. I really consider it quite an honor to have such a humble service as my life task. So, when you come visit, don't fret your little head. Use it up! Or leave only the part glued to the cardboard. I'm coming behind you. I'll take care of it.

A Poem for St. Valentine's Day

To my dearest, darling Jake,
We're all entitled to One Mistake,
So Lorna, I could deal with fine,
but Sue, Jill and Mary I couldn't take.

The nights you stayed late at "work",
how'd you turn into such a jerk?
The calls at home in whispered tones,
the race to answer the telephone.

These thoughts I keep fresh in mind,
as I write this Valentine.
On this day when Love abounds,
I'm glad to say, I'm not around.

I took the car, my clothes, the money,
but I'm thinking of you honey,
Tonight around your sleeping time,
the Sheriff will bring my Valentine.

The papers give you twenty days,
to wake up to your cheating ways,
Have some fun, buy some candy,
but keep your lawyer's number handy.

Love, Janet

Copyright, 1989

Seriously Sad

In watching the interview of the mother of octuplets, I found myself seriously sad. While Ann Curry and associates described the woman as appearing rational and committed to her children, I saw a delusional personality rationalizing her very poor choices. Her pressured speech, and constant interruption of Ms. Curry, combined with her mantra like reptition of certain phrases regarding her own mental health, were early clues as to her mental status, but the description of the father of these children was the corker. He "needs time", and it's "not the right time" all in a tone remniscent of Glen Close in Fatal Attraction, or Kathy Bates in a Steven King movie. I kept rooting for Ann to press her harder, so that the facade would begin to crack.

The video of her visiting the babies in the hospital is heartbreaking. Eight tiny babies, each requiring enormous neonatal care, deprived of normal development, and living in glass cages. Yet Ms. Suleman acted as if all was normal. When one of the therapists involved referred to the birth as a "great feat", all I could think was, "It's nothing the average lab bitch can't do several times in a life time."

I believe this is a seriously disturbed woman, and that time will show that to be true. Then all 14 children will be separated and placed in foster care or with relatives.

A seriously sad end to a story that should never ave occurred in the first place.

Skunks and Prickly Pears

Ah, the smell of skunk in the morning, the first harbinger of pre-spring. Of course, this year was the first in the twenty-six I’ve lived here that the skunks seemed to stay awake all winter, except for that really cold snap in December. This morning’s smell was not that horrible, overwhelming odor emanating from a squashed black and white mass in the middle of the road, but a softer, warning smell, a smell I associate with the short warm spell we often get in the first weeks of February.

Some friends and I were talking about symbols the other day, and how they are woven into the fabric of our consciousness at a very young age. I was born and raised in southern New Mexico, surrounded by Navajo art, and the endless desert. My father and sisters were artists, so our house abounded with half-finished paintings featuring thunder clouds and saguaro cactus. Wild burros still roamed the desert, their ancestors having wandered away from the Conquistadors hundreds of years before. I had collections of arrow heads and black and white pottery shards, found when I walked home from school or played ‘war’ with the neighborhood kids in the vacant lots surrounding our neighborhood.

For me, a roadrunner will always mean speed and wily survival; lightening will always be power and magic; an appaloosa horse strength and independence; and the Zia sun . . .well you’ll probably have to ask me about that in person. Raised in an Air Force town, I still tear up at the sound of the Star Spangled Banner, and the sight of the American flag, and I wept openly when the traveling Viet Nam memorial came to Montrose.

The desert held its own lessons. As children, my sisters and I would earn a little pin money (as my mother called it) by gathering the ripe red prickly pears from the top of the cactus. No matter how careful I was to try and keep my gloves on I always ended up with fingers full of prickers. More often than not, I couldn’t resist the sweet fruit, and despite my efforts at removing all the thorns, my lips and tongue would burn and ache, full of the tiny torments. The lesson in delayed gratification was not an easy one, but it stayed with me.

When I came to Montrose the mesas and cottonwoods felt familiar; I’d been surrounded by them as a child. There was much to learn however, from the name of the bird that flew up and scared me senseless during my morning runs, to the fact that driving through a bog in the adobes is a very, very bad idea. Elk were a delightful surprise, as were the then common sheep and cattle drives. I saw prickly pears on the hillsides, and the families of farm workers harvesting the cactus early in the morning. In late summer, walking my dogs I could smell their scent, casting me back to New Mexico and the past.

This morning, though, the sound of the western meadowlark calling from fence wire to fence wire in its liquid trill, reminded me again, that spring is not far away. I remember the first time I was stunned by that song. Six months pregnant, I was riding along with my husband on a fishing trip. As we bumped across a rutted dirt road, I heard a meadowlark call. “Stop the truck,” I yelled, “Stop the truck.” The bird of course, was gone, and my husband, assuming I was suffering from morning sickness, never heard a thing.

Better Late Than Never

Ground Hog Day Resolutions


1. I resolve to pay more attention to the platitudes my mother used, and how they apply in my own life.

2. I resolve not to count my chickens before they hatch, nor to put them all in one basket once they do.

3. This year I will mind my own business. And, that of anyone who has a conversation within earshot of me. Oh, also the business of any celebrity who makes it into the pages of People magazine.

4. I will look before I leap, say a prayer before I sleep, and not let spilt milk make me weep. In fact, I will probably just keep looking and never leap as my legs lack leapability lately.

5. I will talk softly and carry a big stick. Oh, that wasn’t Mom. Never mind. Sorry Mom.

6. I will gather no stone that has no moss. Nor will I gather stones that do have moss, since to do so is a crime. Unless you have a permit.

7. I will not have my birthday cake, nor eat it, too. In fact, I resolve to skip my birthday this year and every year hereafter. I am just going to pretend I’m 37 from now on.

8. I won’t judge a book by its cover. Or by who the author is. Or what the subject is. I will continue to read the last page and see if I want to figure out how the author got there.

9. I will waist not, want not. In fact, I think I will try to find only clothes with no waist as my waist wants not to be restricted anymore.

10. I resolve not to take myself so seriously this year. (Even if one person did call me ‘famous’ last year. Thanks, I’ve been trying to work that into a post). After all, as the saying goes, life is just a chair of bowlies.

Happy Ground Hog’s Day to one and all. May the rest of the year be prosperous in all the right ways, and may you all be adopted by an Irish mother who collects platitudes like the other mothers collect silver spoons!