I hope you enjoy this overview of some of my experience with the Connetticut river. These accounts are remeniscent of warmer days. There are photographs which accompany this post, which can be viewed here  http://picasaweb.google.com/Dhpc.Raptor/BestOfCTRiver?feat=directlink -Aaron __________________________________________________________________________             I've been on the Connecticut just about every summer for the past six or seven years, and more recently, the fall and spring too. I'm sure there is no one living in Northampton or the surrounding oblivious to its existence (after all, everyone traverses it once and awhile while crossing the Calvin Coolidge Bridge, route 202 or 116 on their way to Hadley, Amherst, or any other eastern lying town), But to fully appreciate this magnificent body of water, one needs to find themselves in some sort of water transportation. Extending over 65 miles in the state of Massachusetts (with the most navigable sections being south of Sunderland) The Connecticut is truly a gem still waiting to be discovered by many. The quality of the water has been controversial in recent years, but strong efforts have been made to restore and preserve the waters. Contaminants vary by season, particularly after a large flood, or during the spring thaw when sediments from nearby fields, along with anything else the water has picked up are carried downstream. These fluctiations in water level are normal, and ofren follow a large rain. Overall, there are very clean sections of the river, where visibility in the water can extend 14 feet or more straight down.              There are a number of ways someone can find themselves on the Connecticut. For the casual observer, the Rail Trail Bridge allows a walk over the entire river, with a nice mile and a half of visibility downstream. Want to get up close and personal? A variety of human propelled watercraft are available for rental, and If you happen to have your own canoe or kayak, the state access ramp is located on Rt. 5. Most of my experience on the river has come from my family's pontoon boat, which we dock at the Oxbow Marina during the summer season. A motorboat can be preferable, as currents can vary, and there are many miles of waterway to explore. During the summer months the waters are filled with boaters, water-skiers, people fishing, and swimming. Several excellent beaches, only available from the water are put to good use, sometimes by over 100 boats at a time during the busiest weekends. But for those seeking solitude, don't shy away. Between The Oxbow and Hatfield is the most traveled leg of the river north of the Holyoke Dam. Head up toward Sunderland falls, or down towards the Holyoke dam and your likely to be the only boat in sight.          The waters and shores of the river provide natural habitat for a wide variety of species of bird, fish, and other critters. Bass, trout, shad, and a number of bluegill are just a few of the fish you can easily net, if you know where to look.I've even heard there are eel lurking in the waters as well (yuk!)  The Arcadia wildlife sanctuary lines much of the shore of the Oxbow, and birds and waterfowl are a common site when passing through any part of the river. Some native and some migratory, the most interesting of these feathered flighted friends are the Great Blue Heron, Snowy Egret, The occasional Osprey, and Bald Eagle. These magnificent birds find serenity among the branches of trees, fallen limbs, and tall reeds of the banks. All of the above feed on fish and their hunting rituals are truly a spectacle to see firsthand. An increasing phenomenon however, is the fleets of mallards that have become accustomed to perusing motor boats, and ‘asking’ for handouts.  When you see 10-30 ducks all quacking angrily, it’s often hard not to respond with breadcrumbs or handfuls of crackers. I just hope these creatures don’t become completely reliant on humans to provide food for them, to the point where they can no longer feed themselves. Maybe people food just happens to taste better than algae. I’m no ornithologist…just speaking from experience.                                                    The Eagles are the most fun to observe, and a rush of excitement fills you when someone spots one perched on a high branch. What was once (from my understanding) a very rare species has now made a significant comeback, and populations right in the area are doing significantly well. Mind you, that the Riverbanks and shores of the Oxbow are the only places you’ll spot one of these birds in the valley.          Especially at sundown, the full tranquility of the river is exposed. With the sun gleaming red, reflected in the glassy still water, you can see the outlines of the Mt. Holyoke range, cast in shadow by the sunset. On one occurrence, (I’m not really sure of the true meteorological factors) the humidity and temperature were just right, to produce a ghastly mist, flowing like liquid on the surface of the water. The lighting was just perfect to make this thick white mist was a very beautiful sight.  Within a few minutes, it had blown away, leaving the orange sky to leave a final streak in the water just as it sunk below the horizon.                  Rowing on the Connecticut is a slightly different experience, but I’ll get to that in Part II. Thank you all for reading. I’d love to hear from anyone who read this and is interested, or would like to know more. I can be contacted via email at dhpc_raptor@yahoo.com I’ve also contributed extensively to Wikipedia’s article on The Oxbow

A service dog changes many things. On the plus side, the human partner feels a sense of freedom and safety heretofore denied. The canine partner gets to experience parts of the human world that most dogs never see. Some service dogs are oblivious to the wonders of the human world; others are more like tourists. For the human, a host of new interactions open up, from the positive greetings, to the hostile: ‘you can’t bring that dog in here.’ The dog becomes both the center of loving attention and the target of hostility.

My string of dogs demonstrated all this and more. Medic was the first. He was a ninety pound black and white pit bull with a head the size of the basketball. He was pro to the core, unflappable, supremely confident. His original training was in obedience and therapy work, which made an easy leap to service dog. Medic was one of those dogs that dog trainers dream of, a dog capable of generalizations based on original training. For example, it is difficult to train a dog to avoid overhead obstacles such as low hanging signs. Most non-hunting dogs do not look up.

Training a service dog includes determining what hazards the human will face and how best to avoid them such as crossing the street. Specialty training involves teaching the dog to activate 911, use elevator buttons, and to pick up small objects such as credit cards or tissues. Generalization indicates that the dogs is able to perceive seizures, pain, or other events that may require assistance. It is difficult to ‘train’ for these events, rather, one finds a sensitive dog that can achieve success in the first two categories and then tests the dog against the scenario. Certain dogs will put it together and alert to their human’s distress, either calling 911 or breaking a fall. Not all dogs are cut out to be service dogs of this caliber.

Medic carefully steered me around any and all low hanging objects. He also would appear by my side at home if I were within ten minutes of becoming symptomatic. In crossing the street he would not only watch the traffic pattern, but also the lights. Sometimes I felt that Medic was tied into my nervous system. He was that accurate in responding to my symptoms. When he died of cancer I did not believe another dog could take his place. What I found was that the next service dog doesn’t actually take the previous animal’s role. Each dog creates his or her own place.

The cancer appeared in April, Medic would be dead by late summer. The diagnosis was clear, so I put both Jane and Princess in training. At the time they were four and two years old respectively. At the time, Jane was my high-powered show dog, Princess was still a puppy. Kinky was another option, and had extensive training as a therapy dog, but she was severely arthritic from youthful indiscretions. None of the girls had Medic’s professional attitude. The only time Medic would ever drop his working-man’s look was on escalators, particularly ones with glass sides. Then he would gawk and peer over the side of the escalator as he went up or down. It was his only moment of weakness.

Jane gamely took up the harness. Small and square, she was in no way the impressive companion that was Medic. On the other hand, she was extremely sensitive to my situation and willing to make comments that Medic would not have done. For example Jane will refuse to walk down the stairs with me if I appeared wobbly. She would take me to the Nurse’s office at school if she was not happy with my overall health. Her affect in the harness was morose.

My 7th grade students participated in the training of Princess during the year that Medic was dying. On the days he was too sick to work I would bring Princess in to school and have the kids work with her. Being a service dog in a school is complicated. Not only does the dog have to monitor my condition, it must also pay attention to the students. Service dog purists will cluck and tut over that, and say the working dog must be totally focused on the disabled person. This rule does not apply in the middle school setting. So many of my students are disabled, and they are all adolescents, always in need of affirmation.

Unlike Jane, Princess is a jolly dog. She has a jaunty trot, her tongue hanging out and her tail in the air like a flag. She is a lovely chestnut brown with a tiny pink heart on her nose. Due to the amount of work done with her by students she has a tremendous sense of humor, and will often manipulate the class for a laugh. As long as my physical condition is acceptable, Princess will wander around the classroom. Jane, on the other hand, was attached to me by an invisible umbilical cord. Although she will interact with the students, she will always keep me within a ten-foot radius. Princess moves around the room, touching this student and that. She will come to me and very gently jump up, placing her paws on my hips. Once up she will look over her shoulder at the students. If that doesn’t work Princess will strike a pose. Her favorite is to lie down on her front legs, with her rump in the air, tail wagging furiously. She will hold this pose until she gets the desired response. It never fails to please, so the amount of positive reinforcement received has made this behavior permanent.

Kinky I bring mostly for the students. She is so trained that it is like having another adult human in the classroom. In a recent survey, my students reported that having a dog in the room increases their sense of safety. Kinky is so old that she has no teeth, limps on at least one leg- it switches from day to day- and howls in counterpoint to any musical notes. Despite all this she is completely bombproof. Her favorite spot is to plant herself in the middle of the hallway during passing time. With hundreds of middle schoolers carefully picking their way around her legs, Kink will lay back flat with all four legs and her tail sticking out in multiple directions. Kids that would normally push and shove walk with care and shout to the people behind them, “Look out, Kinky is doing traffic control.” Medic also had done this, and I wonder if he told Kinky to carry on the tradition.
It is Kinky who signs yearbooks, dutifully putting her paw in the ink hundreds of times. She works with the students, teaching them how to train. For example, Kinky can say “yum yum,” and “I love you,” but only if the student cues her correctly. She will bark and howl on command, walk on heel, sit, stay, and lay down for the student who commands correctly. Jane and Princess may do many of these things; however, both of them look over at me to check if it is okay. Kinky actually will obey a student who is presenting an appropriate command. She will also ignore everything if she has made a decision that I take priority due to my illness.

Bathrooms are a sticky subject for a person with a service dog. One needs a stall large enough to accommodate both parties. Forget, for example, going to the bathroom on a plane. Dogs in general find human bathroom habits fascinating and are always glad to be invited into an area with such an array of smells. Medic used to close his eyes and sniff-sniff-sniff, swinging his seriously large muzzle from side to side. He also enjoyed sprawling on the cold tile floor, especially if it were wet.

Women destroy public restrooms; it is a well-known secret. We may talk about men peeing in sinks and such, but I have never seen such mayhem as in a ladies toilet. My personal theory is that it is due to the serious shortage of female only toilets. Women always have to wait, and by the time they get to pee they are pissed off. The sinks never work, or splash, the soap is gone, and the paper towels come out in shreds. I never want my dogs to lie down in this setting, yet Medic was in his glory. Jane and Princess, luckily, share my distaste for the situation and stand, daintily holding up one paw.

Another impediment is the hand driers they so cunningly installed in the bathrooms. I would love to know whose bright idea this was. In a short sentence, they don’t work. All they provide is a place for the women to cluster and bitch about the conditions of the bathroom. For Medic, it was hell. Having begun his life as a show dog, he knew all about blow driers. Baths and blow dryers presented a private hell. The minute the thing began to make sound he would begin to howl, growl, charge and lunge. Anyone watching would have thought he had gone completely mad. My job was to hold on tight to the leash and keep the drier out of his mouth. If he caught it the device was shaken like a rat and flung across the room.

The bathroom driers elicited the same reaction; you could see it in his eyes. Medic’s sense of duty, however, seemed to overcome his desire to rip the drier from the wall, but he would eye they thing with great angst. His energy was such that whoever was actually using the dryer would back away. I would flee the restroom torn between embarrassment and giggles.

It is Princess that makes going to the bathroom a truly unique experience. As I pointed out, human bathroom habits are of great interest to dogs, and Princess is pure tourist. If she were human she would wear lurid Hawaiian prints and wear a camera about her neck. As we walk into the bathroom she perks up and cranes her neck to see everything. If there is a line she sits patiently, looking for a victim. That would be anyone in a skirt. In yet another of her attempts at humor learned and reinforced at school, Princess has figured out that putting her nose under a skirt and giving a swift upward jab creates a lot of fun. At school she particularly targets cheerleaders during booster weeks. The squeaks and squeals feed the behavior.

Needless to say I keep a tight hold on her harness and point out that these are strangers. She looks up at me, all innocence, and if I so much as look away, someone gets goosed. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were not obvious that she was laughing. Most of her victims find it humorous, the others, well, I just pretend I can’t see, or talk, or whatever works best for the moment.

Once we have waited in line we walk down the row of stalls. Princess uses this moment to check out the occupants. She gets down low, almost crawling, and tries to peek under each door. Small screams follow us down the row. Apparently the sight of a brown dog-face, smiling brightly, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, is too much for some people. Originally I tried to stop her, even tried to fake her out by staggering. Princess knows when I am faking, and in her defense, if I am actually sick while approaching the stall she is upright and stalwart, with not a hint of the comedian.

In the stall Princess gets down on her belly and tries to creep into the next stall. She knows I do not want her to do this, but the thrill is too high, so off she goes. The moment when I am managing my bags, clothing, and the toilet is a perfect moment for naughty behavior. It only lasts a few seconds, and then I can rein her back in, but by then she has usually managed to show her cock-eyed grin and googly eyes to the neighbor. More screams, occasional laughter, this is what Princess lives for. Her single best moment involved a woman who actually fled her stall crying out that there was a mountain lion in the bathroom. Fortunately Princess and I made good our escape prior to the arrival of security. Upon arriving home Princess told all the other dogs about her brief stint as a mountain lion.

At work I try to use a bathroom that is actually just a single room, but occasionally I must use the downstairs stall-style bathroom. If I am already in the stall, the usual greeting is “Hi Ellen, knew it was you from the six legs.” Then to Princess, “And don’t you peek Missy.” This comment charges Princess, who will look over her shoulder at me and double blink her huge eyes. I know I should put some time into altering all this behavior. Yet it is her infallible sense of the ridiculous, and her comic timing that make Princess such a great service dog. Chronic pain causes depression, which causes more symptoms. After a while you become unable to determine which things you are feeling are part of the original problem. Princess makes me laugh at least twice a day with her bathroom antics, so that is the price society pays for my pain. So the next time you see a mountain lion in a public restroom, do not panic, just say, “Don’t you peek Missy.”

It is a well-known fact that ducks are the reincarnated souls of rampant alcoholics. My own flock of ducks bears this out. Made up of a strange crew of runners and East Indies, they are either very tall and multi colored, or tiny and so black as to be invisible. The ducks crept in slowly, almost without my notice, an egg there, a purchase there, and before long there was a flock. The chickens don’t seem to mind, except first thing in the morning. At that moment, when the first light of dawn shines on the pool, the ducks are overwhelmed. With avid joy they line up, jostling, politely, but still jostling, for their turn in the tub.

The tub was JP’s idea. He claims to dislike the poultry, but it is always he who comes up with some new invention for their comfort. One day I came home to find a large plastic tub installed in the corner of the poultry yard. Best of all, he had rigged it to be filled from one of the numerous springs that run endlessly about our property. The ducks stood around the large black tub like AA initiates that have blundered into a bar. Previous to this apparition, the closest thing they had come to open water was the tiny opening on the water fount.

It didn’t take long for them to figure out what the tub was all about. This of course, led to the chicken’s early morning dismay. Try as they might, each morning, they have to wait for the ducks to leap in and out multiple times, drown one another, quack madly, and otherwise act like the drunks they are. The chickens try to sneak in and get a drink and are periodically splashed or even pulled into the tub. The ducks have drowned multiple small chickens trying to initiate them into the wonders of swimming.

JP likes testing my theory regarding the ducks. I had returned home to find the ducks gently bobbing amongst sliced lemons. My husband had fed them lemons, limes, tiny onions, and chipotle peppers. The ducks responded by putting these gifts into the water. When I suggested lacing the tub with gin, however, he drew himself up and righteously stated that he would not waste good gin in this way. He should have met my grandmother. Pouring himself a gin and tonic, he continued with his story. Apparently he had found a box of odd spices from last year’s barbeque season, including whole dried chili peppers. Throwing the lot into the chicken yard, he was amused to see the ducks diving into the stuff. Either they have no ability to discriminate tastes, or are turned on by novelty. They shoveled up mouthfuls of dry rub, dehydrated garlic and onion, and of course, an assortment of peppers from hot to sweet. The lemons, limes and tiny onions went into the water. When I suggested he was pre-seasoning the birds he laughed, but the conversation was abruptly ended.

I have no trouble dispatching birds and then eating them. Usually I kill them at Margaret’s, and since they are mostly roosters, we either use them for dog food or soup stock. JP has nothing to do with it, and obviously did not appreciate my comment about the ducks. I have no designs on the ducks; I killed some ducks years ago, and found it terrible. The way that they twist their heads around on their oh so flexible necks to look you in the eye as you prepare to kill them is very troubling. Either way I enjoy these ducks. The angry turkey however, was under no such protection.

Pete is my beloved wild turkey. He believes that I am his hen and loves to parade about impressing me. There once was a second turkey, and a third. The third turkey went to Mia, a one Captain Morgan, whom I delivered on Christmas, intact and whole. Mia declared that the Captain was a hen and insisted that I made a terrible error. We had multiple phone calls regarding this situation. Ultimately the Captain began to gobble, solving the situation.

The second turkey, Jack, was a Bourbon Red, like his brother Captain Morgan. This is a smallish turkey, bright mahogany with white trim. They can be a bit skittish, but are good mothers. I have not yet been able to test this, as all the turkey eggs I have hatched out are male. Jack decided that he had to fight with me and also with Pete. Their fights were monumental. When two toms fight they lift off the ground and hurl themselves at one another, beating with both their wings and spurs. Sounds silly reading it on a page, but consider a tom turkey weighs in at 30-40 pounds, has a wingspan of over 5 feet, legs thick and hard as branches, and very sharp spurs several inches in length. Add to this a beak and an extremely sharp eye that includes both the ability to see in color and perceive depth. In fact, turkeys see as well as we do, and in a wrap around way that gives them an extraordinary panoramic view, good in a fight.

A turkey fight is like prizefighting, they take it so seriously, and they must, the right to create more turkeys is in the balance. In the morning, while the ducks are floundering in their hedonistic bath, the turkeys take up the fight. When I first saw Jurassic Park I knew that they must have looked at turkeys when they built the velociraptors. They circle and stalk, heads held at an unusual angle, twittering hostile threats. First they jump and feint, continuing to yelp and bark. None of their sounds are remotely bird like. If dinosaurs walk the earth, then certainly they walk in my backyard. Next the wings come up and the titans clash.

I could have lived with this if only they had not included me in their rituals. Each morning I loose the birds from their house. First the tiniest of the bantams run loose, squawking good morning and desperately trying to reach the water before the onslaught of the alcoholics. Then a few roosters self important and crowing. The best part is when one of the roosters is mowed down by the phalanx of ducks, headily waddling towards their source of pleasure. Sometimes a proper rooster will take back some and mount a smaller duck, but even in the midst of this odd cross species rape the duck will keep struggling towards the tub.

Happily I stand in the middle and cast a bit of scratch grain. It is early morning, and the chill air is welcome on my face. Waking up is hard for me, my neuralgia is in command of my body, and the poultry do make cheer me up. Slowly, the turkeys emerge, always graceful, like battleships. Scattered around them will be the standard chickens, high status hens first. When the turkey problem began it was Pete trying to drive me away from Jack. Initially I complied, to humor him. Soon this was not enough. The horror of me being in the same area as that scabrous Red Bourbon was more than he could handle. This led to the aforementioned fights. The day they decided to attack me as well, the passion of the moment overcame their reason, was the day that Jack got strung up.

My participation in the turkey fight left me with a black eye and deep gouges on my legs and arms. Even when I seized Jack by the legs and with great difficulty dragged him from the yard, Pete continued to attack us both with vigor. With Jack spinning from a rope, bleeding from his carotid artery, I inspected my wounds. Pete paraded at the fence line, waiting for one last strike. JP came out for a look and retreated in horror. For a seasoned paramedic, his amazingly low tolerance for both bad smells and large amounts of animal blood leave me astonished.

With a sharp knife I dismembered the turkey who had just recently been strutting in the yard. Glancing over my shoulder I saw JP’s pale face peek from behind the curtain. Jack’s naked and divided carcass showed just how vicious his relationship with Pete had been. Bruises in many colors decorated his flesh. Just like looking at an abused child, the bruises showed a time line, green, yellow, and blue, even a livid black-purple. The flesh was not particularly appealing, so I cut around the bruises and set that meat aside for the dogs. Ultimately I was left with the breast and one thigh section, which of course, on cooking, proved quite tough, as this turkey was too old for cooking. JP did not enjoy it, but that had little to do with the toughness. It might be important to note that both my children did, but they had been raised on our own poultry, and even worse, a yearly beefer.

The following day I was in school and the students noted the dramatic injuries to my person. In homeroom Josh, who I had the fortune of having for two years, asked about it, his face alight. He had known me long enough to understand that the answer was likely to be lively. As I explained, his interjections in his clipped English accent; were delightful. “So you just up and killed him? And the knife, it was how big, how many? How do you, no never mind, don’t tell us. You are so crazy.” The homeroom was enthralled, and by the end of the day Josh had made sure that the whole school had heard the entire story, albeit embellished. I fear that most of the school believed I had killed a rabid animal bare handed and eaten it raw.

With Jack under control, quite literally, Pete was now free to court me as he pleased. The new turkey, another tom, is named Julep. As fall approaches he is just now beginning to strut and fan his feathers. He is smaller than jack, so I am hoping that Pete will be able to keep him in line.

Previously published in The American Orchid Society Magazine May 2004: winner of the 2003 Gordon W. Dillon/Richard C. Peterson Memorial Essay Award

I feel like a border collie. Eyes glued on the plants I gently herd them about, twisting a pot, picking off a dead flower, nudging another plant back into place. As I move around the growing tables the plants hum their appreciation. “Honey, you are not listening to me.” The words cut into my reverie, the hum apparently not coming from the plants but rather my beloved spouse JP. I can’t look away from my latest acquisition, a stunning white cattleya from Hawaii. Without turning I respond honestly that no, I was not listening and apologize. Then, before he can draw in a breath I implore him to investigate the aroma of this latest plant, distracting him from what might have been a timely reprimand.

Nose safely tucked into the flower, I gaze appreciatively at my husband. He is the most tolerant of men, a necessary characteristic for a successful marriage to one such as myself. I am able to persuade him to admire more of the orchids and then he escapes, whatever he was trying to tell me will have to wait. It is a great strategy, because I can’t let him examine my family of orchids too closely, and I know he doesn’t want to listen to me wax euphoric about their beauty.
The hard cold truth is that my husband hates houseplants. He is an outdoorsman, and will even help me garden, as long as it is outside. Last year he germinated his first perennial seedlings and planted all two thousand anywhere there was dirt. (This year perhaps he will believe me when I suggest to not sow the entire seed packet.) Houseplants, however, are another story. The first time he came to my house he sat in an armchair next to the Jade Plant. Not really a plant, more of a tree, it stands four feet tall and weighs close to 200 pounds. He eyed it repeatedly; it really looms over the chair, and finally tapped it with a disdainful finger. “Shouldn’t you cut this thing back a little?”
All my houseplants have a story, and there are a lot of stories to tell. The windows bristle with cacti, the bathrooms have plants for toothbrush holders, and the kitchen, well you almost need a machete to get to the sink. Once we were married the kitchen plants were the first to go. “I will not fight my way to the dishes,” he announced, so my African violets moved to a new location. He is not impressed that the Jade plant was my grandmother’s, or that most of my plants came from the plant orphanage rack at the local greenhouse. He tolerates them, but it is a tenuous peace at best.
We were married last June, and understanding my love for plants, the ocean, and volcanoes, he took me to Hawaii. It may have been the worst mistake of his life. Previously I had never tried my luck with orchids, they were the purview of the true greenhouse enthusiast. On the Big Island we went to an orchid farm. JP must have known that a corner had been turned because he filmed me wandering around the growing tables. The voice over is the words of a man resigned to his fate; the images show me looking like a pilgrim at a holy shrine.
Six orchids were purchased and shipped home. The saleswoman gave me great advice, assured me that if I had a green thumb orchid culture would come naturally. Hooked, I awaited their arrival like a kid at Christmas. Opening that box was thrilling, even more thrilling was the growing bench that JP built so that the plants would thrive. I must have arranged them fifty times, aiming for that perfect mix of color and foliage.
There was one problem. The bench was too big; the plants were practically swimming under the lights. I pointed this out to my husband and he got a wary look in his eye. “ That doesn’t mean you need more orchids,” he said, “just move some of the plants out of the bathroom so I can find my razor in the morning. They will love it down here under the lights.” This became his mantra, every time he would find me gazing at the plants he would suggest this one or that one to come and live with the orchids. His voice began to sound desperate so I put the hibiscus and plumeria on the bench. Satisfied, he began to ignore my orchid mania.
The mania includes saying good morning to them when I feed the dogs, then happily misting, grooming, and moving the plants to best suit their needs. When their day is done I check each one again and say goodnight. The only person in the house who is willing to humor me is my younger son Ian, who has agreed to play piano for the plants. As the piano is next to the plants he doesn’t have much of a choice, but I instructed him to talk to the plants about the music. He obviously thinks I am crazy, but plays a wonderful medley of “Orchid Songs,” including music from Billy Joel, Paul Simon, and Eric Clapton.
The six plants were getting along famously. Then IT happened. During a routine stop at a local garden center I spied a gorgeous Phalaenopsis that I just had to buy. JP noticed it right away. “What is that doing here?” He asked in a stentorian tone. You would have thought I had brought home a poisonous insect. This event made it clear that any new purchases would have to be stealthy. JP does not begrudge the expense, he just doesn’t want any more plants cluttering up the house.
The Hawaiian plants were done flowering, so the Phal stuck out like a sore thumb. Conveniently there was an orchid show in the area that weekend. Hoping to put JP off the scent, I moved every flowing plant I owned down with the orchids. Rearranging them every day, and trusting in his inability to tell one plant from another, I set the stage for deception.
The orchid show was everything I could have hoped for. Blissful, I wandered the aisles, ultimately departing with three new plants. One was an enormous purple cattleya, another white cattleya not yet in bloom, and something orange that I could not pronounce. Once home I put the big purple one in the middle of the dining room table. It would run interference and blocking for its brethren. As suspected, JP was equal parts entranced and outraged by this gigantic plant on the table. The other two were able to sneak into the ranks without so much as a whisper.
It became quite a game, creating shifting mirage of regular houseplants and orchids. Every once in a while JP would suspect that something was awry and I would point out how nicely the cymbidiums were doing. There is really no sensible reply to this, so he would retreat, shaking his head in dismay.
Ultimately my illusion began to weaken. It began with me moving most of the regular plants back to their previous spots because I had run out of room. Soon there were plants on every dog crate. This may have been a trifle too obvious. The watering situation may have also given me away. I had a regular army of devices including misters and milk jugs standing full of water. Then one day I took the turkey-baster to aid in delicate watering. The theft was duly noted and mentioned. There were nippers and clippers, special pots, special potting mix, and lots of books. JP started to read the books.
I found him one day, identification book in one hand, and an orchid in the other. He has very large hands, and the 2inch pot looked positively silly, despite the robust yellow flowers spilling every which way. “This,” he declared, “is a new one. You did not have this one last week.” Putting the plant down, not ungently, he began to point out the other additions. Caught red handed all I could do was stand by and listen. He was holding a lovely orange cattleya when it happened. The critical tone dropped out of his voice and he turned the pot around to better view the flower. There was a moment of silence and I knew a conversion was occurring.
“I like this one,” he announced, thrusting the pot under the light. “See here, how the colors change, it looks like fireworks. And the shape, it has a simple form, not so ridiculous as the others.” I carefully kept the smile off my lips as he set the plant down and picked up another. The whole encounter ended with his offer to build another light bench on the far wall. A new turkey-baster has appeared in the kitchen, and when people come over the house, the first thing he shows them is ‘our’ orchid farm.

So there I stood, angel food cake in hand, frozen with shock. How had this come to pass? What evil had visited that I should be standing in the garage, clad in fuzzy slippers and jammies, surveying a wall of putrid flesh? Even as I paused there was ooze seeping across the floor, threatening aforementioned slippers. “The cake, I must save the cake”, flashed through my scattered thoughts, and I fled.
The disaster had slipped in unannounced, possibly as many as three days prior. Perhaps a circuit breaker, or a power outage had precipitated the event. Whatever the cause, I now had a freezer fully defrosted, while still half full. This is no ordinary freezer. It is big enough to hold a cow, I know because I used to put one inside every year. Cut up of course, but nine hundred pounds of meat is no laughing matter. The freezer had come from Lorraine, who felt I needed it to make my life simpler. “Buy in bulk,” she advised, “You will save money.” This has not always proven to be the truth.

You can certainly buy in bulk and save money. The problem is you then have enough food to feed a small army, and the army never materializes. At the time of the gift I had two children ages 4 and 6 and a man who could subsist for years on barley and rice. The freezer was the largest room in the house. When it kicked on the lights dimmed. Lorraine had already owned it for at least 10 years.
Due to its gift status the freezer accompanied us when we moved, and when we moved again, and even the final move into the Conway house. Each move required parts of the house being remodeled, off times by force. The door of the freezer had to be removed and carried separately. The freezer itself, being the size of a boxcar, required many strong bodies to lift and carry. Once in a new place the door needed to be re-hung and the whole beast had to be leveled carefully or the door would sag. It has a lock, and strategic Velcro to assist the door. Despite all this, and a new gasket, the freezer door continues to suffer from ennui, and ice always forms on the top shelf.
Every year the freezer received its bounty of cattle, and I displayed a photograph on the door so everyone would remember whom we were eating. (My children are still scarred by this.) We also packed the freezer with tomatoes, berries, chicken stock, and assorted goodies. This freezer worked for a living. And well it should, being so large and all.
Three years ago we moved to the Conway house. It was a group venture; friends of all types came to help. Bill, Tim, Dave and Mark came from work and Deb and Rick came all the way out from Russell. It was an unwieldy group. Tim and Bill were not speaking; I was barely speaking to Tim. Mark and his wife were having issues; Dave was desperately trying to be soothing with the ultimate result of making everyone mad. Deb and Rick were happily oblivious. The day went as well as could be expected. The freezer took its toll, ripping a chunk of wall out as a souvenir. The last boxes were filled in that panicked manner of people moving. I am still opening boxes to find things like a lost yard of fabric, a Dutch oven, a tofu cookbook, a Chinese scroll, and a box of laundry detergent. The other boxes that I so carefully labeled turned out to be wrong, somehow I had become confused, and dishware was clothes, books were auto parts, it was a fiasco.
Finally we were packed into the vehicles, freezer and all. Suddenly I realized that I had not taken into account my dogs. Each vehicle was filled to the maximum, and there was no room left for pit bulls. We went to work again and squeezed a space for Medic in Bill’s truck, Clarice went with Dave, and Kinky sat on Jeanna’s lap. Needless to say Jeanna’s face was very clean by the time we reached Conway.
We arrived and tried to figure out how to park all the vehicles in the washed out driveway. There were more holes and ruts than driveway. That done we stood around for about thirty seconds before we realized that it was about to pour. That precipitated the most frantic unpacking this land has ever seen. In less than fifteen minutes everything was off the open truck beds and into the house. Even the freezer had found a new home in the back of the garage. It looked royal sitting up on a concrete slab. We all had a round of beer and watched the rain pour off the roof.
Shortly after moving in I was contacted by American Frozen Foods. Intrigued, I allowed them entry. This was an error. There is a Bedouin folk tale about the camel; if you let the camel get its nose under the tent wall soon you will have the entire camel within the tent. The camel, in the guise of frozen food, was soon occupying most of the freezer. Most of the time I was pleased with the service and the products. They even came out and gave the little beauty a tune-up. I simply did not have enough time to shop, and this service solved some of that problem.
Over time the frozen food people became a terrible annoyance. They were forever trying to sell me more things, special meals, a new freezer, a knife set, it was very annoying. Despite my frequent assurances that all I wanted was the food, they remained relentless. There were also hidden costs that were too expensive to bear. The final straw was that the meat, which in the beginning had been very high quality, seemed to be of lesser quality. Each order saw a subsequent drop in flavor and texture. Having raised my own beef I cannot settle for inferior cuts. That year I severed my ties with the frozen food folks.
Over the last few months we had been trying to finish up the last of the AFF food. It was difficult, because JP loves to shop, and cannot resist a sale. If it is buy one get two free he will buy two and get four free. In short order he filled the freezer with new meat. This made it even more difficult to eat what remained.
The fateful morning in question dawned hot and sticky. I had gotten up early to manage the dogs, the frosting, and my schoolwork. The dogs were fractious as they often are, barking constantly. This morning they had a particularly hysterical edge, erupting in barking frenzies. This makes us all grumpy, even the dogs. Kinky is in charge of barking, and if everyone else is barking it detracts from her work. This causes her to charge at the other dogs and yell in their faces. Occasionally fights occur, brief and vicious swirling growling spats. All the noise makes JP yell and stomp, and spray the dogs with the water gun. That deters them just long enough for him to get back into the house and then they are back to work.
Several years ago I purchased a barking collar for Kinky. She is a pathological barker, having spent several months in a kennel as a pup while I was trying not to die of Legionnaires’ disease. She can bark herself hoarse, and is intractable. The barking collar will not actually stop her, she will bark and scream, bark and scream. This she only does if the barking is extremely important. Kinky knows that if she really has to bark that pain does not matter. She will also test the collar when it is put on, barking softly to see if the collar is working properly.
We recently acquired a second collar for Jane, who has her own problems with barking. Unlike Kink, she has no job, no real place in the pack, and I believe this is a source of frustration. She is always trying to make a point with Clarice, trying to stand over her, looking imposing. The other dogs simply ignore her efforts to be important, which is a terrible slight. (It is interesting to note here that Clarice taught me this, when someone is trying to bully you, ignoring them is the strongest weapon. By not acknowledging the threat it swiftly belittles the bully. Clarice simply looks through Jane, and Jane has to walk away.) Because Jane has a lot of time to think and no particular role, she chases her tail and barks at the satellite dish. She will stand on the deck, front paws on the railing, and bark at the dish for ten minutes. Then she will insanely twirl after her tail, often pinning it against the ground. It taunts her then, twitching, but she cannot reach because she is so thick and muscle bound. There will be a sudden shift in gears and she is back at the dish.
It is important to note that Jane is not stupid; in fact she can solve complicated issues like turning on faucets. She understands that doorknobs need to be turned to work properly, and will work assiduously to open doors. She can turn on both the outdoor faucet and the shower. When the satellite dish was installed she spent hours trying to drive it off the deck rail. When it refused to leave she examined the length of cable nailed to the outside of the house. I did not realize what she was doing, flat out on the deck peering around the corner. What I would discover later was that she had reached out a paddy paw and unhooked the cable from the outside wall. She drew it over and chewed it partially through. When we discovered the damage I taped it up neatly and nailed it even further away from the deck edge. The challenge was daunting, but Jane spent hours feeling around with her paw until she had once again unhooked the cable. This time she chewed clear through and the satellite guy had to come out and install a new one. He did not charge me because he did not believe the dog had done the deed. Just to be on the safe side he attached the cable even further away. Now all she can do is scream at the dish, which she does every time she happens to look up and see it squatting on the railing.
This morning the barking seemed particularly hysterical, and I periodically glanced out to see if there were space invaders in the driveway. Brooding over my frosting, I was not a pretty sight. Frosting makes me furious in that unreasonable way of certain things. I love this frosting, it is a recipe from my father’s mother, and involves butter and chocolate in roughly even proportions. Making it is tedious. It involves melting, mixing, and cooling, all of which take forever and cannot be rushed without dire consequences. This frosting has a way of turning into an unpleasant mush that cannot be spread. As such I make it in a grim manner, peering into the dish, frowning at those foolish enough to enter the kitchen.
JP, of course, blind to my evil side is unable to read the frosting signals. Happily ensconced in the kitchen he attempts to take a taste from the bowl and nearly loses a finger. He always seems so surprised when I am grumpy, as if his inner vision of me has neatly deleted all the grumpy bits. This is truly amazing and a little frightening, I wonder what he thinks I look like, is his visual image just as skewed? I explain to him that making frosting makes me grumpy, to which he replies “Honey, that is so silly.” He then proceeds to hug me in that terrible bone crushing way. JP has no idea how strong he is or how much damage he can inflict upon my much smaller person. If he squeezes me until he hears a pop, click, snap, or squeak, then he has appropriately displayed his love.
Because I cannot chase him away, he is just too wonderful, I try to be friendly. Unfortunately the devils in the frosting are overwhelming, so I shut the mixer off and go out on the deck for a moment. The dogs choose this moment to go completely insane. I yell, they bark and run off the deck. Once on the ground they hurl themselves at the fence occasionally looking back to see if I understand what is transpiring.
I am sure the dogs are very frustrated by the human reluctance to understand barking. They do such a great job of communicating and we hardly ever bother to listen. There is the very subtle ‘glance at the door, glance at my human, glance back at the door’ a beautiful request to go outside. There is the dog running by with a stolen sock in its mouth; if you do not notice they will run by again, but more slowly. Did you notice? I would like some attention please. There is the Jedi mind trick of willing the human to just let go of the pan and let that roast drop to the floor. Any dog owner has felt that stare; some have even fell prey to its power. Dogs and humans may lack a common language, but our main goals and pleasures are similar: ‘feed me’ ‘rub my belly’ ‘I’m scared’ ‘this is fun’ any dog can say as much if their human will only listen.
Today the dogs had seen many things about which I was unaware. They had been barking to alert me to multiple intruders, including the one coming up the drive. Finally I was outside and would have to take notice! Of course, I did not, at least not immediately. I was still grumpy about my frosting, and about being squeezed, and about the barking, so I continued to yell and threaten. Kinky actually took the time to run back up the deck to take my hand in her mouth. This gesture she reserves for when I am seriously not paying attention.
I looked up and saw that a man was indeed limping up the drive. He looked all wrong, and the dogs were going crazy. I had to spend several minutes getting them back into the house so that I could hear what the man had to say. He was out of breath and looked as though he had been pulled through the underbrush. He asked if I had seen his dog, and described a black and white border collie, dragging a length of chain. I told him I had not, but that my dogs had been barking all morning, indicating that she might have been in the yard not too long ago. By way of reply he asked if I had seen the moose. Not understanding I said that I often saw a moose, but further down the road, in fact there were three distinct specimens, a young bull, a mature bull and a cow, that were obviously local residents. After listening patiently to me wax rhapsodic about our moose he said no, that he meant it had been running up and down the road this morning. He said that his collie had finally had enough of the moose and had broken her sizeable chain and gone to round it up, as directed by her DNA. She and the moose had been last seen galloping past my house.
He took his leave and went back to his search. I stood on the deck and pondered. My poor dogs, what had they seen this morning? I had failed them even as they had tried to report. The moose may have even gone by more than once, and the last time pursued by a collie dragging twenty feet of truck chain. I made a mental picture of this, beginning with the moose starting off his morning emerging from the woods at the base of the driveway. It would have been the young bull; he does not seem to have a lot of sense about roads, or dogs, or people. This would have occasioned the first bout of dog hysteria. The moose casually made his way down the road, pausing to select a leaf here and there. The dogs would have been alternating between barking and running up on the deck to look in the window. They must have been out of their minds with worry.
The first house we occupied in Cummington came with a bear. This bear had a daily routine that involved picking the wild raspberries behind the house. Clarice was not the least bit intimidated by the bear and felt his incursions on her property needed to be dealt with severely. She would chase him through the woods until he was an appropriate distance and then she would trot back with her tail at a jaunty angle. She had a particular bark that she reserved for the bear. I am sure she was barking that bark this morning, the ‘it’s a really big animal, and I do not know what it is but it has to leave’ bark.
Perhaps the moose made a loop and passed the house again, or maybe it ended up in the neighbor’s field. The collie must have been equally frantic. Not only was it a very large animal that needed to leave, it needed herding. The collie herding imperative is overwhelming. I could never own one unless I had something for it to work. I always cringe when I see them as household pets, without even the succor of working at obedience, fly ball, or agility. They possess such drive that they must never be out of work, it is just cruel.
The next scene is of the moose lingering in the field while the collie sets to against its chain. She must have flung herself repeatedly in the air until the chain broke loose. (Tow chain is like cotton thread in the face of a herding question.) Being a good collie she would snake over to the moose, eyes locked on the prize. The moose, not being domesticated, and therefore without the appropriate reply to such an approach, must have decided she was a threat and fled. Perhaps the collie outflanked the moose and stared it down, willing it to obey her commands. When the moose stopped she would drop and flatten, holding it with her eye. If the moose moved she would move like a dancing partner, waltzing around the field. The chain must have added a certain annoyance, dragging, dangling, and hissing like coals in the grass.
Ultimately we know the moose fled, apparently at the approach of the collie’s owner. Down the road they went, the moose in its speedy but loose-jointed lope, the collie in a neat gallop, the chain bouncing behind, and finally the man. What had the pit bulls thought of this strange parade? How they must have longed to join in and help. Driven by their imperative to stop and hold bewildered herbivores, they would have hurled themselves at the bull’s face, grabbing the nose, a lip, and ear. It would have been the mightiest catch of their lives, and they would have hung on like grim death, smiling that bulldog smile.
Clarice comes from a pig catching line; her relatives hunt wild boar in Alabama. The dog’s job is to hunt the animal then hold it long enough for the hunters to catch up and shoot the pig. The pigs can be enormous, have long tusks, and do not wish to be hunted, held or shot. Only the best dogs survive. When a pig-hunting kennel contacted me after the birth of Clarice’s first litter I turned down their offer to buy the whole lot. Mortality is too high, the sport too bloody.
The first pig that Clarice met never knew what hit him. She was firmly attached to his ear and rooted to the ground. He was three times her size, but young, so he just fell back and squealed horribly. The owner was displeased, particularly when I was unable to remove Clarice. She had her eyes closed, her lips drawn back in a smile, a picture of bliss. Once I peeled her loose we were all surprised to see that she had barely left a scratch. We left in disgrace; Clarice was no longer welcome at that farm.
Oh how the dogs would have loved that moose. Each dog would have taken its own piece of moose and held it like a lover’s hand. The moose would have stopped and begun to kick and flail, trying to shake the bulldogs loose. The collie would have stepped in close to dance her collie dance, to hold that animal still. Strangers, these dogs would have worked together to herd and catch.
Some of the dogs would have received terrible injuries, or even died, but they would have been so happy. That is an aspect of great dogs and horses that people rarely understand. The heart that drives a thoroughbred past the finish line with a broken bone, the inexperienced plot hound taking on a bear, spaniels run to death after pheasant. The collective heart of that group of dogs was such that they would have taken that moose down or died trying.
Inspired by this vision I returned to the kitchen. JP had wandered off which made the frosting much easier to manage. It goes on thick over an angel food cake and the best way to firm it up is to let it sit a while in the freezer. Then when you eat the cake the chocolate frosting is both cold and succulent. This dessert is a Coss tradition, particularly for birthdays. Happy now that it was complete, I scurried down to the garage to put the cake in the freezer. I was still entranced with the vision of the moose and the dogs.
The garage smelled bad, but it often does, so I was not forewarned. As the door swung open I was hit with a wave of fish smell. The scup that JP had caught were on top, and their collective juices were dripping. How is it that zip lock bags will fail just when you need them most? Below the fish, a hundred pounds of assorted meats, in various stages of defrosting. A giant tub of Jalapeno ice cream. I almost dropped the cake.
As a postscript to this event, the freezer had to go. It had suffered some mortal injury and refused to turn back on despite our best efforts. JP said we would take it to the dump. I replied quite icily, “Yeah, what do you mean ‘we’ white man, you gotta mouse in your pocket?” He calmly replied that he could move the freezer easily with his trailer. I told him all about the freezer, how many strong men had groaned and broken under its mighty weight. He smiled in his patronizing way and dropped the subject.
The following weekend he single handedly lifted the freezer up onto his trailer, took it to the dump and dragged it into the homeless appliance section. I stood by, mouth hanging open. JP is quite strong, but I had seen four men wrestle with that freezer as though it were winning, and not just once but at least four separate times! JP climbed into the truck grinning like a rattrap. I pointed out the immense weight of the freezer one more time. I recalled the men and their efforts. I pointed out the window at my freezer that looked naked standing there without its door. Still smiling, he put the truck in drive and said, “maybe they just wanted to impress you, guys do things like that you know.”