Kicked out of the post office because somebody couldn’t just walk quietly on his leash, I said, “Little buddy, you sure do get me in a lot of trouble!” while I rubbed the wiry black and white head in the seat next to me.

And Gilligan was born.

He had been nameless for several weeks as the search for the perfect moniker took place.

And perfect it was.

Goofy with uncontrollable wavy hair and a propensity for mischief fueled by the most loyal and loving of hearts, Gilligan and I have certainly embarked on our three-hour tour, washed up on the same strange shore together.

To me, names have always been so significant that the responsibility of assigning them is sometimes overwhelming.
My youngest child for instance, left the hospital as “Baby Boy Johnson” and it was a week before the right name came along. I remember rushing to the hospital, fingers crossed with birth records in hand and just minutes to spare because his name was going to be registered permanently that way in Santa Fe if a decision wasn’t made by 5 p.m.

And still not satisfied with the choice, just days before his first birthday an overnight package was sent to the vital records department, changing his middle name.

There is Sancha, so named out of recognition for the commitment I was making in buying a horse. Spanish for mistress, her name was a reminder to myself that she was going to take all my time and probably a good chunk of money.

And her brother Pyrite, who was a risky endeavor as a three-year-old untrained stud.

“I’ll be the fool but you be the gold,” I remember telling him when he was heading to the vet to be gelded, hoping I had read his potential correctly.

So far he has been absolute gold, helping me feel a little less like a fool.

Then there was my Saint Bernard, Gryffon, so named for my junior high modern dance teacher Mary Griffon, who respected my tears and shame and gave me a decent grade anyways, accepting that try as they might, some people just aren’t performers.

Gryffon, in like vein, fulfilled her namesake and accepted me for who I was, loved me anyways and enriched my teen years like no other.

And my freedom cat Quantico, or “Tico”, named for a long ago goal that never happened. We moved into my first apartment together both of us expecting. However Tico, it turns out, was not expecting but instead was ill and only just met my oldest son before she died.

Not all the pet names over the years were brilliant or for that matter even remotely creative; I guess sometimes you just have to call it like it is.

Blackie — my therapy horse that taught me they really are just as scared of you as you are of them.

Kaiser — Technically “Armenias Val Sole Von Rittergut” the smartest and most capable of dogs with a desire to please and loyal to a fault.

Baby — the most interactive and loving cat I have had the pleasure of knowing, more like a dog in a cat’s body.

Sadie — the gentlest, happiest and most loving dog I have ever known.

Mikey — so named because my oldest son would hug him close and say “My keeeyyy”, unable to pronounce the T’s. Mikey it was.

Sissy — the under-the-bed dog scared of absolutely everything but other dogs and cats.

Jack — the Jack Russell terrier that made me laugh more than any other animal ever has and brought light to my life during a very dark time.

Alley — the cat that never left the alley in his mind and still scurries into hiding at the slightest sign of human attention.

And that’s just some of the mammals, not even touching on the reptiles, insects, rodents and other critters that have had the honor of receiving a name in my household.

But even the silly or simple names have somehow fit exactly as they should. Perhaps we become our names.

Does it matter? Would a rose by any other name not smell as sweet? Sure it would, but never underestimate the value of the perfect name, be it simple or complex.

Can you imagine walking through the garden and leaning over to smell a beautiful pink hypothalamus?

I’ll stick with roses, thank you very much!

Recently I was struggling to work with a horse that just flat out refused to move.

My friend, who had experienced great success with him, stood against the fence and observed as I yelled, snapped the whip, waved my arms and tried to look intimidating… trying anything and everything to make the crotchety, lazy bugger move.

I turned to her frustrated and said “I don’t get it, what am I doing wrong?”

She looked at me and replied, “He moves for me because he thinks I want to eat him.”

With a serious expression, she added, “I guess he knows you’re a vegetarian.”

So turn on the light…

Of course I have fears, who doesn’t?

Airplanes, heights, water, bees, and the dark… the list of things that can inspire someone to develop shaky knees, racing heart beats and jagged breath is infinite.

We all have something we are afraid of, right?

Well yes, however you shouldn’t fear what you love.

But what if you do?

In my youth I never thought about fears. I have flown in airplanes, even helped fly a couple, I have been in helicopters and watched the earth pass beneath my feet, climbed mountains, swam in the deep part of the ocean, camped in the deep dark woods, threw rocks at bees nests, poked sticks at snakes… and I have ridden horses. And ridden and ridden and ridden.

I loved to canter best of all (lope in the cowboy world). The only thing better than a flat out canter was a canter between jumps.

And jumping – nothing was more fun than leaning up on your horse’s neck and sailing over a jump, it was like flying.

I even remember how much fun it was when Cinnabar, a young sorrel filly, bucked her way through an entire show and I got a ribbon just for staying on. That was my favorite ribbon; one I still have tucked away in a box of memories somewhere.

I still remember when they introduced us to vaulting at a school where I rode. I was first in line, wanting to try my hand at standing on the horse’s back and dangling along its side as it trotted.

When my mother looked back at me from the back of a horse with an anxious, forlorn and obviously uncomfortable look as I sent her off on the “beginners” trail ride and joined my friends on the advance trail — my “oh so thoughtful” gift to her one Mother’s Day — I remember giggling and waving goodbye.

Sure, I got stepped on and bitten and kicked once or twice, and I relished the bruises as proof of my commitment.

But I never fell. Not once. And I had no fear. I was in control, or so I thought, and it never occurred to me that there was danger.

Sorry Mom. I get it now. Perhaps it’s karma.

Something changed over the years. Something I was unaware of. Maybe it was motherhood, maturity or common sense creeping in, who knows.

Then I had “an equine” wreck in August that I think put the icing on the cake, but that is actually a funny story, and one that I will save for another day.

But suffice it to say, I came out of the mud with more than a hoof print on my skin – instead it became imbedded in my mind and worse, even deeper in some involuntary part of my make-up.

And believe it or not, I still wasn’t aware of the horrible monster growing inside my psyche until I got my beautiful Sancha.

My sweet, sweet girl… Her only fault is her age. She is young. And with that comes spontaneity, impulsiveness, occasional rebellion and even a sense of humor.

She is smart, beautiful and steady as a rock. If she does something you didn’t expect, you can bet she planned it in advance and somewhere in that horsey head of hers, there is echoing laughter or maybe even a flash of temper, but spooky she is not.

I knew that would come with the territory of having a fledgling. I accepted it and prepared for it, or so I thought.

But I was not prepared for the long-term effect of having experienced the (all too new to me) sensation of lying on my back with a set of hooves coming over top of me.

Nor was I prepared for the involuntary reaction of fear at the slightest little horsey twitch as my subconscious predicts repeat occurrences of said horrible experience.

Have I “cowboyed up”? You betcha I have.

But there is a catch.

For me, I have learned that to “cowboy up” is to crash through the ice and wait for a thin skin to refreeze, only to crash through again, each experience worse in its lasting effect than the one before.

In other words, it hasn’t helped me defeat the fear, it has only confirmed it, and in some ways made it worse.

And acknowledging that fear, once I put my pride aside and named it for what it was – trust me I have beaten myself to a pulp over the failing — has given me some ability to move forward.

Only now I am doing it with caution and in a calculated way because the most important thing is to give my baby all the tools she needs and all the consistency required to build the best foundation within her for a good future.

I have forced myself to lead 800 lb. little miss “what am I going to do next”, and I have done more bomb proofing exercises with that poor baby than any horse should have to endure.

She is now comfortable with fog horns, whistles, huge plastic tarps covering her and under her feet, walks on wooden objects, over bright foam noodles, runs through a gauntlet of streamers and windsocks and twirling plastic flowers as if it’s a walk in the park and casually nibbles at the ground while dragging strange objects behind her or suspended from her neck.

Heck, half the time she eats the items that are expected to frighten her and then moves on when the taste doesn’t satisfy her finicky palate.

She has crossed every hurdle placed before her and passed with flying colors. She is smart and unflappable and I have little doubt will be a brilliant pleasure horse when the time comes.

Which incidentally is further confirmation that the problem is completely mine. And I have spent hours and hours agonizing over it and immeasurable amounts of time trying to pump myself up and wrestle this ever-growing monster inside my mind.

But one thing I always knew and a point she has driven home to me repeatedly, is she can feel my fear and she is impetuous enough in her youthfulness to capitalize on it.

What that has translated to for me is an even further release of pride and knowing when to ask for help.

I made a commitment when I entered into this territory to do it right for her, no matter what. And I have learned that means letting go of my pride, which is a very, very difficult thing to do.

Because if I don’t, she will continue to capitalize on my weaknesses (Ooooh, “weakness”, that’s hard to say!), and she will develop bad habits and traits that may never be undone.

Enter friends and experts…

You learn who your friends are when you truly need help and don’t know where to turn. And I have found a gem of a friend who is willing to do the heavy lifting and start the basics for me, working towards my goals without asking a thing in return.

My standards are high and I want perfection. I want her to learn the best of the best and have the same consistency every time, all with careful consideration to how that handling will translate in years to come, which unfortunately is something I cannot provide until I overcome my fears.

And that friend’s investment of time and energy in building those foundations with my little one has allowed me time to seek help in overcoming my fears so that I can accomplish what I set out to do all those months ago.

So while I am going through therapeutic lessons and learning to battle my demons under the tutelage of a very caring and compassionate but tough instructor, my savior is making sure my little one is getting the guidance she needs to grow and become what she surely can be.

Can it be accomplished?

Oscar Wilde said, “The basis of optimism is sheer terror,” well I guess that makes me the ultimate optimist.

Perhaps I have become a minimalist in my old age or some transformation has overtaken me that I have yet to identify, but I have claimed a new home and while I appreciate the old one, I am immensely happy with the new.

I was born and raised on the east coast. My father was an explorer of sorts, with little concern for comfort or luxury but an insatiable appetite for experience that was instilled in him from his childhood as a missionary’s son living overseas.

I spent countless hours camping and hiking, from my early childhood through my teens. It was my favorite pastime to be outside and while other teens were at the mall, I would load my dog in the car and go to the mountains and hike to the highest point I could find and spend hours just sitting and looking out over the landscape.

It was a gift my father gave to me. An appreciation for the world we live in.

A teacher, Dad didn’t have a lot of money, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him from showing his children everything he could and he made the world our classroom.

When school vacations came around, we threw a tent in the car with sleeping bags, some canned food and some dry staples and off we went, his heart filled with adventure and his wallet often filled with nothing more than a hope and a prayer.

We scoured the east coast, exploring  all day and at night, camped at state parks where it was free or inexpensive. 

By the time I was 9 I had learned about Paul Revere’s ride, the Liberty Bell, the Salem Witch Trials, The Mayflower, the Statue of Liberty, the White House, Lincoln, Gettysburg and the Civil War, Jamestown, Kentucky race horses, Monet and Renoir, from being there and seeing them.

I had been to the Air and Space (where I tasted astronaut ice cream, yuk!), The Natural History and all the Smithsonian museums and attended countless multicultural festivals and symphonies.

But we didn’t just head to the highlights, we stopped everywhere in between.

We caught lobsters in Massachusetts, ogled Pandas gifted to the U.S. by China, pet the calvary horses at Arlington Cemetery, and reindeer in the Appalachian mountains.

I learned woodland survival skills, how to find and identify medicinal and edible plants, how to treat a snakebite and the simple stuff like how to build a lean-to and a fire. 

I still have fond memories of running down the roads in Connecticut, scooping up salamanders by the hundreds and putting them in buckets with my little brother, flipping rocks in creeks to see who could find the most crawdaddys, staying up late to try and catch fireflies or the occasional Luna moth, and waking up to a trail of hoof prints from curious wild ponies, left in the sand around our sleeping bags on Assateague Island.

My love of the forests and mountains was unrivaled.

Until in my pre-teens, we made a trip out west, seeing Texas, New Orleans, the Mississippi, Mexico and everything in between.

It was my first time away from the east coast and it affected me deeply.

Always used to seeing dense, lush forests and mountains with streams and rivers and rolling green hills, I was shocked at how absolutely beautiful I found the flat, dry, wide expanse of the midwest.

There was a freedom to it and an openness I had never experienced before. In some way, I imagined it being like Africa, just a wide open world with no boundaries or cluttered, cumbersome civility.

It unraveled the microscopic, compartmentalized perspective I had always had of the world, but never realized I had.

And I felt sorrow seeing it disappear in the rearview mirror and promised I would be back.

In my teens I joined with a teen church group headed to the Navajo Nation in Arizona and spent a glorious two weeks working in the July sun to replace a roof on a church, just so I could see it and experience it one more time.

And again, I promised I would be back.

As an adult, I was ecstatic at the chance to return yet again, not knowing or caring what Clovis had to offer, as long as it was in the southwest.

And I have not been disappointed. 

When I drive just a click outside of town and see a hawk perched on a fence post out in the open, I often pull over to the side of the road and watch until he stretches his wings and rises in search of prey.

And on occasion I have poked my head into an abandoned house or two, thrilled to be greeted by a pair of amber eyes in the rafters framed by a seemingly all knowing face twisting around to look down at me.

The sparseness of the land spotlights the beauty and exposes things, like birds of prey, that I always knew existed on the east coast but only caught fleeting glimpses of as they sought cover in the trees.

The sunsets and the storms, unmarred by mountains and trees, surround you, making you part of them.

I’ll not deny, the wind gets to me, and the mud after the rains is not exactly my favorite either, but I will gladly take 10 windy days for one day of pure sunlight and endless earth that extends further than the human eye can fathom.  

The surreal green that rises from the ground and the flowers that spring out of the dry grasses after only a brief rain shower and the colors I took for granted and never appreciated before.

I hold dear those childhood memories of mountains and forests and meadows and rivers but I am making new ones from mountains of clouds, the smoothness of dry playas, the glistening gold of rippling grass in the morning sun and a world bathed in the color of the setting sun.

And I’m learning, maybe less is more.

A website has been created to spotlight the plight of abandoned horses in the wake of U.S. slaughterhouse closures in 2007.

The site blames those closures for an increase in abandonment and abuse of horses because it left owners of aged or ill horses left with no options.

“The well-intended legislation enacted to help horses has backfired. An essential outlet that once kept the equine population in check has all but disappeared. Because of plant closures, the market for aged, infirmed, over-bred, mean or dangerous horses has plummeted. The cost of keeping a horse has not.

Horse owners are facing a costly burden; unfortunate horses are facing less-than-humane treatment. It is difficult, if not impossible, for people to sell animals they no longer want, need, or can afford.”

The site is seeking photos and documentation of abandonment and abuse of horses nationwide and appears to be in its early days with only a few images posted from Utah and Oregon.

I’d be interested to hear opinions on the issue. I can’t help but wonder why animal owners faced with disposal issues can’t just humanely euthanize and dispose of those animals that would have otherwise gone to the slaughterhouses.

A veterinarian recently told me a well-placed bullet is considered by experts and the law to be a humane form of euthanasia for large animals and I’m sure for those who can’t bring themselves to go that route, a veterinarian could come and administer euthanasia.

So why would lack of slaughterhouses impact the situation at all? Is it a transportation issue where people just like the convenience of being able to load them on trucks and forget about it?

I get that there are abandoned horses out there but I’m not sure I understand how that’s a result of closed slaughterhouses, so perhaps someone can enlighten me…

I have posted a press release from Baxter Black below if you are interested. Black is a syndicated columnist and one of the founders of www.abandonedhorses.com

Press release:

FROM BAXTER BLACK, COYOTE COWBOY COMPANY, www.baxterblack.com

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: NATIONAL ABANDONED HORSES WEBSITE ESTABLISHED!

A webpage has been established to serve as a site to collect and
document cases of equine abuse, abandonment and neglect. It is called
www.abandonedhorses.com. Photographs of affected horses along with city
and state of origin and person submitting can be e-mailed to:
sendphotos@amillionhorses.com.

According to Baxter Black, DVM, one of the founders, “We are
establishing a ‘gallery of abandoned horses.’ This unintended problem
has come as a direct result of the closing of all the horse slaughter
plants in the U.S.

“Several states are considering the building a new plant. There will
undoubtedly be objections to their construction.
www.abandonedhorses.com will serve as a stark visual reminder to
politicians and voters of the need for a practical humane alternative to
starving or dumping them.

“The day the first new plant in the United States is finished, this man
made abandoned horse tragedy will begin to disappear.”

I’ve been quiet for a while, a little preoccupied.
Of course there were the holidays and vacation, lots of shopping and juggling work and home and family.
But there’s another reason I have been quiet.
It’s my Sancha.
She was the first I saw when I began my search, and no matter what, I always went back to her. As a matter of fact, the night after I met her, I couldn’t sleep. I paced and fretted, telling myself to stuff it and move on.
But I couldn’t.
My thoughts for the past three months have been consumed with her.
How to integrate her into my life, how to keep her, put her up in a nice pad and find pockets of time to sneak away to be with her.
Can I afford her? Will I have time? Do I know how to care for her? Will I be able to foster a long-term, positive relationship with her? Can I teach her what she needs to know?
I placed so much pressure on myself in making the decision, the commitment…
I tested others, read the classified ads, plumb wore myself out, but I kept going back to her.
Finally, after a ton of reading, seeking advice from friends and acquaintances (I’ll admit, listening mostly to what I wanted to hear), sleepless nights, visits to see her, and finally a clean bill of health from the Doc, the deal was done.
I took the plunge.
I think with every major decision in life, at least in my experience, you bog yourself down with research, make lists of pros and cons, toil and contemplate and then in the end you cross your fingers close your eyes and jump.
Doing what you probably wanted to do all along anyway, only slightly more educated and as a result, totally responsible for the outcome.
Last Thursday, as I watched them snake the ropes around her, tugging her head and pulling her rear end at the same time, I had second thoughts.
“What the heck am I doing?” “Am I out of my mind?”
As she set back on her hindquarters, nose stretched forward as far as it would go against the ropes with a wild look in her eyes, I looked away and told myself to stay the course.
And again, when we arrived at her new home and I heard the crazed stomping, snorting and whinnies coming from the trailer like a violent thunder storm trapped in a tin can, I told myself it was too late, she was mine, good bad or indifferent.
Commitment made, I waited for the explosion as the door opened.
But it never came.
Standing there with a little blood on her bottom lip from her harrowing trip, she looked out, calmed by the sight of sunlight.
A week later, I am still juggling a gazillion emotions. Pride and joy gives way to discouragement, frustration and fear only to be replaced with love and adoration and then back around again in a vicious circle.
It has been a real roller coaster ride.
She’s happy to see me when I arrive, but often reminds me that she spends too much time alone, wants more of this or that, alternates between being playful to turning her back on me to begging for touch and comfort.
Even with her sometimes-rotten attitude and the effort it takes to love her some days, I am still plagued with thoughts of her.
In the morning I can’t wait to finish my routine so I can sneak off and spend a few minutes with her before work, and during the day, I catch myself smiling for no reason, looking forward to the feel of her warm breath on my cheek and thoughts of brushing her red-tipped, silky black hair from her eyes when I go to see her in the evening.
Will I be the worst thing that ever happened to her? Am I going to ruin her? Make mistakes that can’t be undone?
I suppose time will tell.
But one thing’s for certain, my Sancha’s got my heart.
And maybe soon, I’ll uncross my fingers a little.

My memories are many and vivid.
There were the sweets, sugared mulberries and raspberries on top of vanilla ice cream, butterscotch candies, the nectar from honey suckle blossoms, boxes of oranges and grapefruits at Christmas and thin ribbon candy.
There were the hours at Grandpa’s house, sitting in the branches of the willow tree, watching him work on engines and scouring the gravel driveway for the lead weights from tires (an early form of sidewalk chalk).
Inside the house the adventures were endless. There were the steep, winding stairs to the attic. And Grandma’s huge salt and pepper shaker collection from years of world travel peered out from the hutch in the dining room.

I could spend hours tracing the designs on the meticulously beaded Mahogany stool from Africa or stroking the Zebra skin, and when I looked at the little statue of “monkey hear-monkey see-monkey do” on the dresser I always imagined it to be a portrait of JoJo the monkey from Grandpa’s Africa stories.
Then there was the printing press and darkroom in the basement. Grandpa’s drafting tables, light tables, timers, stacks of paper blended with a mixture of metal, red light, dust, ink and chemicals, smells that to this day spin me back through time.
He never shooed me away or lost patience with me.
I can still hear him singing goofy commercials, like “the corniest flakes that anybody makes is Kellogg’s,” crooning at the end, “don’t be cornfuuuuused….”
When I saw his return address on the box two weeks ago, I heard his voice calling me “Snagglepuss” and smiled.
Digging through the blue Styrofoam popcorn, my hand ran into a hard object wrapped in bubble wrap.
As the bundle emerged from the box and I saw the shadowy figure of a marbled gray and white onyx horse, in one split instant, all those memories, all those smells and tastes were there.
The birthday horse…
I can’t think of a year passing without a birthday horse of some form or fashion from Grandpa.
A bronze change dish with a foal curled around the brim, a little black iron horse with a western saddle on a small marble base, a bronze statue of a trotting horse. The trip to the national horse show, walking through the stables at an Army base to look at the Calvary horses, a book about show horses or an encyclopedia of the horse.
And then there were the cards, always with a dollar tucked in, “to put toward the horse you’re going to get someday”.
Those horses have meant so much to me over the years.
The adults in our lives as we grow and mature play a huge role in who we become and they give us many gifts through their example, their love and wisdom, lectures and even discipline.
But they don’t always remember or value what is uniquely important to us.
Those birthday horses were the special little touch that let me know Gpa remembered my dreams.
In good times, the horses were a symbol of confirmation and in the rough times, they served to remind me “hey you still have a dream”.
Whether he knows it or not, he won’t let me forget.
No matter where I move, no matter how distant family or normalcy may seem, those horses serve as a thread that ties and grounds me.
And I don’t care how old I get, a birthday just wouldn’t be the same without Grandpa’s horses.

When did we lose all common sense?
The American Academy of Pediatrics in it’s October medical journal issued a warning that families with children under five should avoid owning non-traditional pets according to a story released Monday by the Associated Press.
The story highlighted lizards, hamsters, baby chicks and turtles as potentially hazardous because they can carry deadly germs and pose a higher risk of biting than cats and dogs.
There are so many things I find wrong with this I hardly know where to start.
There is no question there are major problems in the exotic pet trade. It is not regulated enough and the problems stemming from irresponsibility both in the industry and among consumers are real but that is separate issue.
In terms of keeping exotics, my personal stance on many, particularly reptiles, is that they should rarely if ever be handled because many of them are fragile, easily stressed, have a well developed flight response and the speed to back it up.
Exotics have special needs and require sensitive, educated care. Some reptiles are so sensitive in fact that handling will kill them because of the stress.
Now that’s not to say an average person can’t care for a exotic but in the interest of a successful experience for the animal and the human, the human will have done some homework.
And in the event that person has done said homework, he or she already knows certain animals can carry germs, bacteria or some diseases.
This stuff is not a secret and it’s not new news.
Which is where my irritation starts.
I guess the AAP gets a free pass on one level because obviously there are enough dumb parents out there that they feel the need to tell them this.
Who in their right mind would go out an get an iguana for a 3-year-old? Or a boa constrictor that will reach six feet before junior learns to tie his shoes?
Obviously it’s someone who can’t be bothered to take five minutes to type “iguana” into Google.
Children under five realistically don’t have pets — parents of children under five have pets.
Now if you understand that, you have a foundation to move forward.
Responsible exotic pet owners know to take precautions when handling their animals. Like washing their hands using antibacterial soap or hand sanitizer and carefully cleaning up any pieces of shed skin from reptiles or any droppings etc.
And to say that exotics pose a higher risk of biting and scratching than domestic animals?
When my oldest son was a baby, I remember being perplexed at the discovery of several scratches along his feet and ankles and wondering if there was an angry poltergeist in the house.
As it turned out the cat would sit beside the crib and wait for his feet to poke out and bat at them.
Dogs can and do maul and kill children, cats can bite and scratch and even the smallest of those wounds pose risks of infection. Not to mention dogs and cats can carry nasties of their own, like worms and toxoplasmosis.
Even humans carry lovely things ranging from the basic viruses and bacteria to strep throat or hepatitis or even HIV.
The bottom line is life has risks and exposures.
What concerns me here is that people may have a tendency to overreact as is typical when these studies come out.
Classroom pets, exotic animal demonstrations, petting zoos, easter chicks and turtle races could all be casualties of ignorance and negligence.
Many children have grown up eating mud pies, filing buckets with frogs and salamanders, having turtle races and have fallen asleep to the sounds of a squeaky hamster wheel beside their bed.
OK, don’t let your 2-year-old suck on a snake, (DUH), but don’t deprive children of exposure to the unique and fascinating things nature holds.
Don’t allow direct, unsupervised contact and wash your child’s hands or use sanitizer anytime they touch a questionable critter.
But children shouldn’t be raised in a bubble.
If parents and caretakers just take the time to research possible risks, understand them and supervise, there are ways to mitigate exposure and still have well-rounded, healthy kids.

I recently learned an injured owl that I had opportunity to photograph two weeks ago died.
Herschel Arnold, Hillcrest Park Zoo director said the Great Horned owl never made it to a wildlife rehab center in Espanola where caretakers had hoped to send him.
A resident in the area of Pineway Boulevard called animal control Sept. 18 to report the injured raptor had been found in a yard suffering from a possible spinal injury that incapacitated the lower half of his body.
People have been calling to check on the bird after his picture appeared in the paper, Arnold said, and have expressed disappointment the story didn’t have a better ending.
Some residents of the neighborhood the bird was found in have reported hearing an owl hooting in the night since the owl died, probably the hunter’s mate, Arnold said.
And I have a friend in the area who remembered seeing him from time to time in her trees at dusk. She said she’s heard the haunting sounds of another owl too.
Arnold said it will probably never be known what exactly happened to the bird, but he said it is not uncommon for birds of prey to injure themselves on power lines as they hunt and dive in the dark of night.
Three of the birds of prey, an eagle and two hawks, on display at the zoo were rescued after similar injuries, he said.
“They’re night hunters and they’re very good and they can see real well, but if they hit a power line…” he said.
But power lines aren’t the only thing birds of prey run afoul of, according to Assistant Zoo Director Vince Romero.
Raptors turn up with bullet holes in their wings, gunshot wounds, injuries from being hit by cars and sick from eating poisoned prey animals, he said.
It’s frustrating and infuriating to see careless abuse perpetrated against such beautiful animals, Romero said.
“I’d love to catch them and turn them in,” he said of the people who harm them, explaining all but three birds, sparrows, pigeons and starlings, are legally protected in New Mexico.
There is no practical reason to try and harm a bird of prey and really, no reason to poison rodents if you know you have a bird of prey hunting on your property. I can’t think of any nuisance they create or reason why a property owner would not encourage their presence.
The easy viewing of raptors in the region is one of the reasons I love this place so much. On the east coast, you can’t see the forrest for the trees and even if you intentionally seek out hawks and owls and the like, the chances of ever actually seeing one is slim to none.
This region has been blessed with it’s wildlife.
A short drive outside of town along a dirt road and you’re likely to see several hawks perched on fence posts or power lines and at dusk the owls can be found regally perched on top of broken windmills.
Their presence serves as a reminder of the beauty that exists and is often overlooked in this monochromatic land.
I am sorry that we lost one and I hope heaven is full of mice…

Both have their place and appropriateness.

That is what observing lethal injection and the gas chamber last week left me with.

I was not eager to see animals killed and I did not know how it would make me feel but I expected to be devastated during and afterwards.

I prepared myself for a struggle to maintain composure, fighting imaginings of Nazi gas chambers and death row inmates strapped to tables.

But none of my imaginings manifested.

I was conflicted afterwards, experiencing an internal battle with my head telling me I was supposed to be sad and my heart unable to respond.

I questioned what was wrong with me that I didn’t feel what I was supposed to feel and had to analyze those questions.

It was sad when I imposed human values to the situation because I saw three lives snuffed out, something we as humans believe is wrong.

But by the same token, I wasn’t sad because both scenarios were conducted so professionally, so surgically, it was clinical.

I can never truly know what those animals were thinking, but I have seen my share of animals in pain and I know what that looks and sounds like.

I saw nothing, absolutely nothing in either method that indicated pain or suffering.

I saw confusion that led to fear in both methods and I saw discomfort drawn from foreign sensations as the dogs in both situations experienced the affects of the euthanasia, but I saw no pain.

I have analyzed it and analyzed it in the days since and have concluded that though the dogs in the gas floundered and experienced panic, at least in the case of the aggressive pit bull it was still a far cry less than the anxiety he would have felt being held by a human during those final seconds.

The second dog killed in the chamber had a family out there somewhere and he was probably a better candidate for lethal injection and might have found comfort from human contact, but in the end it didn’t really matter because he went so fast.

None of the three had the ability to work through the logical sequences of what happened as the poisons entered their bodies and I was left with the conclusion that the element of human contact at the end was for the humans, not the animals.

Drawn from some need to assuage the guilt and process the sorrow of death, but not for the animals themselves. 

Websters - Humane: marked by compassion, sympathy, or consideration for humans or animals 2: characterized by or tending to broad humanistic culture

The bottom line is fast and without pain. The only negative component that could have been eliminated from all three deaths was those seconds where each dog had to wonder what was happening. 

For an animal that fears humans, the greatest compassion a human can show is to limit contact, criteria met by the gas chamber.

I have heard arguments’ implying the gas chamber is torturous, that the animals suffer. I have to disagree.

It has also been argued that I only saw what they wanted me to see.

I will concede, they were in control of the situation and I was their guest, so yes, I saw what they designed.

And I will admit I expected they would show me a pit bull. Not for any nefarious reason, but because it is more palatable on some level to put down an animal that has the appearance of a dangerous villain.

So I asked to witness a second dog being put down.

And the dog Capt. Ron Hutchison had them go get was a beautiful white Great Pyrenees mix that I had pet as we walked through the kennels.

He was sweet and responsive. His only crime was that he had shown aggression to his family’s young children. 

But he was no monster.

Once they put the dogs in the chamber, the humans were not in control of how they responded to the gas. If the dogs shook, convulsed, bled or cried out in pain, they couldn’t prevent me from seeing it.

But they were confident in the process and confident they were not causing undue pain.

And that confidence proved correct.

What I was left with was the understanding that they have a system that is fast, efficient and painless.

For many the concept of fast and efficient killing is troublesome – wrong in fact.

Well morally, perhaps it is.

But those are the cards they have been dealt.

This community has handed its animal control department a coffee straw and asked them to fit a golf ball through it.

And they are expected to do it with no force or strain.

From what I saw, they have met that challenge.

Those dogs walk into that chamber often bathed, with a belly full of food and many times after a few days of the most loving human contact they have ever experienced. It could be argued that they die better than they ever lived.

I was told that people come and drop off dogs, citing lack of time, money or loss of control over the animal. And within days, those same people return, shopping for a replacement animal.

It seems easy to conclude which group of humans takes the most humane approach to these animals.

If an animal meets criteria that makes it a poor candidate for gas, then an alternate solution should be available.

I’m not going to digress into moral perspective or right and wrong on this issue but I will reiterate, I saw no pain, I saw no torture, I saw no cruelty.

And if neither method creates undue pain for the animals, then logic dictates an evaluation of the affect to the humans tasked with the chore, because humane applies to them as well.

Riddle:

Alamogordo animal control reported they take in about 3,000 animals a year and euthanize 1,200 using lethal injection. They have an aggressive adoption program, they said.

So their intake is on a par with Clovis at 3,802, yet they euthanized a little more than 1,200 while Clovis euthanized 2457.

But if the intake numbers are still high, does that mean the problem is just re-cycling from year to year? Does this mean the animals are just embroiled in a perpetual cycle of shelter-adoption-breeding-shelter-adoption?

The only difference in this scenario seems to be the number of animals killed.

It seems the problem remains unsolved, because the problem, in the interest of humane treatment of animals, is not how they die, but how they live.