Today I realized I needed to do a new blog but found myself devoid of ideas. Running through the chaotic recesses of my muddled brain, I tried to retrieve animal references, searching for a topic I could delve into.

• Got up around 6 a.m., served K9 chow. Nursing a sinus headache, got back into bed with my coffee and watched talking heads on FOX News debate a pet sterilization ordinance proposed in Los Angeles. I hadn’t had enough caffeine to decide how I felt about that one— process it later.

• Poked my head in my son’s room and told Spike the Uromastyx it was high time he uncurl and bask under that oh-so-special $18 light-bulb I bought him.

• Scowled at the shadowy clumps of hair gathering in the corners of my as-of-yesterday clean floors.

• Drove my teenage son and his friend to school. During the hour-long ride there we talked about a collection of Edgar Allen Poe stories he’s been reading. The Black Cat is his favorite so far, I learned. We talked about how the protagonist injured his beloved cat in a drunken rage and though guilt ridden, eventually killed the cat. Later, lashing out at a new cat, the man inadvertently killed his wife and was found out by the police when the cat gave him away. Maybe, we hypothesized, the cat was the manifestation of the man’s self loathing and in his spiraling sickness, he worked to detach from his guilt and self hatred all the while it was driving him, transforming into sinister pride and eventually his demise - hmm. That conversation somehow led to a discussion of nature vs. nurture (I have no idea how) and we talked about orphaned animals raised by humans who display mannerisms and instincts they have never been exposed to or taught… Hug kiss, “Have a great day Kiddo,” and back on the road.

• During the hour-long drive back, slowed at a turn in the road for a dog. He was tattered and rangy, out in the middle of nowhere. When I looked in his eyes he looked back — skittish, soulful and a little hollow. “Does anybody love him,” I wondered.

• Further down the road a hawk swooped down in front of me, dipping and rising again. I watched him in my rearview mirror until he disappeared into the blue. If you gave the hawk everything he needed to survive effortlessly, would he still be a predator? Are predators predators because they need to eat, or are they predators because it’s who they are? Some humans are predatory even though our lives don’t require that of us anymore…hmm 

• Passed some cows meandering about in the yard of an abandoned, stucco farm house. One small black cow stood peering into the house’s empty doorway. I bet she was wondering like me where the people went. Did they fulfill their dreams? Move to a bigger, nicer house with a green yard and a tree somewhere closer to town? Or did they grab their prized possessions and flee the plains that can be brutal and beautiful in the same breath?

• Startled two crows as I passed, their breakfast, the carcass of a fellow, fallen fowl scooting towards the grass in the wake of my path. In my mirror I watched them return to their prize as if I had never been there.

• My Ipod on random shuffle, I hit skip as the Snoop Dogg rendition of “Riders on the storm” began. Sorry Snoop, not in the mood today. When the twang of Crazytown’s “Butterfly” started I looked at my Ipod in disbelief “Why are you still on there?” I asked. Gorillaz got passed over, sorry guys, “Feel Good Inc.” feels sad today and Kittie sounded like nails on a chalkboard, just not angry enough for them I guess. “Piggy”, by Nine Inch Nails, now that was a little more fitting to my mood. A few more skips and Rage Against the Machine fed my inner rebel with “Bulls on parade”, Korn spoke to my self esteem with “Freak on a leash” and Phish did a pretty good job of nostalgia with their version of “Misty mountain hop”. 

• Walking into work, I heard the howling and whining of dogs inside fenced yards. Trash blew through the alley, keeping time to their chorus. 

Oh well, maybe I’ll think of something tomorrow…

If you are anything like me, cleaning is not your forte. Here’s a little guy that will help you out, starting with your computer screen. Click the link below to check him out. Screen cleaner 

The following was sent to me in an e-mail from Colleen. I don’t know where she got it, I’m guessing it was an e-mail forward she received, but it’s a good one. Thanks for the laugh Colleen.

To be posted nose height on the refrigerator door -
Dear Dogs and Cats,

The dishes with the paw print are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. Please note, placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

The stairway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Beating me to the bottom is not the object. Tripping me doesn’t help because I fall faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king sized bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue sleeping on the couch to ensure your comfort. Dogs and cats can actually curl up in a ball when they sleep. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out to the fullest extent possible. I also know that sticking tails straight out and having tongues hanging out the other end to maximize space is nothing but sarcasm.

For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom. If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, meow, try to turn the knob or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I entered. Also, I have been using the bathroom by myself for years — canine or feline attendance is not required.

The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dog or cat’s butt. I cannot stress this enough!
To pacify you, my dear pets, I have posted the following message on our front door:
To All Non-Pet Owners Who Visit & Like to Complain About Our Pets:
1. They live here. You don’t.
2. If you don’t want their hair on your clothes, stay off the furniture.  (That’s why they call it ‘fur’niture. )
3. I like my pets a lot better than I like most people.
4. To you, it’s an animal. To me, he/she is an adopted son/daughter who is short, hairy, walks on all fours and doesn’t speak clearly.

Remember: In many ways, dogs and cats are better than kids because they:
1. Eat less
2. Don’t ask for money all the time
3 Are easier to train
4. Normally come when called
5. Never ask to drive the car
6. Don’t hang out with drug-using friends
7. Don’t smoke or drink
8. Don’t have to buy the latest fashions
9. Don’t want to wear your clothes
10. Don’t need a ‘gazillion’ dollars for college.
And finally,
11. If they get pregnant, you can sell their children !

I’ve always known most people have pets. Just about all of my friends have a pooch, kitty, or at the very least a fish at home.

Take for instance my coworker with her miniature Doberman Max. Max is her companion, seeing her through her divorce and into her new life as a single woman. She darts out the door at lunch to let him out and dotes on him, buying him outfits to include cowboy boots (I keep telling her he hates her for the humiliation).

Then there’s ViAnne with her zoo of horses and goats and dogs and cats. Each of them is her baby, each special and loved beyond belief. It doesn’t matter how many critters she has, they each have her full devotion. I remember her anxiously awaiting the birth of a long anticipated foal from her most beloved barrel horse as if it were her own child she was expecting.

And then there’s Colleen who works up front. We’ve never really talked except for those times when our paths cross because of work issues. Today we had a conversation about pets and I discovered she has five furry babies at home and used to work with a squirrel rescue foundation, rehabilitating and releasing squirrels back into the wild.

It seems everyone I meet has a connection to animals, very rarely have I come across someone who simply can’t tolerate the thought of sharing their lives with an animal (or two or three).

But what surprises me is how many people have photos of their pets at their fingertips. They have them on their laptops, jump drives, work computers and in their wallets and purses.

I discovered this because I was recently assigned the task of getting “Pet of the day” submissions for the CNJ website.

As with any new item that requires reader input and participation, we are starting with out any submissions, which makes it my task to go out and solicit them.

(If you do the math, that’s 365 pet photos a year I have to come up with, help!)

Taking the easy path, I decided to first approach coworkers.

Now I will be honest, I didn’t expect anyone to have photos on hand. I expected, if they felt like participating at all, they would say they had to bring them from home and I would never hear from them again.

Au contraire.

I was instead met with excited responses like “I have four pictures of my cat, come pick the one you want”. Cell phones would open and there was Fido on the small screen, or people would smile from ear to ear and begin telling me the story of how their pet came to live with them as they searched their computers for snaps.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, I mean I am as proud of my animal family as I am their human siblings. I keep their pictures with me, on my Ipod, on my cell phone etc.

And I bet if you’re reading this, you probably do too.

So if you have an awkward moment with someone you don’t know very well, get them talking about their pets. Go ahead and show off those pictures you carry. You never know, you might even make a new friend or at the least learn something you didn’t know before.

P.S. Help me out, send me your pet photos with a short paragraph about your critter. I still have about 340 days to fill:  sharna_johnson at link.freedom.com

To check out the Pet of the day feature go to cnjonline.com and in the center of the page under the Editor’s Notebook, select “Pet of the Day” from the drop-down menu.

There are several things I like about being a reporter. I love the process by which we gather information, conduct interviews and bring stories to the readers.

Reporting the news can be exciting, inspiring, always educational and many times heart wrenching.

My greatest passion has been in covering cops and courts. The law fascinates me - the ways it works, the ways it doesn’t work.

The process of our criminal justice system and the principles upon which it is built compel curiosity and engage my mind endlessly.

Each case is different, each unique.

And I never cease to be amazed by the inner workings of the criminal mind, what motivates people, why they do what they do.

And then there are the victims. They are the ones who survive and carry the burden of the crime with them.

But sometimes in the buzz of the process between the event and the trial they are left to carry their burden alone.

And we forget the recovery they face to make them whole again.

Last week when a sheriff’s deputy took me to meet “C.E.” (Short for “Confiscated Equine”) I was in awe.

I instantly remembered the photos of him I had seen months before.

He was a haunting image at that time. His skin taut and his eyes hollow. He was like a walking skeleton with skin stretched over it. His condition so fragile, he probably wouldn’t have survived the winter.

But on this day, C.E.’s eyes shone bright blue and full of life.

C.E. didn’t shy away from my hand as I rubbed his muzzle and ran my hand down his neck.

October 9, 2007 someone who was concerned about an emaciated horse called the Curry County Sheriff’s Department.

When Deputy Erica Romero saw the condition the stallion was in she instantly documented it with photos and began the process of confiscating the animal.

Taken to a local veterinarian, C.E. was placed on a diet formulated for older horses so it wouldn’t shock his digestive system.

It worked. The combination of round bale hay, grain and a salt block has, more than 3-months later, restored C.E. to a healthy weight.

The body is a remarkable thing, and like a machine, it can be restored and repaired.

But what I find most shocking is the ability of the mind and spirit to overcome inequities.

C.E. shows us, through his steady disposition and unfaltering sweetness that being a victim doesn’t have to make us bitter or angry. Neglect and disregard don’t have to destroy the spirit.

And C. E. is also an example of the responsibility we all have to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Somebody took the responsibility to get C.E. help and the sheriff’s department took the time to nurture him back to health.

It would have been just as easy to write him off, to put him down and move on. As law enforcement, the only responsibility they had was to build a case that met the criteria for prosecution.

They didn’t have to take part in making him better but they did it anyway.

Sheriff Matt Murray told me Thursday “I want people to realize that we’re going to take a proactive stance on cruelty to animals.”

C.E. is their example.

The sheriff’s department is going to auction C.E. and the proceeds of the sale will go to offset the cost of his rehabilitation and care.

C.E. has happy times in his future and more importantly his struggle should show us to take the time to care.

Click on the link below to watch a video of C.E. taken last week by the CNJ:

http://link.brightcove.com/services/link/bcpid1155316076/bclid1155290738/bctid1373325792

Below is a photo of C.E. taken by sheriff’s deputies at the time he was discovered.

I think many of us find within different social settings we adopt alternate vernaculars to our own.

For instance, when I visit my grandparents in the Appalachian Mountains I develop a twang and blend words like “Ain’t” and “Y’all” into my vocabulary.

If I spend time with British friends, I inexplicably develop a brogue and find myself referring to “standing in the queue” or discover “bloody *&%$” slips from my tongue as casually as my American curse words of choice.

And for some reason I now greet people with “Howdy” or “Hola”, not, I can say with certainty, words used as salutations in the east.

It all makes perfect sense I suppose. Proximity breeds familiarity and all that.

So years ago when a low growl issued from my throat as my dog sat beside me begging for my pizza, it didn’t strike me as odd at all.

Quite the contrary, it seemed quite natural.

And my dog understood me. It was magnificent.

Backing away and lowering his eyes, that little growl bought me a good 10-feet of standoff by which to enjoy my dinner.

Giddy with my newfound power I began hissing at my cats when they displeased me or got in my way.

“Haha! Who’s the top dog/cat now,” I thought.

Oh they have to learn our language too. “Sit”, “Stay”, “Down”… But learning theirs is so much easier.

Animal language is wonderful, human language convoluted.

Some cultures even have specific words designed to convey emotion because there is no tonal change in their speech.

And God help you if you come up against a master of the “Southern graces” who can issue compliments that drip with sugary venom.

But for animals everything is blended with the state of mind or emotion. There is no denying a happy bark or a sinister growl, a purr or a chirp.

Sure, to them perhaps there are specific meanings only they understand, but we get the point…”Come play”, “I am about to tear you apart”, or “Oooohhh, a little to the right”.

Aristotle identified the distinction between humans and animals as speech and more specifically the ability to articulate.

“For nature, as we declare, does nothing without purpose; and man alone of the animals possesses speech. The mere voice, it is true, can indicate pain and pleasure, and therefore is possessed by the other animals as well (for their nature has been developed so far as to have sensations of what is painful and pleasant and to indicate those sensations to one another), but speech is designed to indicate the advantageous and the harmful, and therefore also the right and the wrong; for it is the special property of man in distinction from the other animals that he alone has perception of good and bad and right and wrong and the other moral qualities,” he said.

How true. A dog can communicate pain or embarrassment or joy but he cannot articulate it. He cannot analyze those emotions – explain why or how he feels them.

And by the same token a dog has no moral compunction. He will steal a scrap of food without a second thought unless a stronger force acts to stop him.

However I venture to say the human animal increasingly uses his powers of perception and articulation to distance him from the very premises language should convey.

Civilized society encourages lack of affect. The poker face, if you will.

We even calculate our body language to reduce “tells” and clues to our inner thoughts or use it to make an impression.

Bottom line, humans are manipulative.

When you hear that chipper, polished voice on the phone you instantly recognize it as a trained telemarketer.

Or when a customer uses a servers name “Hello Brenda, I would love a cup of coffee”.

Brenda knows you don’t care about her or how her day is; you are just hoping if you validate her as a human being, the coffee will stay warm and fresh for the duration of your meal.

For all our efforts to advance as humans, one look at the animal world shows us we have all but lost our sincerity, spinning webs of words that disguise the core of our meanings.

And with our efforts to choose the perfect, politically correct words, our meanings are often lost and distorted entirely.

Ironically, in their lesser abilities, animals are more expressive, more concise and without question more honest. The true irony lying in the fact they don’t have the capacity to form moral foundations for their actions.

While I certainly wouldn’t advocate going around growling or barking, it wouldn’t hurt us to integrate animal communication with ours.

Next time your child begs for candy in the store, add a little growl to the “No” instead of spending 50 words explaining why they can’t have it

Or when someone does something you appreciate, show as many teeth as you can and in a word say, “Thanks”.

And when you want attention from your significant other, just plop down on the couch and stare at them with your best puppy-dog eyes and say “Hey!”

But let’s leave the butt sniffing and the mousing to them. And for God’s sake, men, please don’t drool at pretty women, it’s very unattractive.

Moral: Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse…

When down from the living room there arose such a clatter I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter…

When what to my wandering eyes should appear but my dog shredding presents, his face full off fear…

OK, that’s not quite the way it went down, not this particular year anyway. It was more like a week before Christmas and as usual I was at work when my son called.

“Guess what Momma gave you for Christmas,” he said, referring to my Clovis surrogate mother.

In my mind I pictured the brightly colored gift bags I had set under the tree the night before.

“Why do you know what’s in those bags?” I asked.

“No Mom. Guess,” he insisted impishly.

“I have no idea,” I said.

“Peanuts,” he replied. “Want to know how I know that?”

“Oh jeez”, I thought, needing no further explanation but knowing it was coming anyway.

“Kaiser found them, they are all over the living room,” he said.

His laughter turned to protests as I informed him he would be cleaning them up.

“And put him outside NOW,” I said, knowing what the next phone call would be about if Kaiser didn’t get to the yard in time.

The last thing we needed was an aging dog trapped in the house with a good dose of fiber.

Christmas with pets is always an adventure. Think about it, we bring an amusement park into their little sheltered environments.

There are the pretty little balls wrapped in silky threads (one well placed claw gets a string loose and they go across the floor leaving a trail of thread to chase).

There are the shiny glass ornaments dangling from the bottom branches of the tree to bat at (until they are knocked loose and hit the floor in a cloud of itty-bitty glass particles. Oh well there are more…).

And then there’s the tree. The pinnacle of Christmas tradition and for the pet amusement park, the tree is the epitome of fun and entertainment - the mother of all roller coasters.

The tree is the best gift of all for randy young males who, especially in this part of the country, can spend their whole lives searching and never find a tree to lift their leg on.

And cats find themselves purring with glee at the thought of scratching and climbing.

The best part is, it comes with a built in water dish at the bottom so when there is a break in the fun, one can stop and indulge in a cool sip… how convenient.

But then there are the treats… Oh the treats…

Candy, cookies, cakes and more… It’s a smorgasbord.

Ill placed plates of cookies, gifts of food you stuck under the tree because no one warned you… All part of the glorious season we call Christmas.

Long before they get that candy cane shaped rawhide you thought to throw in the cart in the last store you went too, they have probably already plundered, slunk and pillaged.

So Christmas morning when you gather round the drying, crooked tree picking gold and red glass splinters from your toes.

And the kids are peeling the plastic from broken, slobbered on candy canes trying to find a good, dry piece,

Remember the joy you brought your furry friends.

Besides, maybe next year the dog will eat Grandma’s fruitcake and you’ll get a few days of poop free relaxation.

Moral: Hang ‘em high… The stockings that is. Merry Christmas!

Sneezing, wheezing, struggling for air with itching and puffy red eyes, my son’s friend sat in the living room on the ottoman, his shoulders hunched, his physique conveying sheer misery.

Not knowing what to do, I asked if he needed some Benadryl. “No” he said, trying to tough it out.

“Should I call your mom?” I asked.

“No” he said.

He tried to make it through the night but no video game or snack food could ease the attack on his system.

At 2 a.m., clutching his pillow and forsaking his Playstation controller, Orlando staggered home looking like an 80-year-old man who had spent his life working in asbestos without a mask.

My son didn’t understand.

Looking much like Orlando had with red-rimmed eyes, he shuffled back to bed, sleepover cancelled.

“I hate our cats,” he muttered angrily as Mikey circled his legs and followed him upstairs.

I was filled with guilt and sympathy for both boys and determined to find a solution.

From that point forward we went through a ritual when Orlando came over, vacuuming with a Hepa filter, running an ozone air-purifier and spraying the cats with an anti-allergen pet spray.

And Orlando did his part too, bringing his inhaler and taking a good dose of allergy medicine when he knew he was coming over.

Years passed, Orlando moved and we forgot about the poisonous affect our critters could have on outsiders.

That is until I got a call from my son after school one day.

“Hey kiddo, how was your day?” I asked.

“Horrible,” he said.

“My teacher is allergic to me.”

Thinking it must be a joke, I laughed and drawled “Really…”.

It wasn’t a joke.

My son had been in the classroom a few short minutes when his teacher started to sneeze. Gradually the sneezes turned into labored breath and with eyes swelling, she faced the class and asked, “who has a cat?”

My son fessed up and together they deduced his hoodie, covered in kitty fuzz, had the affect of kryptonite on her.

Offending article moved to a closet, they managed to get through the day, he said.

“I have cat hair on all my clothes,” he said. “What are we going to do? If she gets near me she starts sneezing and can’t breathe.”

“Hate the cats,” he said angrily.

He really liked this teacher and I knew he was torn between his love of the cats and the suffering it caused her.

Reminded of Orlando’s time with us, we set about a routine. The hoodie was hung as soon as he got home and tossed in the dryer each morning before he left. While he would shower, I would take clean clothes straight from the drawer and place them in the bathroom.

He went straight from the shower to the door, morning kittie cuddle time forbidden.

It worked. His teacher’s reaction to his presence subsided and things settled down.

When he traded his hoodie for a leather jacket, things got even better.

Solution found he started allowing Mikey to sleep with him again, taking care in the mornings to eliminate the traces.

He learned a lot from the experience and I hope he keeps those lessons with him.

Sometimes the things we love conflict with one another and harmony doesn’t just happen.

With a little effort and consideration my son was able to have his favorite kitty and his favorite teacher in his life.

Whether or not she ever knew he thought about her every day, I was proud.

And even if it was just the time it took to toss a hoodie in the dryer, my son devoted at least one flicker of his thoughts each morning to someone else’s comfort.

Now if he can just learn to do his chores… Oh well.

Moral: It is a mistake to believe we leave our private lives at the front door of our homes each morning. Whether it is hair and dander or a bad mood from last night, check yourself at the door and decide what you want to carry into the world today.

It all started with a chicken and an egg.

And another egg, and another… Make that a chicken and a nest of eggs.

Enter a hungry polecat (Appalachian for skunk) and you have a nest full of eggs and no chicken.

This is how I became watchful mother of a clutch of eggs.

It was cool outside, early spring. I was 12 and I was living with my Nana and my Pop in the mountains of Tennessee.

Pop had bartered with a local farmer and gotten some laying hens. It was exciting because we were going to have fresh eggs every day.

The chicken house was down the hill and behind Memaw’s (Great-grandma’s) house. I sat watching him patch and bang the old, weathered boards together on the rickety shack.

“Gotta keep them polecats out,” he explained.

“What’s a polecat Pop,” I asked.

Smiling at me like I was his favorite Yankee, he said, “It has a stripe down its back and it stinks.”

“A skunk? Why would a skunk bother chickens?” I asked.

“Polecat’s gotta eat too,” he said. “There’s all kind of things in these mountains that’ll eat chickens. Mountain lions, weasels, foxs,” he said, trying to rebuild the dilapidated hen house that probably hadn’t been used in a dozen years.

The chickens moved in, and true to form, we had eggs in a matter of days.

Before and after school everyday I would tear into the hen house to check, running back up the hill with an egg or two for Nana.

One of the hens laid a full nest and Pop suggested we leave her eggs to hatch, so I made checking on her part of my routine.

Every day there she was, keeping her eggs warm. I admired her dedication, sitting there watching the other hens and the rooster scratch and peck. While a whole world of little chicken lives went on around her day after day, there she sat, waiting.

One fateful day Pop trudged up the hill, into the house and broke the news. She was gone.

“Polecat musta et ‘er,” Pop said in his matter of fact, simple way as he handed me a box with her eggs in it.

He told me I could try to hatch the eggs, warning me he might not have found them in time. “If they start stinkin’ we’ll know purty quick they ain’t no good,” he said.

I stuck the box behind the wood stove in the kitchen and began to wait.

To this day I suggest the patience born to birds is unrivaled in the natural world.

It drove me crazy.

Every day I checked those eggs. I held them up to the light one-by-one, checking for even a microscopic crack to let me know something was happening.

Nothing.

Days turned into weeks and there was still nothing.

No cracks, no tremors and no stinking. Just nothing.

It was a mystery to me. What was going on inside those eggs? Maybe they were too cold, maybe too hot. Maybe they were no good from the start. Were they drying up, rotting, empty?

One thing I knew for sure – they weren’t hatching.

Every day felt like an eternity and as each morning dawned on the box behind the stove I became more cynical, more disenchanted and more convinced they were never going to hatch.

Patience is a virtue – I knew this then as I know it now. In fact I venture to say we all know these words but they have become trite and cliché from their familiarity.

I had none.

I had so much hope wrapped up in those little eggs and that hope had transcended into overwhelming feelings of anger and frustration.

I had had enough.

Grabbing the box I charged out the door and up the hill to one of my favorite daydreaming spots, a patch of boulders embedded in the wooded hill above the house.

My eyes blurry with tears I started grabbing the eggs and throwing them as hard as I could onto the rocks in front of me.

The eggs shattered and smashed, one by one.

My pent up frustration began to unravel as I exerted all the energy I had, angry tears rolling down my cheeks.

The last egg flung, I took a deep breath, feeling cleansed.

Looking down at my handiwork, a sense of horror washed over me.

Writhing on the rocks among the white shards were the little broken bodies of baby chickens.

I stood frozen over them, unable to look away.

There they were. Bodies fully formed, probably mere days from hatching, their untimely exposure gripping them as they struggled and died on the rocks.

What had I done?

The sense of flight took over and I ran into the woods, wanting to escape the images.

I still have those pictures in my head. It is a reminder to me that time is not for me to direct and that patience is more than a virtue.

I learned a lesson that day, though I didn’t realize it for years.

Perspective.

Our minds are powerful forces and when combined with emotion, we mold reality to our perspective.

Sometimes the clock inside us is ticking too fast — Sometimes instant isn’t fast enough.

But time is what it is and we can’t control it, no matter how we twist and rationalize and justify.

Moral: The moment you decide to give up is probably the moment you are about to turn the corner. Hold fast like a hen on a nest…

I had a horse once.

I can still remember sitting in the car with my dad and my little brother on my birthday. I must have been around 7 or 8 and our destination was a surprise.

We arrived at the stockyard and my new horse was led out to me.
It was the best day of my life.

He was dark brown, small and kind of skinny with big ears but I didn’t care, he was a horse.

I had dreamed of a horse for as long as I could remember. A soon as I could read I devoured the Misty of Chincoteague books and filled my room with toy horses.

It’s a good thing my new horse was dark brown because he had been named Midnight in my imagination long before I ever met him.

Midnight was taken to live at a farm up the road from our house.

I still remember the farmer putting him out in the pasture. “You got yerself a jackass here,” he muttered, watching from the fence as Midnight milled about the field.

“Yurp, that horse is half jackass,” he said.

“Daddy, what’s a jackass? I asked.

“It is an ass like we read about in the bible. Like a horse but not as smart,” he said.

“But Midnight is smart isn’t he Daddy?” I queried, deeply offended.

“Of course he is honey. He’s just a grumpy old farmer,” he said quietly, trying to sooth me.

In hindsight, I think Midnight was part jackass. My father, trying to fulfill my biggest dream, had gotten me the horse at an auction. I have never had the heart to ask what he paid for him but I’m sure it wasn’t much.

Since we didn’t have a horse trailer, my dad would drive to the farm to pick him up on the weekends and we would cruise home at a top speed of 10 mph, my dad holding the lead out the window as Midnight chugged alongside the car.

Once home, my father would find a tree to tie him to and then leave me to play with my horse.

Things weren’t quite what I had pictured in my imagination. My images of an Indian princes galloping across the plains on her painted horse or riding along the beach on my wild pony with the wind whipping through our manes just didn’t quite fit.

Instead I had a scrawny horse with big ears tied to a tree in my front yard.

We didn’t have any tack for him, only the lead rope and halter he came with. I don’t think I ever even rode him.

He became more like a big puppy to me than a horse.

Midnight and I would traipse around the yard and sit and talk for hours.

I even took him in the house once — Only once.

I was in the kitchen fetching carrots and Midnight wandered over to my dad who was taking a nap on the couch. I didn’t see what happened, only heard the yelling.

My dad woke up to Midnight standing over him and that was the last time the horse came inside.

Eventually the neighbor complained Midnight was going to sully the well we shared by just hanging out in the yard, so he spent more and more time at the farm.

My dad told me things weren’t working out so well with Midnight and it was time to sell him.

I cried and cried, but I knew he was right. Dad promised any money we made from selling Midnight would go into our Africa savings (we always dreamed of taking a trip to Africa) and I agreed.

I vaguely remember the dusty, dark building where I said goodbye to Midnight.

My dad said he was sold for about $20. (You still owe me that trip Dad).

Over the years I attended riding schools, participated in shows and took every opportunity I had to spend with horses.

I finished all the wild pony books and graduated to The Black Stallion series, always feeding my love of horses.

Even now I am drawn to them. But I learned from Midnight I never want to say goodbye to a dream again. I’d rather wait until I know I can keep it.

Besides, who keeps a horse in the yard anyway?

Moral: Sometimes a jackass is the stuff dreams are made of.