Doing Better and Thanks

Just wanted to thank everyone who sent Rajah and I their love. We're doing better. Writing my last post helped me work things through and I've managed to let go of the anger and disappointment I felt at first. Watching him more closely these past few days, I've realized that Rajah really has been in a lot of pain lately. His stomach is sick most of the time and I think his back hurts. We'll talk to the vet on Monday and see what we can do for him. And we'll be changing some things around here to make sure that everyone's safe. But mostly I'm just going to spend as much time as I can with him while I still have him. Right now, every time I look at him I just feel thankful to have such a companion in my life. We'll face whatever changes come together - me and Rajah B - as we always have before.

A True Companion - part 2

(This is part two of a two-part story. The first part of the story is posted bellow this one.)

In recent months Rajah's behavior has started to change. Nothing sudden or overt. Annoying, a little disturbing, but mostly easy to ignore. My business is booming - taking off much more quickly than I expected. My health is on the downswing - I'm struggling to keep up. The ranch is hard - fencing, feeding, animals that always need something - I work all day when I can, and hold things together by a shoe string. I love my life, and it is exhausting, and it takes everything I've got. I haven't paid a lot of attention to Rajah lately. He is always there - while I sleep, while I work, while I eat, while I play (if there's any time for that anymore). He's a part of me. In everything I do my hand brushes the top of his head, my eyes meet his and I smile, whispering, "How's my good dog? My lovely Rajah-B." I click my tong without thinking when I get ready to leave one task for another - he always comes running at the sound. He follows me all over the ranch, playing and working and protecting in his turn.

Rajah is 10, though save for a little gray around his muzzle, he could easily be mistaken for a pup. We've recently started joking that in his old age he's "accessed his inner shepherd." He's started franticly throwing himself into herding. He herds the goats, he herds the sheep, he herds the horses. He watches me desperately for any sign that I want an animal to move, then rushes in, barking franticly, trying to get the job done - my ever faithful partner. The problem is, he isn't very good at it. Likely as not, he sends the animals right back at me or gets them running full bore in completely the wrong direction. Its exasperating and we are forever scolding him, but its touching too. He so clearly wants to help. He hangs on my every move, waiting for that moment when I indicate with my eyes, my voice, my body, that I want some poor unsuspecting animal to move, and he franticly rushes in to "help." When I ride horses, he rushes around me in circles, trying to figure out how to get the horse (already doing exactly what I wanted in the first place) to move. He does the same thing when someone brings over a four-wheeler or a snow-mobile or when I get on the tractor to move around some hay.

Until recently Rajah's herding behavior was just a mixture of exasperating and endearing. He wants so much to help, you can hardly hold it against him. But he is annoying, and at times even dangerous - riding a young horse for the first time is not the best place for a frantic, barking dog to be doing laps. Not to mention the many times I've had to throw myself out of the way of a stampeding herd of horses because Rajah's "help" sent them all thundering right at me. So we have taken to disciplining him some, but we’ve also just done a lot of rolling our eyes and letting it go.

Thinking back now I can see that something had changed, even in his herding, over the past few weeks. But Rajah is Rajah - faithful and dependable forever. And I have been so busy - struggling every day to make headway on the endless list of things I have to do before winter settles in. I saw the change, but I never really took the time to stop and think about it. I set it aside to look at later, or dismissed it, because after all, Rajah is Rajah. Faithful and dependable forever.

His play with the other dogs was one place I saw the problem, If I'd cared to pay it any heed. He has always played rough, hurling himself at his companions with teeth and body, intimidating smaller dogs and freaking out their owners. But our dogs are large and confident and they love the way Rajah plays. He would shoot towards them, and they would roll and wrestle and tackle each-other, going for necks and legs with teeth bared. But it was always clear to me that (despite the outward appearances) what they were doing was play. Their was joy and laughter in their feel and because of that, I never worried about the outward appearance that could look so intimidating. But lately I had seem something that played at the back of my mind. Rajah would run up and tackle the other dogs and very quickly his teeth would be bared, his lips pulled back far too much for play, and pure aggression would emanate from his body and face. The other dogs, all dominant to Rajah and all easily able to put him in his place, also seemed to noticed the difference right away. Lately, instead of returning his play, they would whirl on him, hackles up, teeth bared and lunge, an angry bark stopping him in his tracks. They would force him away. This always stopped it and soon I would turn around and see him playing normally again. I never stopped to consider this change, but it stuck in the back of my mind.

There were other differences as well, but these too I didn't dwell on much. Rajah’s always loved to torment the goats and my half-grown lamb, whom I had raised form a baby. The lamb, and sometimes the goats, follow me about my work all day, even going on hikes with me or following me up the trail when I ride my horses around the mountain. When I go inside, they press their faces against my windows and blatt out their obnoxious cries - starring intently at me with betrayal as I sit in my warm house without them. I love my goats, they make me laugh. And I especially love my lamb. I call him Lambie, and I've watched him grow from a tiny baby to a big, chubby animal that follows me everywhere I go. Every morning when I let him out of his pen, he races joyfully down the hill to greet me. In his excitement, unable to contain his joy, he kicks up his hind legs so far that he flips himself over backwards, then lands and does it all again. He makes me laugh every day, and I love the feel of his soft wool as I go about my day, often resting my hand on his head or scratching him behind the ears. Lambie, like the goats and the birds and the horses, is mine. He is part of my family. And Rajah knows that. He has always known what was mine - and lived to protect it all. Until last week.

Last week, the day things changed, I was outside, moving hay around the ranch. The goats and Lambie were racing around my tractor and Rajah was racing around them, barking, as usual. Mostly I wasn't watching, but I remember glancing over at one point and catching a glimpse of him that stuck in the back of my mind. He was running around the goats, barking as he always did, but for just a moment, his teeth were bared, his lips pulled back in a way that looked as vicious as I had ever seen an animal look. It looked like aggression, not like play. It stuck with me, as I went about my work, but for the most part, I didn't think much about it. This was Rajah after all. There was nothing aggressive about him.

My neighbor Jarred was at the ranch that day, borrowing our garage to fix his car. I looked over to see him running up the driveway from the barn. I was walking towards him towards him and I heard him calling franticly, but what he said didn’t make much sense to me. "Christie,” he shouted, “Rajah just killed Lambie!"

I stared at him. Was Lambie actually dead? And surely he didn't mean Rajah - was a neighbor's dog around? Had some other dog killed my lamb? Jarred shouted, "Lambie's still alive but he’s killed him. There's no way he's going to survive. Rajah just ripped out his throat!"

I stared behind him. Rajah was racing happily up the driveway towards us. He had blood on his face and mouth.

My mind immediately assumed there had been another dog. For some reason I flipped to the movie, "Babe" where a pack of dogs kill a sheep and the hero - Babe - gets blamed because he came to its rescue (too late) and was found with his muzzle covered with blood. There was no question in my mind that this was what had happened here. Until Jarred spoke again.

"I saw Rajah tormenting Lambie like he sometimes does, and I was going down there to tell him to cut it out. Then I saw Rajah lunge for Lambie's throat. He ripped it out. I saw the blood spray. There's no way Lambie is going to live."

Just then Rajah reached me. In a daze I told Jarred I would put Rajah inside and be right back. "Go in your crate," I told him, still trying to get my mind around what Jarred had said. He ran straight in, directly to his crate. I closed the door and left him there. On the way through the house it began to hit me what Jarred had said. I called to my husband, Dave and yelled (a little hysterically), "Dave, Rajah just killed Lambie!"

"What??" Dave shouted.

"Rajah just killed Lambie! He ripped out his throat! He's not dead yet, but Jarred says he's going to die!"

Dave's voice was as shocked as mine. "Oh my God!" He said. A pause, then, "I'll be right out!"

I ran to Lambie, my mind still confused, still unable to understand how this had happened. Was Jarred exaggerating? Was Lambie really that badly hurt? Maybe it was just a scratch. Maybe it was not so bad.

But the soft, thick wool around Lambie's throat was soaked in blood. There was a pool under his head and more poured out as I watched. Lambie, looking dazed, lay on his side, breathing raggedly. I dropped to my knees in front of him. There was no way he was going to live. Jarred was there, telling me again what had happened, as shocked as I was. “Any other dog,” he said. “I’d expect this of any other dog before Rajah.”

I didn't know what to do, so I got up. I knew Lambie was suffering and we had to put him down. "I have to tell Dave to get his gun," I said, and started to stumble towards the house. But the minute I left, Lambie lurched to his feet, trying to follow. He staggered three steps to the side and fell. My mind cleared a little and I knew I couldn't leave him. I asked Jarred to go for the gun, dropping down next to my lamb. I picked up his head and placed it in my lap. I stroked his fur and whispered in his ear. I told him I was sorry, so, so sorry, that I’d never meant for him to die this way. I told him he had been a good Lambie and I loved him. I told him everything was going to be ok, I would make the hurting stop. He could rest. He'd done good and it was time for him to go. I said I'd miss him and I loved him and he did not need to be afraid. I would take care of things and he would be safe, and happy, and loved forever. Then Dave and Jarred arrived with the gun.

"Can I - I don't think - I can't stay - can I go away while you shoot him?" I choked.

"Of course," Dave said, "Go in. Go inside. You shouldn’t be here."

But I didn't want to go. I wanted to be near. I just couldn't watch. I kissed Lambie's beautiful white nose and lurched up, stumbling a few feet away. "Christie, you need to go over there," Jarred said, pointing behind Dave, "If he's gonna shoot in that direction, you can't stand there..."

I didn't know where to be. I stumbled away, up the driveway, where I was close but couldn't see. I was walking towards the house, I guess, but the crack of the gun stopped me in my tracks. I couldn't move - I rocked back and forth, not able to go on, not able to go back. It seemed like I stood their forever, shaking, dizzy, gasping as though I cried, but unable to find the tears. Then, unexpectedly, I heard a second shot. The noise hit me like a physical thing, causing me to cry out, and propelled me forward. I stumbled into a tree, grabbing it to catch myself, and began to sob. It seemed like forever I stood there and cried and cried and cried. Eventually Dave came up behind me, gently turned me from the tree and wrapped his arms around me. I choked out, "Is he dead?" And he said, "Yes," and let me cry. At some point Jarred slipped unobtrusively past, going back to the garage to give us some privacy. Dave held me for a long time.

My city-bred background, so separated and insulated from death, wants to laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it all when I say that there was no question between Dave and I that, now that Lambie was dead, that we would butcher him and eat him. The city part of me finds this kind of sentiment appropriate to a cannibal or a serial killer - How can you grieve a friend and then say, "Oh well," and serve him up with a good cream sauce? But ranch life has forced me to learn a few things about death, about nature, and about the animals I love so much. More so than any humans I have ever known, animals are a part of nature, a part of the cycle of life and death which I struggle so hard to understand. It is deep within them, this cycle. Joining this cycle in death is as important to their being as joining it in life. I would not presume to dishonor my animals by preventing them from being part of this cycle when they die. A sheep lives its life, then gives itself to build the life of other creatures. I would not deny Lambie his right to take his place in nature’s version of eternal life, in the ultimate acting out of the sacrifice we so honor Christ for making - to give his life so that others may live. So now that he is dead, Lambie’s body becomes food. He becomes the very stuff of life.

But that doesn't mean that I was able to watch. I went inside and walked up to Rajah's crate. I looked him in the eyes and yelled, "How could you? How could you kill my Lambie? How could you do a thing like that?" I was sobbing too much to say more, so I threw a blanket over his crate (I didn't want to see him anymore) and I went out and closed the door. I sat in the living-room and cried. I called my mother and my best friend. When the butchering was done, Dave took me to dinner to get me away from the ranch for a while. We left Rajah in his crate.

For two days we kept Rajah locked in his crate except for leashed walks out to go to the bathroom. When I saw him I never smiled at him, never gave him any love. I looked him in the eye and said, "What you did is not acceptable. I can't talk to you about it yet." And then I refused to acknowledge him at all.

Rajah was devastated. He was terrified. He looked at me desperately every time I approached, ears pulled back, shaking violently, crying horrible, desperate cries deep in his throat. Never had I done anything like this to him before.

Two days and two nights, I told myself. I had to make sure that he never forgot the consequences of what he'd done. Two nights and two days and then I would begin to let him in again. He would have to be controlled much more than before. But he would be by my side again.

For two days I worked around the ranch with a lump in my stomach, working hard enough that I didn't have time to stop and think about the way Rajah had looked at me, the desperate shaking, the horrible noise he made. Two nights I sat up, unable to sleep, terrified that somehow Rajah would die that night, never knowing that I forgave him. Never knowing that I still loved him. I paced the house all night, telling myself that I couldn't let up. Rajah had to know - had to never forget - that this was not something he could ever do again.

Monday morning I went to him. I sat in front of him and told him to look me in the eye. I said, "You are my Rajah and what you did hurt me. I never thought that you could do such a thing. I never thought you would let me down, betray me like that. I don't know what to do about it. I don't know why you did it. But we will figure those things out together. You are my Rajah and I still love you. You will still be mine until the day that you die. We will figure out what to do about this together. But things are going to be different for a while." I put on his leash and we went out to do our morning chores.

This week, three neighbors have stopped by and heard the tale. Each of them has been shocked. They all said the same thing. "Rajah is the last dog I would have ever expected anything like this from. Never in a million years. Other dogs, yes, but not Rajah...”

It finally occurred to me that this was a drastic change in character. There could be a physical cause for that. We went to the vet. She ran tests that weren’t clear, coming back with bits and pieces, but nothing conclusive. He has a fused vertebra. He’s been having some stomach problems for a while - it could be that those are causing more pain that we thought. Certainly increased pain might be causing this. Or maybe it was just behavioral. The end result - she didn't know. And that's where we are today. We don't know why. We don't know if he will ever do such a thing again.

Is it wrong of me to wish the vet had found something more conclusive? Because I knew from the beginning that if she did, it would probably be terminal. I would loose him. But somehow, in some way, now I have lost him more.

What do I do about a companion I can’t trust? Will he do it again? Are my animals safe? Can I let him outside alone, unobserved? My nieces are two and 6-months old. I know Rajah finds kids annoying - he always has. But never in my life have I questioned that he would gallantly put up with the annoyance, sighing heavily whenever they were around so that I would be sure to know the suffering he was going through for me. But never did I doubt that they were safe.

Now what can I do? I cannot assume that he would not turn on them if his pain, or his mind, pushed him just a bit too far.

What do I do? My Rajah-B, the truest companion of my life, he who has barely seen a leash since we moved to Montana, who runs free everywhere he goes - is he to be chained now? Forever? At what point do I trust him again? At what point do I say, “Ok, now we know he would never do that again.” I am exhausted. This life takes all I have and more. Am I to watch him every minute, walk him on a leash - can I put him under guard and manage the guarding of him at all? How long? I feel like I’ve lost my Rajah and yet he is still here!

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s still here. And he deserves more from me than this. All his life he’s given to me, all his heart and all his soul. He’s been the perfect dog. And now I moan and cry because I see a fault. I thought I had perfection, and now I am betrayed.

After all that he has given me, doesn’t he deserve to be a perfect dog, if not in fact, then, at least, to me? For whatever time we have left together, thru whatever changes come, doesn’t he deserve to be - to me - my perfect dog? Doesn’t he deserve, somehow, for me to say, “You are all I could have asked. You’ve never let me down.” To keep on loving him with the same kind of assuredness I always had before?

So how do I do that and still keep my animals safe? How do I let him change and not let that diminish all that Rajah is - but still be practical about the potential that may be there?

I am tired. This has been the hardest week. I miss my Lambie. I hurt at the prospect of taking my Rajah’s freedom away. Its Thanksgiving and somehow last spring I thought it would be wise to raise turkeys this year, to give out to neighbors and friends as gifts...and, of course, we had to butcher them all this week. In theory that’s ok, even beautiful to me. In practice, my heart feels bruised and I miss those loud, giant birds following me everywhere, bullying me for food. Last night one of my many pets (my cat, perhaps) apparently realized I was having a difficult week and was kind enough to try to help. It left a present by my bed. I awoke at 2:30 in the morning, fumbled with the light, and swung my feet out of bed. I felt something cold and rubbery under my foot, and looked down to find a severed turkey’s head laying there. Blue and red and white, at least 8 inches long and three inches thick, there lay my dead turkey's head, staring up at me. Sometimes the absurdity of my life makes it hard to know whether I’m going to laugh or to cry. I did neither. But I didn't go back to sleep either.

Tonight we got home from delivering our turkeys around 10:30pm. We’d spent 3 hours in a marathon run of the last butchering, coming in covered with blood and flesh, then running to town to give them away. Rajah is in his crate, asleep. I drew a bath and soaked for 40 minutes while Dave read a book to me. I cooked an artichoke (my favorite food) and poured myself a glass of wine. I’m finishing that as I write here. The ache in my heart has eased, at least for now. There’s nothing more to do tonight. Somehow I will find a way to be faithful to Rajah, whatever comes. And maybe, eventually, I’ll even get some sleep.

True Companion - part 1

For ten years, Rajah has been my constant companion. In Colorado, building a horse ranch by myself, every minute of the day he ran beside me: protection, devotion and love, all rolled into one. During my college years, when I would take the summer months and travel, he slept beside me on hotel beds, snuck into the front seat every time I got out of the car, and waited politely at the McDonald's drive-through for the cheeseburger he always knew would be unwrapped and tossed in the back for him. He carried his own backpack when we hiked, for days at a time, exploring the wilds of the Rockies together. Each night in my tent I would wake and look for him only to find him sitting, half in and half out of the tent-flap door, straight and tall, like a sentinel, head moving back and forth, back and forth, seemingly scanning the night for anything that might bring danger to my door. During the days when we stayed in a campsite, he found the tallest perch - a boulder or a large, downed tree - and sat again, scanning. When we hiked, he placed himself, always, 10 feet before me, breaking the trail, the first to scare out snakes or bear or whatever danger he perceived. He's faced down bear for me, more than once, a low "wolf" to let me know, a body at ridged attention, placed between me and the tense, sniffing bear, eyes boring into the bear but no move to threaten, an unspoken shout, "This is mine! Move away and we can leave here in peace! Step forward and I will take you down with me if I must." And the bear always moved away.

He has faced down men for me too, a number of times, when we stumbled across surly or drunken cutthroats deep in the wilds, days from any help. They never gave us trouble. He stood between me and they, as between me and the bears. But this time his threats were not unspoken. Every hair stood on end and his teeth were bared like fangs out of a nightmare. A terrifying growl rumbled in his throat. No-one ever bothered us twice and I never felt afraid.

Around anything non-threatening, however, Rajah has always been a goof. His favorite game is fetch. He chases frisbees, tennis balls and sticks indiscriminately. In recent years, he searches the ranch for the best possible throwing stick he can find (often a ridiculously large, 6-foot-long firewood log) and drag it to anyone who comes by, dropping it hopefully at their feet and racing around, filled with joy, at any poor soul who actually tries to throw the unruly thing. He spends hours following me behind a horse, hours hiking by my side, hours checking out stream-beds and undiscovered hollows as we do our daily work around the ranch - fencing, moving horses, checking water lines. Always he was there. By my side. Like my shadow. Like my spirit and my soul.

Once, when Rajah was less than two years old, he saved my life twice in one winter. I was sick - very sick - and fighting the illness with all the will I had. Mind over matter, right? Surely, I - with so much passion and so much to do - could not be taken down by a mer physical body. So I fought, ignoring this body that got sicker every day. And twice I pushed myself past my endurance, refusing to give up the life I loved, and twice I was caught in winter storms, in the mountains, far from help when at last I could go on no more.

The first time I collapsed somewhat close to home. The snow in the pasture had drifted to 3 feet and more was coming down fast. I collapsed, falling forward, and was buried in the soft, cold blanket of the snow, my mind dimly trying to think of some way out of this, some way to go on. Then Rajah was there, barking, barking, barking. Right in my face he barked, loudly, viciously. The very annoyance of his insistent bark drug me back from sleep. "Go away," I whispered, "I can't. I can't get up from here." But his barking broke through again. Again he barked, that most annoying of dog barks, that one that puts your teeth on edge and cannot be ignored, right in my face, never letting up. "Ok!" I cried and tried to push myself up, tried to push myself through the snow. I couldn't - not enough - but then Rajah was there, teeth clamped to the hood of my coat, dragging, tugging, pulling me on. With little help from me, he drug me to the barn - the closest building to my fall. He pulled me into a large, warm stack of hay, and dropped his body over mine. He stayed there, keeping me warm, until I woke, finally, the next day, rested enough to stumble home.

The second time is fuzzy in my mind. I was partially unconscious for days. I wish I had gotten the story - the full story. I would have liked to know more about how he pulled it off.

I was hiking in the mountains, far up a mountain trail. I loved my mountains and refused to let this body take them away. I knew I was weak. But the snow was fresh and deep and there was nothing I loved more than those dramatic Colorado forests, covered with feet and feet of snow.

I was far from home when I realized I would not make it back. The snow had started again - blowing and strong. A storm was pouring down. Exhaustion was steeling over me like a curtain. Eventually I couldn't fight it anymore. I fell, the snow again surrounding me, engulfing me. I had a clear, fleeting thought that there was no way I would live through this storm, unprotected as I was. And there was no barn here to drag my body to. I don't remember where Rajah was. I had lost track of him, he who was always there. As my mind began to numb I wondered that there was no barking, no insisting I wake and try. Then everything went black.

Rajah was there in the woods with me that day. But how he knew that there was no-where to drag me, no safety to be had, I don't know. He left me, right away I think, maybe even before I fell. I couldn't have been in those hills for long, so he must have known immediately that he would have to go. He left me and he left the woods, and the trail we were on. He cut straight through the trees and found a highway and somehow, he stopped a car. I know only bits and pieces of this part of the story - I was mostly unconscious when he brought me help, only vaguely aware of what the man who found me said. Somehow, Rajah convinced a man, driving on the highway, to get out of his car and hike half a mile up a mountain, in the middle of a blizzard, to find me in the snow. I remember the man saying, "I just knew. I just knew he was telling me something, and that it was real. I couldn't get back in my car." He seemed as amazed and shocked as I was, almost confused by what he had done. He kept saying, "He wouldn't let me go and somehow I just couldn't. I just knew it was for real."

The man carried me home and fussed, unsure now what to do. I drifted into consciousness enough to explain my illness and say that I would be safe, now that I was home. I had friends who would check on me tomorrow. He must have stayed a while - I drifted in and out, seeing him there, looking unsure of what to do. But eventually I recovered enough to convince him that I was fine, thank him for saving my life, and he left. And I slept for three days straight, never having herd his name.

Rajah has always been there: Through my Colorado adventures, living on ranches and in remote wilderness cabins or tee-pees, with no electricity and no running water. Through my five years in Chicago, trying to finish my college degree. Through my illness that sapped everything I had, leaving me with nothing but dependence and family and him. He was always there, by my side. I never had to check - he was like a part of me. If I was sleeping, he was laying quietly by my bed. Even when, at the hight of my illness, I slept for days on end, he stayed beside me never rising to go to the bathroom, never rising to eat or to drink. If I slept he was there, beside me, until I was strong enough to get up again and he could follow me outside to play.

When I was well and strong, he hiked or worked or rode horses by my side, or in front of me really, always ten feet ahead, always scouting the trail. He played and loved and protected all that was mine. When we moved to Montana and bought our ranch - married now, it was my dream and my husband's to leave Chicago and that pace of life that seemed so meaningless to us, and find a ranch, off-grid, in the Rockies, at last. Now Dave works from home, by satellite, writing computer software for the Chicago firm he's worked for for years. I opened a business raising what I believe to be some of the finest pleasure horses in the world.

Its been heaven, give or take a few moments of hell. And because I'm me, the place has teamed with animals - chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys, sheep, goats, donkeys, horses upon horses upon horses, every abandoned cat in the county, Rajah, and two additional dogs who have come to be family within the past few years. I am forever taking on mistreated, hurt or abandoned animals, filling the ranch (often more than I can handle, I'm afraid) with all the creatures who need love and care and a safe, free life at last.

My ranch is, as I work for it to be, a haven for life and for health. Every animal here lives the freest, healthiest life I can give it. Our birds free-range over sixty acres (though with all that room, why their location of choice always ends up being our nice, relaxing - now covered with bird-poop - wooden deck, I don't know.) Our horses live in large pastures with creeks, fields and wooded hills. The goats roam free (and these days mostly choose to stand on our second story deck, adding their poop to that of the birds and eying the dog door which they know must somehow lead to the warmth and comfort they see when they - so often - press their wet noses up to the window and glare into the house which is (surely) meant to be theirs. The many barn cats we've taken in, breaking our bank to spay and neuter each dumped, abandoned, feral one, have "cat rooms" in each barn supplied with climbing posts, free-choice cat food, clean litter-boxes and dozens of boxes and baskets, stuffed with blankets. Yet still, these feral cats, eye the house, sure that somewhere the universe has created a warm, comfortable castle with ever present servants to put out the food, scratch their ears and tend the fire - as is their just deserts. And last week two of them finally made the plunge - pushed their way through the cat door and moved themselves inside.

I work all day, when my health allows. This illness is still present, though it eases a lot out here in this mountain climate, especially when I am able able to get some rest. And always Rajah is by my side. We have had dogs come here who threatened the birds or other animals. Most at least have to be taught to leave such things along. But Rajah never has.

He knows what is mine. He always has. He lives to protect that which I have claimed. That is who he is - what he is. I would trust him with my life. I would trust him with my soul. Then last week, something changed.