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“You cannot live and keep free of briars” – William Carlos Williams

April 5, 2011

Saturday, when we returned from several days away, it was clearly apparent that both cats were extremely ill. Dart had a palpable lump on his hip and an obvious wound on one paw. Both cats were extemely lethargic and not eating. A short walk with Dodge demonstrated weakness in her hind quarters, she was unable to jump up to her normal perches. Both cats slept and hid under the beds emerging from their dens only long enough to drink water and whine plaintiffly at me. Dodge, in particular, has never been a very vocal cat.

Although, Dart had some symptoms of lethargy before we left, Dodge had barely started demonstrating a low appetite. She’d been out hunting in the sunshine and seemed fine. I thought perhaps she’d eaten a mouse that was moving through her system slowly. Dart had been lethargic (for him), but he was jumping up on the bed with ease and showed no points of pain. His robust purr was in good working order whenever I handled him. I noted the lump and decided I’d take him to the vet when we returned. Neither cat seemed critical enough to warrant a pre-trip vet visit. Their feral natures have always made vet visits very stressful.

Fortunately, Pet Emergency Center in Mount Vernon, Washington, is open 24/7 including Sundays. So adding insult to the cat’s miseries, I got them into carriers and off we went. I knew matters were serious just by how little they fought being placed in the carriers.

Blood work demonstratead immediately that Dodge was in advanced renal failure. Dr. Jane Reynolds was frank. “If this were my cat, I wouldn’t treat. The values are extreme. In attempting to get the blood test, it was apparent that her veins are breaking down.” Euthanasia was the only option. I spent quite a few minutes with Dodge, soothing her and holding her. It was obvious she was ready. She passed very peacefully with her head in my hands. We’ll never know for sure why she declined so rapidly at the age of 13. When you allow your cats the freedom of the great outdoors, there are always risks of exposure to many unknowns – some of them toxic.

Dart could not be effectively examined without sedation. The presumption was that the lump was an abscess. His white count was extremely high. Dr. Reynolds suggested we go home and she would call post-surgically. Unfortunately, the surgery demonstrated the lump was the tip of an extremely large tumor. With Dart’s white count as high as it was, Dr. Reynolds doubted if he would survive the invasive surgery that would have been necessary to remove the tumor. Unfortunately, we had no opportunity to say goodbye. There was no point it bringing him out of anesthetic before euthanizing him as well. I always worried about Dart’s love of traversing the railroad ties that support our ivy. Even though most of the creosote was weathered off the tops, I can’t help but wonder if exposure to those toxins played a role in the development of the tumor. We won’t get more cats until we have an opportunity to replace the ties. Cats are notorious for going where they want to go, not where you want them to go.

There are now two piles of rocks under a large cedar which I can see out the kitchen window. My wonderful friends now lie in repose where they once frolicked and lived life fully. My heart is broken, but I’m doing okay. Part of pet ownership always includes taking the responsibility of not allowing them to suffer. Losing both in one day is almost too much for the emotions to grasp. The house is quiet. I spent quite a bit of time yesterday, clearing cat dishes, bedding, toys and other reminders from the house. It’ll be some time before we’re ready to start again. In the meantime, it seems easiest to not be looking at the memories daily.

I am not religious but I have strong non-religious spiritual beliefs. Loss gets no easier, but my confidence in some variety of continuity grows stronger with each passing year. There may be no guarantees about what happens after death, but certainly suffering is relieved and profound love continues to comfort those of us who must grieve. I like to think death is the beginning of new adventures, I have strong confidence in the benevolence of that grand and final uncertainty.

Dart

Goodbye, my freinds. Thank you for enriching my life. May your new adventures bring you as much joy as you brought to me during our brief time together.

Dodge

“Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!” CANON HENRY SCOTT HOLLAND (1847-1918)

quotation via The Solitary Walker

By Trish | Posted in Cats, Family, Friends, Home, Philosophy, Quotes, Spirituality | Tagged bereavement, loss of pet, responsibility of pet ownership | Comments off

Pats, Irishness & Bagpipes at Funerals

March 17, 2011

Dad was named after St. Patrick and he was proud of his Irishness though he was just as much English and Scottish and above all American. He made it to Ireland briefly during World War II, though he spent most of his three overseas years in England. Had it not been for the war, he may never have met his grandfather.

Dad’s birthday was March 18, so St. Patrick’s Day just started the celebration in my childhood home. My parents were not big drinkers, but a little Irishness and the “wearin’ o’ the green” seemed to get the laughter rolling without a lot of alcohol. Shared laughter as a vital part of family love is one of the greatest gifts my parents gave me.

Dad was also a firefighter. The bagpipes at his funeral were as much for his profession as for his Irishness. The American tradition of bagpipes at funerals for police officers and firefighters stems from the our “potato famine” Irish immigration days, when many Irish immigrants could find no other work than the most dangerous professions. For awhile in the United States, being a firefighter became synonymous with being Irish. The bagpipe tradition has endured.

Interestingly, my father also chose the firefighter’s life for economic reasons. His family had a tough time during the Great Depression. He left school at the age of 14 to help support his family. After the war, Dad’s firefighter-brother-in-law sold him on firefighting as a “depression proof” career.

I was named after my father, so indirectly I too was named after St. Patrick. Until college, I was actually called Pat at school and Trish only at home. In high school (in those long lost days of only one land-line phone per household), boys would call up and ask for Pat; and (much to their terror) the next voice they heard was that of my father.

With the start of college, I chose Trish for both public and private venues and ultimately legally changed my name from Patricia to Trish for consistency’s sake. I sometimes wonder if I’d have become a whole other person had my parents chosen “Patty” as the at-home nickname. Either way, it is a testament to the loving family environment my parents provided that, even in those break-away teenage years, I chose to become who I was in their home over who I was among my school friends.

Thank you Dad. You’ll always be the true St. Patrick in my life.

Whether or not you believe in an afterlife, it is a truism that our loved ones watch over us after they’re gone - at the very least poetically; and in our memories, most certainly psychologically. It is from them that we learn to love and learn to laugh - core skills of personal resilience. Love and laughter endure far beyond the death of any or all of the beloved.

By Trish | Posted in Family, Home, Personal History, Psychology | Tagged bagpipes at firefighter funerals, Irish, St Patricks Day | Comments off

Wandering Into Timeless Obscurity (and Back Out)

December 30, 2010

It was a non-decision. I didn’t intentionally stop blogging. I just stopped blogging. I didn’t plan or expect to be gone for months. I just inadvertently wandered away and didn’t wander back. It was not a formal end to my blogging experiment; it was just a comfortable drop into timeless obscurity – no need to report, [...]

Tree Power Down: Timber!

January 31, 2010

In spite of my love of big trees, I can’t really categorize myself as a fanatical tree-hugger. I’m not one of those people who rejects all logging. Logging is a big business here in Washington State. I’ve lived in and around the timber industry most of my life. Family history alone has given me some logger tolerance.

Uncles worked for Weyerhaeuser and although I grew up in Seattle, my father bought a 40-acre stand of timber when I was in second-grade. Dad’s shift schedule with the Seattle Fire Department allowed for many days at The Acres, as we called it. Over the years, Dad logged enough timber from the property to pay for it several times over. When I was growing up, many weekends and most school holidays were spent in those woods. Here’s an old photo of Dad, my sister and me with a load ready for the mill. I’m the short one. (I don’t get to say that very often.) (And don’t worry, as children, we were never actually allowed anywhere near active logging operations.)

Dad and Mom moved to The Acres after Dad’s retirement from the fire department. I actually helped Dad fell a couple of big trees at The Acres the spring of the year he died (of leukemia). I cherish the time I spent with him in the woods during his last year. He was still harvesting a tree here and there at the age of 82. He was lucky to be where he wanted, doing what he loved, almost to the end. And, in spite of all the trees removed from The Acres over the years, much of it was still forested when we sold the property…. Balance.

The personal little patch of forest I share with Griz is bounded on two sides by a thousand-acre, well-managed tree farm. There are few days when I don’t see fully-loaded log trucks on the road. But even with all those logs on the way to the mill, visible or expansive clear-cuts are a rare site. Washington State’s Department of Natural Resources and the timber industry itself do a pretty fair job now of managing the timber harvest and preventing blatant environmental abuse. As with all resource management – balance is the key. Not even private land owners are allowed to fall more than several trees a year without a permit now. Replant criteria and watershed protections are strictly enforced, too.

Yes, there are still abuses around the edges. Timber theft occurs – it’s one reason we have a locking gate and security system. There are independents who complain about and circumvent every regulation. But things have monumentally improved (perhaps thanks to those fanatical tree-huggers). The environmental rape that occurred as little as 50 years ago (and which extended back 100+ years before that here) is, fortunately, rapidly becoming just a sad memory.

If you’ve ever walked through a clear-cut area (or tried to) as I have, you’d understand that it really is impossible to clear-cut without creating devastation and tragic habitat destruction. But in the loggers’ defense, I understand why clear-cutting is (at least in some areas) the only economically feasible approach. Just getting logging equipment into the forest and moving big logs out once the trees are down creates a significant amount of devastation. Once you’re there, taking everything and finishing the destruction as rapidly as possible makes some sense. But carefully monitoring and restricting how many acres can be clear cut at a time is important – habitat preservation within a certain range of the cut is critical for recovery of refugee species after the timber harvest. Rapid replanting and environmental regeneration benefits everyone, including the timber industry.

Having an innate fascination with all things tool, Griz watches the History Channel’s Axmen periodically. Perhaps it’s because I only see those sections of the show that Griz calls to my attention, or perhaps it’s the way the show is edited in general; but in my opinion, the show should be subtitled “the world’s stupidest loggers.” And I don’t mean to diminish the risks loggers face moving all that weight around in unpredictable conditions (which Axmen actually emphasizes very clearly or perhaps over-emphasizes for dramatic effect). (Logging consistently comes in statistically as the most dangerous [fatalities per capita] profession over fishermen and firefighters.) But I have to file TV logging right up there with other “reality-TV” FUBARs – another sad example where selling the video is probably more profitable than the activity itself. And just like the other “reality” stars, there seems no shortage of loggers willing to voluntarily make fools of themselves for a few extra bucks.

But one thing you definitely won’t see on Axmen is reverence for the trees. Trying to give commercial loggers the benefit of the doubt, I suppose it’s almost impossible to work that hard and fast trying to turn a profit and still have time (or any inclination) for reverence – for anything – let alone for each tree that falls.

I, on the other hand, have only been involved in the felling of a few trees. I have always participated in single tree projects – diseased trees, leaners that were threatening buildings, that kind of thing. I’m sure the commercial loggers would consider it almost recreational cutting - arborist type work. I wasn’t even the cutter – I was a cable puller or wedge driver, maybe a choker setter after the fact. But each case for me demanded a certain reverence. It was always obvious from beginning to end that there was a death involved. The death of the big old tree was always the final outcome.

There’s a distinctive sequence in the planned death of a big old tree. There’s the long clear droning of the chainsaw as the cuts are made; sometimes there’s the driving of wedges to create the final imbalance; and then there’s the moment when the tree gives in. There’s an agonizing stillness, almost imperceptible cracking noises at first, then slightly louder cracks – a noticeable shudder when the tipping point is reached. As the tree finally topples there’s a groaning sound – almost a death sigh – sometimes the echo of branches breaking (the death tree’s and any collateral damage), then the earth shakes with a distinctive thud when the big tree hits the ground.

This is the one opportunity James Cameron missed with Avatar. He should have depicted a quieter cutting of the big old tree. Rather than all that fire power, the stroke of a laser and then the awesome and devastating impact of a more true-to-life tree death would have been more dramatic. He could have even had the tree fall toward the audience in terrifying 3D. But perhaps, James Cameron has never really watched a big tree die.

I browsed YouTube for a video of what I’m talking about. This is the closest I could find:

Uh-oh. I feel my logger tolerance waning as I write.

Here’s the thing: The death of a big, old tree is a tragic, awesome and memorable event. At the very least, appropriate reverence should be required every single time.

By Trish | Posted in Family, Home, Nature, Personal History, Philosophy | Tagged Avatar motion picture, Axmen, big tree deaths, logging, tree reverence, Washington State logging | Comments off

Tree Power Up: Tall Inspiration

January 30, 2010

I’ve admitted here before that I love big trees. When we first moved here, I actually considered affectionately naming some of our big evergreens – but I changed my mind. Naming them would be insulting, I think – it would imply a level of intimacy we may not deserve. After all, part of my love is for their wildness. Naming things always implies dominion or control. We own these trees in paper legality only – control of them is illusory. It would diminish them to attach names. You never really own any other living thing – you just borrow it – to look at, to cherish or befriend, to use as a resource when necessary.

I’d also hate to get too attached. Big trees fall. Some have to be cut down.

And most of our trees grew to their glory before we arrived here – without the need for words or names. They just are, surviving tough conditions right where they stand, beyond analysis or judgments – and they’re mighty nonetheless. Passive endurance resulting in magnificent splendor. Unintentional artistry. (Though some would say it’s intentional.)

Look upward while standing quietly beneath a big tree. You cannot avoid feeling the power. Imagine what it takes to oppose gravity to that extent, processing sunlight, circulating nutrients and water to such great heights?

Big trees demonstrate the great wisdom of nature – they bend to buffeting winds, lean toward sunlight or bow to obstacles as necessary. When partially knocked down, they slowly redirect themselves back skyward, fortifying themselves even more at the bending point. They shed the unnecessary to better endure and prosper. I admire them.

Hard to believe such giants start out smaller than this volunteer western red cedar struggling for a foothold in our driveway gravel. This 3″ youngster was a seed last summer. I pot and replant more of these little buggers than is practical, but it’s hard for me to think of them as weeds.

The great tree symbology in James Cameron’s Avatar pleased me. Avatar’s popularity demonstrates a positive direction in our collective consciousness. As little as twenty-five years ago, I doubt if Avatar (with or without 3D) would have captured such a large audience. Twenty-five years ago, only us die hard sci-fi types would have gone. Sure, there are probably more sci-fi enthusiasts now than ever before, but Avatar goes beyond sci-fi – it touches our growing ecological and spiritual awareness – our acknowledgment of an immutable connectedness.

A serendipitious tree article showed up in Griz’ Nuts & Volts Magazine last month. An Idaho company, Voltree manufactures a bioenergy harvester which attaches to a living tree and uses the tree’s metabolic processes to create electricity. The small electrical generators do not harm the tree. (At least we don’t believe they harm the tree.) Of course, the amount of energy you can generate this way is limited – these generators are used to power passive surveillance and scientific monitoring equipment. Still, it’s a kind of symbiosis that tickles me.

Voltree’s products are the kind of green technology we’re heading toward (very slowly) – ways to use our resources without depleting or harming them. We are starting to make those critical connections – artistically, figuratively, literally.

Of course, you get a lot more energy (quicker) from a tree if you chop it down and burn it to heat the shelter you’ve built with it’s carcass. (Intentional shock value.) See my next post Tree Power Down: Timber!

By Trish | Posted in Art, Hermit's Rants, Home, Movies, Nature, Philosophy, Science, Spirituality | Tagged 50 year old evergreens, large trees, motion picture Avatar, tree power, tree symbology, Voltree | Comments off

Solitude, SHOULD & The Hermit Uncertainty Principle

November 22, 2009

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I admit it. One of my attractions to solitude is the free pass it provides – a free pass from should. When you live in solitude, no one cares if you’re naked or nocturnal – as long as you’re self-supporting (sometimes tough in solitude) and not bothering anyone (extremely easy in solitude). Why would anyone [...]

“the world offers itself to your imagination”

November 21, 2009

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

By Trish | Posted in Home, Nature, Poetry, Solitude, Spirituality, Wildlife | Tagged "the world offers itself to your imagination", Canada geese, poet Mary Oliver, Poetry, Wild Geese | Comments off

The Reminder: If You Could Comprehend the Physics…You’d Probably Wet Your Pants

October 16, 2009

On my routine shipping run into Stanwood this afternoon, I missed mortal injury or death by a few millimeters plus the seemingly disconnected, minor decisions of several other drivers. It’s one of those situations where if you could comprehend the physics while you’re participating and watching, you’d probably wet your pants. But what actually happens is you watch with only enough time to groan “OMG” and then it’s all over. You and everyone else has escaped unharmed, and you drive away in sort of a daze.

While you’re driving on, you think about what happened – the near miss and all the circumstances that led up to it – the hazardous speed of a dump truck driver, the carelessness of a pick-up driver on his way home from work, the fortunate carefulness of a guy pulling a loaded, four-horse trailer, and the untimely coincidence of your own presence behind the horses. It’s one of those things that changes your attitude for the rest of the day. You feel more alive because you are alive - full of gratitude that, this time, the sequence played out in your favor.

Decision No. 1: Me without my DRIVER ON. At the first intersection after leaving home, I could have pulled out in front of Horse-Trailer-Guy. There was really enough room, but even though I was on a non-congested rural road, I knew I didn’t have my driver together yet. It’s one of the hazards of frequently traversing uncongested rural roads - you can go for a long time without thinking very hard about driving. Most of the time, doing so poses no hazard to you or anyone else. I’m not a pushy driver, generally, though I can press it when I have to. But when I know the driver hasn’t kicked in yet, I’m more cautious. So today, I let Horse-Trailer-Guy go by before I pulled onto to the next, slightly busier road behind him.

And as soon as Horse-Trailer-Guy went by, I admonished myself for not getting in front of him. He moves horses around here all the time. He’s undoubtedly a very good mover of horses – he’s cautious and slow around corners and at stops. He gives the horses time to adjust to the motion. But it’s a pain in the butt to follow him to Stanwood with no way to get around. I was settling in to being stuck behind him for the whole trip as we approached the intersection of our “reminder.”

The intersection of our close call was where Old Highway 99 meets 300th Street NW. Old Highway 99 parallels Interstate 5 in this area and the intersection of our near demise is really an awkward, though staggered, five-point junction, with a mom & pop convenience store/gas station on one corner. There are no Stop signs on Hwy 99, but speed limits through this awkward junction are reduced from 50 to 35 mph. Horse-Trailer-Guy and I were moving north on Highway 99 where we would both turn left just before the gas station. Because we had just turned onto Hwy 99 from one of the other five points, our speed was less than 25 mph.

Decision No. 2: Dump-Truck-Guy was hauling ass southbound on Hwy 99 at what I assess at more than 60 mph (with absolutely no slowing for the junction). His was an empty side-dumper, double tractor trailer. It was almost 4 p.m, Friday afternoon. DumpTruckCrunch Dump-Truck-Guy was either on his way back to the barn because he had plans for Friday night, maybe he needed to make it to his son’s football game – or he was trying to get one more load in before the end of the day. He should have been on I-5 if he wanted to haul ass, but he must have thought he could bypass the state patrol, or take a shortcut on 99. He may not have been familiar with this slow-down junction, or (like so many of us on these low volume rural highways), he just wasn’t concentrating on his driving.

Decision No. 3: Pick-Up Truck Guy was pulling out after just buying his beer and cigarettes at the convenience store. I think he was in “Friday afternoon, now-the-fun-begins, I’m-almost-home-and-the-driving-is-easy” mode. Pick-Up-Truck-Guy didn’t have a clear sight up Highway 99 or he just didn’t look at all (because, after all, we were on uncongested, quiet rural highways), but (whatever) he decided to pull out from the left into the path of the oncoming dump truck.

Decsion No. 4: Horse Trailer Guy had a clear view of the impending disaster (which I did not initially because my vision was obstructed by the horse trailer). Fortunately for us all – fast-thinking, Horse-Trailer-Guy pulled his rig toward the right just in time so the fast-moving dump-truck barreling down on us could swerve across the line to narrowly avoid colliding with the front end of the pick-up. It is also fortunate that Pick-Up-Truck-Guy got stopped partially into the lane and, thus, didn’t T-bone or get T-boned; and Dump-Truck Guy maintained control of his empty trailers in the swerve, even though it looked like they were heeled over on one set of wheels. If Pick-Up-Truck-Guy did not soil himself when the wall of tractor/trailers barreled through his view out the windshield, he should have.

I was far enough behind the horse trailer that the dump truck was back in his own lane by the time he whizzed by me, but because of my alignment, I think I’m the only one who had a clear sight of what a near miss this was – there were mere inches between the tractor-trailer and the pick-up. And blink…

We all went merrily on our ways – although I did notice Pick-Up-Truck-Guy pulled back into the convenience store parking lot – possibly to tidy up a bit.

As I faithfully (and with no desire to pass) followed Horse-Trailer-Guy the rest of the way into Stanwood, I contemplated what would have happened if the pick-up had even slightly tapped the empty dump trailers going at that velocity. Not only would the pick-up have spun or rolled to who knows where, but the trailers would undoubtedly have launched or slid right into me and the horses. That thought put a lump in my gut for the rest of my drive.

Just a routine trip into town on a Friday afternoon. Of course, being the thinker that I am, I spent the rest of my errand-running sojourn working on the profound themes: the fragility of life, the criticality of timing, fate vs free will and the proverbial WHEW! And, yes, I did have a glass of riesling when I got home this evening.

I’d like to report that I came home more compassionate and loving with absolute gratitude for all the joys of my life – and there was fair amount of that. But during one phase this evening, when the adrenaline had worn off, I actually got a little bitchy – sniping at Griz for not helping with the salad and inappropriately critiquing a poker move he was explaining. It was weird really – an irresistible compulsion to have my say about the inconsequential. The close call had not only enlivened my joie de vivre; but in so pointedly reminding me of my helplessness against the fates, it had stimulated some regressive need to resolve or control small matters close at hand.

Post traumatic stress? Hardly – because there was hardly any trauma really. But it was a tiny opportunity to imagine with compassion how difficult it must surely be for those who face real life-and-death situations daily, day-in and day-out, month-in and month-out – soldiers, rescuers, police officers – or just innocent citizens where war, disaster, or “police actions” rule their lives.

And don’t worry about Griz and me. We’re at that fortunate part of our relationship where any disagreement – even a little irrational, emotion-based bitchiness (by either of us) – is something we recover from rapidly. In fifteen minutes, we were laughing again. It’s all Dump-Truck-Guy’s fault, anyway.

By Trish | Posted in Family, Hermit's Rants, Home, Philosophy, Psychology | Tagged fate, near miss, rural driving hazards | Comments off

Hermit Research: Pseudonyms & Tracking Collars

September 27, 2009

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I looked out the front window this morning just in time to see two grad students fitting Griz with a tracking collar before he recovered from the effects of their tranquilizer dart. Then I woke up. But I know what prompted the dream: yet another hermit researcher found this blog and hoped for an interview with [...]