I hop into the back and forage through the piles of useful items. Nowhere is the one item of use.... the meatballs are clearly not in the car.
Honeybun is watching us, trusting us, wagging at us, knowing that this is the place where she gets fed a gazillion delectable treats. This is the highlight of her week. She is happy to be alive.
"She does like praise," pipes Asherel hopefully.
Not as much as meatballs.... the meatballs she thinks we are bringing. For some reason, it is almost the saddest thing I have seen yet in all the traumas she has endured, watching her prance in, her eyes riveted on Asherel, head eagerly raised. The meatball scent is still on Asherel’s hands and Honeybun senses the specialness of this graduation night. She has worked hard over the past two months and she seems to understand tonight is a celebration. Of course, any night when meatballs are on the menu is a celebration for a dog.
There is a festive air, the soon to be graduate dogs all expertly going through the various courses and classes. There are sign- up sheets for next class, class evaluations to be filled out, and excited chatter about the AKC dog show that weekend.
Asherel and I are subdued.... the unsuspecting Honey still prancing.
"Go on and practice the course," urges Lloyd.
"What do I do about treats?" she asks me quietly.
"There isn't much you can do," I lament, "Just do your best."
Both she and I are devastated- what is supposed to be the glorious last night of class is suddenly going to be one of disappointment and torture to the little dog I had fed only half a dinner in expectation of the volumes of meatballs she would consume. Funny how life can swing on the hinge of a meatball.
Asherel takes Honeybun out on the course, and she is perfect, going through her paces with her eyes still glued on Asherel. I can't bear to watch.
"She's doing great," commends the kind lady who owns Max, the corgi.
"Yes, for now," I agree, "But we lost our snacks for tonight so I don't know for how long."
Lloyd overhears me, "All of them?"
"Yes," I admit miserably, "They must have fallen out of the car when we got in."
In a flicker of an eye, three people have poured snacks into Asherel's hand. These are not just any old snack. These are graduation night "high value cookies." Asherel beams and thanks them all profusely. I can barely speak, and blink several times. Something must have gotten in my eyes, maybe angel dust.
While Asherel and Honeybun go through the course, I overhear Lloyd telling Nina, the assistant instructor, what a shame it is that Honeybun cannot do AKC rally that weekend. Meanwhile, I chat with Vicci, his wife who will be leading the agility class in January. They have decided to allow people to take the agility class without a prerequisite.
We had told Deb we would join her class, but now, watching my daughter with her pockets bulging with the offerings of her compassionate classmates, I wanted more than anything to be able to reach our goal with them watching. I thought Deb would understand.
“Is it too late to get in the agility class?” I ask. Vicci and Lloyd assure me they will get my application in on time.
Vicci warns me that we should work on clicker use for her class. Asherel had just informed me that clickers are essential for agility. Neither of us knows why, but we are obedient students who will dutifully get the clicker.
We admit we don’t have one yet, but intend to get one tomorrow. A few minutes later, she hands Asherel a brand new clicker she’d had in the car, telling her it is an extra one.
Honeybun rubs against Vicci, as Asherel clutches the clicker and smiles. It is very kind of Vicci, but already I am thinking of all the practice we now have to fit in on clicker use. We will just have to find the time. What can I cut out? Maybe I could clean the toilets just once a month. It is a huge sacrifice of course, but the goal is worthy.
Now with the meatball crisis averted, class is indeed a celebration. Honeybun and Asherel eagerly navigate the rally course, effervescent with success. At the end, Lloyd brings out a big bag of dog toys and invites the happy graduates to all pick one. Asherel picks a yellow stuffed star and throws it to Honeybun, who does not know how to play. Honeybun lunges at it, throws it joyfully in the air, tosses it and catches it in her paws, and skitters across the floor with it. She is so delightedly engaged with it, that when it is her turn to do the course one last time, she won't leave her toy. Instead of treats for her victory lap, the toy keeps her slack leashed at Asherel's side, sitting, staying, downing, circling, spiraling, and finishing with her tail straight up and wagging, a clarion of triumph and joy.
"Before we dismiss," said Nina, "There is one special award I would like to give."
We all turn to her, Lloyd smiling beside her. Honeybun is busily removing the stuffing from her star. Asherel and I are transfixed by the incredulous vision of our dog playing.
"For the award of Most Improved--- Honeybun!"
What? We look up stunned. Honeybun has stuffing hanging out of her mouth.
Nina pulls out a stuffed pig dog toy and hands it to Asherel. I barely recognize the smiley- faced, grateful, confident little girl that accepts her award and then hands it to her dog. Honeybun throws the pig in the air and then pounces on it, vigorously chewing, then tossing again, and ripping at it with her paws with exuberance.
"Maybe," smiles Nina, "When she is done with it you can collect the pieces and put them on her trophy shelf."
Collecting pieces to put on trophy shelves. I like that symbol very much--every ugly little piece, lovingly collected and put in a place of honor.
Honeybun is like a flower whose hard shell of spring bud has been discarded and the glorious unfolding of the true nature within bursts forth in all its beauty. Her coat is smooth and sleek, her newly cleared eyes, sparkling. Her worried brow creases furrow less and less. She often explodes now into a frenzy of playfulness, finding a toy and bringing it to us hopefully. After a tug of war, she lets us take it and throw it for endless games of retrieval. She paws at Lucky, trying to lure him into a chase. He complies briefly, but still is not ready to trust her, and at her first playful growl, he stops.
Agility training continues in our backyard Mecca. We decide it would be wise to take a few private classes with Deborah, the expert agility instructor, in preparation for the Agility class at our training club. Deb promises to teach Asherel enough that we should be able to do the more advanced class with our increasingly beloved dog club. Asherel proposes she will pay for the classes herself, and lines up some dog sitting jobs to be able to do so.
I ask Deb if after this private work and the one class we will be ready to do an official Agility Trial. She laughs. I ask Vicci the same thing. She winces. I ask Honeybun, who then digs a snout pit and goes to sleep. Asherel just shrugs. This wait and see attitude is shortening my life by the minute. Nonetheless, I have to admit the slow unfolding of a miracle has enjoyable moments. The slow crescendo of accomplishment edging towards fulfillment is not as easy to endure as instant victory, but maybe produces a deeper contentment.
Meanwhile, twenty girls have now signed up for the Sunday school field trip to Malta's farm by the time the day arrives. The drive is long, an hour and a half, but the first catastrophe is quickly dealt with. One girl had not brought her lunch- a miscommunication or missed email.... and was dangerously about to dissolve in tears. Fortunately, I have recently started keeping a gallon baggie of food in the car to hand out to homeless people, so I raid my homeless food bag, and the tears are stopped in their tracks. Within a few minutes we are in the boondocks. Malta's farm is situated in the middle of Nowhere, South Carolina. We pass small, sleepy, ramshackle towns, and soon are driving through farmland and pastures. The fall leaves, while past their peak, are still lovely on this crisp autumn sunny day, and the girls are content playing a car alphabet game.
Our caravan of girls finally lumbers onto Malta's farm. There are rolling, open pastures dotted with horses, forested at the perimeter. I take a deep breath of
the clean air, and listen happily to the silence, no sounds of industry, or traffic. But as I slam the car door, at least twenty dogs begin barking in an assortment of octaves. Big dogs boom and little dogs yip. We pile out of the car, and Malta emerges from her home with a sweet-faced brown dog on leash. I am changing into my muck boots as the girls gather around her. The girls have brought dog food, carrots, and donations. Horses and cows and goats are picturesquely dappling the fields. It is a bucolic world. The girls run happily towards the dog and Malta.
Malta quickly snaps sternly, “This is a working farm, with animals in varying stages of rehabilitation. There will be no loud screaming, shouting, or running, and if you go anywhere I have not explicitly permitted you to go, you will likely die.”
The girls screech to a halt and ask if they can pet the dog. As they quietly, respectfully pet the little brown dog, Malta tells them, "This is Melissa. She was used as a fighter dog. She was covered with wounds in both body and spirit when she came to us."
This sweet little dog letting twenty girls pet her is a pit bull, I realize walking over, having donned my boots. While claiming to be open-minded, I hold deep prejudice against pit bulls. I certainly don't advocate cruelty towards them, but see no reason for them to exist. I have similar feelings about pistol shrimp that stun victims by creating a sound louder than a jet engine. Why mar creation with that kind of creature? Or the blue ringed octopus, the deadliest per square inch creature on earth. Its body is less than 5 cm. long, yet carries enough venom to kill 26 adult humans within minutes. Pit bull jaws have the force of 1500 pounds per square inch. In laymen’s terms, this means they can bite through concrete. In my opinion, this is overkill. No one needs jaws that strong.
Yet, I can tell just by looking at Sweet Melissa that my blanket condemnation of the breed might be unfair. Her almond eyes are gentle, and her little tail thumps ferociously as she licks the girls. I know that just three months ago, she had been the dog Malta had dragged home, furious with the callous owners that had trained her to fight other dogs. I understand why Malta chooses Melissa to be her greeting committee. Nothing, she is telling us, nothing created by God is irredeemable. All creatures deserve a chance at life and love, and our preconceptions about worth are about to be shattered. I hope and pray she doesn’t rescue Blue Ringed Octopi as well.
One girl points to the long horse whip in Malta's hand.
"What is that for?" she asks.
"I use it on children who run or shout when I have told them not to," she quips. Some of the kids gulp.
"Nah," she laughs," I just use it to guide a dog out of the way, or warn an animal that is not behaving."
She hands the leash to Will and asks him to return Sweet Melissa to her crate.
Then she asks if anyone needs to use the bathroom. Several of us peanut bladder folk raise our hands, a little timidly, subdued by the whip.
"Now," barks Malta, "There are twenty dogs in the house. Do not reach out and touch them. There is a little cute Chihuahua on the couch. If you touch her, she will bite you. We will go in groups of four.” It sounds like we are commandos infiltrating enemy territory.
I enter with trepidation, envisioning circling sharks ready to devour in a feeding frenzy at the first sign of blood. Malta walks in with us, long whip in hand. The dogs sniff, and some wag. I squelch my natural desire to pet them, knowing the folly of disobeying Malta. There are dogs everywhere, but surprisingly, Malta's house is spotless. It does not smell like a farm, or dirty dogs. The dogs are clean, and the floors are scrubbed. I cannot imagine how she manages this with twenty dogs.
One girl points to a large multicolored dog and asks, "What kind is that?"
"That," exclaims Malta proudly, "Is a Great American Black, White, and Brown Dog."
The girl looks impressed.
Gathered again out front, she commands, “Now I will take you to meet the farm animals. Now notice there is a band of cloth at the top of the fences. That is electrified. If you touch it, you will be electrocuted. While that is quite entertaining, I would not recommend it."
We all walk to the fence, and the girls wisely choose to stay about ten feet from it. Malta nickers and the herd gallops to the fence. One of the adults in amazement whispers to me, "This is like Dr. Doolittle.....I have never seen horses come galloping over when called."
Malta explains these horses were used as "nurse mares". The breeders kill the foals, the un-registered, less desirable foals, and then use the mares as nursemaids to the more highly prized foals of race horses. Every year, Malta and Will used to buy a few discarded foals from those despicable places. They can’t house any more horses for now, and are raising these for eventual adoption.
"Now we will go pet some deer," she announces, "The deer are very shy. Timmy and Bonnie were found as fawns. Well meaning people thought the mother had left them, so they brought them to us. However, mother deer leave their fawns to go forage, but most of the time will return. These deer cannot be returned to the wild anymore. They would walk right up to a hunter and ask for an apple. Now since they are not used to mobs of people, we need to approach them quietly. Remember no running."
The girls are allowed to go in to pet the deer in small groups. Their fur is soft like a bunny, and they nibble on our zipper pulls and coat bottoms. Their eyes are dark and huge.
"Now we will meet some turkeys," declares Malta.
A large rainbow colored turkey and smaller white turkey fan their impressive feathers as we approach. Their necks and head change color as the turkey shows off for us. Malta affirms they too are friendly, and one by one we are allowed to pet them. One girl approaches the huge turkey step by step, haltingly.
No nonsense Malta trumpets, "Go on, you are not stalking him. You are petting him."
After each girl has pet the turkey in worshipful silence, Malta quips, "That was nice for him, because we will be eating him Thursday for Thanksgiving."
Every girl’s eyes widen, and Malta laughs, "No we won't!" She winks at me.
A large sleeping pig snores nearby.
"Don't pet him," Malta warns, "He is a senior citizen and cranky."
She points up to the hillside. Suddenly she erupts into bleating, that is indistinguishable from the responding bleat high atop the hills. The discussion between the goats and Malta continues for a few minutes. One of the adults leans over and whispers, "This is like Walt Disney World."
"Malta is an animal whisperer," I respond, "She speaks all their languages."
We meet two young cows, saved from the veal platter, and finally it is time to get to work. Malta hands out rakes and shovels and brushes. Some girls rake the turkey pen, some groom the dogs, and some shovel dirt into pits the dogs have dug throughout the yard. Some are placed on poop pickup detail. Her yard is understandably covered with poop, with some twenty dogs roaming it.
One dog with a bandaged, casted back leg recently operated on for a clubfoot, playfully races around the yard. He is not supposed to be out using the foot, but finally Malta decided the joy of romping with all those children was maybe as helpful in his healing as resting the leg. He finds Mariah, one of the girls, to be his special friend and keeps tugging at her work gloves.
She tries to shake him off, but he continues till he has pulled off the glove and then bounds around the yard on three legs, gleefully holding the glove in his mouth like a banner. We catch him, retrieve Mariah's glove, and continue working.
"Who wants to groom a horse?" calls Malta. Six girls shoot over, Asherel in the lead. Malta corrals Will's patient horse, Sequoia, and the six little girls all commence brushing her. I am pretty sure she doesn't need brushing, but Malta understands all animals, even little girls.
4:30 arrives all too soon, and it is time for us to go. Malta walks with me out front.
"I hope we were some help," I say, "You were awfully nice showing them all the animals. This was wonderful."
"They are good kids," she concedes, "Not like some of the hellions we get out here. They
are just like anything; you just have to figure out what they need."
"This is a wonderful place," I observe, "Every child needs to be connected with nature. We have lost that. We have lost our connection in the animal world."
Malta is quiet. I think we have worn her out.
We all pile back in our vans, and drive off in the waning autumn day. The sun sparkles briefly on the few remaining golden leaves and then drops behind the mountain. We drive over the bridge across Lake Wylie just as the last magenta and orange rays are splashing across the tranquil water.
"I wish we could've stayed longer," breathes Lucy, one of the girls in my car.
Night descends and as the girls play another wild, raucous alphabet game, I drive quietly, nestled deep in my thoughts.
Right before we left Last Chance Rescue, I told Malta that this was an incredible educational opportunity.
"You know," I said earnestly, “You could charge admission to do a field trip just like you are giving us. Homeschool groups would pay for this."
"We are thinking along those lines," she said, "But I wouldn't know how to start."
"I can help you there," I suggested.
The next day, I send a thank you note to Malta, with a reminder that I am ready and willing to send an ad to the homeschool newsletters. She quickly responds.
Thank you for sending the photos....... please tell the girls that it was nice to have them here and thank them again for the biscuits and treats for the animals. They did an awesome job too! Very polite and well mannered children. We are working on a regular farm day tour scheduled monthly event. (Minus the poop pick up for paying people) Same as what you experienced.
I hope the kids got something out of it..... I have to wonder how many will go home and harass their parents over cooking a turkey for thanksgiving! LOL!
I'm Listening With a Broken Ear Page 16