There’s also some vacant land not far from my property, where a narrow path leads back to the old railroad bed trail and the acres of forest on the other side of that. If the ponies followed that path, they could easily be miles away in a short time.
I decided the best thing would be to coax them to come through my gate and then shut them in while I tried to find out where they belonged. They’d be safe on my property until I could find their owner.
The ponies seemed wary of my car, so I parked it out on the road. I returned to the house, got a bag of carrots, and walked back down the driveway. The ponies were grazing on the grass between my fence and the road. Leaving the gate open, I stood inside it, held up the carrots, and called to them. To my relief, they both ambled over to me. I tossed the carrots a few feet down the driveway, and, as they hurried toward the treats, I closed the gate.
I got in the car and drove about a mile to a house where I remembered seeing small horses, or perhaps they’d been ponies, in an open corral. Nobody was home. I noticed that the gate of the corral was standing open and there wasn’t any animal inside it or nearby. I wrote down the address, went home, looked at the county records online to find the owner of that property, and got a phone number.
The homeowner recognized his ponies from my description, but he was at work and said it would take over an hour for him to get home. Meanwhile, the ponies had made their way around my house and were chomping on the grass in my backyard. I watched one pony take a drink from the birdbath.
When I was ten, my parents had friends whose daughter had a pony named Merrylegs. When we visited them, I sometimes got to ride it. I adored Merrylegs and dreamed of having a pony of my own. For a few brief hours, my dream had come true, and I was sorry when the grateful owner showed up to claim his animals.
The next short-term visitor was an elderly dachshund that I picked up when I was on my way to get a flu shot. The flu vaccine was scarce that year. Because I have a compromised immune system, as well as a history of getting the flu, I always get a flu shot. That year I had been unable to get one because none of the usual providers, including my doctor, received their supply of vaccine.
The day of the dachshund, Anne had called. “The University of Washington Health Clinic has flu vaccine,” she told me. “They’re giving the shots to anyone in the high-risk category, but you have to be over there before three o’clock. If you come to my house, I can drive you over and drop you off so you don’t have to park and walk.”
“I’ll leave right now,” I said, and I did.
I was barely out of my driveway, when I saw a miniature dachshund walking slowly along the side of the road, as if it were in pain. Because the dog’s muzzle was gray, I knew it was an elderly animal. From the way she moved, I wondered if she’d been hit by a car. She wore no collar.
I pulled over and called the dog, but she ignored me. I suspected she was deaf. I went to her, let her sniff my fingers, and gingerly picked her up. I feared I would hurt her even more by handling her, but I couldn’t leave her plodding along the road. She didn’t struggle, and I put her in the car and drove off.
My plan was to stop at my vet’s office, explain why I couldn’t stay with the dog, ask them to examine her and keep her until I returned, probably about five o’clock. I was sure they’d be glad to do this, and it was only about a mile out of my way to go there. Maybe the dog was microchipped, and the vet could call the owner.
I pulled up in front of the clinic. It was dark inside. I tried the door. It was locked. There wasn’t any sign saying “back in ten minutes” or some such. I could not imagine why the clinic was closed in the middle of a weekday. Nonetheless, nobody was there.
I couldn’t take an elderly, possibly injured dog to Seattle with me to the University Health Clinic, so I called Anne.
“I’m bringing a rescued dog with me,” I said.
“Why am I not surprised?” she replied.
I told her what had happened, and asked her to call her own vet and see if we could drop the dog there while we went to Seattle, and then come back for her. If not, we’d have to shut the dachshund in a room at Anne’s house, which I knew would upset her dog, Otter.
Anne’s vet agreed to my plan, so we dropped the dachshund off and drove to Seattle. I made it to the clinic with five minutes to spare, and got my flu shot. Then we returned to Anne’s vet, who said there wasn’t anything wrong with the dachshund except old age. She had no injuries; she just had arthritis.
I took the dog home with me but instead of leaving her in the workshop, I put her in the bathroom that adjoins my bedroom. Because of the cabin’s radiant heat, the floors are always warm, and I felt the elderly dog would be more comfortable with the heated floor to soothe her arthritic joints.
I gave her a soft blanket and, unlike Willie, she made a nest and settled on top of it. I gave her some of Lucy’s food and a bowl of water.
Then I started making phone calls to all the people who lived in my area. Some were home, but they didn’t know of anyone who had a dachshund. Some calls resulted in voice mail, and I left messages describing the dog and giving my phone number.
Before I went to bed that night, I put one of Lucy’s leashes on the dachshund and took her outside. I left Lucy in, because I didn’t want an excited Lucy to bother the elderly dog. Watching me out there with another dog, Lucy scratched at the glass door and howled. When the dachshund paid no attention, I knew she was deaf.
Lucy also had a hard time settling down to go to sleep that night because she knew the dachshund was in the bathroom. Molly, as usual, was furious that I had brought yet another animal home. She sat outside the bathroom, perfecting her scowl. The dachshund didn’t help matters any by snuffling and making noises all night long. I didn’t get much sleep.
About ten o’clock the next morning, my phone rang. It was Heidi, a woman who lives near the pony owner. I didn’t see her often, but I always enjoyed talking to her.
“You have Hannah!” she said.
“The dachshund?” I said.
“Yes, she’s mine. I’ve had her since I was in high school.”
“I never saw her when I was at your house,” I said.
“I always shut her in the bedroom when anyone comes. She’s completely deaf and nearly blind. I worry that she’ll wander out when someone opens the door, and then get hit by a car in the driveway. I have no idea how she got loose yesterday. She sleeps most of the time now, so I didn’t miss her when I got home. I had to work late last night and didn’t see your message until this morning.”
“She doesn’t have any ID on,” I said.
Heidi groaned. “She’s always worn a collar and a tag. Always! I took it off the night before last when I gave her a bath. Then I washed the collar, too, and it wasn’t dry yet when I left for work yesterday.”
“So Hannah chose her one day without a collar to go exploring,” I said. We both laughed.
Heidi came to retrieve old Hannah, and stayed to visit awhile. We discovered a mutual love of animals that has become a strong friendship in the years since. She eventually took animal rescue and veterinary technician training, and is a team leader with the Washington State Animal Rescue Team, which aids animals during disasters such as floods. In Ghost Dog Secrets, I named the animal control officer Heidi in her honor.
I called my vet’s office because I was concerned about why the clinic had been closed. I learned they’d canceled all afternoon appointments that day in order to attend the funeral of the mother of one of the staff members. They’d put a message on their answering machine, but not on the door.
Not long after Hannah’s sleepover at my house, an acquaintance, Diane, who also does foster care for animals, called one morning, nearly in tears. “One of my neighbors found two tiny kittens in their shrubs,” she said. “There’s been no sign of the mother cat, and the two kittens are only about three weeks old. They need to be bottle-fed.”
I knew she had fostered very young kittens in the past, so I said,
“Are you taking care of them?”
“I can’t!” she wailed. “I’ve had little kittens for the past three weeks and have had to get up in the night with them every night. They left yesterday and Scott [her husband] says NO MORE. He’s sick of having his sleep interrupted every night. If I take another batch of kittens so soon, I’m afraid he’ll move out.”
I realized where this conversation was going.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” she said, “but I don’t know who else to call.”
“I’ve never taken care of kittens that young,” I said.
“I’ll show you what to do,” she said. “I can bring the bottles and the kitten formula. Please, please take them. Scott will have a fit if they’re still here when he gets home.”
What could I do? She was there an hour later. Because they each fit easily in the palm of my hand, I called them Teeny and Tiny.
Instead of putting them in the cat room, I put them in my front bathroom. There was enough space for a litter box, a small scratching post, and a cat bed. The floor would keep them warm and, best of all, the bathroom had no hiding places for kittens.
Me holding Teeny and Tiny
Diane showed me how to mix the formula and told me how much to give them. They nursed happily on the bottles and seemed to like being held. They needed to be fed every three hours, around the clock, but lack of sleep wasn’t my big problem. The real difficulty, as always, was how to find someone who wanted to adopt them.
I called all my friends, in case someone had miraculously decided they wanted to adopt a cat since the last time I talked to them. No such luck.
My granddaughter Brett came to visit and took over the kitten feeding for a day. She wanted to keep them, of course, but her dad is allergic to cats and she would be graduating from high school soon and going away to college.
Teeny and Tiny grew quickly and were able to go a longer time in between feedings. Soon they started sleeping through the night, and I began giving them solid food.
I had told Heidi, Hannah the dachshund’s person, about the kittens. She called me shortly after the kittens were weaned.
“I think I have a home for the kittens,” she said.
“Kittens, plural?” I said. “Someone wants both of them?”
“Yep. A guy I work with has been wanting a cat, and he says he’ll take them both so they can keep each other company. I’ve known him for years; he’ll give them a good home.”
“You can quit sulking,” I told Molly. “They’re leaving tonight.”
There was a satisfying justice in the way this had worked out. I had helped Heidi when her dog was lost, and now she helped me when I had kittens who needed a home.
Teeny and Tiny were only with me a little over two weeks and they had already found a home where they could stay together forever. I wish all cats who need homes would be adopted so quickly.
The Poacher
One night I was awakened by Lucy growling. I got up to investigate and, as I walked from my bedroom to the living room, I heard a loud thunk! on my back porch. I switched on the outside lights and found myself inches away from a large black bear! He stood on the other side of the glass door, apparently as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
The thunk I’d heard was my large cedar bin, where I keep sunflower seeds for the bird feeder, falling over. He had been trying to open it, to get at the seeds. I pounded on the glass, but the bear didn’t budge. I grabbed a big brass school bell—the Iowa Children’s Choice Award, which is engraved with my name, Nightmare Mountain, and 2003—and rang it.
The bear is standing at the entrance
to my nature trail.
Clang! Clang! That set Lucy into a frenzy of barking, and the bear lumbered off the porch. I cracked open the door far enough to put my hand out and rang the bell some more. The bear hurried around the side of the house.
I looked out the front window and saw him eyeing the bird feeder there. Since he was in front, it seemed safe to go on the back porch, so I dragged the cedar bin into the living room. Then I looked out in front again. He was still there, pawing at the bird feeder. I stuck my hand out the front door and swung the bell back and forth several times. Off he went.
I continued to see the bear in my yard for the next two days and was able to take some pictures of him using the zoom feature on my camera.
I looked around carefully before I went outside.
I took down the bird feeders, kept Lucy on a leash, and only fed Mr. Stray when I saw him on the porch waiting for food because I was afraid cat food would attract the bear, just as the birdseed had.
Some of my friends urged me to contact the wildlife department and report the bear. “They’ll come and trap him,” I was told. “They can shoot him with a tranquilizer dart, and then relocate him.”
I didn’t want to do that. Unless the bear became aggressive and caused trouble, I didn’t see any reason to take him away from his usual habitat. I didn’t want him on my porch, or hanging around the house, but he was welcome to live in the woods.
After the third day, I didn’t see the bear again. He was apparently only passing through. I replaced the bird feeders and put the bin of seed back on my porch.
Three years later, I looked out my office window late one afternoon and saw a black bear in my yard. By the time I had grabbed the school bell and hurried into the living room, he was already on my porch, trying to get the cedar bin open. Was it the same bear, and he remembered the bin? Or did both bears simply smell the seeds and try to reach them? Bears have a much better sense of smell than humans do. They also tend to return to places where they’ve successfully found food in the past.
Black bears are solitary animals who roam large territories—as much as eighty square miles. I wondered if the birdseed bin on my porch was going to be a regular stop on the bear’s route. If so, I’d have to find someplace else to store the sunflower seeds.
Without opening the door, I rang the brass bell, which made Lucy bark. The noise worked, and the bear hurried off, headed into the woods toward the public trail that adjoins my property on the back side.
Ten minutes later my phone rang. A man who lives about a mile away, whom I had met at neighborhood meetings, told me, “I just shot a bear on the trail. I wounded it, and it climbed over your fence into your property.” He was calling to ask permission to come on my land to hunt for it.
My property is a wildlife sanctuary. It is posted NO HUNTING. Under ordinary circumstances, I would never give anyone permission to hunt here. That day, my big concern was for the bear. If he was wounded, as this man said, I didn’t want him to suffer and die a lingering death in my woods.
I also worried that a wounded bear could be dangerous. I was flying to Indiana the next morning to receive the Young Hoosier Book Award, and I didn’t want my pet sitter, Karrie, to have to deal with a wounded bear. So I reluctantly said yes, and the hunter began his search.
I hung up the phone and agonized over my decision. I hadn’t wanted the bear on my porch, but I didn’t want him dead, either, and I especially hated the idea of having him stalked and killed on my property, where I’d always said all animals are welcome. If I had known then what I learned later, I would not have given permission, but I did what I thought was best at the time.
Only twenty minutes later, it got dark, and the hunter came to tell me the hunt was called off for the night. He said he’d be back first thing in the morning. I felt sick to my stomach all night long. Allowing someone to hunt here went against my basic beliefs, yet I worried about the bear’s suffering, and about Karrie and Lucy and Mr. Stray. A black bear’s diet is mainly grasses, roots, insects, and berries, but I knew they would also eat fish and mammals, if that’s what was available. Would a wounded bear attack a cat or a small dog?
I had to leave for the airport at seven fifteen the next morning. The hunter’s car was parked on my driveway, and I knew he was already there, searching for the bear in my woods. I nearly canceled my trip but I didn?
??t want to disappoint the Indiana librarians, and I knew my presence at home was not going to affect the outcome of the bear hunt, so I drove to the airport in a state of anxiety.
I had taken the hunter’s name and cell phone number the night before, and I called him before I boarded my plane. By then he had spent three hours combing every inch of my land. He said he’d brought his dog, who repeatedly picked up the scent and always followed it to the same place in my fence. The bear had apparently been able to climb back over the fence and escape into the woods in the valley below my property. When I heard that, I realized I had been wrong to allow the hunter to pursue the bear on my land. Clearly the bear was able to get around. His wounds might heal. He might still be okay.
As soon as I got home from Indiana, I began studying bears. One of the most interesting things I learned was that animals who are wounded by hunters will often heal on their own if they are left to do so. That knowledge gave me hope that my bear had not only escaped, but survived. However, it also filled me with guilt and horror that I had given permission for someone to come on my land and try to kill the bear. What if the hunter had seen it that first night? What if his dog had treed it the next morning? The bear would have been dead, and I would have been responsible. Black bears in the wild have an average life span of twenty years. I had no idea how old this bear was, but he had no obvious health problems. Perhaps he had many more years to live.
I also learned about hunting regulations and discovered that besides being illegal to hunt anything on the public trail, where this bear had been shot, there is no bear season at all where I live. So the hunter was a poacher, who hunted illegally and shot a protected animal.
Bears are the most intelligent native animals in North America. They are rarely aggressive toward humans, the one exception being a mother bear protecting her cubs. I knew this bear had not attacked the hunter. It had run away from me the minute I made noise, and the hunter admitted that he shot the bear as soon as he saw it, without waiting to see what the bear would do.