Charley Wilson

Just read over my last post. Gawd, I sounded like Whiny McWhinerson. What I neglected to mention is that I'm one of the luckiest people I know. Yeah, sometimes I feel like a Sysiphus beetle; you know - pushing a big load of poo uphill for all eternity. Wait - I'm mixing metaphors again. Whatever. Point is, I've known my dad all my life, right? But I've been given the chance to know him as an adult, with an adult's experience. We don't realize that our parents were people long before they became parents. We often don't listen to their stories because, well, ours are somehow more important. Thank the Powers that I've come full circle.

There are many things my father has never talked about: Korea, Viet Nam, getting shot twice, having his best friend die in his arms, his first marriage and so many other events that comprise his particular life. Now that I'm here, and he's older, the stories come out bit by bit. And I am so grateful, for I am learning so very much.

Dad was born in La Junta, Colorado in 1927. His family moved to Victor in the '40's so his father could work in the gold mines. During that time, Cripple Creek and Victor were hanging on to the last of the industry. The old mines, Molly Kathleen, Homestake and a few others were almost mined out, but still offered some employment for the hardiest and most desperate men that knew little else. These men were tough. They were honorable. They had values which never needed to be named simply because these men expected the same from others, without question and without a doubt. One of these men was Charley Wilson.

Charley lived two houses down from Pa and his family. Remember, this was back in the day when walking to school for two miles each way (uphill, yet) was the norm. The men who worked the mines for 14 hours a day for a pittance often supplemented the pantry with hunting and fishing. The mining community stuck together when times got really rought, like during any given winter, sharing what they had. Or what they could shoot.

Over dinner, which I resentfully threw together after working my eight hours in a warm, comfortable office, answering phones and dealing with other peoples' problems, Pa told me Charley cuffed him on the ear once cuz Pa shot a squirrel through the guts instead of in the head. Turns out Charley taught dad to hunt and shoot, fish and ride because grampa already had heart disease at 42 and was just plain wore out from diggin' the gold. According to Pa, there weren't many game wardens around in those days, and the ones that were tended to turn a blind eye to a little out-of-season target practice. They knew how it was. Well, one day a warden new to Teller County befriended Charley and somehow persuaded him to go hunting. Charley downed a good-sized buck, and being "gov-mint" and all, the new warden had all the latest gadgets - a camera in this case. He took a trophy picture of old Charley and his buck. Boy! Wasn't that a hoot. Couple of days later, coming back from the Springs, Charley was stopped by a Statie who asked him if Charley'd been poaching. Charley says no, of course - his mama didn't raise no idjits.
The cop pulls out the trophy picture. Charley chuckles and says, "Damn. I'm a good-lookin' son of a bisquiteater, ain't I?" And so Charley lands in the hoosegow.

Soon as the Teller County sheriff heard about it, he had a little heart-to-heart with the judge on Charley's case. The sheriff allowed as how Charley should go to jail for his heinous crime, but he should oughta do it in Cripple Creek, seein's how that's the jurisdiction where the dirty deed was done. The judge agreed, and off Charley went with the sheriff. Charley was incarcerated for nine months...every morning he pushed open his jail door and went to work. Every evening, Charley closed it behind him. Every weekend, he'd get my dad to help him haul Satuday's groceries home, and if the groceries sometimes had antlers, well, it was food, wand't it? Occasionally, some needy folks would find a bag of fresh meat on their doorstep, too. And every single Sunday morning Charley would wake up in his cell, shave and take his family to church. Sat in the pew behind the sheriff and his wife. After giving the pastor a good day, Charley headed on back to his cell. And so it went.

Nobody ever figured out what happened to the gov'mint warden, although they found his gov'mint-issue truck parked in the Cripple Creek assayer's lot, locked and spankin' clean, with a gov'mint-issue camera smashed to bits in the passenger seat. Most everybody was quick to point out that the warden just wasn't cut out for such a demanding job and prob'ly went on back to wherever he come from.

So that's what my Pa told me.

Think on't. G'nite, ya'll.
Mu

It's...it's...it's AALLIIIVVVE!

Hey-hey, fiends and neighboos. I'm baaaahaack after all this time, wishing you a happy Halloweekend. Plus the hollowdays are just beginning, and as you all know, it's my favorite time to let loose some demons and create-ures that can't be discussed in polite company. Mainly 'cuz nobody really cares about my rants or if they do, would urge me to resume my medication.

One of the definitions assigned to the letter "mu" is change. Let me tell ya - Mu has seen some changes this past year. Ironic. I've tended to actively resist being dragged out of my comfort zone but life keeps throwing me these curve-balls, tho this one has been more of a boomerang. Let me explain...

I put my house up for sale in February. Frantically made long delayed repairs. Closed April 1. Turns out THAT was appropriate. Put stuff in storage. Moved in with Papa. I left my parental homestead in 1977, thinking I'd never be back. Well, BBOOOIINNGG! Pops developed back problems as well as DVT's (as opposed to DT's), or bloodclots, in his legs shortly before I moved back in. Here Ma's in the ole Alzheimers' home and he was all by himself. While I saw him nearly every day, I didn't realize that he needed much more help than I'd provided. Okay, so whatever passes for fate made sure I'd get a chance to pay back some bad karma. Fine. Stupid "fate". Stupid "karma". Whatever. BBOOIINNGG!! I am now a fifty-something child/mother caretaker whacked in the brain by a hypothetical boomerang, which by the way, sucks up all creativity on its goddam way out. Can't wait for the return trip...

Anyhoo. Pop's house was built in 1902 and last saw a broom when the builders threw it into their horse-drawn carriage and rode off. Honestly, Ma was never much of a housekeeper. Pa did his best, but the damn thing was just too overwhelming. Since I've been here, we've upgraded the wiring so there's more than one outlet in each room, put in a new furnace, had the ancient ducts cleaned for the first time ever (found many dead bodies - of the four-legged kind, fortunately), updated windows and coverings. Shoulda seen Pa's face when I mentioned blinds and valances. He thought I was going to board up the windows and put scales by the door. The backyard still needs some serious TLC - the only things growing there are two catch-all sheds and a couple of rotting lawn chairs. Summer this year was really, really hot for Colorado and windy. Much of the "soil" that hadn't seen movement since the dust-bowl era now resides comfortably in every nook and cranny inside this old place. Still so much to to. Funny - I sold MY house because I was tired of the cleaning and general up-keep. HAAHHRR! BBOOIINNGG!

Then there was the health scare my baby (22) boy went through. Docs first told him he had a brain tumor. Two months later, after prescription addiction, a 40-pound weight loss, panic attacks, and god-knows whatall, the doctors decided he did indeed, have a brain. Sans tumor. Did you know that relief can be as emotionally painful as worry? Son, I love you dearly, but please stop trying to use up all your nine lives before you're thirty, willya? I only have about half-a-life left myself.

The Zookeeper is incubating another addition to the menagerie. I am so sorry I haven't seen the family all year - another layer of icing on the karma-cake.

But I'm baaaahaack like a boomerang and shall do my best to post a REAL rant soon. This is my weekend for candy-eating, bad horror movie-watching, and reconnecting with my fan(s). As they say - TTYS,

Mu

Flashlights and Bathroom Doors and the Christmas Spirit

This week's been rough. I'm in the process of selling my home of 18 years (you wouldn't believe the crap that entails in this economy), am having issues with my own credit score, thanks to my idiotic attempts to help my 22-year-old son, and right now, work's a real bitch. I deal with the public - bad enough - but in my case the "public" consists mainly of old, sick and/or nervous people who don't want to be in a surgeon's office to begin with. I'm not only required to have them fill out a ream of paperwork, but also to collect deductibles, co-payments and co-insurance. Amazing how many people have no clue what their insurance covers, how much they're required to pay and so on, especially at the beginning of the year, when their policies roll over. Seems like they think just because they have insurance, our services should be free. Point is, I've had clipboards, paperwork, pens, and even cash thrown at me. And through all this, I must keep a smile on my face, speak softly, maintain a professional demeanor at all times while there are four other patients waiting (usually late for their appointments, in which case I also have either a technician or a nurse looking over my shoulder and tapping their feet, as if that would speed the process up), three phone lines ringing (in that case, the schedulers are giving me dirty looks, because I don't pick up on the first ring) and if that's not enough, inevitably a doctor (for whom I WILL drop everything) will ask me to get Dr. So and So on the line for them. STAT. Sigh. I love my job. Really. And I'm damn good at it. But sometimes, sometimes, it just pisses me off that I can't defend myself when some self-righteous hypochondriac berates me because I didn't greet him with "good morning, Mr. Asswipe" instead of saying "hi, Mr. Whatcrawledupyourassandgotstucksideways, your co-pay today is $12." Excuse the hell outta me for trying to get business done.

Okay. Sorry. I kinda lost my happy place for a minute. Anyway, that was about all I could take, so as soon as I could, I left the office to compose myself. And the bathroom door opened before I even got there. Only time this week. Nobody there but yours truly. I went in, dried my eyes and concentrated on making the door open again. Stood right in front of the handicapped plate and thought at it as hard as I could. Nothing. So here's my theory...

We generate all this energy that is normally just free-floating electricity, but in certain situations, this energy becomes focused and becomes concentrated. Well, it has to go somewhere. I think there are a few people that can harness that energy consciously. Anyone who's heard about Indian yogis knows what I'm talking about. I also think that many of us use this energy subconsciously. We all know people who have "presence" or "charisma". Could it be they shine more brightly than others? We're certainly aware of attraction or revulsion to particular individuals at first sight. I can't believe it's simply due to physical aspect. How about meeting someone the first time and feeling you've known them forever? Need more to blow your mind?

The popular belief is that we use about 10 percent of our brain. The advent of fMRI proved that one completely wrong. We do use 100 percent, but we're not smart enough to know how. To wit: in oncology it's now a reluctantly accepted fact that cancer patients can speed remission using self-hypnosis and positive imagery to fight their disease. Studies have been done proving the effectiveness of prayer to achieve the same result. In the Bible it states, "that wherever two or more of you are gathered, I will be there." Is it actually that when we focus out energy, even unknowingly and calling it by other names, we combine and become more than ourselves?

And at what other time than Christmas are more people focused on one special idea? All over the planet, whether religious or not, billions of individuals concentrate on prayer, presents, family, life...spirit. Imagine billions of 10volt flashlights shining on one particular spot in the sky. I'm pretty sure we'd see that light all over the globe. Hell, it would shine to the end of the universe. So even if we're not aware of the energy we produce, if produced at the same time, perhaps we feel it. Animals, particularly domesticated ones like dogs and horses which are more attuned to human behavior than their wild cousins, would be susceptible. The possibilities are awesome and frightening in their impications.

Does your head hurt? Mine does. For whatever reason, it seems incredibly hard for us to comtemplate the power of our own minds. At least until evolution makes a giant leap once more.

Shine on, my friends.
Mu

The Flashlight Theory - Christmas cont.

I...I...I'm ALIIIIVE! Seriously, people, it's been way too long since I posted. Seems reality has a way of interfering with imagination. I have some things under control though, and find I miss putting thoughts on paper - or LCD. Whatever.
Let me tell you a true and truly strange story before we proceed to the last part of my Christmas spirit narrative. The building in which I've worked for the past three years is part of a hospital campus and contains mainly medical offices. Therefore, all the doors have those push-activated entry plates. That includes the restrooms, of course. Several times during the last three or four months, the restroom doors have opened for me - without pushing the plates. No, they are NOT motion activated. I tested that after the MEN's door opened as I passed by, and no, no one came out. I went so far as to go in (I wear scrubs; I figured if there were any men in there I would say I got a page that there was an emergency), and there was NO ONE THERE. Same with the Ladies' room. The door has opened as I was about to reach for the handle going out or in, and even as I passed close to get a drink at the water fountain. At no time was anyone behind me, beside me or in front of me. In fact, it's never happened when there was another person in the corridor. I asked my co-workers if they'd ever experienced the same thing and they all looked at me like I was crazy (well, I am, but not in that way). Yesterday I was particularly upset about many issues as I left the office for lunch. My mind was a mess, my heart hurt, my stomach slewed and guess what? Yup. The Ladies' door opened though I had no intention of going in. I. Just. Walked. By. And then stopped midstride when I realized this phenomenon only happened whenever I was stressed or extremely focused on something.
Now. I don't believe in ghosts, UFO's, Big Foot (though my ex-husband could potentially give credence to its existence), or anything not explainable outside the ability of our own mind. Consider: enzymes in the brain cause flashes of information to pass from neuron to neuron. These flashes are basically a collection of atoms released from cells. Each time an atom fires, it loses energy. Multiply that energy by a few trillion, and you have a brain that generates 10-12 volts of electricity daily for a lifetime. While my science is incredibly simplified, it is verifiable. Ever hear of an EEG? An electroencephalogram can only measure brainwaves, but experiments have proven that, were it in a form we could harness and store, the electricity produced by a human brain would power a flashlight 24/7. Unfortunately, we haven't yet figured out just exactly how we can power our household appliances by thinking about it. But isn't it profound that all that energy is just floating around, unnoticed, undirected and mostly ignored? Since one of Newton's laws states that energy must be conserved, where does the energy go? Can we make it go somewhere? Can we tap into the reservoir of energy that surrounds every living being? Is energy the "soul"? Can we combine our energy? Mind-boggling, isn't it?
I'm going to make a lot of trips to the bathroom during the next weeks...

Monster - part IV

Lamia burns.

The Sun finds her on desert, hot and drear.
Dry, depleted, drained.

Hera, help me! Her desperate screams ring out
in profound despair.

She falls on fiery sand, fine skin aflame.
O Hera, end this agony, I ask!

Zeus' Queen in pity pauses at her tasks,
regarding Lamia's plea.

A sister's suffering touches her, and Hera's mercy
lifts the girl.

Lamia, I must not usurp my husband Zeus,
but I can ease his unjust sentence.

This I promise.

But when the swirling winds begin to blow
the driving rain

Briefly, the ground will have you again. Lamia -
will you go?

Dejected, Lamia nods assent, resigned, accepting fate.
Let me go to the tempestuous skies.

So Hera entices the eastering gales to play,
and she teases the lightning down.

And Lamia places a trembling, thankful kiss softly
on Hera's brow.

Lamia, betrayed by god, by love, by man,
utters no word.

Magical mist does Lamia climb, heartsick and dolor,
taking her grief to the restive Empyrean shore.

But legend would have it said of her,
she flies by storm and Moonlight yet.

Tales the sheperds weave like wool say Lamia
is a witch.

Sailors on the seven unsettled seas, say Lamia
still steals souls.

Wives, in worried vigilance, stand valiant watchful guard
over husbands' dreams until the welcomed dawn.

And new mothers press their precious children close
so the demon will pass their hearth.

When the thunder crashes, and the deluge falls -
firmament to earth,

Then once more She walks in gossamer gloom,
disturbing, disquieting man.

Blood is life.

Thus Lamia lives. Forever, in the Crystalline Sphere.

Monster - part III

Lamia hungers

By the glow of the gibbous Moon she drifts,
resting by day.

A thousand nights, a thousand summonses she rides,
a pall of blood upon the land.

Her evil embraces compliantly answered a thousand men,
to their incomprehesnible pleasure and indescribable pain.

Tenderly, sweetly she took the proffered seed,
offering hideous death.

Until in Alexandria one portentous and pregnant Night,
she encounters a troubled and troubling soul.

One reached for her awake, aware and bold.
His spirit was clean and yet unbound.

And he strangely perplexed the sinuous dancing snake.
The Poet, Melios.

She slides through the entrance silent and sure
to know him.

Who are You?

Man, know you not how you imperil thyself>
Thy immortal soul?

Melios extends his hands, inviting the serpent in.
"Lamia, come here."

So intrigued was she by the Poet-man
she cast her mortal form about her.

Poet, how come you to have no fear
of the Creature that haunts the night?

"I am not frighted by the fishwives' talk.
It only enthralls.

"You vex me, and you plague my odes,
Goddess, phantom, wraith.

"Bide with me during the brunt of day.
Let my shutters block out the light.

"When the Sun quits Geos for other shores,
then we will scale the Olympian heights.

"Stay with me, Lamia. I would have you
for my own.

"All that I require, all that I need
is in you.

"Though we anger the gods with our love
we would find peace and succor therein."

He said, "I waited many lifetimes for you
and would scribe your story in verse.

"Only: curb your unholy insatiable thirst for letting
of the blood.

"Whilst you bare your lonely thoughts to one
who worships you."

Seduces Poet Melios.

Lamia, lost in his spell, considered the man.
Melios, I will.

So the lovers entwined by the elegant Moon,
together making one.

Sly Poet Melios, who hid his wife by day
and woke her with kisses by night.

For two years she gladly forswore the blood,
and she found herself heavy with child.

With her time anear, she gave tortuous birth
alone one eve.

A boychild made his way into the world,
lifeless, soulless, still.

Anguished, the aching mother breathed for her child;
amid the gore of labor she slaved.

Covered with bodily fluids she frantically, quickly worked
the fruit of her womb to save.

Fevered, she attempted to make her son live.
To no avail.

Beseeching the Powers That Be she imploringly prayed,
let him cry!

O Hygea, please

But the Powers were willfully deaf that night.
Lamia woefully weeped.

Sadly she wrapped the stillborn child and slowly
made to rise.

Melios entered the bloody tableau, bewildered beyond belief.
"Lamia, why did you kill my son!"

Oh Melios, what do you say? Judge not,
I entreat you!

Melios, dare you accuse? Our babe was born
dead, my love.

But Melios, dreadully horrified, retreated on fearstricken feet.
He gathered the townsmen to his side.

Lamia buried her love along with her child,
then she escaped for the Elysian Fields.

Close by, Lamia sensed the pursuing, baying hounds;
knives, sharpened blades.

Melios, Poet, at the head of the tribe
showed the way.

I loved thee

Thus fled Lamia. Weary and weak and worn.

Monster - part II

Lamia speaks:

The Moon is nearly full, Her cool radiance
illuminates my world.

She whispers to the Beast that rules me
since my Awakening.

I hear blood music humming in your veins
and touch your soul, unfettered in sleep.

I ebb and flow with the ocean tide,
hither and yon on dreary, endless waves.

I lift my empty arms in silent supplication:
Selene! Hear me!

I yearn to lose this mortal sheath, restraining
the Creature within.

Moongloss, bathe my burning eyes; fresh wind, settle
on my skin, coalesce in silvered scales.

Near, then back and nearer yet, drawn precisely
to the one that is for me.

The night is warm. You have no wrap
to shield you.

The gentle sussuration of your breath briefly ceases
as I stop to minister honor, respect.

He blossoms happiness and fills with your essence,
my brother serpent.

Undulating, gliding upward, I pause to savor life
against my belly.

Still you dream.

My desire is great. I coil, I rear -
I strike swiftly.

Your eyes unlock and search for me in
the final darkness.

I revel in your strength while I follow
your spirit into the senselsss, soothing void.

Selene surrenders to the Sun even as one
has surrendered unto me, the Goddess Snake.

My dark hair spreads over the hallowed one
which served me.

I rise and wash the clotting blood from
my swollen breasts.

I am sated.

Thus speaks Lamia. And wonders at the emptiness.

Monster - part I

Zeus summons.

Far in the hills she wanders, proud, possessed,
following the call.

Temptation of a godly lust lures Lamia
to Elysian Fields.

In greening glade, he regards his prize. Lamia -
dusk-head mortal, splendid to his sight.

Zeus, as Eros guides his mighty swelling sword,
is sorely cruel and swift and strong.

Under midday Sun, Zeus takes her basely, deeply
in godly fashion.

In terror the maid finds truth: god is...
mere a man.

Lamia lashes out her pain in body, soul
and mind. She draws his sacred blood.

Beaten, battered blind, she scores his perfect flesh.
Zeus incensed! This mortal dares to wound! Cursed, lovely Lamia.

For this, deems Zeus in terrible thunderous voice,
are you damned!

No man shall want your lethal love, save
when he sleeps.

You will go not in this beauteous form,
but as the lowest of the beasts.

And when your pleasing him is over, done,
then shall you drain his pounding blood.

You are eternally banished from brilliant hours - hated,
abhorred, and cold.

Rouse not a god with your ripened fruit
and then withhold!

So spake Zeus. And Lamia lay forlorn, forgotten
until the Sun prods her to shade.

At last Selene appears in the darkling sky
argentine-white, bestowing moonbeams on the Fields.

From the confines of her cave Lamia comes,
and she weeps.

Bitter salt sluices the veil from her eyes,
soothing her sorrow.

She thrusts her fisted hands toward expectant stars.
A clear, cool resolve escapes her throat:

Attend me then, O gods on yonder Mount!
What Zeus has wrought, so will be.

For my revenge, I swim the sensuous streams
as Goddess Snake.

He that evokes me with uncaring carnal fantasy
will find release. His final request.


Thus vows Lamia. And bows her weary head.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...- part 3

It's tomorrow again in Muland. I'm truly hoping this will be the last of my holiday series, but I can't be sure. See, we're getting to the original intent of my story and I'm having a really, really hard time writing this. I don't want you to think I'm getting all paranormal or religious on your collective butts. Neither do I want to come off as pathetically emotional, though in order to state my case, all the above elements must come into play.

For some time now, I've recognized little events that can only be described as too convenient to be simple coincidence. I think if they'd occured at any other time, I would have never have given them a second thought, but at the lowest point in my life I thought about my Christmas story for the first time in 30 years. While I won't go into details, I will tell you that it was Christmastime and remembering the ranch changed me more than any antidepressant, any counseling or any type of rehab could. Since then, I've been acutely aware of the world and its people around me. And since I've always wanted to explain the inexplicable, I began to formulate a theory of what we call the spirit. Believe me crazy, tell me I've got way too much time on my hands, but don't call the guys in the white coats just yet. Please, read. Think. Research. Question. Above all, keep your mind wide open. Your life might depend on it.

It may not have been Christmas Eve, but it was darn close to it. The dogs woke me one night. Not unusual in itself, but instead of whining and poking their cold, wet noses into my ear, the four of them stood by my bed, as if waiting for me to sense whatever it was that got them up. Kind of puzzled (I was way too old to believe in Santa), I put on cold-weather gear and boots because I never let the damn fools out by themselves in the middle of wildcat country. Mostly, our mutts would rather run than fight, and I for sure wasn't going to offer myself as a tasty distraction in order to save their hairy asses. Pa drilled it into me five ways to Sunday that I was not to go outside after dusk without at least a .38. He'd rather I took the 20-gauge, but hell, it was almost taller than I was, and I couldn't aim it as well anyway. Having been so conditioned, I promptly left unarmed except for a flashlight. Which, it turned out, I didn't need either. Now in the movies there'd have been a gorgeous full moon and snow to reflect its eerie platinum light, but all I had was the barest sliver of said orb and the ambient glow of the Milky Way, which was more than enough to see by. At the time, I gave it hardly a thought as I followed the dogs down to the horse corral. It did occur to me, however, that it was strange that they trotted almost single file along the trail, not weaving from side to side with noses to ground, gobbling up interesting scents along the way. Eight ears at attention, eight paws padding silently, four snouts up, they gave the impression of pups with a purpose. Neither did they stop to pee and poo which pissed me off royally since that was the whole idea behind this excursion. I was tired and cold and just wanted to get back to my bed. I started to call them to me, but the sound of my voice in the deep quiet creeped me out a litte. They didn't seem to hear me anyway. We were nearly at their intended destination when I finally woke all the way up.

The horses stood in the midst of the field, no snorting or stamping, no whinnying, all looking in the same direction. Only their tails made an occasional soft swishing. The dogs moved in between and under their legs with hardly a whisper where they, too, stood motionless, gazing at the fingernail moon. I was beyond creeped and all the way into freaked until I stopped and looked for what might have captured the animals in such a trance. I saw nothing but a midnight-blue sky dotted with thousands of crisp stars that hung suspended, like frozen snowflakes, overhead. In the heavy silence of the moment I almost turned to run back to the house, to comfort. I was half convinced I was far into a weird dream, for as in such a dream, I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot yet suddenly alive as never before. Wave upon wave of sensations passed through me: the smell of fresh manure, the heat from the animals, the feel of clean cold air, the stale taste of bed-time hot chocolate, the sight of every frost-covered pine needle on the nearby tree. And with it came a sense of anticipation. Of yearning. Of hope. Of kindness. It had nothing to do with the so-called birth of Christ. This was more along the line of a visceral racial memory.

I don't know how long we were out there, my animals and I. I didn't recall that event in the morning. For that matter, I forgot it for thirty more years. But every Christmas, in whatever part of the world I was in, I went out into the night without knowing why. And the older I got, the more I drank in of the majik we could all share if we only knew what to look for.

Golly. Guess we will have one more episode...if you want to know what I honestly think happened then and is still affecting me now.

Sweet dreams,
Mu

The Wolf at my door...and on my couch

"Chistmas": once more on hold. For the nonce, let us skip forward to when I was all grown up and married with a two-year-old daughter of my own. Pa n Ma acquired a wolf-dog; part Labrador and part wolf, whom I had the honor of naming "Loki" after the Greek god of mischief. At first I was leery about introducing Melis to Loki. Wild animal (A) + small child (B) = (C): dinner for A. But Pa assured me that all would be well. By this time, I realized that the older I got, the smarter my dad became, and I figured I could trust his wisdom regarding his only grandchild meeting the Big Bad Wolf Who Was Really A Big Lazy Lovable Lab That Wouldn't Even Chase His Own Tail For Fear He Would Catch It. But still...
I open the door. Melis runs in, straight for Loki, arms outstretched. Loki sees Melis. Loki yelps, runs to the bedroom and hides under the bed. I look at Pa, he looks at me, we burst out laughing so hard I think I peed a little. I snatch Melis onto my lap to get HER calmed down because she was ready to dive under the bed after the doggy. Slowly, carefully, the Big Bad Lab Who Would Be A Wolf pokes his head back into the kitchen kinda sheepish like and slinks over to sniff my daughter. Evidently finding her acceptable into his pack, he hesitantly nips her poofy jacket (okay, I wasn't totally convinced re: Pa's judgment and tried to put as many layers of clothes between skin and fang) and tugging gently, leads my precious baby off my lap and over to his toy box. She was then allowed to climb all over him, pulling ears or tail, poking her tiny fingers into his mouth in search of the wet, slippery tongue that bathed her face whenever it had the chance. Loki responded with an audible sigh that conveyed either contentment or patient resignation. Maybe both. A great friendship was born that day, as well as a great curiosity about all things Wolf. After much research, I decided that one day I would have one of these wonderful creatures for my own. After the kids were grown, of course.
So thirty years later, I am the proud (at times, exaspirated) guardian, companion and alpha bitch to a wolf-dog. Miakoda, whose name is Cherokee for "power of the moon", is considered F5 - about 75% wolf. Her sire was F1, 90% malamute. Her mother, 100% timber wolf. Loki, in comparison was probably F1, or 20% wolf. And yes, the correct term for the cross is wolf-dog, not hybrid, since the cross isn't between two different animals. Genetically, less than .2% seperates wolves from any breed of dog, even poodles (who look like they share more genetic material with sheep) or chihuahuas (who may have bred with rats at some point in evolution...). The facts the general public doesn't know about wolf-dogs could fill volumes, but the most important is that a person can never "own" one. Much like cats, they choose to be with someone. They are gentle, shy, wary of anyone not considered part of their pack and extremely hard to train. They are not aggressive by nature. Wolf-dogs have the median intelligence of a three-year-old child, they never forget anything and are stubborn beyond belief. You must earn their trust and respect; in turn, you will have theirs. Even then they'll prefer the company of other dogs to humans. I'm convinced they think people aren't good enough for them. Not so wrong, actually. They rarely bark, but howl often, sometimes because they're lonely, sometimes because they're happy and sometimes just for the sheer hell of it. But you can find out more online if you're interested. The personal stories, you'll have to look for in my blog. There will be a few.
Back soon, Muoooowwoo!