Nature has hiked up her olive skirts once or twice and given us a brief view of the ankle that is Winter but in our neck of the woods it is mostly still warm. Mr. Weatherman keeps promising cooler days and colder nights, but isn’t he the same whiz-kid who guaranteed a rash of deadly hurricanes this year? Florida hurricane count for 2013: A Big Zero. This, of course, will not stop media people from rushing up to his door next Spring, clamoring for more or these priceless inaccuracies. If weathermen were paid by the correct predictions they made, they would be sharing a dumpster with the rest of Life’s Miscalculators.
Football season is winding down, mercifully so for those hereabouts who have seen the local UF contingent decimated by injuries at all positions. The Gators are down to their third-string quarterback and if something happens to him they’ll probably have to go with the campus milk truck driver. As players get bigger and faster, more of them seem to get significant injuries, sending the people who train these behemoths back to the drawing board.
And on the home front, as you know, it’s Donkey Rehabilitation Month. Oh, you hadn’t heard about Bugs?
Bugs: Peachy Keen In 2013
Now, I’ve got to admit “Bugs” is not your average horse or donkey name. The only one of either that I know of is a seventies-era Quarter Horse. In filling out her registration application for a horse which had not been born yet, the owner sought to reserve the name “Bugs” by placing it in the appropriate box and including the message “alive in ‘75” in parentheses. When the papers came back, the registry had given the horse the name, “Bugs Alive In ‘75.” Bugs turned out to be very talented and ended up a famous horse, even moreso due to his distinguished moniker.
Our Bugs was named for his extra-long ears and significant overbite. Siobhan found him in a field when donkey-hunting with one of her employees, Lark Schweiss, who wanted a pasture adornment. Lark bought a nice healthy donkey and the seller threw in Bugs at Siobhan’s request because he was obviously dying. For some reason, Bugs had not nursed and now his mother’s milk had dried up and the hapless baby was starving to death. Siobhan put in an emergency call to local mule-keeper and trailer-owner, Jennie Hollis. Jennie is sort of the local Protector of the Small and Weak and can always be counted on in a pinch. Truth be told, Jennie is even somewhat of an Enforcer around here, prowling the side roads and back alleys of Marion County in search of animal mistreatment. Siobhan and Jennie found a pony down the street with an uncared for bloody leg recently. They called the county cruelty people and a vet was on the scene quickly, attending to the problem, the owners now nervously looking over their shoulders every time a strange car passed by. One day, Jennie’s new neighbor brought in a skinny mare, obviously with no intention of feeding her. Jennie walked up to his fence and signaled him:
“Hey! Weasel! Just letting you know I’ll be feeding this horse over the fence here from now on. You all right with that?”
“Um, well, yeah….I guess so.”
Jennie thought he might some day get a conscience and start feeding her himself or at least chipping in for the feed, but nope, no luck.
“For a minute there, I forgot he was a weasel,” Jennie says.
Anyway, Jennie got out there with her trailer and the crew loaded up the donkeys and took them to Lark’s place. But not for long. Lark lives on a nice horse farm recently purchased by her parents who live in Minnesota, parents she neglected to check in with before her donkey purchase. Her mother called and advised Lark that they “did not need any donkeys.” Well, who does, really? Lark responded that her sister, Autumn, had a boyfriend living there so she should at least get a donkey. That certainly seems reasonable to us. Lark’s mother told her “that’s different,” but she didn’t say how. Long story short, the donkeys were promptly moved over here and placed in a small field adjacent to the goats. Siobhan fed them generously, but Bugs didn’t seem to be responding. It was difficult to tell how much feed the larger donkey was getting and how much was going to the slow-eating Bugs. Siobhan decided to put Bugs in a stall, where he was guaranteed to get his full allotment, however long it took. She began experimenting with various feed possibilities, looking for something the little donkey would like. She finally came across a product devoted to baby animals called Unimilk. On his last legs now, Bugs was not interested in much of anything. If you held the bowl underneath his chin, however, he would take in a little bit of the stuff. Siobhan began going out there every two hours; when she was gone, I substituted. Slowly, the little critter started drinking the milk faster. After a few days, he glugged it down in 30 seconds. Siobhan devised a meal consisting of beet pulp, sweetfeed and fat, doused with warm water and made into a mash. Bugs decided that might be okay. A few days later, he was getting up when he heard us approaching. A couple mornings ago, he began braying when he thought breakfast on its way. We moved the older donkey out and brought in baby-sitter mule, Mary Margaret, but Bugs didn’t seem to need company. We let him out of his stall yesterday and he walked around the perimeter of the field, the first time he seemed to take an interest in anything. Sudden reversals are always possible, but it looks like Bugs just might make it. One of our friends told us the other day that donkeys were good at raccoon dispersal. Keep on truckin’, Bugs, there may be a future in store for you yet.
Bugs With His Posse, Jennie and Siobhan
Raccoon Update
When we last visited this little soap opera, Bill was slightly ahead in his long campaign to keep the masked marauders out of his feed shed, now having stored everything remotely edible inside large covered bins, infuriating his resourceful enemy. You can never get smug when dealing with raccoons, however. Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the feed shed (cue up the Jaws music), the Empire struck back. On her way to feeding Bugs one night, Siobhan went out to secure some grain for his meal. When she opened one of the bins, there was a raccoon actually inside, looking up at her. Another one scurried off in the distance. Is this what it’s come to now? Raccoons with PhDs who can open feed bin lids? What’s next—nuclear fission? We had one gambit left. The bins had little hasps on the front—you could either get some tiny locks or use snaps to secure the lids. If the raccoons could open them after this, well, we’d just have to sit down with them and work out a peace treaty….maybe give them their own wing of the feed room with a healthy daily allotment. Fortunately, however, the dam seemed to hold. Then we recruited Williston handyman Buster Barley (and no, we are not making this up) to come out and secure the building. Buster took all day but when he got through the place was a veritable fortress, a paradigm of a critter-free feeding facility. A few days have passed and we are still raccoon-free. We can feel them out there, though, burning the midnight oil, poring over their vast manuals of disruption, looking for the key to an eventual return. And we fear the day when their leader, Darth Procyin, slams his big book closed, rises up from his mighty throne and rasps to his minions, “It’s time to return! I have discovered the answer that gives us the power! Death to The Bill!”
With A “Baa-Baa” Here, A “Baa-Baa” There…
The woods on our new property having been cleared as much as was goatly possible, Siobhan decided the other day that it was time for our herd of caprines, now ten in number, to return to their native homeland. Goat-owner Pete the Fence Man was summoned and summarily arrived with his crew of three and the roundup began. Have you ever watched a trio of slow humans attempt to snare ten goats? Think 4H Greased Pig Contest. And even when they caught one and tossed it into the cage aback Pete’s rickety flatbed, a previously interned goat would sneak out through the briefly-opened cage door. The whole episode took on the color of spectacular failure when Pete, experienced in these matters as he was, came up with an idea. He decided to tie up the boss goat to the front of the cage, hoping all of his little acolytes would converge around their leader. This did not sit well at all with the boss goat, who made noises not unlike the eruption of Krakatoa. Eventually eight of the ten were corralled, including the four babies who squealed like they were being eviscerated. The other two made for the Klondike, not to be captured this day and the goat posse decided that temporarily, at least, eight was enough. The paddy wagon made its way down the driveway, loud with protest. The remaining duo, demanding to know what had happened, eventually came out of hiding and requested dinner, none the worse for wear. They are not exactly sure whether they cleverly avoided a major calamity or foolishly missed the bus back to Goatland. These are the facts of the historical happenings of the nineteenth of November in the Year of Our Lord 2013. What sort of day was it? A day like all days, filled with those events that alter and illuminate our times. And You Were There.
Heading For The Second-Last Roundup
A Day In The Life
Yesterday was another Medical Fun Day for Bill, with a treadmill stress test scheduled with primary care guy, Dr. James DeStephens in Gainesville at 11:15 and a mysterious “Blue Light Test” booked at 10:00 at Shands Dermatology. At my age, each day should regarded as an opportunity for a fine meal, thus begun best with a tasty appetizer, so I chose to start things off with a haircut from Barbara at B.J.’s Salon. Barbara Ciarel, in addition to being a hairstylist nonpareil (of which I have little need with a paucity of hair to style), is one of my oldest—and funniest--friends. She always leaves ‘em laughing, particularly with her endless tales of Dates Gone Wrong. I don’t know whether Barbara is a bad Selector of Candidates or just unlucky but a look at her date card reveals the I Love Lucy Show of dating. Barbara says she is going to write a book about her experiences but nobody will believe it except me. Miss Ciarel is no one-trick pony, however. She also has startling tales of rampant drug overindulgence, offspring in jail, spiritual awakenings and scary clairvoyance. If your hairstylist is a boring old thing who carps only about her sexually inept husband and Obamacare, you might want to take your wagon down the road and try Barb. You will emerge amused and more beautiful. Reserve early, you don’t want to get shut out.
Okay, on to Shands. Turns out my Blue Light Test is really called ALA-PDT, which means aminolevulinic acid with photodynamic therapy. They give this test to old geezers like me who have limitless potential for pre-cancerous skin lesions on the head and face. The ALA solution is applied to the area to be treated and then the area is exposed to flourescent blue light for approximately 17 very very very long minutes. ALA-PDT is an effective treatment for Actinic Keratoses and for diffuse photodamage. I had the foolish notion that I would sit around for a few minutes in a little room with some sort of blacklight aimed at me and then move on to my next assignment. Wrong. It is always a good idea when having such tests performed to perhaps ask somebody what they entail so you will not be gifted with a string of funny surprises, as I was. But most previous procedures were accompanied by a raft of information sheets overstressing what to expect, what to do prior to the test and what not to do. Not so much with this Blue Light Test.
“Now, after I put this solution on your head and face,” the nice lady told me, “you will have to wait for an hour for it to settle in. Then, you go under the machine for sixteen-plus minutes. After that, you go right home and stay in the house for 48 hours, no sunlight allowed. In the days following, apply liberal amounts of sunscreen before going outside and do not stay out long.”
Oh, great. “So I guess this means no football game Saturday, huh?” She laughed hysterically. “Silly boy!” Then she gave me the option of cancelling until another day. What the hell, I was here now, let’s get on with it. I rescheduled my appointment with Dr. DeStephens, waited the hour and returned to the testing chambers. Apparently, there were no blacklights involved. Instead, there was a u-shaped apparatus on a stand, which the attendant lowered to fit around your head. Very closely around your head, I might add. Then she gave you a pair of goggles, not unlike swimmers’ goggles, to withstand the glare from the vast battery of little flourescent lights surrounding you. Then she turned the thing on and left the room. Instantly a powerful yellow-white light suffused the area. For better or for worse, you were on the clock.
There are many, many questions one asks himself while in the clutches of the redoubtable Blue Light Test. Questions like: Gee, this thing has only been on a couple minutes and parts of my face are stinging like hell. How much WORSE is it going to get? What if the woman forgets to come back and the machine doesn’t shut off automatically? Will parts or ALL of my face slough off? Will I look like the The Picture Of Dorian Gray? How many minutes have gone by now? Is this EVER going to end? Who wrote the Book of Love?
Finally—thank God or whoever is in charge—a little click, and the light goes off. Suddenly, it is dark as Limbaugh’s soul, darker if you happen to be wearing your goggles. I push the machine away. The cheery room lights pop on and the attendant comes back in. She repeats all the former warnings and tells me I can go to the football game if it’s extremely cloudy. Great news. I don’t think I’ll risk Florida’s weather unpredictabilities. Actually, I had thought about going to the game casually attired in a ski-mask, but in situations like this you have to consider the predilections of your grandstand neighbors, not all of which will be comfortable in the company of a ski-masked stranger. I can already feel them leaning away, left and right, forward and backward, in fear and apprehension. Then, of course, you could always mention that you have “a medical issue.” See how fast THAT sends them screaming down the aisles. No, I think I’ll sit this one out in the comfort of my living room, waiting as those skin lesions fester and fall, leaving vast cavities in my face and head. If the timing was bad for football, how about Halloween? A few weeks earlier and I had the perfect costume. Zombies are all the rage this year.
That’s all, folks….
