Where Lenore and Brutus are spreading the love, and the Love Dog continues her relentless campaign to bring love to all of the earth, and to remind us that life is good, despite its pain and sorrows, and ups and downs, and is full of love, which is where you find it. I am finding a lot, and my life continues to fill up with wonderful people, who support and teach and encourage and love me.
  Lenore understands that her mission – our mission – is to tell the truth,  send our signal, share our experience, encourage others to live their lives and tell their stories, and also to brighten days.

 
  When Marion talks to Izzy, she holds his paw, and closes her eyes, and he lays completely still, for the longest time, and it is almost disconcerting to see a border collie lie like that. And the stories pour out of her like water from a pristine, sparkling spring.

  “Izzy, have I told you that we used to have a farm? And we used to have a good dog named Scout, but he was not a dog like you. I can talk to you, and I can tell you about my life, and my children. They call me often, and that may be them calling now. Can you hear the phone ringing? I can’t see all that well, Izzy, and my hearing has failed, but I am after all, 97 years old. But I see you and hear you and feel you here. What do you do when you aren’t here, Izzy? Where do you go?  Oh, my family would love you. My daughter loves you and my son would so love you, and my husband would too. And I love you.”

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 Izzy and I went to Washington County Hospice offices today to do paperwork, under the supervision of Keith Mann, who is meticulous about paperwork, as he is about all things, and then we went to a nursing home in Ft. Edward and we saw Lila, who lay still in a wheelchair, staring ahead. And Izzy came up and put his head on her knee and she looked down at him, every so subtly, and then stared at him and didn’t move or speak. And after some minutes, I leaned over and asked her if she wanted us to come back, and she nodded her head up and down, ever so slightly.

  July 30, 2008 – When I picked Minnie up in an old house north of here, she was a feral kitten, from a feral litter. The sight of humans terrified her, and Annie and I would leave food out in the barn for her, but we rarely, if ever, saw her, and then briefly. She would sleep, we thought, up in a remote corner of the big barn, and never went anywhere near us.
  And then the farm worked its charm, and over time, maybe six months, she began to come near us, flirt a bit, then disappear. Now, whenever I come outside, she is waiting for me, and rubs against my leg and likes to be picked up and scratched a bit. I am particularly fond of her. She brings me all sorts of vile and dismembered things. She goes off on two or three day expeditions, I have no idea where, and there are plenty of dangers for a barn cat out there, from owls to coyotes and foxes, and many barn cats just vanish. Minnie gets fed twice a day, and gets all of her shots. She like sme.