Author: Guest

Sometimes Angels Have Scales: Guest Post by Hannah Tomes

by Guest, posted in Companions, Rescue

The below story by Hannah Tomes is featured in our first anthology, The Dog Who Wooed at the World. For more powerful stories like this, get your copy!

During the summer of 2022, I made a spontaneous choice that would end up changing my life for the better and introducing a wonderful new member into my family. My dad mentioned that a local organization, which specialized in rescuing abandoned and neglected reptiles, was looking for volunteers. This organization was relatively new to our area, so I had never heard of it before, but I decided to look it up. I have always loved animals and take every opportunity I can get to be around them. At the time, however, I was pretty unfamiliar with reptiles; no one I knew had ever adopted one into their family or had the desire to. Reptile rescues like the one I was about to go to are very uncommon in West Virginia. I thought it would be a fun experience, though, so I went ahead and submitted an application. A week later I was invited to orientation for new volunteers, and from there my journey began. 

As weeks passed, I learned more and more about the variety of amazing species I was now surrounded by at the rescue center. I learned that the African bullfrog, Jabba, loved burrowing so far down into the dirt you couldn’t even see him, and he got very cranky if you tried to disturb his naps. I learned that Jonesy the alligator hissed every time someone came close, so it was best to admire him from a distance. I learned that sulcata tortoises could grow up to 100 pounds, but one of them, Opie, was stunted and would never get bigger than the palm of my hand. I learned that Kyle, the bearded dragon, loved basking in the heat and would sometimes get sleepy when you held him. 

And I learned that not all snakes were unfriendly after I met Scar, who everyone described as a “scaly puppy” and would rest his head in your hand if you held it out. He’d been severely burned in the past by his heat lamp, which was where he’d gotten his name, but he hadn’t let it destroy his trust in people and he had the sweetest personality. 

Every animal at the rescue center had a story. Not all of them were reptiles (there were also a couple prairie dogs, which is a long story), but it felt like we were all a part of one big family, despite our differences. They never turned away an animal in need. 

One day later in the summer, I was working in the back when I noticed two 10-gallon tanks sitting on the ground. I went to inspect them closer, and that was when I saw that each one had a leopard gecko in it—the sanctuary’s two newest arrivals. One of them was a typical yellow with black spots, and the other was a pinkish yellow with no spots.

“What happened to these guys?” I asked one of the other workers. If an animal was being kept in the back, it usually meant they were being quarantined for some reason.

“They were brought in last night. Found them in an abandoned apartment.”

“How long had they been there?”

“A few days, maybe a week. No food or water. Not even any heat.”

Hearing that broke my heart, and I watched them for a few minutes. The pink one was sitting calmly on some paper towels, but the spotted one had burrowed underneath and was hiding. I can’t explain it, but in that moment, I felt a connection with that pink gecko, staring up at me with her soulful brown eyes, a little smile on her face. Both of these geckos had been through a terrible situation and it was understandable for them to be frightened, but when I reached into the tank and gently scooped the pink one up, she rested peacefully on my hand, each of her tiny toes pressing softly against my skin. I was fascinated by her. Part of me had feared she might bite me, but she just looked around curiously. I stroked her back with my finger, feeling how bumpy it was.

“Hello, little angel,” I said soothingly.

After I returned her to her tank, I wanted to see if I could somehow comfort the spotted one, but as soon as I removed the lid to their tank, they chirped with fear and burrowed farther into their paper towels. It was strange, I thought. Despite being abandoned and probably dealing with some abuse before that, the pink one was so friendly and trusting. It was like she just wanted love. Once it was determined that both the geckos were healthy, they were put up for adoption. The spotted one was adopted quickly, but the pink one remained. When I visited each week, I went straight to the back room, where I would greet her.

“Hello, my little angel,” I would say every time. When I looked at her, I was overcome with emotion. How could someone so innocent, so precious, not have been adopted yet? Surely she would have a home soon. As weeks passed, a new thought occurred to me, something I never would have thought possible before. What if I adopted her? I had never been a reptile’s guardian before. I’d just had what were considered “normal” companion animals, like dogs, cats, and hamsters. 

During my time at the rescue center, I’d learned about what was required for leopard gecko care. But was I capable of doing it? I began doing some research. I knew it was a huge responsibility, and I didn’t want to bring the gecko home unless I was certain I could provide her with the right environment. For a while, there was one thing holding me back: they ate bugs! They had to be live bugs, too, because many small reptiles will only eat moving insects; they cannot be successfully fed pellets. At the time, it was hard to imagine buying and keeping live bugs for my gecko. It was too gross, I wouldn’t be able to do it, and yes, it is sad that insects have to suffer for lizards to eat—but I couldn’t ignore the way this gecko was tugging at my heart. One day I thought to myself: what if everyone who ever considered adopting a reptile let this stop them? Sometimes in life, getting out of your comfort zone is worth it. 

As the summer came to an end, it became clear to me that I had a choice to make. My family and I were going out of town, and while we were gone, there was going to be a reptile expo. The rescue center always took their animals to such events and would try to get people to adopt as many as they could. I decided that when we came back, if the gecko hadn’t been adopted at the expo, it would be a sign that she and I were meant to be together. I thought about it for a few days, looking at photos of that endearing face that I had taken on my phone, photos of that little angel sitting on my hand so casually, like we had known each other forever. When we returned home and I went back to the rescue center, I was preparing to be disappointed. I stopped to talk with some of the workers about the expo before heading to the back.

“It went great. We got all of the animals adopted,” one of them told me. “All of them except the gecko.”

My heart soared. What were the odds? It was meant to be, I was positive now. I practically ran back there, and there she was, waiting for me in her tank with a smile. I spoke with the owner of the rescue center immediately, and we worked out the adoption. I am very grateful to him for helping me get all of the supplies I needed and recommending what would be best. By late August, it was time for me to bring the gecko home. But there was one thing I wanted to know. All of this time, I hadn’t even known if she was a boy or a girl. The owner examined her, and he told me she was a girl. A little girl. I already knew what I was going to name her. Angel. 

Once Angel was home and I had everything set up for her, I couldn’t believe it had actually happened. I had a companion leopard gecko! I was so excited to share the news with all of my friends and family. There were some mixed reactions (a lot of people aren’t too fond of reptiles, as I’ve come to find out), but overall, everyone was happy for me. It’s hard to believe months have passed already, and she’s settled into her new home wonderfully. I am so glad I decided to try something new—something a little scary—because I have gained such an adorable addition to the family, and she has been the sweetest companion. I also overcame my reservations about handling bugs!

I’ll never forget the day I met Angel and what she went through. Even though she had to deal with extreme trauma, she was not afraid to put her trust in me and warmed up to me almost instantly. I couldn’t understand why no one wanted to adopt her before I did, but perhaps they just didn’t have the connection with her that I had felt from day one. 

Now I know she will be safe and loved for the rest of her life, and I am so thankful that she came into mine. She taught me that all animals deserve a chance, even if they’re not furry and cuddly. They can have a bond with humans that’s just as close, if not closer. I’ve never seen an animal that responds to my voice the way she does. The way she gets so alert and raises her head to hear me better. How she closes her eyes halfway, as if the sound is like beautiful music. My relationship with her has changed me for the better and ignited a passion in me for reptile conservation, as they are so often overlooked.

People always say that dogs are the angels we have here on Earth, and though I agree, I think sometimes reptiles can be angels in disguise, too.

🦎

Hannah Tomes is a college student studying Professional Writing. She lives in West Virginia with her dog, a black lab named Jade; her cat, a Russian blue named Cloudy; and the newest member of her family, a leopard gecko named Angel. She has always adored animals and is currently a volunteer at a local organization that takes in abandoned and neglected reptiles.

For more inspiring stories of courageous animals, get your copy of the anthology today!

A Lesson in Life at the End of the Rainbow by John Zimmerman

by Guest, posted in Wildlife

The below story by guest author John Zimmerman is the second place story from our first anthology, The Dog Who Wooed at the World. For more powerful stories like this, get your copy!

I didn’t want it to die. Him to die?

I had never felt that way about the hundreds of other fish I had caught throughout my life.

Not the first time, when I was a lad at Fish-A-While Lake snuffing out the life of a sunfish at the end of a bamboo pole.

Not when my friends and I would nail freshly caught catfish to a nearby tree, thrust a knife into their heads, strip off their flesh with a pair of pliers, and then gut them and cook them over the campfire. I never for a second considered the immense pain the fishes must have felt—pain that we inflicted upon them.

Not when I brought home a stringer of Lake Michigan perch for a fish fry. Not when I caught my limit of coho from the same lake, to be eaten the next day after my mom soaked their fileted orange-red flesh in milk overnight to dampen the salmon’s strong flavor.

Nor did I care about the three other rainbow trout I caught just weeks before at the very same lake. But fearing for the suffering of the rainbow trout in front of me now, I found myself screaming, “Die already!” 

He had fought so hard to free himself from the stringer I had run through his powerful jaws after I had caught him, even as I fished on. I kept looking at him as he turned his body over and over, displaying his beautiful colors. Black spots dotted his silver flesh. A radiant pink stripe ran from tail to gill, twinkling in the late sunlight. I saw a flash of green and yellow. 

Finally, he slapped his tail furiously on the water, one last time, and died. I poked the trout with the tip of my fishing rod, to be sure. He went belly-up, leaving no doubt. I knelt on the shoreline and freed the fish from the stringer. I held the muscular, ice-cold trout in my hands and again admired his colors. This trout was painted at God’s easel. Then I dropped the fish in the water in horror and asked him to swim away.

He didn’t.

I ordered him to swim!

He didn’t.

“SWIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!” I screamed, frightening a nearby mallard into flight.

He didn’t. The chop in the water forced the dead trout back up on the bank. I petted him like a dog.

Then I cried.

I was stunned at my response. I had never felt like a killer. Until then.

Why? I think it was not only because of the way the fish died, but how he came to die.

He was one of 2,000 rainbow trout stocked in a suburban pond and ready for the catch. The shoulder-to-shoulder trout didn’t stand a chance. A great deal of the trout chucked into the lake are caught within hours after the 5 a.m. start time. Mind you, they didn’t succumb to any Ernest Hemingways quietly flipping dry flies at the trout lurking in the deep pools of cool mountain streams winding through piney woods. No, the opening of trout fishing day at the stocked lake off the freeway finds suburbanites standing in the weeds making a fuss with worms and lures in hopes of catching trout. And most do. The trout would survive the trauma of being hauled from their hatchery hundreds of miles away, only to fall victim to a piece of bait bought at the Walmart off the busy boulevard.

My fish, the one I killed, made it past those opening days. He was a survivor. He had beat the odds and lived. He avoided attaching himself to those hundreds of baited hooks and lures. He somehow lived on in water that was far too warm and turbid for a trout to maintain life.

He was a strong fish. 

And a courageous one.

When we first met, he thought twice about taking my bait. The bobber moved a bit, then stopped. My heart started to race. My eyes locked on that round red and white plastic ball holding up my bait. The bobber moved again, this time a few feet. Then it went under, just a little. Then, a little more. Finally, the bobber was yanked out of sight. I pulled my rod back, hard. I felt resistance.

I got him!

He fought hard for his life. He zigged. He zagged. He leapt. He went deep. He leapt again. He thrashed back and forth. But the hook was too deep. The trout finally went slack, and I began to reel him in. He went into a frenzy one more time, after being pulled into shallow water and spotting the shore. Then he quit. He was just too damn tired. I reeled the trout onto the shore, freed the hook and strung him.

I was happy, at first. He was a nice fish—bigger and prettier than the other trout I had caught. I wish I had had someone to show him off to, but I was the only one at the lake that evening that by then was rapidly dying on the horizon. No one even got to see the admirable fight between me and that rainbow. 

But then it hit me. I took the life of someone so beautiful, so strong, so unique. And for what? I was thankful there was no one there to see me cry.

I didn’t know what to do with his body. I first thought of burying it. But in the end, I did what I always did with my dead fish. I brought it home to be eaten, so he did not die in vain. My wife enjoyed the rainbow trout dinner. I didn’t take a bite. I couldn’t put a fork to it after what I did. The fish made it through the opening Battle on the Rainbow Trout, only to later die at the hands of a sniper.

That trout should get a medal, posthumously, for his bravery. After all, he saved a lot of lives by his death. Lives I would have taken. Because after that day, I could never fish again.

 I learned something new about life, at the end of the rainbow.

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John Zimmerman is a retired newspaper writer and educator who lives in Carol Stream, Illinois. John has won several awards, including an Indiana Associated Press first place in editorial writing and an Illinois Press Association second place in column writing. John was also a special education teacher. As a playwright, John’s dramas and comedies have been produced in California, Michigan, New York, and Indiana. John has also published essays and poetry. When John is not writing, he enjoys spending time with family and his golden retriever. John is also a grateful cancer survivor.

Photo: Tom Koerner/U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

What Were We Thinking? by Mary Jo Meloy

by Guest, posted in Companions, Rescue

Guest Post by Mary Jo Meloy

My husband and I have been blessed with dogs our entire married life. We have always had two dogs at a time as companions to one another. We lost our last canine couple, a chocolate Lab and Boxer mix, the same weekend—one from cancer and the other from hip dysplasia. Since we are now in our early 70s, we decided against having any more companion animals. We grieved for a couple of years without dogs when our daughter suggested another dog was needed for our “protection.” Elderly safekeeping? Research studies show that living with a dog positively impacts one’s physical and emotional health, especially by improving the health and happiness of older individuals. 

In July we rescued two pups from the Chuck Silcox Animal Care & Adoption Center in Fort Worth, Texas. They are both very good with people and other dogs, but both were dealing with parasites so could not be put into a social setting or sent to training. Phineas was 7 pounds when adopted—pathetic and petrified, skin and bones, broken and bow-legged from malnutrition. Ferb was an athletic, muscular, stunning fawn Boxer when relinquished to the shelter. 

Boxers tend to be highly energetic, playful, and upbeat and consume all your energy—and 70-year-olds do not have a lot of spare energy to be consumed. We are seasoned animal guardians but have not had puppies for 15 years, so a serene existence suddenly felt totally out of control with the thought, What were we thinking?! 

Having furry friends, especially two together, completely changes the retirement routine. Canine chaos and craziness become part of what was once a sedentary life. House cleaning is a daily duty now, as is scrubbing the backyard storm glass door from dog slobber. As we scoured the outside exterior of the glass with paper towels and Windex, Ferb was on the inside, imitating the wiping movements with his tongue. We realized that we adopted a giant tongue saliva machine with a dog head attached. 

The mighty mischief-makers proved to be a destructive dynamo duo, destroying and devouring anything that had pooch appeal. There were dozens of toys and chewies, but Phineas went for furniture and carpeting; Ferb, everything else. Phineas—besides gnawing on his bestie bud, Gentle Ferb the Boxer (who already looked like a boxing prize fighter who’d lost in the ring, with his mangled ears and scabbed and scarred face)—also enjoyed chomping playfully on his guardians. Our new best friend became liquid skin. 

Phineas and Ferb require plenty of playtime, exercise, and attention. The pups played non-stop and, while wrangling and wrestling, broke a glass door to our antique bookcase. The bottom shelf of literary works became exposed to literary consumption—literally! The dogs found several of our printed works to be in good taste. 

Since they consume books, possessions, time, and energy, we contracted a personal trainer who came to our home. After instructing us not to use treats for motivation, she decided to get the dogs’ full attention with treats. She instantly had their complete attention, and the twosome sat perfectly still at her feet like garden statues. While the handler explained “stay” and “come” while waving her arms, the pair started to perform amazing animal auditions. They offered right paws in unison—then, upon receiving no food reward, concurrently extended left paws, then lay down, and finally rolled over. The trainer was oblivious to the players’ performance of their entire repertoire of tricks. When the trainer’s barking instructions concluded along with her stretching and swinging arms, both dogs simultaneously stood on their hind legs and twirled—as their finale. If it wasn’t for the exorbitant expense, the ludicrous training session would have served as comic relief. Learning—nor mastering mutt manners—was not one of the things the hounds ingested! 

A new experience was having to search to find the robot vacuum. The vacuum now works 100 times as hard; what once was an easy, peasy job now involves swallowing dog hairs and choking on bits of dog food. I clean up on vacuum nights, fold up their cooling mat, put away all the dog toys, and sweep up the dog food, but the robot vacuum still tries to hide and commit suicide. Some nights I’m too tired to pick up everything, so I give the robot a night off and send it back to its dock. Now, the vacuum automatically gives itself nights off. It hates vacuuming our doggie daycare center, as our home has become the House of Kibbles. 

The Texas triple-digit temps led us to bribing the pups to go outside. The heat did not help with the housebreaking training. Ferb shattered a 5-foot-tall mirror, so that’s 7 years of back luck. (We’re assuming that it will now take another 7 years to housebreak them.) We have been drenching and dousing baseboards and furniture legs in white vinegar to keep Phinn from chewing them. The term “piss and vinegar” must refer to the smell of the House of Kibbles. 

We are adjusting, and the pups get mandatory naps now, as do we. Phineas has become a handsome little fat boy, while Ferb becomes a bigger goofy goober by the day. He makes us laugh with his comical antics and silly stunts. As Ferb runs, he is so smooth and graceful—until he runs right smack into the patio post. Then he stands on the backyard stone wall like the magnificent lion king surveying his land—he looks so regal, except that his ears are inside out. The partner pair are valuable members of the family, who bring both madness and mayhem into our home, but also joy and entertainment. Having dogs, with their devoted companionship, may be one of the greatest gifts that enriches our lives with love and laughter. 

Dogs provide security, unconditional love, and forever affection. The question of “What were we thinking?” when rescuing these pups often comes to mind, especially when cleaning up pooch piss, poo, and puke. The answer is that life is too short not to embrace man’s best friends. Furry friends create a human-animal bond of the utmost importance. Both of our sweet-natured softies are loving and loyal. Cuddling clownish Ferb with his big brown eyes and wrinkled forehead and petting pretty boy Phinn are soothing to the heart and almost as good for the soul as prayer. Happiness cannot be bought, but possibly it can be rescued.

Mary Jo Meloy, a dog lover, is married with three children and a granddaughter. She has resided in various parts of the country, but after relocating to Texas, she traveled thousands of miles with her husband via motorcycle. “Been there, done that—on a bike!” A number of her joy ride tours have been published in Wing World Magazine. She also wrote “Mother of My Heart,” published in Memories of Mothers: Inspiring Real-Life Stories of How Mothers Touch Our Lives. Her self-published book, Somewhere in France, A Rendezvous with Your Own Thoughts, is a richly detailed commentary on the Second World War via a compilation of her father’s letters.  

Nestled Hope: The Tale of a Balcony Robin by Judith Morrison

by Guest, posted in Wildlife

Guest post by Judith Morrison

It was the beginning of summer during one of our scheduled evening phone calls, when my mother first mentioned a robin was building a nest in her light fixture on the balcony.

“But I swept away the twigs the bird had started collecting,” she said. “Some of the twigs are still on the balcony floor. What a mess!” She’d have to go out and finish the sweeping later.

The following evening while on the phone with her, after going over all the horrible news events of the day, she told me that the robin came back. “The robin started building her nest in the same fixture. She’s out there now.”

“Is she using the twigs that were on the balcony floor?” I asked.

“No,” Mom said. “She’s using new material. You should see what she’s collected this time. There’s ribbon in various colors, string, pieces of what looks like hay. This time I’m going to let her build her nest,” Mom said. “I don’t have the heart to take it down.”

The robin’s persistence and dedication had paid off. “She’s a smart bird,” Mom said. I agree with her. “My balcony light fixture is the perfect spot for a nest. It’s covered to protect from the wind and rain. The light can provide warmth, and she’s away from prey. It’s perfect for a nest,” Mom added.

In the following days, my mom reported back on how the bird was progressing with nest-building. “She works so hard,” Mom said. “She doesn’t seem to leave her nest for more than 10 minutes at a time. And this nest, you should see it. It’s so tightly woven and secured around my light fixture.”

I started looking forward to the nightly robin nest-building updates. I especially appreciated it after going over all the terrible news events of the day. I noticed how my local news channel always ended their broadcast with a feel-good animal story. We’d end our conversation on a light note.

I started noticing the birds in my neighborhood: robins, woodpeckers, sparrows, magpies, and osprey. Was it my imagination, or were there more birds than usual in the neighborhood this summer? Or was I more aware of the birds because of the robin?

Either way, I looked at the robin and the other birds as a sign of hope. This was especially important because we’re in a time that feels hopeless in a lot of ways—so any sign of hope is good. I found myself wishing a bird would build a nest at my house. I had a perfect, protected light fixture on my front terrace. I’d welcome a bird who wanted to build a bird’s nest.

“Neighbors are stopping below my balcony to admire the robin’s nest,” my mom said. “They’ve been positive, except for Buddy, who doesn’t approve.”

As the hot and humid days of summer went on, my mom described the robin’s routine in more detail. “She sits on her nest all day. She seems to briefly fly away at night for no more than

10 minutes, to get food. Another robin—the father, I guess—sits perched on the balcony railing now and then.”

“But only now and then,” she repeated. “Not like my robin, who is perched on her nest all the time. I check on her every morning first thing while brewing my coffee. I quietly open the balcony door so as not to disturb her. The thing is, I don’t go on the balcony and don’t use it, as I feel I’m disturbing her. It’s her balcony now. Her home.”

The following week, my husband and I went to visit Mom. It was her birthday, so we brought lemon cake. I made tea and watched my husband sprinkle powdered sugar on the lemon cake and then cut it into three pieces.

“I don’t want any. I just ate lunch,” Mom said.

“Well, you can have your piece later,” I said.

I noticed my mother didn’t seem impressed or to be in the mood for the lemon cake, or perhaps for a visit at all. There was a lull in the conversation. It was a good time to see the robin.

“Open the door quietly,” Mom said.

I opened the balcony door and turned my head to the right, and there the robin was in all her splendour. She was big and plump, and very close. I could have touched her. The up-close view came as a shock.

“Wow,” I said. “You really are living with a bird!”

We sat in the living room and had tea and talked about birds, animals, and nature. I admire how my mom walks every day at 87 years old, as long as she isn’t in too much pain from her arthritis. We went from birds to talking about the book on her coffee table, which was about Canadian wolves.

“I’m done with it. Take it back,” she said to my husband, who had lent her the book. “Make sure there are none of my bookmarks still in it.”

Mom started to slowly get up, and so we followed her lead. We got up to collect the teacups and leave. It seemed that was enough of a visit today, and she wanted to get back to her routine… to her afternoon walk, early dinner, and quiet time—just her and the bird.

 “You can take the lemon cake back, too,” she added.

“Well, we’ll leave you your piece,” I said. With that, we left. I knew she wanted to go for a walk while it was still light out, and we were holding her up. We said our goodbyes.

Not too many days after our birthday visit, Mom said she saw baby robins. “There are two baby robins in the nest. Probably more. And one flew. I thought he was going to land on the ground, but he didn’t. He went into a tree and disappeared.”

Not many days after that, the mother and babies were both gone. Those birds, who had occupied so many evening phone conversations, were gone. The nest was empty. I was glad I was able to get such an up-close look when I did.

“I miss her. I miss hearing the chirping in the morning,” Mom said. “She was company.”

And I also missed her. I missed hearing about her and the easy conversation with my mother around her.

“But when I was sure she wasn’t coming back, I took down the nest,” Mom said a few weeks later when the subject of the robin came up.

Mom went on to describe the intricate cloth the robin had tightly woven to make her nest. My mother and I had empty nest syndrome. Through a Google search, though, I read that the robins may come back to their old nesting site next year and make a new nest. By now, during the late summer phone calls, there was a chill in the air. Autumn was on its way.

“I hope the robin returns,” Mom said.

“I hope she returns, too,” I replied.

“I guess we’ll have to wait until next summer to see,” she said.

Judith Morrison enjoys writing personal essays on travel, fashion, animals and lifestyle. She has been published in The Globe and Mail, Christian Science Monitor, and on CBC radio. Her most recent essays have appeared in Adventuress Travel Magazine, lolcomedy.com, and Dogs Today Magazine. Her blog for women, “Fun and Pampering in YYC,” is about things to do and places to go in her hometown of Calgary, Alberta.

Judith has enjoyed teaching ESL to students at various levels and with diverse backgrounds throughout her teaching career. She also likes traveling, especially in Turkey and Mexico, journal writing, and taking long walks with Samson, the Border Collie mix, and Zoey, the labradoodle.

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