In which Old Man Guinnias the old goat returns to me

It has been sometime since I heard from Old Man Guinnias. If you have followed along here, you know Guinnias was the first elder goat I took on at our old farm in Oregon. To say he became a crucial companion, and precursor for things to come, is an understatement. He was a muse, but caring for him also allowed me to navigate through my elder father's death, who was in home hospice in Minneapolis, and I was not able to be there with him as he took his final journey off of Earth.

In my dream, I was helping someone pick up some rescue animals, and there was a huge goat, who looked like Stevie, but this goat was the size of a bull and he had huge testicles, and I thought an intact animal that size would be problematic for our farm. There was a small kitten. And then, there was Guinnias. I was so happy to see him, and I thought to myself,

Well, he is coming home with me.

It was a clear message to me, that he is there, and here, and he never really left. The reason this dream was important, at this moment, is I have been pondering my role in how I work with elder people, and I began doubting myself this past couple of weeks. Doubting oneself leads to more doubt, I find, and the hot weather with humidity also makes me go into less optimistic frame of mind. I began to wonder if I was doing enough for the animals, and was I able to keep a healthy boundary when I work with some elders who I get to know as people. I began to look back on all the animals I had taken on, with open heart, but also a realistic understanding that they might not last long. But working with animals that I know are not long for this world, is different than working with people that are not long for this world-for many reasons. For one, I am the sole caregiver of the animals, I call the shots, along with Mother Nature of course. I know what happens to them, I bury them, I get to have that immediate and important ritual. In my work with visiting elder people, I can walk into a place and not know where someone went, they just disappear one day, and privacy laws don't allow me to know. Even though I've reached out to some staff about my feelings, they have not addressed them at this point. So I am grappling with how to create healthy boundaries for myself, and I'm searching for role models to help me.

And then Guinnias came to me in the dream, and he walked right over to me, without doubting me, like he knew I was safe and he was safe with me. And I had no doubts in the dream of what to do.

Guinnias came to us at age 15, horribly thin, crippled, and we knew that 15 is already a very old goat. I thought he might last a year. He lived until 21 or more. He had been sent off to a goat rescue at 15 because the boy had gone off to college and the parents were tired of the goat showing up on the porch and pooping. Too much trouble to put up a fence I guess. As sad as it is when elder animals are abandoned, and often the ones that end up at shelters, in my mind, are abandoned [and some come from caring people who have tried to find good homes, or have had a sudden life change-a death of a spouse, or illness], I am glad they sent him to the rescue, because he came to me, and he was a conduit for my current life's work, and I also loved him, and yes, I believe he loved me in his goat way.

When I worked with Guinnias, many things seemed to relate to what my father was going through in his final days. And everything also took me back to conversations and memories of my father–Guinnias was crippled and his falling increased over time, and it made me care for him ever more tenderly because I knew from my father, how scary it for an elder to start falling. Once that happens, all sorts of restrictions can be put on them, and often they become home bound. In some ways, Guinnias was my conduit for letting go of my father. I knew he was dying, he had had a good life and was almost 84. He didn't want to die, and after many heart issues, and other things related to the failing heart, there was nothing left for the doctors to do. He had tried to get into a last ditch effort for some experimental program with Mayo Clinic, something that would put oxygen back into him to help his heart. But the heart was too weak, and they had to turn him down. My mother told me about that day, and she could feel his resignation in his silence as they drove home together. His number was up, and he knew it.

I had said my goodbyes to my father, about three months before he died, when I was back visiting over Thanksgiving. At that point, he was still up and about, could eat and drink and carry on pretty well. He was himself. But I knew this might be the last time I'd see him, since I lived on a farm out West. Getting away was expensive, and difficult. We did a lot of important things those few days, always with the knowledge of his pending death hovering around us. We watched 'Charlotte's Web", and held back tears, as so many conversations of the animals were the things we probably wanted to say to each other. As spiritual and emotional as I am, my family was not. They were loving, but were a pretty stoic bunch, with stock from strong farmers and scientists. When I went to leave, my father was on the couch. I sensed this goodbye could go quickly emotional, so I leaned down to kiss him good bye on his sweet old bald head, and as I neared his face, our eyes were locked on each other for seconds, intense seconds.

"Bye, Bob," I said, and he said, "Bye, Honey." We had wet eyes, but I high tailed it out of there and cried in the elevator instead. It was a moment and a sensation nobody experienced but us. It was our moment as father and daughter. I knew we were saying the goodbye.

When the final days of his life were apparent-hospice had been called in about two weeks before he died-my mother and I talked every day from a distance. She said he had fought the hospital bed, but once it arrived, she felt he gave in. I asked if she had told him it was okay to go, this is something I had learned, and I always told an animal it was okay to go. She had. And she said to me, "It's time for him to go." She had reached the point when a loved one is dying, where she knew having his body in the room was not what was important anymore, it was setting him free. His body had simply worn out, as they always do if you live long enough, and he was attached to a realm he had spiritually already left.

One day she said his little terrier, Sammy, quit going to be on the bed, and I knew that was it. I've seen this over and over, an animal senses when the person is now more spirit than body. A couple days later, he died.

Perhaps Guinnias just wanted me to know he's okay, and that he would welcome coming back to my care if he was on Earth. And maybe my father is okay too, it's just that Guinnias was more able to tell me. Whatever it all means, I was so happy to hear from him.

"Little Tulip" is here!

Now available at the shop

The new book, "Little Tulip" {It Will Be Okay} is here!

Ocne you birth a book, it leaves your hands for the printer and you pretty much move on. But it begins its real life, kind of like a child going off to college, it goes out into the world and has its own interactions without you the creator. So I had not held it in my hands yet, and when I did, I was touched by the quietness of it, and the simpleness, and that the art moved me as much looking at it with fresh eyes as when I did the drawings.

It's a simple story that happens in the real world over and over. A mate dies, and another elder is left alone. The garden brings companionship. But the elder wants more, a dog perhaps? Oh no, you are too old, too frail, it's too dangerous...too, too, too. I was inspired to make this book after talking to an older woman who wanted to get another dog, but her children were against it. She might fall, she might trip...and she told me she did not like being detracted from as she aged. I understood this, and I see it over and over , younger people detracting from their parents or elders because they think they know what is best.

The 58 page hard copy includes art throughout, with printed end sheets too [inside covers, an added expense but I simply can not do a book without them]. Anyone who pre-ordered [thank you!!] your books go out next week. You can buy the book at the shop.

This is a book for anyone who needs to hear four simple words,

It will be okay.

It always is, it is just often in a manner or form we were not expecting. The book exemplifies the ongoing stream of life to death and back to life again. And of course if you like dachshunds, that is an extra bonus.

And on this day....a pug was born

Today is The Old One Eyed Blind Pug's 12th birthday. I had to wait until he was almost nine to have him in my life, but it was worth the wait. Besides, I had another Old One Eyed Pug I was caring for then. To be able to have had two of these creatures in my daily life is such a gift.

The two pugs are very different from one another. Billy, the first pug, was born to a farm family in Minnesota. He was much needier than Hughie is. Hughie was in a home of a couple and my recollection is they fought quite a bit and Hughie often ended up alone, contained in a room. In some ways, I think this made him even braver than he might have been. At some point, Hughie was run over by accident by a delivery truck, and that is how he lost his one eye, and became blind. Or he was somewhat blind from birth due to a congestive disease that was not cared for properly, so he went blind soon after losing the eye. A kind woman took Hughie on because the couple was not caring for him properly. But she herself was not in good condition and was very limited in bending over and such-and with a small blind dog, you do a lot of bending over to help them. She didn't want to, but she decided she had to rehome him to the right person.

At the time, I had been pugless for about three years. Being pugless after you have been pugged is a sad state. Pugs really get into your heart. I wasn't exactly looking for another pug, but I always said if an elder or needy pug came along, I'd take him. So I was minding my own business, and a friend emailed me about this pug that was on Old Dog Haven, a wonderful place out west that helps rehome elder dogs out of shelters. When I saw his face, and that he was blind, with one eye...well, it was like my old pug was hitting me over the head,

Pick up the phone now!

And I did. I talked to the woman that needed to rehome him, and there had been a person interested, but as I talked to her, she changed her mind and knew she wanted me to have him. I'm so grateful for that. Another of my friends, who I lovingly called my Goat Hauler, as she had driven several goats to me from Seattle area to Apifera, a 12 hour round trip- she met me halfway in Tacoma, and the pug known as Hughie entered my life.

He was so well behaved, so brave and unafraid of his new home. He immediately adapted to navigating the rooms and areas he could not see. He never whined, and you could also tell that if you raised your voice, he cowered a bit. Like I said we had heard he'd come from a fighting home, so it took him awhile to understand when we yelled at the TV, it was not about him. We yell at the TV a lot these days, so we also balance it with lots of soothing talk. When we came across the country from Oregon to Maine, Hughie rode with Huck and Mud in the backseat, and each night we slept in a different barn stall, with the dogs, the barn animals remained in the large trailer. Hughie was just a little champ, content to sleep in his bed that he knew so well, even if it was in a barn that he could not see. He enjoyed french fries on the trip, and now in Maine he gets a banana each morning which he relishes, reminding me to relish my banana too.

Hughie is completely blind but he lives a wonderful little enchanted life. He is carried out to the garden in the morning, does his business and comes in and eats. Then he naps in one of his many day beds. At night he is lifted onto the couch to watch tv with us, and that is after he helps Martyn chop any vegetables for dinner. He has a sweet little call of 'Woo-woo" he does when he excited or happy. He is no pushover.

I would tell anyone who finds a blind dog that needs a home-don't turn away. They do not need your pity, they need you to see them as a possible wonderful addition to your family. They are resilient and have other senses that help them navigate. I have so many blind animals, and not one of them is a burden, each of them brings me joy and also reminds me that physical challenges in man or beast do not close the door to being a contributing member of a household.

I love you Hughie. I am so glad I am not pugless. I am so glad you are here with us.

A new book...White Dog as conduit...and not falling into the trap of the blog writer

White Dog sits alone in the morning
before the animals have been let out to the fields.

Back in 2015, before we decided to relocate the farm from Oregon to Maine, I had a pile of stories I was working on, and I kept going back and forth on working on them, not finishing any of them. When I look back now, it is clear there was a reason for that. All of those stories, as I wrote the words, and the images were in my head as I wrote, had the Oregon farm as backdrops. I couldn't finish them because they were stories that had not formed yet, had no where to go really, because my subconscious knew we weren't going to be there.

But I have kept going back to the story of White Dog, the creature that mysteriously appeared out of thin air, breaching our fences-the first animal to do that. Oddly, he was a Maremma, the same breed as the dog we had brought home six months earlier, Marcella. Maremma's are not a breed you see walking around everywhere, they are expensive if you want good breeding, and they are a dog that requires a job, as they are innately programmed to guard livestock, or whatever is in their domain that needs guarding. The fact he showed up out of nowhere, in bad condition–thin, curled toenails-made us surmise someone might have been following the blog, and dumped him there. The idea he would find our farm in a rural area, out of all the farms he could have gone, but this one also had a White Dog...it was a mystery, and it was magic. Nobody will ever really know, I guess. But the book will explore a them, that I won't share just yet, but it is a theme that I had scribble down some years ago, and when I saw it as I started reworking the White Dog story, I thought,

Man, he knew all along, I think, that this idea was important to me, and he somehow was part of that-a conduit for the story.

For the past couple months, since "Little Tulip" is finished [it will be arriving here Monday, and will be shipped out to all who have pre-ordered by mid month], I immediately began pondering my next book. I had the idea of doing three little books, that would slip inside a case, much like the Nutshell Library stories we had as children, I still have mine-Lyle the Crocodile, Pierre, and others. I got a bid on printing and the slip case is so expensive, and I worked on some ideas, but then White Dog just kept appearing in my head. I like to lay in bed in the morning-Martyn gets up at 5:30 and I usually linger for a good hour and a half-but I get a lot of creative things done in that time. So in the last month, I've been working on the White Dog book in bed, in my head.

And this week, I revisited the story I wrote, the beginning chapters, and I was spellbound. Okay, maybe that is egotistical, but I really felt drawn into it.

One thing I've started realizing-when you write a blog, and you are also sharing art, photos, brief snippets of pondering on social media, your best writing can get...taken over. I've seen this happen to some semi known blog writers with mid sized followings online who also have books-the writing becomes repetitive, and if they do have a book out, it feels more like a poorly edited [or not edited] blog. Don't get me wrong, blog writing is a craft, it is worthy and a wonderful medium for many, including myself, but there is a huge difference in writing a daily blog, and creating a book. A book has a rhythm, a flow from beginning to end. A blog is caught up in the immediate topic at hand, in 500+ words, with a catchy headline. Anyone who writes a regular blog knows, just like CNN or or any online magazine, that people respond to certain headlines and topics. I myself know I can pour my heart out into a well written piece on something that garners few comments online, but if I post about an animal dying the hits go way up. People seem to be attracted to stories of despair, shock, death...and baby donkey pictures. So blog writers can fall into the trap of unconsciously [or not] writing for the reaction, versus honing the writing.

I think I'm also entering a time of my life where, after 10+ years of writing, my goals as an online presence are shifting. My audience that is still following me has shifted too-in age and things they respond to. There is no better time for me to work on this book. A blog is sort of like a cocktail party, a book is much more like an intimate weekend at the sea.

White Dog knows this too. He is my main conduit right now, to the higher ideas in my head and heart.

Misfit faces...for you

We are $1138 away from making up for the cost of the hay we brought in that will get us through next spring. Hay is probably our most important thing, besides love...and water...and care...and loyalty....and time....and pasture maintenance....and fence maintenance...and hoof and feet trims....vacinations....did I mention time?

But it is time well spent.

This morning I sat in the barn, a light misty rain falling, sitting with Old Sophie, and the pig nearby covered in hay and snoring. It was so peaceful. I have found I am really settling in with the barns and land here, and I am taking more ten minute moments like this. I am scheduling myself so that, well, I don't have to rush, or rarely have to rush. I've done my rushing and am still capable of it if I have to be, but when you are rushed with animals, it always leads to chaos-because, well, they are not rushed.

I hope these images might bring you a momentary smile, and sense of peace, to help you along in your day.

I'll be giving away another print in the coming week-so anyone donating at least $20 will have their name put in a hat.

The Puppet pulls a name out of the hat

A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Jul 24, 2018 at 10:12am PDT

And the person taking home the art print is....Val King!

The Puppet gets a little long winded! Thank you to all who have helped replenish our fund by donating -we have raised $1812 of the $3000-that means we only need $1188 more-this money was used to bring in hay to get us through next spring-will be doing another print soon-Thank from all of us! You can still donate at the hay fund page, or here on the blog [or by check]. Anyone donating today and through next week might take home an art print, which I will pick soon.

When I'm old put me in the garden...please

I do not take my gardens for granted. I am graced by them, helped and soothed by them, delighted, surprised and never disappointed in them. And they are a requirement for my soul, I believe. What would happen if I could not have Nature and gardens meshed in my day? I don't want to dwell on that. I do think too many have become distracted to the point of not even noticing one flower in their daily life, or a the intricate details of a tree branch.

The elder visits I've been doing make me keenly aware of 'what might come". I also know many, including my parents, who lived their entire lives in their own homes, surrounded by things that gave them comfort, grounding and purpose. I don't have the answers for the aging population, not everyone can do that. It is a depressing thought to me to think of living in a place without Nature, without the ability to bend and touch Earth, and smell rain as the sky turns grey. Next week, weather permitting, Opie and I will travel an hour and a half to visit a small dementia home, on the sea, where Nature is a key point to how the residents live. They understand and value the actual past lives, and thoughts that go on in these people's heads, and they do not 'lock up the house'...rather, residents are allowed to go out when ever they want, and roam, with an attendant. The staff-to-patient ratio is set up so this can happen. They also allow pets, and have kept the pets on after residents die. Children were also raised in the house, mixing with the elders. I do not know the cost of the residence, but I assume it is pricey, and not all of us can afford this if our time comes to this. But it is heartening places like this exist.

If only the masses of elders and special needs could have facilities like this all over, at affordable prices, where they are treated as creatures versus patients put in a holding tank. Does it all come down to money? Or does it come down to the breakdown of the family system where multi-generations lived together and cared for one another. When someone was sick, or dying, the person was in the house. Children learned that grandpa had great stories and knew how to do a lot of cool things. My mother talked of this a lot, and told me many stories of the relative in the back room on their death bed-still listening to the sounds of the youngsters running about the house, smelling the scents wafting from the kitchen, hearing a familiar sound as simple as the screen door, the rooster, the dog, the mail truck.

I have always looked at my farm that way, a multi-generational community, sometimes birth is going on, sometimes death. How many times did I sit quietly with a dying matriarch of the sheep flock, while little lambs milked right near by? Those were spiritual moments, and I wish human death could always be like that–surrounded by the clan, familiar sounds and smells.

Gardens allow those of us prone to floating off [not always a bad thing] to stay grounded, right here on this realm where for now, we are supposed to be until we are not. When I die, I don't know what or where I will go, I think it will be something that meshes all the beauty of garden, animals, acceptance, safety and a feeling of worth into a skin of some kind, and maybe we won't even 'see' things, we will just be them and become of them, of their essence.

That is the privilege of having a garden, and land to work on-it allows you to become of it, without judgement. And when you do become of it, you reach your higher, calmer, less angry, less judgmental self-your higher being so to speak.