New life at the Old Dog House

Lessons I learned from Miss Mae as we hiked together on the first warm day of spring:

-        Fast is overrated.  Steady is much better.

-        Age can define you, but only if you let it.

-        Sometimes you climb to the top. Sometimes you find a shady spot and wait at the bottom.  Whatever you decide….own it.

We are headed uphill in a ponderosa pine forest halfway between Florissant and Guffey. The sun is warm. Pasque flowers poke through the blanket of dry, crisp pine needles on the ground.  The ground crackles and crunches with each footstep. 

I pull ahead of Miss Mae, then stop to watch her pick her way up a steep section of trail.  Short and stout, she wears her black coat like a comfortable, slightly rumpled housedress.   

We continue uphill, but when I turn around again to check on Mae, I see her make a decision – she’ll wait.  She doesn’t mind.  She’s got time.  She’s not going anywhere.

That’s a wise decision.  Miss Mae, a 12-year-old Schipperke, has the perfect home. As a resident of the Old Dog House, she lives in harmony with Sindy Andersen and a family of canines. All live together under one roof, in a comfortable cabin heated by the sun and powered by the wind.

Sindy and her partner Pam Carr started Old Dog House in 2004 as a non-profit rescue group - a safe place and forever home for dogs who had been abandoned, discarded, or traded in for newer models. Almost all are senior citizens (one is 17) with  typical senior maladies – cataracts, worn-out joints, thinning hair, some toothless grins.  But this group of oldsters doesn’t sit around talking about their ills.  Instead, they spend their days patrolling Sindy’s sprawling property in the mountains or staking out a patch of sunlight on the deck, always watchful for treats or the promise of a walk. 

Since its beginnings, Old Dog House was a way for Sindy and Pam to open their arms and hearts to dogs that needed them.  Their life running the rescue was good, allowing the pair of them to do what they loved, together.  But Pam died in March, 2012, and Sindy was left to care for their family, which today includes 25 dogs and two cats. 

Sindy’s house is warm and comfortable.  Natural wood walls showcase photos and paintings of dogs.  Fleece blankets and dog beds take up much of the floor space, and dogs sprawl on the furniture. 

On the day we hike, Miss Mae; Curtis, a brindle Staffordshire terrier; Murphy, a bearded collie; Ruger, a hulking black German shepherd, and several others poke happily through the forest, nosing new pincushion cacti and rolling in beds of kinnikinnick.  

As we climb, with Miss Mae waiting patiently below, we begin to get glimpses of the sky.  At the top of a rock outcropping, with snow-covered peaks glimmering in the distance, we find a boulder and sit for a while. 

The wind ruffles sun-bleached prayer flags that Sindy has strung from a twisted pine skeleton.  Curtis stretches, reaching toward the sun.  

It’s quiet here, peaceful, and the dogs seem to feel that peace.

We could, all of us, sit here all day, savoring the view and feeling the wind.  But down below, Miss Mae has turned around.  The others soon follow, heading for home.

(Click here to learn more about Old Dog House)

If life gives you swallows, watch them fly

Once upon a time, I was a journalist who loved animals.  Now I am an animal lover who used to be a journalist.

Life changes.  Things happen.  Butterflies are promised, but they don't show up.  Instead, there might be swallows.  

I’ll explain.   On a warm, windy day in July, 2009, I had one thing on my mind.  I wanted to take pictures of Monarch butterflies that (I had heard) were stopping by Fountain Creek Regional Park on their yearly migration.   My husband Mark was preoccupied in his studio, intently working on Bach inventions he would teach his bass guitar students.

So I loaded my camera equipment in my car and headed south to the park, which was blissfully quiet on a weekday morning.  The nature trail was empty except for an occasional bull snake undulating across the path.  The creek was quiet, too, with a lone great blue heron skimming the water.  I paused often, waiting for the magical butterflies to appear, but there were no flashes of orange and black.

I was disappointed – I had been told there were butterflies, I expected butterflies, and I couldn’t find butterflies.  But I kept walking, finding a rowdy gathering of cormorants and pelicans and, finally, unexpectedly, a flight of grinning swallow fledglings.

Their eyes were bright and curious, and they crowded the mud-and-sticks nest like it was a clown car.   As I took pictures of the unruly group, their mother dove at my head, letting me know she wasn’t pleased with my presence.

I took some pictures and moved on, and I didn’t think much about swallows again until two years ago.  I had other things on my mind.  A few months after my butterfly expedition, my husband was diagnosed with cancer, and in seven months, he was gone. 

Shortly after that, a longtime friend offered me a job at her business – a veterinary clinic.

Stunned by grief, I accepted her offer. I was grateful for the diversion and the chance to figure out my new life.

The clinic job had come up unexpectedly – like the swallows in the park.   I was wandering, looking for butterflies, and happened upon something totally different.   And the clinic allowed me to establish relationships with the best kind of people - animal lovers - and their pets.  

There was something else, too. My friend is a wildlife rehabilitator, so the clinic often has wild animals - squirrels, foxes, rabbits, raccoons, doves, pigeons, mice, and an occasional fawn or elk calf – rooming in a small cabin next door.  Sick, injured or orphaned, they are brought to the clinic for medical care.

One day, a wildlife officer arrived with a cardboard box of swallows.  They were just days old, and had been clubbed to the ground by a rancher cleaning nests off his buildings.  There were dozens of the tiny birds, all beaks and fuzz.    Some died right away. The survivors were divided among several rehabilitators and the clinic ended up with a dozen.  Under meticulous care, they thrived, and several of us pitched in to help satisfy their voracious appetites.  Live meal worms were the food of choice, and they required several hand feedings a day.

Soon they had feathers, and they crowded each other on a pine branch in their cage. Their bright chirping announced the beginning of each day.

Weeks later, they were flying around the cage and ready for a new home. We found a secluded pond nearby where they could feast on insects.   I was there when we opened their cage as the sun set behind the mountains one evening, and we watched as one by one, they flew away without looking back, swooping and diving with abandon.

We haven’t seen swallows at the clinic since then. Right now, there’s a flicker and a tiny red fox kit recovering from injuries.  In about a month, other springtime babies will be brought to us for our care. We never know what each day will bring.   We do know there will be sadness and happiness, heartbreak and hope.  That’s life.