Sometimes winter comes with a blast of cold that knocks a person almost breathless. Sometimes autumn turns into winter like melting chocolate, soft and easy. This year, winter came with bitter winds that made driving difficult. I write about winter’s arrival for a reason. While reading and studying some old diaries, I have noted how much space people devote to recording details about the weather of the day. I suppose people today do the same.
     Recently on a windy afternoon, a torn slip of paper blew into the yard and when I picked it up to toss into the trash can, I saw it was part of a list or note written by who knows who, or when, but the words jotted on the paper were:  “cold and dreary-- not a good day for planting.”  I put the paper in the trash and went on my way, only to think about the person who wrote that.
     We each have experienced cold and dreary days and times that were not good for planting. What was it that person was wanting to plant, I wondered—a vegetable or flower garden, perhaps an orchard of trees or a single ornamental bush. Who knows?
        A friend commented one idea of entertainment for him was to “people watch.”  He said he wonders who people are, where they’re going, what sort of lives they live, and what each does for a living.  “My son likes to give them names and even makes up details about each one’s lives,” he said.         His comment brought back a game I used to play with my son when he was a youngster. We’d see a man on the sidewalk or at a station store or beach, and we’d say, “There’s Vernon Batson.”  Vernon Batson was no person, and Vernon Batson was every person.
       Suffice it to say, a person’s imagination is a gift. It allows us to wonder, ponder, wish, and dream.    It reminds me of Emily Dickinson’s lines, “There is no frigate like a book.”  Our imaginations let us get acquainted with ourselves, with the Vernon Batsons of the world, and with  mysteries we often think about on rainy, cold, and  dreary days, --days that are not good for planting.
       I stayed up until midnight watching the George Tech vs. George football game the other night. It went into eight overtimes. Yes, I like a good football game.  I wonder why the nations of the world can’t settle their disputes and wars with a spirited competitive sporting event, football, soccer, basketball, hockey, or whatever. From what I gather from weather reports and the Farmer’s Almanac, there will be many cold dreary days this winter,-- days not good for planting. But I can imagine. And I can watch football and keep track of how my Amaryllis grows.  When I bought it at the hardware store, i saw Vernon Batson buying one too. 

     ​November has brought Americans many changes. Politically, the recent elections lead to a new wave of changes. Locally, in my hometown several old buildings have been or are being demolished, but at the same time new buildings are being built—a bank, a Dairy Queen, two car washing businesses, and several new restaurants.  Several on-going businesses are being revamped. It seems this little corner of Northeast Indiana is experiencing an economic boost. Even so, this is still a place where just outside our city limits there are farms and thriving agricultural enterprises.  I have always said Indiana comes into her own in the autumn of the year. I mean that sincerely, because the land and freshly ploughed fields are awash in the rich colors of harvest—tans, cigarette creams, russets, and browns of every shade.
      One notable change this month seems that Thanksgiving has been overlooked for Christmas commercialism.  Black Friday is near, but I had not expected Christmas in late fall. Sure enough, one day I was in the local drugstore amid Halloween masks and scary spooky gewgaws, and lo, and behold I spied a Christmas tree in the corner.  Sure enough, the next day, Christmas décor was everywhere. The stores downtown were decorated. The Courthouse sported candles in every window. The street department people were busy putting up the Christmas lights, and the local parks were featuring the Christmas displays and exhibits.
        Change is here, and I must be ready for it.  In my circle of friends, there have been several deaths.   It is also jarring to learn that another friend has been placed in hospice.   There is nothing permanent in life except change. Change and God’s grace, mercy, and love.  If Christmas can be seen in November, then this Christmas message can be expressed now as well.  And so, with Thanksgiving here, I am thankful for the changes that make us stronger and more perspective.
        I value my blessings and grieve for those who have no electricity, water, and deal with flooding. I have food to eat, a home that is warm, and a church where I worship.  I am fortunate to have family I hold dear, and so this November, with Christmas around the corner, I am thankful for Thanksgiving.  I wish for each reader of this short blog, a happy, safe, and blessed Thanksgiving. May you have food to eat, football to watch, family to give you hugs, shelter to keep you warm, and some projects to keep you challenged and engaged.  And maybe, just maybe, you still can enjoy a little remnant of Halloween—perhaps a black cat--- or if not a soft cat with a sweet or crazy name that will look you in the face and purr with pure pleasure. And, if you’re like some of my friends and relatives without cats but have  dogs and other pets, enjoy their love and loyalty. Happy Thanksgiving, and if at all possible, embrace change. I am going to try a new recipe. That'll be a change for me.  

     An advertisement from Hallmark Cards showed an elderly woman having to discard her stack of treasured cards.  It was an effective ad, and it resonated with lots of people who treasure and save cards they receive with birthday wishes, thinking of you sentiments, and expressions of sympathy, not to mention Christmas cards, congratulations, and thank you notes.  Recently while going through cards that have been stashed on my bookshelves and in desk drawers, I waxed a bit sentimental.  It wasn’t so much the printed messages that I considered; it was signatures.  Each signature reminded me of someone special.  In my mind’s eye I could see that person, remembered our relationship, and mused over the event that caused that person to purchase a card, address it, stamp it, and mail it – to me!
     My mother’s handwriting was neat and even. I would recognize it anywhere.  My father’s signature was more distinctive and dominant.  He used a special fountain pen engraved with his initials. I inherited the pen.  It is safely secured, but it reminds me that in my desk drawer are a number of Easterbrook fountain pens, along with a bottle of ink. I don’t use any of them, but maybe I should.  It might be fun to see those pens still work. But I digress.  The cards from my siblings have their signatures, which I would recognize anywhere. Each one had a distinctive style.
     A signature reveals a great deal about a person’s personality, attitude, and outlook about self and life. Handwriting specialists can identify traits such as ambition, laziness, optimism, depression, and even tendencies toward criminality or integrity. I had a friend who was a certified handwriting specialist, and she was a consultant to a number of large companies that used her expertise in their hiring processes.  She and I had “a field day” discussing the signatures of a number of notables and celebrities.  A few years before she died, she did a fun analysis of my then young children’s signatures.  She also found that I had a peculiar loop dealing with the letter “I,” as in “Indiana” that she said she “had never seen before.”   She asked me to practice the letter “I,” and yes, I did diligently work to improve my wayward way.
     While going through some books, I came across the signature of one of my favorite teachers. She was an English teacher and I also would recognize her signature anywhere. It had a funny little loop to it, which probably would have given my handwriting specialist friend a fit.  Anyway, my teacher’s name was Meta. In her neat but loopy handwriting she punished my lack of understanding about her assignments, especially diagramming sentences (something we had to do back then).   
     Several years after I graduated, I visited her. She was retired but sharp.  I told her I was sorry I didn’t measure up to her standards relative to diagramming sentences.  She sighed, took in a deep breath, then said, “I thought you just had a different point of view about those sentences.”  She made me happy when she told me she enjoyed having me as a student. She was busy decluttering her library and  handed me a book from her shelf.  The other day, I came across that book with her name in it.  I took time to leaf through it. Oh my, it was The Anatomy of Literature. I’ve never read the book, but I keep it because of her signature. That’s the way it is:  cards, letters, and now a textbook? I have got to get a grip. 

     September brings memories and experiences dealing with school.  September and the start of a new school year brought out in me and my friends a sense of being able to finally do well.  No matter how the previous year went, the new start made us feel certain the next would be better.
     School today is a different experience. The lessons I prepared then would now be viewed as obsolete, old –fashioned, or naïve. I have had some good times in the classroom, but some memories do dwell on awkward or uncomfortable times. One I recall is that when I was going into the ninth grade, which was the first year in the high school building in our town, I worried about what to wear. My mother, a talented seamstress, made a blouse for me to wear on the first day.  The fabric was yellow like a sunflower, and she had embroidered a design using dark brown thread along the edge of the sleeves.  It was lovely, but I worried about wearing it.  After all, how was I to know what the “town girls” would be wearing?
     My homeroom teacher, Ms. Owens, was a long-time and well- respected teacher. She supported rules!  She demanded excellence! She had no sense of humor! Students entered the classroom and timidly sat at attention while she instructed us on the rules.  She talked about taking up lunch money. She introduced us to the behavior she expected now that we were in high school.  Then, she showed us the textbooks we were to use. Back then we “rented” our textbooks. Okay, as she picked up one after another, she said, and “This book with the yellow cover,”  then horror of horrors, she pointed to me, “the color of her blouse, is the one we’ll be using the most.”  With that comment, I nearly died.
     Throughout the years, I have been cognizant of students’ anxieties. Whether or not a person fits in means a great deal. Commerce depends on these emotions, and thus “going back to school sales” focus on what’s going to be “in” in fashion, backpacks, electronics, and the like.  “Keeping up with the Jones” starts earlier in grade school, but it blossoms mightily in high school. Fortunately, social media and the internet have made it easier for students to be individualistic. Unfortunately, social media and the internet and phones have made it more difficult for students to be sociable.
     But Ms. Owens turned out to be the first teacher who saw my interest in writing. She was a member of a local garden club, and the six garden clubs in the area together sponsored a scholarship to a conservation camp. Goodness knows why but she asked me to  write a short essay as to why I might like to go to camp. I had never been to any camp. I didn’t know what people did at camp, much less a conservation  camp. There were many applications, but I won the scholarship.  I went to camp. I loved camp. I even loved conservation camp.  I became a regular. I went back as a counselor many years thereafter. One thing I was required to do that first year was to give a talk to the district meeting of garden clubs. That experience in the ninth grade led to many successes thereafter, especially in the areas of scriptwriting, speaking, teaching, and writing professionally. That September was one I don’t forget. 

     For the wonderful people who follow my blog, I have a confession to make. August has been difficult for me.  I can’t gather my thoughts sufficiently to write an intelligent essay. (From where did the term “blog” originate?) At any rate, as a political junkie, thanks to broadcasters such as Paul Harvey and Walter Cronkite during my youth and the internet today, it’s hard to keep track of the constantly changing scenarios of the Trump- Vance campaign and the Harris-Walz campaign, much less, assassination attempts, the weaponization of the DOJ, the ongoing conflicts in the Ukraine-Russian war, and the Oct. 7th massacre in Israel.      How is a person to make sense of it all?

     So in this short blog instead, I will talk about zucchini bread, tomatoes, and a surprise email I received.  Recently I was gifted with a large zucchini.  I decided, along with my daughter who was visiting from NC, to attempt to make zucchini bread.  We had never made zucchini bread so we studied some recipes and decided on one that did NOT call for nuts because her son, my illustrious and finest grandson is allergic to nuts.  (He’s my only grandson.) The zucchini bread turned out to be okay. It wasn’t memorable, but it hit the spot. I since have received another zucchini, so last week I used the same recipe but modified it. I used coconut oil for the shortening, added raisins and nuts, and watched it carefully while baking. It was delicious. I gave half of the loaf to a friend who had relatives visiting. I gave my neighbor a thick slice. We kept the rest, and I must say, I am now inspired to make it again. But I refuse to purchase a zucchini. I will wait until someone gifts me one. After all, don’t they proliferate about this time when people try to get rid of them?  I’ll wait.

    The second note is the matter of tomatoes. Is there anything tastier than tomatoes that have the burst of sunshine in them? That’s the way a friend of mine described Indiana homegrown tomatoes. She moved to Texas and said she missed the Indiana tomatoes as much as anything. Goodness, they are good, especially in sandwiches, salads, and in stir-fry vegetables. I freeze some to have during the winter. My basil plant gives a good supply of leaves, so with the tomatoes and basil, I am set. That in itself is happiness. But, I do remember tomatoes in the Carolinas  being just as tasty. I think it has to do with home.
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     The third matter to mention is I recently received notice via an email that one of my plays that I submitted to a contest earlier this year has passed the first reading and has moved on to a second round for judging.   It makes me happy to know that from the hundreds of submissions (I’m guessing), my play got a nod.  I count on nothing more, but if, yes, IF, it moves to another round, I will surely let you know.  I hope by September, I will have enough time and energy and brain-power to make sense of all that’s going on these days. Enjoy the rest of the summer!

     For longer than a week our part of the country was under what weather people call a “heat dome.”  The temperature soared; the humidity was terrible. Employers made sure workers were provided plenty of water. Cities opened shelters. Most people stayed indoors.  We are fortunate to have air conditioning so staying indoors was not difficult, although I longed to be outside to garden. So I allowed thistles to grow another foot taller and weeds to spread.  The lawn turned brown.  On one of those days about five in the afternoon, the temperature was in the upper 90s, but my good husband wandered outside.  After about ten minutes, I wondered about his hereabouts so went to find him.  I could not find him.
     Neighbors joined in the search. The heat was intense, and I knew something bad had happened. We called the police. To make a long story short, some people found him. He was seven blocks away from home, disoriented, and suffering.  He was flushed, shaking, and didn’t know where he was.  He was taken to ER.
      Hospital personnel told me they were overwhelmed that evening with people being brought in with heat-stroke symptoms.  Fortunately, my husband was discharged the next day after being thoroughly checked.  It was good to have him home again, and fortunately, the heat lessened. Summer activities resumed at a more normal rate.  The reason I tell this story is to emphasize the importance of staying hydrated.  
      I recall Coleridge’s line in the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, “Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”  Poets, writers, and artists have repeatedly tried to capture the nuances of water, whether it be a peaceful lake scene, the turbulence of a swirling ocean, or water from the faucet.     
       Water is mysterious. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “The water understands/ Civilization well,/It wets my foot, but prettily,/ It chills my life, but wittily,/ It is not disconcerted,/ It is not broken-hearted./ Well used, it decketh joy, /Adorneth, doubleth joy:/ Ill used, it will destroy, / In perfect time and measure/ With a face of golden pleasure/Elegantly destroy.”
       Emily Dickinson had a better view in “Summer Shower.”  She says, “A drop fell on the apple tree, / Another on the roof, / A half a dozen kissed the eaves,’ and made the gables laugh.
     For artists such as Monet, Hockney, Constable, or Hambleton, seascapes and water have become enduring themes. According to biblical teachings, (Gen. 1:1-2) water was created when the Spirit of God hovered over the surface of the formless material described in Day 1.
      Water refreshes, revitalizes, causes flora and fauna to flourish.  Up to 60% of our bodies is made up of water. H2O is vital. On average, the blood is about 51% water. Water, water, and more water! The body needs it. The body demands it. If not present, the body goes into delirium and confusion. Dehydration symptoms included fatigue, weakness, dizziness, and lightheadedness. No matter the heat index, stay hydrated!
 

     In two years Americans will celebrate the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.  It has been suggested that during the next year or so people do something to bring attention to this event, perhaps locally and/or individually. One suggestion is that people read the Declaration of Independence, a document signed in 1776, by the founding fathers.  For community, university, or professional theaters interested in staging a spectacular celebration, the information on the following website; https://liberty-calls.com might fit the bill. “Liberty Calls” is the title of the play, a musical actually, that a friend of mine wrote. It was performed some time ago, and photos of that production are posted on the website.

     But enough about the future. The current state of affairs in our nation makes me remember the song “America the Beautiful.”  On a recent drive through the countryside to meet up with a friend, I was astounded at the beauty spread before me. Fields had been ploughed and planted, flower beds were spilling iris (we used to call them “flags”) and bright peonies and in pastures, fillies and colts were nuzzling.  Spring was truly here. My relative who lives in Texas states it’s like summer there already. Heat waves aside, some parts of the North still have snow, but here in the Midwest, it’s primavera!  This means in my yard, weeds have taken over every inch of my flower beds.  The herd of deer have smacked away the buds of various plants, but there is nothing, but nothing, like the warmth of a sunny time in a park, which is just what my husband and I did two days ago. With one and a half hour to spare, we enjoyed the beauty of a glorious day with a walk around a lake, lunch on a clean park picnic table, and weather that was extra fine.

      Reality rushed in, however, that same day as we learned from a friend that his car had been stolen. Then we learned that in another part of the state, our son’s passenger rear tire had been stolen. Then we learned that another friend came out of his place of business to find the muffler had been stolen off his car. Then our newspaper arrived, and on the front page was news about a 21 year old in our town who had stabbed a 17 years old.  The fight was over electronic cigarettes and a marihuana and their disagreement over the purchase price of $390.  The 17 year old died. The 21 year old will likely spend his life in prison. Alas, is America the land of liberty and freedom or is it sinking under a crime wave where high prices lead some to steal and others to cry?

      Life is a see-saw of emotions, leading one to search for solutions. Consider, the 1958 hit song, written by David Seville, that rescued Liberty Records from financial difficulties. The singer asks a witch doctor for advice about a romantic situation, and the doctor replies with a gibberish line: Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla bing-bang, oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla bang-bang. Here we are in need not for gibberish but for what liberty calls for:   Oh beautiful for heroes proved/In liberating strife/Who more than self, / their country loved/And mercy more than life…  Somehow I almost can hear Ray Charles at his piano.

     According to the news, the world is in crisis and people have their “hair on fire.”  My dilemmas are insignificant in comparison but let me mention three situations I’ve recently experienced.   

     Imagine my surprise when I received a letter from Dow Jones in early March informing me that as of April, I would no longer receive the printed newspaper. I would be transferred to a “digital” subscription.  I called Customer Service. I protested. 

     For most of my adult life, I have read the Wall Street Journal.  As a political science minor in college, I became a political junkie so found it interesting to keep up with the domestic political landscape. Early in my career, I taught geography, civics, and social studies, and the newspaper helped me with some of my work.  Later in my career, it became important to read book and theater reviews.  Even later, we took the paper for the office.  It became a habit.  I often shared news clippings with family and friends, often snipping articles or the “Salt & Pepper” cartoon.  At Thanksgiving and at Christmas, it was usual to enjoy Vermont Royster's articles, which they run every year.

     I was told that the Wall Street Journal could no longer be delivered in my Zip Code.  The person explained it was a matter of “not having a carrier.”  I explained my newspaper came by US postal service.  Let me investigate this, the person said.  Later, I was told again that no one in my Zip Code would be receiving the newspaper in print form.  That was final. Moreover, there were places in other states facing the same situation. To make a long story short, I cancelled my subscription.  I was contacted again and asked if I wanted to re-subscribe. They offered a special rate. The paper would be in digital form.  No. So, I read local papers, which are getting so thin they barely qualify.  Americans now rely on the internet, social media, and podcasts.  Very little is “in-depth.” Much is from Associated Press ad nauseam.

     So, I went out to do some gardening and discovered some foul smelling things in the mulch. It looked like sprouting red snakes coming up from a nest of oval white eggs.  Snakes?  Salamanders?  Lizards? These looked like they had died in the sun. The smell was horrid.  Naturally I did my research. The answer is: Stinkhorn Mushrooms!  I dithered about the matter, then decided I would dig them all up and seal them in a bag and toss them in the garbage. I think I got all the “witches eggs.”  (That’s what they are called.)  I certainly learned about fungi.   Just ask me!  I’ll refer you to the internet!

     On top of that, Sheba has taken to sitting on the deck railing just below two birdhouses.  Finally, after not having any Carolina wrens last year, a couple came this year chirping and a-chattering. Sheba studies them studiously, and I don’t know how to warn them.  The birdhouses were placed there before we acquired the cat.  To make matters worse, another  cat – I call him “Shades”-- wandered through and also parked himself on the railing to study the birds.  While I was watching last evening, a raccoon came up on the deck to peer inside.  I love living here, but there is much commotion. Wild turkeys traipse across the back yard, and we have deer. They nibble everything in our garden on a regular basis. No roses. No pretty flowers here. The hedges remind me of green toothpicks. 
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     Perhaps I should forget all this, watch the Kentucky Derby, and let the dandelions blow.  All these little dilemmas are insignificant, but they do make life interesting.

My son, a fine writer who usually writes about sports or business matters, wrote a brief essay to entertain me about our cat Sheba. With a bit of editing, I will share some of what he wrote:

“About a year ago, a well filled-out black cat started showing up on my parents back deck. Initially it was believed this feline was just another one of the neighboring cats making its rounds throughout the floodplain over which our deck overlooks. Given that this part of the woods represents a universal passageway / proven hunting grounds for a variety of critters, it was no surprise to see a new cat.  There has been harmony amongst the cats in the neighborhood. Most go out of their way to maintain an air of independence by proactively staying out of each other's way, but every now & then, a border dispute breaks out -usually around the break of dawn! That is when we hear a cacophony of sounds never intended to be heard by man!

“Over the years, a select few cats have made their way out of the woods and into our lives. To these ambitious & ubiquitous types, my parents would assign names like 'Gratz' (inspired by a local body shop), 'Tux', 'Shades', and 'Pierre'. I even recall my father naming one after Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. The poor feline had to live up to the modified 'cat friendly' moniker: 'Benjamin Netan"Meow" Hu'. (I'll admit, tt rolls off the tongue.)

"My parents recently warmed up to a black cat visitor & call her 'Sheba'. By all accounts, Sheba is now officially part of the family. This new union was fostered, however, under false pretenses.

"As winter fell last year, Sheba appeared rounder and rounder with each passing day. It was soon believed that Sheba was expecting. So sure of this inevitability, my mother started making arrangements for Sheba's big day. Interested parties were offered first dibs on the yet-to-be-delivered kittens - temporarily named: 'A', 'B','C', & 'D'. We even guessed the number of mews that would eventually emerge from Sheba's ever-widening belly. As this process developed, my mother accepted responsibility, & a bond between them developed.

“The announcement of Sheba's likely pregnancy was met with increasing skepticism when after multiple months of increasing roundness, there were still no signs of 'A', 'B', 'C', or 'D'. My sisters and I did the math and quickly debunked Sheba's state of being. We compared & ultimately disavowed  my mother's  belief. Tthe average pregnancy of a cat  is  around 65 days (per Google).

“We finally accepted that Sheba was just a little plump. Even so, my mother wanted to get that crafty cat to the  nimal Care Clinic not only for initial shots and to be spayed, but for a final ruling. After all if Sheba weren't pregnant, then why did she look like she had 'swallowed a soccer ball?   Sheba did not want any part of this. Despite standing on four short legs, Sheba proved that she could outwit, out-squirm, & outthwart all attempts to get her into a carrier.. After 2 broken appointments, my mother called the Clinic for advice. They reassuringly said, 'If & when you can get her here, we'll fit her in.'
 
“After my last visit home, my task was to help find a way of getting Sheba in the carrier and to the vets.”
         My Update:
Before he left, my son decided to pick up Sheba and “talk with her.”  She cuddled up in his arms, and before we knew it, he was in the car holding the cat. No carrier whatsoever! 
With the aid of a friendly assistant who came out to the car to help transport Sheba through the Clinic's front door -(It took all hands on deck), we finally realized success!  Sheba was now in good hands! No trouble.  She would be spayed the next morning.
 
The next day, the vets called. They said they shaved her abdomen to prepare her to be spayed and “found a tattoo there.... the 'universal symbol' of having been spayed.  We could take Sheba home!” They also mentioned "she could stand to lose a little weight."  As an indoor/outdoor cat, perhaps she's eating  somewhere and/or perhaps she is  just on the fat side-- as some cats are. After all our anxiety and work preparing for kittens, Sheba snookered us! 

  Animals have minds of their own. I should know. My cat Sheba held court with 5 young deer the other day. She was on a stump in the back yard and the deer stood around the stump checking her out.  Their courtship didn’t last long. The deer scuttled away, and Sheba moved to other places, no doubt to search for a chipmunk.  But I digress. After a time of waiting for an appointment to have Sheba spayed, we woke, had breakfast, and then tried to coax her into the cat carrier.
     No luck. Sheba would NOT get into the carrier or a box even enticed with deli ham.  We tousled... she scratched... I pushed.... she's strong.... I coaxed... she batted ... she's smart... she knew that carrier wasn't the place she wanted to go. I tried a sturdy box. Not so. I put on gloves and tried to pick her up and put her in. She squirmed, twisted, pushed back... she's very strong. I couldn't get her in. We’ve rescheduled with the vets. Felines and friends! That’s the end of the story for now. Alas!  
      But I am fortunate. I have friends. Friends who care about how things are going with this cat. How things are going with me. With my family. It’s a good feeling, and I appreciate their interest. The older I become, the more I realize relationships are all that matter. A pastor I once had the privilege to know explained that very truth.
      People love their dogs, birds, and pets, probably more than they love some family members. The pet industry is thriving like crazy. North America is the largest pet care market globally, but Europe is close behind. Americans spend around 136.8 billion on pet products. According to APPA, in 2021 the pet industry crossed the $100 billion sales mark. The following year, the spending record was $235.32  billion. The current trend now is in the area of pet nutrition. When I did research (internet) on this, I learned the industry is diverse. We think of dogs and cats, but the pet market ranges from fish to monkeys, turtles, and reptiles, not to mention exotic animals. People develop good relationships with their pets so it’s no surprise that services such training, walking, pet-sitting, and grooming are in demand. Evenf my granddaughter had a dog-walking service when she was seven. I believe she had two dogs. It gave her a chance to learn something about business. 
      Who cannot sigh when remembering books such as Where the Red Fern Grows or Old Yeller, as well as other memorable classics such as Call of the Wild. Certainly the matter of getting Sheba acclimated to our house will lead to an interesting relationship. As the
writer George Eliot (1818-1890) said, “Animals are such agreeable friends—they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.” 
     It seems strangely appropriate to close this essay with a tribute to one of the most passionate of animal lovers, Neil Case, who died two weeks ago at the age of 93. He was in the writing group to which I belong. He was a regular columnist for a 4-county newspaper for years, often detailing and answering questions about animals, birds, groundhogs, dogs, horses—you name it. No doubt he could have helped me corral Sheba!