User Posts : Bakersfield.com

Cat Torture Case Shocks Tehachapi

When Kara Hesbon’s three-year-old tabby cat, Teagan, came home on Friday evening, she was a different kitty.

At least, that was what Kara and her friend, Jamie, thought at first glance. But upon looking closer, they realized that the poor, brutalized animal they had let into the house was in fact Kara’s beloved kitty. Teagan (pronounced TAY-gan) was, as the vet later described it, “really beat up”. Her soft fur had been not so much shaved as hacked off, and numerous cuts to her skin gave testament of the visciousness that was behind it. Her left ear and eye were swollen beyond their natural shape. But most horrifying were the deep, seeping burns in Teagan’s skin, and the residual odor of the lighter fluid that had been employed to set the poor cat afire. Whoever had vented their hatred and rage on Teagan had wanted nothing more than to inflict pain, and perhaps death, upon a helpless animal that had done nothing to deserve such cruelty. It has been said that a person’s true nature is shown in how they treat small animals. If that is the case, this individual is black and rotten all the way to the bone marrow.

Kara and Jamie stayed up all night with the suffering cat. Unfortunately, since there is not an emergency vet in town, they were forced to wait until Tehachapi Veterinary Hospital opened the next morning to get Teagan to a vet. “The people in the vet’s office were shocked when they saw her,” Kara said tearfully. “They had never seen anything so horrible done to a cat here in Tehachapi.”

Yes, here, in Tehachapi, a small, friendly town where most people live idyllic lives and watch as the news reports things like this happening elsewhere. In other cities, dogs get hogtied and dumped in empty lots to die, or they are beaten with golf clubs and blinded, and cats get duct-taped and tortured, or locked inside abandoned houses to await their slow, agonizing demise. But those things don’t happen in Tehachapi, do they?

Just ask Kara and Jamie. Or look into Teagan’s pain-filled eyes and ask her. She knows better. She’s seen firsthand that there are cruel, unfeeling people in Tehachapi, too.

Venting one’s hatred or rage upon a defenseless animal is one of humankind’s most unconscionable acts. Deliberate torture of those smaller than oneself is viewed as the most cowardly, unforgivable act anyone can commit. Even in prisons, those who have victimized children and animals are viewed as the lowest of the low, worthy of the worst possible treatment by other inmates. Crimes of cruelty and torture against animals should always be considered felonies, especially considering that they often escalate to acts that are even more heinous. It is a scientific fact that those who victimize children often started their careers of cruelty by torturing small animals first. And these “inhuman humans” are everywhere, in every town, in every neighborhood.

To date, Teagan’s vet bill is nearly four hundred dollars. Treatment and medication for her second- and third-degree burns will continue to pile on more expenses that Kara, a single medical assistant in her early twenties, can ill afford. But the cost to Teagan is even more devastating. She will never look the same. Where she once had soft, fluffy fur, she will be left with a patchwork of bald scars that will never fully fade. Her ears and left eye will remain misshapen. And her personality may never recover. Before her injuries, she was a sweet kitty with an open, friendly disposition. She trusted humans because she had never been given a reason not to do so. But animals have long memories. Her opinion of people could understandably be forever altered. In instances of animal torture, a permanent change in the animal’s disposition is unfortunately, quite common. And sadly, many of these tortured animals must later be euthanized or quarantined by their owners because they can no longer be trusted around people.

Several years ago, Wes and Raydene Harris’ Newfoundland puppy, Tyler, became the focus of a dispute between neighbors. In retaliation for this dispute, their neighbor went into their backyard and poured acid over the big, friendly puppy. Tyler was not even one year old, and unfortunately had no fear of strangers; he probably thought that his tormentors, like other visitors to his home, had entered his yard to play with him. His injuries were extensive, requiring surgery and hundreds of sutures to close. And Tyler was never the same. Where he had been a happy, loving dog before the attack, he became distrusting and quiet. At his adult weight of nearly two hundred pounds, Tyler could no longer be trusted around strangers, most especially young men. Locks were attached to the backyard gates to prevent strangers from entering and being attacked. And when the Harris’ four-year-old granddaughter accidentally tripped over him, Tyler, once so playful and tolerant with their grandchildren, snapped at her, drawing blood. Not wanting to put their beloved pet to sleep, the Harris’s were forced to keep him locked away from visitors. “Sometimes I wish the guy who did this to Tyler would come back into the yard,” Wes said later. “He’d definitely remember that jerk, and he’d tear him apart.”

But for now, Teagan retains her sweet disposition. Even in her pain, upon returning from the vet, Teagan cautiously came out of her carrier and rubbed her unburned cheek against a visitor’s hand, wanting love and affection, and perhaps reassurance that all humans are not monsters. How anyone could do something so vicious to such a sweet animal is beyond comprehension. Hopefully, Teagan will remain a friendly, loving cat to her friends and her devoted owner. But Kara says she now plans on keeping Teagan indoors after her recovery. Some people in Tehachapi, it turns out, cannot be counted on to act like civilized humans.

The investigation into Teagan’s torture is ongoing. If anyone has information on the individual(s) that committed this heinous crime, please contact Deputy Sheriff Kevin Kimmel at 823-6061. Also, any donations to help with Teagan’s veterinary expenses are most welcome, and can be directed to Tehachapi Veterinary Hospital. Just tell them it’s for Teagan; they will remember her well.

I'm Still Kicking...Thanks to Mom and Dad

This has been a very difficult year for my family, one of the hardest I can remember. Not only was my husband injured at work, requiring surgery and six months’ disability, but I myself was hit with a debilitating illness which rendered me housebound for three months and left me with permanent, severe headaches. To make matters worse, soon after he returned to work, my husband lost his job. Mildly stated, it has been a challenge to come up with anything to be thankful for in this tremendously trying time. Still, I am reminded that, as bad as things seem for us, there are many who are in sadder circumstances. And so, this Thanksgiving, I continue to relish the fact that we still have a wonderful, happy home to celebrate Thanksgiving in. I love the fact that I have a sweet mother-in-law who not only loves her son, but who doesn’t believe that I have three sixes tattooed on my body somewhere. I am grateful for my delightful, adoring husband, my oldest boy, and my two stepchildren, all who give me a reason to live every day when I thought, after the death of my youngest child several years ago, I would never really want to live again. And there is one other thing I have realized I am unique to still have at my age. In my mid (okay, late) forties, I am fortunate to have both my wonderful parents living. Nearly everyone I know, my husband included, has lost at least one of their parents. Many have lost both by the time they reach my age. Not only are my parents living, they are still happily married; they will celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary next September.

My parents have seen me through many things throughout my life: drugs in high school, terrible marriages and divorce, single parenthood and poverty, and the death of my beloved son, my father’s own namesake. And remarkably, not only do they still love me, which many people consider something required of parents, but they really seem to like me, too. Even when I find it difficult, if not impossible, to like myself, my mom and dad really do. This is something that picks me up and keeps me going quite often, even as I battle depression and alcoholism, battles that will continue my entire life. My mother remains my closest friend; my father is still the daddy every little girl wishes they had, the one I am lucky enough to call my own. But even someday when my mom and dad are no longer there, I will always remember that they were there, that they always will be, right beside me, cheering me on. For now, they are both still here. Unfortunately, they live in another state, and will not be with us for this Thanksgiving. We do, however, plan on spending Christmas with them. If things don’t look up soon in the employment department for us, we may eventually be moving back in with them. So much for the empty nest.

New Babies

Several weeks ago, just before we moved into our new house, a friend of mine asked for a favor. She had been feeding a young cat who was the sole survivor of a litter that some heartless cretin had thrown into the creek behind her house. She noticed that this kitty, smaller than the other ferals she was feeding, seemed to be picked on quite a bit by the other cats. She also seemed more tame, and my friend was able to coax her into being touched. "Can you take this kitty and find a home for her?" my friend asked. I said I would try, and the next day she brought the kitty to my office. The first thing I noticed about the kitty was that she was absolutely gorgeous, with fluffy, solid black fur and huge gold eyes. The next thing I noticed, a short time later, was that my new rescue kitty was pregnant.

It is possible to spay a pregnant queen, but I just can't bring myself to do it. And so we watched as the kitty got bigger every week. We named her Snoopy, since she never met a cabinet or closet that did not need exploring. Snoopy's little belly grew to the point that it nearly brushed the floor, and it had to be as big around as she was long. I began to worry, since she is a small kitty and I have had petite queens who had difficulty delivering their kittens. But I underestimated this kitty.

Saturday night, Snoopy started acting like she was ready to deliver. She meowed frequently, and her meows had a different quality than her usual soft voice. She tried desperately to open the closet door in my dressing room. Ready for a long night, I took a pillow and blanket into the dressing room and prepared for a kittening vigil. I managed to stay awake until four a.m., but nothing had happened yet, and I fell asleep. It was seven thirty when I jolted up, looking for Snoopy. I found her in my closet, two kittens nursing, and a third, still encased in the amniotic sac, cold as ice. I was devastated; I had left her, and a kitten had died as a result. I picked up the cold kitten, wrapped it in a wash cloth and held it, with the intention of burying it later. But to my shock, the dead kitty let out a meow! I pulled the membranes away and ran a sink of warm water, and then immersed the cold kitten in the water up to its neck. After a couple minutes in the warm water, the kitty began to move. I dried him and placed him with his mother, who started licking his face, as if to say, "Oh, I thought you were gone! Glad to see you, son!"

I watched and helped, when I could, as Snoopy delivered two more kittens. I had been concerned about her young age and inexperience, but she cared for her babies expertly, as if she were an older, more experienced queen. I was thankful that I'd acquired her early, and that she'd had time to know me. She trusted me completely, and only became agitated when anyone other than myself or my husband entered the dressing room.

As I write, the kittens are two days old and thriving. Snoopy dislikes the isolation, having become accustomed to sleeping with us at night and having a morning cuddle before we left for work. She is a wonderful mama, and her babies promise to be every bit as beautiful as she is. When they are old enough, they will be up for adoption, as will Snoopy. Alas, I can't keep them all, and when they are adopted, I will be doing a lot of crying. But that is part of pet rescue. As a rescuer, we go into it knowing that we cannot keep every foster that we care for, and that with every one who is adopted goes a little piece of our heart. But still, we do it, always with the hope that the families who adopt our babies will love them as much as we do.

Stay tuned for updates, and more photos of Snoopy and her babies.

Saviors for a tiny kitten

On November 11th, at about 930 AM, I was preparing to turn right from Oak Street onto Rosedale/178, when I saw something that caused me to bite my knuckles so hard that I drew blood. A tiny black kitten was racing, terrified, between cars in the congested intersection, trying desperately to get out of the road to safety. I saw the poor little baby nearly become road pizza four times before I was able to park my car on the roadside, jump out and run into the road after him. To the credit of the other drivers on the street, most had slowed or stopped in an effort to avoid the kitten. I realized I was a much larger target to avoid, and hoped that if they had not seen the kitten, at least they couldn't miss seeing me. Still, my heart pounded as I chased after the little black furry racer.

Now, while this may sound insane to most people, this is nothing unusual for me. I have been doing pet rescue for years, primarily cats, and I have no qualm about crawling into sticky situations when the life of a pet is in jeopardy. I've shimmied inot drainpipes and I've even been known to climb ladders and scale roofs despite the fact that I am terrified of heights. But I realize that not everyone would go to these lengths for an animal, and especially one they do not know. On this particular morning, however, I was surprised. I was not the only one who was running into the intersection. A gentleman and a young lady were with me, and they actually reached the kitten before I did. When I finally caught up, the kitten had jumped into the wheel well of a stopped car, and he was sitting on top of the tire. The man and the lady were attempting to pull the kitten out, but he had his tiny claws glued to the rubber, and it was not easy to move him. I reached in and helped extricate him, and together the three of us pulled him to safety. I cradled him against me, and I could feel his little heart racing in terror. He couldn't have been more than five weeks old.

"He's really tiny," the lady noted. "What can we do with him?" the young man asked. I told them that I was an animal rescue volunteer, and that I would take the kitten with me; he would not have to go to the pound. Relieved, they bid me farewell and returned to their respective cars as I carried the kitten to mine. Wrapping him in my sweartshirt, his face protruding so he could see and breathe, I placed him on the back seat and drove home.

That was over three weeks ago, and I am happy to report that the little black kitten is doing wonderfully. I took him to our vet, who treated him for worms and informed me that the kitten was indeed less than five weeks old when we rescued him. That makes him about eight weeks old now. He is playful and affectionate and so much fun. I named him Indy. I am not sure if that is for Indiana Jones or the Indy 500; I think both fit him well. I have often thought of the kind lady and gentleman who stopped to help little Indy, and I've wished I could contact them to offer my thanks for their consideration for a tiny animal in desperate need. I'm sure they wonder how their rescue effort turned out, and so I hope they read this and know that Indy is thriving and ready for a forever home. He is safe with me until his new family finds him. If anyone is interested in adopting Indy, I can be reached on my blog, I'm Still Kicking; my blog name is ghostriter.

And for the two people who rescued Indy, you're welcome to contact me if you'd like to see him. Who knows? Maybe his forever home is with one of those who saved his life.

Against Medical Advice

The dog lay prone in the road directly in front of my house. She was very still, although a gentle breeze ruffled her fur and mimicked movement. In the light of the nearly full moon, I easily recognized the unfortunate dog as Tasha, the Welsh corgi who belongs to one of our favorite neighbors, a very sweet elderly lady named Marlene who lives in the house across the street from us. She lives there alone, except for Tasha, who always accompanies her mistress outside while Marlene works on her front garden. As I stared at the poor little dog in the road, I willed her to get up, hoping in futility that she was only sleeping. It was nearly three AM, and Tasha is never outside at that time; she passes her nights curled at the foot of Marlene's bed. I was utterly heartsick. Tasha is an adorable little thing, very friendly and affectionate. She's always had a talent for escaping her back yard by digging under the gate, and often runs across the street to visit us on weekend mornings.

The longer I stared at the apparently lifeless dog in front of our house, the worse I felt. How would I tell Marlene that some idiot had callously run over Tasha in the road and left her to die? And what despicable person would do such a thing? Surely anyone in our friendly, caring neighborhood would have stopped, had they hit a dog in the street. But maybe, I thought, the driver had not seen Tasha, had not realized that it was a dog that they had hit.

It was at that thought that I started getting angry.

I am an ophthalmic medical technician by profession. I have worked for eye doctors my entire adult life; for vanity's sake I will not elaborate on just how many years that could be. Suffice it to say that I know my job very well, and have counseled countless patients and their families regarding their eye health and vision. I also have no qualms about telling someone when they are not using their brain regarding their eyes. Never a day goes by when I don't see a patient who has been without glasses for an extended time, but who can barely find the bathroom in broad daylight without them. The infuriating thing about these people is that they still insist upon their ability to drive safely without glasses. Unfortunately, it is quite often some mishap in a motor vehicle that brings them stumbling into my office. Usually, they find it amusing that they are going through life with blinders on, but it really chaps my hide; I am definitely NOT amused.

As I watched the dog in the street for signs of life, only seconds passed, but the mind can race to a conclusion in much less time than that. With the sudden clarity of mind that only comes from stress and a sleepless night, I just knew what had happened to Tasha. She had to have been hit by one of those jerks who should have been wearing their glasses! All I could think of was the patient I had seen only the day before. Without vision correction, she was only able to count fingers at ten feet. She had not worn her glasses for over a year because she "didn't like them", and all that time she continued to drive. It was only when she nearly ran over her own son in the driveway that she conceded the point and came in for an exam and new glasses.

I couldn't let Marlene come out and find poor Tasha, and I couldn't even think of leaving that sweet dog lying in the road. I ran to my room and hastily began throwing clothes on. My husband, who is a very light sleeper, woke up and asked me what was wrong. Tearfully, I told him that Tasha had been killed and was lying in the street out front. Ever the one to look out for me, he jumped out of bed and grabbed his robe. "I'll take care of her; you stay inside," he said gently. His shoulders slumped as he made his way to the door; he likes Tasha and Marlene as much as I do. I watched him as he went out the front door and knelt beside the dog. He reached out a hand and touched her fur, and then shaking his head, he stood and came back up the front walk. When he came into the house, he glared at me in silent annoyance. Without a word, he walked back to the bedroom.

"Well, what are you going to do? Just leave her there?" I asked as he removed his robe and began to climb back into bed. I was incredulous at his sudden apathy. But when I started to go outside, he called me back. What he said next made me feel like the star of one of those 'real men of genius' commercials.

"Next time you see a dog in the road in the middle of the night," he said, "put on your glasses and make sure it isn't just a pile of dead leaves before you wake me up."

So much for taking my own medical advice. As I write, I am wearing my glasses. I wouldn't want to accidentally type a profanity and miss it.

Involuntary Dogslaughter

I killed a dog on my way to work last Friday. No, I am not bragging, I am confessing. In truth, the death of this unknown dog haunts me so terribly that it has taken a week for me to be able to write about it. I have never hit a dog or cat on the road before. I used to think that was because I am a good driver, but now I know that I was only lucky. I hope I never do it again.

I have made the commute from Tehachapi to Bako and back on the 58 freeway for years without incident, and I guess I have come to expect only the expected. The dog was decidedly unexpected, especially since it seemed to appear in a remote area, far from the city. It was a golden-sandy color, medium sized. I could not ascertain the breed, but I suspect it was just a doggy-dog, which is my name for a mixed breed or "mutt". The only thing I really know about it is that it was a really fast runner, it was lucky once, and then unlucky forever. Oh, yeah...I also know that it is dead.

The guy in the car ahead of me and to my left missed the dog by milliseconds, but the reason that I hit it is because the other guy missed it. Since the dog was in front of the other car, I never saw it until I watched it go under the front of my brand new car. Almost immediately my car began steaming and producing a horrid banging sound, indicative that the fan and the radiatior had just made contact with each other. I did not really notice, though; my eyes were glued to the rear-view mirror in horror and remorse. I finally pulled over about a mile down the road, and by the time I called my husband, I was nearly hysterical. My mind was filled with the image of the poor dog in my rear-view; I could not stop replaying that awful vision. But by the time my car was being towed to the shop, I was no longer crying; I was livid. What-ifs played over and again in my head; first, it was "what if I hadn't stopped at the bakery on the way to work?" Then, it was "what if I had been watching the other car more closely?" But what I finally ended with, and still stick to, is "what if some moron had not allowed that poor dog to run loose?" and "what if a nameless jerk had not abandoned their pet to the fields?" By the time I heard from my mechanic that my new car needed major front end repair, I was ready to string up the stupid, thoughtless idiot who had left that dog to his own devices. While I feel terrible about being the one to hit the dog in the road, it was only a matter of time. If not I, then someone else would have killed it, and all because of someone else's callous treatment of an innocent pet.

One good thing happened just after I hit the dog. As I sat weeping in my car on the shoulder of the road, a CHP officer pulled up next to me. Usually, CHP's on the freeway are an unwelcome sight, but I was glad to see this one. He asked me if I was okay; I tearfully told him about the dog. He asked again if I was okay, and I told him about my car, and that I was waiting for a tow truck. And then, I finally told him that I was fine, but I asked if he had seen the dog. He hadn't, but he promised to take care of it, and advised that I keep my car doors locked until the truck arrived. He said that he would make a few passes in the area to make sure I was alright. Then he pulled away and made an immediate u-turn in the median, returning to the place where the dog's life had ended. The officer was as good as his word; I saw him four times before the tow truck arrived. Less than ten minutes after he stopped next to me, I saw an Animal Control van heading east on the 58. When I finally went home later that day, I looked for the dog, just in case. It was gone.I felt better knowing that, thanks to the thoughtful officer, the poor animal would not end up as road pizza.

What will it take for people to care for their pets properly, humanely and kindly? What can be done to stop those who decide that a pet is too much of a burden and dump it on the roadside or in a field somewhere? How can we pound home the realization that letting a pet run amok is neglect, and that neglect is a form of abuse? Pets are happiest and healthiest if they are kept in a safe environment; they are not wild animals that "have a need to run free". When we adopt a pet, we have a responsibility to that animal for it's life and health. Pets are not disposable.

I still don't have my car back. I will, however, get it back eventually. The dog will never get its life back. He will live on in my memory, however. I wish we had met under different circumstances. Maybe we'd have been friends.

Tessa, Tish and Calypso

When I was in my early teens, my mother and I began raising and showing Persian cats. It was something my mom had always wanted to do, and for the most part, that time is one of my most cherished memories. Having been a "cat person" since before my first recollection, I truly enjoyed it, and it gave my mom and me a chance to do something together that we both loved. There was one sad part, however; one of our mother cats died giving birth to her first litter. She had four kittens, but only two survived, and we were suddenly faced with the prospect of raising two newborn kittens. I was twelve years old, and I vividly remember taking turns with Mom for the midnight feedings and general care of the kittens, which entailed two-hour shifts around the clock. I still recall my wonder at their strength and will to live, even though they were so tiny and completely helpless. There were a few sticky situations resulting from our lack of experience, but the tiny orphans survived notwithstanding, and there were never more adored, spoiled kitties than our two "little girls", Tessa and Tish. They remained with us throughout their lives, and were inseparable, even in death; when Tessa died, Tish lingered only a few weeks before following. I was twelve when they were born; when they died, I was nearing my thirty-seventh birthday. They graced and enriched our lives for twenty-four years. To this day, I have a precious photo of them on our living room wall, among the parents, grandparents, siblings and relatives. After all, Tessa and Tish were a part of my family.

Some may remember the blog I wrote a few weeks ago, about a three-day-old abandoned kitten that I had rescued and taken home to raise. Well, I still have her, and she is thriving! Her name is Calypso, and she will be six weeks old this Saturday. It was my experience with Tessa and Tish that gave me the confidence to take on the responsibility of raising her nearly from birth. And I am so glad I did! Little Caly is now six weeks old, and absolutely adorable. She is black and white, and has big jade green eyes and white whiskers. She follows me all over the house now. She is very attached to me, since I've always been her "mom".

A friend of mine said that I have a good heart, and that is is a noble thing to have taken on a three-day-old kitten. But Calypso has done more for me, I think, than I have done for her. I suffer from clinical depression and PTSD, for which I take medication. Even so, there are days when I can bring myself to do nothing but lay on the sofa and stare blankly at the TV. The feeling that life is not worth the trouble and pain, that mine is a worthless existence, becomes overwhelming at times. But this little kitty changed that. After she came, I started getting out of bed before my husband, something that is rare. I began sleeping better at night, the midnight feedings notwithstanding. And now I have another reason to look forward to getting home at night. For five weeks, Caly travelled to my office with me every day, and spent the day in her kitty carrier in the shade on the back patio of our building; I checked on her every hour. I spent my lunch break with her, feeding and holding her. Now, she is eating on her own and is litter-box trained, so I don't bring her to work anymore, which is good since I never could have left her out in the recent heat. This week was her first week home alone. She is so joyfully glad to see me when I come home. Her tiny excited meows and her little paws trying to climb up my leg, her purr against my ear as she rubs her face on my neck, never cease to lift my spirits, regardless of what happened during the course of the day. I feel needed again, and appreciated.

I never thought that, in saving a tiny newborn kitten, I would be doing myself so much good. I like to think that my son somehow put her there for me to find that day, so close to the anniversary of his death, to comfort me and give me a sense of purpose again. It would be so like Jordan to do that. After all, he never wanted his mommy to be sad; he told me that all the time. He often picked flowers or drew pictures for me if I was downhearted about something. And a few months before his accident, Jordan traded one of his toys for a stuffed kitty, which he proudly presented to me when I got home from work one night. It is one of my treasures, and sits on the bookshelf next to the carved box that hold my son's ashes. It is black and white, and Calypso bears it a striking resemblance. But maybe that should come as no surprise.

If I am lucky, Caly will be with me for a long, happy life, like Tessa and Tish were. Regardless how long she lives, she will always have a safe, loving home with me. I could never give her up. After all, she saved me.

Mister Know-It-All

My ex-husband was the first to admit that he could be rather mean-spirited; in truth, he often boasted of the fact, as if his ability to snap someone’s head off with a cruel retort were a virtue to be proud of. It was a “talent” he learned at an early age from his stepfather, but he perfected it beyond even the old man’s ability. Unfortunately, during the five years I was married to him, I found myself most often on the receiving end of his cutting wit. At first, I had very little defense against this verbal abuse, until I realized that, while able to pull a nasty name out of the air at any given moment, he had very little common sense, and could be positively gullible at times. Laughter is the best balm for hurt feelings, especially when the laughter is at the expense of one’s tormentor.

On one day, shortly before we finally decided to split up, he was in an especially nasty mood. He had managed to find fault with nearly everything and everyone around him. The kids had scattered to safer places, and I was feeling completely dejected. It was just after Christmas, and I was busily un-decorating the large cut Christmas tree in our living room when he came in from outside. I braced myself for yet another biting comment, but instead he, for once, simply made an observation.

“That tree still looks fresh,” he commented. “Look, the needles don’t even fall off when you pull on them. It is a shame we have to throw it in the trash.”

I looked up at him and considered for a moment. “Well, we really don’t have to, actually,” I said in all seriousness.

“Why not?” he asked, playing right into my hands.

“I read a story in [some magazine] a few days ago, about a family who replanted their Christmas tree in memory of their dead grandma. They just cut off the bottom, so the fresh wood was exposed; then they planted it in their yard and watered it.”

His eyebrows rose in interest; he was hooked. “Did it work?” he asked, as I dug my nails into my palms to maintain a straight face.

“Oh, yeah, it worked wonderfully. They showed a picture of that tree, and it was twenty feet high already, and they only replanted it a few years ago.”

That was all it took; I had scarcely removed all the ornaments from the tree when he dragged it out to the front yard. Painstakingly he sawed off the bottom six inches from the trunk, and then he set about digging a large hole while the dead tree lay waiting patiently to be resurrected. After I poured myself a stiff rum and Pepsi, I went out to enjoy the show from the front yard sidelines. As my ex began planting the tree, my friend next door joined me at the edge of our yard.

“Am I missing something,” she began, “or is he planting a dead….”

“SHHH! Not so loud, he may hear you,” I answered in a whisper. Living next door to us, she was often the unwilling witness to my ex’s foul temper, and she just smiled in understanding and sat down in the lawn chair next to mine.

For several weeks my ex-husband went out religiously every morning and watered the dead tree before leaving for work. He even gave it gallons of blue plant food. He became famous in the neighborhood; people often asked me in passing if the miracle had happened yet. And whenever he yelled at me or told me how stupid I was for those wonderful days, I just smiled, knowing that he was not nearly as smart, and I was not quite as dumb, as he thought.

As time passed, the once-fresh needles on the tree turned from green to a dry khaki brown, and still he poured water and effort into it. Of course, this amusement could not last forever. One day he went out to water his beloved dead tree and found it leaning a bit to one side. He took hold of the trunk and attempted to straighten it. What happened was a scene straight out of A Charlie Brown Christmas. Nearly every one of the brittle brown needles dropped like a rock to the ground, leaving my ex holding the bare trunk of an obviously deceased tree. I watched from the front window, my eyes pouring tears from laughing so hard and trying to keep it silent.

Amazingly, he took his failed efforts at raising dead plants in stride. He pulled the tree’s remains out of the ground and proceeded to chop it up for compost. He then scattered the pieces over the front yard. Having no experience with compost, he did not realize that the pieces have to be smaller than six inches to decompose into fertilizer. There were still dead-tree parts all over the yard when we moved out several months later; we were divorced within the year.

I got a lot of mileage and many laughs from this story over the next few years following our divorce. So when my daughter brought her boyfriend to our house one night the winter after her graduation from high school, I relayed the story of my ex and the dead tree to him as we all sat soaking in our Jacuzzi tub. He roared with laughter, but for some reason my daughter did not seem to think it was as funny as it had been when it first happened. At first I thought that she was being protective of her father. “What’s wrong, Kati?” I asked.

“It’s not funny anymore,” she said with a disgusted expression on her face. “He made me water that thing every day. I felt like a moron.”

I was perplexed. “He did not, Kati. He watered it himself, every morning. He never asked you to do it.”

She folded her arms, clearly annoyed. “Oh, yeah, he did, last year, while I was staying with him over Christmas break. He did it again!”

I nearly drowned laughing in my hot tub, and so did Kati’s boyfriend.

It is always a satisfying turn of events to see a bully get his comeuppance. However, there is nothing more gratifying than watching as the bully unwittingly amuses those he’s abused. Except, of course, if he does it again, and again, and again….

Stormy Sunset

This is one of the photos taken by my son, Jordan, who at that time was ten years old, on one of our photography outings, when I was teaching him to use a camera. It is sunset in the aftermath of a particularly colorful storm. The vantage point is from Stallion Springs, where our home was, overlooking Arvin and Bakersfield.

A Legacy of Literature

I started reading at three years of age. At least, that is the story according to my parents, who have always been more than willing to believe that their firstborn was a reading prodigy. It began with sounding out road signs with my grandpa; by age six, I had graduated to my mother's medical textbooks. Being a chronically ill child, my only escape from the confinement of four walls was through any literature I could get my mind around. When I was seven years old, I sat next to my father at the kitchen table while he pounded out his college assignments on what was, even then, an archaic typewriter. I was there for two reasons, the first being that I fervently wished to spend time with my dad, whom I adored. He was rarely home during my waking hours. He worked days, and then attended evening college classes, living on barely four hours’ sleep every night in an effort to earn his college degrees. The second reason was that, even at my young age, I could correct his spelling errors. By the age of ten, I was writing poetry and fiction; at age twelve, I had begun studying my father’s antique volumes of Chaucer. During my senior year in high school, I had three of my stories published in a magazine.

When I foolishly quit college and got married, it was the general consensus among all those who knew me that my intellectual talent was forevermore confined to domestic incarceration. No one, myself included, took into account the possibility that any of my children would equal, let alone surpass, the potential I had so infuriatingly squandered. Jordan, my youngest son, proved that potential, when passed over by the parent, can find new life in the essence of the child.

Jordan did not easily take to reading as I had. In fact, it was, for a time, a perpetual source of frustration for us both. He tried so hard, but seemed unable to maintain focus, unable to concentrate on anything for a prolonged length of time. For me, who had always found the mastery of the written word so simple to understand, teaching Jordan to read was a baffling quandary. When his pediatrician diagnosed him with Attention Deficit Disorder at age four, it gave a more tangible reason for his academic struggle. It did not, however, lessen my efforts to teach Jordan, or encourage me to consent to mind-altering medication for my son. He needed love, understanding and patience. He did not need pharmaceuticals.

For several years, Jordan and I continued to read together, even though Jordan did most of the listening and I did most of the reading. It became a loving exchange between the two of us, and I found a miraculous channel to my son’s mind when we read together. Although he could scarcely sit through an entire movie without losing interest, Jordan could listen to me read aloud for hours. He often fell asleep to the sound of my voice becoming increasingly hoarse with overuse as I narrated to him the wonders of the world of books.

One summer day, just before his sixth birthday, the literary light bulb became suddenly illuminated for Jordan. I will not ever forget it, that day when he looked written words in the face and realized that he knew how they all came together. He was ecstatic; it was like he had just discovered the cure for cancer, or, at the very least, for diaper rash. His eyes, his face, his entire being lit up from within. One minute, he’d struggled to read; the next, he possessed total understanding. From that moment, he could not get enough of books. He stayed awake late at night, using a flashlight to absorb the knowledge that he had been heretofore unable to comprehend; he went through “D” batteries faster than most people run through twenty gallons of gasoline. In what seemed the blink of an eye, Jordan visited first Dr. Seuss and Clifford the Big Red Dog, then the historical writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder, and then his brother Alex's Goosebumps collection, book by book, over and over.

He started out with me helping him, but within a few short weeks, Jordan was reading to himself, with very little help from me. Even so, his progress did not put an end to our reading time together. He would lie for hours with me, he with his book, and I with mine, both of us engrossed, occasionally sharing interesting or humorous passages. Following the lead of my father, an avid historian, Jordan developed an affinity for ancient history, especially Egypt, Pompeii, and Rome. Books about shipwrecks fascinated him, the sinking of the Titanic in particular. However, he retained a deep-seated adoration for fantasy and the whimsical. J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series became his absolute favorite read, and, surprisingly, the first outward indication of Jordan’s intellectual ability.

Sometime following Jordan’s seventh birthday, my father took him to the public library; Dad needed to do some business research, and his young grandson begged to go along. When they arrived at the library, Dad planted Jordan in the children’s section. “I will be busy for an hour or two,” my dad told Jordan. “Pick a book and read for a while; I will only be across the room if you need me.”

Jordan looked around for a few moments, and chose the first book in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. “I’ve been wanting to read this one,” Jordan told his grandfather, and he sat down to begin reading.

A couple hours passed; my dad checked on Jordan several times, only to find Jordan’s bespectacled eyes buried in his book, his position never changed.

When my father finally finished his work, he arrived at Jordan’s side just in time to see him close the Harry Potter book.

“Do you want me to check that out for you, Jordan?” my father asked.

“No, that’s okay, Grampa,” Jordan replied. “I’m done.”

Jordan rose, walked to the shelf, and replaced the book.

My father did not question whether Jordan had read the entire story. They left the library and went to the parking lot.

“So, what was your book about?” my dad asked as he steered his truck toward home, hoping that Jordan had retained some of the story he had been reading. Jordan began to narrate the story to his grandpa. When Jordan was about five minutes into his narrative, my dad realized that his young grandson was sharing something significant, and he pulled the truck over to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Over the next several minutes, sitting in the truck, Jordan told his grandpa the entire storyline of the Harry Potter book, including those parts that had been omitted from the movie. At seven and a half years of age, Jordan had read the complete story in less than three hours, with full comprehension.

Upon hearing my father’s account of this, I immediately ran out and grabbed all the existing Harry Potter volumes for Jordan, the one he had just read, and the next two in the series. I’d previously believed that the storylines were too complicated for him, but I had greatly underestimated my son; I never made the same mistake again. Over the next couple years, whenever I had the money, I purchased nearly every book Jordan asked for. Star Wars and Star Trek were big hits, as was anything dealing with history. However, Harry Potter and Jordan remained close friends. The fourth volume, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, was released in July of 2002, when Jordan was ten years old. It was the largest and most complicated volume of the series thus far; I bought it for Jordan as a Christmas gift, and I promised him that he would have every Harry Potter book that J.K. Rowling chose to produce. I truly hoped that she would never stop writing them.

Jordan’s eleventh birthday was August 10^th, 2003. He loved his birthday, as much or even more than he enjoyed Christmas. He always made his birthday plans early, although he was careful not to ask me for anything he thought I could not afford. Sometime in April or May of that year, I asked him what his birthday wish was. Jordan’s only request was the newest Harry Potter book, The Order of the Phoenix, which had not yet been released. He had committed the previous books nearly to his memory by then, and was anxious to take his adventures at Hogwart’s to the next level. In May of 2003, I hurried to my local bookstore and pre-purchased the new book, eagerly anticipating seeing Jordan unwrap it on his birthday, to watch his face as he read it. But it was not to be. On June 27^th, 2003, my Jordan was killed by an accidental gunshot, yet another firearm accident involving two curious children at a friend’s house, and an “unloaded” gun that was supposedly safely locked away. Jordan’s wonderful light was forever extinguished, never to shine again. He was only six weeks shy of his eleventh birthday.

A few weeks after Jordan’s death, I received a call from the bookstore where I had ordered the new Harry Potter. The book I’d ordered had arrived. When would I come for it? the caller asked.

Against all advice, I retrieved the book I had ordered for Jordan. Sitting in our living room on Jordan’s birthday, cradling the carved box which contained the remains of my beautiful boy, I sat and read the story to him, chapter by chapter, line by line, just as I had done when he could not read on his own, always hoping that he would chime in. I read aloud until I no longer had voice to read; and then, I read silently, until I finished it for him. Then I closed the volume, and placed it in a strong box with the other books that belong to Jordan, keepsakes that speak of his imagination, his intellect, his adoration for the written word and all that is beautiful and full of life. Of all the things that belonged to my deceased son, his books are my greatest treasures. They are kept with his favorite toys and his Boy Scout things, carefully preserved in my closet, always near me. However, I have not been able to open the box of books since I packed it. Seeing Jordan’s books, knowing my son can never read them again, has always been too much for me to take; and so, I have kept them safely protected in a dark corner of my life.

Jordan has been gone four years now. I miss him every day of my life, never less than the day he was first taken from me. I save my grief for times when I think no one can see it. I swear that, someday, a traffic cop will stop me and give me a ticket for Driving While Crying.

I continued to buy every new Harry Potter book for Jordan. Ironically, they always seem to be released just in time for his birthday. I just picked up the last one in the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I ordered it on March 31^st, for Jordan’s fifteenth birthday. Deathly Hallows is his final birthday gift. After all, I promised him that he would have them all.

I have recently remarried, and my new husband is a wonderful person, someone that I fervently wish Jordan could have known. He has two children whom I adore, a girl and a boy. My stepdaughter, Cassidy, is twelve years old, and coming to terms with the emotional and physical upheaval of puberty, and the concept that there are ideas in this world other than her own. She has very little time or inclination for reading. I hope to change that someday. My stepson, Carson, turned nine this past June. He struggles with his reading skills, but enjoys the stories notwithstanding…rather like my Jordan once did.

Very recently, I asked Carson to go into my closet and get me a roll of wrapping paper. After a while, he did not return, and I went in search of my young stepson. Upon entering my bedroom, I stopped short. Carson had found the carefully preserved box in my closet, clearly marked “Jordan’s Books”, and he’d pulled the box to the center of the room for him to explore. I was taken aback to find the box open on my bedroom floor, and an innocent, blue-eyed question staring into my soul.

“Does Jordan mind if I read his books?” Carson asked.

Remembering Jordan’s early struggle to read and his joy when he reached his reading epiphany, I closed my eyes for a brief moment. Does Jordan mind? I could see Jordan’s glowing smile, his luminescent eyes shining, radiating his kindness, his spirit, and his love. He is still, and always will be, the most selfless person I have ever known. He loved sharing, he loved helping others, and he loved reading. He loved the world, and life. And above all else, Jordan loved his family. Jordan loved…always. The baby of the family, Jordan had always had wished for a little brother or sister. I guess he has them both, now. How joyful Jordan would have felt if he could have helped a younger sibling to overcome a difficulty learning to read, as he himself had. I could picture Jordan sitting in a corner of the bedroom, reading to Carson, and helping him sound out the words for himself, sharing his love of books.

I knelt beside the box next to Carson, and I picked up the book at the top of the box. Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch. I had purchased it when Jordan was born. He and I had read it together until I knew the story by rote. It is the illustration of a parent’s eternal love for a child.

I’ll love you forever,

I’ll like you for always,

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be.

Looking at that book, I realized that the passage I remembered so well went both ways. Jordan would always be my baby, but, regardless how long he was gone from me, I would always be his mommy. It was up to me to see that everything good in Jordan did not die with him. Jordan would never be here to share his love of reading, but what was stopping me from doing so? I nearly broke down again; however, in my mind, behind the sadness and beyond my own soul, I saw my beautiful blue-eyed Jordan, laughing, wiping cake and frosting from his face on his tenth birthday. And I remembered something Jordan said to me, out of the blue, just weeks before he died.

I never want my mommy to be sad.

And instead of crying, I smiled. To Carson, I at last said, “Jordan really loved to read, and he wouldn’t mind at all. I know he would like you to read his books. In fact, why don’t we read them together?”

I carried the box marked “Jordan’s Books” down the hall to the living room sofa. Carson followed, and curled up next to me, and I tucked a cozy quilt around the both of us. Cassidy joined us then, eager to be in on the secret. Of course, the one they picked was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I looked into a pair of adorable, innocent faces waiting for the next adventure, and I opened the book. I began reading, and I did not stop until my voice was hoarse, and Cassi and Carson had long since nodded off to dream of the world of wizards. As I put them both to bed that night, I thought, we’ll finish it later, and then, we’ll start another, and another….

I then unpacked the box, and placed Jordan’s books in the bookcase in the living room, in plain sight, to await the time when they would once again be opened and read. They were never meant to be hidden in a box, after all.

It is amazing that a boy who never even reached his eleventh birthday can leave such a phenomenal legacy of knowledge and love. Today, it is Harry Potter and Star Wars; tomorrow, it could be Shakespeare. Maybe someday, Carson and Cassidy will even let me introduce them to the works of Chaucer.

Jordan would be so proud.