Columns

How the Hen House Turns

Back on the California farm, sometime in the early 1940s, the neighborhood dog, a huge chestnut German shepherd named Browny, came to a tragic end.

As I reflect on my early years with animals, I realize that I celebrate his life for several reasons. Knowing him, accepting his way of life, impressed my six-year-old mind with the fact that dogs have personality and self-directed consciousness. Browny knew no master, but responded to us kids with interest and friendly respect.

We decided the big German shepherd Read More

How the Hen House Turns

Thanksgiving week. Time to consider the mental peculiarities of turkeys.

In the early days in California, my brother and I would hike down the hill behind our house, across the creek, and up the other side. At the end of Pa’s acreage, way beyond the fruit trees where we found some old bones and a skull, was a huge fenced field filled with turkeys—white feathered turkeys.

We would holler “gobble gobble gobble,” and they would all answer. The chorus of gobbles would rise to a crescendo of various tones then fade to scattered Read More

How the Hen House Turns

Skates, our blond border collie, was missing. I must have gone downstairs and called, then whistled. No Skates. I walked down the front stairs, up the driveway to the backyard and called and whistled again. Still no Skates.

What is remarkable, now that I think of it, is that I felt no angst, just a little irritation: “Oh dear. Skates and Sammy are probably off somewhere on campus.”

Those were our graduate school years 1959-1963 in Madison, Wisc. Sammy was a small dog who lived somewhere nearby and often Read More