The muse is a fickle mistress

I have several writing projects in various stages, above and beyond the work I do for the paper.

One of them is a children's book based on the stray who wandered onto our family farm last October. He had clearly been on his own for months, and based on his timidity toward humans must have been badly abused by his previous owner(s).

The heartwarming story of Curly's journey toward trust and acceptance as Mom coaxed him back to health and happiness touched many folks on Facebook - some of whom urged me to write a book about it. It seems best-suited for children, so I'm trying that approach. Mind you, I've never written a children's book, so this has been something of an adventure for me.

I'm learning the best place to work on the story is anywhere but home ---- the laundromat, a bar, a restaurant booth.....each of these locations has seen things flow like they never have here in my apartment.

It's become such an evident pattern I'll simply have to honor the muse's preference while I finish and then hone the project. That's part of the mystery and majesty of writing, though, so I'm hardly upset.

These small discoveries are always part of the ride.

Curly returns - and settles in

Despite my initial fears that we would never see him again - K-156 is not kind to animals - Curly the stray Yorkiepoo returned to the porch just before nightfall in late October.

We never figured out where he had been for that long, cold day, but he had managed to make it back to the farm. Mom decided to feed Curly and Cocoa, the domineering cat who had spooked him into running, in different areas of the homestead to help keep the peace.

That seems to be working.

Mom would sneak a touch, a few strokes, each time Curly would arrive to eat. He would initially back away, but over time began to trust those hands. He would follow her out to the clothes line when she went to hang clothes. It was there she was able to first pet him for several minutes, checking his fir and his legs for any wounds, injuries or cockle burrs.

On Oct. 30, he was given his first bath. Afterwards, he was so happy he darted into every room of the house, yapping happily, as if to announce to the world that he was clean and happy. We grew up with a strict "no animals in the house" rule, but Mom was willing to bend it a bit for Curly.

 
She put a quilt in a box and placed it out on the front porch for Curly to sleep in, and would let him come inside for a few minutes at night before he was tucked into bed. He grew to love sitting on the loveseat next to Mom, dozing on a small pillow.

He has responded well to small children, allowing them to pet and hold him without complaint. But he's happiest around Mom. He jumps for joy when she lets him inside, his tail wagging furiously. He doesn't bark unless he wants something - usually to be let outside when he needs to relieve himself. If there have been any "accidents" indoors, I have not heard about them.

He is still guarded at times, especially if any adults other than Mom approach him quickly.

But he seems utterly thrilled to have found a home and a friend. He just seems so......grateful. Happy. Well-tempered. For weeks, Mom talked about finding him a better place to live. Someplace with young children who could play with him. But I could tell Curly was quite content at the farm.

Mom seems to be softening, too. When a sister talked to her about other places Curly could go, she said, "He's fine just where he is."

I think so, too.

Introducing Curly

It probably seemed strange to get an "update" on Curly when he hadn't even been introduced here on my blog.

Mind you, I had written a blog post about the mixed-breed poodle with short black curly hair that mysteriously appeared at our farm in western Pawnee County about three weeks ago. I'd even attached a couple of photos.

But it's vanished, so I'll try again.

Something or someone had obviously abused Curly prior to his arrival. He didn't want Mom or me to touch him - or even get close. But somehow he knew this was a safe place to be, because he didn't leave.

He'd eat what Mom left for him, though he would wait for her to go before venturing near the dish. As the days passed, he would let her get closer and closer.

But me he didn't trust at all. He'd eye me from a distance, curious about what I was doing. He'd sleep in the sun on the front porch, and press his nose against the glass patio door, peering inside to see what we were doing.

He even had an awareness of how to pose for a camera, as shown by this photo I took as I left the farm after several days of rest and relaxation. He was about 20 feet away, staring off to the south. I called his name, and he turned to see me standing there with the camera. He plopped down into a shaft of light and looked right at the camera, as if to say, "How's this?"

It's pretty impossible not to grow fond of a pup like that. The question was how long he would stay - and whether he would ever let anyone get close to him again.

Curly takes off

An update on Curly, the mixed breed poodle that wandered onto our farm just a few days before I arrived for some rest and relaxation: He'd clearly been mistreated before he arrived, given the distance at which he kept Mom and me.

Though he wouldn't let us get close, he clearly wanted to stay. He'd sun himself on our front porch and press his face against the glass patio door to watch what we were doing inside. (There has been a longstanding "no pets inside the house" rule at the Finger farm, and that hasn't changed even in recent years)

He hungrily ate anything Mom would offer him - except dry dog food. Go figure.

Whenever I would venture someplace outside, he would follow ---- at a distance --- curious about what I was up to. He even tailed Mom on her various ventures. She began to invite him along whenever she went out to hang or retrieve clothes from the clothesline.

It was there he began to let her pet him. Mom took the opportunity to check his coat and legs for wounds or scars or stickers. She would talk to him, getting him used to the sound of her voice, using a soothing tone to comfort him.

One day, he followed her out to the mailbox, at her invitation. It's out next to K-156, a state highway that sees plenty of truck traffic and other heavy vehicles. Cocoa, the lone cat left on the farm --- it's her farm, she just lets Mom stay there --- also tagged along. She doesn't like Curly, seeing him as competition. She's shooed him away from the food bowl more than once, if for no other reason to let him know who's boss.

Well, while they were out at the mailbox a few days ago, Cocoa spooked Curly again ---- and this time he took off running. West, down K-156.

Mom yelled at him to come back, but he kept going.

She returned to the house, hoping to see him again soon. She worried that he would just keep on running.

I was more worried a truck would hit him, the driver unable to see or avoid that small black batch of curly fur ambling along a strange road. We had lost a number of family pets and other livestock - including Frosty Flyer, our best racing quarter horse, on Christmas Eve one year - so it was more than a possibility.

The hours passed, and still there was no sign of Curly. What had become of him?