In the wild he would not have hesitated to kill us with a single bite of his exceptionally strong jaws and then have us for dinner. He had charisma and a rakish charm that made it impossible not to be captivated by him. Maybe this is why so many of us felt a combination of awe and loving fascination every time we saw him.

We had the advantage of being closer to him than we ever could have been in the wild. When he was sleeping we could be eyeball to eyeball with him, admire his beautiful coat, his fearsome teeth and put our hand against his paw with no fear since a glass panel protected both of us. I have done all these things as I stood before his spacious natural habitat watching him sleep.

He was just a jaguar. He lived without knowing or caring how much he was loved or how thrilled guests were to see him on the days he deigned to show himself to the public. Love was a concept he knew nothing about, which is probably to his betterment.

He was good at hiding in plain sight and unless you knew where those places were, you would never spot him. Even then, you had to adjust your eyes to a different way of seeing to make out his spots among the foliage. Humans mistakenly think his spotted coat would make him stand out in the jungles where he lives. Instead it provides the perfect camouflage.

One of the most dramatic places to see him was when he walked across an enclosed log bridge from his quarters to his beautifully landscaped enclosure with a stream and pond in it. Unlike, most cats, he loved the water and would often play in it, or just stand, cooling down before or after a nap.

Then there were the times when he lay against the glass window of his enclosure doing the thing that all cats excel at — napping. Occasionally he would twitch a whisker or change positions. He loved to sleep on his back with paws curled in front of him, a similar pose often assumed by my house cats.

It is said you can bear anything if you can tell a story about it. After much consideration and numerous debates with myself, I have chosen to tell this story to help me and perhaps others that knew and worked with him, bear the pain. As another writer whose name I cannot recall said, the pen provides “a merciful service” for a writer, which I am.

His name was Tesoro, which means treasure in Spanish, and he arrived at the Houston Zoo eleven years ago when he was a cub. He quickly became a favorite with zoo visitors, staff, and volunteers. Just as he would have in the wild, he lived alone, enjoying having his bachelor pad to himself.

A few years ago the zoo acquired a female jaguar, Vida. There was never any thought of having them out at the same time because it probably would have been disastrous for Vida and maybe even Tesoro. But, they did successfully mate and in November 2024 a male cub, Rojo, was born.

In early May his animal care team noticed him limping, and radiographs indicated he fractured his elbow and had arthritis and elbow dysplasia. Surgery was performed by the zoo’s veterinarians and the veterinary team was guardedly optimistic about his chances for recovery.

In human years, Tesoro was in his mid-sixties and, as with humans, the older you are the longer it takes to heal from an illness or injury. In the coming weeks, the Houston Zoo’s veterinary team and animal keepers watched and waited. Tesoro was lucky to have been living in a zoo where he received world-class care and was monitored 24/7.

When Tesoro’s injury was announced, the website for zoo volunteers was immediately consumed with questions, good wishes and requests for more information. Photos of him were posted ad infinitum. It became obvious that Tesoro provided many photo ops and volunteers took advantage of them. This continued for the next six weeks as his recovery was monitored.

On June 27 came the dreaded email informing the volunteers Tesoro had died. Tesoro had rebroken his leg and then went into renal failure, a fatal disease for all felines. To prevent his unnecessary suffering he was humanely euthanized.

After reading the sad news, I began crying and did so intermittently over the coming days whenever I thought about Tesoro or read one of the many messages posted about him. I wasn’t alone. Even our male volunteers were shedding tears, not to mention his keepers and the veterinary staff who had worked so valiantly to heal him.

The volunteer website immediately became a tribute to Tesoro. Stories were told about experiences while watching him, zoo visitors’ response to him, how much he was loved, admired, and photographed. So many photographs — of him sleeping, walking, hiding, playing. There were numerous close-ups. It was as if he posed for them.

Some people will think it ridiculous to have such sorrow over an animal and especially a wild one. Anyone who has worked with or owned animals knows there are some animals that captivate and hold a special place in your heart that stays there forever. John Graves, a Texas author, wrote a book about the disappearance of his favorite dog, Blue. The words he wrote are applicable for all of us who have loved and lost favorite animals, and especially Tesoro:

“[There was nothing] humanly unique about the loss, or about the emptiness that . . . comes sooner or later to all people foolish enough to give an animal space in their lives. But if you are built such a fool, . . . the space he leaves empty is big.”

Another writer, Irving Townsend, wrote a book, Separate Lifetimes, about the pain of losing a beloved animal. In it he said, “We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own, live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. We still would live no other way.”

The downside of loving animals is that we will outlive them. But imagine our grief if they lived twice as long. Having lost many animals in my life that does not stop me from loving another animal or from mourning when they die. It goes with the territory and for me the joy animals give far outweighs the grief when the animal slips off the mortal coil binding them to this earth.

Tesoro leaves a legacy in his cub, Rojo who has some mighty big paws to fill. Given Tesoro was his father, Rojo should be up to the challenge and his papa will be forever engraved on many hearts.

If you ever want your love of animals tested, try pilling a cat. To prove how strongly I feel on this subject, here are a few things, in no particular order, that I’d rather do:

1. Have another heart catheterization (the test isn’t painful but the fact you become a human popsicle during the hour it requires is extremely uncomfortable).

2. Have a colonoscopy.

3. Fly tourist on a 12 hour non-stop flight.

4. Be on an airplane with a screaming baby.

5. Endure a Texas summer without air-conditioning

Before I continue, here are the instruction for performing this feat posted by petmd on the internet:

Please note how placidly the cat is sitting with a cat smile on its face. Also note that at no point does the cat wrestle or use its claws in its attempt to say, “Unhand me, you brute.” Obviously someone who has never pilled a cat came up with this imaginary scenario. I dare them to come pill one of my cats. Even a cat hovering at death’s door will suddenly become a squirming, clawing, spitting wildcat when you are trying to administer a pill.

Recently the most docile of our two cats, Baca, required not only a pill but liquid medicine as well. Baca is a very petite six year old cat, weighing only six pounds. The combined weight of my partner, Mr. Harold, and I is considerably more.

Mr. Harold had bragged to me repeatedly that he had no problem pilling a cat and it was relatively easy. I replied that I looked forward to his ability to do that. We went through the usual drill of wrapping Baca in a towel and I held her while Mr. Harold administered the pill. The pill was spit out numerous times and we gave up and decided to move on to the liquid. She held it in her mouth and then swung her head from side to side splattering it over every object in close proximity, including us!

When I was discussing this with a friend, she told me that her son-in-law put on welding gloves to hold their cat while his wife administered the pill but even this method did not always guarantee success.

One time when I was complaining to a veterinarian about the difficulty of giving a cat pills, he condescendingly decided to show me how easy it was. Just as he was inserting the pill into the cat’s mouth, the cat snapped its jaws shut on his finger. Tears came to his eyes and he said, “Maybe you have a point.”

Recently one of the big cats at the zoo had to have pills. So how do you pill a cat that can take you out with one swipe? The keepers came up with the perfect solution. They put the pills in the same diet the sea lions get, herring and sardines. He lapped it up happily licking his whiskers afterwords.

When this was posted on a website for zoo volunteers, I made a comment about the difficulty of pilling cats and that I wished that solution would work for my cats. That was when I received advice from all the volunteers who were cat owners.

One volunteer replied that she takes the prescription to a special compounding pharmacy where they make them with a liver or fish taste. While I admire her ingenuity, there is not a compounding pharmacy within 30 miles of where I live.

Another suggested crushing the pill and mixing it with Delectables Squeeze Ups. She gives this it to her cat before his regular food. She said, “My cat can’t wait to eat his medicine when I do it that way.” Tried that and the cat turned up her nose and walked away.

Yet another suggested a long pill popper that would allow me to put the pill in the back of the throat. She said, “It saves your fingers for sure! You can get them from Amazon. I find them VERY helpful with pills.” She was kind enough to give me the link to order one from Amazon. I’ve also tried that and had no success. The cat gagged until she successfully spit out the pill.

One cat owner told me, “I unfortunately recently had to give my kitty liquid antibiotic from a syringe and it was an experience, especially since I had to do it twice a day for 10 days. She knew the routine and somehow learned how to hold and spit part of it out each time.”

The final suggestion was to use an on-line Pet Pharmacy that may be able to convert the pill into a transdermal gel for their ear. Given that my cats think I am trying to kill them when I administer the monthly flea and tick transdermal gel, I know what the reaction would be.

The thing about cats is they MAY let you do something that they consider unpleasant to them one time but after that the minute they suspect you are going to do it again they disappear into thin air.

The only cat I’ve any success in following the veterinarians instructions with was a kitten I had to give enemas. Aren’t you sorry I started down this road? It was a Manx kitten I rescued from the middle of the road.

My veterinarian at the time was a wonderful man, Mark Richardson. He told me that he knew when he was a young boy that he wanted to be a veterinarian and that is what he became, and a very good one I might add. He would always take the time to explain in depth what was wrong with the animal, the odds of treating it successfully, and pull no punches on when it was time to put the animal down to prevent prolonged pain and suffering.

Dr. Richardson told me that constipation is a common problem with the Manx breed. This is because their shortened to the point of non-existent tail impairs the colon’s ability to contract so feces can be expelled.

As I was giving my kitten the enema, I thought of the irony that my three degrees certainly did not prepare me for this. Unfortunately, my efforts were to no avail and the sweet kitten had to be euthanized.

Fortunately, the cat that started me down this pathway, Baca, managed to recover with minimal dosages of medication being administered. I’m already dreading the next time we have to perform this feat and there will be a next time. There always is!

In the 1960s, when I was in high school, cars were a very big deal with the guys. This was an age when you could work on cars and even take a high school course in auto repairs. The most coveted cars were 1955 and 1957 Chevrolets because of their powerful engines.

The 1955 model gained its reputation by introducing the 265 cubic inch, V8 engine with overhead valves and high compression. The 1957 Bel Air had a 283 cubic inch V8 engine with dual 4-barrel carburetors and dual exhausts. Both models had a reputation for being reliable, being easy to repair and being fast which is why teen-age boys were attracted to them.

From time to time I will see one and it always brings back memories of the boys I knew who drove them, Ronnie, Dickie, Jay, Charles, and the places we went, football games, the movies, and the Pig Stand drive-in. If you’ve seen the 1973 movie, American Graffiti, it perfectly captures my high school years.

My first husband had a 1955 Chevrolet that required constant maintenance, which he performed. When we married, he bought a more sedate used Ford Falcon. It also required constant maintenance. Being on a very tight budget, even buying parts meant we would not be able to splurge mid-month on a six pack of beer. This meant for Christmas, anniversaries and birthdays the honoree’s gift would be new tires, a new engine or radiator, or whatever car part was in need of repair or replacement.

That was the car I was driving when my first, but by no means last, auto disaster occurred. I was driving from Houston to Austin and was on a highway going about 65 MPH. Suddenly the hood flew up and lodged against the windshield. It took several seconds for my brain to get the message I couldn’t see. I pulled over, got out of the car, and tried to pull down the hood. There was no way I had the physical strength to do this.

The nineteen sixties was a very different time and it wasn’t more than ten minutes before an eighteen wheeler pulled over and the driver came to my rescue. He did not struggle with the errant hood but pulled it down and secured it on his first try. He also had some bailing wire with which he secured it.

I had stopped to get gas before leaving Houston. Allow me another flashback. This was in the day when there was an attendant who filled the tank, washed the windshield, checked the tires, and under the hood. When doing the latter, he did not properly secure the hood.

There was a crack across the upper part of the windshield but the truck driver checked it and assured me there was no danger of the windshield coming apart. Fortunately, it held for the next two years, until my husband graduated and we purchased a new car. I would ultimately contribute to the demise of this same car.

Fast forward two years and my husband is getting his degree in electrical engineering. We have purchased a new car and are about to move to California. I was driving the Falcon to work when the light came on indicating the engine was overheating. I only had a few miles to go so I nonchalantly continued on my journey, proving a male friend’s theorem that the effect of dashboard lights on the female retina is blindness.

My husband could not believe I had ignored the warning light and gave me a detailed lecture, part of which was in a raised voice, on why I should have immediately stopped. It had the desired effect, sort of, because I now take warning lights more seriously.

Two of my misadventures involved transmissions going out. One occurred when I was driving back to my second husband’s ranch. I was on the outskirts of a small Texas town. My ultimate destination was over an hour away. Once more a driver of an eighteen wheeler came to my aid and took me all the way to the ranch, which was in an isolated location 45 miles from the nearest town.

As we were driving down the main road, the truck driver pointed to an imposing limestone house on top of a hill and asked, “Who lives there?” I cringed and said, “My husband and I do.” He nearly ran off the road into a stand of live oak trees. It was almost supper time and I insisted he stay to enjoy the ranch cook’s superior fare. I also convinced him to spend the night in one of the log cabins used by guests. After dinner two of the hunting guides entertained him in the Lodge. He, no doubt, told this story many times and was probably met with disbelief.

The other time my transmission went out was on a Honolulu freeway packed with morning rush traffic. My late husband had been transferred to the islands two months before. As fate would have it, I was starting a new job that day. My assistant later told me when I called to report my predicament, everyone was certain it was a subterfuge for backing out of the offer.

The kind person who stopped to help me had one of the earliest models of cell phones, a clunky black object that fit into a zippered case. It allowed me to call my husband who came to my rescue.

Even though I stop to let lizards cross the road, I have inadvertently caused the deaths of two animals who had the misfortune to cross my path. The first was a whitetail buck. It was late at night and I was following my soon to be husband to his ranch. We were on a back road and I was trying to keep up with him. He was traveling his usual 80 miles per hour and my concentration was exclusively on his tail lights.

Suddenly my peripheral vision picked up movement on my right. It was a 14 point buck, probably in pursuit of a doe since it was breeding season. He foolishly thought he could jump my car but crashed into the passenger side instead. By this time my soon to be husband’s tail lights had vanished into the darkness.

There was nothing I could do for the deer, whom, I hoped, had died a quick death so I continued on my journey finally catching up with my soon to be husband. This was my first, but by no means last, experience of leaving wild animals to the whims of fate.

The other animal who had the misfortune to cross my path was a wild turkey, that decided to commit suicide by crashing into my windshield in broad daylight. Like the deer, I never saw it coming but he did leave me a few feathers, which I still have, as a memento of our fatal encounter.

When I was telling Mr. Harold about this blog, he said, “Don’t forget the battery incident.” One morning when I tried to start my car the battery was dead, a word that has fallen out of favor so let me use the phrase that has replaced it, passed away. I called roadside assistance who soon arrived and charged it. The man who did so said, “Whatever you do, DON’T turn the engine off! The charge will only last as long as the engine is running.”

His warning was to no avail. the gas gauge was on empty so I stopped to get gasoline and, you guessed it, the car once more passed into car heaven. The same man was sent by roadside assistance. As he got out of his truck, he was shaking his head and, no doubt, thinking, “This woman is not the sharpest knife in the drawer and dumb as a box of rocks.” He asked if I needed him to follow me to my next destination. I assured him I was going to the auto supply store and would not make any stops in between.

My most recent misadventure occurred after driving four hours from Houston to my home. When I arrived, my fiancé in perpetuity, Mr. Harold, informed me my car was leaking transmission fluid and that the undercarriage was covered with it. He could not believe I had continued driving with such a disabled car.

I told him I was unaware of it and there had been no strange sounds or dashboard lights warning me. The car was towed to the dealership where, after a thorough investigation, it was determined that it was NOT leaking transmission fluid. The theory they proposed was I must have driven over a container of it which then splattered over the car’s undercarriage.

I was queried by the mechanics and Mr. Harold whether I recalled doing so. I did not. That is when Mr. Harold explained it by my being “deaf” and playing the radio loud because I’m deaf. I am NOT deaf but I will admit to playing the radio somewhat loud because my car has an excellent sound system. But I am positive if I ran over a container that exploded I would have heard it.

To end on a positive note, I recently earned the automotive approval of Mr. Harold for my ability to park in our quite narrow garage. Even more astonishing to him, was I accomplished this on my first attempt and have continued doing so.

Mr. Harold has praised me repeatedly on this feat, always with a sense of awe. After all the lectures on cars I have received from men, I admit that I bask in his praise. I take my victories where I can.

Though I did not know that it had a name when I started one, there is a formal name for the notebook of quotes I began while in college. It is a “common place book.”

Only recently did I discover that the first recorded use of “commonplacer” in the Oxford English Dictionary, is that it was used by John Donne, the sixteenth century English poet, essayist, and minister. I discovered this obscure bit of information while reading a recent biography about Donne.

A commonplace book, or commonplace journal, is a method of compiling information, quotes, ideas, and observations, often from various sources, into a personal record for later reference and inspiration. It’s a place to collect and organize interesting or useful information, rather than focusing on personal experiences like a traditional diary.

My first Common Place Book was a college notebook. It has since grown to a three ring binder almost two inches thick. I also have a separate one devoted to poems.

Years ago I attempted to organize the quotes by subject but found it an impossible task to decide which category a quote was in so I gave up. Needless to say, finding a particular quote can be a tedious and time consuming affair but I am nothing if not persistent and I always find it.

Very few of my friends know of the books existence, probably because I thought they would not understand why I was doing it which I’ll get to in a minute.

My common place book was put to good use when writing my soon to be published memoir, Eight Miles from the Front Gate. Each chapter has an epigraph with a relevance to that chapter’s subject and each came from my Common Place Book. The book contains so many quotes now that it was often difficult to choose which one to use.

Following is a sample of the chapters with their epigraphs.

Chapter 1: Answered Prayers: “More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.” St. Theresa

Chapter 4: South of the Border: “If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.” Katherine Hepburn

Chapter 11: Desire: “I’ve married a few people I shouldn’t have, but haven’t we all?” Mamie Van Doren

Chapter 14: Ranch Rules: “Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists principally of dealings with men.” Joseph Conrad

Chapter 19: A New Side of Charlie: “The hardest learned lesson: that people have only their kind of love to give, not our kind.” Mignon McLaughlin

Chapter 22: The Bloom is off the Rose: “Love is a mighty pretty thing but like all other delicious things, it is cloying when the first transports of passion begin to subside, which it assuredly will do. . . There is no truth more certain than that all of our enjoyments fall short of our expectations.” George Washington in a letter to his step-granddaughter

Chapter 25: Difficult Days and Turbulent Nights: “There seems to be a kind of order in the universe, in the movement of the stars and the turning of the earth and the changing of the seasons, and even in the cycle of human life. But human life itself is almost pure chaos.” Katherine Anne Porter

As you can see, the quotes are from a variety of sources including the first president of the United States to authors to movie stars. When I was collecting them, I had no idea I would ever use them, especially in a memoir. But as I was writing it, one of the quotes would often come to mind and it seemed only natural to use it as an epigraph.

It is interesting to me how the first quotes I collected were ponderous and filled with the angst of youth and they are all hand-written. There are long-winded paragraphs by Nathaniel Hawthorne, D. H. Lawrence, and Thomas Wolfe, who is not the same as author Tom Wolfe who wrote The Right Stuff and Bonfire of the Vanities. Once I passed into middle age, the quotes concentrate on the verities and inconsistencies of life.

There are also song lyrics from Cole Porter, Carole King, John Lennon and Paul McCartney, EmmyLou Harris, and Mick Jagger. A variety of poets make an appearance: Robert Frost, Dorothy Parker, Ted Kooser, Paul Laurence Dunbar and Maya Angelou.

What made me choose the quotes that I did? They appealed to me or struck a note of truth for life experiences I either had or hoped to have. Through the years, I have often referred to them when facing bad or challenging times or when searching for something inspirational.

One that I have often referred to when dealing with a personal crisis is by Rainer Maria Rilke: “. . . Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. . . Do not seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” Over the years, I have come to understand the wisdom of the last three sentences and found myself living into the answers.

Another quote that has gotten me through many a crisis is from Rev. Sidney Smith which, as I recall, I found in one of Jane Austen’s novels: “. . . take short views of human life — never further than dinner or tea.” It has been invaluable during difficult times when my mind is swirling with dire possibilities. It takes a great deal of will power to do it but I promise it will help you through the worst of times.

I found the following quote most helpful when dealing with an obstinate brother who seemed bent on a path of self-destruction. It is from the novel, A River Runs Through It” by Norman Maclean: “It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. . . we can seldom help anybody. Either we don’t know what part to give or maybe we don’t like to give any part of ourselves. Then more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed.”

By now you get the idea and see that my Common Place Book covers the ridiculous, the sublime, and everything in between. To end on a more humorous note, here is a poem from it by one of my favorite 20th century writers and wit, Dorothy Parker.

But Not Forgotten

I think, no matter where you stray,

That I shall go with you a way.

Though you may wander sweeter lands,

You will not soon forget my hands,

Nor yet the way I held my head,

Nor all the tremulous things I said.

You still will see me, small and white

And smiling, in the secret night,

And feel my arms about you when

The day comes fluttering back again.

I think, no matter where you be,

You’ll hold me in your memory

And keep my image, there without me,

By telling later loves about me.

In case you forgot, or perhaps never knew, June 14 is Flag Day. There is a lot of emphasis on the various parades occurring throughout the United States today, but I have not heard one mention of it being Flag Day. This is my humble attempt to compensate for that.

The first Flag Day was on June 14, 1777! It was on this day Congress passed a resolution specifying that the flag of the United States be “thirteen stripes alternating red and white” to symbolize the thirteen original states, and thirteen stars representing “a new constellation.

The “Star Spangled Banner,” written by Francis Scott Key was originally a poem celebrating the flag as it continued flying throughout the British bombardment of Baltimore’s Fort McHenry during the War of 1812. Later it was set to the tune of “To Anacreon in Heaven,” a drinking song. It was not adopted as the national anthem until 1931.

It is the first stanza which is commonly sung at events. I doubt that most of those singing it think about the meaning and significance of the words. Every time I hear it and ponder the those words, I have to work to hold back tears. Often I have to stop singing so that I can regain my composure.

As you read the poem in its entirety, think about what it is saying and the significance of those words to current political events.

Without further ado, here are all four stanzas of the song:

“The Star Spangled Banner” by Francis Scott Key

O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,

O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!

And the rocket’s red glare, the bomb bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep.

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:

’Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion

A home and a Country should leave us no more?

Their blood has washed out their foul footstep’s pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their loved home and the war’s desolation!

Blest with victory and peace may the heaven-rescued land

Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must when our cause it is just

And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

The reason I went to India was not to see the Taj Mahal, the magnificent temples and palaces, Delhi, or Mumbai. I saw all of these but I went to see tigers and I was not disappointed. I saw quite a few, but as with all travel experiences, I experienced unexpected bonuses.

Elephants are known for their memory and there is the saying that elephants never forget. But I saw proof of how intelligent they are.

Asian elephants are smaller and more docile than their cousins in Africa. For that reason they are used throughout the country for labor and to take tourists into the jungles on photo safaris. We had just returned from such a safari and were in the process of dismounting, a process that involves the elephant going up to a high platform onto which its passengers dismount.

As we were waiting our turn, I saw the woman on the elephant in front of us drop the lens cover for her camera. I was about to tell our driver when the elephant she was riding beat me to the punch. He reached down with his trunk and picked up the thin miniscule object. He did this with the “finger” at the end of his trunk. Then he reached his trunk over his head and gave it to the driver.

I had never doubted the intelligence of elephants but seeing this gave me all the proof I needed that they weren’t all brawn and no brain. I have told the story many times to guests at the Houston Zoo, where I volunteer, and they are as astounded as I was.

The Houston Zoo has the second oldest bull Asian elephant, Thailand, in the U.S. At the zoo he goes by Thai. He will celebrate his sixtieth birthday on June 16, 2025. The zoo is planning to celebrate Thai’s special day with special treats for him and those who visit that day.

Thai is the father of eight of the Asian elephants born at the zoo. The newest addition, Kirby, was born in November of 2024. Based on Thai’s reproductive abilities in his dotage, I consider Thai the Mick Jagger of elephants.

Thai has his own bachelor quarters and occasionally one or more of his younger male offspring come to visit him. When they do he is very tolerant and kind, allowing them to play with him.

Kirby’s mother, who also lives at the zoo, is Methai, the 56 year old matriarch of the herd. One of Methai’s favorite treats is browse and any time she gets a large stick, she will eat all of the green and bark off of it and then use it as a back scratcher.

A sign of aging in elephants is their skin turns pinker because of a loss of pigment. This is especially obvious in their ears and trunks. You can spot Methai among the herd because she has a large pink area on her face.

Elephants also develop arthritis in their joints as they become older. The zoo’s older elephants do daily “elephant yoga.” Their keepers ask them to raise and bend their legs repeatedly to warm up their joints. During these sessions the keepers observe to see if their movements are normal and how well they are responding. If an elephant is acting differently, the zoo’s veterinarians are informed.

Thai and Methai’s blood is collected once a week. If you are wondering how this is done, it is taken from their ear while a keeper distracts them by giving them special treats such as watermelon, rice cakes, or bananas. I would love to be distracted in such a way when having my blood drawn.

Zoo visitors often ask if their personalities change as they get older. Both Thai and Methai’s personalities have stayed the same, even if their bodies move a little slower.

As the herd’s matriarch, it is Methai’s job to teach all of the elephants how to behave and make sure the herd is safe and comfortable. Even though she cannot move as well as she once did, you can still see her hustle across the yard to find out what’s going on if a young elephant calls out.

When Nelson was very young, he laid down in the yard for a nap. When he tried to stand he could not figure out how to do it. He started vocalizing and his mom and sister came over and tried to help but could not get him up. Methai walked over, pushed her way past his mom, and using her trunk and front foot, gently lifted him right to his feet. It takes a level head to run a herd and Methai has always had that. Age hasn’t affected it.

When it is hot the elephants love being sprayed with water or taking a dip in the pool.

Though visitors to the zoo probably are not aware of it, visiting the zoo helps elephants in the wild. A portion of each zoo admission and membership goes to protecting wild elephants in Asia. The Zoo provides support, equipment, and training for local researchers to place satellite collars on Asia’s wild elephants and track them. The Zoo’s Malaysian conservation team is now watching over and protecting three groups of wild elephants in Borneo. The data collected from these groups will help create future protection plans for elephants in the wild.

I will conclude with my favorite poem about elephants. It is by Liz Brownlee.

An Elephant is Born

Night holds them safe,

the cloud moon gleams

deep in the darkness

of soft breath and dreams,

the elephant mother

greets her new son,

with a tender and gentle,

low soft hum,

strokes his face

the night-left long,

and sings her newborn

an elephant song.

If you ever want an example in patience, watch a four inch green anole lizard consume an almost two inch cockroach.

As I was cleaning out my garden shed, a tedious job I procrastinate doing for as long as possible, I looked up and saw a green lizard with a cockroach’s head in its mouth. I decided this was Mother Nature’s way of telling me to stop, just sit quietly, and watch the unfolding drama of nature red in tooth and claw.

The cockroach had probably been in the rocks over which I was washing pots and made the mistake of escaping, or so he thought, up the outside of the drainpipe where Mr. Lizard was patiently waiting. Though I did not see the actual capture, I watched as inch by inch the lizard consumed his prey. From time to time he would puff out his pink dewlap, warning other lizards to stay away.

Watching the lizard eat the cockroach became almost a form of meditation. I was surprised at the roach’s resilience as it continued moving its hind legs through most of the process. I kept thinking the lizard would open his mouth to better secure the cockroach. He never did. In incrementally small gulps he swallowed it.

Cockroaches are considered the sturdiest and most challenging pests to eliminate. Their body is designed to endure a variety of physical stresses, such as pinching, squeezing, and squashing. In fact, they can continue to live several days without their head, thrive without food for a month, and even survive a nuclear blast.

I guess any creature that resilient deserves at least a modicum of respect but this is not the case. Cockroaches are universally despised by humans and some people are terrified of them. They can fly, come up drains, and appear when you least expect them.

I was taking a shower at a friend’s house when suddenly a live one appeared at the bottom of the bathtub. I have no idea how it got there but I quickly ushered it down the drain and finished my shower. When I told my hostess about the encounter she did a good imitation of a seizure as she thought of this event occurring while she was bathing. Though we’ve been friends since college, I never knew about her cockroach phobia.

Even though stomping on them is an extremely satisfying way to execute one of these creatures, it is not the recommended way to kill them. According to several studies, cockroaches have a strong secondary role in transmitting diseases because they feed on excrement and then transfer or excrete pathogens. A cockroach can carry bacteria in its gut for several months or even years.

When you step on a cockroach, it can cause its bacteria-carrying gut juices to splash around your floor. Much better to spray it with an insecticide, let your cat torture it to death, or keep a few lizards as pets.

Once I had had my fill of cockroach information, I proceeded to fall down the “nature red in tooth and claw” rabbit hole. Though I have used the phrase, I always thought, mistakenly it turns out, that it originated with the originator of so many English quotes, William Shakespeare. I was wrong.

It was written by Alfred, Lord Tennyson as an elegy for his friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, who died at the age of twenty-two from a cerebral hemorrhage. It comes from In Memoriam A.H.H., a narrative poem of 2,916 lines of iambic tetrameter that Tennyson spent seventeen years writing.

Have no fear. I shall not subject you to the entire poem but only the relevant section which is found in Canto 56:

“Who trusted God was love indeed
And love Creation’s final law
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his creed”

You may well be thinking, “What the hell does that mean and how does it relate to his dead friend?” The simplest interpretation is the random cruelty of death in choosing its victims. No one is exempt, regardless of their age, station in life, or wealth.

Tennyson is posing the question of the conflict between love as the basis of the Christian religion versus the callousness of nature. In the best poetic tradition, Tennyson did not attempt to provide an answer. It’s up to the reader to do that.

“In Memoriam” is considered the highpoint of Tennyson’s career. Let me confess that, even though we share the same birthday, I am not a Tennyson fan. The only poem he wrote that I find engaging is “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” which is about a disastrous cavalry charge made by the British during the Crimean War.

The debacle was comparable to Custer at the Little Big Horn. Just as the horse Comanche was one of the few to survive that disaster, one of the survivors of the Light Brigade was a horse named Sir Briggs. As you’ve no doubt discovered if you’ve read previous blogs, horses have a special place in my heart.

The next time I find myself rushing through my day, I hope to remind myself of that lizard so patiently consuming the cockroach. It isn’t the prettiest analogy but it is the best example I have seen exemplifying the words of Tolstoy, “The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.”

While it seems only a few years ago, it was probably more than ten and likely closer to 15, when someone sent me this clever play on words. I came across it when I was trying to organize my writing files, a task I had little success accomplishing.

I went on the Internet to see if I could find the original source for it. Many people take credit for it, and there are several variations, however, I found no original author. If anyone knows where, with whom, or how this originated please let me know because I would love to give them credit.

I have also made some changes to it, related to my journey in writing a memoir, Eight Miles from the Front Gate, My Life on the Y.O. Ranch with Charles Schreiner III, which is now available for pre-ordering on Amazon.

I have been many places, but I’ve never been in Cahoots. Apparently, you can’t go alone. You have to be in Cahoots with someone.

I’ve also never been in Cognito. I hear no one recognizes you there. After my memoir is published, I may need to spend some time there.

I am positive that I’ve been in Dispensable, but I’ve been told otherwise.

I have, however, been in Sane. They don’t have an airport; you have to be driven there. Thanks to various family members, I have made more trips than I intended.

I would like to go to Conclusions, but you have to jump to get there and I’m not as spry as I once was.

I have also been in Doubt, especially when writing, as I search for the right word to use. It is a frustrating place to go. Once I am there I tend to wander and end up spending more time than I intended. I try not to visit there too often.

I’ve been in Flexible, but only when it was very important to defend my beliefs. The problem with going there is you seldom see friendly faces.

When writing my memoir, I tried not to be in Discreet though sometimes it could not be avoided.

One place that can be fun, but only if you don’t stay there too long, is being in Suspense! It really gets the adrenalin flowing and pumps up the old heart! At my age I need all the stimuli I can get!

I try never to be in Sincere, though I admit I have strayed there. I usually have a good reason for being there and usually it is to avoid hurting someone’s feelings.

In my younger days, especially when riding horses, I thought myself in Vincible, but learned I wasn’t. If you aren’t careful you can quickly go from in Vincible to in Disposed. I’ve never had a good time in Disposed. Recently I was there and had to spend several days in the hospital. I thought I’d never find my way out.

Though I swear I’ve never been there, friends, especially of the opposite sex, tell me I am often in Corrigible.

More times than I like, I have been in Deepshit. It’s easy to get there and much harder to get out.

I’m hoping to avoid being in Continent…

The one place I hope never to be is in Humane, especially to animals. I don’t think I could live with myself if I were.

Now that I’m older, several times a day I think of Hereafter, especially when entering a room. I stop and think “What am I here after?”

Where have you been?

Does the name Mike Christian mean anything to you? My guess is it doesn’t. It meant nothing to me until I read an excerpt about Mike from Senator John McCain’s autobiography, Faith of our Fathers. Reading about Mike’s courage as a prisoner of war when captured by the Vietnamese made me aware of how most Americans give little to no thought about the military heroes who are honored on Memorial Day.

Mike Christian was from a poor family who lived in a small town in Alabama. He did not wear a pair of shoes until he was thirteen. He joined the Navy when he was seventeen, seeing it as a way to escape poverty and have a better future. He took full advantage of the opportunities offered by the Navy. While serving as an enlisted man, he earned a Bachelor’s degree from Purdue University, became an officer, and then went to Naval Flight School.

He was assigned to the USS Kitty Hawk, an aircraft carrier, in February of 1967. On April 24, 1967, he was shot down while flying a combat mission over north Vietnam. He was forced to eject and captured by the North Vietnamese. He was sent to the infamous “Hanoi Hilton,” the prison where American prisoners were held. He would be there for almost six years.

The name Hanoi Hilton was given to the prison facetiously because conditions were so brutal and inhumane. The prison was built by French colonists in the late 1800s to house political prisoners. The French named it Maison Centrale or ‘Central House.’ It’s Vietnamese name was Hoa Lo which translates as “fiery furnace” or more literally “Hell’s hole.” The name originated because of the number of stores along the street selling wood and coal-fire stoves. The prison was demolished during the 1990s, although its gatehouse remains a museum and major tourist attraction.

Mike Christian and John McCain were in the same room at the Hanoi Hilton. There were between 30 to 40 men per room. McCain relates that somehow Mike got a piece of white cloth. As fellow prisoners watched, Mike ground up roof tile rubble to make a red dye, found a blue pen, made a makeshift bamboo needle, and pulled white threads from his prison blanket. He then set about making an American flag. American ingenuity at its finest.

Once the flag was finished, Mike stitched it inside his shirt. According to McCain, every afternoon, before the prisoners had their supper of a bowl of soup, they would hang Mike’s shirt on their cell wall and say the Pledge of Allegiance. McCain wrote that this was the most significant event of the day for the men in that prison cell.

One day the Vietnamese searched the cell. They discovered Mike’s shirt with the flag sewn inside. Mike and the shirt were removed from the cell, and, for the “benefit” of the other prisoners, Mike was severely beaten for several hours in front of his cell mates. Then the Vietnamese threw Mike back inside the cell. He was severely injured and the other prisoners did what they could to attend to his injuries and comfort him.

As McCain was preparing to lie down to sleep that night, he looked over at the corner of the room. Sitting there, holding a piece of white cloth and a bamboo needle was Mike Christian making another American flag. American courage at its finest.

In a letter to the Purdue University Hall of Fame McCain wrote this about Mike: “His patriotism and resilience helped us keep alive our hope and our pride in difficult circumstances. I think of Mike often. We each have our own memories of him. One of my fondest recollections is stirred every time I hear our Pledge of Allegiance. For it was with Mike, standing before a tiny flag he had covertly made for us to pledge our allegiance to our country from a distant prison cell, that our love for America’s blessings was so vividly reaffirmed.”

After 2,141 days in captivity Mike Christian was released on March 4, 1973, and returned to the country he served so valiantly. He would die in a house fire in 1983 and is buried in Huntsville, Georgia.

When we celebrate Memorial Day, our focus is on those who gave their lives for our country and “liberty and justice for all.” We forget those, like Mike Christian, who sacrificed by giving a part of their lives as being prisoners of war or having their bodies maimed by war. How many of us would be willing to make similar sacrifices? I fear not many, but should the need arise, I hope, to paraphrase the late President Kennedy, that when that torch is passed to a new generation of Americans they too will “pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.”

I will remember Mike on Memorial Day and hope you will as well.

When you become friends with someone, you seldom contemplate what the future holds for that friendship.

Even though Kay and I did not become friends until we were in our twenties we knew of the other’s existence because we attended the same junior high and high school. She was a year older than I which, at that stage in your life, can be an obstacle too daunting to overcome.

Her first husband and mine were roommates in college which was the building block for us becoming friends. Neither of those marriages lasted, but from their ashes, the spark of friendship between Kay and me flamed. As it did, we discovered we shared a love of cats, clothes, anything that was unique or had a history, and all things Texas.

Kay lived in Los Angeles for several years and while there discovered a place where the movies sent wardrobes from movies to be sold. She purchased a beautiful 1920s era flapper dress covered with bugle beads that I coveted every time she wore it. Kay also designed and made clothing, one of a kind pieces many for which she batiked or tie-dyed the fabric. I also purchased several of these. Later in her life she made beautiful and unique pieces of jewelry, each with a distinctive flair that only Kay could have put together.

Kay’s profession was interior design, in which she had a bachelor and master’s degree. Because of this, she was the person I called when I married a Texas rancher who had four storage barns of various pieces of furniture, hides, lamps, dishes, Coromandel screens, and other memorabilia inherited and purchased throughout his life.

He wanted many of those pieces used in the 8,000 square foot one bedroom house he was building on his ranch. I was overwhelmed at the prospect of combining so many diverse styles. I asked Kay if she could provide some guidance. She came to the ranch and as we went from storeroom to storeroom she pointed out various pieces and where they should go. I followed her instructions and the house came together with a uniqueness and stylishness I never could have accomplished on my own.

From this experience we decided to open an interior design, one of a kind home accessory shop in Austin, Texas. Kay came up with the name for it, The Crystal Coyote, as well as our motto, that it was for the “refined renegade.” Our logo was from a photo I saw years before of a coyote howling at the moon.

Part of our marketing strategy was to have a booth at various functions our potential clientele might attend, e.g., rodeos, livestock conventions, Christmas bazaars. One such event was in Odessa, Texas. We rented a truck, loaded up a large portion of our shop, and set out for West Texas, a mere jaunt of 340 miles.

Neither Kay nor I had driven a truck of that size but that did not daunt us. As I recall, my first time behind the wheel was on the return trip and I drove the entire way. The other amazing thing is that all we did for entertainment on the trip was talk, the entire six hours. At this point in our lives we were both single so much of the conversation was about men, past, present, and future.

We also occasionally touched on ideas for new merchandise for the shop, display ideas, and publicity. The further we got into West Texas the more tumbleweeds we saw on the roadside and occasionally in the road. Christmas was only two months away and Kay had the idea that we could make a tumbleweed Christmas tree for the shop.

Thus, on the return trip we made intermittent stops to pick up tumbleweeds, which are properly known as Russian Thistle. The truck was the perfect receptacle for them. Should you want to copy this idea, be sure to wear long sleeves and gloves because they are prickly. We had neither and by the time we were finished our arms looked as if we had tried to give a cat a pill (anyone who has tried to do this will relate to the analogy).

Another one of our road trips was from Austin to Dodge City, Kansas for the Texas Longhorn Breeders Association convention. For this trip, Kay’s boyfriend drove the U-Haul and we drove a rental car, since neither of us had a car that we trusted to make the 640 mile trip.

Should you think we could not have possibly talked the duration of this trip, think again. Talk we did about the same subjects covered on the drive to and from Odessa. As we crossed into the Oklahoma panhandle, the car begin making a rattling noise. No lights came on and the car showed no signs of decreasing speed so we just talked louder and kept driving. The noise continued for the rest of the journey.

A male friend once told me there is a theorem that the effect of dashboard lights on the female retina is blindness. Let me amend that to say the effect of engine noises on the female ear is deafness. This trip proved that theorem.

Once we reached Dodge City, we went to the rental car company to notify them of the strange noise. The manager opened the hood to see if he could locate it. He asked, “How far have you driven with this noise?” We answered in unison, “From Texas.” He responded, “You’re kidding, right?”

We assured him we were not. He questioned us in detail about other problems we may have noticed. Were there problems with the transmission, did the engine lose speed, was there a problem shifting gears? We answered in the negative.

He closed the hood and said, “If I ever go to a casino I want to take you ladies with me. You’re the luckiest two people I have ever met!”

Then he explained that something was wrong with the flywheel which should have led to many other problems which had not occurred. He gave us another rental car and told us if we heard any strange noises to stop immediately and get help. We had no problems on the return trip and spent it talking, and laughing, about how lucky we had been.

Kay and I remained friends, staying in touch through new husbands, my moving to Kansas and Honolulu, and her to various locations around Texas. Finally, she fulfilled her dream of living in San Miguel de Allende. My fiancé and I visited her there and then a few years ago she and her husband moved back to Texas.

The last time we spoke was less than a week ago. As we were hanging up each of us said to the other, “I love you.” This is the first time I recall us uttering those words but for some reason we were both moved to say it. Two days later she died in her sleep, probably from a heart attack.

One of the aspects we never consider when starting down the road of friendship is that one of us will die first and the other will face the shock, memories, and heartache that are grief’s companions. I have lost a number of male friends, but Kay is my first loss of a close female friend.

As I come to grips with the hard realities that I will never hear her voice again, receive an email or text message from her, or see her, the poignant lines written by Emily Dickinson offer some solace.

The Bustle in a House

The Morning after Death

Is solemnest of industries

Enacted upon Earth –

The Sweeping up the Heart

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity –

How long will it take to sweep up and put away my memories of Kay? I suspect I never will.