2 sept 2007

To call my mother a "pet lover" would be putting it SOOOO mildly. If she could, she'd bring home every stray. Every hungry perro: old, young, one-legged, smart, dumb, hairy, not. Every single one. She'd knock me right out of the way to get to a needy dog.

Up until moving to Costa Rica, we owned Fibonacci Acres: 10 acres of dirt with the world's most poorly constructed mobile home on it in Live Oak where Mom lived. She had it pretty and comfy all the time, so when we came to visit every couple of months, there was food in the fridge and a mom to welcome us in.

She had a dog in Live Oak, Mollie, adopted from a shelter. Mom always chooses the least likely dog to be adopted: older, homely, shy, pretty much on their last legs. Mollie is still with us: too old to make the move to Costa Rica, she is living in KY with my brother, Earl. If you are dog and you can't live with mom, you want to live with Earl and Barb. They have like seven dogs who all sleep on the bed.

After five months at the farm, Mom had collected three more stray dogs, one of them, Mango, pregnant with seven puppies. The other two, Red and Toffee, actually belonged to a neighboring farm but I guess he never fed them. I'm sure he never fed them like Mom did. She cooks, measures, stirs, gravies, honeys, garlics and peanut butters. Of course, Red and Toffee hung around!

Their real owner also never inoculated them. One day both dogs appeared with rabies, prevalent in rural U.S. Dazed and confused, acting like they had been drugged, mom knew something was wrong but couldn't figure out what. Then Toffee attacked her. Well, not her, exactly. Her pants leg. No broken skin, but enough rabies slobber qualifies you for the shots.

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