Getting At Thomas's Story

 

Hard to believe that an entire decade has passed since I started taking notes on a memoir about Sgt. Thomas Tibbs. Eighteen months after being rescued from horrific conditions, he had made so much progress (progress that began with the love and patience of volunteers at Friends of Upland Animal Shelter), I knew I wanted to chronicle his story, beginning to end. If I could discover much about his beginning.

Turns out, that has been a challenge.

Seven years ago, after I retired from teaching and returned to my first love, I pulled out my notes from three years prior and started adding to them. At that time, I was able to contact two gentlemen who were administrators in animal control at the time of Thom’s rescue. One refused to talk to me. The other agreed to a phone interview, then spoke incessantly about how difficult it is to be the director of a county animal shelter—one that is notorious for having a “high-kill” rate. He kept me on the phone for four hours and never answered any of my questions.

Last Thursday was a beautiful day in the High Desert of Southern California. I drove up to Apple Valley to visit the very modern library there, to see if perhaps a reference librarian could help unearth some stories that might have run in the local newspapers in 2013.

Nope. No reference librarian at all. And no newspapers. “We don’t keep those for more than a week or so,” one of the kind ladies at the desk told me. There were two of them, and in between checking out books and telling people the restroom code, they listened, intrigued, as I told them Thom’s story. Neither remembered it from the news. Both wanted to help. One of them began an internet search using names I gave her—and came up with all the information I already had.

I left a bit discouraged, but undaunted. From there, I did a long drive down a dirt road, looking for the property where Thomas was born—Rainbow’s End Animal Sanctuary. If ever a name were ironic…. The property is allegedly (according to a Facebook page, so the info is taken with a grain of salt) on Zuni Road, so I drove the length of that long, meandering road. No way to tell where it might have been.

Still undaunted, I pulled to a stop by some rural mailboxes to snap the above photo (and check in with a friend who had been calling, worried, for hours, knowing I would be on this quest by myself in the middle of a rural area). As my little Subaru idled, a white-haired woman pulled up to get her mail, and I sauntered over to ask her if she’d ever heard of the “sanctuary.”

What she told me in great detail I will not discuss here, so as not to subject you, my dear, dog-loving Reader, to the horrors she shared with me. If you can follow this thread: Her neighbor’s husband’s brother used to work at the sanctuary. The neighbor, a dear friend of the woman I was speaking to, died of cancer.

“So you no longer have contact with the husband?” I asked, knowing all too well the answer.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t even know where he is or how to get in touch with him.”

Maybe it’s just as well.

I couldn’t leave Apple Valley without stopping by the overflowing shelter there, walking through the kennels and finding four or five or six dogs I wanted to take home. Before that, I asked a woman at the desk if anyone working there now had worked there in 2013.

“No, I don’t think so,” was her reply. I gave her my contact numbers, telling her briefly about Thomas, about why I was seeking information. She said she would have someone call me if anyone knew anything.

So far, that hasn’t panned out, either.

Here’s what I know, and it boils down to two dynamics:

1. Somebody up there knows something.

2. I’m not just stubborn, I’m Irish stubborn.

So yeah, I’m not giving up. Thomas will have a book about his majestic self because he’s—he was—beautiful and he deserves it, my sweet boy. And I have a thing or two to say about companioning with a feral dog.

As always, stay tuned.

 

Thank Goodness for Dogs

 

I’ve been busy lately, finishing the last book in my Dragon Singer Series, getting it formatted, ordering books, moving all the furniture around in my house to accommodate new floors, cleaning everything as I moved it, cleaning it again as I put it back to remove the layer of flooring dust.

It hasn’t been exactly stressful, but it has definitely upset my usual routine. Dear Reader, if you’re familiar with the particular quirks of mental illness, you know that those of us with anxiety are at our best when we can follow a general routine that includes making calming, self-care spaces for ourselves.

For eight of the ten days my flooring guy, Jorge, was working, my routine was shot, and I was quite proud of how I managed my anxiety during those days. Until the last day. On the last day, I had simply reached my limit. I needed to have the quiet sanctuary of my home returned to me, and finally, by day’s end, it was.

Let me tell you what kept me sane in the interim: Maya. Even though Jorge was showing up at 8:30 every morning, and even though that meant having furniture (+books, knick-knacks, etc.) moved and the room ready and the pets sequestered by that time, I still walked Maya every morning. We’d head out around 5:30, 6:00a.m. and do a mile in the hushed darkness.

Sometimes, as the sun was coming up, we’d see bunnies munching on the new spring grass. Or quail, power-walking for cover in the gully. Or an awesome sunrise. Or the mated pair of Canada geese winging silently overhead. One morning, just as we strolled under a very tall pine tree, a great-horned owl called “Hey!” (which sounded like “WHO?” in his language) from the top of the tree. The hoot was so loud in the stillness, Maya and I both startled. Then I laughed. And Maya strained on the leash. (“I don’t know what that was, but we need to get to safety, Mom!”) Even on the day it was lightly sprinkling, we went out, both donning raincoats, unbothered by the damp when we knew we would be warm and dry upon our return.

On those walks, I sucked in the clean, fresh, cold air (since residual dust continued to swirl around my home for days), and I used the time to remind myself that (1) the day would be long but not unending, (2) I maintained control of the process; if my anxiety rose to a dangerous level, I could always ask Jorge to leave for the day, and (3) I am extremely fortunate to be able to afford this upgrade that I’ve been looking forward to for so long. (And “so long!” old carpeting.)

Gratitude. Gratitude in everything. The clarity of the stars in the pre-dawn sky, the sharp call of the resident Cooper’s hawk as it awakens, the ability to still do a brisk walk—look, Ma, no sciatica!, the progress of the little dog trotting dutifully alongside me (even though she’d rather be hiking or back in her nice warm bed).

Speaking of Maya’s bed: The first day Jorge worked, I kept Maya in my bedroom and stayed with her (and Jenny the Cat) most of the day. As the days progressed, I felt comfortable leaving the room to move things and clean, but checked on both of them frequently, often just lying on the floor next to Maya’s bed, stroking her head, rubbing her back, and kissing her soft puppy ears. (Okay, yeah, she’s nine, not a puppy. Her ears are still that soft, though.) This, as much as the long early walk, helped to keep me calm and “regulated,” as the current mental health jargon goes.

So thank goodness for dogs. Everyone should have one. Or two. Or three. Stay tuned….