A Rose By Any Other Name

Originally called Buttons, the little glossy black cat, about 10 months old, circled our feet, rubbing her head and showing her belly, as my husband and I admired the cats at Cat Tales Rescue in Seabrook, New Hampshire. Our wonderful cat Nellie had died on Labor Day at eighteen years of age. It was now nearly Thanksgiving, and I decided it was time to bring another cat into the household. I chose a pretty long-haired tortoiseshell named Heidi online. But in person, Heidi growled when I pet her and slunk away. 

“She’s a bit aloof,” Kelly, the head of the rescue, said. That was an understatement.

Meanwhile, a ginger kitten untied Nic’s shoes, and the little black Buttons did acrobatics for our attention. We looked at the older cats and the smaller kittens (there were three black ones), all the while with Buttons at our heels. Finally, I picked her up and looked into her eyes. She purred and wrapped her paws around my neck.

“Oh, she’s working you!” Kelly laughed. Buttons rubbed her cheek against mine.

I looked at Nic. “She’s it,” I said. He agreed.

I had envisioned adopting another long-haired beauty, as Nellie had been. Buttons was short-haired, slinky looking, coal black: not a look I’d normally be attracted to. But looks are unimportant. Personality, her personality, won the day. We arranged a date to pick her up and bring her home.

As I waited for her, I thought of names. 

I wanted something pretty, but also with some meaning to it. She had a spunky personality, that was obvious. She was extraordinarily friendly (“She’s a people cat, not a cat’s cat,” Kelly had said when I asked if we should adopt two for company.) 

She needed a name that reflected that. 

A rose is bright, strongly fragranced, a tad thorny, and full of symbolism. It’s also part of the name of one of my favorite singers, Rosemary Clooney. And the variations of Rose are full of promise: there’s Rosa Parks, fierce and forthright “Mother of the Civil Rights era.” There’s Rosamund, meaning “horse protector,” which is intriguing. Rosalind was a character in As You Like It, and Rosalynn Carter, wife of Jimmy, is 92 and going strong. Longevity is a good thing.

Then there’s “Rosebud” (Citizen Kane). Rosie the Riveter. Rosey Grier. Rosemary’s Baby. “Everything’s coming up Roses” (Gypsy). “Now my life is sosy, Since I found my Rosie…” (Bye, Bye Birdie). “Lida Rose” (The Music Man).“A wed wose. How womantic” (Blazing Saddles). “Ring Around the Rosie.” “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” (OK, that’s a stretch, I’ll admit)…

“Rosie” was it. 

It took her only a couple of days to learn her new name. She stayed in a bedroom by herself until she felt more confident. Gradually, as long as I was nearby, she ventured out, met the dogs (Sophie was particularly excited, having lost her best friend Nellie, but Rosie soon set her straight about the erroneous notion that all cats are the same), and learned the lay of the house. As we discovered in just a few short weeks of living with her, she is remarkably bright, understanding words, playing games, and essentially taking over the household before she had turned one year old. Early on, she staked me out as belonging to her, and is always near me. But she is fond of everyone, and has no fear of people—strangers or otherwise.

Rosie. Rosie Posie. Rosita. Rosebud: she knows all of her nicknames by now. She plays fetch with her favorite toys, enjoys her new porch, custom built just for her (she’ll be an indoor cat), and seems to delight in torturing poor Sophie. She is overflowing with youthful energy. And since we are captive these days of Coronavirus shut downs, it’s easy to devote far too long to playing silly games with her, or sitting with her purring warm body on our laps. 

But we are not complaining. In spite of the perpetual bad news coming to us daily, life really is rosy, since we found our Rosie.

To See What He Could See: review of THE DOG WENT OVER THE MOUNTAIN

THE DOG WENT OVER THE MOUNTAIN

Peter Zheutlin

(author of Rescue Road and Rescued)

Over the years thousands of baby boomers have been inspired by John Steinbeck’s classic TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY to hit the road and look for America. Our soundtrack reflects that never-ending search for something to explain to us who we are and who we were. What does being an American mean? 

During our troubles—dust bowl, Great Depression, various panics, wars—answering that question would become even more poignant, and yet at the same time, discounted by some who simply proclaim their pride at being American. Why worry your fool head with philosophical questions of identity? You’re American, and that’s enough!

The fact that I was born here (in New England) and grew up on the west coast was happenstance. I was lucky to have a taste of western lifestyle, the country part as well as the city, and still feel an umbilical cord attached to the older, snugger New England. I don’t know the Midwest well, but my husband grew up in Wisconsin and is forever proclaiming its superiority over all of the other states in the union. But neither of us could say we are proud of being American. We both would agree we are lucky compared to many others in the world. Likewise, our children are lucky to have been born here. They are lucky to be white in a racially charged environment. They are lucky to not to have been born into poverty. But proud? No. That’s simply not the right term.

Peter Zheutlin understands this, and felt the urge, in his sixty-fourth year of life, to do as Steinbeck did and roam the country, to see what he could see. His dog, Albie, nine at the time, is likewise in his last trimester of life and seemed the perfect companion. So Peter packed his BMW convertible (no Rocinantefor him!) with a cover on the backseat for Albie, and off they went.

His trip began somewhat inauspiciously, with lousy weather (it was April) and dreary motels. He headed south first, opposite of what Steinbeck did, because he wanted to chase the good weather. The chase took a while, but eventually the cold rain and snow evaporated into the warmth of spring. 

His first search was for where the South begins and the North ends. He traveled through Pennsylvania, into West Virginia, and then into Virginia where he finds a sign designating Route 522 as “The Patsy Cline Highway.” “I could be wrong,” he writes, “but I bet you could scour every road in New England, and maybe the entire Northeast, and not find a highway named for a country western singer.” Peter and Albie were at last in the South. His certainty of this was cemented by a bumper sticker that proclaimed: “American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God,” with American and Confederate flags around the trim.

Peter and Albie’s exploration of the South highlighted the real intent of the journey (for Peter, at least; Albie likely came along for the ride): that is, finding a unifying theme in a fractured country. Confederate flags are triggers for some, yet considered sacred by others. Is it possible to bridge that divide and have a conversation with someone who believes that the Civil War was about state’s rights, not about slavery?

As their journey continues, Peter uses Albie as a sort of four-legged ambassador to make introductions easier and less awkward. People open up more when there is an animal to greet. The greeting would present an opening, and soon Peter found himself deep in conversation with a variety of locals. Stereotypes and pre-conceived notions he holds based on appearances, geography, or accoutrements (such as Confederate flags) slip away as he finds fellow Americans quite willing to talk and listen, regardless of differences.

The West likewise offers a vastly different picture of America, as they make their way through Arizona to California to finally touch the Pacific Ocean. They made it across country. Now they have to continue the clockwise journey. 

The descriptions of the various towns and parks are inspiring. But I came away from the book with a greater understanding of how vast this country is, and how unsettled, both in terms of the large, unpopulated areas, and the collective mental state. In Beach, North Dakota, while breakfasting at a local café, Peter sees the news about the Santa Fe High School shooting in Houston. The reactions from the various patrons is disheartening. Nowhere is there horror, or compassion, or fear. Instead, they seem to fear only that some “rights” will be taken from them because some mental case opened fire on children. “Beach may not have been the farthest we’d been from home,” Peter writes, “but it sure felt that way.” 

Steinbeck’s journey ended long before he actually arrived back home. At some point, he stopped seeing details in the landscape around him; stopped interacting with other travelers. He was done. What was left was simply the dull mechanics of driving. 

Peter also reaches that point in their trip, but fortunately he decides to take one last detour and visit old family friends in Ogunquit, Maine, putting a lovely, nostalgic wrap on his journey. “How many times had I sat in this very spot and watched the ocean lap up against these craggy rocks? Then I looked down at Albie. Every time I think I couldn’t love him any more than I do, I do.”

Nellie Belle: A Tribute

Nellie Belle

2001-2019

The kids and I went to the SPCA for the thousandth time, it seems, to adopt a kitten or two or three as a remedy for my heartbreak after losing my boy cat, Satchmo (aka CooCoo) to old age. I didn’t really think any one cat could possibly replace him. So I told Olivia and Stephan, (who were nine and six respectively) that we would find a couple of kittens. I wanted to enjoy the next 19 or 20 years with them.

The kittens were in a large glass enclosure with toys and hiding places. We asked to hold one, but the little fellow was so frightened by us that he shook and cried. Obviously these kittens were feral, and would require a household much calmer than one with dogs and kids. I could see how disappointed my kids were that the little cats were afraid of them, but I didn’t feel good about adopting one. We turned away and there behind us was a cage out in the open, not against the wall. In it was a small , fuzzy black and white cat with white whiskers and paws called “Lexi,” who had turned her full attention to us, ignoring other people milling about the cat room, and who was meowing plaintively, interspersed with vivid purrs.

“Lexi” reached a paw out to me, rubbed against the cage and continued to purr loudly. Her chart read that she was about three years old, was apparently good with other animals and children, and was not yet spayed. She had been surrendered for financial reasons.

For a three-year-old, she looked tiny, but she’d had at least one litter of kittens, so it’s likely that her stunted stature was a result of early motherhood. Her coat was short but thick, and seemed to have been recently shampooed. 

We asked to hold her and she purred even louder and cuddled with each of us. Not only was she unafraid of the kids, she seemed utterly delighted by them. She smiled at each of us and seemed to say, “OK, you’ll do just fine. Take me home!”

We did.

We renamed her Nellie Belle. She grew into a long-haired beauty, and lived another fifteen years with us.

I have shared my life with several cats over the years. As an adult, my first cat was Lily, also a “tuxedo cat,” whom I found as a very tiny kitten in the middle of Highway 101 (Ventura Highway) in Oxnard, California. Lily eventually moved East with me and we lived in Connecticut, New York, and finally New Hampshire. She was the somewhat grumpy matriarch of a slew of kittens, including the aforementioned CooCoo, Lulu, ChaCha, Freddie, and Gigi. Lily lived to be nearly twenty. When she died, my final connection with the previous life in the West seemed to be permanently severed. Of the rest of our cat tribe, Freddie and Gigi were victims of the great outdoors, racing out too early in the morning when predators are rampant around our wooded acreage, and never returning. The others lived well into their teens.

As difficult as it was to allow cats outdoors, I felt that overall they lived better, healthier and happier lives. Some disagree, and I realize, too, that if you live on a busy street, it’s not wise to let your cats out. But we live on a quiet street, surrounded by woods. With care, I kept most of our cats safe. The two who did not come home were both wilder than the others, and wandered too far afield. 

In consideration of all of that, I decided that, after a reasonable amount of time had passed, I would let Nellie out under supervision. Her first time out, I watched her carefully, and followed her as she explored the back yard and, inevitably, the woods. I got nervous as she disappeared and called her name. She turned around came back to me. Never before had a cat actually come to me when called. As a reward, I fed her. She seemed bottomless and was always ready to eat. From then on, if I needed her to come in, I’d call to her to come eat and she made her way home.

About a month or so after she had come to live with us, we were sitting outside, enjoying the summer sunshine. Our collie, Teddy, was romping about the lawn with the kids. I sat on the picnic table to keep an eye on Nellie and the others, but she had quietly slipped to the side of the house and into the woods. Her tuxedo coat, which was growing long and bushy, helped her blend into the shadows of the trees. She was still wearing her SPCA collar with their name and number on it, but it was a dark color that also vanished in the shadows. I became a little concerned, then worried, and finally alarmed. I called, offered food, but after an hour she didn’t return. 

I was organizing a search party when the phone rang. It was our neighbor, Roblyn, asking if we’d just adopted a little black and white cat. “She came to our door and meowed, so we let her in and fed her.” Roblyn exclaimed. “But then we noticed the collar and called the SPCA. They told us she belonged to you.”

“Oh! I’ll come get her!”

“She left already,” Roblyn said. “She slipped out the door. I’m so sorry.”

Our homes at that time were connected by woods, so I wasn’t too concerned about the road, but still was upset that she had left unattended. Just as I was again going to get the kids into the woods with me to look, along came Nellie, looking just as happy and sweet as ever. She meowed and purred, then asked to go inside to eat. 

After that, she wore a collar with her name and phone number, and I asked all neighbors to ignore her pleas for food.

I don’t believe Nellie disliked anyone, ever. We even came to suspect that she had befriended the mice who were moving into our home and devouring her food. We did occasionally find a deceased mouse, so that may not have been the case, but it wasn’t hard to picture Nellie happily sharing her bowl with a tiny rodent. 

She enjoyed company, always making an appearance to say hello, unlike our other cats who used to skedaddle during parties. A former friend had declared once that she hated cats (thus, former), and yet Nellie even rubbed against her leg, and stood to push against her hand. Hate was not an emotion Nellie could fathom. She loved so abundantly, that negative feelings just evaporated in her presence.

Hurricane Katrina brought us our yellow lab (named, of course, Katrina), adopted by Stephan, then 10 years old. When our collie Teddy died of cancer at just eight, I decided again that we should adopt a companion for Katrina. I’m not sure Katrina agreed, being totally smitten with Stephan and perfectly happy to avoid all dogs, but I ended up choosing a smallish black dog whom we named Sophie. Sophie was three years old, had been surrendered because of fighting with larger dogs, had apparently never been house trained or leash trained, but was crate trained, unlike any other dog I’d ever had. Obviously, her upbringing produced an anxious, frightened, and aggressive nature that presented itself fully about two weeks after we brought her home. She was easily riled up and was almost impossible to walk on a leash. She liked Katrina, but was highly aggressive with other dogs. I had kept her away from Nellie, fearing the harm she might cause, but one day Nellie, on her own, walked by her, tail raised, and gave her a little rub—just enough to get her attention. Sophie looked at her, wagged her tail in response, and then looked away and sighed. I was dumbfounded. Here was this aggressive, difficult, paranoid little beast, who had never, according to her chart, lived with cats, wagging her tail at one!

That was the beginning of a long friendship. The two frequently slept side by side, occasionally played gently, and even ate out of the same bowl (Nellie liked dog food as much as cat food). Katrina was indifferent to Nellie. Her attention is on her people rather than her fellow animals. But Sophie and Nellie formed a quiet, permanent bond.

When Nellie died, Sophie sniffed her still body, and followed us out to the little grave we’d dug, watching the whole process. Katrina never even woke from her morning nap.

Now Sophie is sixteen years old; Katrina is fourteen. We will have a difficult year and have to make some tough decisions. But I am grateful that we enjoyed Nellie and her loving nature for fifteen years, and more, that Sophie had a real friend who didn’t judge her or try to change her. The years have softened Sophie’s aggression and fear. Her body just isn’t up to lunging after other dogs or causing much mayhem. I had discovered, much too late for the sake of our carpets and rugs, that she happily used “pee pads” to do her thing, so that her so-called accidents are no longer a cause for reprimand. At this point, who cares? Nellie had never used anything other than the cat box or the outside for her business. Katrina has never had an accident. So two out of three worked out well in that regard.

This last year in Nellie’s life, she withdrew more and more from the company of others, except me. We would still nap together, and she often slept with me, under the covers, her diminished weight making her more subject to a chill. As her weight kept declining, her energy decreased. On Christmas, she had felt ill and wasn’t moving much, but rallied to join the dogs in their ritual of opening stockings treats, reaching up next to them as Stephan opened the edible presents. I had hoped she’d make it through the holidays, and she did. So I got greedy: I begged her to make it through the spring so that she could enjoy the warmth again. Our spring was rainy and cold, but she enjoyed an occasional bounce around the yard. So I begged her to make it through the summer, as well. She concurred, and enjoyed her last day outside on September 1^st, sitting under the giant Azalea bush, purring enormously.

What is Human? Review of MAMA'S LAST HUG, and others

I have a bad habit of reading several books at the same time. This creates a sort of confluence in my mind and also makes finishing anything take longer. But at times, even the most seemingly disparate books find a twain that meets. For instance, I recently read MAMA’S LAST HUG by Frans de Waal, the primatologist and author of numerous books about animal emotions. De Waal writes about emotions in animals, especially the chimps he studies, and how animal emotions help us understand human emotions. Empathy, for instance, has been crucial to survival, of course, and it is particularly paramount in good parenting for any species. Mothers of all species know well the fierce pain they feel when their child is hurting. 

But human empathy can take a darker role as well. Our ability to read another’s vulnerability results in scams, frauds, and even violence. Bored chimps will also sometimes play cruel “games” in taunting and even murdering other animals. Cruelty is not just a human trait, according to De Waal, although you could argue that we have nearly perfected it.

Another book I started recently is David Brooks’ THE SECOND MOUNTAIN. In it, Brooks writes about the process of climbing the first mountain in one’s life: career building, finding one’s place in the world, creating one’s life. The first mountain represents the “I” in our thinking. Although we are still certainly empathic, because we are natural creatures, others’ needs and desires take a backseat to our own ambitions. If we are completely bought into the “I” movement, so to speak, it will likely reach a peak and then begin a descent into a valley of chaos, loss, and possibly even depression. But crossing that valley is, as Brooks sees it, imperative in our growth as moral beings. The second mountain, then, is our ascent away from selfish pursuits to “moral elevation.” By climbing that mountain, our own needs now take the backseat to the needs of our fellow creatures. What I find an interesting dichotomy is that you could read Brooks’ book not as a memoir of his own search for moral elevation but as a self-help book. But that throws it back into the first mountain scenario! In any event, his tale is of one of our journeys away from self and toward community. Until we live as a village, a herd, a flock, we will be simply stuck in our own valley of despair.

Thus, in reading about animal emotion and human morality I see a pattern and an intersection of both scientific and philosophical study. In our current crisis of morality (perhaps ongoing crisis) in this country, it is especially relevant to consider the human and animal worlds as interconnected. Morality is not a human trait exclusively, nor is it the domain of reason. I agree with De Waal that in fact morality must be tied to our emotional lives. Otherwise, if we were to use purely rational justifications without emotion, the concept of slavery, for example, could be touted as a sound economic policy. But crimes against humanity do exist and persist. Why? How has our natural emotional connection with our fellow species broken down so badly to allow the atrocities we see, and sometimes even condone? 

That seems to be where David Brooks comes in in his examination of what involves a moral state of being and how it can be achieved. Animals seem not to have the issue with morality that humans have. Even domesticated animals who are tied hoof and tail to humans retain their natural, emotional connections to each other, except where human cruelty has so skewed their minds that they become ferocious—as in the case sometimes of fighting dogs—or anti-social—as with many animals who have been badly treated.

Murder does exist, as I’ve noted above, in the world of chimps. But genocide and war are uniquely human. Classes or clans of similar-looking humans have banded together to bring annihilation or enslavement to other classes or clans of humans dissimilar in looks and culture. Usually, the contest is territorial, which does harken back to our animal ancestry. But in modern times, it is either an effort to remove an entire ethnicity or to remove an impending or possible threat. Sometimes, it’s simply greed.

De Waal points out that the soldiers who carry out the atrocities of genocide or war are not usually acting of their own volition, and in that way, we have veered far from the animal world. Alpha males and matriarchal powers exist among animals, of course, and can produce violence. But animal cultures do not have the power structures that humans have created. We have a system wherein a group of commanders can dictate to a pool of subordinates activities that might actually violate an individual’s sense of morality. But the consequences of rebelling against the orders are so high that the soldier is forced to push down his emotional inclinations towards empathy and morality in the treatment of other humans. 

MAMA’S LAST HUG brilliantly conveys the thesis that animals do have emotions (most of us would say, “Duh,” but many scientists have balked at that concept), and that those emotions may, in fact, create “feelings,” just as human emotions do. The fact that animals do not articulate those feelings, doesn’t mean they’re not there, and with more study, possibly uncovered. Feelings are not emotions. Feelings are the outward expression of an inward emotion—sometimes the opposite—such as saying, “I’m happy,” yet inside being truly depressed. Animals will disguise their emotions for reasons for survival or to gain an advantage. Humans do the same. Both, I believe, also tailor their emotional responses for moral reasons. An urge to behave one way can be stemmed because the animal knows that the action is wrong. 

So back to David Brooks’ book. To live a truly moral life means, according to Brooks, to forego one’s own selfish inclinations for the benefit of one’s community. We see evidence of that behavior in all types of creatures. What we do not usually see in the animal world is the opposite: the intentional pursuit of selfish gains to the detriment of an animal’s community. There are no laws in place, no systems of ethics to dictate an animal’s behavior, except maybe the overall need to survive. Humans, on the other hand, do have a system of ethics stating what is right and wrong, what is acceptable behavior and what is not. And yet, we see even in our leaders a constant flouting of those rules, and for some, an obvious lack of a moral center or emotional attachment to community. 

Is that what makes humans different from animals? Maybe. Selfishness does not promote the welfare of a species or community. In Richard Grant’s wonderful book, GOD’S MIDDLE FINGER (I said I read a lot of books at the same time!) he writes of a tribe in the Sierra Madre who are distinctly anti-social except when beer is involved. Their tribe has suffered attacks and slaughter throughout their history, and as a result, they’ve pretty much kept to themselves. Consequently, they have few traditions, a broken language, and stagnant intellectual and social development. Keeping oneself to oneself doesn’t lead to growth. Animals know this. Humans apparently still need to learn it.

Treats and Cheats: review of HEART OF BARKNESS, Spencer Quinn

HEART OF BARKNESS

A Chet and Bernie Mystery

Spencer Quinn

$25.99 hardcover. Our price $20.79

Spencer Quinn is a talented writer of fiction. His more serious, THE RIGHT SIDE, about a veteran dealing with brain injury and a dog who instinctively covers for her. His Chet & Bernie mystery series is lighter fare, of course, being narrated by Chet the dog, a hundred-pounder with ears that don't match. But Chet being Chet, we are painted a picture of the human condition as only a dog could see it: without understanding, and yet with curiosity and wonder.

It’s been a long three years since our last Chet and Bernie fix. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been waiting impatiently for Chet the Jet to catapult himself again into our lives and into Bernie’s open arms. Whoa, big boy!

In this latest romp, Chet and Bernie go to hear their favorite old-time country music singer, Lotty Pilgrim. But in a tangle of stolen tips, refused song requests, and chases that show Chet at his very best, the duo find themselves in the middle of a strange and mystifying case. 

The song Lotty wrote but wouldn’t perform proved to be a ballad about a murder that happened long ago. The perpetrators are determined to keep that case cold and will stop at nothing to hide the secret. 

Spencer Quinn, the alter ego of Peter Abrahams, began writing the Chet & Bernie series, he says, after his wife suggested it. Chet is not a talking dog. His role as the narrator (unreliable narrator) allows plot twists and turns and switchbacks that keep the reader on edge. But his truly doggy instincts and nature are never forsaken. And that makes for laugh out loud narrative.

Since Quinn seems to have tremendous fun with this series, we have reason to hope that he’ll continue (although more novels along the lines of THE RIGHT SIDE would be equally welcomed). With a new publisher, the series will have a new look. But Chet and Bernie will still drive through the Arizona desert—Chet riding shotgun—hunting perps and sniffing out bad dudes—Chet doing the sniffing—for many more dog years to come.

Believe!: review of EAGER

Eager: The Surprising, Secret Life of Beavers and Why They Matter

Ben Goldfarb
Foreword by Dan Flores

Hardcover, $25.95

“One river, underground, irreplaceable, with habitat and wetlands for all.”

The above is the Beaver Pledge, per a beaver enthusiast in California who welcomed the author of this beaver bible to her “home-cum-museum.” Goldfarb meets with all sorts of Beaver Believers (that’s an actual thing) as he studies the history of the Castor Canadensis in the US and shares with his readers the profound importance of these busy rodents in the creation and preservation of wetlands, health of fish (trout, salmon) populations, and all around environmental benefits of, basically, leaving them alone to do what they do. 

But this country is not known for leaving anything alone, especially anything environmental. Trappers decimated beavers in the 18^thand 19^thcenturies. Farmers and fishermen wrongly believed the flooding caused by beaver dams damaged their livelihood (quite the opposite). Humans like free-flowing, straight, deep waterways on which to travel, trade, and scrounge for valuables, whereas beavers absolutely abhor flowing water. By damming up anything that moved, they created ecologically vibrant and hardy ponds and pools, which then fed aquafers, vital in times of drought. A good example of how important beavers are to fight drought is evident in California, and Goldfarb devotes an entire chapter to the Golden State. Fortunately, California has discovered that to fight climate change, the best way may not be to plant more trees, but “to plant more beavers.” But it is amazing to know that this overall environmental progressive state was steadfastly anti-beaver in its policies. Slowly, the powers that be are coming around to recognize the beaver bounty.

EAGER is a fun, fast read, even with the abundant science thrown in there. Goldfarb is passionate and as busy as his subject. And he recognizes the inherently quirky nature of his obsession. Beaver Believers constitute a group of hardworking biologists and laypeople who have made it their mission to bring beavers back to their rightful places in this country. Snickers and sidelong glances be damned: these folks know that without beavers, we lose. With them, we have at least a fighting chance to alleviate some of the inevitable devastation climate change is bringing.

Ben Goldfarb is asked why he is writing about beavers. Are they endangered? Well, no. Despite human’s best efforts there are still millions of these tough little rodents in North America and Europe. Goldfarb notes that beavers returned to the site of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster; they were among the first mammals to return to the volcanic ruin of Mount St. Helens; beavers are enjoying the result of warming in Alaska, nibbling on trees in the once barren tundra. “You can have the rats and cockroaches,” Goldfarb declares. “When the nukes fall, I’m betting on beavers.”

EAGER is a heartening read in these dreadful times that feel more and more like the end times. The fact that there are many people out there who are fighting to save what too many are conniving to destroy makes me feel at once hopeful and guilty. Most of us do too little, myself included. But being aware and spreading that awareness will help save some of this planet for the next generation. I don’t know if I’d ever dress up in a beaver suit for a Beaver Festival, but I’ll definitely hype this wonderful book. 

Go Beavers!

Review Redux: CHASER

In honor of the recent passing of Dr. Pilley, I am reposting this write-up upon the original publication of his book.*

First and foremost, Chaser, the lovely border collie who graces the jacket of this fine book, is part of the Pilley family, not just a research animal or entertainment. She has the innate intelligence of her breed and is, therefore, a willing and fast learner.

Dr. Pilley is a retired professor of psychology with a keen interest in animal cognition. He has read about Rico, a dog who was taught over 200 words and is certain his pup can exceed that number. But more important, he wants to write a scientifically acceptable research paper proving that canine intelligence is real and should be studied more. Rico’s accomplishments were found flawed by the scientific community. Dr. Pilley wants to avoid that pitfall.

So he sets about first teaching Chaser names of toys. “Chaser, this is …” is how he manages to do this. Chaser is eager and needs to have something to herd, so she quickly picks up the names of toys and fetches and herds them on command. By the end of the book, she has 1,022 toys, all of which she knows by name.

That in itself is amazing. But that’s only part of the story. Dr. Philley explores her language abilities further. He wonders whether she can infer a meaning of a word or name. He adds a toy that she has not seen before to a group of familiar toys hidden together. He then asks her to fetch that new toy with a name she has not heard before:

            “ ‘Chaser, find Lounge. Find Lounge.’

            Chaser padded behind the couch while I sat with my back to her. Several seconds passed without her bringing anything to me. I repeated, ‘Chaser, find Lounge. Find Lounge.’ I waited ten more seconds, marking the time by the clock above the television, before turning around to see what Chaser was doing, or rather, not doing….

            I was wondering how much longer I should wait when Chaser slowly came around the couch. In her mouth was a plush miniature chair from a dollhouse set….”

            Chaser learns other commands that are intended partly for her safety or for her “Pop-Pop” and “Nanny’s” sanity, such as “Time out,” and “No toy.” Her reward for getting a right answer is always playtime, rather than treats. Dr. Pilley makes a strong plea for using more play in teaching our children as well.

            Chaser’s language abilities extend far behind simple memory. She understands syntax and semantics. She can be told to paw, nose, or take an object and bring it to another object, thereby understanding a verb and a direct and indirect object. Her accomplishments are always rewarded by play and love. She’s not only a brilliant dog but a very happy one!

*Review is of hardcover edition. Now available in paperback. Click Here for more info.