EXCOGITATE: To think out; devise; invent. To study intently and carefully in order to grasp or comprehend fully.
TO THIINK IN OR THINK OUT…WHAT IS YOUR METHOD?
According to wiseGEEK, to think outside the box means means to “handle a situation or challenge in an unconventional manner. The origin of the phrase is believed to date back to the 1960s, and is often associated with a famous mental puzzle called The Nine Dots.”
I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years and I’ve found that no one really wanted me to think outside the box — independently, creatively, with imagination or compassion. I felt the overwhelming corporate mantra was to agree with everything and keep quiet.
And that leads us on to another outside the box obsession of mine…
I love boxes; cardboard boxes, wooden boxes, large and small boxes. Over the years, I’ve accumulated a massive collection. (I’m not a hoarder, I’m not a hoarder, I’m NOT a hoarder. Stop thinking that!)
But a box full of Bandit was my favorite. Our poor baby died of chronic renal failure. Wasn’t she soo beautiful? Sniff.
She’s speaking to me with her eyes, ” I don’t feel very good, Mommy.” Photo by Enchanted Seashells
I don’t approve of using animals in war or police work. I think it’s cruel to send dogs and horses in harm’s way, especially since these sentient beings don’t have the ability to consent — decision-making capacity –and are merely used as expendable, cheap fodder. In my opinion, that’s clearly abusive.
However, the rescue dogs who searched for victims of the 9/11 attacks saved many lives and then took on the task of providing therapy to survivors.
On September 11, 2001, when the towers fell and the sky turned to ash, more than 300 search and rescue dogs stepped into hell on earth. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t flinch. They climbed through fire and steel, through suffocating debris and deafening silence, searching for life with every breath, every pawstep, every heartbeat.
They entered with pure hearts and fearless resolve—no armor, no agenda, just the unshakable instinct to help. They worked until their pads split, until the air burned their lungs, until their handlers broke down and hope ran dry. And still, they kept going. Because that’s what heroes do.
When the searching stopped, the therapy dogs arrived. Quiet. Steady. Healing. They didn’t need words. They curled beside the broken, leaned into the grief, and reminded shattered humans that love hadn’t died in the dust.
These beautiful dogs didn’t just serve. They bore the weight of our sorrow. They carried our hope. They were the silent saints of Ground Zero—unspoken, unshaken, unforgettable.
We don’t just remember them. We thank them. For their courage. For their comfort. For showing us, in our darkest hours, what selfless devotion truly looks like.
To the hero dogs of 9/11: your legacy lives on in every rescue, every comfort, every life saved because you showed up when it mattered most. Curated from houndsinpounds.org
I had another lucid dream about my kitty, Bandit. She was seated on the sofa, paws tucked up under her body, and she was simply looking at me.
When she was alive, she would often stare at me, right through to my bones, with such intense love in her eyes that I’d have to stop whatever I was doing and bask in the feeling of being so very loved. SIGH. I surely do miss that girl.
And, there In the mists of my memory I see you. And, there In the mists of my memory You shall always be.
I’m trying to distract myself from all the horrible events going on in this country — too many to talk about — with memories of beautiful Bandit, who still visits me in my dreams. She was the real princess, not me.
“Hello, my love…”
Little Ghost Cat, Sometimes, I hear your gentle purr And feel the soft touch of your fur. Then, late at night, old memories stir Of the friend I loved and lost.
Little Ghost Cat, By moonlight, now you come and go Unseen and like moving water flow O friend I loved and lost.
(I believe this poem is attributed to Barbara Parkhill Hall)
This time of year is when I really miss all my babies that have crossed over the Rainbow Bridge.
I never felt as if I “owned” them; I always felt as if I was their caretaker and protector and that we were a loving family, so I was profoundly touched when I learned there was a word to describe that concept.
Kahu is a Hawaiian word with a deep spiritual meaning, as it implies that the person and their pet are connected on a spiritual level.
Kahu is a guardian; person who is entrusted with the safekeeping of something precious, a protector, steward, beloved attendant.
In Hawaiian culture, the relationship between a person and their pet is described as a kahu relationship.
That sounds about right, the way to describe what is most precious. The word kahu, and what it means, is incredibly beautiful, so much more accurate than being referred to as our furbaby’s “owner”.
I love these photos of Bandit because as sweet as she looks, this girl took absolutely no shit from anyone.
One minute she would allow herself to be stroked and loved and her long silky fur brushed, and seemingly for no reason at all, except maybe to herself in her weird kitty brain, she’d lash out and inflict serious damage with her teeth or claws.
Late in life, Bandit was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism and chronic renal failure. With the help of a great vet, we did all we could to extend her quality of life as long as possible, but on July 26, 2010, at the age of thirteen, there was no denying that her journey as my spiritual kitty daughter had come to an end. The doc came over and assisted her transition over the Rainbow Bridge.
Bandit is the one I still dream about; freaky lucid dreams as if she’s still here with me.
It’s been a long while since the gardens at Casa de Enchanted Seashells were honored by the presence of a four-legged child. When we had a completely empty nest, there was supposed to be a lot of travel and other fun but that didn’t really happen, at least not in the way I had happily anticipated.
This was my beloved Bandit…
…and my beautiful Border Collie boy –Victor at age sixteen, enjoying his senior years at what was to be his last Christmas before crossing over the Rainbow Bridge, sitting in the place of honor because he deserved it.
Lately, something odd and mysterious has been going on here. I’ve discovered tennis balls and other toys that simply seem to randomly appear out of nowhere, some even in the middle of the lawn, as if a game of fetch was still in progress.
See?
There’s a monogamous pair of coyotes that visit me on a regular basis and I have a wildlife camera set up to record their activities, so I know the balls don’t come from them, although that’d be super cool if they were bringing me gifts to thank me for my vocal support regarding coexistence with wildlife, instead of vilifying and murdering them.
But…
My yard is completely fenced in–not that coyotes care about that–but to emphasize the fact that a normal domestic dog roaming the neighborhood couldn’t possibly find a way in, and certainly not with a ball in his or her mouth.
I like to think it’s the spirit of my Victor sending me a gigantic message that he’s still chasing tennis balls and he’s up there with Sabrina and Stella Rondo and Beowulf and Tovah and Bandit and Misty and Tawny and Blackie, all my beautiful children who were so very loved and cherished during their lifetimes and beyond.
Here’s my most special part wolf, Beowulf, and a MUCH younger me.
I was part of a covert rescue operation and bottlefed him every two hours. I was his mom and he was my perfect boy. We were inseparable. Soul mates.
The story of Victor did not end on July 15, 2006. We planned a memorial service for a couple of months later, the next time my son and DIL were in town.
I tasked everyone with remembering a favorite anecdote or fond memory and we’d light candles and give him a proper farewell. DIL is very crafty in addition to being a super-brain and she created a wind chime with driftwood and seashells and his tags and other jangly metal thingys.
We gathered by Vic’s favorite spot in the yard with his deflated soccer ball and his ever-present bucket. Boy oh boy, did he love to throw that bucket around!
Victor loved to play with buckets. This pic was taken the morning before he died.
My son read Last Words to a Dumb Friend by Thomas Hardy. There wasn’t a dry eye around this yard, I can tell you.
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall –
Foot suspended in its fall –
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should–by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance –
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.
As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
I talked about how he easily accepted the cats we brought home; smart as a Border Collie is, he quickly learned how to befriend them–the cats were a little slower to warm up to him but soon everyone was on board. Whenever they would “play attack” his tail or swipe at him with a paw, he would look down at them with such a bewildered look in his eyes, as if to say, “Hey guys, I’m not allowed to hit back, no fair!”
Of course, the cats knew they could get away with anything, even sleeping in the middle of his bed. He would patiently lie (lay?) down next to them on the cold tile floor until I came in and shooed them away. Vic loved to eat just about anything; grapes, carrots, watermelon–it was fun to test his palate. The one thing he could not abide was thunder or fireworks. The poor dear would tremble and hide under the computer desk and no amount of reassurance could erase the sheer terror in his eyes.
You can teach a BC pretty much anything. I taught him some herding commands just for fun, no sheep around here, but it’s a great way to exercise their brains and they love to work.
We used to play hide and seek. My son would hide and we’d say to Victor, “Where’s J? Go find J!” and he’d take off running up and down the stairs, and he’d almost always be able to find him, no matter where he was.
Oh, I tell you, a dog like that is priceless.
DIL’s memories were the most recent. She didn’t start out loving dogs as our family most certainly does, but I believe she worked hard to overcome whatever obstacles she had in her heart. I mean, who could not love an animal whose only joy in life was to be so happy to see you when you came home, wagging a tail like mad, if you had been gone five minutes or five hours or five months? Maybe it was a bit of fear, too, at the time she met Vic, he was quite old, had some dental and skin issues–he was a senior citizen after all– but I wasn’t going to allow her to miss out on the joy of a pet! We cooked up a deal, a negotiation. She’s a great one for deals, I’ve found out. A master (mistress?) of negotiation, she outlined the arrangement: IF she fed Victor from her mouth, (I know it’s gross but I used to do it all the time) then her reward would be a facial at the spa. Darned if she didn’t put a piece of bread in her mouth, get down on all fours, and let him ever-so-gently take the bread from her mouth. Immediately after that, she screamed bloody murder which scared the hell out of Victor and he ran off, but she had held up her part of the bargain, so yes, DIL got her facial.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 