Why the Dog and the Goat matters

A hunter I know told me when he took his son hunting for the first time and the son killed an animal, the son cried.

Was the father angry at his son? Did he berate him and call him weak? No. He told his son he would have been worried if he hadn’t showed some emotion, if it didn’t bother him. 

Personally, I am not a hunter. And if I had to kill animals before I could eat them, I would probably be a vegetarian. But I am not a vegetarian. I am carnivorous. So, it would be hypocritical  of me to go on an anti-hunting rant.

In some ways, hunting is probably a more humane way to source meat as opposed to how livestock is often raised. The exception would be hunters who fail to make a clean shot, and the animal flees and suffers a slow death.

But this article is not about that. This article is about what is in the head of the person aiming the gun at the animal. When they pull the trigger, do they do it because they enjoy the power, the high they get knowing the life of that animal is in their hands? Do they get a rush after the kill, where it feels good and they want to kill more?

Or perhaps the hunter has something in common with me—in common with people who have a desire to meet some of their basic needs as our ancestors did. While I don’t kill the food I eat, I enjoy growing it from seeds. I enjoy walking to my garden and harvesting the lettuce for my evening’s salad as opposed to buying it at the grocery store. Growing it takes more work, and if I am honest, can cost more money—at least in the beginning. But I believe it satisfies something in me, in the same way some people feel when they have a freezer full of meat—meat they didn’t buy at the store, meat they processed themselves, meat that didn’t involve the cruelty often found commercially.

Native Americans are just one of the many cultures that perform ceremonies or rituals for animals they hunt to show respect for the animals. 

Now, let’s talk about killing a pet.

Many of us were gutted in our childhood after reading the book, “Old Yeller,” or watching the movie. After the beloved family dog was attacked by a rabid animal, the owner was forced to shoot his dog—he had no other option. We all cried.

We’ve all watched movies where a horse is seriously injured and its owner is forced to shoot the animal. It’s not something they wanted to do, but they must do. And it’s certainly not something they ever want to do again.

When I was a teenager and lived at Havasu Palms, one of our cats, Walter, was seriously injured.(Yes, the cat was named after Dad, because his fur color matched Dad’s hair color) We were almost two hours from the closest vet, and there was nothing the vet could do for Walter, aside from euthanasia.  My father made the decision to handle the situation himself and not allow the cat to suffer a minute longer.  Dad took his gun and shot Walter. The act devastated Dad. He cried and said he never wanted to do that again.

There is another pet owner, one who holds a position of power in our government. In many ways, she holds the power of life and death over Americans.

In her book she writes about how she proudly shot their family dog, Cricket. Was Cricket injured? Suffering? Rabid? Cricket’s crime was being a poorly trained dog. And whose responsibility is it to train a dog?

Cricket’s owner made the decision to execute the dog for her own failing. What responsible pet owner releases their untrained over-excited dog around someone else’s chickens?  I imagine my Danny, a rambunctious, often excitable mini-Assie, who was about Cricket’s age when he died, may have done the same thing if I released him on a bunch  of chickens. And who would be at fault? Me. 

After Cricket’s execution, did his owner feel sadness, as the boy I mentioned in the first of this post? Did she cry like my Dad did, and swear she never wanted to do that again?

Nope. She liked the feeling. The rush. She wanted to experience it again, so she decided to execute the family goat. She didn’t like the goat. The goat’s crime? Acting like a typical goat. 

She was so proud of shooting two family pets that she sincerely thought she had done something brag worthy, so she included the story in her biography. She apparently didn’t even take pause after learning her neighbor had been horrified over what she had done, instead she spoke about his reaction as if it was an amusing anecdote.

I sincerely believe there is something deeply wrong with any person who behaves as she did. Studies have shown that engaging in animal cruelty or displaying pleasure when killing animals, is the first sign of someone who later goes on to commit more heinous acts, acts aimed against people

A person like that should never be allowed in a position of power in our government.

Time and Age

I was twenty-five years old when our first child was born. My grandma Madeline died that same year; she was 73 years old at the time. That twenty-five year old me thought 73 was far into the future. After all, it was almost three times the number of years I had already lived in my lifetime. 

Funny how our perception of age and years change as we get older.

My mother lived much longer than Grandma Madeline. For one thing she took better care of herself. Grandma had lived a sedentary life and smoked for as long as I knew her. Mom lived to age 96; her final years spent lost in Dementia.

In twenty-five years, I will be the same age as Mom was when she died—if I live that long.

Twenty-five years ago, it was 2001. The same year the Twin Towers were hit. The same year Don and I lost our restaurant and had to rebuild our lives. It was also our daughter’s first year of college, and she was still living at home with us.

Maybe to some that sounds like a lifetime—in the same way twenty-five years seemed like a lifetime to me when I had my first child.  

But now? 

2001 feels more like a yesterday.  All the cliches come to mind: In the blink of an eye. Gone in a heartbeat. Quick as a flash. Where did the time go? In a New York minute. The years fly by. Time flies when you are having fun. Time waits for no one… 

I am not trying to sound macabre. I am simply reflecting  and facing the reality of the time I might have left in this lifetime. 

Death doesn’t scare me because I sincerely believe my time here is simply part of my journey. However, that doesn’t mean I am anxious to move on or ready to go.

Sometimes I feel as if I am standing by an open doorway watching the people I love rush by me, busy in their daily lives. I smile as they pass me by, happy to see they seem healthy, happy, and well loved.

As they rush by, they might give me a quick wave, a nod, or blow me a kiss. Sometimes one shouts back that soon we can spend more time together. Sometimes I’m the one who shouts it to them as they pass by.

But I know that from now to “soon” is much closer than they realize, and the time beyond that is shorter still. 

(Above photo: Bobbi and her oldest child.)

Searching for the Truth

CBS’s 60-Minutes was planning to run a segment on their show about CECOT and what they deemed  “brutal and tortuous conditions.” But then the segment was pulled from the show in the US, reportedly due to pressure from the Trump Administration. Apparently, 60-Minutes in Canada didn’t get the memo, and the segment was aired in Canada. It then made it to social media, and many people in the US, along with independent media outlets saw the episode. Supposedly it has since been removed from YouTube, citing copyright infringement by CBS, but I haven’t verified that fact.

From what I understand the episode was chilling, but the contents of that episode is not really what this blog post is about.

This current bending of the knee by CBS is another example of how the free and open press in our country—something that is supposed to be enshrined in our First Amendment—is eroding.  Our traditional media outlets are looking far different from when I was studying journalism in college, a decade before Reagan killed the Fairness Doctrine.

I have been writing for most of my life. My first novel at age 14. In high school, I was on the school paper, and its co-editor my senior year.  I studied journalism in college. At age 19, I wrote a screen play for one of my classes, which I later made into a book. At age 21, I wrote and produced a TV documentary for my senior project, that was aired on an educational TV channel in Southern California. In my thirties, I was the editor and publisher of a publication serving the communities of Wrightwood, Phelan, and Pinion Hills, California, called Mountain/Hi-Desert Guide, for about six years. 

In my forties, I wrote and self-published a book on local history, that I believe is still being sold in the Havasu Museum, and I wrote Lessons, an unconventional love story that I self-published over a decade later, and it was eventually made into a five book series, and its audio rights sold to Dreamscape Media.

These days I am known—by people who know me and I am not claiming to be some well-known author, I’m not—for the Haunting Danielle series, which currently has 37 books, and got me on the USA Today Bestseller list.

My point being—and yes, I do have a point—since I first started writing I have moved from fiction to non-fiction—and back again.

Those who took English with me in high school might remember I was probably the only classmate who looked forward to doing the term paper. I LOVED doing term papers. Seriously. I loved the research, which back then, meant visiting libraries and conducting interviews. We didn’t have the internet yet, and I was going to school in the remote community of Lake Havasu City, Arizona, so library access was limited.

When I was editor of Mountain/Hi-Desert Guide I regularly interviewed local people of interest, local politicians, and even got representatives from the county government and sheriff’s department to submit monthly columns to the publication. 

But my favorite was researching and writing about local history. Sometimes during my research, I would end up dispelling an accepted story on local history and set the record straight. I was somewhat obsessive about drilling down to find the source of the source. 

This was in the 1980s, and we still didn’t have the internet in Wrightwood. I often drove off the hill to visit some of the larger libraries and often visited the California Room in one of those libraries.

After one such visit and continually finding conflicting information from what appeared to be reputable sources, I asked one of the research librarians a question. 

The question: When you keep coming up with different stories about the same event, how do you know which one to use?

Her reply: Which ever version has been told the most frequently.

Her answer troubled me. It wasn’t what I expected—and it’s entirely possible that if I had asked another librarian the same question, they would have given me a different answer. But this is the response that I was given.

I find it especially troubling considering our current administration, especially with the pressure it’s exerting on corporate media outlets.

I keep thinking about the strategy used by many in this administration—if you repeat a lie enough, it will eventually be accepted as truth.

That lie ends up filling all the space, and suddenly we believe what they want us to believe.

We all need to be cognizant of how AI, coupled with our addiction to social media, makes it easier for someone with an agenda to overwhelm us with a false narrative—eventually replacing the truth.

And what makes this scarier—is when the folks with the agenda have the power to lock down the entities holding evidence of the truth.  Or in simpler terms, re-writing history.

(Photo: Bobbi Holmes. Early days of Mountain/Hi-Desert Guide, its first office in the basement, before moving to its downtown office.)