Animals are a regular topic in the SJ.  In Oregon, we care deeply about our farm animals and our pets.  Our wild wolf pack and our eagles.  Our mountain lions and our abandoned kittens.  The stories are often tragic, and sometimes not.

This morning’s paper published a bitter-sweet story on the front page, excerpted here:

STATE KILLS WOLVES AFTER ANIMAL ATTACKS
Livestock Deaths Spur ODFW Action
Zach Urness
Statesman Journal
Four wolves were shot and killed by wildlife officials Thursday afternoon in northeast Oregon, bringing to an end a weeklong spate of violence between the Imnaha Pack and two livestock operations.
The wolves made five attacks on livestock this month, including four in the past week, which resulted in the death of two sheep and four cattle, state biologists said.
The Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife classified the situation as “chronic livestock depredation” and authorized the killing of alpha male OR-4, alpha female OR-39 and two younger wolves.
“This was a very unfortunate situation for everybody involved,” said Russ Morgan, ODFW wolf coordinator, in phone interview. “As wildlife managers, we have to strike a balance between conserving wolves and minimizing impacts on livestock. This action wasn’t easy, but we felt it was the correct decision under these circumstances.”
“Losing these wolves, in this situation, is very tough,” Morgan said. “But Oregon’s wolf population is still healthy and is still going to grow in every part in every state.”

And a happier report on the back page cheered us up

NIGERIAN DWARF GOAT MARIGOLD GIVES BIRTH TO QUINTUPLETS
George Plaven in the East Oregonian

PENDLETON – After five months of pregnancy, “Magnificent Mary” was so big she could barely walk.
Finally on March 24, the nanny Nigerian dwarf goat was ready to give birth.
The Prowses, who live outside of Pendleton, Oregon, have raised dairy goats for 30 years and they’ve never seen quintuplets. Goats usually have between one and three kids per litter, but five are extremely rare; the odds are about one in 10,000, according to one estimate.

All of the kids survived, and on Wednesday they were already prancing and jumping lively around the Prowses’ red barn in front of their house. There’s Minnie and Benson (who was born back-end first, Mariota (named after the former Oregon Ducks quarterback), Polly and fifth and final: Cinco.

In all, Marigold gave birth to three billies and two does, each one inheriting the striking blue eyes of their father, Picasso. 
Nigerian dwarf goats are smaller and easier to handle, Jeannie Prowse said, but still

deliver a good amount of milk for their size. The Prowses use goat milk to make cheese, yogurt and are venturing into making soap.

Marigold is getting some help from Jeannie with keeping her babies’ tummies full.

And this is the big news from out here in the Wild West.  Is this a great place or what?

You never hear anyone use that wonderful old expression any more.  Mother used to say it on occasion.  It just meant she was not in an optimistic mood or was feeling a little bit “blue.”    No biggie.

Another expression she used was “feeling sorry for yourself.”  You just weren’t supposed to do that.

And “Don’t walk around with a chip on your shoulder.  Someone is sure to knock it off.”

Nowadays, seems like we are supposed either to be in a positive frame of mind pretty much all the time or take medicine for it or sign up for a series of therapy sessions. Or take more yoga!

I think, sometimes, we’re just going  to be a bit sad for a little while.  Try not to worry about it too much.  You just feel like curling up in a ball under the covers all day.  But you know better than to allow yourself to do that for more than just a few minutes.

You have to get up and get dressed and return your phone calls and schedule your appointments and answer your emails and clean your house.  If you don’t have any emails to answer, write a few.   Call or write someone who is feeling worse than you are today. At the very least, fill the bird feeder.

Don’t get stuck beating yourself up for things you wish you had said differently or not said at all. Shed a few tears. You can’t always straighten everything out.

Pull a few weeds.  Plant a few vegetables.  Take the dog for a walk.  Move on.

Here’s something that can wipe the smile off my face these days:

In a former life, there were some people who needed me to do so many things for them all the time.   They seemed to think I could do anything, answer any question, solve any problem, soothe any wound. It’s quite an adjustment to find oneself where those same people seem to think you don’t have a lick of sense these days.  Go for a walk.  Move on.  And talk to different people 🙂

New expressions have replaced the old-fashioned ones.   “I’m down in the dumps today” has been replaced by “temporarily suffering from depression.”   But some of the newer ones do work.

Let it go.  Get over yourself. It’s not about you.

And I didn’t just make this stuff up.

This week is called Holy.

What does that even mean?

I seem to be surprised by holiness almost every day now that I have the time to open my eyes and heart to deliberately and consciously see it.

My dear fried Barb was scheduled to have major surgery last week, but her wise anesthesiologist ruled that out at the last minute and went to bat against the eager surgeon to cancel it.  It shouldn’t be significant that the anesthesiologist is a woman and the surgeon is a god-guy.  But it does.  That kind of courage is holy.

So, yesterday, Barb and I had a beautiful drive through the valley down to a nursery out in the country near Corvallis so she could buy a bunch of plants for her garden. We saw fat sheep grazing in fields that were blindingly green during the sun breaks, in-between showers.  Springtime. Holy.

Barb didn’t find much on her very explicit shopping list. Being me, I had no list and was just following  Barb around when I serendipitously (Barb’s word) stumbled on a camellia bush that I had been looking for for years.

Giant single white blooms.  We clipped this one off and carefully brought it home in Barb’s hand.

John will find a place for it under the giant redwood.  Holy.

This morning, I can see the colors of the Belgian Flag on everything from the Eiffel Tower to Facebook posts. Holy.

And our own flying everywhere at half mast.

This afternoon, St. P.’s will gather for the funeral of the son of a dear friend.  So wrong for a parent to out-live a child.  All of us who have held our newborn babes can feel the grief of losing one in the prime of life.

Ahh. All this brings even unbelievers to the foot of the cross where the story tells us his mother wept.  Holy.

As for me, I will be found in the church kitchen helping to prepare for the funeral reception.  For me, the most sacred place at church has always been the kitchen where we Marthas can always be found cooking, serving, washing up.  This is where, sharing each others griefs and joys, our conversations are more powerful and life-changing than any sermon ever preached.  Holy.

Happens every spring.  Every single spring.  And every spring.  Every single spring.  It works for me.

Unless they’re on the backs of checks, do these things really matter?  Except possibly negatively.  Does Sarah Palin help The Donald?

Oops.  I think that’s Tina Fey

Or the Governor of New Jersey?

Or the former neurosurgeon?

Oops!  My mistake again.

What in god’s name did he promise them?  Maybe Sarah could be Fish and Game Warden in Denali National Park.  Maybe Chris could be in charge of toll booths across the Hudson.  And Ben?  Well, you know, when you go all in for brain surgery, you’re probably not good at much else.

Of course,  I am totally offended by cheap shots at gay folks on so many levels.  But Ben?  Can any body that gay be straight? Seriously?  Maybe Trump promised him a place on the Supreme Court.  With liberty and justice for all.

But, today, at last, there is good news on the endorsement front.  Danny  came out for Bernie:

I’m in.