Stitchin' Chicken in the Kitchen

I was at our neighbor’s barn as I am every weekday afternoon, taking care of the two Appaloosas, Nick and Takoda, when Kelsey called on my cell phone to ask when I was coming home.

“Why?”

“Because a hawk came after the chickens and one of them was fighting it. The dogs chased it off. I don’t think it got anyone.”

As I quickly walked back down the hill, I thought which of the chickens I valued the most. Certainly Buffy, our friendly Buff Orpington, is a family favorite. Nestlé lays dark chocolate-brown eggs; I’d driven to a poultry show specifically to get a Copper Maran pullet so I’d hate to lose her. I went through the 16 chickens in my mind and concluded that the ones I would miss the least would be the two Silver Spangled Hamburg hens. The Hamburgs are small and flighty, not very attractive physically, skittish. I’ve never been too attached to them. Our Hamburg’s names are Righty and Tighty, so named because Righty’s tail sticks up like a sail, but angles to the right. Tighty got her name by default. We do have a Lucy, the Rhode Island Red, but no Lefty. And yes, all 16 of our chickens have names.

As fate would have it, Kelsey and I found black and white spotted feathers where she’d seen the hawk on the ground. I recognized them as those of a Hamburg hen. Kelsey happened to be seated near the window when the attack occurred, but didn’t realize the hawk was actually a hawk because it was so small, smaller than many of our chickens in fact. Fortunately, our dogs, Chardonnay and Coraline, raised the alarm, causing Kelsey to look up and see the hawk struggling with a hen while the rest of the flock ran for cover.

She let the dogs outside and the hawk flew to a nearby tree and perched there, watching and probably a bit miffed. The chickens all scurried under the deck and Aslan, our rooster, placed himself between his flock and the entrance. Too bad Aslan wasn’t with those particular hens when the hawk came down, but I imagine the hawk planned it that way; attack the smaller hens who were by themselves, away from the rooster. Roosters are wonderful flock protectors and Aslan was purchased over a year ago specifically because he is the size of a large hawk. He also happens to be a beautiful bird and a real gentleman toward his girls and his humans.

I threw scratch on the ground and called the chickens out from hiding so we could count them. We were missing a Hamburg hen. Kelsey spotted her under the bush by the deck, alive but obviously not herself. It was Righty. Nervous when I got closer to her, Righty walked gingerly under the deck, and planted herself next to the house, far out of reach. She didn’t respond when I tossed food her way. Not good. I figured we’d stress her out totally if we tried to flush her out and catch her. Catching her would be nearly impossible given her skittish nature to begin with.

So we watched and waited until the sun started to go down and the chickens came home to roost in their coop. Righty was able to jump up on a perch where she was easy to catch. Once I had her, Jay and I examined Righty’s body. Initially, she seemed fine; some feathers missing, wings okay.

“She’ll be fine. She’s just traumatized,” Jay proclaimed.

“Check her belly” I said as I tipped Righty over. “Uh oh. He got her good.”

I brought Righty in the house where we had better light. There was a wound about one-inch in diameter which ripped her lower abdomen clear open. We could see body parts in there. I’m not sure what I was looking at, but Jay said the yellow stuff I saw was fat. No blood though. Even though I wasn’t sure that her organs weren’t punctured, I knew we needed to do something. It was 7:30 pm and the vet I’d taken a chicken to before would be closed. Kelsey came in, looked at the gaping hole in the bird and freaked out as only a teenage girl can do. Still holding Righty upside-down in a tight grip, I calmed Kelsey down and instructed her as our assistant.

Next thing you know, peroxide has been poured over the wound, feathers have been clipped back, and Kelsey is keeping Righty and herself calm by keeping both of their heads in the dark. After a false start with a dull needle and fishing line, Jay stitched her up with teal blue thread (easier to see to remove later) and a new needle from my sewing kit. Antibiotic ointment was applied, a chicken’s dosage of amoxicillin was syringed into her beak and Righty was put safely back outside on the perch in the coop.

After the surgery was over, Kelsey headed upstairs to her room, “Well, that’s enough adventure for now.”

Two days later, Righty seems sore, but is eating, drinking and getting around well. There is reason to hope that she’ll be fine.



Righty, Hawk Attack Survivor

Weighing In

When I first got into breeding Maine Coon cats almost 12 years ago, I researched feline husbandry to the point of obsession. Each book or article had a list of possible problems you may encounter during your cat’s labor and with the resulting kittens. One point I took to heart was the importance of weighing the kittens on a daily basis.

By weighing newborn kittens at birth and then at least once daily (same time every day), I am able to not only track its growth, but intervene early should the scale reveal a weight loss or lack of gain. Intervention by supplementing with a bottle or tube-feeding (some kittens won’t take a bottle so you have to force-feed them), can give the struggling kitten the extra energy it needs to nurse efficiently.

I learned with my own children that formula from a bottle is easier for a baby to suck than from the mother, it provides more calories and stays with them longer. Plus, in the case of animals who have multiple births, competition at the dairy bar can be a problem for weaker babies. From the time they’re born, kittens will defend their selected nipple by clawing frantically at any littermate who may get in the way.

Boom Boom's first litter

As the first couple of weeks of a kitten’s life are the most tenuous, I weigh every day for two weeks, then weekly thereafter. If a kitten is not gaining well, I often weigh twice daily. It’s important to track weight gain over time as a kitten may grow a lot one day, then barely anything the next. I look more for overall increases as opposed to what which one is the biggest. Often times, the size advantage changes once the kittens start on solid food so their initial weight isn’t a predictor.

I have a collection of six kitten journals, chronicling each litter since I started breeding. The great advantage of having kitten weight history is the ability to easily compare one litter to another. I also write down which day of gestation the queen is on and how she does with delivery, any stillbirths, etc. so I know what to expect the next time she has kittens. As each kitten enters the world, I record the time it was born, its color, gender and birth weight.

In the case where I have more than one kitten of the same gender and color, I clip the hair of the second born on its neck to differentiate. If there is a third kitten who looks like number one and two, then that one will have the hair clipped on its back, right in front of the tail. Some breeders use different colors of fingernail polish to identify the kittens by their toenails. I prefer hair clipping to toenail painting as I like to identify the kitten just by looking down on it instead of turning it over and searching for a painted claw.

The day after the kittens are born, I begin the ritual of weighing and examining each one. This is when the name assignments come in. Each litter has a theme, like Disney characters, rock stars, poets, Connecticut towns, etc.

Journal page for the Oscar Nominee Litter

Two weeks ago, Olivia had a litter of five kittens, four girls and one boy, all were blue except for one brown tabby girl. Two days later, Lulu had a litter of five kittens, also four girls and one boy; the girls are combinations of brown tabby or solid black with red and the boy is solid black. Fortunately, all the kittens look different, so I can tell everyone apart easily.

The mothers share the nursery, combining efforts to feed their kittens as one big happy family of ten. I wanted two themes that were related so I chose musicians. Since Olivia has a lot of blue kittens, I thought of a country singer theme for her litter. I’ve already done the Blues Singers theme so I won’t reuse that. Lulu’s kittens were named after Hip-hop artists. I’m not a fan of either genre of music, so it was a related theme; music I’m not that in to. Being originally from the South, I’ve rebelled against following stereotypical Southern pleasures, like pickled pig’s feet, Nascar, bass fishing, poor grammar and country music. I don’t hate Country, but I’m more of a Pop and Classic Rock kind of girl. I don’t regard Rap as music as I think singers should actually sing…but I digress.

I Googled country and hip-hop artists, came up with a list of names I’d heard of and tried to stay with current artists. Not as sure of myself with the hip-hopsters, I sought my teenage daughter Kelsey’s input. She quickly narrowed it down to the cool people. For my country litter, I had the names of Miranda Lambert, Carrie Underwood, Alison Krauss, Martina McBride and Rascal Flatts. There were several other male singers I could have chosen, but I just liked the name Rascal. The Hip-hop Litter names are Eminem, Mary J. Blige, Lil’ Kim, Missy Elliott and Lauryn Hill.

Now to assign the name to the kitten. Sometimes I would just go down the list, but I often select a couple whose look make it easier for me to remember them. Miranda Lambert’s name ends with the letter “T” so I gave that name to the blue tabby. “T” for tabby. I thought I’d keep the solid blue and white girl for myself so I named her Carrie because I like Carrie Underwood, having watched her win American Idol. Martina McBride seems like a more common name than Alison Krauss, so I named the more commonly-colored brown tabby girl Martina. The other solid blue girl became Alison Krauss by default.

For the Hip-hop Litter, Eminem is the one boy of course. I have two torbie’s with white and two torties. With the patches of red varying on each kitten, it’s fairly easy to differentiate even though they will be registered as the same color. The torbie and white with more red I called Missy, just because I often use “Little Missy” as a term of endearment for my daughter and granddaughter. The other is Lauryn. The tortie with the split of color on her chin is Lil’ Kim, because I can say, “Lil’ Kim with the chin” to remind myself. Mary J. just so happens to have red markings in the shape of a backwards “J” on her face.

The daily weigh-ins are not only my time to check on each kitten, but also to teach myself their names. By the time they are two weeks old, I’ve memorized my notes on who is clipped or has which markings. As they continue to develop, the “twins” often change enough so I can tell them apart by just looking at the shape of their faces, or under their tails if they are sister and brother. For me, newborn record-keeping is the only way to go.

Rascal Flatts weighing in

Now That You're Gone - Conclusion to Nine Little Butts

Three months ago, Sunday, our smoke tortie Maine Coon, gave birth to nine kittens. They were given call names with the theme of Santa’s Reindeer (Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, etc.). I blogged about the challenges of nine little butts to clean up after and later, about the medical emergency that plagued the mother cat.

Sunday with her newborn Reindeer Litter

Last weekend, one family after another came to claim their new baby and take him or her home. Many of them expressed concern over how well I would be able to cope with saying good-bye to the cute little balls of fluff. “How can you let them all go?” Well, I assured them, Cupid and Blitzen won’t be leaving until next week because their future family is on vacation. Cupid and Blitzen are partners in crime and will be living in the same home. That seemed to make people feel better, as if it’s easier for me if I’m weaned away from all the cuteness gradually.

It’s still way easier to deal with just two kittens than the whole herd. Dinner time was a chaotic cacophony of cries to be fed, now, put it down, frenzy, psychotic, circle-turning, underfoot, frantic running back and forth…just crazy kitten behavior. Once the food was in front of them, the meowing changed to a group purr. Three cans divided onto two large paper plates, twice daily, plus an extra couple of cans for lunch. Pet Supplies Plus personnel must think I’m feeding a feral colony I go in there so often to get cat food.

So I’m spending less on cat food and scooping litter boxes is far less time consuming. The thundering of paws has faded. I no longer have to count kittens and try to figure out who is missing from the kitten room at bedtime.

The best is the happy endings. The kittens’ mother, Sunday, has gained more weight and rediscovered her energy, tearing around like a kitten herself. All the kitten buyers have reported positive transitions with their newest family members.

The kittens have been renamed and some of the owners are staying connected with the littermates of their kitten through Facebook. It’s always interesting to see what names the new owners will come up with. Dasher is now Dylan Dasher. Dancer and Prancer went together and now go by Dixie Mae and Hank Junior. Vixen’s new moniker is Winterberry. Comet’s registered name is Dracoonfly Halley’s Comet. Donner is called Loki. Rudolph became Dante’s Inferno. Cupid and Blitzen will remain Cupid and Blitzen.



The Reindeer Litter

Jay and I agree that this has been a good litter. Our definition of good is based upon the personalities of the kittens and how many accidents they had in the house. We had some expensive bumps in the road, but ended up with nine healthy kittens along with their mother. Even though the chaos and adventure have died down, I feel the same relief I do when the grandchildren go home for the day. However, my respite is short-lived. Last week Olivia and Lulu had kittens two days apart. Between the two moms, we have ten newborn kittens. Here we go again!



Lulu and Olivia with their combined family of ten

Nine Little Butts and One Sick Mom

It’s been almost three weeks since my last blog, when I wrote about the demands of raising a litter of nine kittens. Since then, the kittens have gotten easier, but their mother gave us a run for our money (literally).

The Reindeer Litter of Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph are now comfortably self-sufficient at the food bar and the potty. The kittens require two cans of food on two separate paper plates, three to four times daily. The two separate plates are necessary so everyone has room at the table. They have received their first vaccinations and have started the process of venturing out of their room to get acquainted with the other animal inhabitants of the household. It’ll take a week or so, then I expect to chase them off the counter like little cockroaches.

I mentioned their mother, Sunday, has had problems recently. She had stopped eating, something immediately noticeable with Sunday because she has a ravenous appetite. She was hunched up and didn’t want to move. I had her into my regular vet who wasn’t sure what to make of all the fluid in her stomach that showed up on the X-ray. She guessed it could be a ruptured intestine, a pyometra (uterine infection) or FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis). My vet referred me to Ocean State Veterinary Specialists in Rhode Island as they had the equipment and staff to diagnose and treat my cat.

I waited in the exam room at OSVS while Sunday was getting her ultrasound done. I was there a while, long enough to play with the motion sensor in the corner of the room to make the little red light blink and analyze how neatly the electrical cord from the X-ray light was tied. I also thought about all the “what if’s” of Sunday’s situation. If she had FIP, she’d have to be euthanized as FIP is a horrific and fatal disease. If her intestine had ruptured, her chances of surviving a surgical repair were slim. I was hoping for pyometra as at least that could be fixed by spaying her.

Then I started thinking about her colors, and although I have one of Sunday’s daughters from a previous litter, the daughter is a red tabby. Sunday is a black smoke tortie, which means she carries black, red and silver. If I lost Sunday, I lost my one silver gene. Should I approach the couple who have reserved Blitzen, the one smoke tortie from the current litter, about letting me keep her?

However, Sunday’s diagnosis was none of the above. She had an intussuseption, where the intestine basically telescopes onto itself, causing a blockage. The cure is to surgically remove the defective part of the intestine and reconnect it. I’d heard of it and knew the condition was something that could be repaired. Whereas Ocean State is wonderful with all their specialists and 24-hour care, the cost escalates exponentially. I was given a low and high end estimate after the initial diagnosis was confirmed. Although I was relieved with the diagnosis, I had a hard time swallowing the idea of spending upwards of $3000. I eventually rationalized it as this was a fixable condition if she was treated. After consulting with my primary vet, I agreed with her that Sunday needed surgery that evening because her condition had become very fragile and her temperature had fallen to 98 degrees (101 is normal for a cat). It was too dangerous for me to bring her back home and have my own vet do the surgery the next day. I signed a bunch of forms, gave them a deposit and kissed Sunday good-bye where she was already in a cage attached to an IV.

The surgeon called me at 9 pm after Sunday’s surgery to tell me everything went as expected and he’d removed a section of her intestine. The other veterinarian called me at 10 pm to tell me that the surgeon had not told me one important thing; Sunday had vomited up the fluid in her stomach during surgery and there was a possibility that she could develop aspiration pneumonia if any of the fluid had gotten into her lungs. I needed to watch her closely for the next week. Okay, fine, when can I bring her home?

The morning after her surgery, Sunday was eating like a pig and I joyfully drove the 45 minutes each way to bring her home. My euphoria was short-lived however when I noticed the same evening I brought her home, she also seemed to be breathing too rapidly. Yep, she had pneumonia, her left lung was severely compromised. Sunday ended up back at Ocean State where I felt obligated to continue my investment, but cut back on some of the a la carte expenses estimated for her second visit. No additional ultrasounds, x-rays and don’t dare expect me to put an Elizabethan collar on her (I said I already had one at home). The Cone of Shame is something I’ve never used on an animal as it just seems too cruel. I figured if Sunday felt well enough to pull on her 22 staples, maybe it was time for them to come out. Sunday stayed on oxygen in the hospital for the next two nights. She was allowed to come home after she could breathe normally for at least six hours without the benefit of extra oxygen.

Sunday has been spending the nights in our bed, snuggled up between Jay and me. Never one for dry food, she has been demanding three to four cans of cat food to herself daily. Her condition is steadily improving since she’s been home. She looks ridiculous with her shaved limbs where the IV was attached and the sight of the staples holding her stomach together still make one gasp.

I’m thankful that my emotional week seems to be ending happily, excluding the shock to my wallet. I am reminded that in the 12 years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never had to rush a cat in for an emergency C-section or spay. Most breeders can’t say that. Sunday goes into my primary vet on Monday to have her staples removed (she hasn’t touched them). In a way, it’s too bad that her fur will eventually cover over her scar because it’ll be a pretty impressive reminder of all she’s been through.

Nine Little Butts

“All right. I’m going in,” I announce to my husband.  Jay laughs, “Good luck!”

“Going in” refers to the now brave act of entering the room where my litter of nine kittens lay in wait, ready to attack. As soon as a human comes near, the meowing starts. If you stand still, they will start climbing your legs, like uncoordinated squirrels up a tree. Now is when I wish I had a laptop, so I wouldn’t have to enter the kitten cave just to get on the computer.

Kitten milk bottle, paper towels, bleach spray, trash bag, broom…all are my tools for keeping up with the Reindeer litter (Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph). When the kittens’ mother, Sunday, was pregnant, I expected at least 6 kittens as that was the size of her previous and first litter. Subsequent litters tend to be larger and she certainly looked larger. On December 7th, sure enough, we got nine live ones, no stillborns. It’s a litter that’s easy to divide into thirds by color and gender; two-thirds male and two-thirds shades of red. One-third red tabbies (one girl, two boys), one-third red-silver tabbies (also one girl, two boys), and one-third darker ones; brown tabby boy, solid black boy and smoke tortie girl.

When one of my Facebook followers suggested the reindeer theme, I hesitated as I didn’t expect all nine kittens to make it. I couldn’t very well have Santa’s reindeer without the whole team. I’ve never had a litter that large where all survived. I once before had a litter as large as nine, but only five kittens survived. With larger litters, sometimes the mother just doesn't have enough of her natural immunity to pass on equally.  Until this one, the largest surviving litter I’ve had is seven. I’ve had a few of seven, but four or five kittens are more common for Maine Coons.

Sunday is a small cat, but produces a ton of milk fortunately.  Her kittens gained as much, if not more than, kittens from smaller litters would.  I supplemented kitten formula once or twice daily to those kittens who would take a bottle.  About half of them refused the bottle, but I figured it gave Sunday a bit of a break in the demand.  And to answer the question that many have asked, there are typically eight stools at the feline milk bar, so someone always has to wait until a littermate falls off the stool, so to speak. 

There were a few bumps on the road, the scariest was when Sunday started vomiting and required veterinary intervention. Vomiting in a cat is not something I normally get alarmed about, but Sunday looked ill, and stories over the years of breeders losing queens due to infection, ruptures or calcium deficiency haunt me. Feeding such a large litter took its toll on Sunday’s immune system. Fortunately, Sunday responded to her treatment and was her ravenous self by the next day.  A couple of kittens stopped gaining and I had to tube feed them for a few days until they caught up since both refused to take the bottle. 

It’s the ravenous appetite which is quite trying right now that the kittens are five weeks old. Actually, “quite trying” is an understated description. The meowing, the leg-climbing, the poop on the floor…they’re a pain times nine. I keep telling myself this is temporary; they will grow out of this stage in about a week.

They have dry kitten food available at all time, plus I feed about five cans every day, and that’s just for the mother. Poor Sunday is doing her best, but as her team grows, mother’s milk isn’t enough. Some of them have learned to eat solid food, others just don’t get it yet. It may not help that I’ve been supplementing the kittens with two bottles daily since they were born so they equate me with food. The smell of my hand is very attractive to the little monsters now as they attempt to latch onto my fingers in search of food.

As I’m bottle-feeding one kitten, the others will climb into my lap, deafening me with their cries, and try to bite the bottle or the hand holding it. Their cute little needle-sharp teeth are in now, and pierce the skin quite easily.

I’m trying to teach the fuzzy piranhas by putting a small amount in their mewing mouths. Some like the meat taste, but prefer it only on my finger. Others just spit it out and keep yelling at me to feed them while still others climb up on my back, checking for food under my hair. Luckily each day another kitten has an “aha” moment when he/she discovers that solid food means self-feeding equals full tummy. At this rate, they may all be regular little pigs at the trough by next week.

Donner, the black boy, was originally a ravenous bottle drinker. He was one of the first to graduate to solid food, thank goodness. Last week, Donner stood in his plate of food and I added the remainder of the kitten formula to the food to entice him. He sniffed it, then squatted and peed.  A few of them stand in the food to eat, then climb in my lap afterwards, leaving canned food pawprints on my jeans.

Not only is this time period trying because the kittens are hungry and all of them don’t know how to eat on their own yet, but it’s also the messy time. Each day is a bit better, but experience has taught me that the larger litters tend to take longer to litter box train. Every morning entails wiping, scooping, disinfecting, and sweeping up after nine little butts who don’t understand staying IN the one of the boxes until they are completely finished. A few seem to believe that just because the litter box is in view, that counts.  This activity is repeated throughout the day.

One thing about having kittens who climb legs and stick to you like Velcro squirrels is that I am compelled to keep their claws clipped regularly. I can’t dull their needle teeth, but I can lessen the severity of the needle claws. As I was clipping claws the other day, I did the math. Each kitten has 18 claws (10 in front, 8 in back). Multiply 18 times nine (hang on here, I need the calculator) and you’re talking 162 individual little claws attached to a one-pound squirming ball of furr.

Of course, as I sit here itemizing my complaints, Dasher sits on my lap, purring loudly the minute I look at him, gently tasting my fingertips and looking angelic with his pearl-colored red-silver face and blue eyes. Cupid “draw back your bow” climbs up to join Dasher. Comet and Vixen play at my feet, Rudolph sleeps on the back of my calf. The others are napping. Nine healthy kittens, beautiful when they’re at peace, vampires when they’re hungry.



To be continued…

Balls to the Wall

Many years ago, my sister married a man who had a ten-year-old Cocker Spaniel mix named Suggs who wasn’t neutered. My brother-in-law couldn’t bring himself to “do that to Suggs.” Meanwhile, Suggs repeatedly escaped under the fence and wandered the neighborhood in search of girls. As a new wife, my sister laid down the law and took Suggs herself to be neutered. She had no qualms about what needed to be done and Suggs not only stopped running away, but went on to live another eight years.

Why is it that some men have such an emotional attachment to their pet’s testicles that the thought of castrating him makes a guy squeamish? If we wanted to spend tax payers’ money on something worthwhile, this would be as good a study as any.

We could compare the resistance to desex an animal in many ways. For instance, do women feel that neutering their dog, cat or horse will make the animal have low self-esteem or look less manly? Does it make a difference if the animal is long or short-haired? An unneutered or “whole” boxer or sphinx cat is obvious in his ability to reproduce; not so much on the collie or Maine Coon boys. People do realize, don't they, that the primary visible statement of maleness is not the testicles, but that other thing that males of all species enjoy showing off? 

I’m not going to lecture about the need to spay and neuter your pet cat or dog. Unless you’re committed to improving the breed of your purebred pet by researching, networking, showing, testing and all the complications that come with breeding and raising litters, your pet shouldn’t be reproducing. Responsible breeders will speuter and retire their breeding animals after a few years and place them in pet homes, realizing the animal will be happier and healthier that way.

The Neuticles company capitalizes on what is presumably a predominately human male attachment to testicles by selling fake testicles of all sizes for many species (cats, dogs, horses, bulls). The idea is to have your vet replace the real deal with artificial gonads so “your pet will never know what he’s missing”. I don’t think for a minute animals are that stupid. He’s missing the source of his testosterone which fuels aggression, territorial behavior and a sex drive that puts teenagers to shame. And yes, even if he has the benefit of Neuticle implants, I’m sure he can tell by the smell and feel that he must come out of anesthesia in Hollywood for fake pets.

Neuticles were invented for men by a man who suddenly realized that if his dog were neutered, he’d be losing his testicles (yes, really). The argument is that if the thought of Spike losing his family jewels causes the owner to keep his pet whole, Neuticles takes away that excuse and encourages neutering. The company claims that 250,000 pets have Neuticles. That’s 250,000 men who couldn’t imagine having their pet neutered without grabbing their own crotch and shouting, “No! Not his balls!”

I know men like this, though fortunately not too many. These are men who project their cat or dog’s proclivity to hump pillows, legs or anything that moves as a statement to their own virility (or lack thereof). To them I say…grow a pair of your own and allow your pet to just relax and be a pet without the burden of being a victim of his hormones the rest of his life. He’ll be okay. If it makes you feel better to substitute fake testicles, then do it. I promise I won’t laugh in your face. I’ll wait until you turn around.

What Would You Do?

I distinctly remember my denial of the price of gas rising over three dollars per gallon years ago. I stopped the pump when my total reached exactly $39.99 because I refused to pay over $40 to fill my tank. Oh, those were the days!

This past Friday, I drove to a friend’s house in upstate New York for a girl’s night at her place, over a three hour drive for me. As I knew gas was cheaper just about any place outside of Connecticut, I planned on filling up in Massachusetts. Once on the Mass Turnpike, the service areas and exits are about 20 miles apart with a whole lot of trees in-between. I pulled into a service area complete with McDonald’s, restrooms and gas pumps, everything a person could need all in one place. The two gas islands were occupied with cars that also had their gas tanks on the same side as my mini-van. Rather than wait in line, I thought I’d see if the hose could reach around my vehicle from its off (right) side.

I pulled forward and parked to the right, popped the door to my gas tank and got out. Nope, it wasn’t going to reach and I couldn’t turn around to get to the back of the line without violating the one-way rule of traffic. Disgusted, I decided I’d just have to drive the 22 miles to the next service area. As I sped up on the acceleration lane, I glanced at my side-view mirror and realized the little door that covers my gas cap was still open. Not in a position to pull over safely and knowing the gas cap itself was still intact, I kept going.

Then I had this vision of well-meaning passengers in passing cars on the highway trying to tell me that my gas tank was open. They would be going too fast to see the cap, just see the opened door, and honk, wave or point to get my attention. I anticipated waving back to thank them, “I know it’s open. Thanks. I’ll get it at the next exit.” Five cars passed me and nobody tried to communicate with me. My mood went from irritated that I’d have to deal with good Samaritans to pretended annoyance that no one cared enough to communicate. “If this were What Would You Do?, you people would fail!” I chastised out loud to no one in particular.

When I reached the next service area, my gas tank was in a more desperate situation and I happily found an open space at the pump on the left side of my car. As I started to remove my gas cap, I was taken aback by a woman who came around the back of my car and started talking to me. She said she needed money for gas so she could get home to Saratoga. She was only asking people for a couple of dollars as she didn’t feel comfortable asking for more. My initial reaction was of suspicion. I normally don’t contribute to beggars.

The woman looked to be in her thirties or forties, wearing a long dress and her red hair in two long braids. I did not detect a smell of alcohol or body odor. I decided to give her a couple of bucks, if no reason other than to get rid of her. I only had one single in my wallet. Amazingly enough, the rest of the bills were $10 and higher; obviously my husband and daughter hadn’t used my wallet as an ATM recently. I gave the woman the one single I had and watched as she approached others at the pumps. The man behind me with the New Jersey plates pulled out a wad of bills and peeled something off for her, but I didn’t see the amount. She approached others at the pump, but I couldn’t hear or see their responses.

As my tank filled, I continued to watch the woman while she made the rounds. She returned to her car which was at the pump island opposite me and just stood there looking out at the people pumping gas; apparently there wasn’t enough to fill her tank and she needed new candidates to approach. I wondered if this was a scam, but with her car sitting there, it was looking more legitimate.

Again, I thought of the TV show What Would You Do? Pretty sure that John Quinones wouldn’t bring a camera crew this far away from civilization, I didn’t look too hard for hidden cameras or mic packs. I felt I had to do more. I pulled my van up out of the way, got out and walked up to the woman standing beside her car, handing her a ten dollar bill. Once I got up closer to her car, I saw a man asleep in the passenger seat and a baby in a car seat in back.

I began to doubt my gift as I drove away. Why wasn’t the man doing anything? Why would he leave his wife to beg for gas money? Was he really asleep or was this part of a scam? I’ll never know for sure. The man and the baby were African American and I wondered if the woman was acting on the belief that their chances were better at soliciting funds if the clean-cut, red-headed white woman was the solicitor.

Having watched a similar scenario on the TV show where people of different genders, races and styles of dress ask for gas money, the producers asked if the difference in people’s contributions were due to race. Race wasn’t the issue with me, but gender and age are definite considerations; if an African American or Hispanic woman approached me in a similar manner, I would have felt the same way. It was a matter of a woman (me) feeling safe with a stranger and fairly certain that I wasn’t being taken advantage of. Broad daylight with others around helped the stranger’s predicament.

I realize that begging for gas money at the pump probably happens more often than I know, but this was my first experience. Would I do it again? Yeah, probably. I don’t have a lot of extra money floating around, but I did have enough fuel in my car to get where I was going.

So I have to ask my readers: What would you do?