Sometimes It Takes a Village

Living in a rural community like Ledyard may not seem exciting to some, but it isn’t devoid of adventure. We have chickens on our 3-plus acres and our neighbors, Walter and Roberta, have horses (and a lot more land). On a recent Sunday morning, Walter came to ask for our assistance; they had a horse down and needed help trying to get her back on her feet.

Roberta has a 3-stall barn which stables her two horses and another belonging to her friend Linda. Roberta found the horse down at 7 am when she normally feeds. It was Linda’s mare, Eve, who couldn’t get up. I grew up around horses, but the ones I had were young. Eve is 22-years-old and arthritic. Eve knows her limitations and consequently never sleeps lying down. When I walked in the barn and saw Eve lying flat out in her stall, my heart sank. There was blood high on the wall where Eve had hit her head when she fell. Periodically Eve would raise her head and thrash her front legs in an attempt to rise, but her hind legs never budged. The limbs were stuck in place, unable to bend as needed so the mare could get them underneath her body for support. Not sure how long Eve had been like this, we theorized that the right hind leg she lay on was probably numb from her weight. She needed to stand.

The vet arrived and gave her a shot to help with inflammation, pain, etc. He said if we could turn her over to her other side and massage the feeling back in Eve’s right hind leg, she had a good chance of getting herself up. Wide, flat straps were slid under Eve’s body on either end by Laura and Matt, Linda’s daughter and son-in-law. We tried to turn her with her legs facing the larger end of the stall. However, handling and maneuvering a 1000-pound animal with thrashing hooves in an enclosed space is dangerous. Linda had already been kicked by a flailing hoof before we got there.

Fortunately, the stalls were designed with removable partitions. By this time a few extra people had arrived and in short order two walls were taken out to give us more room. It took a couple of hours to widen the stall, the vet to visit and the horse pulled around to ensure that we had room to flip her over safely. We finally had the room to turn Eve over by wrapping lounge lines around her legs and pulling. Eve’s hind legs were massaged and moved for her to restore circulation, but didn’t work. Eve struggled to rise and gave a valiant effort to stay up, but then she fell back down on her bad side again, cutting her other eye and banging her head in the fall. All we could do was stand back and watch as getting in close was too dangerous. I was relieved Eve had been fitted with a horse helmet intended for protection while trailering.

For the short time we had the mare on her left side, the forcefulness of her initial fall was apparent in the swollen and bloody eye and the large scrapes on her right front leg. Antibiotic ointment was put in her damaged eye and we tried to keep a clean towel under whichever eye was ground-side.

After Eve’s major attempt to get on her feet failed, she seemed to give up. She was tired. Her tongue hung out of her partially opened mouth. Eve would take water from a turkey baster, but did little from that point on to help herself. Meanwhile, Laura didn’t give up trying to find someone in the horse community who had a horse sling. She figured that if we could support Eve from the barn beams in a sling, her legs could gain the strength to move and hold her again. Laura called everyone. My step-daughter, Erin, who works as an EMT for Ledyard Ambulance heard of Eve’s plight and asked for assistance from the Ledyard Fire Department. Next thing we knew, there were 30 people in the barn with the firefighters and police. Apparently, the fire department has been called on before to help farmers with their cows that get in similar predicaments. Labeling this mission as “Air Bag Training”, the firefighters tried to get Eve in more of sitting position by inserting air bags under her back to raise it.

In the end, this failed also. The firefighters left and the vet returned after visiting other patients to give Eve another shot. He offered little hope. I asked him how long we should give Eve. “Until dark,” he replied. It had already been about four hours. I tried to offer support to Eve’s owner Linda and got Eve’s history.

Eve was an accomplished dressage horse who was being retired from the show circuit when Linda bought her 12 years ago. Linda herself was retired and wanted a pleasure horse to ride occasionally. Even with Eve’s arthritis, she enjoyed getting out and being ridden. After a few hours of the torture of maneuvering Eve, her struggles, and the hopeless look on her face, Linda started talking about euthanasia. The rest of us had already concluded that it looked like the only humane outcome. More than once, I felt like I could break down and cry at the helplessness of the situation.

The main motivator who really kept pushing and continued calling around was Laura. The rest of us followed Laura’s suggestions. Linda looked just as beat as Eve, her face flushed and sweaty. It was a 90-degree day and although there are industrial sized fans blowing in the barn, it was sweltering. Walter kept all the helpers who came and went well supplied with bottled water. Eve received cold sponge baths to keep her temperature down in addition to the syringe-fed water.

Then we heard that a woman who was an expert in horse rescue was on the way. The fire department had called Ledyard Animal Control who called Tanya Wescovich from Stonington Animal Control. I was skeptical. What would a horse rescue person be able to do that we hadn’t already tried? Tanya came in, a formidable, loud, take-charge person who insisted that we were going to get Eve up. Her own 27-year-old gelding had “been stuck” a few times and she’d always gotten him back up. Tanya had also received extensive training in how to safely maneuver large animals out of tight places. Tanya proclaimed that we need to get Eve’s hind legs working again with massage and movement. We’ve done that.

Tanya had two helpers with her who apparently had experience with downed horses also. She instructed Linda to yell at Eve to get up, for Laura to hit her rump with a crop and for her friend to pull Eve’s head across her body instead of straight ahead. She warned us that it would look mean, but the point was to force the animal to do what she didn’t want to do.

The yelling, the crop, the pulling…I walked out of the barn. I couldn’t watch anymore. They were just going to wear out poor Eve more and the end result was going to be the same. I almost walked down the hill to our house, but I came back. It didn’t work. I noticed that Roberta, the barn owner, had left also. When Eve was allowed to put her weary head back down, she did so gratefully. She had had it.

Tanya declared the horse needed to be moved out of the barn so that the downhill slope of the paddock could help her get her legs under her. Tanya expertly directed the pullers of body straps to safely manipulate Eve’s legs and head through the stall door. It was like moving a large table through a narrow door; first the legs, go to one side, then the other legs. Three to four people would pull on a strap around Eve’s body on command, moving her a couple of feet, then stop and allow the horse to rest. Someone else would remain with Eve’s head to keep the towel under her eye for protection from sliding on the dirt. I noticed after she was outside that Eve’s gums were white. Her expression remained listless, her hind legs stiff and motionless.

The cold wet towels were constantly rotated on Eve’s body, her head wiped down, her legs manipulated until they moved more freely. Finally, Tanya said it was time to make her stand. “What if, after all this, it doesn’t work?” I asked the guy next to me. All the yelling, pulling on Eve’s halter to make her rise…it didn’t work. Eve fell again. I looked over at Linda. She was wiped and I felt sure she would burst into tears at any moment and tell everyone to stop torturing her horse. Enough was enough.

But it wasn’t enough. Walter has a small tractor with a front-end loader attachment. He drove it into the paddock area. At Tanya’s direction, towels were placed under the web straps around Eve’s body to pad right behind her front legs and in front of her hind legs. The straps were secured to the bucket and Walter slowly raised Eve’s body for her. At one point, the horse’s weight was too much and the arms of the loader started to come down, but people rushed in for additional support and held up the tractor’s arms. Eve’s hind legs remained listless as she stood there supported by the tractor. They were pushed into position under her body and the straps were unhooked. More cheers. Eve started to sit down and I saw another failure coming, but the horse was pulled forward, her rump was slapped repeatedly, and Eve started walking!

Eve had given up like most of the rest of us, but Tanya the miracle worker knew her stuff. In the end, the community came out to help a horse; Animal Control Officers on their day off, a police officer who had a farm and cared, the fire department, neighbors, friends, children drug by their parents who worked for Ledyard Ambulance. Walter declared this event had restored his faith in humanity. Roberta said she’d follow Tanya into battle. After a long, hot 8-hour ordeal that we were sure was going to end in a dead horse instead had the patient being lead around the paddock.

I went to visit Eve a couple of days later. Linda had spent that first night after the fall in the barn with her mare. Eve is sleeping (standing up) in the larger lean-to area attached to the side of the barn for now as there is a natural fear of putting her back in the smaller confines of a stall for a while. Her legs seem to be back to normal and her eye and abrasions are healing nicely. The only negative side effect is the nerve damage Eve has to the right side of her mouth which makes it difficult for her to eat anything but mash. The vet is hopeful that the nerves will heal over time.

Eve had come so close to being euthanized that trouble eating seems minor. In the end there was a community that cared enough to band together to save the life of a horse. Sometimes it does take a village.

Just Pecking Around

I blogged over a month ago about our new chicks, Meringue, Nestle and Narnia.  They have been integrated into the rest of the flock now for a couple of weeks.  The newbies are still at that cute, friendly stage where they follow people around the yard and don't mind getting in your lap.  I took the opportunity today to take pictures today of our flock of 17 with my cell phone. 

Meringue and Nestle

  

Everytime I tried to take a picture of the 3 chicks, Narnia would run up to me and be excluded.  So I finally just held her.

 

Later, the 3 little girls rested so could get my shot.

Meringue, who is the mixed color Orpington, so far is living up to her breeder's promise of becoming quite large. Her sire is reportedly a 14-pound roo. She and the little Buff Orpington, Narnia, are living up the Orpington reputation for having the best personalities. Nestle, the Black Copper Maran, is more shy.

Millie, our Mille Fleur Bantam Cochin, is the prettiest little thing, but it seems like she's always broody and sits in the nesting box a lot.  The other two bantams are Silkies and they also go broody a lot.  Cute, but poor egg layers.

Aslan, our Partridge-colored Cochin rooster, is still magnificent.  He's very good with the little ones, but the crowing commences at 4:30 am.

Chicks at the water with the rest of the flock.  Buffy, our original Buff Orpington is on the right beside Chad, the Light Brahma. The fluffy white thing on the left is Beaker, our white Silkie.

It seems that many of my Facebook friends think of me as the chicken guru now.  I've actually been tagged by people I don't know.  I am by no means an expert on chickens, but I have learned a lot in the past three years.  My best resource continues to be Backyard Chickens. 

What started out as dream of three hens now has blossomed into a flock with 16 hens and one rooster with 13 different breeds represented.  I love the looks of the various breeds and their eggs (which is mainly why I have so many now), but it has the added benefit of being to tell the chickens apart easily and name them.  Pets first, egg providers second, garden compost third, dinner never.

A Robin Feathering Her Nest...Should Choose a Good Location

A few weeks ago, I noticed our dog Coraline “Cory” staring intently at the holly bush in the front yard. A second later, I was startled by a robin flying out of it. Sure enough, there was a nest in the bush, filled with four pretty little blue eggs. The only problem was the nest was situated about 30 inches from the ground, the same height as a Golden Retriever’s mouth.

Although our dogs know to leave our chickens alone, small birds really bring out their natural prey drive. After witnessing our sweet natured Golden Retriever, Chardonnay, flush, catch and instantly kill a baby bird on a hike once, I realized that she sees chickens and birds as different creatures. Cory, our Shar-pei mix, has an even stronger prey drive and focused on the robin’s nest every time she went outside. Cory is a very vertical dog, so although she’s smaller than Chardonnay, jumping up to grab the nest is well within her capabilities. We knew this was going to be trouble.

“Survival of the fittest,” rationalized my son. I cursed the ignorance of the mother robin for choosing such a low spot to raise her brood. Last year, the nest was in a maple tree, 15 feet up. Sorry, the thought of our dogs killing a nest of robins was too much.

The robins starting hatching so we knew we needed to do something. Jay and I found some old rusty fencing material and surrounded the holly bush, using a couple of old stakes to hold it steady. Being so low to the ground, it was easy to monitor the family as the little robbies emerged. The big surprise was that unlike chicken chicks which are fully feathered and adorable, newly hatched robin chicks are naked, their black eyes bulging underneath their closed eyelids. Not exactly cute; they reminded me of inch-long, miniature rubber chickens.

Two Days Old

I did some research on the American Robin, and found that the chicks go from naked to leaving the nest within two weeks. The newly fledged robins can’t fly too high or far yet, but will seek refuge in low branches or in bushes. The parents continue to feed and watch over the fledgling robins for another two weeks until they become fully functional fliers. Robins typically raise two or three broods each spring/summer, building a new nest for each family. They have concentrated, in and out parenting during the summer so they can take the rest of the year off. Still, even with their parents’ watchfulness, only about 25% of all robin chicks live to be adults.



Rusty Robin Fencing

I always heard as a child that one should never touch a baby wild animal because the mother will smell human and abandon her young. Now that I’m a backyard chicken hobbyist of three years, I’ve learned that birds have a very poor sense of smell. They use sight and sound to navigate through life. Young birds found on the ground should be left alone unless they are in imminent danger. The parents are around watching. However, one should never handle eggs found in a nest as the incubation process is complicated and the embryo inside can easily be killed if jostled.

We remained vigilant over the nest without trying to be intrusive and our rusty fence did its job of protecting the robin family from our dogs. We are well aware that snakes are easily tempted by a nest of birds and the fence could easily assist a snake trying to reach the nest. I have seen four-foot black snakes climbing fences or on top of tables, reaching toward nests of chirping Phoebes and Bluebirds. Ironically, I knew that our dogs would discourage any snakes, at least during the day. Fortunately for the robin, the babies were very quiet and attracted little attention. 

One Week Later

The last time I saw the chicks in the nest was a few days ago, looking like fat people in a crowded subway, wishing their neighbor wore deodorant and their stop couldn’t come soon enough.  I waited two days too long to go back and get a picture, because when I did, the nest was empty already. 

Chickens: Down One, Up Three

My family started our first backyard chicken flock almost three years ago. As I’ve mentioned before on previous blogs, the first day-old chicks arrived via US Mail from the Meyer Hatchery in Ohio. We began with 10 chicks, four of which were Easter Eggers (layers of blue-green eggs, often referred to as Ameraucanas or Araucanas). The other six were Silver Spangled Hamburgs. Of our original birds, we now have just four left; one Hamburg chick died during the first week, three Hamburgs were sold, one Easter Egger we lost to the hawk last fall, and just recently we lost another Easter Egger.

Our First Chicks

Foster, our almost white Easter Egger, was found dead in the coop by my husband Jay this past weekend. This is the first hen we’ve lost to natural causes as opposed to flying predators. The only explanation I can offer is that Foster had not laid an egg in about a year (Foster used to lay a paler, rounder green egg so I knew which were hers) and had recently been hanging out in the nesting box, a behavior she’s never exhibited before. Her feathers looked fantastic and healthy, and she had no outward signs of illness. She just died. Of course, there had to be some underlying cause like heart or kidney failure for Foster’s death, but since we didn’t have a necropsy done, I don’t know for sure. If the rest of the flock seemed sick, I’d probably be contacting UCONN for testing. I’ve heard of chickens just expiring and the other extreme of life spans up to 15 years.

Foster (white hen) sharing pasta with her first flock-mates

I was away at a cat show when Jay called to tell me about Foster’s death. Since he ties his own fishing flies, often using feathers as material, I asked him if he was going to use any of Foster’s white feathers. No, he couldn’t bring himself to scalp or pluck a bird he knew as a pet for three years. Jay used to hunt, a sport he had to give up when I moved in, so dissecting a dead animal doesn’t make him queasy. However, pet chickens have an elevated status over wild animals. I’ll always remember Foster as the one who was easy to identify from the moment she arrived, as she was the only all-yellow chick in our first batch. Faye and Flo, our remaining Easter Eggers, look very similar, distinguished only by Faye’s darker head.

Baby Foster

Although we are down one hen, we had, coincidentally, attended a small poultry show a couple of weeks ago. My intention was to get a young adult Black Copper Maran pullet because of their ability to lay a chocolate brown egg. Many poultry exhibitors were selling chickens outside the show area, but all that I saw were either small breed pairs or baby chicks. Chicks are more difficult in the beginning as they require heat lamps, special starter feed, frequent monitoring, an indoor cage and age-appropriate companionship for the first five to six weeks. Females normally begin laying eggs at around five months.

If I got one Maran chick, I’d have to get her a buddy. So we ended up with three chicks, bringing our flock total to 17. All of the new babies are deemed to be female by the breeder and have been named by daughter Kelsey. “Nestle” is our Maran.  Nestle's buddies are “Lemon Meringue”, a cross between a Lemon Cuckoo Orpington (yellow striped) and a Jubilee Orpington (multi-colored), and “Narnia”, a Buff Orpington (standard buff color). The new chicks are about 2 weeks apart in age and the smaller ones tend to rest under the bigger Lemon Merinque who plays Mama hen.  Lemon Merique's sire is a 14-pound rooster, so I'm curious to see how large she'll become.


New Additions

I love having chickens that all look different and lay different colors and sizes of eggs. Nestle should start laying her dark chocolate eggs in the late fall and add even more variety to our egg collection.

Mammograms Are a Pain, But Cancer is Worse

“It’s difficult to get a good picture of your breasts because they’re so dense,” explained the mammographer.

I looked at her. “You’re telling me my breasts are dense? Isn’t that why they’re called boobs?”

Offending my girls notwithstanding, I got a phone call from the Breast Imaging Department of Lawrence & Memorial Hospital the day after my annual mammogram, asking me to come back in so they could do a follow-up with a more specialized mammogram. I was concerned. The representative on the phone couldn’t give any more information and advised me to call my doctor if I wanted more details. I opted not to panic and call my doctor. I was going to be fine.

When I’d gone in for my regular squishing of the breasts the day before, I had not anticipated any problems. Cancer does run in my family, but no relatives have had breast cancer. It’s a small reassurance, but doesn’t guarantee anything. The mammographer that day, Katy, had been quite talkative and we enjoyed a rather lengthy conversation about our sons in college. I even wondered if I was distracting her too much as she took images. In retrospect, maybe bonding with the mammographer isn’t always a good thing.

Women generally complain about the pain caused by a mammogram. I decided long ago that it’s merely uncomfortable momentarily and not nearly as painful as those stiff, sharp-edged, square things the dental hygienist puts in your mouth to get X-rays. “Bite down and hold,” she instructs as I feel the insides of my cheeks slice open. I’d take a mammogram over dental x-rays any day.

I tried to hide my concern about going in for a follow-up mammogram. Jay asked if he should come with me, but I excused him. I rationalized that the mammographer wouldn’t be able tell me anything immediately anyway and I’d have to wait until the next day to get results. We talked in general about how much better cancer detection and treatment is today than it was even ten years ago.

Against my better judgment, I played the “what if’s” in my head as I drove to the hospital. If they found something, I’d probably just tell my sister at first. If it came to a biopsy and that was bad news, then I’d tell the rest of my family. No need to worry anyone unnecessarily, especially my mother who is living with liver cancer (and doing extremely well, thank goodness).

At the hospital, my mammographer of the day was Lisa; friendly, but not as talkative as Katy. I saw breast images on her screen and asked if those were mine, hoping to get a clue about the problem. “I can tell how cold the room was,” I joked. Lisa laughed politely and got down to business. They needed to concentrate on a specific area of my right breast. She used the analogy that if you imagine the breast as a bag of marbles, not all of the marbles are seen clearly when the bag is compressed in an effort to get a 2-dimensional picture of a 3-dimensional object. Her goal was to single out a few marbles. I resisted a “losing my marbles” crack.

Remember what I said before about mammograms just being temporarily uncomfortable? Not so much on the follow-up when a more specific area is compressed. It was a gasp-areyouserious-thisfrickinghurts-hurryupdammit-pain. There were red marks left behind that would surely turn black and blue. Lisa apologized and advised Tylenol when I got home. I was certain this called for ice packs and a glass of wine too.

As I held my whimpering breast, Lisa informed me that the mammogram review doctor was in and she’d be back momentarily to give me the results. Really? No waiting for hours, days possibly, mentally torturing myself with more “what if” scenarios? I sat down, still wearing my hospital-issue blue cotton top while Lisa left me alone in the room. A few minutes later, Lisa returned. “You’re fine,” she smiled. “You can go home.”

Human Placentophagy - Seriously?

Warning: this blog is not for squeamish or humorless folk.


Actress January Jones has recently publicly discussed the benefits of eating her own placenta after the birth of her son, putting a face on an increasingly popular fad in America. Although pictures of January Jones depict her looking marvelous post-partum, I think her appearance has more to do with genetics, a personal trainer and Photoshop rather than a placenta. Apparently, there are placenta recipes and placenta encapsulation specialists who formulate the organ into capsules taken like a vitamin. The placenta handling and encapsulation business is booming.

The arguments in support of the practice of human placentophagy (placenta consumption) stem mainly around the idea that since all mammals and a few reptiles eat the placentas of their newborn babies, it is natural and therefore better for you, right? The nutrition one gains from a placenta supposedly helps the mother recover more quickly and wards off post-partum depression. Joel Stein wrote a very entertaining article, Afterbirth: It's What's For Dinnner about his wife's personal experience with placentophagia after the birth of their child. Nancy Redd, a writer for the New York Times, reported that she experienced very negative side effects after trying her placenta.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was in awe of the ability of a woman’s body to create an organ that would support her fetus. The placenta is the link between the mother and child, filtering nutrition and excrement (yes, that too) until it is time for him to leave the womb and live as an independent being. I was curious after my baby was born to see what a placenta actually looked like and was shown a bloody organ about the size of a large steak.  Not once did I feel an overwhelming urge to try it, not even with A-1 Sauce.

Now that I’ve delivered countless Maine Coon kittens and one foal, I look at the birthing process more pragmatically. I know some cat breeders who don’t allow the mother cat to eat the placenta for fear of it making her (the cat) sick. Others believe that eating the placenta provides the mother with extra nutrition and stimulates milk production.

I’ve noticed a few things over the years which relate to cats so I’ll just liberally generalize based upon my personal area of expertise. One is, not all cats and their placentas are equal. Some queens (a breeding female cat) will swallow the placenta like an oyster. Some placentas are tough, requiring the mother to gnaw on it endlessly while the wet kitten is ignored. Some new moms prefer to just lick the placenta clean, then leave it.

A couple of things to keep in mind with cats and other animals that deliver multiples; usually one birth quickly follows another so clean up has to be efficient. If the placenta isn’t taken care of before the next baby arrives, it’ll just have to wait. After delivering several kittens and consuming a placenta for each one, a queen gets full and very tired. She welcomes help cleaning up and drying her kittens. I usually follow the mother’s lead. If too much time is spent on the placenta or she shows no interest in it, I’ll start removing them for her so she’ll focus on her kitten.  I normally dispose of placentas along with the used bedding in the trash, but I've been known to flush them down the toilet too.

I think the instinct to eat a placenta is not only for a carnivore’s easy food source, but for hygiene. Herd animals whose babies are up and running within hours may have less of a need to consume their placenta, but animals whose young are helpless at birth must stay near the nest for protection and warmth.

Most domestic cats don’t like to leave their new kittens at all, so I usually put food and water in the birthing cage to make it easier for the mother. Likewise, if the mother cat has a choice, she will not use a litter box anywhere near her brood. Birth and all the fluids that go with it have a certain odor that is bound to attract predators. By cleaning up all signs of birth and kitten excrement, the new babies have a better chance of survival. That’s also why many cats move their kittens, to get them away from the birth aroma. I’ve seen new moms fastidiously lick the wet bedding in an effort to clean up the evidence. She is relieved when I remove the wet, disposable puppy pads and replace them with clean cotton bedding. Cleanliness is survival in the wild, an instinct the domestic animal still possesses.

A Maine Coon cat’s placenta is about the size of a large McNugget and looks like a piece of raw meat. I’ve often joked about breading and sautéing placentas, but I don’t eat red meat. I suppose if I were more enterprising, I could use my feline source and market my own magic placenta pills.

So with all the Hollywood hoopla about doing the natural thing and eating one’s own placenta, I have to say, this is just gross. Having the placenta steamed, dried and put into capsules may look more appetizing than grilling out, but it all seems like a scam to me. If you have a healthy diet, a placenta pill isn’t going to really make a difference. Post-partum depression?  See your doctor, please.  Even in third world countries, they’re not so hungry that placentophagy is an option and just bury it. The practice is not as common in most cultures as some would have you believe, but it has been promoted by Chinese medicine. Hey, don’t the Chinese also eat goat genitalia, monkey brains, dogs and cats? I found a huge assortment of exotic (read "disgusting") food sources native to China on the internet, so it must be true.

If a human mom really wants to emulate nature by eating her placenta, I think she should take it the rest of the way. Mother cats also eat the excrement of their newborn babies. It’s just another way of recycling really. Go for it Mrs. Jones.

Olivia with her Oscar Litter at one day old

Wilson and Willy

Ben is seven-years-old, the youngest of three, very active and needs something constructive to do or there will be trouble. He and his ten-year-old sister Amanda come over one or two times a week while their mother is at work or nursing school. “Technically, they are my step-grandchildren,” I respond when people hear them calling me Grandma Sharon and question how it’s possible, either because I look so young or because they know my kids are 20 and 16 and wonder if one of them “got in trouble.”

As Ben was recently frustrated with our flat basketball and had been taking an interest in sports, I picked up a new basketball and a football for small hands prior to his next sleepover. The balls did not become objects for sport as much as they were adopted by Ben as his new playmates. I told Ben about the Tom Hanks movie Cast Away and how his character had only Wilson the soccer ball to talk to while stranded on the island. Ben was inspired by my story and named his basketball “Wilson” and the football “Willy.” After all, they were also Wilson Sporting Goods products and had their names on them.

Ben's artistic rendering of Wilson and Willy

Wilson and Willy played on the swing with Ben, jumped on the trampoline with him, had conversations and disagreements, sat at the dinner table with us, got wiped off when they got dirty; just like they were dolls. He even took Wilson and Willy to bed with him and kept the boxes his new friends came in so they could be perched without rolling. My daughter Kelsey rolled her eyes when Ben brought the balls to the table and carefully placed them in the chair beside him, insinuating that Ben was a little crazy. “Doesn’t he remind you of someone else when she was little?” I asked her, “You used to have conversations with your spoon and fork at the table, your crayons got in fights with each other then kissed and made up. Pretending the balls are people isn’t really that much of a stretch.”

What a great age to be able to lose yourself in your imagination and create personalities for inanimate objects. How incredibly cute!