In this week's Saugerties Times (publication date August 31), reporter Will Dendis wrote a lovely article on the life and death of little Dino titled "Requiem for an Equine."

The final paragraph of Dendis' article reads:

"Perhaps Dino's story as related by Stevens might sound a tad anthropomorphic, a case of an animal lover projecting human qualities onto the dramatic life of a very old pony. But the strong reaction and pure volume of outpouring over his death means at least one thing: this little pony had a lot of friends."

I have a hard time with the concept of anthropomorphism. I work with animals every single day. They arrive at Catskill Animal Sanctuary broken and fearful, and over time, we watch them blossom--often into enormous and unforgettable characters. Interestingly, the process is similar from animal to animal: first they trust their caretakers--those who give them food, shelter and love day after day. Then we watch in delight as they generalize to visitors. Indeed, there is no greater joy than participating in the transformation of these broken spirits, and watching them evolve as dark memories are replaced by consistent positive experience.

How is it that so many people use the term "anthropomorphism" so freely? The impetus for my book Where the Blind Horse Sings: Love and Healing at an Animal Sanctuary was the startling similarity in the emotional lives of humans and animals. Ask anyone at Catskill Animal Sanctuary or come visit or volunteer and discover for yourself: we'd be hard-pressed to name an emotion that animals don't possess. They display love, tenderness, joy, curiosity, impatience, anger, jealousy, grief and a host of other emotions generally considered the domain of humans. The greatest among the animals display things like courage and compassion. Just ask any of us about our sheep named Rambo, whose lessons merited five full chapters of my book.

When I told your reporter that Dino had an indomitable will to live, he concluded that I might be "a tad anthropmorphic." But how else would one describe the sole survivor of an arson to which 23 horses larger and younger than Dino succumbed? How else would one describe an ancient, severely arthritic, partially blind pony with extremely limited lung capacity and a throat so filled with scar tissue that swallowing was difficult? When one has seen animals with fewer health issues give up and allow death to come, what other words would describe a pony who, despite all these challenges, greeted each new day with enthusiasm?

Franklin the pig has a delightful sense of humor. Rambo the sheep is wiser than any human I know. Before he died, an old steer named Samson licked my face over and over--until he took his final breath. A dozen people witnessed this. I believe he was telling me he loved me. Anthropomorphism? Come visit. Decide for yourself.

Thank you to Will Dendis for his beautiful article, and for the opportunity to comment on a term that belittles both animals and the humans lucky enough to share their world as intimately as we do.