The creatures in the following drama are, from top to bottom:
Policeman
Rambo (foreground) and Hannah (rear)
Winston
Hazel

Heat.

It's the perfect word to describe a pig's ovulation. When a female pig ovulates, she is all raging hormone, all sex...all heat.

Petunia the pig used to follow male staff around, insistently presenting her rear to them. Millie the 100-pound potbelly, meanwhile, insists on mounting Policeman, the old, gentle, 1,000 pound farm pig, who wants nothing more on a sunny day than to plop his pink mass into the shavings pile just outside the barn door and lie motionless, soaking up the warmth of the day. He's years (and a neutering) past thinking about sex. So Millie, unsatisfied, returns to her stall, where she plans her next assault on the next unwitting male.

Now there's little Hazel's first heat.

She's mounting Policeman, then picking a fight through the fence with Piggerty, a female pig, foaming at the mouth and chomping her jaws in that "I'm going to KICK YOUR ASS" way that's SO uniquely porcine. A moment later, in a frenzy, she whips around and is mounting Winston, the black potbelly, and the two of them are a two-pig cha-cha line moving through the barn aisle, Hazel's front legs straddling Winston's rear end and her tiny back legs running to keep up as Winston, completely unfazed, goes about his business--searching for food--that's the only business a pig ever has.

Well, other than this....

Hazel mounts Hannah the sheep, lying in the aisle, who simply stands and walks away, turns to look at Hazel with a "What are you, crazy?" expression in her eyes. Norma Jean the turkey is diagonally across the aisle, pecking at treats on the hayroom floor.

Hazel j-walks--j-TROTS, actually--toward the turkey but out of nowhere Rambo appears, ever the guardian of all our fragile ones, blocking Hazel's best efforts to molest the gentle bird. He, too, is gentle but insistent, and a mere lowering of his head a few times, presenting those massive horns, is enough to convince Hazel to look elsewhere for satisfaction.

We call Mark Rosenberg to schedule Hazel's spay surgery.

"Efficiency be Damned" -- that's our motto, I joke in my book Where the Blind Horse Sings. At the time the book was written--I handed in the final draft in March--we had twenty-one free-range animals--assorted ducks, pigs, chickens, sheep--all of whom, for one reason or another, needed to be free during the day in order to truly thrive. Rambo the sheep, for instance, has intense claustrophobia after years of confinement in a tiny stall with 17 other animals. Hannah, his pal or paramour, depending on the day, was found in a Brooklyn cemetery, and was so terrified of humans that she needed to be a barn sheep, both to maximize her contact with humans and to take her cues from the extraordinary Rambo.

Members of the "Underfoot Family," as well call our free-range menagerie, change constantly. Animals are adopted; others arrive to take their place. Today, our free-range family is comprised of two roosters, one hen, one turkey, two farm pigs, seven potbellies, and four sheep. Its newest members are Jack and Lama, a blind sheep and his friend. (See Zoey and Paulie, two founding members of the family, in photo)

Jack and Lama arrived at Catskill Animal Sanctuary four years ago this month when Eddie Lama's (of Tribe of Heart's The Witness fame) Oasis Sanctuary was forced to downsize. We took their farm animals: a dozen chickens, two goats, seven sheep, five rabbits, and five huge pigs. Until recently, Jack fared just fine in our sheep flock on top of the hill. But as he aged and lost his vision, Misha, a giant Hampshire sheep with a "bull in a china shop" mentality, was too much for him, so we moved Jack and his friend Lama to our "special needs" sheep field to live with Noel and her son Christopher in their roomy digs.

11 a.m. I was cleaning the special needs house, tossing pitchfork after pitchfork of bedding into the manure spreader, when Old Jack stood up from his spot in the corner, hobbled up to me, and gently pressed his head into my thigh.

"Hey, old man. Hey, sweet old man," I whispered as I knelt down to look into his cloudy eyes and kiss his woolly forehead.

"Take me inside," is what I felt he was saying, and while it was probably not that precise, I do feel the gentle animal was saying that he wanted more than he was getting in the sheep barn with two roommates who wanted nothing to do with humans.

So we made a space for Jack, who was accompanied, of course, by his friend Lama.

We wondered if they might be overwhelmed. Tractors and horses and large and small pigs and staff and volunteers and a free range turkey and two roosters nearly as large as she and so much commotion at mealtime and Rambo--oh yeah RAMBO--how would the king of the castle react when two more sheep entered?

He would protect them. Yes, of course.

Jack and Lama settle into their cozy stall near the kitchen. For two days, we leave them in, allowing them to adjust safely to their new surroundings.

On day three, we open their door. Like the other Underfoot family members, they'll come out when they're ready. But the free range pigs see a new food source!! "Aaah," Millie's eyes light up as she spies the newly opened door and anticipates another opportunity to root around for any dropped grain, any tiny morsel remaining in a food dish.

But Rambo is there. In the doorway, standing guard. For a brief moment, Millie and Rambo face off. "UMMPHHH," she grunts.

Rambo lowers his head, showing the base of his massive horns. This is all he ever needs to do, for strong and willful and food-obsessed though they are, pigs are also smart enough to know that they have no chance with Rambo. Ozzi, Charlie, Zoey...I delight as pig after pig approaches the entrance, seeing the opportunity, then again as each one turns around, cowed by the strength and stature and power of a sheep who knows his job and does it well.

Even when winter kicks your ass (and it does whenever snow blankets the ground), we're still enveloped by breathtaking beauty....and that counts.

Who would have guessed that a press release about human tragedy would be what brought national press to Catskill Animal Sanctuary? People losing their farms--and their animals--due either to foreclosure or to an inability to care for their beloved 1,000-pound friends: horses, donkeys, mules. That story has captivated the national media. The rescue of 1,000 chickens left in crates to drown in city streets didn't pique their interest. Nor did the big starvation cases. But the ability to put a face on the price of all the grim economic news is bringing them here: the Daily News and NBC News today. The Associated Press and Fox News are also interested.

Last week, Joe Mahoney of the Albany bureau of the Daily News wrote a fine piece. I was concerned when he showed up in a suit, but despite being nuzzled by Hannah and Rambo the sheep, Hazel the pig, and an assortment of horses, Joe left looking exactly as he did when he arrived. I'll post a link to his article when I have a minute to locate it.

Today, we welcome Hilary Guy and Mike Taibbi from NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. They, too, want to put a human face on this sad, sad story. Their piece will air, unless it's bumped by breaking news, next Thursday, January 22, at 6:30 pm.

We'll post that link as well.

Meanwhile, volunteers are saying, "This is way cool!! Aren't you excited to be on national TV?"

Well, sort of. It's not about me. I feel the same way about TV as I feel about the book. It's not about being able to say, "I've published a book." It's certainly not about being able to say, "I'm on TV tonight!"--the 15 seconds of fame thing. It's about this and only this: voiceless animals--these beautiful friends whom we at CAS love at least as much as we love the humans in our lives. It's about highlighting the beauty and the love that Catskill Animal Sanctuary embodies, about revealing that farm animals are more than people know , and are entitled--simply by virtue of being alive on our shared planet--to happiness. It's about drawing attention to this place. It's about raising funds to respond effectively to a crisis.

For these reasons, YES....I'M EXCITED!!

But then I'd have ruined the moment.

I've never once walked in the barn during work hours and not seen a human. Not in seven years. But today it happened. Alex was up in the large hill pasture reinforcing fence. (Two mules arrive Sunday--their family's farm is in foreclosure--and one of them, Blackjack, is nicknamed Houdini. "Got a weak section, he'll find it," his owner explained.)

Meanwhile, Lorraine, Betsy, and volunteer Mary Ellen Moore were cleaning the large cow barn at the back of the farm. Only I didn't know this.

Murphy and I walked into the barn. "Where's Lorraine?" I asked the yellow mutt, who trotted toward the kitchen halfway down the aisle in search of his pal.

Five feet from the entrance, Rambo the sheep lay in the middle of the aisle, holding court. Beside him stood Norma Jean the turkey, gently pulling bits of hay from Rambo's wool. Potbellies Zoey, Charlie, and Ozzie were there, too; surprisingly, they weren't searching for food. They were simply there, enjoying the company of their friends.

I plopped down with them. Murphy did, too, right by my side. To my delight, the animals allowed us to enter their peaceful circle--and just to be with them. No one charged over to beg for food; neither did anyone walk away because a dog and a human had entered their space. Hannah, Rambo's woolly pal, the sheep found in a Queens cemetery, strolled over to nuzzle Murphy the way she always does. Mufasa the goat was with her. Above all of us, Max, the sweet old gelding who recently moved into Dino's stall, hung his big head over the four-foot stall wall, and there we were together: two sheep, a turkey, a goat, three pigs, a horse, a dog, and a human.

For a few precious minutes we sat...that's all. Miraculous simplicity.

But then Claude, the giant pink pig with the bad leg that earned him free-range status lest he be picked on by the stronger, more dominant pigs in the pig pasture...Claude strolled in from the far end of the barn.

"Hey, big man...hey sweet pig," I called softly to him. A few heads turned in his direction.

"Mmmph..." he responded. And then he walked not into his stall the way he typically would, but past it, straight toward us. He walked right up to Max the horse, his scratchy pink back nearly level with Max's muzzle, and he lifted his snout to Max and there they were, wet pink pig nose pressing into soft black horse nose. They stood there, pig to horse, Claude looking up intently, somehow knowing that Max would not lunge at him the way the horses typically do at the big pigs.

Laugh, shake your head, call me anthropomorphic if you're skeptical or obtuse or disconnected, but I experienced what I experienced, and what I experienced on a cold winter day was pigs and turkeys and goats and humans and horses and sheep and dogs enjoying each other's company. Happy just to be.

Yes, we are a most unusual family, but we are a family nonetheless.

In the midst of this country's economic downturn, it has been our pleasure and privilege to receive animals from caring people who reach out because they can no longer afford their care. Farms are in foreclosure; people are losing their rural rental property...or simply can't afford the price of hay.

This situation---today's situation--is different.

I was called by another rescue about a woman who "needed help." She had three animals--a mare and two older stallions, all thoroughbreds--and could not afford them. "They might be in bad shape," she said.

I called her. She talked about how she'd lost her job, how she could barely afford to put gas in her car, how the horses were 40 minutes from her home and she had to haul hay and water in a broken down vehicle that might just die on any of these trips, and how no one wanted the animals...especially not two older stallions. Who in their right mind would take them?

(We would. Despite all the issues--needing to house them far away from any mares, not being able to turn them out with any other horses, the expense of gelding, the risks associated with gelding older horses--one is 14, the other 21--we would take them. I'm proud of that. We take the tough cases.)

I told the owner that we needed to see the boys before they came to Catskill Animal Sanctuary. Were they strong enough to withstand immediate surgery? If they were thin and debilitated, we'd first need to put weight on them--and that would mean more time juggling the issues inherent with stallions.

Allen Landes, who works as a hospital biologist at Albany Medical Center during the week but is a godsend at CAS on weekends (and whenever else he can squeeze in a day off), lives just 3 miles from the horses' home and agreed to take a look at them. I relayed directions from the owner; Allen went right after work.

He used his cell to call from a long-abandoned derelict camp of some sort. "This can't be the place," Allen said.

"It's the place," I assured him, having gotten a clear description from the horse owner.

Allen walked a place that looked like it had not seen life in decades. "No horses in here," he'd say as he traipsed through one ramshackle shack after another. "Nobody here," he'd say, as he moved through the derelict remains of another.

He was about to give up when he spotted a forlorn-looking barn at the base of a hill at the back of the property. "Ugh," I hope they're not in here."

They were "in here."

For many years, Allen served as a board member for an Albany-based rescue, and assisted with seizures when owners were arrested for cruelty. The first words out of his mouth were, "God...this is the worst situation I've ever seen."

Three horses. Bone thin. Living in darkness in tiny, rat-infested stalls that have never been cleaned. Caked with manure. Water buckets bone dry. One stallion was shivering violently, and spent most of Allen's half-hour or so there lying down.

It turns out that this woman was arrested for animal cruelty eight years ago. It turns out that one horse, a thoroughbred stallion, had to be euthanized--he was simply too far gone. And IF we can get these horses out, that might be the only humane option.

.

That's what it feels like around here.

Foreclosures. Another failing sanctuary pleading with us to take its animals. A guy called yesterday saying he was on his way to drop off his two horses.

"You can't do that," I explained.

And now, two turkeys are hanging out on a Wassaic couple's deck, having appeared out of nowhere. Walt is on his way to retrieve them; Norma Jean will be delighted!! We humans, meanwhile, keep pushing through this most unsettling winter, wondering what the next phone call will bring.

Will post photos of the turkeys when they arrive.

It was a long day for a lot of good people--Allen Landes, Tina Murray of Harmony Hill, an equine rescue that is taking the mare, and tireless Stephanie Weber, who works as a humane investigator for Dutchess County SPCA but who today served as loader and hauler of three animals deserving of happiness. Meanwhile, back at CAS, we scheduled veterinarian Heather O'Leary and asked her to bring her x-ray machine. Our fear is that in Noah, the older boy, the pastern and coffin bones in the lower leg and hoof might be malformed.

They're thin, they're encrusted with manure, their hooves are grotesquely deformed, but boy are Noah and Cas, the two stallions, bright eyed.

Welcome, boys. We'll do the best we can for you. Be assured of that.

Whether five minutes or five months after his arrival, when an animal looks me straight in the eye in a way that says, "I get it--I'm finally safe," I am instantly bliss on two legs.

The night before I left for vacation, I entered Noah's stall with a flake of hay--his 6th or 7th that day--small meals frequently--and walked to the back of the stall to place it in the hay rack. He didn't want it there. The old horse wanted it on the floor, so I placed it there, in the corner. Noah tore out a huge mouthful, and while chewing with gusto, lifted his head, looked right into my eyes, and blinked slowly.

Aaah, the blink that says so much, all of it good. I believe animals use it to mean everything from "I love you" to "Thanks for the food" to "I'm happy here."

I blinked back, laughing delightedly, saying, "You're welcome, big boy. You're welcome. We're so happy you're here."

I removed his halter. He scratched his head against my side, and no matter how good it felt to him to have contact with a caring being and to scratch his itchy skin, it felt at least as good to me.

A 21-year-old stallion locked in a dark stall for perhaps his entire life. I'm not sure his hooves have ever been trimmed; I am sure he's in some degree of pain. But there's no anger in this beast who could kill us if he wanted to. There's just gratitude and joy and an immediate awareness that he is finally in a good place, all revealed in that slow blink and the rub, rub, rubbing of a big old head against the back of one lucky woman.