Well, he’s here. We—well, actually I—wanted a rooster friend...and man does Manny love to remind me of my wish at 4:30 every single morning!

“Cock-a-doooooo-dooo!” he crows from the top of my armoire, his preferred sleeping spot. “Cock-a-DOOOOO-dooo!” he greets the day.

Manny is not a patient bird. I can’t figure out what, other than company, he wants when, if I don’t get up within a minute or two of his first crow, he swoops down onto the bed, struts around Murphy, my long-suffering yellow lab, walks up to my face and STARES. It’s not food that he wants. His food is accessible—dried fruit on one tabletop, seeds on another—as is his water. I honestly think he simply wants us all to get up and begin the day together.

We were told by Aimee Hartmann of the ASPCA that Manny had been hanging around on a fence in the Bronx for a while before a brave soul worked up her nerve to capture him. She needn’t have worried; Manny is a sweetheart...with humans. He went to a home in Pennsylvania, but there were issues between Manny and the woman’s goose. So after spending a night in the Park Slope apartment of Jean Rhode, Manny made the trip out of Brooklyn, up the West Side Highway and the New York State Thruway to Catskill Animal Sanctuary.

He’s not a big guy, but don’t tell him that. As gentle as he is with humans, Manny has spent his first four days in my house trying to establish himself as head honcho among my animals. Initially fearful of Murphy and my two cats, Fat Boy and Mouse, he soon perceived that none of them were a threat. So fear became caution, caution became confidence, and yesterday when I walked in from the barn Manny was chasing poor Fat Boy through the living room!

“No, Manny! Bad bird!” I scolded, scooping him up and putting the rooster into his first Time Out.

That’s right. Manny got a Time Out. Why are you laughing? Jokes about chicken soup have no effect--the bird knows I'm vegan. Time Out just might work. He’s a smart bird—he’s a very smart bird—who will connect the dots quickly. Whether he’ll be able to control his behavior remains to be seen.

Ten minutes ago, Manny got his second Time Out after he decided to have sex with Murphy’s head. I was sitting on the sofa, reading a piece in the New York Times about foie gras production. Murphy was asleep on his bed right next to the sofa, and Manny had settled down next to him (bless my tolerant good good dog’s heart). Suddenly, no hens in sight, Manny was instead having sex with Murphy’s head.

Time Out Number Two.

Man, oh Manny.

For those of you who don't know, I live 100 feet behind the main barn at Catskill Animal Sanctuary. From my house on a ridge, cows and sheep graze in pastures below me and to the left, and a gathering of geese swim in their pond. Straight ahead are five more pastures that house horses and our largest cow herd. To my right, a pig field, a goat paddock, and the large, flat pasture for Big Ted, d 2,000-pound draft horse, blind horse Bobo, and other senior equines. I see the hen house and the rabbit run, and watch the pekin ducks and their pals bobbing and splashing in the new pond we dug for them. And though I can't actually see them, I'm close enough to hear the roosters crowing in their custom-designed bachelor pad.

Such a wonderful vantage point, plus the twenty or so free-ranging characters--sheep, pigs, a rooster, two ducks--who call this place home make for a life rich in surprises.
Yesterday, for instance, a sharp, sudden clatter interrupted a conference call with two volunteers. I jumped up from my desk, raced out to the deck, and looked downto see both Valentino and Jojo, two potbelly pigs, eyeball deep in my glass and aluminum recycling.

"What are you doing, bad boys?" I asked, moving down the stairs to shoo them back to the barnyard.

"Hmmmph," they both said. "This is fun."

Today begins a new chapter. A little bunny--a black and white Dutch--has moved in with me, my dog Murphy, and my two cats, Mouse and Fat Boy. He'll be with us for six months as his Mom, the photographer and filmmaker Zana Briski, goes to Madagascar and Panama for two separate projects. Now i told Zana that I know as much about rabbits as I know about armadillos, but that didn't faze her. She wants her nine-year-old boy on a farm, she wants him to have company, she wants him to be with someone who will love him.

So Zana begins her adventure in Madagascar, and we begin ours. Stay tuned.

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"He LOVES to be handled and held," Bodi's Mom Zana said yesterday. She showed me how to sit behind her little bunny and rub his entire body from front to back. And indeed, he did seem to enjoy it as I ran one hand, then the other, from the tip of his nose all the way to his tail, cupping his tiny body as I did so.

Well that was YESTERDAY, when Mom was looking.

This morning, sitting in my living room in a patch of sunlight, little Bodi took my offerings of organic basil, nectarine, and broccoli. But when I squatted down--slowly, mind you, I'm not an idiot--to stroke his little body, Body hopped off, stomping one rear foot as he moved away. As he did so, I think I overheard the "F-word."

"Okay, give him more time to adjust," I said to myself.

So just now, four hours later, I walk in to the living room to check on the little man, sitting happily by the door. Six feet from him, I sit on the floor and inch slowly forward, whispering his name softly. "Hey, Bodi. Hey, little one." My tiger cat Fat Boy stretches out on the table beside us, his head hanging over the edge. He is rapt.

I offer the back of my hand for Bodi to sniff, and then stroke his little body. Aahhh....there you go. He relaxes as I continue, and the three of us -- my cat, my foster rabbit, and me -- sit happily in the sun of this beautiful October day for a full ten minutes. But when I try to pick him up ("He loves it!" Zana promises), Bodi CHOMPS down on my hand, nearly drawing blood.

Now I'm saying the f-word.

Evidently, this relationship is going to be on HIS terms....

Bodhi is Bodhi, not Bodi.

I think he likes me. And I think he likes this house filled with life--a goofy dog, two cats, cows mooing just outside the window, and horses galloping past on the other side.

And happily, I like him. A lot! Just a few days into our new friendship, he allows me to pick him up. He quickly scoots up toward my shoulder so that I hold him vertically, one hand under his fanny, the other cradling his neck and shoulders to steady him.

Photos are on their way. Now you're dealing with a technological Neanderthal here, so it might take some time. But I promise photos: of Bodhi the bunny, Andy the formerly starving horse, the baby pigs, the chicks left to die...photos of all the happy endings.

Zen's friend is a she, not a he. And no, we're not going to bottle-feed her because at 7 or 8 months, she's way beyond needing milk. Her well-meaning city caretakers had her on cow's milk--always a bad idea...cow's milk is good FOR COWS...and at this age it's important for young animals to be on solids.

We've named her Pumpkin. She's a pygmy goat, and one of the cutest animals I've EVER seen. She has a calico cat's coloring: black, white, and...pumpkin--and is as friendly as a young pup.

Who knows her real story. From PETA we heard that she was going to be a Santeria sacrifice; from Animal Care and Control, we heard that she was a pet who could no longer be cared for. One thing is clear: our little Pumpkin was instantly at home at Catskill Animal Sanctuary, diving into her hay as if she'd eaten it her whole life.

Our friend Janet will videotape this weekend. Be prepared: cuteness causes fainting.

"Sure, you can have the bird," said Carmella, evidently the owner of Quattro's, over the phone. "You'll have to buy it."

For many reasons, Catskill Animal Sanctuary does not advocate purchasing animals from butchers, breeders, and the like. But this was an exceptional situation. "Norman" had some degree of notoriety, as the radio station had been hyping their "turkey bowl"' for weeks. If she could bring guests to Catskill Animal Sanctuary to discover that turkeys, cows, pigs, chickens and other animals that most humans eat are remarkable in their own right, then we needed to make an exception to our "no purchase policy."

Julie and I pointed the car in the direction of Pleasant Valley.

FRESH KILLED CHICKENS read a huge sign on the porch of Quattro's old clapboard general store. I stepped inside. A line of people waited at the single cash register. Each person held a newly-slaughtered turkey. Some had geese, ducks, pheasants as well. At the back of the store, guns and ammunition were for sale.

"Hi," I said to the cashier. "I'm looking for Carmella."

"She's at the counter," she said, pointing behind her.

Another long line. It was, after all, the day before Thanksgiving, and this was THE place, apparently, if you wanted "fresh-killed birds."

A man weighing easily 500 pounds hoisted each package to its eager recipient, who then proceeded to the cash register.

I approached the human tank. "Is Carmella here?"

An elderly woman walked toward me. "Kathy?"

"Yes. Hi, Carmella."

Carmella was a small, bent woman easily in her eighties. Though her hands were gnarled with arthritis, they were still strong hands. Carmella was a worker.

She came toward me and took my hand, pulling me to a screen door. We walked into a pantry, away from the eyes and ears of her employees. She looked up at me. "I love animals," she whispered. "I love all animals. I love these birds. I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to."

I could have said so much in that moment, but instead said only, "Why don't you come visit Catskill Animal Sanctuary?"

"Yes. I'd like to do that."

Carmella returned to her place behind the counter. I walked out, hurting not just for the millions of birds senselessly slaughtered for this one holiday, but also, somehow, for the person responsible for many of those deaths.

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At the bottom of the drive, a stressed-out Norman still paced in her cage. "We're here to pick her up," I explained to a toothless gentleman who approached our car.

"I'll get her for ya," he offered, and before I could span the few steps between the car and the turkey, reached in to drag her out by the feet.

"Please, let me do it," I insisted as I pushed myself between him and Norman, her terror rising again.

We settled Norman into the back seat in a large crate thick with straw, and began the slow drive back to her new home at Catskill Animal Sanctuary, where she will live peacefully for the rest of her days.

Check out the video of "Norman's" lucky day: http://www.youtube.com/casanctuary.

There's a chapter in Where the Blind Horse Sings titled "All in the Family" that depicts the antics of a few of our twenty-some-odd free-range animals: Rambo and Hannah the sheep, a special needs hen named Nutmeg, Sumo, the twenty-four pound rooster and Rocky, nearly as large and missing an eye, potbellies Ozzi and Mabel, Zoey, Jojo, Valentino, Charlie, Hazel, Millie and Winston, big pigs Claude and Policeman, and so on.

Free-range PIGS? Who are we kidding?!!! This arrangement doesn't exactly lend itself to efficiency. YOU try moving a tractor forward with a sheep lying in front of you, a duck napping underneath, and four potbellied pigs roaming through, one of them being sternly talked to by an indignant chicken.

"Efficiency be Damned" -- that's our motto. We do this because in as much as its possible, we allow each animal to heal in her own way, on her own terms. Those who need the company of others of their species join their respective flocks or herds in their respective roomy pastures. But there are, indeed, dozens who fall into the "Special Needs" category for any of a host of reasons: they're blind; they're timid and need the activity and attention assured by a spot in the main barn, they're amcient and would be picked on by animals younger and stronger than they.

We call these free-range animals our "Underfoot Family," and have just invited Norman--renamed Carmella in honor of the best part of the elderly woman from whom she was purchased--to join the family, as she is, at the moment, our lone turkey.

Today is her first day as a free turkey, as a full-fledged member of the family.

"Come on, girl" I say quietly as I open her stall door wide. "Come meet all these new friends."

I watch from a slight distance--getting too close makes her nervous--as Norman/Carmella moves tentatively to the opening into the big world outside her stall. She is motionless except for her head, which moves in every direction so she can take in what's out here: Charlie the pig grumping per usual as he walks past, uninterested; volunteer Chris Seeholzer filling water buckets, whispering sweetly to each animal as she does so; tiny April leading Big Ted inside after the old draft horse has spent the morning outside (see a video of Big Ted at youtube.com/casanctuary); and just feet from Carmella, Sumo, the gentle giant of a rooster, pecking at something interesting directly across the aisle.

Where's Rambo? I wonder. The great sheep, the subject of four chapters of my book and one of the animals to whom the book is dedicated, is the official welcome committee for all new members of the Underfoot family. He'll be in soon, I expect.

I knew it wouldn't take long.

Like so many other animals in the barn, Norma Jean (the THIRD name for our rescued turkey, and the one that will stick!!) seems to need Rambo somehow. Hannah the sheep sure needs him. She desperately searches for him when she's let out each morning, her pace increasing to a sort of rapid march and her bleats growing agitated until...aahhhh....there he is, her boy, her Rambo...she runs to him and her whole body lets go.

Two ancient Underfoot Family members Jack and Lama sure need him. Jack is a blind sheep, Lama has a permanent injury that causes lameness, and though their stall door remains open during the day to encourage them to come out, they mostly rest in their hay. When the pigs get too rambunctious, which they do about 314 times a day, Rambo guards the entrance to Lama and Jack's stall, preventing the pigs from entering. "No," his stance says. "They need quiet."

This morning Rambo is lying in one of his favorite spots in the big barn. It's just outside the goat stalls. Norma Jean is lying next to him. Rambo, once the most violent and dangerous animal I've ever known, allows this--even allows the turkey to peck at his wool, pulling at whatever bits of hay she finds interesting. He's her source of comfort and security, as he is to Hannah, as he was to Dino the pony, as he will continue to be, I expect, to many more who sense the strength and wisdom of this great wise beast, whose many acts of exceptional wisdom and breathtaking compassion are depicted in Where the Blind Horse Sings.

It's probably no exaggeration to say that of the 1,200 animals we've taken in since 2001, half have come from the five boroughs:

Dino, our very first resident: a tiny pony who was the sole survivor of a Brooklyn arson that took the lives of 23 horses.

300 crated chickens, abandoned at a live poultry market, drowning when torrential rains flooded city streets.

Hannah the sheep, found late at night in a Queens cemetery.

Henry the rooster, found in a Bronx mailbox.

My wonderful friend Policeman, a 900-pound pig seized from a Bronx apartment during a drug raid.

Oliver the goat, found on Manhattan streets with "sold" spray-painted on his side.

and so very many more.

Yesterday, four more arrived, seized, as so many have been, by Anne Marie Lucas of "'Animal Cops" fame. Hundreds of our animals have come through her dedicated work.

One is a tiny young Silkie hen--mottled white with a blue beak and a mop atop her head. Underneath all the fluff, she's the size of largish potato. Three are young sheep, two rams and a ewe, seized from the yard of someone who had purchased them at a live poultry market in order to slaughter them at home. Flourescent green lines sprayed down their backs would have enabled a purchaser to buy one particular side of the lamb; slaughter doesn't occur until both sides are purchased (yes, if you've ever heard someone say "I bought a side of beef" they literally bought either the left or the right half of the animal's body).

We've named the girl Nellie; send us your suggestions for the boys!!

Though they've only been here a few weeks, Otis, Olly, and Nellie have virtually doubled in size. So today, we made their "grown up" status official by graduating them to the sheep field. Accustomed to their quarantine stalls, the threesome are a little overwhelmed: it's a big world out here!! But how delightful it was to watch them spend ten minutes charging through the big field, thrilled with their freedom, smelling each new plant, exploring every corner. Now...how to make their way into the flock...

Stay tuned.

Catskill Animal Sanctuary is officially at capacity. Twenty-three horses, eighteen cows, sixteen pigs, fourteen goats, ten sheep, two turkeys and umpteen rabbits, chickens, ducks, geese are as much as we can effectively manage right now. Not only are our costs increasing (as yours are), but we have so very many special needs animals. Blake the one-legged duck. Helen the blind cow. Mirage, Buddy, and Bobo, the blind horses. Policeman, the elderly pig. Beacon, the ancient potbelly. And so on. "The greatest good for the greatest number" is one of our mantras, but that mantra must always respect the bottom line, the physical space, the limitations of our heroic staff and volunteers.

Notice, however, that I used the word "officially." Catskill Animal Sanctuary is OFFICIALLY at capacity.

Unofficially, when a U-Haul pulls in the driveway loaded with furniture for the drivers' move to South Carolina -- and oh, yeah, with two grossly overweight and hyperventilating pigs--and the drivers say to you, "We've been driving all day--no one will take them", and you can see in their eyes that this is their final stop--they won't be searching for more sanctuaries, they won't be making phone calls for help -- then you hear yourself saying, "Yes, we'll take them," while another part of yourself is (at least internally) stamping and swearing "What's the matter with you??!!!"

Welcome, Pinky. Welcome, Miss Piggy.

And when you receive a phone call from Schoharie County about a horse named Mr. Bones, and the voice is ranting that "You're a ****ing sanctuary: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T TAKE THE ****ING HORSE. I'm going to TURN HIM LOOSE...LET THE GODDAMN BUZZARDS GET HIM FOR ALL I ****ING CARE!!!", then you hear yourself saying, "We'll take Mr. Bones," because, after all, people abandon their animals all the time--you know this now, seven years into rescue work--and because in Schoharie County, NO ONE is on the animals' side: not the police, not the district attorney.

Welcome, Mr. Bones. We'll give you a new name and more love than you knew existed.

Yes, Catskill Animal Sanctuary is officially at capacity.

Bowie is Mr. Bones' new name. Just like David, he has a blue eye and a brown. And they look directly into mine, wanting to trust.

Bowie is the Schoharie horse I wrote about in June. When investigators went in, they found a dead cow being eaten by dogs and a dead horse with a chain embedded in its leg (the other end of the chain was wrapped around a tire). Bowie had been taken out a couple weeks earlier by the man who screamed at me over the phone, threatening to turn him loose.

He's just four years old, this lovely boy. We pulled his dead winter coat off in hunks, and once his skin could breathe, severe dermatitis cleared almost instantly. He's still 75 pounds underweight but one can virtually see the pounds accumulating around his rib cage, in his flanks and shoulders.

It's the trust of humans that's slower in coming. Bowie has been beaten. He's nervous when we enter the stall, and when two humans enter, his tension heightens. Initially terrified of being touched, Bowie now allows us to touch him everywhere but his lower legs--and even that he allows when he knows the scary touch is followed by a bite of apple or pear or carrot.

He's going to be a love! He's got a wounded heart, but it's a big one, and the door is open a crack--allowing us in, little by little. At Catskill Animal Sanctuary, each abused animal gets all the time that he needs. He'll heal at his pace, not at ours...