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.

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.

How wonderful to receive a phone call from Susan Barnett, WAMC's Hudson Valley Bureau Chief, on Monday.

"I want to do a story on the impact of the foreclosure crisis on CAS," she said on the phone.

Susan and I met in the barn at 10:30 am, and let me be the first to say that while I've met many attractive radio personalities, Susan may be the best candidate I've EVER met to quash the "you've got a great face for radio" stereotype. She's absolutely beautiful.

Here is her piece. While she ostensibly came to address the economic crisis and how it's impacting people with animals, animals themselves, and nonprofits being asked to care for increasing numbers of aniomals, I think her piece could have a far bigger impact.

Thank you, Susan, for letting the animals write your story:

http://www.publicbroadcasting.net/wamc/news.newsmain?action=article&ARTICLE_ID=1235030