Ghrelin and Leptin, Our Dietary Aids!

Experimenting on myself seemed like the right thing to do. After years of reading that clean eating is, in and of itself, the only mechanism that the body relies upon to tell us to stop eating, I decided to test the hypothesis. Would the hormones leptin, the feel-full hormone kick in after ghrelin, the hunger one, had reminded me to eat because I was hungry? Time would tell. Or should I say, food would.

I have always loved fruits and vegetables, salads, soups and some meat. Desserts were there, too. Now they had to be of the utmost 'clean' variety, after all, dessert are not a part of the food pyramid. Today, my metabolism is slower with a malfunctioning thyroid, the culprit. Knowing the sources of the ingredients in my food is of paramount importance. When I make dinner, everything is 'made from scratch' It has to be. Ghrelin and leptin depend upon my healthy choices to play their critical roles in health and weight management. Healthy fats form a healthy part of my diet, too. For they help with the delivery/absorption of A, D, K, & E. My organic trio of carrots, celery and onions are at the basis of many dinner time meals. (I think I am in love with onions.) My sluggish thyroid gland makes me ever-so-vigilant of the things I eat. This gland is my director. (I do not drink soda pop.) I do not eat anything with high fructose corn syrup or its derivatives or additives in general. Our daily choices could be the difference between health and disease.

As the selection of food grows in the marketplace, nutrient content has not necessarily kept pace. When I was a little girl soda pop was for parties, not intended as a daily menu staple as it is today. There was no HFCS either. How we 'treat' the food we eat will ultimately determine if it takes its revenge upon us later. I never craved food till the instruments of torture - additives and HFCS - arrived on the food scene to begin their assault on my body. Is The Momsey's rhetoric over the top? I don't think so. These 'modified' foods have unnerved our equilibrium, made eating a constant interruption, for many of us. In the heat of the moment - hunger - we grab what we can and call it lunch or dinner. Hopefully, it is a healthy choice. When we eat out, anything goes if we have not prepared for it. I remind wait staff of my 'no added salt' rule. Head office says otherwise, I have learned. No thanks. It's my food, my body, my rules, not yours.

Plain and simple rules my life. It must also rule the kitchen and the reason that room was created in the first place: for the daily maintenance of human health. This is the room of the tasty, delicious and clean. The body responds as it should when food is made simply. Even potato chips (low salt, 3 ingredients) or caramel pop corn, with real ingredients, can be eaten without undue 'harm'. A small bowl or a handful and that is it for me. Listening to body cues makes all the difference. It all makes sense now.

To be truly healthy and happy, the body must always be in charge. Home cooking must be our goal, though at times, it is not possible. Our health is at stake. The ghrelin and leptin hormones work when we cook, simply and with integrity. Some food companies, in the interests of their bottom line include the additives, preservatives and 'complex' sugars in their food line-up to change our 'bottom' lines! We eat more, then buy more. Our eating experience has been altered dramatically because of this premeditation to increase the taste and shelf life of the foods we eat. The hunger hormones, ghrelin and leptin, do not know what to do. They are confused. (Aren't we all?) And so we eat, we crave and over-indulge in the wrong foods.  Produce, however, cannot be moved! It serves only one purpose: to satisfy real hunger in a small serving of nutrient dense foliage, seeds, fruit and blossoms. Easy does it. We are then at peace with leptin and ghrelin, our allies in energy management.

Our health problems are epidemic. Commercials attest to this. Ads promoting assorted drugs/vaccines to fix us were never seen on the screen when I was young. But food was simple back then. Our middle son, the family's health 'inspector', says that the body can heal itself. We simply need to be 'listening' to it. Ghrelin and leptin, these 'insiders' that dwell deep in our gut can guide us to health. It is possible to reset our metabolic rate by eating the food our bodies were meant to eat, simply and cleanly. Eating raw and steamed 'clean' vegetables, regularly, is a good first step. (Some nutrients are accessible only through this minimal 'processing' step). Look at all product labels. The 'almost' truth is there in print. Always be skeptical of claims. Eat locally grown food, whenever possible. Try something new from the produce aisle. Eat hormone/antibiotic free meats and only occasionally. These protein sources are now beginning to appear slowly in grocery stores. Experiment with different small appliances. I love my Phillips Air-Fryer but not for its original intention. Healthy fats are not the enemy. I have resurrected my pressure cooker. What a dream! (More later on these small appliance gems of Momsey's kitchen.)

One of my favourite childhood meals is homemade noodles, served with 'creamed' cottage cheese and accompanied by a large salad of green lettuce, green onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, dressed with lemon juice and a dollop of sour cream, all mixed together. (I use organic flour to make the noodles.) Once cooked, the fresh, hand-cut noodles are doused with an absolutely thick layer of delicious sauteed onions (organic always), with the cheese slathered on top. Oh My. It is a magical meal for me, a family favourite that has stood the test of time. (My family loves it as much as I do.) ... 

I listen for my body coach - ghrelin - to tell me it's time to eat. Leptin, his assistant, then tells me when to stop. Listening to the wisdom of the body's own 'calorie counters' - ghrelin and leptin - is to return to a simpler and healthier way of eating. Diets just serve to confuse us. Eating real food is what counts.

Big Poppa and Little Boy

I'd heard the cavernous bark, a few times. I knew he'd be big. The last time I had heard a sound that gigantic, engulfing the air around me, I'd been watching the movie blockbuster, Jurassic Park. 'He' was simply saying “Hello”. Someday, we would meet. I just knew.

He was my next door neighbour, the giant furry son of a lovely couple and brother to their daughter. A few months after the family moved in, we went over to welcome our 'neighbours' to the area. On that day, the big boy was out and about, as dogs generally are, on their property, in the country. There were trees and bushes between us and different types of special fencing keeping him there. (He had rules. We all do.) But today we were visiting or trespassing, not sure which, according to him, when the bounder came out of nowhere for a closer look. He galloped towards me in all his youthful canine exuberance. (Once upon a time, we were parents to a giant retriever, weighing in at 125. But Big Poppa was over 200, I learned, in short order.) Nearby, the family's pick-up truck stopped the plunge that was about to happen as 'puppy' jumped to greet me, using both front paws as leverage. I almost laughed but stopped, knowing he would think it was O.K. to do things like that. It wasn't, of course, but he was a happy boy, trained well, by his mom and dad, to be polite. And he was. In a moment of genuine hospitality, he had pounced upon me, to say hello. Had pheromones played a part in this sudden dance of the two species? I did not know. I was amused. He was adorable. That was all there was to that.

As time passed we got to know this gentle bear whenever we walked over to visit 'mom' or 'dad' or when my husband babysat him. One day, we learned Big Poppa was to get a baby brother - just like him. Wow. Two of them, side by side, one for each of us. Then 'Little Boy' arrived, a moment of celebration, a playmate for bigger boy. The little guy debuted early one morning, being carried for his first ever puppy appointment. (It was the last time he was carried). Later, it was the leash that managed him off the property. 

 

Little Boy's distinctive markings on his face and ears made him a unique looking member of his breed - just like his older brother. I would get to see Big Poppa and 'Little Boy', up close and personal, when joining my husband during his treks, next door, whenever he reported for duty. Big Poppa and Little Boy are mirror images of one another, two adorable peas-in-a-pod creatures, with personalities to match, but distinctive, too. From afar, they remind me of beautifully sculpted book ends with dark piercing tops and lightly coloured 'bottoms'. But up close, simply adorable creatures, members of the canine species I love. 

 

The fence that surrounds our properties, a mix of bushes, trees and space, is fortified with an invisible one, too, giving the awesome majestic guardians the freedom to run about, with ease, but with certain restrictions in place. The property is a picturesque bouquet of the beauty found in things outdoors, not at the mall. Life and living happens here. Both pups see and hear the sights and sounds our 'Sally' and 'Mr. Wiggles' make as they ramble to and fro in their fenced enclosure. The 'foursome', a pair on each 'side', engage in conversation, not quite knowing who will have the last 'word', but knowing there will be another day.

From the beginning, Big Poppa refused to come inside his parent's house, a respite from the very cold, even when temperatures dipped to -29 C. “Too confining”, he would say to his dad. “I'm right at home here in Mother Nature's outdoor oasis, with the shelter you have created for me.” I was learning much from this new member of the canine species. He had so much to teach us. As the days and weeks passed, we saw his baby brother's majestic puppy size grow and his persona evolve. His beauty defied description. How do you describe perfection, anyway? 

 

Through the tiny spaces in the chain link fence that surrounded their immediate outdoor home, I would talk to the adorable Little Boy and Big Poppa, as though they were mine, all mine, just like my own 3-year-old Mr. Wiggles and Sally. Sometimes, through the door of their winding two 'bedroom' home Big Poppa, the older, wiser brother, would appear, suddenly, as if to say, “What are you doing little brother?”What's the fuss all about?”, he would remark. “Oh nothing”, was all Little Boy would say, hoping he could visit a little longer with me, from across the way, without the penetrating gaze of his big brother on him. I could see the younger 'twin' solo play, from time to time, a sign of a burgeoning intelligence. You are quite something, Little Boy.

The brothers listen when my husband arrives to feed them and give them the freshest water available. With me, however, they would want to play and jump. ... If only. ...These giant dogs, with a friendly ease, are a double joy to behold. Cute and cuddly. Their size is indiscernible to me. I listen to their 'calls' as they move about during the hot, humid days of summer while mom and dad, business owners, are away, providing for their family. ... 

 

Once, during a hot humid spell of summer, Big Poppa 'spoke' over the 'air waves' reminding me that all was not well: the water bowls were empty, having been tipped over when Little Boy decided to engage his older brother in a prolonged playful moment of "Who's the boss of me?" A 'walk on the wild side' with these innocent little characters stops the insurrection and the power structure is restored, once again. The bowls are cleaned, refilled and all is well with their world and ours.

It is night time now, a peaceful time for all. Yet, occasionally, I hear the voice of the magnificent Big Poppa, trying to tell us he is here and watching over all. I know. “Sweet dreams, you incredibly adorable critter, hear you in the morning, if I do not see you.” You are both good boys, after all.

Alive, 27 Days in a Well!

He was barely alive when found, near his home in the province of Saskatchewan. The rambunctious beloved retriever had fallen into a three-meter-deep unused water well. The shocking discovery of his 'brutal burial' was made by his family, while out for a stroll, with his canine siblings, one evening, - 27 days later! "How had Bruno survived", I thought, until I asked the question of my Saskatchewan born husband.

The story of Bruno's remarkable rescue came to my attention while waiting in the dentist's office. The television screen, mounted high on the wall, directly behind the reception counter, was alive with the snippets of news of the day. The scandalous headlines of government officials punctuated the senses like a plague upon us. When would these privileged people realize how lucky they were to have been elected? Then came the shocking news clip that flashed across the bottom of the screen: dog, missing for nearly a month, found alive. Suddenly, the news we thought we needed to know no longer mattered anymore.

Bruno, a chocolate retriever, had been trapped in a large deep hole whose grip on this beloved family pet was unrelenting. He'd struggled to get out while injuring himself in the process, eventually being found by his canine siblings. No one could see the hole in the ground, with tall grasses all around, until his scent was detected by other canine members of his close family whose immovable downward gazes caught the attention of his human owners walking nearby. ...  (A dog's sense of smell is 10,000 times greater than that of humans.) 

 

Bruno's body weight had dropped a perilous 50%. He shocked his family and team of doctors. Another animal would have died, many said. I wondered, too, out loud, to my husband. “How did he survive that long?” Had Mother Nature helped in her special, profound, quiet way? She probably had.

The veterinarians on Bruno's case worried about organ failure from dangerously low phosphorus levels. (Twenty-seven days without 'formal' food and water will kill any living thing, I thought.) But Bruno survived, in spite of being dehydrated, emaciated and hypothermic. The 7-year-old retriever, a senior in dog years, was found, feet encrusted in the dirt in an unused well, after 27 days. He could not move. But he was alive!

A dug well is generally chosen for its location near water. ... (We have a dug well. We live in the country where water is treated like gold.) ... Rainwater from melting snow and sporadic daytime rainfall probably helped keep this majestic animal alive. While thinking of Bruno, I thought of the miraculous survival of Jordan, the little puppy, I wrote about in Unprecedented Levels of Animal Cruelty who survived after being tortured, then thrown off a bridge into a damp river bed 30 feet below and left to die. His timeline: 2 days. To punctuate Jordan's horror, further, his hind leg had been cut from his body. He should have died. At that time, I thought of the power of earthing, Mother Nature's 'invisible' healing touch, in Jordan's survival. That thought surfaced again.

We lauded the efforts of Bruno's province, Saskatchewan, home to one of the largest deposits of potash in the world, for keeping him alive. I had not given that idea much thought. My husband did as we discussed the 'case'. Other friends he spoke to, who were born and raised in Saskatchewan, gave credence to our hypothesis: potash had played a part in saving Bruno's life. (Earthing could not do it alone, I believed.) Potash is a mixture of potassium salts, a fertilizer for plants. In the Prairie soil, potash is present in abundance. (Had it been present, at that 'well' depth, thereby keeping Bruno alive?) 

 

Saskatchewan is the second top producer of potash in the world. The mineral, potassium, (hence 'pot'ash) is a central 'figure' in the health and well being of all plants, animals and man. During periods of severe drought, potassium's ability to strengthen plant cell walls helps reduce the chances of severe moisture loss that can occur through the leaves of the plant. Did Bruno's interaction with potash in the soil help his own animal 'cells' retain the life-saving nutrient - water - for much longer periods of time than would be normal? Did the other nutrients in potash facilitate the health of the dog's organs keeping them in a state of suspended animation, perhaps? Conjecture is the name of this miraculous game.

Animals have amazing resilience. I have seen it with my dogs and cat during their own medical crises. But Mother Nature had to have helped in some miraculous way with Bruno's survival. Had the melting snow mixed with the potash in the soil with its nutrient rich base to create a form of Mother Nature 'pablum'? Were calcium, nitrogen and magnesium present, too, to augment Bruno's chances of survival? Had this porridge-like gruel nourished his 'brutalized' body as he licked the water and mud mix that was a part of his forever bed? 

 

Bruno had been laying on the soil in a province known for its great potash deposits. Though he was near death, Bruno's organs were not seriously affected, despite long-term starvation, according to his doctors. Was osmosis at work here, too? (Bruno has now become a case study.) Did the miracle of potash and earthing, from Mother Nature's world, serve to save the life of Bruno the retriever? I believe it did.

Recently, while attending a wedding in Toronto, I was seated next to a long-time family friend. He was a former resident of Saskatchewan, now living in Toronto and is an organic scientist with a gluten specialty. He was not aware of Bruno's story. When told of our views on this dog's miraculous recovery, (Bruno, affectionately nicknamed, 'the potash puppy miracle', was finally home.) our friend agreed with our observations. The compound/fertilizer called potash might very well have been the difference between life and death for Bruno, the 7-year-old chocolate retriever from Saskatchewan.  

 

Retrievers love to fetch and eat dirt/grass. I have seen my own 'Mr. Wiggles' and 'Sally' do both to excess, on occasion. But eating dirt is a habit I try to discourage. Maybe, my thinking needs to change. Since Bruno's remarkable recovery, it would seem that Mother Nature not only knows best, she knows everything!

The Declining Lunch Time 'Combo'

Recently, I chose a fast food burger, the double burger size, for a special treat. I'd been cooking for weeks and wanted a change of pace from the daily drudgery of washing dishes and cooking meals. There was a time when the Big Xtra filled a void for me and was of great value. It was a tried and true selection and my reward for working hard. Those times are gone, I began to realize. Eating eating out is now slowly becoming a fad from my past. ...

I had been looking forward to buying one of those multi-layered burgers with its fries. The coupon would make it cheaper. Many fast food restaurants, during periods of slow sales, send coupons in the mail to increase sales in a lackluster market. As I began to eat my burger, the search was on to find the illusive patty. But there were two of them. Where could they be, I wondered? After two bites, I found them, very small and oh-so thin, and not exactly the 'perfect' fit for the bottom bun. I sighed. I had been eating a 'triple-layer carb' sandwich and did not even know it. I had been ambushed. This would not be a good fit for my health or sluggish thyroid. Even the lettuce inside was missing in action to the degree it was supposed to be. This disappointment has been ongoing for over a year. I kept hoping my imagination had been running wild. Alas, it was not. Do not bother sending me your coupons, now. I am no longer interested. The hidden starch agenda is not a nutritious lunch.

Today's take-out/eat-in containers have been 'modernized' in new 'slanted' designs or cute little bags with flashy colours to entice us, the starving consumer. The fry boxes, open on one side, serve to assist us in picking up the food item more easily, perhaps. These opened ended boxes also serve to prevent their interiors from being filled to capacity. Such deception! Ten pounds of potatoes cost $4 - $6.00 yet the labour costs involved to make one small serving of this popular starch equals the cost of ten pounds of the real root vegetable. Where are we going with all of this? When does reason prevail? Things change when we do! How do men feel when they need to buy 2 or 3 burgers to feel satisfied? At a cost of $4-$5 each, when does the high cost of eating out - at lunch - no longer make any sense anymore? Every little nothing we buy adds up to the cost of never getting to invest or buy that illusive house. It is amazing how much money is wasted buying over-priced, 'diluted' food. A meal is either good value or it is not. 

 

Eating an apple might be a better choice, in the short term, for immediate hunger. Try it. It works every time. This historic and timeless fruit shuts down hunger, is a cornucopia of nutrients, builds muscle, is easily transportable, is delicious, comes in many different tastes and colours and requires no cooking or refrigeration.

In the restaurant experience, without us realizing it, the quantity of the food we enjoy seems to be diminishing over time, too, while prices seem to creep up, ever so disquietly. Is that not double dipping, a way of hitting the consumer twice? Is the new and an 'improved' menu simply a distraction for introducing higher prices? Is the focus now on the cheaper 'additions' with new white china is in play? Are the wide-rimmed bowls a clever ploy to make the food in the bowl compartment seem larger, a value selection? Oh My.

At the all-you-can-eat buffet, (AYCEB) we have one price with unlimited choice and unlimited time to enjoy it. No deception here. I wrote about this modern dining format's abuse in July, 2013. Many new AYCEBs have appeared on the dining landscape since then. For me there is one inescapable fact: lunch is becoming cheaper, now, at the all-you-can-eat buffet, especially for men. With a preponderance of fresh fruits, vegetables and assorted protein choices available, a dining-in lunch might be the better, cheaper way and far more nutritious, too. Eating a heavier meal at lunch rather than at supper time does make more sense.

Today's lunch time combo seems outdated. Protein is an important nutrient in maintaining daily good health. It is the costliest part of any meal. In the AYCEB scenario, protein choices are numerous and yours for the making and taking, in any amount to satisfy hunger. Bread and buns are not a requirement for health. Perhaps, scrutiny of the burger combo, coupon or not, has arrived. Soda pop has never been a part of a healthy diet. Once upon a time, it was a rare treat for special occasions. ...

Has the Law of Diminishing Returns entered into our dietary conundrum? Does increasing the size of the bun or pizza pie make the burger/toppings seem larger? At what point does the nutrient dense lunch-time burger lose out to the lunch-time, one-price-fits-all, AYCEB? When the cost of lunch approaches the $20.00 mark for the mid-day meal, things need to change. In the final analysis, apples with cheese  and a side green salad might be the best way to go.

She Lay Bleeding....

He held her close, cradling her as he sat on the snow-covered porch. As I drove in, I could see a crisis unfolding, on the veranda of the little cottage we called home. It was my second year of teaching, in this small town near the bay. I ran to the spot where my husband, frigid and barely coherent, remained, holding the leg of our young female retriever. (She'd become a mother, two months earlier). Somehow, while running and jumping outside in the cold winter air, she'd severed the artery of her front leg. A blanket of crimson red snow, all around, told me her grim story.

He had been waiting for my return, not realizing that I had stopped to buy groceries. We had one car and it was with me, being the primary breadwinner, back then. As 'John' held her close, I wondered where this crisis was going. For over an hour, he'd been cradling her, applying the necessary life-saving pressure to stop the blood from oozing from her body. His hands were gripped in a life and death hold. She had been chasing her 'sons' when the incident happened. An artery in her front leg had been sliced. How had it happened, I wondered? ... Ice and snow were everywhere, that cold winter's day, especially, on the fallen branches of the evergreen trees nearby. Had the outdoor 'white' and 'clear' landscape fashioned a sort of malevolent weapon, hidden among the trees, waiting for its next victim? There was no time for tears. In an emergency, tears waste precious time and serve no useful purpose. I could see that our girl had lost a lot of blood. Blood circulates to keeps us warm. Was she warm enough to survive? With cellphones decades away and neighbours, in this cottage country winter hideaway, in critically short supply, we had to act quickly. John was unable to get help without leaving her, bleeding, while her two baby sons, the last of her two-month-old litter, watched, nearby, through the glass door from inside the tiny cottage. We ignored their cries. (Their mother was injured and they wanted answers.)

I drove to the emergency veterinarian clinic in the next town. There, the doctor assured us that dogs do not bleed to death easily. It was a rare event. He stitched her wound, wrapping her leg in layer upon layer of gauze bandage for that solid 'cast' look. That evening, as I ate the warmed up can of beans for supper, she vomited on the carpet. It was then that I witnessed the severity of the event that had occurred earlier that day. On the carpet, in an expansive figure-eight technicolour pattern with deep red hues all around, encompassing much of the room, Sheba emptied her stomach contents that had punctuated the day's events. All that she had licked was now everywhere for me to see and clean up. She had attended to her wound while waiting for help to arrive, a nurse and heroine, all in one. Animals do what they must without fanfare or praise. I was grateful for the happy ending.

The year previous, our puppy girl had been discovered, wondering in a famous Toronto landmark - High Park - having been left there, deliberately. My brother had found her. He had been a life guard there during the summer. It was his turn to babysit this three-month-old cutie. He brought her home. I had just secured a teaching position in the far north and would be moving there in a few months with my partner. She became ours, forever. Since that moment I began a love-affair with retrievers. Then our Sheba became a mom to a healthy litter of nine, all delivered in the cottage we called home. 'John' had been the 'mid-wife', Our 'mistake' would never happen again. We had forgotten that important first step in pet-ownership. Since Sheba was not allowed to roam, was always on a leash, that thought had not entered our minds till a trip out west, that summer, to visit family and friends, changed everything. The urgent need to care for this abandoned pup had superseded anything else. How naive we were. Never again.

Sheba healed well in the days and weeks to come. Her ordeal was a reminder to never ever take things for granted. We moved to a southern community, leaving her and her puppy son in our little abode during the work day. We thought we had everything covered till we realized how much retrievers loved shoes and other things. Eventually they taught us the rules of pet ownership. We are still learning from them today while loving them in the process.

Commercials and Their Differing Views!

Since March, when I first mentioned it, this commercial was still airing its original distasteful message: that of two young children 'washing' a pet in the bathtub using a well known 'bubbles' product made for cleaning. Oh, my. Had the pup been forced into the tub, having been coloured with dye by the little girls? The message was unclear and distasteful. Regardless, the commercial shocked me in its use of comedy 'employing' defenseless animals and children, in selling a product. The ad agency had done its job. But it missed the mark: I would not be buying that product.

What messages are being painted when we use 'underage actors' to sell a product? The newest commercial continues with the tradition of using animals in shockingly inappropriate ways. A litter of unsupervised puppies with their 'mom', are frolicking in the muck and the mire of a country property, chasing a luxury vehicle, down the driveway, while its owners are nowhere to be seen. Throughout the 30-second action flick, all I see and hear are the desperate cries and erratic behaviour of 'a pile' of puppies searching for their absent or absent-minded masters. Their 'mom' is running, at top speed, to the house, seeming a mile away. One little guy is whimpering and frantic, unable to get to his destination until the someone finds him and manages to drop or toss him onto the ground to get his bearings, once again. Puppies should not be loose, anywhere near a moving car, especially one traveling at perhaps 40 miles per hour. But who cares? It's all in fun. It is a commercial, after all.

As a car owner, I would be inclined to consider another vehicle choice. The little puppy, left behind, is frightened as he searches for his siblings while facing 'extinction', in his attempts to trail-blaze his way home. His attempts to traverse insurmountable obstacles: hollowed out logs, a deep mud hole and tall grasses, in his quest to find his family, is met with frustration and fear. One barrier after another stood in his way. Was this supposed to be funny? And how does any of this stuff help sell a car? ... The vehicle is traveling faster than it would be, in a school zone, considering there is a litter of puppies running nearby. Even 'scripted' commercials can be deadly. Where is the logic here? Who thought, in their infinite wisdom, that a racing car near a litter of three-month-old puppies would not kill one or more of them, accidentally? Life is full of miscues. It is not amusing to imagine one of these infant pups ending up under the wheels of this luxury car, while filming is being done. (Is there a disclaimer: Do not do this at home.)

Occasionally, stuntmen - people who are professionals in their field of expertise and paid handsomely to perform dangerous acts in movies - are killed while rehearsing these improbable gymnastic maneuvers. The 'toddler' puppies in this poorly orchestrated commercial were on the loose, one being on the precipice of a expansive mud hole, while his litter mates disappeared, following 'mom'. The thought of placing an infant border collie on a dusty stretch of a gravel country road/driveway and then letting him go seemed funny at the time, I guess. For me, it defies all logic and reason. Was the purpose of using defenseless creatures, in this live action flick, to avoid the exorbitant fees for services rendered? Adults would have been paid. There seems to be no boundaries in television programming today. Why should commercials be any different?

Commoditizing innocent little animals or children has reached lows today. Is common sense on sabbatical when using underage actors to sell a product or service? The whimpering sounds of these newborn puppies were not amusing. Their illicit cries to buy failed. But just when I thought today's advertising protocols had hit rock bottom two commercials are being shown that give me hope. Respect for the 'actors' and the audience have risen. Intelligent and funny are here again. 

A company known for its world-wide security systems -AlarmForce - is advertising its service using a large breed adult dog, named Ned, perhaps a Great Dane, without using inappropriate stage 'props' to showcase their message. Ned, the giant adult family dog is seen in many poses, moaning a bit, comically, here and there, acting as a surrogate family watch dog and not succeeding very well in that arena. In the 30-second clip, Ned is seen attempting to lift his head while lying on the floor, on the bed with feet outstretched on the family's pillows, and then on the sofa, advertising the need for a home security system, which the producers of the commercial make very clear, is not Ned. The message was intelligent, cute and so funny. We waited for the replay of this breath of fresh air. (Unfortunately, my husband has not seen Ned's comedic routine). The inference: the alarm company will keep you safe, not Ned.

In another 10 second slot, a cartoon character,  affectionately called a fraggle by my husband, is seen  outside eating chocolate from the advertising giant, Cadbury, while a catchy tune plays in the background. He then begins to dance. The rest of his group of 'fraggles', cute little innocent and playful characters from a show from our children's past, begin to dance vigorously, too, as they eat this delicious chocolate treat. In synchronized fashion, all 'fraggles' dance to the happy music being played while the slogan, 'Free the Joy' is splashed across the television screen. This commercial was a hit with us. ... This message, like Ned's, grabbed our attention, showing us that well-executed forms of intentional entertainment punctuated with streaks of genius are possible. My husband lamented for the commercial to be longer. I wish both were a movie!

Baking Outdoors!

A carrot cake had been in the oven when the power went out. As I stood there realizing the dilemma I was facing, I looked outside, to see help was just a few steps away. My carrot cake was 'falling' and would soon be ruined. Taking it outdoors was the only solution.

Parchment paper became my newest ally, along with foil wrap, in this latest cooking dilemma. Both could protect the outer layers of my carrot cake to be 'baked'. Since I did not want aluminum touching my cake, I made sure a large piece of foil was used and molded carefully over the top to protect it from over browning or burning, before the interior was cooked properly. Though the uneven movement of heat inside the barbecue gave rise to a lopsided cake, the cake was a respectful sight and delicious to eat, nonetheless. I was pleased and very lucky with the result, considering the fuel tank emptied as the cake finished 'baking.'

This year, I have used the barbecue to 'bake' many food items. Apple crisp is my number one leader. The rotisserie is never used as it requires high cost electricity to perform its duties. ... (The popular 60's saying,  'Living Better Electrically' has no meaning today). ... By turning on burners #1 and #4, in a four-burner barbecue, I leave burners, #2 and #3 off, creating an oven-like atmosphere, deep inside this small, high intensity 'hot box' called a barbecue. The food is now being cooked by indirect heat, a gentler, easier way of cooking, resulting in food that is evenly cooked and browned. I can also leave the food to bake, roast, as I do other things. I simply take the timer with me, as I move from one place to another, inside/outside the house, reminding me that food is being cooked outside.

Meat or fish can be costly additions to any meal. Making sure they are cooked perfectly is important for both health and budgetary considerations. Even frozen meat can be barbecued at the last minute, I learned. I follow the burners #2 and #3 off rule, while #1 and #4 are on a low/medium setting. A high setting can be used for 10-15 minutes for searing purposes, to seal in juices. Aluminum foil is used, covering the aluminum container keeping vegetables moist. It is removed near the end of 'cooking' allowing for browning to occur. (Wrapping up vegetables in a parchment-lined aluminum packet also serves to cook vegetables evenly and gently, over the upper shelf 'no-heat' zone.)

I routinely check all food, most of which is in aluminum containers, during the cooking process, making sure all food is moved around and burners are still on. A strong wind outside can shut off burners while gas is being fed into them. This is dangerous as the use of a match or lighter can ignite the gas cloud around you causing an explosion in your face. Occasionally, fuel has run out and cooking stopped, without my knowledge. No fuel is no fuel is a problem not a hazard. Moving food helps to distribute heat if there are any hot spots in the barbecue. Using a baster to coat the food, in its own juices or add your own homemade sauces, assists in browning and moisture retention.

A barbecue is a dry heat method of cooking so adding a combination of oil /coconut oil and butter can be done to retain moisture, augment flavour and improve taste. There are no rules here. I use a few tablespoons of a coconut oil mixture with pinch of salt and pepper when cooking onions, potatoes and carrots, together. Flavour is unbeatable. 'Oven' potatoes are also easily 'baked', when parboiled first then simply placed on the middle 'no-heat' shelf to bake further and crisp the outer skin. (Heat is still intense, nonetheless, with burners #2 and #3 off.) ... When smaller meats or chicken pieces are barbecued, short periods of time are needed. Raw potatoes, on the other hand, take an hour or so to bake, depending upon size. Parboiling these root favourites makes baked potatoes a possibility regardless of what is being barbecued. Chicken breasts, skin on, bone side down, can 'roast' till done, 'indirectly', while burners #1 and #4 are on low/medium heat, thus allowing for delicious browning to occur. Aluminum containers, when needed, make clean up a breeze as they are recyclable and precious water is not used for cleaning them.

Attention must always be given whenever open flame is used outdoors. Nothing should be taken for granted - ever! When the hot, humid days of summer become overbearing, cooking and baking outside makes sense, all around. Whole meals can be accommodated, all at the same time, last minute, with a bit of strategic planning. Avoiding the direct heat of the burners avoids the flare ups that can lead to burning when fat hits fire. (Charbroiled meats are no longer the desired cooking standard, anymore.) High heat, I have learned, is not a boon to health. Carcinogens are present, ready to be unleashed, in some of the foods we eat, whenever we use high heat to cook, bake or roast. Indirect, gentle heat is always a preferred choice. As my carrot cake would say - if it could talk - “Baking outdoors wasn't so bad, after all."

Growing Organic Corn

Never having done it before, I decided to do it. A few months ago, I planted the kernels that would become corn, someday. Without any knowledge of corn's special growing qualities, I began the experimental journey. We all love corn and this undervalued vegetable and its prized nutrients are rarely mentioned in literature on nutrition.

It was late June when the decision was made to grow organic corn. I watched what the sun did in the early morn to determine the best location for the corn-patch-to-be. If there was little sun, growth could be stunted, I imagined. All fruits and vegetables require full sun much of the day along with a well irrigated bed in which to grow. I hoped 'our' decision to plant in the chosen location was the right one. Near the dog pen, late at night, the portable fence around my jewels of the garden, would keep the ever present rabbits and raccoons at bay, I hoped. The plastic see-through tarp, fastened at the bottom edges with tent pegs, would protect the garden from all manner of attack by the night-time country intruders. (This was not a pretty fence, just a last minute, secure one.) I consulted with 'Anna' for her opinion. She had a garden that was already in full bloom, ready for harvest in a few months. ... And so the ritual began.  A rich top soil layer was added to the area, with an enriched layer of sheep's manure, the great root strengthener, on top, then another soil 'blanket'. The corn kernels had soaked for 24 hours, then planted, the next day, in neat little rows in mother nature's bed.Every few inches a deep space was made with the tool that makes such jobs easy. Into each, 2-3 kernels of corn were placed. I prayed each plant would yield something. I realized planting, in late June, in Canada, was not the best decision for corn but the idea came late and this could be an experiment, if nothing more.

Tiny bright green plants began to emerge from beneath the soil within days of planting. Soon after, circular rows of rake-like projectiles appeared at the base of some of the plants. It was bizarre sight to behold. What were these things? Was this normal for corn? 'Anchors to the plant' I was told by a gardener. I was learning fast. The potential for success was here. Tiny seedlings had begun to sprout, rapidly and randomly, everywhere. I was amazed. As time passed, these tiny green plants became thickened corn stalks, rising quickly, with their 'anchors' beneath, their long wide green billowy leaves showing me that something majestic was happening. I noticed tops with blossoms a plenty. I counted ten, then fifteen. Were these burgeoning corn husks? Of course not. That would mean only one corn cob per plant. Impossible, I thought. But everything looked so healthy and strong. Were these blossoms telling me another story? Were corn husks just around the corner? I compared what my corn patch was doing to the corn being grown in my local country neighbourhood. That other corn looked like mine. My crop was newer, further behind in its growing stage, I knew. But things were becoming interesting, nonetheless.

The weather had been co-operating very nicely throughout July and August, being very hot and humid in the high 30 degree Celsius, for long stretches of time. I was comforted by mother nature's cooperation. In previous years, the summer weather was more like fall and very wet. I waited to see what would happen next. Then, they appeared: tiny wisps of yellow hair-like strands, all over the place, adorning various spots on the thickened stalks of the corn plants. I recognized these wisps. It was the cornsilk that was on top of corn I saw in the produce aisle of the grocery store. The seeming random placement of these wisps of 'hair' gave me hope. Were corn cobs next?

September arrived with many more wisps of corn silk appearing on the stalks of corn. It began with 5, then morphed to nearly 16, with some wisps turning light brown, sadly. This could not be good. The days are getting cooler. I ate the first ear of corn, two weeks ago. It was tiny and tasteless. The kernels on it looked like dots on a log. Ana took one for closer 'examination'. I waited a few more days to taste another one. It was improving. I hoped for the heat of the days to help further the development of the remaining corn husks. Then one ear was noticed looking so much like 'real' thing. I took it off the branch. Inside were picture perfect kernels of corn, 'ear' marked for enjoyment. I took a picture of this glorious cob of corn that had grown in my garden. I had to be reminded of this gardening success story. Later that day, the cob was steamed slowly on top of the dinner leftovers, for sharing. I ate the top half; my husband, the bottom. He was impressed. So was I. Sharing was important. Wow, so good. What remains in the corn garden for harvesting will be shared as an experiment. There is little to offer, sadly. The crop grew. Next year will be better.

With GMO corn representing 90% of the corn crop grown worldwide, I had to try to grow my own. It was worth the effort. The safety of GMO crops is unproven; the health risks, too high. We love corn and the benefits that it bestows upon us. Buying it, today, however, seems like a game of roulette, not quite certain the corn I might be buying might be GMO. ... Labelling foods GMO, in Canada, is not law! ... Nice! ... We all have a right to know! ... It was easy to grow my tiny batch of corn in the tidy meter by two meter sized plot. It was an imperative to try. In the past, I had faced more daunting problems growing peppers and tomatoes. Corn was so easy. Next year, it will be easier still. I will begin sooner. After all, Mother Nature knows best.

Our Miracle Kitty-Cat!

She is our inspiration, our miracle girl. Thirteen years ago, on the shoulder of a rarely used country road, in -25 degree Celsius weather, I found her, dying. She had not crawled there. She had been dumped there, for a painfully slow death. She was just a baby, an infant kitten, maybe 8-9 weeks old. In It Was a Brutal, Barbaric Way to Die, May, 2012, I wrote about our first meeting on that frigidly cold morning. How could anyone leave any baby animal to die like that? Well, we now know many do. Pets are society's easy victims and its scapegoats.

We kept the tiny kitten, after her week's stay at the emergency hospital, where the bill exceeded $600. (Only 50% of it was to be paid, thanks to the generosity of the doctor on duty.) The kitten's new family was fascinated by her 'charm' and 'insatiable' thirst for knowledge. She snapped at all of us. But we waited. (For better or for worse, she was ours, forever.) Her night-time antics in the bedroom, shared by an adult 'brother' made for many sleepless nights until she realized the evenings were not hers for adventure, while the rest of us slept. Her walks across the keyboard computer, in the wee hours of the morning, did not make for a happy roommate. But there was no other place to keep her confined, till day time, our time, arrived. Eventually, she honed her kitty cat skills and began to like her new home, a safe predictable place in which to be.

In 2012, her health status changed, rocking her world and ours, incorporating a new debilitating chronic disease about which I have written. She became this soldier of misfortune, dealing with this ongoing menace: hyperthyroidism. Standard protocols, albeit costly, were dismissed outright. There were risk factors inherent. A new diet arrived on the scene,10 years in development, to re-mediate her health crisis. It gave us hope. And it did for two years when suddenly Tiggy began to reject this special diet food, the only food she could eat. (A dry version was eaten at night). All she wanted was iodine-rich dinner choices, death sentences in disguise. The doctor and I could only hope she would live long enough to rethink her ghastly food decisions. We reluctantly went along with her plan.

High iodine choices such as her much sought-after fish and seafood dinners made her happy, in the short term, until she began to vomit. Her body was 'talking' to her. Giving her what she wanted not what she needed was creating her dietary dilemma. But at least she was eating. Maybe, she knew something we did not! Forcing her to eat her special food was simply an invitation to starvation. She was doing what her body was telling her to do. By the time she dropped to 4 pounds, from a healthy lifetime weight of over 10 pounds, in early September 2014, I sensed the end was near. She was frail, bony and meowed in a barely audible whisper. She was also, inadvertently, creating another health crisis - fatty liver disease, a fatal assault on her liver. She was going to die! I mourned her impending death. Then Greek yogurt was introduced and like magic, the fermented food changed everything. By Christmas of 2014, she had stabilized to 9 pounds, a weight she has maintained till today.The owner of Global Pet, Keswick, Ontario had saved her life with his yogurt suggestion.

Two weeks ago, Tiggy stopped using the litter box for liquid waste. Something new had happened. But what, I wondered? (Tiggy is in her 14^th year.) Had her thinking changed to make her behave in a more acrimonious manner? In a room, with carpet, I began to shudder. Was 'missing' the litter box her way of getting even with me? We had always treated her with respect, kindness and love. Was she trying to tell me something? Was she arthritic? In pain? She seemed fine, as far as I could see. A quick visit to the doctor for blood and basic urine test revealed her thyroid gland, the troublemaker at the bottom of her multi-year 'disease', was in great shape. It had never been better! It was in the 40 range, a number in the middle range of normal, never before recorded. We were thrilled but she had lost a pound in 15 days. Such a dichotomy. Even the doctors were fazed by it all. Yogurt, stopped months earlier, was now re-introduced to help with weight gain. It worked. Within two weeks she had regained nearly all her lost weight and was now using the litter box, most of the time. Her mystery continues.

Throughout the last several months, I have been 'dry' brushing my girl, daily, a simple treatment option lauded for its health benefits, on the human body, by reducing cortisol production of the adrenal glands, for 5-8 hours. If dry brushing was good for us then it might be great for animals, too, I mused. Tiggy loved the brush on her head, in its gentle downward motion, towards her neck and heart. From the top of her tail, the brush was brought backwards, towards the heart, in the gentle sweeping motion she adored. She seemed to bask in the warmth of the brush strokes on her body. Had dry brushing relaxed both her, her thyroid and reduced stress on her body? Our beautiful girl has not vomited in over six weeks, with only 7 episodes since the beginning of the year! It is no longer a concern in our aging kitty. Healthy cats do it. But our miracle girl does not. Had dry brushing, this new health protocol, affected her stress levels thereby helping produce better lab results? Momsey does not know. But Momsey believes it so. Dry brushing is her new addiction. It should be ours.

Our Tiggy has been a fractious kitty, from the beginning, an animal who liked no one and tolerated me. But over the years she embraced the family culture of two people totally devoted to her well being. She taught us to never to give up on her, even when death came knocking, several times. She became an experiment, an anomoly. I was never what one might call a cat person, until I met my Tiggy, our miracle girl. It is amazing how duty to a defenseless creature, one frigidly cold morning, years earlier, made us believers in a new species, in the love of 'just a cat'.

She should have died, in that -26C temperature morning, on a lonely stretch of country road, in 2003, as a former tiny discarded litter mate, then of slow starvation from her death-defying food choices with the sometimes fatal, fatty liver disease, lurking nearby, in the Spring of 2014. But as her hyperthyroidism and its demonic affects on her health, took hold, she began to listen. I watched. I listened. I learned. Happy endings are possible.

"Settling for Mr. Nice"

In our modern, fast-paced, everything new, replaceable and gorgeous world, it is hard to imagine settling for Mr. Nice. But we should. We must. These men are the true gems slipping us by because they are not necessarily tall, dark and handsome.

Our personality and behaviour help define us. Our looks have been genetically programmed from conception, of that there is no doubt. We cannot change the landscape, simply colour it, if we choose. (In my case, I colour mine daily and it takes a whole village. Ha. Ha.) What shines inside us allows the outside to glow more brightly, in unimaginable ways. (It takes a chemistry lab to create my look yet it only lasts till midnight when I turn into a pumpkin.)

As we look for Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, the real 'dreamboats' are passing us by. For Momsey, looking for someone special was not a priority for me, in my early years. It was important that I build the person I was meant to be, little by little, with work experience, education and strong female/male and family relationships. Being self-supporting was very important to me. But I imagined I would live with mom and dad, travel by subway to my teaching job, somewhere and live out my days. That did not happen. I 'settled' for an incredible: a man who adored me and was there, through it all, for both of us.

Living through the talents of another was both counter-productive, demeaning and would overshadow my goals, my accomplishments, small or large and leave me wondering what had I become? Building a future together, if that was the plan, was better than having it handed to me. Struggling together  was enrichment at its best. Life's high and lows, tears and laughter, would become markers, historical reference points of a life well-lived. I had hoped to find someone special, someday. Then the unexpected happened, while I was minding my own business. ... I'd been working part-time, attending school full-time, living the life many of us do. After completing my post-secondary school education, I continued to work, for over a year, in two major Toronto hospitals, then part time as a cocktail waitress, in the evenings, that same year. My goal was to teach. Within a year of teaching, I was married. I asked. He agreed. I bought the rings. He drove the getaway car. (Sadly, my dad died 5 months prior to our marriage but welcomed his future son-in-law into our family 5 days after we met. What a stroke of luck.)

Four different assignments characterized that busy year, when he walked into my life, that early February evening. Finding Mr. Right had not been on my radar. I was busy working and being a student and had been 'dumped', 2 weeks earlier, after the 'contract', on an almost 4 year 'rock solid'' relationship, ended. The joke was on me, happily! My black landline phone delivered the news that day. I mourned 'its' passing for two long days, vowing to quit my job, school and stay in my bedroom, forever. My pity party ended abruptly when common sense came knocking. Why was I feeling so worthless for a man that had dumped me so heartlessly? Where were my priorities? I ended my self-imposed silliness with the realization that there were other  wonderful men to meet. There was a world out there to experience. Then, Mr. Nice, Considerate and Thoughtful showed up late, that Thursday evening, with friends, at my workplace, the first ever stand-up bar in Toronto. I was neither looking nor interested. My ex-boyfriend attempted to re-ignite what he so cavalierly ended but he had created one of the worse days of my life and was absent from it, during its unraveling. The trust built during our time together was officially gone, never to be restored? A line had been crossed. I had been disqualified, without cause! The basis of all relationships had vaporized. There was no going back. Then, he entered my life, one slow Thursday evening, at work.

My future husband had been a 'formidable' customer who tipped generously. He was polite and thoughtful, too. Back then, there was an order to life's rituals. I did not subscribe to any doctrine that did not make sense. Today, we have an enlightened world with Twitter, Instagram, Snap chat, Skype, and Facebook dictating and monitoring our every step, our every move. We are an 'open' book. But sadly some things never change. Appearance seems to be very important though good grooming should always be number one. Television seems to punctuate the theme of good looks and body perfection, time and time again. When life becomes complicated appearance is meaningless. What truly matters during times of crisis are loyalty, love, laughter, honesty, integrity, support and ice-cream! Being a real person, with insights, drive, opinions and common sense helps build the foundation for a lasting union. Though looks help define us, to certain degree, they will never ever take us to the finish line. Substance is what truly matters.

In my youth, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Elizabeth Taylor and Lauren Bacall set the beauty standard high. I began to take note of fashion and makeup.  But all of that paled, in comparison, to my critical need for an education, an important first step towards the future. If my whole personal package was not its best then attracting others of a similar caliber would be a monumental challenge. I have been married to the same man, who 'walked' into the cocktail lounge, my workplace, decades ago. He met his future, he told me. I met Mr. Nice, Thoughtful, Kind and Brilliant, too. Now, we get the senior's discount. Oh, please, do not remind me! We're not there yet!

Burgers and Borscht

Her borscht was so delicious. How had she done it? I'd made this Ukrainian soup many many times but her version was so delicious. (Our son and his wife had invited us over for a barbecue that afternoon.) It was soon after that she left to go outside where her husband, my son, had been grilling the burgers. I returned to the stove for another serving of this incredible red ambrosia. Upon her return, my daughter-in-law noticed my serving of borscht had not 'moved'. “Did she not like it”, she seemed to wonder? Nothing could be further from the truth, I responded. I had given myself another serving, having quickly devoured the first one while 'Anna' was outside. My secret had been discovered.

Anna seemed pleased that borscht, a soup she had not had, while growing up, was now one she enjoyed, too. She got me thinking, again. Burgers and borscht had not been a dietary combo with me, but now it seemed to make sense. Soup is a wonderful accompaniment to any meal. And the body does not recognize seasons of the year. It understands and responds to wholesome food, made anytime, anywhere. Soup is one of the best 'meals.'

Later that week, with ingredients in hand, I began chopping the onions, carrots and beet tops for the borscht I decided to make but had not thought of until Anna put the idea in my head. (Chicken broth can also be used as the 'bone' broth for borscht. Maybe adding tofu could change this soup's status quo, too.) I began the layering process, in the bone broth, adding the organic beets I had bought for the first time. Rather than peeling these nutrient gems, I decided to simply wash them well, beforehand, thus eliminating an unnecessary peeling/discarding step. The organic peelings would be fine considering their origins, I reasoned now, in my new version of borscht. (Only a tiny snip of the root had been eliminated.)

Rib bones began the process of making the soup, allowing for the flavour to develop as required. They gently simmered for a couple of hours with vegetables added, as required. After learning about enhancing the flavour of soups using the outer onion 'tissue', strained after use, I realized that the skins of beets should be included outright, but washed, very well, beforehand, before being added into the soup with the vegetables, including tomato juice and tomatoes. (I use these outer paper-like covering of onions for marinating meats, too.) With borscht, chopping the whole beet made health and economic sense. Once these whole red gems were tender, they were cooled a bit, then chopped and returned to the soup. In the past, I would have thrown out the beet peelings. Not now. My thinking and purchase had changed. When I began using organic beets, the decision to use its peel was clear cut.

My 'daughter' had made the soup of my childhood that afternoon. She began with grass-fed beef bones, cooked slowly over time, adding the vegetables, including chopped cabbage, as the soup simmered gingerly, on the stove. She added minced garlic, a super food, for that extra flavour kick. With her Italian heritage, she made borscht, like a pro. I was honoured. In my youth, my mother made borscht more like a stew than a soup, using sour cream. I never liked it that much but persevered in trying to improve the soup once I left home, with a 'clearer' version, in mind. It is now a favourite of ours along with other childhood favorites, including homemade noodles with cottage cheese. Oh, yum, yum.

My daughter-in-law is a pioneer, in so many ways, with her very 'green thumb' talent. (Both my daughters are) Her new garden boasts a cornucopia of colourful nutritious vegetation. She has the tallest sunflower plants I have ever seen. She cooks with an eye to experimenting. We seem to understand one another as we laugh about our misadventures, in the kitchen. “Unless you try something new, you will never grow” the saying goes. And so we do. ...

My borscht became a better version because Anna decided to make some, one day. She worried about what I might think of her soup. How silly. How could she? Everything she has ever made has always been delicious. Lucy, my other daughter, is the same. How could I have hit the lottery twice with two delightful daughters who think as I do: that food is medicine and cooking it is always a fun adventure, made with love. And it all began with making borscht, one Sunday afternoon, in the early summer. Next: homemade perogies made with apple cider vinegar, organic flour, jalapeno pepper, cheese and a bit of potato. A perfect fit with borscht, chocolate cake and salad, too. Oh, my. What a yummy idea!

Unprecedented Levels of Animal Cruelty!

I'd been writing and researching when yet another link appeared on the screen, that of a video of a little dog, left to die, in a canal, for two long days when he was rescued. To everyone's shock, the puppy was missing its hind leg, hewn like a piece of green wood, in another repeated act of brutality that tore at the heart strings.

Today, the torturous treatment of animals now seems to have been sadistically elevated to something I call 'design' neglect, an intentional re-arrangement of the animal's body when 'benign' neglect would have sufficed. By 'removing' or 're-shaping' parts of the animal's body, death is most assuredly hastened but with more pain and suffering. These 'purposeful' demonic acts on animals, man's 'best friend', seem to reflect the perpetrator's true intention: to expedite death.  Benign neglect, otherwise known as abandonment and the withholding of food and water, is not enough, anymore! Sadistic treatment is now the new 'power' tool being used on these powerless, helpless, gentle creatures! Oh, My!

Brutality is ugly. What was the purpose of this newest 'twist' of animal perversion, I wondered? The little pup had been seen, two days earlier, being abused, then strangled by an adult member of the human race. I could not watch the heart wrenching video but forced myself to do so. Turning away from evil does not make it go away. Solutions must be found. We must learn from it, then protect those with no voice at all, do what we must, then create the systems that will eliminate the cruelty from its origins.

The insanity of abuse was now rearing its ugly head in a more virulent manner with the most innocent of all creatures: puppies and kittens. ... As the male volunteer of the rescue organization, Hope for Paws, approached the little pup, in the distance, in the damp river bed, he could see the quivering, blood splattered little 'munchkin' named Jordan, just sitting there, whimpering, in quiet desperation, his back to the oncoming 'traffic'. The puppy could not move as he cried secretly and quietly. He was calm, near death. With a portable bed and soft blanket in hand, the rescuer realized, to his utter horror, the depth of the suffering that had befallen this fragile brutalized pup. His back leg had been cut off, in another grotesque act of torture. A special kind of torment would mark the dog for a lifetime, if he lived. The abuser's signature would be felt forever. 'Design' neglect had taken centre stage!

Jordan had been thrown off a bridge, a span of 30 feet, to the river bed below. He was not expected to survive the drop. Would anyone? His hind leg had been savagely and brutally torn from its 'moorings'. The video continued. I was overwhelmed and sickened! I cried. Tiggy, my wonder cat just watched. She knew. ... With the help of a small professional army of loving doctors, therapists and caregivers, Jordan recovered remarkably as the video showed and eventually began a happy ending as a three-legged beautiful, smart face in a loving family, with two older 'sisters'. He lived because others cared and dared to act.

Then there was Duke, the happy-go-lucky little pup with a joyous demeanor and great determination, trying to 'appease' all as they passed by. His ear flaps, mimicking ear muffs, reflected his passivity, his submissiveness to all. He was not a threat, he wanted everyone to know. (His ears would tell his horrific story.) Duke was not aggressive or violent, just a sweet little puppy boy. But he was left to die, chained to a rusting, rotting trailer. He was diseased, his owner reminded those kind souls who deigned to give him bread and water, those intermittent gifts of life, to keep him alive. Duke, found by the tender touch of the Rudozem Street Dog Rescue, was brought to the overcrowded animal rescue facility that housed so many other brutalized innocents desperate for loving, forever homes. Attending to his immediate needs now became a top priority. He was weak, malnourished and covered with skin lesions, His glaring leg deformities, however, would have to wait. How had his malformed front limbs originated, anyway, the specialists wondered until they wondered no more? They were not the result of birth defects or his enduring malnutrition. Like the pup in the river bed, a new brand of animal cruelty had been applied. This time, purposeful savagery - butchery at its 'best' - had been administered in the guise of the intentional destruction of the skeletal structure of Duke's front legs and paws. 'Design' neglect had reared its ugly head, again. After many costly months of care, leg straightening, with casts, and operations, Duke's health was finally restored. He recovered and was adopted by a loving forever home, in England. Another happy ending.

The web has given hope and homes to thousands of homeless pets left to die, cruelly, by the side of the road, in a river bed, garbage dump or chained to a rusty trailer. In some cases, the abysmal circumstances of these poor creatures were made worse by the application of new forms of cruelty called 'design' neglect, the horrible 'remodeling' of the animal's body to elevate its suffering to an unfathomable level of brutality. Benign neglect is so last year!

When Jordan was found, he was in shock, missing a leg, while sitting in puddles of water, in a river bed, for two very long painful days. ... Had Mother Nature assisted, in some miraculous way, with her healing arm of negatively charged ions, in helping Jordan's critically injured body cope till help arrived? Was there a timeline?  Had grounding or earthing become the bridge between his life and certain death? ... The army of volunteers, in all their professional guises, marveled at Jordan's will to live. He should not have survived.

Let us praise and honor all the men and women who play such vital roles in caring for abused animals, everywhere! Then let us do whatever we can with our time, skills and resources to remediate the horror of animal cruelty. ... It does take a village, after all.

"16 Legs in the Kitchen!"

The sound was unmistakable; their reactions, so predictable. I watched the group, '16 legs in the kitchen', galloping to the absurd, not certain where they were going or why. They were following their leader, Mall Cop. It was a most comical interlude, as my 'daughter' arrived to pick up her 'children'. I had been babysitting the foursome that day. Soon it would be time for two of them to leave.

I watched as these innocent, adorable faces lighted from their quiet sleeping area, in the adjacent room, near the kitchen, to follow that familiar sound of the chef's knife hitting a hard surface, the counter top. That glorious sound always preceded the dramatic entrance of the fruit platter, the crowning glory of all things delicious. A two-step drop into their room helped to slow them down, occasionally. But that familiar chopping sound from the kitchen, alerting them to the wondrous aroma and tastes that would soon follow, could not be ignored. 

 

They could barely contain their excitement as 'Ella, the 3 year-old mini-schnauzer, the 'Wiggler', our 3 year-old retriever and 'Sally', his older sister, another retriever follow sir Mall Cop, the terrier, their diminutive leader, - a professor in disguise - into this very special place called the kitchen. I just had to laugh. In the corner of my eye, a 'herd' of quiet, cute little furry people approached, running with conviction. "I'm late. I'm late for a very important date. Hello, good bye. I'm late. I'm late. I'm late." I could not let that famous quote go by. 

 

As I hurried to prepare their special produce platter, they continued to run to and fro, in tandem, in a comical exhibition, while watching me work, tirelessly, on their behalf. They reminded me of a very large centipede running amok. Oh My, how funny it all seemed to be. 

 

Would I give in and offer them a morsel for the long 'walk home?” No, not now, not here. I did not want to encourage them, to eat here, in this cooking place, where great meals or simple foods are created. How could I? The compost pail is nearby, too, too close for comfort, for these animals of the 'raw' and minimally processed food diet. Even with its lid down securely, the pail is an enticement, a monument to food. It is monitored closely. A turkey leg, firmly ensconced inside, was removed gingerly, by the youngest member, one holiday evening. Ella lay there with this unusual looking toy until I noticed its unusual shape. Was that a rawhide stick I was not familiar of?" The youngest and smallest of the group and probably smartest knew what she was doing.

There is a semblance of order and it matters, in the house of many puppies. What if I had another one to add to this motley crew group of energetic four-legged delights? A much larger centipede, perhaps? What if Harry, the Great Dane, were to join us? Too soon to tell. The gigantic baby Dane, at 160 pounds, is no longer a baby, having recently graduated into the hallowed hall of adult dog, the well-behaved, calm version of the puppy. He is a beautiful boy, a member of the tallest breed in the world, I know. He has been raised well. Plays well with others and loves a good marathon. Would he need me someday? Would he love his fruit platter, too? Maybe. There would probably be much discussion as his slices would have to be much larger.

A dog's sense of smell is incredible. Their addiction to fruit, many vegetables and compost, too, can be a threat to health. Not all fruit is under consideration. Grapes, raisins, currants, onions, garlic can kill a dog and the seeds, stones, stems of other fruits, as well. In the 'waiting' room, Mall Cop stands, staring at me, with those winsome eyes and loving glare, 'pawing' me in the process with that “Is it time for those delicious looking things” 'Yes, it is, my precious little man.” 

 

I begin to offer the most anticipated cucumbers, then watermelon, both of super food and water fame - follow next. I hold a slice for each dog as he chews his way towards the pith. No one bites me during this feeding frenzy. I will stop and they know it. 

 

They know I am their friend in the kitchen. The slices are left attached to the rind to encourage proper chewing and chomping and to slow them down a bit. Dogs eat too fast for my liking. They all revel in another delicious moment as they arrive at the pith of the watermelon, so misunderstood and ignored, but not now. They savour its tremendous benefits, slowly, when it is offered, not crunching the rind. It is of little benefit and is problematic, too.

We follow the watermelon rules as this tasty detour is taken outside, momentarily, making it easier for me. They follow me, happily and quickly, as the fruit begins to ooze its fragrant juice onto my hands and the surrounding area. But I do not fret. We are outdoors now, on the grassy area, strewn with straw, where messes happen and belong, each dog waiting for his turn at the fountain of fruit. 

 

We go indoors where the blueberries, strawberries, of super food fame, are offered next, held in a certain way, so their skins are punctured and they become one with the body. If given in a bowl on top of their food, blueberries are devoured too quickly, without thought. Hours later, these tiny tender morsels of super health delight are seen outside on the ground, in the waste department, having been mistaken for a laxative. I figured it out. The skins of these berries were not punctured. This expensive 'additive' needs a solution. The body does not inherit their health benefits. Never again. Wasteful and expensive. They are hand-held offerings now to these four precious creatures of mine. As part of a raw diet, certain fruits, along with celery and carrots, become a part of their dental health plan, too. 

Mall Cop stands motionless and fixated, on me, yet again. When it is sleepover time, more is yet to come. He knows. Like the Wiggler, Mall Cop expects the final round, those delicious things called apples. Mentioning the name or spelling the name of these tree fruits only serves to excite them all once again. I must be careful what I say.

 

They all know, these intelligent creatures called dogs. The breed is irrelevant. The more time spent with them, the more they can outwit you, eventually. They know the words. Two on the sofa, with two directly in front of me, on the floor, begin the buffet. They see the slices. They wait their turn, ever so quietly. Red apples or green, it makes no difference to them. The day is routine with predictable results for all. ... Sixteen legs in the kitchen. It seemed so funny at the time. I laugh whenever those words are uttered. So comical and so real. Life is all around me.

The American Election

Today's revelatory American presidential election has managed to ensnare us all. Its dominance on the political and social scene in America and perhaps here, as well, has made Momsey wonder whether government is about the people or something called 'the party'.

In Canada, we have three or more political parties; in America, only two. Party affiliation seems to make governing a country, a contest where winner takes all. All political parties should be espousing the same truth: a basic living standard, with healthcare and education, expected human rights for all! Governing should be about principles, morality, integrity and fiscal responsibility. The voice of a select few, in this elite club called government, should not matter more than the collective voice of the country: its citizens.

I was a teen when JFK was president. I worried about the conflict between our neighbour to the south and one of its closest neighbours. Friday, the world could end, I'd heard. With a deathly vigil, my innocence and naivety waited for World War III. The end was near. Where would I hide, I wondered? I read the newspaper. Friday arrived. Nothing happened. A crisis of unimaginable proportions had been averted. I was ever so grateful. I continued on my merry way. I was a teen, after all. Girls were supposed to be flighty, thinking only about makeup, boys and other frivolous things. What did I know, anyway? Not much, I guess. But I was scared and trusted all great leaders to do the right thing for their citizens and the rest of the world, too.

America was a mighty nation, an ally to Canada. The news had been ominous in the 60's. I wrote about it in my diary. Everything seemed dire, but JFK, the trusted great leader from the great United States of America would always do the right thing. And he did. But less than two years later, he was dead, killed by an assassin's bullets. News of his death shocked the world, a shattering blow to our collective security and morality. I'd been a student in Grade 12 Latin class when our teacher answered the knock on her classroom door. She turned to speak to us, quivering, as the tears welled up. We were numb. We cried. How could it have happened? And why did it happen? Some have said JFK was the last great president. (And Ronald Reagan, too!)

Today's primaries, unfolding in the United States of America, began with 17 hopefuls running for the Republican 'party', in the race to the White House. Months later, two remained, running the gauntlet for the party's nomination. For the Democratic party's nomination, there were only two candidates, from the outset. Lineups for voting, in the numerous state primaries for the Republican Party brought out large numbers of Americans to vote. They wanted to be heard! They wanted to be 'counted'. The interest was electrifying. Some lineups were blocks or a mile long. In many districts, ballots were in short supply, needing to be re-printed as supplies dwindled. The excitement and anger of the American people were understood. (We get angry here, too.) There was no mistaking the Pandora's box unleashed by one of the candidates running for president. Donald Trump was here to stay. He is now his party's official nominee for president, with Hillary Clinton, the official opposition.

Being interviewed on CNN, many months ago, the actor made mention he was present during the heydays of the 60's, while being featured in a political commercial about the role of government. How had the politics of government changed so much that it was, now, more about party affiliation and less about governing a country? Many look to government for help, guidance and basic rights. But has the institution become a hallowed hall for the lucky few voted into power? Is it now a monstrous make-work project for those fortunate enough to be voted in, unconditionally? The 'politics' of power does not feed our children, provide us with jobs, healthcare and education. Government should be about the people, not just some people. (Or is Momsey confused with the script from a Hollywood movie?)

The role of government is to make society a more equitable place for all to live, work and play. Being marginalized in a democratic society is not equitable at all. How we have strayed. Governments assign a tax rate then arbitrarily raise the rate to pay for public services and the necessary infrastructure projects. Then we shop with the 'leftovers' of the after tax 'insult'. Full-time employment is a dream for many of us. Yet during any election - Canadian or American - it would seem that party affiliation is the name of the election game. It is party this and party that. Lost in all this 'partying' are the voters who have, graciously and generously, put citizens they do not know, now labelled politicians, into this prestige power club. Government's role is to assist its citizens, to 'help' elevate their circumstances for their short term and long-term well-being. An election seems to be a contest that few win, with no conditions attached to the winners. We are the 'employer' yet the 'employees' run the 'show'. Being a politician should not be a 'lucrative' career, with expense accounts, trips and zero accountability. There should be no wheel of fortune!

It was a controversial box-office success when Frank Capra's, “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” was released in 1939! In the starring role, as Mr. Emerson Smith, legendary Hollywood actor, James Stewart, portrayed the hapless, naive, idealistic country 'boy', selected as a junior senator, to go to Washington. The movie was ahead of its time, receiving 11 academy award nominations and winning for Best Original Story. In 1989, it was added to the United States National Film Registry, for its cultural and historical significance. As the title might suggest, Mr. Emerson Smith was the 'new kid' in Washington, new to the workings of government. His rousing, exhausting, emotionally and physically draining '24 hour' filibuster scene, in the 'senate', demonstrated to his audience that he would not be silenced. Eerily, in that moment, I thought of Donald Trump, in today's modern 'parallel' version - 80 years after the iconic movie's release.

Emerson Smith was a character in a political movie. Donald Trump is a real character, in real life politics, shouting his messages, for all to hear. Like Emerson Smith in the movie, Donald Trump is new on the political scene but will not be silenced. His public persona has rattled the country and the world. As an outsider, unpredictable, unflinching and uncompromising, with an intense 'unscripted' delivery style, Mr. Trump is the billionaire businessman who hopes to make America safe and great again. 'Politics', he says, has no place in government. Whether he wins or loses, government will never be the same. The great people of the United States of America will have spoken!

"Two Men on Base"

“They'll score quicker, I remarked. There are two men on base.” And then it happened. The raucous sounds of laughter rang through the air as my dear mother-in-law, in her 80's and her three young grandsons, reacted to my words of total nonsense. “What was so funny?” I asked. “There should not be two men on base”, she tried to tell me, through her laughter. “The other guy is the third base coach!” “Oh.” And so the story goes.

I was genuine in my belief; my dear mother-in-law, in her disbelief! Since that moment many years ago, I have learned much about the sport of sports, the thinking man's game. Baseball was never a part of my childhood. As a youngster, I began to fall in love with classical music, then square dancing by grade 8. By high school, volleyball and intramural basketball assumed mythical proportions. Music and song were still great loves as I joined the high school choir and participated in many high school musical productions throughout those busy academic years. My grade 9 homeroom gym class won the title of the best in basketball, the sport of very tall people, -(Momsey is short) - in a competition with other grade 9 gym classes. I never forgot the prestigious honour. As time passed, however, the indoor/outdoor games of my childhood, faded into the background, until decades later, when 3 little boys entered our lives and began to show us the supreme power and importance of all sports in early childhood and life. Baseball, in its infancy, here in Canada, took the lead!

Running, catching, jumping, falling are normal outcomes in the day of a child. Baseball was natural fit for them. Without special equipment or uniforms, baseball is a formative game about communication, on and off the field. (Being a runner or a gymnast helps in its execution.) When the hitting is poor, defense is the number one strategy in preventing the opposing team from increasing their score. A strong offense and good defense aids the pitcher. Being aware of the 'nuances', on the field, can spell the difference between a win or loss, Momsey now knows. Baseball is about planning, organizing, sociology, practice, strategizing, talent and skill and understanding 'codes' between pitcher and catcher. It is eye contact of the highest order. It is a whole brain workout for mind and body, a perfect fit for all.

Baseball has the power to unite, excite, and connect us all. It is an emotional outlet during times of great stress. For a brief moment, our troubles are forgotten, as we watch and hope for our team's win. We're energized when the starting pitcher shuts down the opposition. Why does the pitcher always get blamed when the team loses? If no one is hitting then what should we expect? When the ball is hit by the opposition, we hope our team's defense will minimize its 'collateral damage'. Baseball is a thinking man's game. ...

Our Toronto Blue Jays were born in 1977. It is now Canada's team. Baseball became a social outlet, for us, during the long, hot days of summer, decades ago. Winning or losing, 'our' team drew us into their world. We belonged to them. When they lost, we suffered, too. Supporting the Blue Jays in their quest to win the coveted World Series title, made us all work a little harder to make time for that special bonding interlude, in our day. Team support was important. We kept watching and hoping. We embraced it all. Our boys boys and their dad understood the game. It was in their DNA, it seemed. Their grandmother had taught them well, in her unique teaching style. Momsey was a newcomer to baseball but excited, nonetheless, wanting to learn and understand the game the whole world knew and loved.

Once upon a time, tickets to the former Exhibition Stadium, in Toronto, Ontario, Canada were $2 for simple bleacher seats. Our youngest of three was a one-year-old then, sitting on my lap till the 2^nd or 3^rd inning arrived. By then it was time to go. Having walked for several hours prior to the start of the game during the hot summer's day at the CNE, our little boys did well to keep up the pace. With a paid admission to the fairgrounds, admission to the game was free. Each year we stayed a little bit longer. The boys were getting older. They were quickly becoming fans of this exciting, engaging game. Remaining till the 9^th inning was now possible. 

 

Baseball was showing its true intent, becoming a unifying force that brought us all together, under the searing heat of the summer sun to watch, scream, smile and vocalize. Momsey soon began to realize the power of baseball on the human condition. It was a driving force, a reason to be, a mood changer, therapy, a relaxant, a soother, the calm before the storm, the icing on the cake of life and an excuse to eat hotdogs, beer and soda pop.

A base hit, grand slam, home run, bunt or walk were foreign terms to me. Not now. I ask the questions. Baseball's messages become clearer. Listening to the words of the television's broadcasters, Buck Martinez and Pat Tabler, narrating the game, play-by-play, helps Momsey love the game that connects us all in a warm show of solidarity. The players are family, for a brief moment in time. ... Back in the day, names like Jose Guzman, Dave Stieb, George Bell and Joe Carter were familiar Blue Jay's players. Now they are a part of its illustrious history. Today, Jose Bautista, Josh Donaldson, Marcus Stroman, Kevin Pillar and Ezequiel Carrera, to name a few, dominate the Blue Jays' baseball roster, now a family tradition, igniting the passion and excitement of a game Momsey adores. When I miss a 'winning' game, I watch Blue Jays in 30, a summary of the highlights in a quick 30-minute block. 

I do not fully understand baseball's rules and plays but simply listening to the descriptive and exacting words of the television sports commentators, Jamie Campbell, the host and Gregg Zaun, the analyst, during the games' intermissions, helps make Momsey a little bit smarter, each and every time. Occasionally, they play 'show and tell' to help illustrate baseball's moments, in real time, on the studio floor. I appreciate their efforts. But what exactly is a sacrifice fly?

The Gorilla and The Little Boy

The death of Harambe, the western lowland gorilla at the Cincinnati zoo, has resonated around the world. After a three-year-old boy fell into its compound, Harambe was shot, fearing tranquilizing the animal might provoke a sudden violent reaction towards the toddler before sedation took effect. I was saddened by the gorilla's death and the events of that day.

Once upon a time, we visited the places called zoos where animals live. With three little boys in tow, a trip to the zoo was always an educational 'childhood' destination and a major undertaking. Our little boys were inquisitive 'action' figures, always doing, thinking. They were delightful animal lovers, too. (Having dogs from birth can do that to a child.) They understood and respected these four-footed creatures wrapped in fur. 

 

Any outing with little children always required sufficient 'staff'. We were seeing their world for the first time. Their excitement was palpable. Being their primary caregivers placed an onerous responsibility on us when visiting any public facility. Vigilance was our duty. 

 

One trip to a local zoo, outside of Toronto, was especially unforgettable. There were so many animals to see. All were in close proximity to one another, each with their own unique housing site. But I took our safety for granted. (I was a neophyte in the ways of all things zoos.) I did not concern myself about barrier height or type. I made assumptions. Oh My. Everything was up close and very personal. When the lions and tigers began to roar, one day, the thunderous sounds of these jungle captives became a story to tell. We had never heard the vocalizing of these majestic cats. We were in awe of their presence and their sounds. Perhaps they were screaming, “Let us out of here!” We, the paying public, had the freedom to stay or go. They did not. When we visited the Toronto Zoo, a mammoth city-zoo unto itself, the sounds and movement of the lions, tigers and elephants were rarely seen or heard. Were they happy there? Freedom was not easy for these creatures. As time passed, however, I began to think that, maybe, the animals in a zoo might not think being there was such a great idea. They had no choice. If only they could talk.

Harambe was minding his own business that day when the end came. It would have been a shock to anyone to see a child suddenly fall into harm's way. What was the little boy thinking? Was he looking for his mom? Child and beast were doing what was normal and expected of each: the gorilla, sitting in his enclosure; the boy, exploring a new world he had just entered, unexpectedly. The mammoth gorilla, most like man himself, was probably wondering what the fuss was all about when 'family' came to 'visit'. A decision had to be made. The gorilla had to die. His daunting strength and unpredictability worked against him. Everything the boy did was expected of a child, outdoors, wanting to touch the world around him. He was an observer, an innocent, then a petrified participant.

Zoos are man-made living and breathing exhibits, designed for wild animals, in small park-like parcels of land or water. Everything is done to accommodate the unique needs of each 'resident' while keeping them safe, secure and happy in their own 'natural habitats'. What was not planned or expected, that day, was the curiosity of a child. A child lives to explore. It is his mandate, his reason for being. It is his DNA! ... 

 

A serious watchful adult eye is required of every moment when visiting the zoo with children. In a blink of an eye, we can lose that child his drive for knowledge insatiable and boundless. Concepts of time, danger or “no” have little meaning to him. ... These miniature adults-in-training are fearless explorers.  Zoos are their domain, places for their enjoyment, entertainment and education, too. Petting zoos are made for them. The animal world beckons little children to touch and explore. It is a never-ending lure of curiosity that hammers at the child until his insatiable thirst for knowing is quenched, for the time being. 

 

Visiting the zoo is a serious place, a wondrous one where two worlds collide. We need to take that responsibility seriously with our children. The animal in his special outdoor home should never be at risk. He is where he belongs, is he not? Decades ago, our then five-year-old repeatedly pulled the whiskers of our adult male retriever, one day. After several mid-range growl 'reminders', the dog responded, forthright, without pause. Our furry resident had been antagonized. (Even family pets have their limits.) A call to the doctor calmed any concerns I might have had about the 'bite'. It had not pierced the skin, thankfully. Had blood appeared and the bite been human, the outcome might have been different, I was told. ... On another occasion, the same child, caught jumping on a sofa chair, was reminded to stop. The excitement continued. Moments later, a repeat performance of his high-flying act catapulted him over the chair. Within a week, his tongue had completely healed. (The oral cavity heals quickly, he discovered, after receiving this painful reminder of his former misdeed.) Our son had pushed the limits of his physical boundaries, again. And he was five! His insatiable urge to explore never wavered, never stopped. It was simply postponed, till later, at his discretion. ...

The enclosure for Harambe, with its smooth 12-foot high concrete wall, was designed to house and keep the gorilla safe and secure. But at the top, the low-level bushes, with another protective layer of wood-framed metal mesh-fencing behind them, only served to assist a little boy in the adventure of a lifetime. ... Engineers, architects, animal experts, veterinarians and other professionals had been involved in the design, planning, construction of the gorillas' enclosure. But what was not considered was the will of a young innocent, looking in, wanting in. ... Curiosity can move mountains. ... We mourn Harambe's sudden passing. Let us learn from his tragic death.

Coming soon: The incredible world of elephants.