Fishing With Alpacas And Turkeys

My son's beta fish, Tyler, has his own home gym. It consists of a plastic bubble attached to a round mirror, about an inch and a half in diameter. The bubble keeps the mirror from drifting down to the bottom of his bowl. If you know anything about gravity, you'll understand why the air filled bubble is necessary.

In case you aren't up on beta fish lore, they don't know the difference between another real fish, and their image. We don't need to call them stupid. 'Not the swiftest swimmer in the bowl' works, without any animal cruelty in this post. When confronted with a mirrored image of themselves, the reaction is one normally reserved for a true threat on their territory.

Our last beta would flare her gorgeous rainbow hued, flowing fins at her rival. She would head butt the mirror with savage thrusts. Not only did this provide us sick-o fish owners with joyful amusement, she got exercise, released endorphins, and had a daily adventure. This was so intense for her, that she was only allowed five minutes at a time with the horrifying reflection.

But Tyler, well, he's been not so great for us to gawk at. He just swims away and refuses to face his enemy. I won't use the word wimp here. Bravery-challenged is more politically correct. Fish are sensitive, after all.

At the farm behind our house, we have been thrilled with the arrival of four young alpacas. They have the 'Beatles from the 1960's hairstyles. If I wasn't so stunned with their sudden appearance, I would have thought to holler at them to get a haircut. How can they bloody well see with all that fur in their eyes?

Our dog, Daisy, ran along their fence. The alpacas (is it too soon to name them George, Paul, John and Ringo?) were already unsettled from their landing in a new home. Now, they were encountering their first St. Bermastiff. Confused looks abounded. They knew it was not an alpaca, not part of the long neck pack. So what was it, covered in tan fur, long tail, and way too much energy? Such a long strange trip that day had held for them.

When I went back to say hello to them yesterday, the alpacas had gotten over their initial disorientation. Heads lowered, all four were chewing grass. It felt a wee bit discombobulating to me, though. All the other grass eaters have normal length necks. Alpacas have the look of goofy royalty--not a creature that spends it's day doing regular farm animal stuff. It was a week of expanding horizons for all of us.

In the excitement of the alpacas, I forgot the turkey incident. Another new arrival, a few days before Christmas, was a dozen turkeys. Although they are not expert pilots, turkeys can awkwardly flap up onto a four foot high fence. One brave turkey made it to the top of his enclosure, and then kept going to the other side. Free at last!

Daisy was so excited, she raced over to give a little nip on turkey feathers. Thankfully, she is a well trained dog, and backed off as soon as I told her to stop. The turkey gobbled displeasure at us. Daisy and I decided it was a good time to slink away. Pissed off turkeys are not fun to deal with.

I have no idea what could have happened to those turkeys, but when we returned the day after Christmas, they were gone. I'm as perplexed as you must be.

Hope you are enjoying as much entertainment this holiday season as I have been with my animal encounters. If you own a beta, be sure to buy the exercise apparatus at your local pet store. Happy New Years!

Resolving to include more entertainment and laughter in the new year? 

Check out this romantic comedy;

Heather Leigh,

Easily entertained by other creatures

The Joy of Junk

Tonight's dinner: sustainably caught Alaskan salmon, organic brown rice cooked in organic vegetable broth, organic steamed spinach, organic locally grown radishes. Another night of healthy eating.

What is wrong with my family? In high school, I existed just fine on Coca-Cola and Doritos, Twinkies for dessert. Where did my path veer away from the good tastes in life?

I blame the beginning of my dietary demise on the Diet For A New America video. Filled with horrific images of the factory farming realities of our dinner, I put down my steak knife and picked up the tofu. After that, the vicious cycle was relentless.

Back in the early 1800's, when I went to college, I became a vegetarian. Okay, maybe it was the early 1990's, but if you ask my teenagers they will easily tell you that I come from an era unheard of in their circle. Anyway, back then a salad consisted of ice berg lettuce, oily or creamy dressing, and bacon bits. I was constantly told that there was no meat on the salad, only to wipe off the crispy fried pig pieces when the salad was given to me. And, if I didn't want to starve at a friend's house, this was my meal.

I got great questions, too: "If you had nothing left to eat in the world, would you eat a steak?"
I was always polite, never saying what I was tempted: "If there was nothing left, I would eat you. Starting with that pudgy tummy. Mmmm."

These flowed into the guilt trodden years. People were cutting back on beef and pork. Then the reaction to learning of my nothing with a face diet became, "oh, I hardly ever eat meat anymore." This is when we were figuring out that animal products with every meal were not exactly what a healthy heart requires to keep beating. But rather than eating with more health in mind for themselves, the lessening of meat was intertwined with guilt. And it was as though my vegetarianism was a sling of mud in their face. That they owed me a personal apology.

This decade has gotten to be so healthy, we're borderline smug and self-righteous about how we spend our food budget bucks. Non-GMO, gluten-free, high fructose corn syrup, palm oil, and so-called natural sweeteners. We even debate cage-free over pasture-raised. Locally grown over organic. We've upped the ante, raised the bar, on every aspect of our grocery list. Then sneak over to MickeyD's on the lunch break and wolf down the Big Mac, hiding in the back of a tinted-window, hybrid SUV. If the neighbors catch you, all hope of your healthy liver cleanse will never save you from their ridicules and judgments.

This blog posting of food has got me dreaming of dessert, I'm thinking about some gluten-free, organic, non-GMO, chocolate rice cereal. With, of course, organic almond milk. But then, the organic sweeteners may not be good for my digestive system just before bedtime. Better to go with some pure, filtered water infused with fresh cucumber slices, to fill by belly.

Or maybe I should just say screw it all and sneak up to the store and buy Twinkies and chocolate syrup. What would you do?

While you are deciding which dietary path to continue on, read this wholesome, wonderful book about getting the very best from massage. Because massage is both incredibly healthy, and feels better than any junk food you could possibly ever devour.

Wolfing down the best massage you will ever get.

Heather Leigh,

One of those health nut eaters who also writes awesome books

Witch Identity Are You?

Monday, I will no longer be a witch. After much deliberation and inner angst, I decided to get the wart at the end of my nose burned off. See, it started out rather small. A little bump on the nose. It made me laugh. I'd look at my mirrored reflection and think that my true inner identity had surfaced. That the outside world would know the truth. I would never have to say a thing. An unspoken, shared knowledge that I'm not human.

But then it got bigger, and now it's ugly. Time to let go.

Does this mean that I have to explain myself with each new person in my life? That they will have to be told that I'm not like them? That they are standing before a conjurer of magic and spells? The wart let us do away with such time consuming small talk.

Have you ever gone through this? Not the wart issue, but change your identity? The way people see you? Every time you start a new job, move to a different town, go to a party filled with strangers, they don't know the roles you play. They don't know that you are the damned most awesome player of Apples to Apples, love hip hop more than your teen, and had a movie star crush on RIP Alan Rickman. My god, strangers don't even know what your favorite tree is. So pitifully hard.

What did you do? Make an announcement in a local paper? That would be so much easier than telling every one in your new town all about yourself, especially if it is a major metropolis. Giving your about-me elevator pitch, face-to-face, to a million or so people could take time away from unpacking.

I suppose social media is the way to go on this one.

This summer, I anticipate moving to another county. My plan this time around is to make up my identity. Does the new crowd really need to know I am not the direct descendant of Joan of Arc? That I am a well known author, under a pen name they could never guess? That I won the Nicest Witch of the Year Award, three times in a row? Because, all of these could be true, or at least, close to it.

Behind me in the move, I will forsake my worst reputations. Not being an efficient weed puller, an embarrassing addition in Zumba classes, the habit of wearing pajamas on work-at-home days, and not knowing how to dust. Can't say how long it will take for neighbors to learn my failings, but at least I'll have a few months of respite.

What new identity are you going to take on? We could both be related to Einstein, and share his IQ. If you want to say you invented chocolate covered strawberries, I will send a Letter of Confirmation. Definitely pretend to be on the Witness Protection Program, then only hint at the reason.

Also, practice being a witch. Get the cackle down, eat suspiciously slimy foods, buy too many straw brooms, own a black cat. If acquaintances wonder if you could cast a curse, you can get just about whatever you want. So much easier than throwing an adult temper tantrum.

Be creative in your new self. Only share with me (and anyone else who reads the comments on this page). Have fun with the fresh face that is now you!

This wild elephant has a reputation for making kids laugh, and for being big, bold and beautiful.

Scout and the elephant living in his back yard, Ellie

Heather Leigh,

Witch with elephant sized attitude

Gluten Free Tree

Daddy-Oh sent a birthday card. Read the on going investigation below:

As Dad is quite aware of my dietary wayward ways, he assured me that the illustration of the cake on the cover was gluten-free. Whew. That was a relief to me, but I still wasn't convinced that I could partake in the full reading of the card.

Was the tree that supplied the paper raised in a GMO free, organic forest? Did it have a chance to spread it's branches, cage free, toward the sun? Were pesticides, fertilizers, or harmful methane gases used to enhance growth? Did the tree get to spend its formative years with mom and dad?

And what about the birds? Before the tree was chopped down, was a six week eviction notice given to any nest dwellers? It can take a long time to find the perfect new home for baby chicks.

Had the tree ever been in an accident--hurricane, tornado, flood, tsunami or earthquake? All of these directly effect the quality of the paper. I do want a prime card, in case I choose to re-gift, or sell it to a pawn shop.

After researching my birthday card to see if I can read the inside, I'm going to tackle another project: The Golden Rule. You know the one:

Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You

This one deceptive, sneaky line has screwed up our nation for long enough. It has been the cause of decades of re-gifting, gnawed away at millions of friendships, and wrecked marriages. Do you feel my pain? You will after I explain the monumental problem.

Others may not want what I want. Get it? The Golden Rule MUST change to:

Do Unto Others As They Want

For decades (almost five--I'm getting up there), I've received boxes of every kind of chocolate known to the human race. Everything from truffles to fruit covered to fudge, even divinity. I detest all of these. It seems to be a coincidence that the giver of the chocolate is passing along his or her favorite. And then, oops! They get to eat the contents of the box.

There is only one true love for me. And that is chocolate covered caramels (a few granules of sea salt topping is the only acceptable addition). If the Golden Rule had been written correctly, I would have wolfed down cases of fine cacao and processed sugar by this time.

--okay, now that I think about it, perhaps my waist line is better off with the old Golden Rule--

Does this one-sided giving practice sound familiar? Hit home in your experiences? Ever receive a gift perfect for anyone, but you? Don't persecute the giver. They"re only exhibiting the overwhelming influence of the ghastly Golden Rule.

Repeat after me: Oh Lord, I am ready. Ready to accept myself as worthy of the New Age Golden Rule.

Join me in starting a Protest Rally: Change the Golden Rule March. This will be viral by morning. Be ready to march by the weekend. 

Protest sign ideas:

Bull the Rule

Golden is Olden

Demand YOUR Chocolate

In the comment section at the end, be sure to add your Protest sign ideas.

Want world peace? Protect yourself by only reading healthy birthday cards, and accept the new version of the Golden Rule. Spread these messages to all of those connected to you. It is for the highest good of us all.

One last thing. Before you go around thinking that I am writing against liberal ideals, think again. I am one of those smug Hybrid car owners who shops organic, buys local, and recycles carrot juice containers. But, I'm also a firm believer in making fun of myself. Because if I don't, who will?

Want more of my luscious humor and snarky insight? 

It's all here in this romantic comedy novel. 

Click here for splendiferous book

Heather Leigh,

Reader of lightly treading birthday cards.

How To Become A Cat. Whisperer

I am the caterpillar whisperer, owner of a syrup-high house for flies, and a patron of spiders.

Caterpillars cling to our house. Every Fall, the black-orange-black fuzzy crawlers return for a chance to be noticed by me. But, you argue, each year is a different generation. Correct. But the knowledge of my existence is passed from egg bundle to yearly bundle. Call it the genetic code of claspers.

How did I get my whispering title? From being their savior. Even with six eyes, caterpillars are almost blind. I have found them lying atop our outside trash can, on the side walk primed for a shoe squash, and in the crevices of my car's hatchback.

Ever so gently, I swoop up the cylinder puffs and drop them off on the nearest tree, bush, or popular green eating spot. In order not to spook the little ones, I quietly tell them about their new home. I can feel their pin headed minds relax as they know they are in a safe place. So over simply a few generations, I have become the venerated cat. whisperer. It's a beautiful thing.

Not being one to toot my own horn, I must also reveal that my car is sweeter than yours. We have the biggest Japanese maple tree in the 'hood, that drips down scraps of sap. It's broad branches and seasonally colored leaves cover most of the yard and driveway.

Plummeting sprinkles of tree sugar coat my moonglow painted hybrid. This scrumptious feast lures in flies and gnats. Insect addicts. It is a blessing that flies are not extinct. When I drive away in the morning, they are stuck to the car by their scrawny legs. It's a shameful way to die. Because if there is one thing the world needs more of, it's flies and gnats.

The birds are so pleased with the flies hanging out that they crap in excitement. My fortunate car is adorned every morning with fresh droppings from the excited birds. The animal kingdom simply is smitten with every aspect of my being.

After my joy of being a mom, cat whisperer, and fly drug pusher, I am a spoiler of spiders. It's the webs that fascinate me. Each one unique, efficient, and architecturally amazing. Spiderwebs serve as home, traps, and food containers. Spiders remake them every day.

Gazing at the corner ceiling art, I am mesmerized. Tell me of any other artist who has that skill. The many-legged never even attend web design classes.

What right do I have to destroy fine art?

So spiderwebs have to be rather old, bedraggled and disgusting before I ever have the heart to destroy them. I'm guessing that the spider appreciates their solo admirer, as there are many webs about our house. What animal doesn't love a fan?

Yes, they call me the Cat. Whisperer, and many other names.

Want to read more about brave, intelligent girls? This one is only three inches high:

Inspiring adventure for courageous readers:

Heather Leigh,

Lover of the forsaken

The People of California Versus Me

In the Superior Court of California, The People are against me. At least, that's what this court document claims. Wow. Talk about pressure. For those of you non-CA natives, who don't know of my transgression, I hang my head in shame and admit to:

Exceeding the max speed limit of 65 miles per hour.

Crawling out my front door, slithering out to my car, I can see the neighbors seething in their loathing. I know they hold protest signs behind their own front doors, waiting for the chance to flash their hate-filled words:

You committed a crime

We are all against you

We are a unified state protesting your existence

The children hold stones, women finger kitchen knives, men swirl batons, all carry loaded guns. Attack is a steaming, simmering vapor, putrid and overshadowing. One too many unscooped dog poops, and violence will fill our once peaceful streets.

You might try to convince me that I'm being paranoid. That the document on my desk doesn't really mean the population of California citizens are all judging me. Out of state friends tell me the same thing. They say that I'm being vain, swelling my head, believing that the most populous state in the U.S. is focused against me. That's over thirty-five million people. Everyone of them talking about my crime over dinner, on coffee breaks, twitter and facebook.

But you can't deny the truth. Not only do I have the document right here on my desk, there is also the neighbor's dog. He has a new collar, but the old one was fine. What other reason could there be that he got a new one, if not that it hides a camera.

My family thinks the pooch prefers our yard for pooping. Shows their ignorance of the obvious. The camera is aimed at me to see what crimes against humanity I'll commit next. If I'm susceptible to overlooking a speedometer, and barrel down the mountainside as fast as a Toyota Prius can go, then I could be plotting just about anything. There are no alternative facts. 

I've tried to leak the result of my case to the media. It was dismissed for lack of prosecution. But the only reason I escaped a life time in prison, is because  the issuing officer failed to show up for the traffic case. I could still be guilty. The media could do me no good, even if they weren't fake. 

Before I can seek to beg forgiveness from my compatriots, I have to forgive myself. But this is exceedingly difficult. I was descending a mountain, didn't pay attention to the speedometer for a few moments, and barreled downward at over seventy miles per hour. 

I'm certain that the officer who cited me had no idea that this is a frequent occurrence on that steep mountainside. There is no way he purposely hid in a place where this infraction was common. That would be entrapment, which is illegal. It's just sheer coincidence that he was located in that spot with a radar gun pointed at the passing cars.

The only thing I can do now is hours of volunteer work, be kind to my neighbors, recycle, and keep my lawn mowed and green. Anything and everything to win back the trust of the People of the State of California.

Maybe I should play the lottery. When I win, I could share the earnings with CA residents. Bribery always works to prove innocence.

I just looked out the window. The birds must also have learned of my wayward ways. Their crap is on my car windshield. Punishment for my sins.

If you have even an inkling of sympathy for my plight, please post a few encouraging words in the comment box below. It would help me get through these dark days.

My only hope is that someone else in California will commit a grievous, heinous act, like jay walking. Then perhaps the eyes of the People will move past me once again. For now, I must endure my fifteen minutes of fame. Thank you for reading these ramblings of an almost felon. 

The one thing I'm proud of in my shame-filled days, my debut novel.
It's pretty darned good and funny:

Romantic comedy of interplanetary appeal.

Heather Leigh,

The criminal writer

The Better Cow

WARNING!!! This post is written with the aim of displaying the sheer stupidity of racism.
No cows were harmed in the making of this blog.

When I was a child, my uncle David took on a summer job across the country. He decided to backpack home across the Appalachian Mountains. He vanished for six months. His parents were struck down with worry. The entire family put together an extensive search for the beloved young man. And then, after a half year of no signs of his whereabouts, David stumbled into the front yard of his home.

Uncle David refused to say a word of what happened. The family was overjoyed to receive him, they didn't pressure him for answers. Decades later, as he lay dying, he finally told his story.

 In the middle of those mountains, after many gloomy, rainy days, David resigned to his predicament. He was lost.

"A lost soul is a vulnerable, impressionable thing," he whispered.

Living off beetles and moss, he made off in the distance, the welcome sounds of mooing cows. Certain that he would find ranchers attached to those animals, he grappled his way toward the noise. By the time he climbed a final rise in the mountain, he stumbled from the shock of what he discovered. An entire herd of orange cows.

He had found the secret to why cheddar cheese is orange.

Collapsing beside a bright orange calf, a rancher saved his life. As he was wakening from his weakened state, David overheard the rancher's children talking about him. Seems his bright orange hair had been his saving grace. Anyone with cheddar coloring on their head, must be a heavenly being. Someone above all others.

He was weak, exhausted beyond belief. The ranchers fed him bits of cheese to bring him back to health. He discovered that the only way out of the orange cow ranch was through dangerous hiking. He must stay until he could make the trip.

In the months that he was there, he learned many things. First, and foremost, was that orange is a superior color. It is better than every other color in the rainbow. So much so, that the ranchers had SOP, Superior Orange Power, tattooed to their right buttock.

After awhile of being around the colored cows, David came to believe in this way of thinking. The cows were perfect. They held themselves a bit higher than other cows he had seen. They grazed with somber distinction, mooed in smooth, deep harmony, even pooped bigger and sturdier pies. Just a few reasons why they could not be segregated with other, ordinary cows.

The ranchers considered themselves lucky to be able to serve these god-like creatures. They would have done it, even without the profits of the special cheese. The money made went toward the well-being of the four-leggeds. The plushest grass, filtered water, daily rub downs, everything that could be done to spoil the creatures was done with awe and gratitude. They were slaves to higher beings.

Having become a convert to the thinking of the ranchers, David joined them on daily bowings to the orange cows. He was never allowed to touch one, though. One must be born into the family of orange cow caregivers to be given that right. The only thing he could do was convince them to tattoo his right buttock with the SOP insignia.

When he was finally able to leave, he gave praise and thanks to the cow for its existence. David knew the world was a better place because of them.

The ranchers blindfolded David, and led him out of the mountains. They filled his backpack with the orange dairy food, and sent him home on a bus. As instructed, he never revealed his story, the secret to where orange cheddar comes from. But in his heart, he always knew that one color could be better than another.

As he has been gone for many years now, I am writing his tale. Please don't tell anyone else what I have told you. I would fear for my family if 'they' knew of my knowledge.

Great summer read for kids into orange cheese and laughing:

Heather Leigh,

There is no such thing as a white or black race. The only thing blood tests can tell you is ancestral areas.

The orange cows may be true, though. Couldn't possibly be made with red and yellow food dye.