She died as she lived

The day she died was really, all things considered, fairly ordinary. The sun rose at its usual time, as birds started twittering and chattering themselves into full heraldry of a new day. That lasted until it became the time they expected her to refill their various feeders, scatter peanuts in the usual places and give them free rein as to who got what where, how and when. As usual, they hadn’t long to wait as she couldn’t relax sufficiently to get herself breakfast until she knew they were fed and they knew they’d been fed.

There were clouds in the sky, lovely billowing ones, the kind that someone who has the time and inclination would watch as he or she lay upon the ground, gazing upward. At least, she would lie on the ground, but most would settle into a lawn chair or onto a picnic bench, something more in the usual way of things. Whatever the vantage point, an observer would see amongst the ever-changing patterns of sirrus or cumulus or cirrus or whatever mood the sky had taken, all manner of animals or faces, sometimes fulsome, sometimes wispy, ofttimes ethereal within the white mass formations.

As she filled the kettle for tea, she opened the ‘dog’ drawer where all the treats and various canine-related paraphernalia were kept. The morning simply wasn’t doable until her many girls and boys got their dental chewies. And Olivia, the cat, meowed pointedly for attention. Olivia always took her morning repast in a room just off the hall , one that was nearly wholly devoted to her and her various requirements, her litter box holding pride of place, though sufficiently removed from food and water so as not to sully the enjoyment of either. Olivia was a particularly special cat, the sole survivor of five who had roamed the house and environs just 10 years ago. All had been well on in age even back then and, as sure as night follows day and death follows life, four had breathed their last unceremoniously, simply succumbing to the rigors and demands of old age. She had been the youngest of the feline phalanx and, now, quite enjoyed the privilege accorded her as singleton. She was no spring kitten, mind you, but she wore her 19 years well and luxuriated in the knowledge that she would not be joined, much less usurped, by any young feline upstart or stray. This she knew, in the way cats do.

Looking out the window above the kitchen sink, Claire noticed the two crows she had made it her mission to feed waiting, quietly perched on branches that overswept the feeders. They would wait, she knew from months of observation, until the smaller birds had sated the immediacy of their morning hunger, then fly down and strut purposefully about, rooting out the peanuts and sunflower seeds the others had missed in their frenzied first onslaught. Was it the same two crows every day, she often wondered? They were dead ringers for the original two if they weren’t but, then, to the naked human eye a crow is a crow is a crow. Maybe. No doubt they had distinguishing features but, from her spot at the kitchen window, she thought them identical. To each other and, quite possibly, to a murder of many other crows who may or may not drop by for the birdie bounty unbeknownst to her. No matter, she loved the crows. They always seemed so misunderstood and unappreciated.

Tea made and morning medications and supplements washed down with two bottles of water, Claire got her windbreaker, the smellier of the two she had, replaced her slippers with manure-caked paddock boots and informed the dogs she was going out to feed the horses. Two of the five held back, being figuratively at least, in the dog house, for having strayed to the neighbors’ properties many too many times. Neighbors, plural, one set on either side of her farm. Fences don’t go nearly far enough toward making good neighbors, she had scowled more than a hundred times at the very least.

Decades ago, when she had moved to the farm, neighbors and their dogs were just routine. Hundreds of acres separated properties and family dogs were wont to traverse about at liberty. No one minded if someone else’s dog showed up to play with the resident canine at his or her house. But, times had changed and land was bought up for new houses, new families, new neighbors. And, with those new neighbors, had come total assholes who would call the Township or the Humane Society to report an errant dog setting as much as a paw on that property that was theirs. Claire loathed the lot of them but, more than that, didn’t want further run-ins with By-Law officers, or to have to fork over $40, then $60 and, the last time, $80 in fines to reclaim one of the happy wanderers from their incarceration at the SPCA. How people could be so bloody malevolent and petty would, for a normal person, be hard to understand but Claire was a cynic and, as a close observer of ‘humankind’, was never in the least surprised by the degradation and sheer malice of many. She had encountered them her entire life, from the earliest age she could remember, and her experience with them during her many years among them confirmed her beliefs. She didn’t think of herself as a cynic, really, nor eternally negative; she believed she was a realist who, through more than her share of hurtful and debasing experiences, had learned to withhold her opinion or judgment, and protect her emotions, until someone showed his or her true colors. Sadly, more often than not in Claire’s experience, those colors proved dark and destructive.

Three of her five canine babbies, all rescued at some point over the past 15 years, were primed ‘for the off’ to the great outdoors. To placate the two, now unhappy, wanderers, she gave each a treat, said, “I’m sorry Eithne, I’m sorry Georgie,” then quickly ushered the other three outside with her, closing the main door to spare the incarcerated insiders the sight of their siblings cavorting and happily sniffing things outside. “You brought it all on yourselves,” she’d said to the two often enough. “As my mammy would say, ‘slap it inta ye’.”

Claire’s accent, always Irish in origin, became ever moreso when she channeled her mother’s sayings and speech patterns. “I’d love to let you out but you’ll bugger off the second I turn my head.” Claire would give them the chance of being out with her occasionally, unleashed but, every single time, they did just that…bugger off the second she turned her head. They were wild stealthy about it, too, which made her laugh, despite how annoying it was. She’d see, from a peripheral perspective, Eithne cannily edging her way behind the truck, from where it was but a quick dash into the bush that lined one side of the laneway. For his part, Georgie would feign great interest in some of the bushes or flowers in the front garden, slinking ever so judiciously between foliage and blooms around the side of the house, from where open fields beckoned him immediately into neighbor territory.

Informing the three dogs currently by her side that they’d go into the barn for carrots as a morning treat for the 12 horses and one donkey who awaited their breakfasts, either in the paddock with slabs of hay, or out into one of the two pastures, where the grass was lush and the days extra special, as they luxuriated in the warmth of the late May sun. It was an egalitarian arrangement, though, in that the three different herds rotated rights to the pastures. Two to the pastures per day; one in the paddock with hay. Then, everyone moved one position to the right, or left. It really didn’t matter. That way everyone got their due in the morning dew most days, sequestered in the paddock with hay just every third time. Claire wished for three pastures and it was, quite clearly, possible but her somewhat depleted pecuniary status, at least for the foreseeable future, precluded the expense it would require to plough, seed and fence another pasture. Some day. There was always some day. She wondered idly if this day, the one she was actually living this very moment had, at some earlier point in time, been what she’d envisaged when thinking, “Some day.”

“NOPE!” This was never her “some day”, though it wasn’t bad all told.

Feeding the horses, and leading the respective parades out to their fields for that day’s grazing was rather a noisy affair, not because of any kerfuffling on the part of her charges, but because Claire talked to them all as friends, each individually by name and tickling out from each that one trait that made him or her so just him or just her. The three lady Irish Cobs, today relegated to the paddock and hay, were beautifully attired with their luxurious manes, and the feathers on their legs, trailing a bit on the ground, much like their tails. They were “the three lovely lassies,” as extolled in an Irish tune, which Claire would sing to them regularly. “The Three Lovely Lassies of Bannion,” the song went, the chorus ending with “And I am the fairest of all.” Of course, when she sang to her girls, she never named one as the fairest of all because they were all beauties, each with her own particular exceptional features: of loveliness in appearance and temperament; one having a greater willingness to learn than most horses; another with a deeper need to understand what was expected of her; and the third, she just knew what Claire was thinking and anticipated every request or cue before it had even been given.

Claire often thought her love for these wee horses would make her heart explode; it did that to her tear ducts often enough. Sometimes in the midst of them, talking to them singly and collectively, she couldn’t help but laugh. They were so empathic and intuitive. There is truth to the deep connection between horse and human. Claire treasured it, though she didn’t put it to use as some horse people did, in teaching skills or encouraging a different response or any such thing. She just had it and that was all that mattered. Often, when Claire was out in the paddock these three horses shared, cleaning up after them on manure duty, one or other would assign herself as Claire’s overseer or helper for that day. Be it Rosie or Peggy or Colleen, the horse would take great interest in Claire’s every move and maneuver, inspecting the tractor bucket and contents of the manure fork. And, Claire would feel the softness of the muzzle against her shoulder and the ephemeral tug of the air between them which, always, drew Claire’s arms around the horse neck and her nose deep into the soft, warm hair, and there they would stand for as long as the horse wanted. And, always, when Claire unclenched her arms, her horse’s neck would be soaked with tears because this gift Claire had been given was precious beyond words and spilled out from the depths of her soul, journeying as tiny rivulets through her eyes.

After a bit of back-and-forthing with sufficient hay for the girls, at least a morning’s allotment, Claire waited for them to start eating, then broke a few carrots and ensured they each got roughly the same amount. Yes, she knew they would never know whether one was getting more than the others, but it was this honesty thing Claire had. They were never to be lied to, her animals, any of them, nor tricked, nor treated with anything but full respect and equality. This accomplished, she checked as to where her canine contingent might be and was glad they’d headed away from the horse pastures as Tiernan liked to inveigle himself about horse hind legs, which often ended in a kick. You’d think he’d learn, Claire mused, but checked herself reluctantly in remembering his breed. Reluctantly, because the idea of animals and intelligence and their grading or measuring in any way she found unfair and artificial. They each and every one had pluses and minuses and gifts and degrees and types of intelligence, none of which could be measured.

Claire did not afford this generosity of acceptance to the human animal. She had had too much hurt, too many disappointments, too often abuse and disrespect from that species. While not her enemies, humans were never, automatically, friends. In fact, becoming a friend, a true friend, one Claire could accept without question, no matter what, was a very long process, which explained why she had so very few friends. But those she had were soul mates. Having no siblings herself, she imagined that how she felt about her few true friends was similar to the bond between brothers and sisters.

The three horses, and donkey, all Claire’s own babies, as she called them, were soon galloping, truly frolicking at breakneck speed across their field, Donkey braying con voce forte for all, even the bad neighbors, to hear. And, of course, Claire laughed, commenting to all three dogs about “what a load of ejects that lot is”. The wagging tails indicated full agreement.

Leading the second herd to their field was a bit of a protracted affair as they fapped about, hemming here and hawing there, nibbling at grass along the path leading to the field, one deciding he wasn’t going to let another past, another nipping at the back end of more than likely his good friend and just a general rate of leisure that was lovely, and peaceful and would normally be enjoyed, but Claire’s bladder had begun to protest, after the two bottles of water and tea. Not that this was any great problem, as being in the midst of nowhere with no one but animals who deposit at will whatever their bowel or bladder produces, has great advantages for the human cursed with a weak bladder.

All country people know this, though it was much easier for men, reasons being obvious. Horsewomen all took to stalls when nature called; this was just a thing. And Claire fairly regularly would drop trou behind bushes or trees, or tractors or horses when urgency demanded and, for the most part, this was neither here nor there, so to speak. However, and there were a few ‘howevers’, there were times she hadn’t hidden well enough, or anticipated a car heading up the laneway where she was precariously perched behind the lawn tractor voiding her bladder. These incidents led to more than a few baptisms by urine over her boots and shoes and pants and underwear in the requisite haste of pulling up and smoothing down the tell tale garments. Once, in attempting a graceful arighting from a squat behind a rather small bush, she’d managed to catch her heel on her drawers and fell backwards in plain view of the approaching vehicle and its occupants. Propriety and modesty and keeping up appearances had long since been replaced by the ‘who gives a f$%^’ that comes with age.

This second herd was all boarder horses, owned by others and stabled with Claire’s own, in the paddocks and barns, and a few stalls. They were a mixed bunch, and there would be comings and goings as owners would move or decide they wanted a more ‘equestrian’ or ‘competition’ barn, but the heart of this herd were three who had lived with Claire for longer than she could remember…more than a decade, at least. Their owners were AWOL. In all those years, very few had visited their old horses, one never did, in fact. Her heart ached for these three, who didn’t have a person of their own. She tried her best to give them attention, but it was never enough. More than likely, the horses were very happy, living undisturbed, being regularly fed and watered, exercised a bit and not having to put up with the demands often exacted by an ‘owner’. Whenever anyone would ask Claire if he or she could help with chores, Claire always asked for grooming of these three, at least as many as the person would have time to brush and hoof pick. No matter their independence, and Claire did believe these three loved their independence, she knew they would enjoy the brushing and the cuddling and the treats that went along with a special bout of attention.

How could anyone, she wondered, who had an animal, especially a horse, not want to visit him or her? ‘Owners’ like that she couldn’t fathom and, mostly, didn’t like, though there was something to be said for those who, even though they didn’t visit, nonetheless paid monthly fees for many years, themselves paying for vet bills or farrier visits. So they did love them, and care for them. But not to BE WITH THEM, to feel that bond, the soft nuzzle, the nicker in the ear, the bits of heaven a horse could give the lucky person…she didn’t understand. In fact, the very word ‘owner’, in relation to an animal set her teeth a’clenching as Claire knew as much as anything she ever knew that an animal cannot be owned, is not a possession. Perhaps this is what she felt against those who didn’t visit their horses…that they were treating their babies as property.

The other boarder horses were well attended by their humans, at least weekly, sometimes more often. Some would come for a ride on the trails, or try a bit of dressage or jumping in the smaller fields, though Claire’s was not a dressage or jumping barn. The ‘jumps’ were haphazard affairs, old cedar rails perched atop mounting blocks or tree stumps. Even that was more than Claire liked because the experience level of the riders was not always a match for the activities being attempted. Some of her own horses were part-boarded, or part-leased to riders who paid by the month for the opportunity to ride. Sometimes, this drew experienced riders, sometimes novices. The very idea of letting a virtual stranger on one of her horses was anathema to Claire. She was not comfortable about it one bit, and allowed it only because it helped pay the bills that helped her keep her own horses, and dogs and now, sadly, only one cat. But she had watched one of her own horses pushed to a jump for which neither horse nor rider was ready, and that had ended the relationship between the rider and Claire’s horse. It had taken months of coaxing and some retraining by an accomplished rider at the barn to get the scared horse back to relative normalcy. Claire was adamant, however: She – the fair Colleen - must never be forced to jump again.

But she couldn’t be everywhere all the time and things could happen, things of which she didn’t approve, unbeknownst to her. That, she realized, though with justifiable annoyance, was something she had to accept and trust that those spirits who care for the sanctity of animals would keep a watchful eye over her babies.

She called to Mackie, who seemed intent on heading to the creek, to come with her and the other two dogs, luring them with promises of treats when they got back into the house. She used treats as inducements to get dogs back into the house, and as apologies to the two who had to stay inside. But, she assured herself, they were ‘good, healthy’ treats, as was necessary now that Georgie had taken to wobbling hugely over his bad hips. Surgery was mooted but, first, weight loss was in order. And he’d lost sufficient weight that surgery wasn’t necessary. That’s when the treats became ‘good, healthy’ ones. Claire didn’t want him gaining weight again.

Once inside, she rinsed out her tea mug from earlier, heated it with some warm water, then poured another mug from the teapot, sweetened it with a bit of stevia, made it palatable with a dollop of oat milk and sat herself in front of the TV and MSNBC, the only station she ever watched. And watched. Sometimes just listened…but it was always on. She was herself, politically, far left of centre and MSNBC was a left of centre cable news network, but it was American and Claire (despite wanting to be in Ireland) lived in Canada. Still, her decades of studies in history and political science and philosophies of the US and China and the-then Soviet Union, left her entranced and obsessed by American politics. While she hadn’t a clue who was the Reeve of her Township, nor her MP or MPP or even, at that particular moment, head of the Progressive Conservative Party (she did know Trudeau and Singh, so that was Liberal and NDP covered), she could tell you the various congressional members and Senators from virtually any state in the US. She knew the US constitution backwards and forwards, understood the workings of the country’s political system, could explain filibusters and runoffs and lame ducks and list every Cabinet secretary, ranking members of the various committees, party whips, and so on but, only months before, hadn’t realized there was about to be – in two days - a Canadian federal election.

She had finished her tea and was getting cereal when she had a strange sense that she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t, given all the dogs and Olivia, the cat, but it felt like an unknown presence. She’d had them before, these sensations, and she did believe she was surrounded by the spirits of those she loved who had gone on ahead of her. They would come and go, she believed, as suited them, but she was always happy when she thought they were around. In fact, even before Claire’s family had moved to this farm, her father had demolished the old house and built another, along with the two barns. Claire and her mother were keenly aware that the spirits of two women had been left where the old house once stood. She used to hear them talking, never quite so that she could decipher their words, often during the first years her family had lived there. She wondered now if they were still around as, only recently, she had heard a woman’s voice bereft of an actual human woman, and wondered was it her own mother, or one of the two souls from the old farm.

Almost as soon as she formulated the words in her head, ‘strange sense’, ‘presence’, the TV hiccoughed, and the DVD player suddenly turned on, starting to play midway into Stephen Colbert’s Christmas DVD (which she always left in there so she wouldn’t lose it). Odd that, but not unprecedented, given the strange goings-on that had marked much of her time in that house and on its property. She figured out how to get the TV back on, apologizing to Stephen for shutting him off, and sat down on the couch amid three dogs lying there, and two on the floor with their noses nearly in her cereal bowl. Removing Olivia from her neck, she had a first go at trying to eat without dog faces in the way. As usual, just as she’d settled to watch telly, it would go to commercial and she took personal offence at that whenever it happened. It took so much work, with animals and just getting things ready for herself, to get in front of the TV for a quick update on what was happening whenever it happened to be, that she refused to eat until the ads ended and regular programming resumed. Two thirds of the way into her breakfast, as another ad started, suddenly Stephen Colbert burst back in, singing “…copyright Stephen Colbert.”

“Fine,” Claire glowered to no one in particular, “Have at it, Stephen.”

She went into the kitchen and washed the few dishes she’d used. Looking out the window at the main bird feeders, she saw a hawk perched, waiting for one of the wee ones to drop in for a nibble. This wasn’t a new occurrence, but it was still one about which Claire didn’t know either how to feel or what to do. Hawks needed to eat, yes, but her wee birds had come to trust her and this safe feeding haven. She happily let the squirrels eat the bird seed and peanuts because she always provided more than enough. The crows had started to come and she was happy to feed them…but this hawk business was rankling at her, and for more than the obvious reasons.

Since her father’s death, Claire had come to associate hawks flying overhead with him, as he had talked about hawks when he was on his death bed. She had long believed hawks and eagles to be spirit creatures, angels perhaps. They had always been special to her and, now, with her father gone, she would cry as they flew overhead, often as many as six or seven, around her as she worked outside. She would speak to her father and mother while the birds blanketed her with their wings, often swooping quite low and near to her. They held magic and miracle and love and spirit message for her. And now, this interloper perched on a maple tree branch, waiting for the next unwitting junco or nuthatch or woodpecker or chickadee or mourning dove or blue jay or cardinal. The cardinals had only started to come back this past summer. She now counted four couples and worried about them constantly. She worried about all the birds, but cardinals she knew were said to represent a loved one in heaven. Claire was rarely a proponent of ‘popular beliefs’, but this one had a hold on her.

As she watched the hawk, and watched what the hawk was watching, she was taken again by the feeling of a presence. In the corner of her right eye, a bright light flicked. Just floaters or auras she thought when these things happened, as they often did. But, it happened again. Then again. She asked the dogs what the hell was going on, but they didn’t seem to know. She looked out at the hawk, just as he made the first move to fly from the branch. The light flicked again in the top corner of her right eye. She saw a flicker by the bird feeder, top…right…side. She felt her mouth become round and sensed, “oh…no,” hearing her voice echoing back at her from outside. She dropped the mug she was drying.

And the dogs started howling. All at once, some deep and long, with rich tones, some high and piercing. Claire heard them and knew that something had just happened. Or was about to happen.

She heard a wee piercing punctuated scream from the right side of the bird feeders.

Claire felt herself topple, almost in slow motion, onto her right side on the kitchen floor. There was a terrible scream…more of a roar, somewhere in the distance.

She listened. The roar was coming from her.

The dogs had stopped howling. The light flickering in the upper corner of her right eye seemed to be the only movement. Claire was almost afraid to breathe, such solemnity had seemed to envelop the scene, this improbable drama on the kitchen floor. She wasn’t hurt from the unexpected hurdle onto the floor, at least not that she knew yet. But she remained motionless, waiting, somehow certain she would not be disappointed.

The TV blasted back on, at maximum volume at the same moment the toaster oven suddenly screeched as if it were being scalded, and its innards blazed bright red as if a fire had started. Down the hall, Claire heard the unmistakable voice of the Google woman, the one with the English accent, inform nobody in particular that there was no wifi available. Claire hated the Google woman because she was technology and that was something not at all welcome unless absolutely critical and integral to survival. But a kind person in Claire’s life thought she’d enjoy ordering the voice around. Assured she wouldn’t, the kind one told her the Google woman would find her guided meditations and other things the kind one knew Claire might actually enjoy.

Eithne and Polly, the aged twin Labradoodles, were the first – besides the Google interloper – to make a recognizable sound. They were sitting, leaning against each other, white Eithne on the left, black Polly on the right, facing away from her, Claire saw when she managed to get herself positioned to a better vantage point. They were whining and both staring where the DVD player and Stephen Colbert liked to play games. Tiernan was beside her, while Georgie and Mackie looked up at her just feet away, the three silent, but panting. She knew they were looking to her for the explanation she didn’t have. The toaster oven seemed to have had enough scorching and shrieking for the day, resuming silence and its usual metallic aspect. The only thing remaining from what had just collectively happened was the white flicker, two small white bars, vertical to each other that her eye refused to relinquish.

Seeing the twin girls staring, and whining so softly as to be barely audible, Claire was catapulted back five decades to when she and her parents and dogs had first moved into this house. As brand spanking new as the house and all its contents were, as empty as the just-constructed dwelling was, it was already lived in. Claire felt certain of that at the time. Her mother, initially disinclined to believe her, came around to the same realization eventually. Her father never did and, whenever either she or her mother would refer to the strange goings-on – for strange they were – he told them they were “not wise,” a blanket Northern Irish-ism highly effective in dismissing someone’s speculations or assertions as not worthy of sensible consideration.

And yet, back then, shortly after the family had moved into the new house, Claire began to notice strange, sometimes frightening, occurrences, particularly during the night. She’d awaken to a godless scream (often wondering about the banshees she knew from Irish lore, who wail foretelling death), get up out of bed and run to the kitchen where the toaster oven – a different one, 50 years ago – would be blisteringly red, an inferno of choleric ignominy inside, emitting that siren-like squeal that resembled nothing as much as a severely-overheated toaster oven complaining loudly about being left to its own devices, as it were. Televisions would turn on by themselves. Never off. Claire’s transistor radio took great pleasure in turning itself on at random times. Car tires were slashed. (OK, that reeked of bad neighbors, but it added to the general disenchantment of life in the new home). Things…just…happened.

At first, it was only Claire’s word against both her parents’. Neither of them experienced anything like Claire had. Her mother was prone to believe her, as the tale of the banshee was one she didn’t dismiss lightly. From the Irish, “Bean” (woman) “Sidh” (fairy). Their wail, though unmistakable, has been mistaken for a tom cat on the prowl, or a female feline in heat. You’d have to line them up one beside the other and have them emit in turn to decipher which wail belonged to whom, but I doubt that’s been done. So, the wailing toaster oven did hold Claire’s interest. It wasn’t a thing to fear, nor were the on/off televisions and radios, because she had a healthy, almost enthusiastic belief, in the ‘others’, whoever they were, whence they came and what they wanted. She welcomed them. But, as much as her mother ignored or, at best, mildly encouraged Claire’s reports, her father equally rebuffed such nonsense. He was also one not to believe in the usual Irish superstitions, the most condemnable one, the placing of shoes on a table. Both Claire and her mother would shriek, whilst leaping from chairs or hurtling from elsewhere in the room were her father ever so patently heedless as to put his shoes directly on the table (which he often did to shine them, having learned this requisite practice in the British army…the shoe shining that is, not the table placing). Sometimes, in his never-flagging, perhaps feigned, disgust for their frenetic assurance that no good could come from tempting bad luck, he might put a bag containing newly-purchased footwear on a table. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. Claire didn’t know if her mother’s reactions were as fiercely strong as her own to such transgression but, between them, shoes or boots or slippers or any manner of foot apparel was summarily, and loudly, removed from table top with all possible urgency and immediacy.

But it all became much clearer when Claire began to hear the women. The faraway women who, nonetheless, were near enough for Claire to hear they were talking. Usually, they spoke in lively tones, freely, companionably, in the way familiars would pass time together, perhaps sharing a chore or a glass of cold lemonade or iced tea of a summer day. Just chat. And she heard them often, Claire did, always during the daytime, usually in the afternoons. Their voices rather wafted on breezes from the far corner of where Claire’s father had established a large and thriving vegetable garden, specifically where he had started a compost heap. These disembodied voices were very real, Claire was sure of that, but she could never quite make out what they were saying, these two women. She was sure there were two, because the voices, if not the words, were distinct.

She told her mother about the voices, knowing her mother may disabuse her of the notion but, also, hopeful she, too, may hear them because her mother was open to such occurrences. Even now, decades later and her mother long dead, Claire didn’t know if her mother had ever heard the voices herself; she knew that she believed her. There was one episode that clinched it, Claire knew, for her mother to know there were ‘others’ about. It was a summer day, sometime in 1976. The family had been living in the house and on the small farm property for about two years, and Claire had been witness to many odd occurrences and voices, vibrant and conversational, in the distance, often. Just at the far end of her father’s garden. A friend of Claire’s mother was visiting and the pair of them, she and her friend, said they were off to the garden center, more than likely for geraniums or petunias, both on Claire’s least favorite list. Of course, that was at least 30 years before Claire herself took an interest in gardening, especially the perennial flowers she cultivated for the bees and butterflies and hummingbirds and any other of God’s creatures who cared to pay a visit. Small birds sheltered in the bushes and drank from the bird bath Claire made for them, hidden away for their protection at bath- or thirst-slaking time. She even added a drinking area for bees, by placing a small handful of marbles in the wee birdie bath. And there were more than a few toad houses throughout the garden.

But that was now. This was then, and Claire had no interest in any treks to garden centers or goings-on a’planting. She was in the kitchen after her mother and Mrs. B left, more than likely having tea, since tea was a constant in the small family routine, their being from Ireland and all. As soon as anyone would come to the door, “Get the kettle on,” her mother or father would announce as more or less protocol. And there was nothing a cup of tea and a piece at the kitchen table couldn’t accompany and, often, fix. The ‘piece’ would more than likely be soda or wheaten bread at which Claire’s mother was a true master, having the dab and delicate hand required for just the right consistency. No one, not since Claire’s Nana, could make scone bread like her mother. Claire could pass muster at it, but nothing close to the perfection of her mother’s, hot off the griddle, butter or margarine dripping off it as her mother growled at her father and her that they’d make themselves sick eating it hot like that. It wasn’t properly cooked, she’d admonish the pair of them. To no avail, of course. Nearly an entire scone loaf would be finished before the mugs of tea were emptied. She’d not thought of it before but now, looking back, the kitchen was the hub of her world, her safety and refuge, the place she came when she was excited or proud or sad or angry or hurt, elated or defeated. There was likely no emotion she had not felt in that room, sitting at that table.

Perhaps that’s why it always seemed she was in the kitchen when she heard the female voices outside. That day of the garden trip, Claire was unaware of the time or how much of it had passed. She distinctly heard the voices out back in the garden, and assumed the two ladies had returned and, from what she could hear, had got vegetables as well as flowers for planting. It didn’t interest her, other than the thought that they’d be coming in for tea soon. And so she went about doing whatever it was she was doing until she heard the dogs, the two Irish Wolfhounds and her Beagle boy, barking at the front where the laneway curved around the smokehouse. Her immediate reaction – being essentially anti-social because of extreme shyness – was annoyance that she’d have to go to the door as her mother was obviously too far away in the garden and her father wasn’t there, more than likely at work. Her stomach churning in dread of the door-open-greet-whomever, she started a slow walk to peek out the hallway window which overlooked the drive. At her very first step, the front door swung open and in walked her mother and Mrs. B, laughing and chatting in the way they did, usually somewhat giddily, as Mrs. B. was prone to malapropisms and more than happy to laugh at herself for them.

Claire said hello, then added, “It didn’t take you long to get from the garden. I thought there was a visitor out there with the dogs barking.”

“Sure we’re only just here,” her mother said. “Just in from the garden center.”

“You haven’t been out in the garden, at the far end, cahooin’ about?” Claire asked. Promptly assured they hadn’t, Claire gave her mother a wee wink and a nod. “Then it was your women,” she said. “Out there talking the last half hour.” Her mother understood immediately, but it didn’t seem the time to introduce Mrs. B into the ghostly goings-on around the property. Some people just wouldn’t understand. ‘nuff said.

And that was the day Claire knew her mother believed her about the voices.

Months later, to put a fine point on it, the family learned that the people who had lived in the old house that had been on the property, a family homestead from the late 1870s, had moved away, rather odd for those with a heritage attached to the place, when the owner, a widower, decided he just couldn’t live there anymore. Like Claire’s family, his was a small one, just a wife and one daughter. About a year before he moved out and put the property up for sale, his wife had died in the house; a few months later, his daughter was killed when her car slid into a ditch as she turned into the gravel road that led to the laneway. Within six months, his entire family was gone. Claire could imagine the grief, as could anyone, and how difficult it would be to remain in the house without his wife and daughter. He did stay for awhile but, eventually, he told the parish priest, he had to leave because he heard them talking from time to time. He’d distinctly hear their voices and believed they were trying to tell him something, but the words were never discernible.

On learning this tragedy, Claire tried harder to make out the words whenever she heard the women chatting. Now, four decades later, she still experienced odd occurrences, and she still could hear women’s voices, especially on summer afternoons, the two in casual conversation. But now there were other forces at play, and Claire was always calmed by them. In the past 15 years, both Claire’s parents had died, six years apart. And Claire knew her father was still there, and she knew why. And others had seen him, strangers to the house who would ask who the old man was, sometimes in the barn, sometimes in the family room. And they would describe Claire’s father exactly as he was, always, in the last few years of his life, wearing green ‘farmer’ pants and plaid shirt, likely from TSC and, always, a hat. Sometimes it was a baseball cap but, when Claire remembered him, it was a purple or green beret, hearkening to his years in the British Army, mostly after WWII, during the occupation of Hong Kong. He’d been stationed there, and in Singapore. It was a touchy topic between him and Claire, his being Irish and serving in the British Army. But he was proud of his service; he’d been a Captain in ‘the Buffs’, the paratroopers.

Claire knew her father was yet with her and, sometimes, when she would feel the need to be near him, she would go out to the back barn, that once housed cows and now served as a run-in for some of her horses, climb up on a bale of hay beside the spot she associated with him and just listen, knowing he was there, hoping he would say something, or give her some indication of his presence. And, to be honest, there were some strange things that happened out there. They had had a tough relationship, the pair of them, and she regretted the lost years of poor communication, but she knew he knew that. They had forgiven each other at his deathbed. She called him, “Daddy”, there, for the first time since 1969, and asked his forgiveness for whatever had happened to her that caused such mental blockage after the night of her mother’s breakdown. And she told him she forgave him, and she always had. No matter how angry she could be at him, and he deserved it many a time, she adored him. She would always adore him. And, so, she went where she felt his presence the strongest, and lay on a hay bale, listening to the horses munching their hay…and felt peace, likely the only peace she ever felt.

But that’s a story for another time.

Back on the kitchen floor, where Claire yet remained lying, watching the Labradoodle girls, listening to their soft whines and wondering what exactly had happened, for something definitely HAD; Claire felt no immediate need to get back up. She was, she believed, meant to be where she was…lying on the floor.

By the time that thought had fully formed in her head, the other dogs were gathered around her, pawing and poking at her. Two thought it a great game but Mackie (the sensitive lad) seemed very concerned and stared deeply into her eyes as he did when she would talk to him, as if trying to understand exactly what she was saying. She would have liked to have just stayed where she was and wait for what she hoped would be a paranormal experience of some kind. Sadly, the dogs weren’t of the same mindset and, with them becoming ever more excited and alarmed, and more forceful with he pokes and prods, she did what she always did in such situations with them. She started laughing and, the more she laughed, the more they clambered over her, thus setting off another fit of giggles which had the five of them – the Doodles having abandoned staring off into space – covering her face in licks and laps and tiny nibbles and, as she feared, Georgie taking advantage of her mouth opened in laughter to plaster a sloppy lap across her teeth.

OKAY. ENOUGH.

Claire silenced herself and lay very quietly, motionless. She knew this would be the quickest way to calm her five caretakers and, with the exception of Georgie’s muzzle mere inches from her face, primed for another gross slathering of her mouth, they sat or lay quietly, awaiting her next move.

Had she been about 20 years younger, Claire would have hopped up quickly and without concern for any of her spinal discs or patella pangs. These days, however, any getting up from the ground or floor demanded she roll or turn over onto her stomach or - if seated, her knees - and work her way awkwardly, legs akimbo as if doing the splits, back to upright stance. It was anything but elegant yet decidedly effective. She didn’t mind the young girls, who boarded or co-boarded horses at her stable, laughing any time they’d seen her do this. She thought it very funny herself and rather enjoyed displaying her ingenuity. Why they had seen her perform this impressive uplifting of self as often as they had was because Claire loved to lie directly on the earth, be it on grass or on bare earth or, in the winter, snow. There was something deeply comforting to her in the connection, something which made her feel transported through time and space and at one with the universe, and all those who had gone before her.

And it made her cry. Every time. Were she alone, she would stay prone on the ground until she lost track of time, rising with the tears still fresh upon her cheeks. When others were about, she cut it short and willed the tears away before getting up to the delight of the boarders. They thought her very funny, most approachable and, to a one, an empath, someone to whom they could talk about anything. They shared their secrets, their troubles, many their mental health struggles with her. Claire knew why, of course. She herself had a history of psychological trauma and grief and unbearable sadness; they felt that in her, and trusted her. Some believed her a witch, so deep was her connection with nature, so readily would the animals commune with her.

Claire had begun to wonder if they were right. Perhaps there was a bit of witchiness about her. Her eyes were anything but normal, one brown and one blue. Coming from Ireland, she knew well the legend of babies with eyes of different colors. It was believed the fairies, when a child with heterochromia was born unto them, would – in the dead of night – switch the fairy baby, for a human one, with eyes of only one color. And she was left-handed, unusual at the time she was born. She could read and write backwards, upside down and mirror image as easily as in the normal fashion. Electronic equipment, such as printers or photocopy machines, computers or even electronic metronomes would malfunction or stop completely in her presence. In her many workplaces, fellow employees soon learned – when office machines malfunctioned - to ask her to leave the room or work cubicle and, sure enough, when she did the object in question would begin working again. And watches. She couldn’t wear them. They would either stop working near immediately or run backwards.

She was, truth be told, an oddity. And she took great pride in it. As someone who had never fit in during childhood or, in fact, most of her life, she was happy that these things that set her apart from the world in general, drew her closer to something much bigger, something almost magical.

The dogs were becoming restless. In fact Eithne and Tiernan had left the kitchen entirely. Time to do her signature roll and clumsy splits-push-up. And so she began the process, noticing her backside was a bit numb. She’d been lying there too long, of course. As she went to push herself over to her stomach, a light flashed sideways across her eyes. She stopped to regain her vision, and refocus. Pushing again, she got no further before her vision was totally obliterated by a blinding white light. On her elbow, half-turned, she hung her head towards the floor in hopes the light would somehow drain. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, shook her head gently and tried to open her right eye. She couldn’t.

Despite the shock of what was happening, Claire found it more interesting than scary. She wondered more about the ‘why’s and ‘how’s of her current infirmity than about what she could do to fix or, even, ameliorate it. She stayed like that for what seemed about a minute, head hanging, eyes closed and thought about her parents and her grandparents and her wonderful friend who had died recently. She thought about the unseen women murmuring in her father’s garden and about her own unusual take on life and death and afterlife and, somehow, she knew what was happening here and now was, in some way, but a part of it all.

Something finally hinted in her brain that it was time to try again. She tried opening her left eye. Success, and no glaring light. Then her left. Also fine. Lifting her head, she saw all five dogs lying near her, some pressed against her side, some peering around the corner, all looking at her, calmly, tails wagging.

Claire tried again to roll onto her front, positioning her right elbow firmly onto the floor. This time she succeeded and, lying on her stomach, she arranged herself into the cobra pose she knew well as it helped relieve the pain she often felt in her lower back from a slipped disc or two. And, with the dogs watching, eager for her next move, she pushed herself up onto all fours, then flopped onto her backside in a rather inelegant lump. And started to laugh. Very loudly, and wholeheartedly. Nothing had ever seemed as funny to her as her current situation. She laughed so loudly and so long, she began to cry; which set the dogs into motion licking her cheeks and lashes…which made her laugh even more and set the whole cycle off again. And so it continued until she fell back down onto her back. Again, all five dogs on top of her. Again.

Despite the lunacy and improbability of what would have been an exceedingly odd scene to any given onlooker, it felt just…right.

Claire had no desire to move; instead her thoughts began to drift through years and people and events and what she knew she’d done wrong and the few things she’d allow herself to believe she’d done right. And all the animals she’d had been lucky enough to have as her family and how much she hoped there would be a Rainbow Bridge. And she remembered her friend was coming to see her … was it tomorrow, just for tea and a chat. Mary. It hadn’t been too long ago that she and Mary had met at Claire’s lawyer’s office to go over Claire’s will, and the provisions she was making for care of her animals. Mary, a true animal lover herself, had agreed that, in the unlikely event Claire didn’t outlive her animals, Mary would take the dogs and Olivia; then, find homes – happy forever homes – for the horses and donkey. And she would contact all the boarder horse ‘owners’ so as they could move their horses.

Had that meeting actually happened? Claire searched her memory which, of late, had become intertwined with dreams. It was no longer unusual for her to ask people if something had actually happened or had she, in fact, only dreamed it. The line of demarcation had become increasingly blurred between what was real and what was fanciful thought or dream-state episodes. No. She was certain it had happened and, also, certain that Mary was coming the next day. Claire had a couple of books to lend her and, from where she was lying, she could distinctly see them on the counter. That much, at least, was real.

There was, she was certain, some crucial reason that what was happening to her, there in the kitchen, at that time. It wasn’t a feeling, or a fancy she was entertaining to amuse herself further. She thought about the searing white light that had blinded her momentarily and thought about the white flashes of light that she had been seeing more frequently of late in the peripheral field of her right eye. It had started with one split-second flash sometimes when she would sit down; sometimes when standing up. Not often at first; maybe once a week or so. But the frequency increased, and then the number of flashes, to the point where there would be an instantaneous burst of the rectangular flashes down the far side of her right periphery. In contemplating this optical development, Claire remembered her optometrist alerting her at least two decades ago that she was at high risk for retinal detachment, so she had searched the symptoms and, indeed, such bursts of light were one indicator. But there were many more, none of which she had experienced.

Eventually, the odd flash began appearing in the peripheral field of her left eye. At least it was balancing itself out, she told herself. Finally, when it was time for her two-year check-up (the one covered by OHIP), the optometrist examined her eyes thoroughly, more thoroughly than he ever did for most patients, even those as senior as Claire. His reasoning was not surprising. Whereas he could compare virtually everyone else to the general population, Claire’s eyes were so unusual that he could compare her symptoms and progression only to her own records. It was more than just the difference in iris color that set her eyes apart; she never paid attention when he explained her anomalous condition. It was enough to know she was, yet again, unusual.

However, she had never – until today – experienced the blinding flash. That was new and something, she promised herself, she would contemplate further and visit Mr. Google later to investigate possible causes; and of what it might be symptomatic. Claire was not one to fret about health troubles beyond getting them out of the way and proceeding with all she must do in her usual fashion. It had only been this past summer that she had, in having to run ahead of the horses to close a gate; and, another time, to fight with Rosie to pull her out of the barn where she was devouring hay bales, that she completely lost her ability to breathe. Much as she tried, she could not get even the tiniest breath into her lungs. The tiny bit of exertion – which wouldn’t have fazed or winded her even a year earlier – left her gasping. Or she would have been gasping had she been able to get a breath into her lungs. She wondered if she were about to have a stroke or a heart attack. Neither prospect bothered her much, but she didn’t like being helpless.

To the rescue came her four years of hot yoga when, because of her life-long bronchial condition, she’d often have to lie on her side during the ‘dead pose’ or ‘savasna’ when one is meant to lie on one’s back. When she thought she may actually lose consciousness from lack of oxygen, she lay herself down (once amid the hay bales, Rosie by her side; and once in the manure-riddled laneway), then turned on her right side (apparently left works for most other people) and, slowly, dared to inhale – just a bit at first - then, in gradual increments, until she was breathing near to normally. The exertion had so depleted her energy that it was at least another 10 minutes before she could get up onto her feet. After setting Rosie and the open gate to rights, she had retreated to the house and spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. Claire was certain that, had she not recalled her hot yoga experience, she may very well have suffered a heart attack or stroke.

The thought had intrigued her and, instead of her primary feeling being that of relief, she contemplated at length what life would have been like had she been stricken with either, and survived. Dying was not something she feared, not for herself, anyway. But she did worry about her animals and what would become of them without her. And it was that very concern that had sent her, with Mary, to Claire’s lawyer not so long ago. Knowing that her worst fear – an unknown fate for her beloved animals – was allayed was the greatest peace Claire could imagine. How she loved Mary for her friendship, for her concern and for Mary’s recognizing that her lifelong friend would never rest in peace – anywhere – were her animals not safe.

Claire was still lying on the floor when the long rays of late afternoon began to trickle across the open concept family room and kitchen. Tiny ripples of sunlight glanced off aluminum and metal, and peeked through the skylight onto Claire’s face. Olivia found the best spot to sun-worship and the dogs dozed as they do in the sunshine.

She wondered why it was she hadn’t tried to get up again. Surely it had been hours since whatever happened had happened. Claire felt a momentary tug of panic when she realized the horses would need to be brought in and fed in another two hours. She would have to make a move. She would have to try to make a move. For some reason, it seemed to her that it would be difficult.

What day was it, she wondered? Was it Monday? She thought it might be Monday. If only she still went to Mass every Sunday, she would have some sort of reference whereby to gauge the days. If it were Monday, one of the horse boarders would be coming to put the horses in and feed them all. Then, Claire wouldn’t have to worry. And, often, the boarder or her children would come into the house to use the toilet as there was none out by the barns. If one of them did, she could ask what day it was.

No. That didn’t make sense. If one of them did come in, that would mean it was, indeed, Monday. Claire hoped it was Monday. If she were still lying on the floor should one of them come in, she would ask her (they were all female) if the family would mind feeding her dogs for her. Then, she could just stay prone where she was, where everything felt right, now that she seemed to have sorted out the dog and horse situation. And, she had best remember to mention that Olivia needed feeding, too.

But WAS it Monday? Just as quickly as she would lull herself into the certainty it was, her heart would leap as if into her throat and she would be unsure. And if it weren’t Monday, she’d have to get up and tend to everyone, and she was starting to feel so very tired. It must be the late day sun, Claire thought. The dogs were still basking. Tiernan and Polly were snoring while Mackie was yipping and flipping his back feet about. He was dreaming about running. Claire smiled to herself.

It had to be Monday, she finally realized, because Mary was supposed to come on Tuesday and she knew for a fact Mary was coming tomorrow. “Don’t forget to give her those books you promised her,” Claire thought to herself, immediately wondering which books Mary had wanted. She should have written it down. She should always write things down. But, to be honest, she did write most things down but, then, could never remember what she did with the bits of paper that held the key to what or when or where it was she was meant to remember. Invariably, she would find the scraps with all the important information in the exact place she had put them so she would remember their location. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t find them until after the event, or appointment or important reminder had long passed and was no longer relevant.

Lying there, now fully assured that everything was looked after for the immediate future, the days of the week sorted and certain that, if she lay there all night, others would do her work and mind her charges and, if she fell asleep, Mary would surely waken her when she arrived at 10 a.m. Claire was surprised and impressed she remembered they’d planned to meet at 10 a.m., especially with all that bother about what day it was, or would be. It wasn’t often she had NOTHING to do, nothing immediate anyway. She was quite comfortable where she was and, aside from the fact the dogs would soon be feeling peckish and demanding their dinners, there wasn’t anything she HAD to do right then and there. And Joanne would be here soon with her girls and, if today were like every other Monday, at least one of them would come into the house and, with a bit of guidance from Claire, take care of the dogs.

With all the thoughts sorted in her head, and the worries tucked snugly behind the certainties, Claire did something she rarely had ever been able to do. She relaxed. She closed her eyes and thought about nothing besides the happiness she had in her life, nearly all of it provided by her animals, these who loved her now – and whom she loved more than she cared about herself – and the many (of a wide variety of species) she had had over her relatively long life. Her memories seemed to float to the top of her head, like bubbles in a stream, making way for new recollections.

As hard as her life had been, and as much as she had struggled to make sense of the things that had hurt her, Claire chose now – perhaps unconsciously – to think of the infrequent joys, the laughter she and her mother had shared, the last final days of her father’s life when they had bonded anew with the love that was always between them but, for years, had seemed strangled. She missed him terribly, even though their relationship had been strained; but she felt blessed their last days together had been as close to a perfect ending as one could wish.

Olivia had come to settle on Claire’s chest, no doubt to remind her errant mother that it was feeding time. She had licked Claire’s nose a few times with her prickly tiny tongue. She was always surprised that, despite Olivia’s advanced age, her breath was fresh, not dank and foul as was the breath of most old cats.

She must have dozed off for a moment. Claire. (Olivia, too, for that matter.) When she opened her eyes, all she saw was a sort of brown blur that, gradually, cleared to reveal shapes of what seemed to be bedroom furniture. She squeezed her eyes shut again, to clear the fog but, when she opened them again, things were still blurry and unfamiliar. Somewhere, in the part of her brain that constantly wondered if she were dreaming, she remembered this feeling. It was the dream state within the dream state within yet another dream state. At least that’s what she had experienced. Often, awaking from a terrible dream, Claire would find herself in a world that didn’t make sense, a very upsetting situation. But she had learned over time that this was just another ploy, a clever guise to throw her off track. If she waited, and thought, “I’m still dreaming; I’m still dreaming…,” eventually she would pass through every level of dream state and, with great relief, return to the reality of her world.

However, try as she might to close her eyes and tell herself it was a dream that would disappear when she opened them again, nothing changed. She was still lost in a brown blur of a bedroom, and it was one she didn’t recognize.

Claire had spent more time than she liked to remember with therapists whose insights she neither appreciated nor respected but, at that moment, she remembered a technique from either CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) or DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy), or both, that might serve her well now. It involved accessing the five senses, though she couldn’t remember the exact number of things one was to identify: When feeling as if one’s grasp on reality is slipping, name X number of things you can see; X number you can hear; X number you can touch; X number you can smell and she couldn’t remember if there had been any point in remembering any number of things you can taste, given the inside of your mouth is about it.

She should probably try those things now, Claire mused, though she feared she’d only see the brown blur and, beyond that, she really didn’t care. She could feel Olivia; she could smell her sweet scent and hear her contented purring. She wasn’t sure which dogs were snuggled against her but she felt their warmth, heard their breathing and slight snores and smelled the glorious scent she’d long pronounced her favorite in all the world, to the consternation of anyone who’d asked: matchstick toes. Some, though not all, dogs have pads on the bottom of their feet that, when dry (particularly in the summertime), smell like burnt matches. The first dog in her life who was truly hers had matchstick toes and, to her, there was nothing to compare with it. Many dogs had followed that first, and every one had been checked for the scent of burnt matches. And, while some retained the splendiferous aroma year-round, all canine feet that walked in and out of her life in the intervening years, were redolent of matchsticks in the summertime. She wished she could smell all the dogs’ feet right now, but it seemed like too much expenditure of energy. Besides, as soon as she would rouse herself, they would all be up and leaping all over her, running to doors and windows to ascertain all was right with the world and that just seemed a bit much at the moment.

Mackie, Claire thought, was lying against her in such a way as she could reach his back right foot without disturbing Olivia. She reasoned that, at the very least, she could run a finger or gently scratch her nail against one of his pads, and get the scent from that. The more she contemplated it, the more desperate she became for a tiny sniff of what had long given her such pleasure: the sheer dogginess of her canine family.

Not wanting to discommode Olivia, Claire decided to shift her back to the left, thus opening a space between her side and Mackie’s foot, and allowing sufficient room to move her hand from her chest to her right side and his waiting pad. Her back was stiff from lying so long and she tried as much of a backward bend as possible in prone position, then jiggled her hind end left and right to loosen things up before attempting a shift subtle enough to leave Olivia in place and undisturbed.

Claire felt herself doing just that, those movements. Her head told her she’d done them but she soon realized she hadn’t moved a millimeter. She tried again, certain she’d overshot entirely and would send Olivia into mid-air but, again, she found herself as if glued to the floor. No one, not Claire, not Olivia, not any of the dogs, had moved or broken breathing pattern.

Odd.

“Odd,” Claire thought. “I’ve just been lying here far too long.” She had discovered, years ago, that, when she had pain or stiffness in any body part, all she had to do was think about that point and breathe into it, willing her breath and oxygen in that direction. Others had quizzed her as to how she could isolate the different muscles and joints and parts within her, but she had no explanation. She had thought it was something everyone knew and could do. And it was what she did now. She thought about her back, and the discs she knew were rubbing against each other, then breathed slowly and steadily in their direction. She could feel the oxygen – or so she had long believed – working its way toward the designated spot. And it had always worked. ALWAYS.

Three times she tried her curative method, feeling the flow of her breath as it directed itself toward her lower back and spine. But, nothing. There was no movement.

Oliver Hardy sprang to life in her mind. "Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into," Claire could hear him saying to his erstwhile companion, Stan Laurel. And indeed it was, a nice mess she’d got herself into, albeit unintentionally.

It was surprising, Claire mused, that she wasn’t in any way concerned about her predicament. It was unsettling and inexplicable, but she was sufficiently at one with the universe and fate or the natural way of things that she determined the best and wisest thing to do was just wait to see what life would unfold from its pocketbook next. The dogs were fine, the cat was fine, the horses were fine; people were scheduled to arrive in the near future, her will was set and there was nothing more she could do. Her body refused.

But where her physical self had settled into inaction, her brain went into overdrive, culling and selecting from nearly 70 years’ worth of data and lived experience. There was much she didn’t want to remember. Before her mind’s eye there flashed faces and conversations, taunts and ugliness, pictures of the past she had tried to shut out from her memory. But, Claire sensed these were not the times or the people she was meant to recall now.

Instead, she lay, content, on the kitchen floor, her animal family around her. She realized now she had likely had a stroke, as had her mother and grandparents before her. But they had been in hospitals, cold and sterile, whereas she was here in the world she loved. She wondered if, when someone found her, they would get her to a hospital where she would either recover quickly, or begin the long and agonizing process of physical rehabilitation. She didn’t want that. Nor did she want to leave her animals.

Claire understood events had unraveled as they were meant to do. She had ensured Mary would take care of her animals in the long term. In the short term, she knew it was Monday and Joanne would come and, whether upon Claire’s instruction or not, would feed the dogs and Olivia. Tomorrow, Mary would come for their tea and, should Joanne not come this evening, would find her and take care of the dogs and cat. They’d be hungry and displeased, but they would be fine. And, while the horses would be indignant at being left in the pastures, missing their evening meal, they, too, would not suffer from missing their routine for a night.

No, she thought, this was what had always been meant to happen. As Claire lay, more or less content with her lot, she felt herself beginning to drift off to some other place.

And then, the dogs began barking and running from window to window, and to the doors, demanding attention. Joanne had arrived, thought Claire. She would come to the front door to let the dogs out, bring the horses in and take care of things; maybe even take care of her.

No. Claire didn’t want to be found helpless. She didn’t want to live helpless. She heard the front door open and the swoosh of maniacally barking and howling dogs as they ran out to greet the visitors. Olivia crouched tightly against Claire’s chest, matching heartbeat to heartbeat. She was glad to have Olivia with her, and told her so in a sort of garbled fashion. But she knew Olivia understood.

The two of them lay quietly when, suddenly, Claire felt herself jerk, sufficient enough to topple Olivia from her chest to the crook of her right arm. What had she always said? Some thought it in jest, but she’d always meant it quite seriously, and recited it with pride. Despite the dead weight she felt pressing her upper spine into the floor, Claire somehow managed to raise her head just enough to see the tips of her feet.

Yep. She was still wearing her boots and, yep, they were caked with manure.

Olivia retook her place on Claire’s chest and snuggled in. But her purring had stopped.