San Antonio

Today, I'm going to borrow a sugary, overly-used, marketed-into-a-bloody-pulp Disneyfied phrase: Dreams do come true.

A few weeks ago, I had to the opportunity to do something I've dreamed about since I was a little girl. I went to Sea World. I'll let that sink in for a moment.

In order to understand why this was so important, let's turn back the clock of time, back to when I was in elementary school. I cannot remember a time when animals were not a passion with me, but once upon a time, my heart wasn't completely focused on sleds and goofy canine heroes. Before there were huskies, before there were flamingoes, my first conscious love was dolphins. When other little girls were showing off their most recently acquired Lisa Frank school gear, I had cheeseball dolphin folders. I drew them on any piece of scratch paper I could get a hold of. In my fourth grade yearbook under the penetrating question of "What do you want to be when you grow up" I said I wanted to be a sexy marine biologist and work at Sea World. I was the only eight-year old in the neighborhood who spent time campaigning for Green Peace and sporting the Save the Whales slogan.

So when I joined the Vet Tech Student Organization (VTSO) during my freshmen year at Vet Tech school, my hopes were high that one of our field trips would be at this wonderland from my girlhood. My wish came true and I found myself headed toward the charming city of San Antonio.

There are many charming treasures to be found in San Antonio. Not the least of which is the original Buck-ees, the largest gas station in the state in of Texas. Now, you may wonder at my delight over such a common place as a gas station, but let me tell you, this place is a palace among rest stops, a holy grail to the weary traveler! Once you enter into this marvelous Cave of Wonders, you are not confronted with the mundane cuisine of cheap gas station food, oh no, instead you are placed with the overwhelming options of a delicatessen, bakery and coffee shop, not to mention the racks of clothing, books, cooking supplies and useless knick-knacks. But the most wondrous part of this excellent pit stop are the BATHROOMS! Someone out there must've recognized the demand for the needs of unheeded bladders along this nation's highway, because it houses not 10, not 15, not even 20 separate stalls; folks, this place boasts no less then 50 toilets! I had a picture taken of myself in the fork of the hallway, just before the labyrinth of potties. God Bless Texas!

After relieving ourselves and gorging on the goodness of Taco Bueno, my room mate Jen, her boyfriend Bear, and I finally arrived at Seaworld. We rode the rides and I found myself at the beginning of a ruthless cycle in which I was doused with profuse amounts of water everytime I believed myself to mostly dry.

No matter, though. Once we were through with the roller coasters, it was time for our first show. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect such a performance. It began with a clown in the audience, entertaining children with a cheesy water fountain routine, but it wasn't long before the dramatic music filled the area and fog shot up around the tank. Two spandex-clad trainers came sailing in on the noses of streamline baluga whales and the water ballerinas formed their patterns. Then some more spandex-clad performers apparated in the rafters and executed acrobatic dives off a high dive. An acrobat dressed as a tropical bird dropped down from the ceiling in hoop and twirled around on nothing but a swatch of material. To add to the pizzaz of this marine spectacle, a flock of macaws would soar across the area at random intervals. The entire time I found my self saying " Where's the dolphins? Where's the dophins?" but when they glided in and started flipping up in the air, I was completely unprepared for the feeling that overwhelmed me. I started to tear up.

The rest of the day was a haze. We ohhed and ahhed over the Shamu show and took one final photograph of this magical place before starting the three hour trip back. On the way home, Bear decided I needed to see the city. We drove past the Alamo and walked along the Riverwalk, which in of itself was worth coming to San Antonio. I am the ultimate tourist and I love perusing street booths with homemade wares, especially jewelry.The treasures of the riverside booths abounded with many delights. I found myself eyeballing vast amounts of pro-Texan paraphenalia, more torquoise jewelry then you could shake a stick at, and most importantly, copies of John Wayne's birth certificate!

These booths were situated next to the picturesque canal and with the sun setting, we found ourselves in the perfect story book landscape. As I sipped my Shirley Temple underneath the twinkling lights of the patio of a mom-and-pop pub, I found myself to be completely at peace with the world. My time in Texas has been filled with many hair-raising experiences, but being in San Antonio helped me to understand why there is so much pride in this state and why so many of the olden day country singers lost their hearts there. It was a beautiful day and I had the chance to realize a dream. Looks like being a Texan has it's benefits after all.

********

(Wo)Man in the Mirror

This is the story of two men. One is a villain and one is a hero. Both have been hugely instrumental in helping me understand some aspects of myself that I really need to change. It is time that I learned to accept myself for who I am and expect others to do the same.

I came out to Houston to get an education, but I never counted on the lessons I've learned. I knew I was going to be drawing blood, and setting bones and giving shots, but those came easily. I came out here on a whim, hoping that I could make up for the massive mistakes I made in the past; but I don't know if I ever truly believed in myself or my ability to perform how I needed to. I guess I hoped that if I worked really hard, that God would take care of the rest.

As a teenager, I had the usual bouts of angst and inferiority; it didn't help that I was awkward looking, with a fang and stringy blonde hair. It also didn't help that I had a pack of sisters who were frustratingly beautiful, and still continue to be. Friends of my parents would meet my family and would exclaim what a lovely group we were, but I knew I couldn't possibly be included in that compliment; not with my squewompus eyeliner and odds were pretty good that there was some kind of dribble on my boob from a previous meal.

Through the years, I've tried to cultivate the fine art of being a desirable lady. I went on dates and even had a boyfriend or two. Once it even got serious. One night in August I found myself in the arms of a man who told me he wanted to marry me, and despite his family's objections, he was going to do it. Only, when it came to actually saying "I love you", he couldn't bring himself to do it. All he could say was " you know I do, right?" When our relationship crumbled a week later, I knew the reason why. I wasn't worth it.

I've moved on and had several life changing experiences: I've discovered the beautiful deserts of Southern Utah and found fulfilment in rescuing and training huskies to race. I've come to a realization of the life I want for myself and the drive to accept nothing less. At school, I do well. I'm getting good grades and my teachers all know who I am and like me. But I recently had an experience which tested my vision of my self worth.

Part of my program at school includes husbandry, which is the basic care and maintenance of all the animals in our facility. Everyone takes their turn feeding, exercising, and medicating the animals before and after school for a week. It's really stressful, due to the harsh penalties involved if something gets missed or looked over and because it's so time consuming and involves extremely early mornings and entire weekends, tempers tend to fly. My first session was last February, and I made up my mind that I was going to have a good attitude and give it my best effort no matter how challenging it was. Things were okay until the weekend, when I showed up for an early morning Sunday shift to be met by a wrathful team leader who felt that I had not cleaned out under a sink to his satisfaction. Despite the fact that I had swept under it three times and another student vouched for me, he accused me of lying to him and sent me home-for good.

I panicked all day long and when I went over to work on a group project with my friends and they heard the story, they were outraged. They pumped me up with so much indignant anger that I was ready to bypass my kennel manager and go straight to the principal. As it turns out the kennel manger was there when I walked in that morning and I told her my tale. She told me he wasn't allowed to send me home without telling her and that we would need to hold a meeting about it. Later on I found myself in the same room with my team leader, the kennel manager, and the program director. When asked why he took the harsh actions he did, he told the program director-who was also a favorite instructor of mine- that he couldn't find a place for me. I was incapable of the simplest task and was upsetting everyone around me. It was appalling to be cut down like that in front of the program director, and I was afraid she'd believe it was true. I don't know that either she or the kennel manager did, because the program director told him he couldn't send me home because he was frustrated with me, and after he left, my kennel manager told me that she wasn't going to penalize me because he hadn't been fair. She did ask that I make up the Sunday shift that I missed, however, and I was mortified to learn that I would be working once again with the clean sink Nazi. I spent an apprehensive week praying and reflecting on why his remarks should matter to me at all. I came to the conclusion that it wasn't my issue, it was his. I was giving it my best, and my teachers must know it, otherwise I would've done more hard time. My self worth should not be so easily compromised. I have a entire network of people who know that I am where I belong, and one ignorant opinion shouldn't cause me to balk at my dreams. That Sunday I worked my hardest and we completely ignored each other. I was gratified to hear my new team leader say "Thanks for working so hard. You were a big help." HAH!

So school has become something I've become confident about. I can handle it. However, I'm still working on something that will take much longer then a week to work through. Somehow, from the time I was thirteen, I found myself spending time with boys who could only think of me as' just the buddy', or their 'little sister'. I'm good at listening and I've discovered that no matter how they try to hide it, men have feelings just like us and they need someone to vent to as much as we do. I'd become so entrenched in the 'Just Buddy Zone' that I stopped seeing myself as anything else. I no longer believed I was like other girls, worthy of crushing on and hurting over. I began to believe that it was my job to listen and say soothing, comforting things, that dates with me were only only meant to be free therapy.

I have recently met someone who has had an enormous impact on me -for the better. Through our time spent together, I have come to see that my insecurities and shields are irrational and unnecessary. He has helped me to understand that despite the fact that I am domestically challenged and burned his pot stickers when I tried to make dinner for him, I am still worth loving. Our relationship is purely platonic, but I won't pretend he hasn't set a standard by the way he makes me feel. I'm quirky, proud, stubborn and spacey at times, but I have a lot to give and I am capable of making someone happy.

Yesterday I got a badly needed haircut. Guys don't understand this much, but the affect a new look can have on a woman can change her whole psyche. For the first time in months, I feel beautiful.

A wise Michael Jackson once sang:

I'm starting with the man in the mirror

I'm asking if he'll change his ways

and no message could've been any clearer

If you wanna make the world a better place

take a look at yourself and then make the change

Right now, I need to focus on my career. I don't want to stay in Houston; it's an extremely pet friendly city, but I feel that I could do a lot good in Utah if I returned home and brought some of the advances in pet welfare that seem so prevalent out here along with me. No, I do not intend to open a doggie bakery, or pursue a career in doggie orthodontics, (braces for your pooch... because getting them for your children isn't expensive enough) But Utah dogs are worth every bit as much as these Texan hounds, and they deserve the same chance to heal. I have a lot of work ahead of me and I need someone who is going to stand beside me. and guess what? I'm worth it.

*****

I think this picture says
it all.

He's My Dear, My Darling One...

...His eyes are shpaklin' full of fun. No other, no other can match the likes of him!

It finally happened. I have a dog! But I'm a little surprised at myself; it didn't go the way I planned it at all. Of course I intend to tell the story, but first, introductions. May I present to you all the newest and first member of my pack:

ARTHUR ROMEO SCRAGG MCKINLAY...the first.

I wish I could say it was love at first sight. It should've been. I shouldn't have been so narrow minded and set in my ways. But that is one reason why I came to Houston and Arthur is one of the few reasons that make it worthwhile.

I came down here with Huskies on my brain. Evo had just been adopted and my heart was still a little sore from losing him, especially with the knowledge that for the next year and a half, I wouldn't see any thing that even resembled a sled dog. After orientation at my school, I was told that I was welcome to come to the dog kennels where we keep all our subjects and play with them during off periods. There were about 40 dogs and 20 cats when I first arrived here, and my heart just about exploded when I saw them all in cages, fearful and anxious to get a breath of fresh air and a kind word. Naturally, I wanted to bring them all home, but my apartment has a two pet limit and my room mate had already brought a sickly cat with her.

At first I was drawn to a blonde Shepherd mix, but she seemed to be receiving a lot attention from other students, and I felt that there too many animals down there for one to hog all the limelight. I started going to the other aisle, to see if any of the smaller dogs were being neglected.

At the end of a row in the furthest corner, was a timid little terrier. He looked scruffy and unkempt, but his face had a certain sweetness about it. I pitied him. When I tried to get him out of his cage, he froze in terror. He dodged the leash I tried to put on him, but my volunteer experiences haven't been for nothing, and eventually I managed to rastle him into submission. Until we got out into the hallway. He spent the entire time hunched and cowering near the walls; I had to stop every few feet and coax him toward me. It infuriated me. A dog is never born afraid of people. It's something they have to be taught. This dog must've had a horrific life for him to be experiencing the terror he was. I knew this little guy was never going to be adopted if he didn't learn how to endear himself to people. He needed confidence. I made up my mind that he was going to get walked everyday, along the same route, same time, so that he could learn to depend on me and feel safe. He was one of many that I worked with.

One day, one of my classes cut into my usual schedule and I wasn't able to give him the time he needed. I was passing one of my teachers in the halls, when she called out to me and told me I should bring him to class. At first, I just held him on my lap, hoping he'd put up with it for the next 70 minutes. My teacher told me I could let him down to play. He cautiously started exploring the classroom, flinching each time someone would reach down to pet him. In the middle of class, he found a red rubber ball tucked away in a corner. He carried it around proudly, showing everyone his prize. It made my heart break to realize that he didn't even know what to do with the ball; he knew he was supposed to like it, but he had spent so much of his life trying to survive that he had never learnt to play. A couple of girls in my class noticed that I had been the one to bring him in and started trying to convince me to adopt him. I didn't want to. He was definitely special needs and that was very intimidating.

I could make the commitment to walk a Husky and play with it every day. I could brag to my sisters that someday I was going to find the ugliest, mangiest cur at the pound and bring it home, but when there was a little creature right in front of me who needed my help, I found myself making excuses, like that lame minister who passed up the beaten Israelite in the Good Samaritan parable. (as you can see, I feel pretty guilty about all this... I'm supposed to be champion for the oppressed of the animal kingdom!) I told the girls that I couldn't foster him, I didn't even have a bed to sleep on. On of the girls piped up and told me that she had a barely used full size mattress box set that she was trying to get rid of. The next week , I had a wonderful bed to sleep on, and a group of girls to eat lunch with during breaks. They've been my good friends and sometimes vicious body guards ever since. It would never have happened if it weren't for Arthur.

I began to have a great time at school, but my home situation was horrible. I came home to a room mate who had very little social skills. Out of respect for others involved, I will not include the details of my horrific ordeal with her, but it suffices to say that I needed a friend. Badly. As Thanksgiving rolled around, I found myself not liking the idea of him staying there in the kennels the entire holiday weekend, alone and locked up. I figured it couldn't hurt to foster him over the break. Maybe he'd loosen up and he'd be able to find a family.

Arthur did very well. I had him in belly roll to keep from marking all over my apartment, but other then that he had no destructive tendencies. He was still a little shy, but I was unaware of how much he was warming up to me. Concerning himself, he was always very submissive. He'd never fight back or growl or snap, no matter what procedure someone was trying to perform on him. But one night, when my mentally ill room mate crept into my room at 3:00 in the morning, he let out a resounding snarl that made my hair stand on end! He wouldn't defend himself, but when it came to me, he had a heart of a lion. After a huge feast at my old room mate Alena's home, I invited him on to my bed and got ready to go to sleep. When he snuggled up in between my arms, I realized I had been fighting a losing battle; there were no mountains around to tear up, no snow to plough through. I didn't even own a sled. I didn't need a tough, rugged, spirited dog to go exploring with. Not yet. At this time, with my schedule, I needed the little animal that lived to curl up on my lap and follow at my heels every where I went. I needed Arthur.

I turned in the adoption papers last December, and while I knew he was mine, I haven't been allowed to bring him home permanently until now, the end my first semester. In the mean time I was fostering him, and despite the fact that he had to learn that he would have to share me with John Wayne and David Duchovany, he has become such a fixture in my home that I hate to go to sleep without him.

Just a few reasons why I love him so:

He has the spirit of adventure.

He's very hygienic.

He knows when to relax.

He loves to snuggle with me.

All I know is that when I learned that I couldn't bring Evo with me, I said a prayer every night to Heavenly Father that when the time was right, He would send me the right dog for me. One that needed me as badly as I needed him. He sent me a sweet puppy and a screaming deal: I got Arthur vaccinated, microchipped, neutered, bathed, clipped, cared for and adopted at the low price of FREE. Take that, previous owner.

* * *


For those of you who think I'm off my rocker, understand that it could be worse. I could be dealing with a true Diva!

Lil' Miss Honky-Tonk

I am a woman of few hobbies. It used to be that when people would ask me what mine were, I'd have to wrack my brain and go through my day, wondering what the devil I did do with my down time. However, I have noticed that there are some things that are universally McKinlay and there has been one past time that has been a part of our lives since the beginning: We gotta dance.

Technically, only one of us is a dancer. My youngest sister was recently accepted at the Columbia School of Arts in Chicago due to her dancing skills. She chose to withdraw and pursue loftier heights, but we are all very aware of her talent. I am no where near her ability, but I think I fall second in line when it comes to loving it. Growing up in Utah, it was almost impossible to avoid learning the basics. As a child, I tried everything under the sun-including belly dancing. I was a klutzy child, and had little to no coordination. However, there was no stopping it when someone would throw on a beloved tape -ABBA, Michael Jackson, The Beach Boys, etc. - the six of us kids would erupt in a crazed dance party, not one of us caring if we looked stupid, but earning extra points if we made each other laugh. Some of my warmest childhood memories took place in the living room of our home.

It began in the home, but it continued on in school. When I was in Junior High, I enrolled in ballroom classes and found that I loved Swing best. When I started college, I met guys who loved dating girls who could dance. I didn't realize how much I'd missed dancing until I went out with a delightful young man who decided on a whim that we needed to perform a West Coast number on a ice skating rink. Later a good friend introduced me to Country Swing, and to my great surprise, I was pretty decent at it. I had had enough training with social dancing that I didn't need to learn the steps; it was a simply a matter of following the physical cues of my partner.

Before I left Utah, country dancing was something I was doing on a regular basis. I became good enough at it that I was asked to come in to the dance center and help teach lessons. I was in the process of learning the lifts and stunts when the time finally came to leave.

I have to admit, one of the things I miss the most about home is going dancing every weekend. That's why this weekend was such a delight for me. I took the Country scene by storm, and judging by the ache in my back, it was a weekend well danced.

Wild West:
On Friday I went with a group of girls from my ward to a popular country dance club just down the street from me. I was a little apprehensivethe first time I went to Wild West; I thought my bumpkin Utah skills would pale in comparison to the rootin' and tootin' I expected from a Texan dance club. I forgot I was in Houston. At first glance, it looks just as you'd expect a country dance club to look, from the huge neon Texas-Budweiser sign gleaming on the wall to the disco mirrored saddles hanging from the ceiling. It feels like you've walked into a saloon with flashing lights. Now imagine my surprise when I looked out on the dance floor only to see a bunch of old people shuffling a two-step in a circle. I was astonished to learn that this was how it was done in Texas. No death-defying flips, no break-neck swinging, just the very simple stepping in time. That does not mean it did not have its' dangers! At one point I found myself being dragged along the floor with a foreign gentleman who was operating my arm like a piece of heavy machinery while taking such long strides that I had to stick my fanny out so far that my bootie-pop was quite unnecessary.

This place is a good club for beginners. It plays more then one genre of music and serves ample amounts of alcohol to get the crowd relaxed. Having to jump over the inenbreated as they tumble to the ground in a drunken stupor without missing a beat is a exciting challenge, and who can help but get the warm fuzzies when swaying to such classy lyrics as " My Baby Likes Me When I'm Stoned" and "The air was so sweet, it made me belch as I walked down the street". That, truly, is music to scratch your back by.

Line dances are not one of my strong points, but I did manage to learn a few of them before I left my home. I imagine in the more Texan areas of Texas, the line dancing is more involved and complex, but here in Houston, they are ultra easy, and don't even require breaking a sweat.

I tried in vain to get a picture of myself on the dance floor, but it was too crowded and other people kept getting in front of the shot. I had to settle for some photos of a line dance:

All in all, I've decided that this place is the kind of place you go if you just want a nibble of the country flavor. It's like an eclair, full of the goodness of a rich pastry, but not overwhelming.

But I say " GIVE ME A THREE DAY BELLYACHE!"

...So when I got a text inviting me to travel up to Austin to a mid-YSA activity at a dance hall out there, you'd better believe I jumped on it. We traveled two and a half ours in the torrential rain, appeasing ourselves with the maddengly dulcet tones of Josh Turner until we finally arrived at this great States' capitol.

The Broken Spoke:

It was everything I dreamed of and more. We stepped into the club and heard the quaint plink-plinking of an old fashioned piano, and knew we were in the right place. We had a little trouble finding our fellow Texan saints, but our search gave us the chance to appreciate the rickety floor boards and the low particle-board ceiling. I felt like I was in a John Wayne Western. Once again, our peers were on the ancient side, but I'll tell you what, I have never seen so many spry old men in my life! The greatest thrill of all came when the manager of the establishment payed me the compliment of pulling me aside and telling me that I was a great swing dancer. We left that night satisfied with our experience and our cups filled. I'd gladly do it again, next time with a bigger group.

I get so few opportunities to glam myself up, that when I go out and do something social, I play it up. That night in Austin I dressed to kill. Although, with my past history, the odds were on myself.

Four dedicated Honky-Tonkers. I asked someone once what exactly Honky-Tonk was, and they said if it had to be explained to me, I'd never understand. That's true. Honky Tonk is like a testimony: you feel it inside, warm and gritty. Like Momma's home made co'mbread.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And now, to add to our theme of South Western flavor, I give you...

Esperanza, the passionate flamenco- dancing llama. Not only is she equipped with the brightest, glitziest of costumes, but it seems as though her owner has applied liberal amounts of mascara, to bring out her luscious brown eyes.

"Birthday Party of the King"

Christmas is one of the few times of the year that my family has any real traditions. Even as we have grown and separated, there are some things that will always be an integral part of the holidays. In the forefront of these are our Christmas cartoons. When my siblings and I were all younger, my Dad recorded various Christmas specials on VHS tapes so that we could enjoy them every year. Some of them have lost their place in the pantheon of Christmas necessity, but many of them remain strong in the line up. For instance, just as Christmas could not ever come to a dirty house (my mother's way of motivating us to do our chores), it could also never arrive without the patronage of the fantastic Donald Duck. His Christmas shorts have been a part of our festivities all our lives and we cannot imagine the Holiday season without him. However, I must not get started on Donald, for if I do, I shall be here all night. Perhaps another time. Others with high ranking are Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas, Mr. MaGoo's Christmas Carol, and the focus of my blog today, The Stingiest Man in Town. This last cartoon had to have been done decades ago. It was made by a company called Rankin/Bass, and it is quite obviously old, (my guess would be late fifties, early sixties) due to the fact that the animation is raw, shaky, inconsistent and highly stylized. But, even as my knowledge of animation has grown and I have come to be quite an animation snob, I have always made allowances for this particular piece. Not only for the years of memories associated with it, not to mention the memorable soundtrack, but the message inside as well. The Stingiest Man in Town, is of course, a retelling of that classic Christmas story A Christmas Carol. We all now that there is glut of versions of this piece at this time of the year. What makes this version special is that this one is the only one I've found, so far, that bothers to talk about the real reason for the season. We all know that Ebenezer Scrooge learns about true love and joy from being in Bob Cratchit's home, but this version actually takes a moment to educate Scrooge about Jesus Christ.





Not only do I feel that Tom Bosley does a wonderful job performing this song, but I love the way it is portrayed; it is illustrated in narrative stained glass window fashion, reminiscent of the spectacular windows in a cathedral or church. It's a beautiful technique and it gets the point across. So yes, it may be a silly cartoon, but it fills my heart with warmth due to the nostalgia and peace of the season. Isn't that what Christmas is all about?

And now, because I promised that I would continue on with with my photogenic fauna findings, I present a bird that is very much up with the latest styles of the season. This lovely Adele Penguin is proudly sporting the craze of Antarctica, the glamourous Christmas bathrobe. I'll have to see about getting my sister to make one in human size.

All Things Bright And Beautiful

Imagine my surprise when I logged on to my blog the other day only to discover that my younger sister had made an entry that carried the same theme that has been in my own heart: getting to this point in our lives. I've been thinking about it alot lately; my flight to Houston was spent reliving my past and recounting the steps it took to be where I am today. A year ago this time, I would've told you that I was extremely frustrated with the direction my life was taking. Truthfully, I was convinced there was no direction in my life. I had just spent Thanksgiving in San Francisco, with my younger sister and came back so impressed with her that it made my heart hurt. I knew I wasn't becoming all I could be, and there were some life experiences I needed to have. I promptly went online and researched schools. I liked the idea of going to school in Texas, but there is no doubt in my mind that I've been placed where the Lord wants me to be, doing what he wants me to do. Looking back, I can see that I've been prepared for this road all along.

Before I left, I had people ask me if I had always wanted this; no, not necessarily. There was one point in my life when I wanted something else very badly. As a child, I did have visions of being a beautiful veterinarian who faced extreme danger in rugged landscapes, saving the lives of exotic creatures and having them show their gratitude by living as my personal pets. I was going to be the Dr. Quinn of the animal world. As a girl, I opted to play with stuffed animals instead of the fluffy dolls my younger sister loved. I drove my family crazy because I would stop whatever I was doing, whether it was cleaning my room, or playing at a friends' house and pick up a book and completely tune everything out. My favorite books were Zoo Books, a children's magazine that spotlighted a specific animal and gave all kinds useful trivia about them. I fell in love with dolphins and became a pint sized activist, insisting that we only eat dolphin-safe tuna. (as if there was anything else available at a store in Utah). I have always had a deep love of animation, and ironically enough, that too contributed to my current career choice. The countless hours of watching Ferngully: The Last Rain Forest and Pocahontas filled me with a sense of reverence, not only for my fellow creatures, but plant life as well. I made a goal at the age of eight years old to single handedly save the Amazon rain forest. My parents will tell you that was a passion that has always been present in my life. One of my Dad's favorite stories about me is the day there was a conflict over the T.V. because I was involved in a special on Sea Lions, but my older siblings wanted to watch Punky Brewster.

Yesterday, a gentleman who I can been kinda dating before I left called me up and shared a sweet memory. He and I had gone to elementary school together, so he is always looking for ways to link up our pasts. Apparently he came across an old yearbook page that had all of our responses to a group of questions. He reminded me that when I was in the fourth grade, I had said that I wanted to be a marine biologist and work with dolphins at Sea World.

Then one day, my world shattered. My mother, who was proud that I wanted to be a scientist and work with animals, told me as an incentive to get good grades that I would need to do well on math in order to succeed. It had the opposite effect. I thought anything that meant that I had to deal with math was not a possibility. I let go of my dreams that day. (What a mediocre kid I was!)

When I was fourteen, I grew bored of my friends at the lunch table and went off the library to find something more entertaining, (yeah, I was a live wire, alright. ) as I perused the aisles, I found something that caught my attention. It was a book titled The Work of Walt Disney: Mickey Mouse through Beauty and the Beast. I checked it out and read it through out the day. My conversion was instant. From that moment on, my heart and soul and any children born to me belonged to Walt. I saw how his company has risen from the ashes of cut throat deception and led to a meteoric rise to create the largest and greatest franchise in the world. I drank in the original story board sketches and pictures of the wizards who sketched them. I saw glamorous movie stars posing with stuffed Mickeys and behaving as if he was in their same rank of stardom. I watched how his work evolved 'til there wasn't a child in this world who didn't know who Mickey, Donald and Goofy were. I could go on and on forever about this, and perhaps someday I will, but that is not the point of his installment. The point is, I became truly obsessed with the Disney company and veered off my original path for a while.

When I was in high school, I knew I wanted to be an animator. I took a course that would allow me to take an internship. Originally, I was signed up to work at a company that was developing animation software in CGI, (Computer Generated Imaging. It's all you see today. Not always all that impressive, in my opinion. ) but this company decided they didn't have room for me. My advisor asked me to look into something else. I sighed and said reluctantly that I had always liked animals, so why not try a Vet clinic? She had a much easier time setting me up with a local animal hospital, and it wasn't long before I realized that I was enjoying myself. Dr. DeGering was a wonderful trainer, and he allowed me to actually learn by doing hands-on procedures. Nothing amazing, but I'm convinced I was one of the few members of my graduating class that used needles and drugs not for my own personal use, but for vaccinations and blood draws. I learned how to prep for surgery and dress wounds and experienced for the first time the sobering feeling of watching an animal die in my arms after being euthanized. It was surprising to me how seeing blood and guts didn't faze me, it fascinated me. I loved wearing scrubs and being a healer.

My mother introduced me to a series by James Herriot based on his veterinary work in northern England during the 1930's. I could feel his love as I read his stories, and was so impressed by how he could see the humor in an undoubtedly yucky situation. He was living proof that happiness comes from serving those around you. He was never rich, but he was a fulfilled man.

However, I still worshipped at the Alter of Walter and when I was accepted at BYU, I was certain that attending the college with the best animation program in the world meant that I was on my way. My classes were a lot of fun and I really enjoyed them, but the more I learned, the more I felt like animation was headed in a direction I didn't want to take. CGI had taken over everywhere, and I was and still am a stalwart fan of classic 2D animation. I wanted to do what Walt did, not sit in front of a computer screen all day. As I sat in the lab one day, painstakingly putting together my application for the program, I began to question myself. I ended up walking away from that lab without finishing and feeling a sense of peace in my heart.

The cartoonist in me did not give up easily, and I switched over to Illustration. I decided that I would like to create a comic strip or two, the main one being based on my family, and centered on my brother, who is the only boy among five sisters. What are the odds of that? Especially outside of Utah! I thought I had a hit on my hands and worked toward getting into the illustration program for the next two years. The first time I got the rejection letter, I remember being surprised at how okay I was. I tried a second time, but when the letter came, I didn't even have the courage to open it for about a week. When I finally did, and I got my damning 'no', I felt sick at heart. What did the Lord want me to do?! Surely someone who watched cartoons religiously belonged in the world of other such nerdy people!

Then I recalled overhearing a conversation my aunt had with someone at a family gathering. She was talking about how her son had recently enrolled into a Vet Tech program and loved it. It was like a light bulb lit up over my head. I thought hey, I could do that!

Then something happened that truly changed my life. I decided on a whim to join my sister and her current room mate for a summer working in Alaska. It turned out to be a hard experience; management was corrupt and we as the housekeepers were treated poorly. Eventually I did get the chance to have a day off, and I knew exactly how I wanted to spend it. One of the benefits of my job involved free tours with a local sled dog kennel. My only experience with Huskies before this was seeing Balto, so I really didn't know what to expect. The first thing that struck me was happy these animals were. The musher pulled up in his trailer with the dogs in their separate compartments and I could hear them making that loud, beautiful husky bellow. He let them out one by one and hooked them up to an ATV (you don't use sleds in the summertime.) and explained what each part of the team did. The entire time the dogs kept yapping and leaping into the air like NBA all stars, unbelievably excited that they got to run! We followed the team in our shuttle and arrived at the kennel in time to see them pull in. I cannot describe the excitement I felt! I was truly in the presence of greatness. The musher then explained to us about the Iditarod, and the equipment, training and feeding used for the dogs. He gave us each souvenir of a homemade doggie bootie to take home with us, but I took so much more with me that day. I felt God's love pour over me as I suddenly knew undeniably and irrevocably that this was something I needed to be a part of.

I was so glad to come home from Alaska, but I won't pretend that I didn't take part of it with me. My zeal to get involved with the sled dogs led me on a frantic job hunt at all the local vet clinics. I ended up getting hired at two of them. At the end of the first interview, when my boss asked me if I had any questions, I asked her if she knew of any sled dog kennels or shelters locally. She thought a minute and had her secretary give me information for a Maren Gibsen at Arctic Rescue.

As it turned out, my jobs at both clinics was a dark experience. Both clinics had vets who displayed bad tempers and were constantly upset at me. It's a stressful environment as it is, but to have your boss undermining your intelligence at the same time makes it unbearable. As was inevitable, the strain of traveling from both clinics on bus and balancing school work became too much for me both physically and emotionally and my employment ended with a big BOOM. Feeling lost once again, I opened my heart out into prayer and asked the Lord what he wanted me to do next. I felt the impression to fish out the phone number for Maren Gibsen and call her. She was delighted to have a volunteer and I was delighted to discover that headquarters were two blocks from my apartment. Coincidence? I think not.

So there it is. Like a cheesy Rascal Flatts song, God blessed the broken road that led me straight to ... Houston. But to be honest, I shouldn't be surprised. In a blessing that shall remain unnamed, I was told that I had been born into a family that would prepare me for my life's work. I don't know if working with animals is the Lord's idea of my life's work, but my family has always been ultra supportive. My parents never complained when I'd bring home sick and injured animals from the pet store I worked at, including the memorable One-Eyed Willie, a parakeet with a leg injury so severe she looked like she was perpetually performing ballet. And who could forget Dickie, the bullied mouse with testicles the size of half his body? My mother instilled the idea of respect for all living things when we were young and she refused to kill a spider that was scuttling across the room. She'd tell us stories about the home that spider had to go home to, and how he would tell his wife and kids about seeing us. Knowing more about spiders today, I'm fully aware that any spider coming home to his wife is more likely to be served with a side dish of fries then have his family listen to what his day was like, but it still keeps me from smashing most insects I see. Cockroaches are an exception.

My siblings have been nothing but supportive of me as I've made this decision, and I hope I can make them proud. One of the major driving forces in my life is making my loved ones proud of me. I know I'm happy doing what I'm doing, and now that I've left home, I can see that there is truth in that old hymn James Herriot borrowed for the titles of his books:

All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all.

On a lighter note, because it seems my sister and I are on the same conscious plane (you'd think we're related or something...) I wondered about what would happen if our careers collided. The results are not pretty. I'll start off easy at first, and put a new picture up for every entry, but be prepared it gets pretty gruesome:

DUCKS IN TUX

Here we have our latest in waterfowl evening wear. The brazen colors of the plump bow tie are meant to accent the debonair mallard as he sets out to romance his mate. These cool and sophisticated ducks have not a care in the world as they are herded along the slick floor at the sheep dog trials, because they know that no matter what happens, they are wearing Armani. (What the H?)

I Gotta Get Out More.

School is great, and my ward is fun, but I have yet to establish a true social life out here. I felt lonely and neglected before I even came out here, and as a result, I've become involved with some habit-forming activities and now I am a addict. Yes, folks, I am here to admit that I, Danielle McKinlay, have a Netflix fixation. It started out innocently enough... I was reading a book that took place in Arizona and it made reference to John Wayne movies. Knowing that he is one of Cinematography's greatest historical icons, I wanted to see if I could understand what the big deal was. I tried to find some Westerns at Hollywood Video, but the slovenly franchise had a grand total of two whole John Wayne movies, one of which takes place in war-torn Vietnam. I have no time for franchises that do not appreciate the classics. So I started up a subscription with Netflix. A whole new world unfolded before me. Soon I was getting a different John Wayne movie every other night. I fell in love with 'The Duke', and became further obsessed with Western culture. After I discovered that I could watch movies instantly on my laptop, there was no going back. Netflix unfolded to me a wealth of cinematic treasures; jewels from my childhood long lost were suddenly available with the click of my fingerpad, as well as exciting new viewing experiences.

Now that I was hooked, the sky was the limit. I was grateful to find a distraction from the hurt I felt when my friends stopped contacting me and spending time with me. One night, when I feeling particularly low, I stumbled across an old memory. A few years back, when I was lot less driven in my career choice, I took an anthropology class, just for fun. (The vast majority of my college experience entailed taking classes that had nothing whatsoever to do with animation; I simply took them 'just for fun'. I'm curious about just about everything, and I wanna know it all!)

Our lesson that day was about rituals and my teacher showed a clip about voodooism from an old, but memorably popular t.v. show. It was the X-Files. The episode intrigued me and I'd often thought about it since. But it was at that moment, when I found it on Netflix, that fate intervened and I found myself adding the first season to my queue. Later on, when I was looking forward to a night of simply relaxing, I gave it a try. At first, I giggled at Mulder and his straight- faced accounts of his experiences with the paranormal. But he and Scully soon won me over, and by the third episode, I was an avid fan!

At this point, I would like to point out that I am not a fan of sci-fi. In the past, I have held it in deep contempt because of all my nerdy high school friends who allowed it to make them socially awkward. But, like I said, there was intrigue. I read Harry Potter and became a fan because of J. K. Rowling's marvelous craftsmanship, not because I'm a fan of the genre. Such is the case with the X-Files. I found myself cheering for the heroes, booing and hissing at the villains, laughing at the clowns and feeling heartbroken at every tragedy. It amazed how incredibly well written it all was. Characters that seemed to have no consequence before were coming back and thickening the plot. And the tension...! I must've been living under a rock when this show was in it's hey-day, because I had no idea that there to be a romance between Scully and Mulder. But the show built it up beautifully- he would occasionally touch the small of her back gently, or she would reach out and touch his hand for split second-AUGH! It became too much! I had to keep watching! They didn't just throw each other against the wall and embark in the overpowering throes of passion in the first five episodes like they would a smutty t.v. show of today. It took years before Mulder finally kissed her, and it never showed anything further then that.

That is not to say that this show was all purity; Little House on the Prairie it ain't. The sceenplay writer used ample amounts of gore and squirmy creepy crawlies to keep the audience thoroughly grossed out. Between yelling my unheeded counseling at my computer screen ("No! Mulder! Don't let her go!...Love her, Mulder! You must love her!... The liver-eating mutant is going to grab her! AUGH!... listen to him, Scully! The Cigarette -Smoking man is lying to you! AUGH!") I'd find myself disgusted at the wounds and offenders of the supernatural. But it was fun, and I was impressed that it could invoke such a strong emotional response from me.

I watched the X-Files faithfully for about three months. But when it hit the end of the ninth season, I found myself not wanting to finish. I had become friends with Scully and Mulder. It was like the Never Ending Story: I went through everything they went through. By day I was online looking at X-File paraphernalia, and by night my dreams were filled with conspiracies that centered around huskies. I was officially a nerd.

Soon, I finally built up the courage to watch the last episode and decided that no matter how disappointing it might be, I would still love them anyway. It turned out to be harder then that; the ending wasn't disappointing per se, it was just wishy-washy, Gone with the Wind-esque. But, in the same way we all have to tell ourselves that Scarlett will in fact get Rhett back and save her marriage, we have to believe that Scully and Mulder will find a way to save the earth from alien colonization. That's just how it has to be. (sigh.)

I'm sure it has become apparent that my feelings toward a t.v. show are not quite healthy. I've never felt this way before... I decided I needed to cool down and watch something a little more low-key. That's when I found All Creatures Great and Small. It was a British sitcom made in the 70's based on the books by James Herriot. I couldn't have been more pleased! James Herriot is undoubtedly one the largest figures of impact in my life. His books brought me where I am today, and the show isn't all that far off. They did an amazing job getting the characterization just right, and because I've read the books and remembered every story, watching an episode is like greeting old friends.

It's a little dull by today's standards; no laugh track or steamy love scenes or gratuitous situations, but that's why I like it. I make it very clear that I don't like watching modern t.v. I don't trust it. If someone tells me I need to see something, I'll give it a try, I just wait 10 years. In the mean time, John Wayne is still coming to my house several times a week, and All Creatures Great and Small continues to entertain me. That is, when I'm not going back through the X-Files.