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Thea Marx

There are many laughs and great tear jerking posts here so before you go, read on!

When I am not writing about my life, I am immersed in Western Design... check that out too!

Puddin' The Unforgettable Feline

My dad was a vo-ag teacher and I was his tag-a-long. He was the guy who I trotted behind trying to keep up with as he walked, shovel on his shoulder, through the alfalfa field to irrigate. He was also the guy that always gave in when I came home with a stray, which was often. Once, he found me at my grandmother’s with a bum lamb in the back yard, bleating its little heart out. The lamb had to ride 150 miles home in a cardboard box on the floor board of our 1963 Chevy Impala. That bum would become Rosie, my ladies lead line ewe at the county fair and mother of many lambs after.

On one excursion, my dad was getting eggs from a local chicken farm for the poultry judging team to candle. My usual inquisitive self, I wandered about the farm in and out of the hen houses and peeking into holes. One such dark place elicited a tiny “Mew”. Upon further inspection, a tiny Siamese kitten peaked out, mewing with both expectation and desperation. Scooping him up, I realized he was skin and bones. Every one of his little ribs showed, his head dwarfed his body. There was no mother to be found. Cradling him to my chest, I ran to find Dad. In the farm’s office, I found him chatting with Mrs. Applehance. He took one look at me and started shaking his head. Mrs. Applehance never batted an eye. As I recall, she said, “Go ahead honey, you can take him home. We don’t like cats around here.” I think it was at that moment that Dad knew he was defeated. All I had to say was, “Please Dad.”

At home, I put him into what we called, “the little bathroom.” It was where we stored all the vet supplies and calf bottles and just conveniently where the litter box was. He cried and cried until I thought my heart would break. He was so little and hungry that when I fed him fresh milk in a saucer, his nose would fall into it from the weight of his head like a dodo bird and he would come up snorting and sneezing milk. I am sure he wasn’t getting much.

When my mom came home from work, it was the classic pose with hands on her hips and “What are we going to do with another cat?” She had a soft heart and it didn’t take her long to have pity on the tiny soul. Before long he quit crying with hunger and slept on my pillow. For 8 years that was his place. He was not your usually svelte stately Siamese. His body short and stubby, his legs bow legged in front, cow hocked in back. We wondered if his brain had been oxygen deprived. Frequently, he would pull things like walking off the front porch into thin air to fall unceremoniously into the flower pots below. He had his idiosyncrasies. He loved water. We would find him curled in the bathroom sink letting the leaky faucet drip, drip, drip on him. He would sit on the edge of the tub feeling the spray from the shower on his face like soft rain and he was frequently my companion in the field as I set water. One big, fat Siamese cat was my constant companion and side kick. He would even ride with me. I would set him on the horse and swing on and off we would go. Cat. Girl. Horse.

I protected him fiercely. But one night, I went to the house early to do homework while my parents finished chores. A bull buyer drove in. Puddin’ must have snuck out while I was giving the buyer directions to the barn. I didn’t give it a second thought. Later when I called him in for the night, I saw, in the glow of the yard light an unmoving form in the drive way. I cried for days and still feel the tears well with the memory.

For years later, I looked for a kitty to replace my Puddin’. When I applied to Cornell University my essay was not about politics or global warming, but rather a kitty named Puddin’. It must have worked. I got in.

Photo: Meet my two kitties that have been a special part of my life for the last 16 years: Hobbs and Coal.


Animals are just one of my passions in life. Another one is western design. Please come to ContemporaryWesternDesign.com and enjoy western furniture, western art, western fashion and western accessories

Never a Dull Moment (with a Pig)

“A pig in the house?” My grandmother was aghast! “It will be ok, she is house trained,” I reassured her.

Petunia was a pot-bellied pig, small by no means. At 150 pounds, she was more imposing than the dogs at the front door. People couldn’t believe their eyes. More than one near collision occurred on the street when a pig was spotted rooting in the flower beds or following me patiently as I carried in groceries.

Paddy, as we affectionately call her, came to us as most of our animals have. She needed a home. Her owner was moving and couldn’t take her. My grandmother had just moved into my home the same summer. She was not fond of pigs in the first place, let a lone one whose snorts punctuated conversations.

Paddy must have sensed grandma’s angst, something like when a dog senses fear and nips heels. One day arriving home from an outing, I found Paddy Pig calmly standing in the middle of grandma’s office looking sedate and slightly mischievous. It was then I realized that she had found grandma’s stash of goodies. Cookie crumbs, a torn up Ritz cracker box and the saucy new lip color she was wearing were dead give-aways. Cheetos must be her favorite, because the only evidence of them left was her orange grin, she even ate the bag.

Telling grandma that day that the pig ate her goodies was not easy. My grandmother is a calm person, but I could read it in her eyes. She could really do without the pig!!

Paddy was not only a drawer vandal, she could get into anything zippered and loved to find Aspen’s diaper bag, which always had an emergency cache of treats. She would unzip it, find the baggie of snacks and munch, bag and all until it was perforated a thousand times, the sweet treat inside dissolved to mush and squished into her mouth. We always found the bags intact except for the perforations and had to marvel at her patience. Her favorite was bubble gum and she used all of her wiles to get it, even begging on her haunches like a puppy for a treat. You knew she had had a successful raid when you opened the front door and heard the steady smack, smack of a pig on a Strawberry Hubba Bubba high. We learned to hide the bubble gum and put any treats far off the floor.

Food was not her only vice, she used to steal the pillows off my bed by pulling on the comforter until all the pillows came off with it, then she would comfortably build a nest, comforter and all. Her protest being so loud when I found my bed bare and asked her to re-locate that I would sleep on the couch so I wouldn’t wake Aspen.

Paddy pig was also an early riser. Sometime around 4 am every morning, the alarm in her very bright pig brain would start chirping. If I so much as turned over, she was sure it was time to go out. With what seemed to someone who had been in a dead sleep, the good morning gusto of a very annoying drill sergeant she would persist, not for very long, mind you, until I let her in the back yard. When she wanted back in, she would squeal like I was scalding her. I am sure the neighbors wondered.

After 5 years, everyone has gotten used to Paddy the pig. It’s kind of nice to have your own garbage backyard disposal and garden fertilizer all in one. Walkers have changed their routes just to stop by and say “Hi” to Petunia, “Paddy” Pig each morning. She is a good deer deterrent too. Everyone close to us has built deer proof fences around their gardens, we only need a pig. The mischief factor has decreased significantly, she now sleeps on a fluffy dog bed in a ground floor room because her legs are getting arthritic and stairs are not easy any more.

I had raised pigs for 4-H and FFA, though I loved them, the possibility of one curled up in nest of my comforter and pillows never occurred to me. I never dreamed I would have a pig for a house pet. Now I can’t imagine life without one.

Want to know more about my passions beyond pigs see www.contemporarywesterndesign.com

Only Me

My schedule had been crazy. I was trying to launch a book, be a single mom and sell a territory for Cowboys & Indians Magazine. I had been on the road for several weeks, bouncing from one city to another, lecturing and doing signings. It just happened that I had a 24 hour layover in Cody before I went on to the NFR in Las Vegas. JeNeil had been house and animal sitting. In the days before I arrived for a welcome stay in my own bed, it had gotten very cold and snowy with temperatures dipping well below zero.

One panic call to my cell phone went something like this, “Paddy is standing in the middle of the living room floor with a plastic bag in her mouth, munching. I can’t get it away from her, what do I do? She just snorts and chases me away when I get close.” Poor JeNeil, unless you are used to a pig and their behavior, and even if you are when they turn on you with disgust, it makes your heart leap into your throat. It is always very fast and incredibly noisy. My reply, “Don’t worry. Just let her be. It will come out the other end.” The second call came as I was about to board a plane in Charlotte, NC after lecturing at High Point. I was laden with car seat, briefcase, diaper bag and a 2 year old pulling me down the ramp. As we stood in line to board, I tried to keep my voice down, “What do you mean she hasn’t gone out for 24 hours? Has she pooped anywhere?” “No. Good.” “Don’t be afraid of her, she’ll make a terrible fuss, just push her out the door, leave her for a bit. Hopefully she will go.” Aaah, that Paddy, she had a way of bluffing so good no one would go near her, but me.

I made it home that afternoon, exhausted and unsure where to begin to prepare to go again the next day. After checking everything out, I found poor Paddy pig, she lay on her fluffy bed, tail straight out… two little pig poops on the floor. At first I was angry, because she is very house broke. Then I realized something was wrong. She was constipated. “Oh, Jeez, what do I do with a constipated pig?” I thought. Doctoring animals was nothing new to me. I had done everything in the book growing up. Blood, guts, feces, I had experienced it all. Nothing really bothered me. I called the vet. Scott just laughed. “Only you Thea, he teased, would have a constipated pig. Only me, I thought would have a 24 hour layover, the first in weeks at my own home, and I would spend it giving the pig an enema. I shook my head. By this time it was late and I couldn’t go anywhere for supplies. What to use? Hmmmmm. First I tried the turkey baster. Nope that doesn’t work, it won’t hold water, it dribbles out before I can get it anywhere.

Eventually armed with yellow dishwashing gloves and extra bulb syringe for sucking baby boogers, an ice cream bucket with warm soapy water and a towel, Hobbie the cat and I went to rescue Paddy pig from her discomfort.

Only me, I thought again as I pulled on the gloves and covered her eyes with the towel so I got a head start on the process. Hobbie perched on a small table just over my shoulder peered on with fascination. Tail up, syringe in place, water in, rinse, repeat. All the sudden there was pig poop shooting forth like little canon balls. Poor Hobbie. On his perch, he was like a bandit caught in the glare of headlights. He was at the right height and as I managed to get out of the way of the barrage he was pounded with little hard balls of pig poop. He jumped, leapt and twisted, wondering what the devil was shooting at him. At this point I was in such a fit of hysterical laughter I couldn’t stand up, let alone rescue my poor assistant. Needless to say, we accomplished our mission. Paddy pig was much relieved. We made our 6 am flight with straight faces and a really good story.

Only me.

In the photo: Paddy Pig begging for treats. Isn't she cute?

Want to know more about what I do, besides play veterinarian? You can see what I do everyday at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com

My First Love

When I was little, I had a thing for horses. My parents used to tell a story about losing track of me one day in the corrals when they were working cows. After searching high and low, they found me. In the stud pen, standing directly under the 3 year old Appaloosa stallion, named Sundowner, scratching his belly. Panic set in and they tried to remove me. I was all of 3 myself and I went kicking and screaming, literally!

From that day on, Sundowner and I were buddies. I already had a Shetland pony named Peanuts. Ornery, was not a strong enough description for this little guy. I think ponies are put on this earth to make young riders either tough as nails or cure them from riding for the rest of their lives. When he wasn’t trying to take a hunk out of me when I was stretching my little legs to get on, he was rubbing me off on a tree into the irrigation ditch or planting his feet and refusing to go any further. When I kicked him harder, he just got on his knees and went to trying to roll. When the saddle wasn’t on, he as a gentleman. When it was, he became a monster. Looking back, I remember sitting in the middle of the field kicking him with all my might and him not budging, not one inch for what seemed an hour, that is until, I got off and led him home.

The irony is he and Sundowner were also buddies. In fact, one rarely went anywhere without the other. One big beautifully colored Appy stud, one little bay Shetland: what a pair they made.

When my dad wasn’t riding Sundowner I was. I loved him. I was on him even when forbidden by my parents. I loved slipping on him off the corral fence and feeling terribly naughty and free all at the same time, riding without one single thing. As I got older the exquisitely trained and loved horse became my big teddy bear. He turned from bay with spots to white with albino eyes. He was my 4-H horse, he was the one who I hugged and cried with giant sobs into his mane when my parents fought. He carried me on rides of freedom out into the reservation as I grew and dreamed of being on my own.

I tenderly rubbed salve around his pale skin around his eyes and nose when it was sunburned. I brushed and brushed the white horse whom I could do the Roy Rogers leap onto from behind or fall off in a failed attempt of trick riding and feel nuzzling on my back. I could get on Sundowner, lift a calf onto the saddle, ford the river and never fear, for a moment, of being left on my behind in the dirt.

Now, years later, I think about the impact that Sundowner made in my life. He seems like some kind of Deity to me now. He was who I ran to when I was sad, heaving gasping, tearful sobs into the warmth of his neck. He was the one I ran to and hugged with delight when I was happy. He was the horse I could ride with nothing more than a piece of sisal twine around his neck, running like the wind through the fields bareback giving my dad a heart attack. Little girls need horses. Big girls need horses. Just the smell of a horse today takes me back to Sundowner, though I’ve had lots of wonderful horses in my life since. He was my first love. And there is something special about your first love that you never forget.

Aspen, my 6 year old, has found her first love in Kitten, shown above, all 17 1/2 hands of him. He got his hame from following her like a kitten and putting his nose down to be kissed. I don't think an earthquake could move this big guy when that little girl is giving him attention.

What to know more about what I do? It's all about western design at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com.

Up A Tree

Wyoming weather can be as fickle as anyone might imagine. Two weeks ago, it was nearly 40 below with the wind chill. This morning it is 40 above with a warm breeze and there is water from melting snow running every where: a classic Chinook.

I was out early, taking the dogs on their much anticipated walk. As I leapt the snow bank spanning the rushing water in the gutter, slush splashed everywhere. Across the street I run to honking horns and waves from familiar folks passing by, winging a Frisbee for Jack as I go. The wind suddenly picks up and off through the sky goes the saucer with Jack chasing, up, up and in a sudden arch into a very tall pine tree. Ugh! A dejected little heeler sits down under the tree and looks at me through those eyes that are saying, “Mom, how could you?”

Tossing the ball for Chance to chase while I put together a game plan, I ponder. “Do I go home and get the broom?” “ Is it so high I need the broom and lariat?” (Don’t laugh it works). It seems to be only 12 or 14 feet up. Hmmm. With Jack looking on and Chance returning with his tennis ball, I grab the lowest branch. I can do this I tell myself. Shoot, can’t quite reach the next one, going to have to scramble, not exactly easy with a winter coat, boots and gloves on. “Sure just watch me fall out and break my arm,” I muse. After some scrambling and stretching, I manage to make it up far enough to sit steadily on a big branch. Out, out I reach toward the Frisbee, not quite. One more level to go. By this time, my knit hat is full of pine needles and little branches from fighting my way through the thick tree. “Geez, what I do for you Jack,” I say aloud. Twelve feet below they both turn their heads cockeyed and look at me, “Are you talking to us?” They seem to say.

Up one more level through branches, falling bark and needles I go until I can reach the branch that is holding the turquoise and magenta Flippy Flopper that Jack just got for Christmas. Now you understand why it couldn’t be left in the tree. Shake, shake, shake. “Come I on!” I say. Shake, shake…. Slide, slide. Stuck. Groan. “How long has this been going on?” I wonder in my head. “Am I going to be late taking Aspen for school?” “Can anyone see me?” I am pretty sure they can’t. For this reason, I am glad that pine trees are so thick. Ok on to business! Shake, shake, shake. Slide, bump, stop, slide. I am holding my breath. Free. Out it goes right to Jack waiting below. He is grateful in his own dog way. Now, like a cat that has climbed up then looks where she has gone and doesn’t want to come down, I think about my descent. Embarrassing it would be if I couldn’t get out of the tree. But alas it has never stopped me before. Swinging off the branch I am on, I catch the one below and shimmy my way down, finally dropping the last few feet to the ground. Wiping the bark off my gloves and pulling branches out of my hat, I giggle. “What a way to start the day!”

Off we go!

Sweet Juxtaposition

The clouds, dark with rain and covering the Wind River’s, had moved in swiftly from the west and were starting to sweep down the valley. As a tractor idled, the sound of an air hose rose above the din, dust was blown out of the baler before it was put away for the winter. The night before the moon had made its ascent into the heavens over the butte as a peculiar fiery red egg shape, waning a little more each evening as the fall equinox approached.

The day had been busy: a concerted effort to beat the weather which had not been kind. A late frost and a cool summer had delayed the growing season and an early frost and rain had made it nearly impossible to get into the fields to windrow. As soon as that task was accomplished, more rain; more waiting and praying. The second cutting was dearly needed. The summer had seemed to be a trial by fire with several accidents, challenge after challenge, but true to the universe’s grace; gifts of warm sunshine and strong willing hands had made it all come together.

My jeans were covered with sawdust, my hair smelled of chain saw exhaust, but the relief of having wood blocked was evident in my mind. It could snow and a warm fire could burn. A little girl with grass stains on her knees squatted, making mud pies for the dogs on the porch as they eagerly watched the process with curious eyes and wagging tongues. The quagmire was a curious mix of mud, sawdust and dried flowers laced with dog food. I couldn’t help but smile in contentment at the whole scene; one of ease and peace with a sprinkle of relief.

Glancing at my watch it was nearly 4 o’ clock: a good time for a little break. As I ground the coffee beans to a fine espresso powder, the prospect of the final product nearly made my mouth water: a perfect unexpected indulgence for everyone. Covered with dust, soot and sweat from the days work, a little shot would surely elicit a smile. As I watched the little silver pot percolate, I marveled at the contrast of the scene. The people: two men I admired -one I had grown up with, the other the love of my life- working on farm equipment, my little girl who was both my twin soul and greatest challenge, and me, full of generations of earthy ranch blood. We were stopping to take an espresso break in the middle of nowhere Wyoming. Without plausible thought, we seemed to pretend that the mix of freshly made bales strung over the field waiting to be picked up was a perfect compliment to an Italian espresso. Sweet juxtaposition.

Learn more about Thea at www.contemporarywesterndesign.com