What Happened to Tato

I guess the whole story started at 2 AM on September 15, 2026, when I was jolted out of a deep dreaming sleep by the sharp barks of a coyote. It was so close, I thought it was in the room with me. It was a rare cool night in this unendingly soggy too-warm summerfallblur, when I had the windows cranked open so the katydids and crickets could sing me to sleep. RARP! RARP! RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR RARP! I sat up and listened hard. That coyote was right next to the WarblerFall, yapping away. To my amazement, it repeated the series, over and over. I’ve lived among eastern coyotes for more than 30 years and have never heard one vocalize so insistently, so frantically, for so long. For probably 10-12 minutes, the animal ran around the perimeter of my yard, circling the house with its bone-chilling barks. It never lapsed into a howl, just kept barking in that syncopated rhythm. What could it mean? 

 I knew for sure that Tato could hear it, up in his little bedroom off the studio. Whether thunderstorm or scary coyote, Tato hears it all, but it takes him awhile to speak his feelings. When the coyote finally moved out the meadow and all was quiet, he began to emit a low, sepulchral howl that sounded more like a wolf than a Boston terrier puppy. I don’t know if you can hear it in this creepy Blair Witch video I made while groggily climbing the stairs, but maybe if you crank the volume up, you will. He’s calling for his mama to come hold him and help him get back to sleep.

                                                 

 When Tato began to howl I felt my way to my closet and grabbed the first long-sleeved shirt I found. I needed more clothing if I was going to take him outside for a quick leak and rock him back to sleep. Interesting choice! One of my many samples from my old gig, making garment designs for the National Wildlife Federation catalogue—a wolf pup waking Mom up. 

             

                                                     

Yup. Tato is a funny looking wolf, black and white and smoosh-faced, but still a wee wolf, calling for his people. I held Tato in the dark living room, listening to the last of the coyote’s yaps as it moved out the meadow. Each time it let loose another salvo of barks, Tato’s head would come up, but no other animal ever answered its frantic calls. I decided it must be this year’s pup that had gotten separated from its family (or perhaps been driven away to find its own way). I wondered if it would show up on the trail camera sometime during the night. And in the morning, there it was. Three frames, showing the coyote frozen and staring at the camera’s red light. Slight of build and small, lost and alone. More to be pitied than censured, as my DOD would say. I hoped it would find its folks. It didn’t occur to me at the time that its sudden appearance and freaky barks might have constituted an omen.

                                         

 

That same afternoon, I would take Tato to his veterinarian for his first rabies shot. Boston terriers being sensitive snowflakes, and me being somewhat forgetful, we were spreading his puppy shots over several months. I watched him for a reaction, and it seemed to play out in loose bowels. That I could deal with. But every little piece of this story played into the next.

I have no photos for the next bit. There was no time to take them.

At about 9:45 PM, he scratched at the door, clearly needing to relieve himself again. That was unusual, and I chalked it up to the rabies shot reaction. He disappeared into the meadow behind the Heritage Garden and came out bounding toward the door. A small toad hopped across the sidewalk and Tato stopped to study it. I asked him to leave it alone and not paw at it. Next came a camel cricket springing across his path. Tato loves to chase and try to catch those. I chuckled and called to him. “Come on, Tate. Don’t fool around in the dark. Get inside!” He was briefly out of my sight, but soon came to the open door. 

He walked slowly into the kitchen and stood, his back hunched, his ears back, his eyes wide and unfocused. “What happened to you, honey? Did you pick up a toad?” I thought perhaps he’d gotten a load of bufotoxin by mouthing the toad. I used a syringe to rinse his mouth out. Soon, he began to retch, dry heaving, nothing coming up. I put some hydrogen peroxide in the syringe and gave it to him, hoping he’d throw up whatever was making him retch. Nothing came up. I began to suspect there was something worse going on. Tato ran into the living room and jumped up on the back of his favorite chair, burying himself in cushions. He looked haunted and woozy. Viscous drool strung from the corners of his mouth.

 Suddenly I noticed a ping-pong ball sized swelling on his left jowl that had not been there moments earlier. It was hard and growing fast. I started racking my brains, trying to remember where the nearest 24-hour emergency vet clinic might be. I knew the one in Parkersburg, WV closed years ago. I called Cheat Lake Animal Hospital, 2 hours and 45 minutes away, just to get a human voice at 10 pm on a Wednesday night. A receptionist picked up and immediately asked if I could hold. Ten minutes went by, and I was growing more frantic with each one. Finally she came back on. “Can you hold, please?” “YOU HAD ME ON HOLD FOR TEN MINUTES THIS IS AN EMERGENCY PLEASE TALK TO ME! My dog has been bitten by a copperhead! Do you keep antivenin on hand?” Yes, we do, she said. You can bring the dog in.

 Except…I can’t. I can’t drive almost three hours alone, not knowing if he’s going to live or die on the way. Not knowing if this knot on his throat is going to impede his breathing and suffocate him. I told her I’d call around and give her a heads up if I was going to bring him in to Morgantown/Cheat Lake. I called what I thought was my veterinarian’s cellphone. Got the answering machine. I called the office. Got the answering machine, which provided another number for emergencies, which I winced and called. It was 10:15. I got my vet's home answering machine. Left a message, and Lori picked up in the middle of it. She wondered if it might be a spider bite. “Do you see two holes?” I hadn’t really looked him over. I told her I’d examine him and call back. 

I lifted Tato’s chin and there they were. Not two, but three, oozing brown fluid. It was 10:36 pm. That was my OH, S—T moment. I called Lori back. She told me to call MedVet in Canal Winchester, closer than Cheat Lake by a half hour. Two hours and 15 minutes. Not quite all the way to Columbus. I called. They had antivenin. I told them I was on my way. Though I wasn't, quite yet.

I began talking out loud to myself, coaching myself in rapid-fire directions as I assembled the things I’d need for an overnight stay in Columbus. A few toiletries. A change of shirt and underwear. A pillow. A blanket. Some food for Tato. Some food for me. Water. My laptop, because who knew how long I'd be there? Chargers for phone, watch, computer. His bed. His leash and harness. It took awhile. 

I pulled the car up  to the door and carried him to his bed, laying him gently down. It was just after 11 pm when we hit the road. The drive up was uneventful, unless you count the enormous electrical storm that kicked in around Caldwell and continued well past Zanesville. At least it was a diversion. I watched the lightning play, the bolts going cloud to ground, ahead and around me. It was like being in a movie. Only more desperate and real. I was glad we couldn’t hear the thunder for the Subaru’s racing engine. I had just enough gas to get to Canal Winchester, with maybe 40 miles to spare. Great. Don’t have to stop. The orange rubber barrels that Bill called the State Flower of Ohio were still blooming all along the section through Zanesville, along with concrete barriers that made me feel I would careen into them at any second. I obeyed speed limits in the midnight construction zones with nobody in them. Rain began to pound down and at one point a truck passed me in a construction zone and flooded my windshield with water. I couldn’t see anything at all, just prayed my way through it and held steady until the wipers kicked in. Once I was out of the thunderstorms and construction I kept the cruise at 80. Tato had not put his head down once. He was exhausted, eyes closed, but he couldn't put his head down. It hurt too much. Or maybe he couldn't breathe when he did. Crap. I have to get there.

 My GPS dumped me off behind a gas station at a Dead End sign, and I had to call MedVet again and have the receptionist walk me through finding the place. It seemed it was placed behind intestinal cul-de-sacs so as to deliberately confound anyone trying to find it. I scooped Tato up and carried him in. He was squirting pee and I realized he really had to go, so I took him outside to empty his bladder. A vet tech scooped him up and carried him through swinging doors at arms length, facing forward, saying, “Loaded cannon coming!” She told me they’d take his vital signs and bring him back while they came up with a treatment plan. I was directed to an exam room and someone brought Tato back, telling me we’d be met there. It was freezing, the thermostat set at 66. Couldn’t do it. Went back out into the lobby where the sound of a TV comforted me. A lone teenager sat, head in hands, waiting for word on his pet. Tato sat quietly on a chair next to me, his swelling now the size of an orange, hanging down on his neck. A veterinarian eventually came out and told me she wanted to administer antivenin, but she would do it in a slow drip in case he had an adverse reaction to the medicine. It would take six hours. OK, so I have to get a hotel room. I can do that. I took him out to pee again, kissed Tato’s swollen muzzle gently, and told him I loved him too much and I would see him in the morning. They carried him back through the swinging doors. 

 A vet tech came, sat down, and told me, “This is the fun part.” She walked me through the treatment plan. If all went well and the six-hour drip did the trick, my bill would be around $1800. I blinked. “That’s more than I paid for him,” I said, in a quiet, wondering voice. Life can turn on a dime, and you'd better be ready.

I can imagine the range of things people say when they're given service quotes, and I’m sure what I said is firmly among them. I was an exposed nerve at that point. But I hadn’t cried once. I hadn’t lost it once, unless you count my raising my voice at the receptionist at Cheat Lake. I’d done everything to make this happen as fast as possible, alone with my panic and my dog in the middle of the stormy night. But wait, there was more. If it didn’t go well and he had to be hospitalized, the bill could reach $4,000. I felt woozy. Right. Let’s hope I get lucky enough to pay $1800. But I had to pay it right then. I pulled out my credit card. 

I had watched a woman hand over $850 for treatment for her cat, whose pupils were dilated, who was drooling. I saw her wince, then straighten, dig in her purse and hand the card over. It must really be something to have to watch people get news like that with such regularity. To hear what they say, or don’t say. To know that they feel they have no choice but to pay whatever the quote is. Very few people among the subset who are willing to take a pet to MedVet are going to say, “I’m not paying that much.” At that point, you’re committed. You were committed from the moment you acquired the animal, whether you paid a breeder's price, or an adoption fee at a shelter. Pets are family, and are treated as family. 

 By the time you’re at the counter at MedVet at 1:39 on a Thursday morning, you’ve already demonstrated that you care enough—and have the money-- to pay whatever they ask. It costs a lot of money to keep the lights on and the staff coming to work at a 24-hour veterinary hospital. Nobody gets out of here cheap. Throughout this ordeal, it had hit me hard that the area I live in is not emergency-ready. I’d blown a half hour just trying to figure out where to call. Well, now I knew that Canal Winchester was my nearest and best option. I wouldn’t waste that half hour next time. I'd grab an overnight bag, some food, my dog, and go.

I paid the deposit and started scrolling through hotels on my phone. I found four within a decent distance. Drove to the best and nearest. Rang the desk bell and a woman eventually came out. Explained why I was there at 2 AM. “Girl, we got no rooms at all. All full.” Uh oh. “Some kinda concert or something. Everybody’s full up.” (I figured out on the way home that the big draw was an electronica festival near Buckeye Lake. Not my cup of tea; I'm a fiddle and banjo gal).

  I trudged out to my car, feeling suddenly very weary. Looked up and called three more hotels. All full, even the crummiest one with the one star reviews. The last guy said he’d look and see if they had a room. He put me on hold for 12 minutes. When he came back he had found a king room at a Hilton Spark. Widescreen TV. Free WiFi. Exercise room bla bla bla bla . With taxes and such, my room for the night (which at this point would be short of five hours long) would cost $299.99 I sputtered. “Thanks for looking. But screw that. I’ll sleep in my damn car. Appreciate your help.” At that point, I was hemorrhaging money; $62 to refill the gas tank…I wasn’t about to plop down $300, to be shanghaied by Hilton.

I looked in the back seat. Pillow. Blanket. Dog bed. Here we were. I put everything in the passenger seat, folded down the back row seats and arranged my bedding. I lay down and immediately knew I’d be a complete mess in the morning if I tried to sleep on my back; the angles were all wrong; there were slopes and rises where there should have been flats. Rolled over on my side. Realized I had to pee. Couldn’t open the hatch or the back doors, so had to crawl up into the driver’s seat to let myself out. Easier said than done. Here I was in a hotel parking lot, having to pee. I didn't want to rouse Ms. Girl We Got No Rooms again, because the front doors were locked. I went behind an electrical junction station and peed in the grass like a dog. Satisfying. Crawled back into my bed. It was so hot and humid. Back doors were still child-locked, duh, so I crawled to the front seat, started the car and opened the moon roof partway. Crawled back into the back. 

The parking lot lights were burning through my eyelids. Decided I had to find someplace darker. Drove until I found a Chipotle parking lot with some of the lights burned out. Went through the whole routine again, including taking myself out on the grass, doglike. Lay down. Turns out the parking lot lights weren't out; they were just burning out. So they were blinking on and off at random intervals, very nice, soothing. It began to rain. I was getting wet, but it was still so hot, humid, close. I didn’t want to close the moon roof, I’d suffocate. It was 4 AM. The semis idling in the Walmart parking lot next door were loud. The lights blinked. On, off, on. On on on, off. I flopped from side to side. Pretty sure there were a couple of fleas in Tato’s bed, and they quickly found my tender midsection. Ok, so I wouldn’t have slept at the Hilton Spark, either. I would have been more horizontal, cleaner, and more comfortable, and $300 poorer, but that’s about it. So what. It's just a sleepless night, and I've had lots of those. You go on.

 Along about 5 AM I heard feet shuffling right outside my partially open window, sliding across the asphalt. Oh. Oh crap. Is this it? Is this where somebody breaks into my car and finds me in it? I tried to look like a pile of dirty laundry, which I essentially was. He started muttering, “That dumb f--er. 

Dumb f---r!” Repeating it over and over. I realized I was not what was on this man’s mind. He got in his car but didn’t drive away. Maybe his dumb dog got bitten by a snake, too. Maybe he was waiting out an IV antivenin drip at MedVet. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Nobody wants to be a in Chipotle parking lot at 5 AM in the rain.

The sky began to grow light sometime around 6:00 AM. My body's ironclad routine kicked in. I urgently needed to take care of morning business. And it hit me that this is the dilemma that unhoused people face every single day, many times a day. Where to go. How absolutely awful, to need a bathroom and not have one, and to be surrounded by dark empty buildings and a few people, none of whom want you around. I don’t think I’d ever thought about that aspect of being homeless before. I wanted to wash my face and brush my teeth and most of all, use the bathroom.  A grassy space would not do. I figured Walmart would be open by now, so I drove over there. Hey. I had a car. I could drive to a place with a bathroom. Lucky. I felt lucky. My dog was snakebit, but I could afford to care for him. I had a car. I was lucky.

 Hair standing up and sideways, clothes rumpled as if I’d slept in them (I wish!), I walked into the enormous Walmart’s hideous blue fluorescent Neverland and made a beeline for the restroom. It felt so good to wash my face, to flush a toilet, to have electricity. Breakfast. I was hungry, so I bought one still-green banana and a bottle of Chobani. Then I made my way to the pet department to look for a harness that wouldn’t touch Tato’s swollen neck. I found a nifty little number for $11 that consisted simply of a padded chest strap and belly band. Stick his front legs through the oval, clip it on his withers, done. Exactly the thing. As I walked through the cavernous store, cradling $15 worth of merchandise in my arms, I realized that I could easily pass for an unhoused person. I hadn’t gotten a cart because I didn’t want to buy much. It was all so humbling, to have nowhere to go. But I was rich beyond measure. 

 I thought about the reality that I had the money to pay for treatment for my dog. That, were I unhoused, and were my beloved dog bitten by a copperhead, we would just have to tough it out. I wouldn’t have enough money to get him seen. As miserable as the night had been, mine was not the real misery of homelessness. It was momentary. I was a comparatively wealthy white woman who had been cast for one night into the dilemma of an unhoused person. I could afford to get the best care money could buy for my dog, and I have never had the dilemma of being unable to provide that care for him. I would never know what it was truly like to be homeless, but I’d had a taste. And I had a bolt of empathy for anyone who didn’t know where their next restroom or breakfast or shelter from the rain might be. I vowed to hold onto that empathy. 

A slate and pink dawn was breaking as I came out of Walmart. I headed for MedVet, about 15 minutes away. I checked in and handed the harness to the receptionist. “Tato’s mom is here!” she called to the staff in back, and soon he came out snuffling and pulling at his new harness, an orange-sized swelling hanging from his throat. But alive, and well, if stoned out of his mind with the intravenous medications he’d been given. Among them were the powerful painkiller gabapentin and (gasp!) fentanyl. I didn’t want to think about the stew of chemicals in my puppy’s blood. I could barely look at the list they printed out. The vet tech told me I should keep him on gabapentin every eight hours for a week. Wow. 

 The morning veterinarian came out. She was cheerful and sunny and sweet. She told me what to watch out for (small spots of hemorrhage on gums, lips, ears and skin) and any necrosis near the bite. They had shaved his neck and cleaned the puncture wounds, and they’d done a beautiful job. I got a $100 refund from my $1800 deposit. That would buy my gas for the trip home. I felt very lucky and determined to get this pup back to the comfort of our home as soon as I could. The miles clicked away as I laid my hand on his satiny flank and watched him try to sleep. Last night, he had been unable to put his head down the entire ride—it hurt too much. He slept a bit on the way home, but I could see he was still uncomfortable.

I'm pretty sure I'd met the snake that nailed Tato. 

On the night of September 11, we were going out for his last leak when my Stanley FatMax flashlight beam swept across a familiar pale orange diamond on the sidewalk--the head of what turned out to be a large copperhead starting to cross the walk. This video, and the way I turned the air blue, says it all. Close call.

The snake wanted nothing to do with us. Tato was behind me and he stopped in his tracks when I made that noise. As I reconstruct the night of September 16, the last thing I saw him doing was chasing crickets. I'm pretty sure one jumped right toward a copperhead that was coiled along the front porch bench, and Tato just blundered into it. He may not even have known what hit him, although his sense of smell might have warned him. I'm sure he wasn't actively going after the snake. It all happened too fast, without warning. As accidents do.

Over the next five days, I had to keep Tato on gabapentin every eight hours, or he’d quit eating. I could see that a direct copperhead bite to the jaw was very painful, and he was unable to chew anything tough or crunchy. His swelling regressed from a swinging goiter to a barely noticeable dewlap, and by Monday evening he was racing after his ball and chewing his antlers as always. Each fang hole has a hard black center, but there’s no sign of necrosis or discoloration, thank goodness. I credit the antivenin for that.

A week later, he's off gabapentin, but still acts as if he's nauseated in the morning. So far, he's been eating a good dinner, and for that I am thankful. Maybe this is where we go from three meals a day to one. 

 We’ve made some changes. After dark, he’s on the harness and leash, right by my side as I swing my Stanley FatMax rechargeable torch, sweeping the ground with a klieg light, and he can’t go into the woods to poop at night anymore. He’s a modest little chap and that doesn’t sit well with him, but he’s grudgingly learning how to poop while wearing a lead. It just takes him longer, and he seems embarrassed by my presence. I don’t think I’m imagining that Tato sticks much closer to me and examines his path carefully, especially along the sidewalk near the front door where he was struck. He is now afraid of toads; I think he associates them with the accident. I'm not sure he even knows he was bitten by a snake, so I'm not sure there's been a learning event. Just BAM out of nowhere, and he was punctured, left stiff, retching, and drooling. I don’t think I’ll truly relax until we’ve had a hard frost.  And then, in May, it will all start over again. 

We live among copperheads. They aren't usually an issue at all. But I've seen more this suffocatingly hot, rainy, humid summer than in the last decade. Six individuals around the house, including the big one on Sept. 11, one that tried living in the corner of the front porch (I blocked off its hole with a cinder block), two in the back flower bed, one coiled right next to my gas grill in the garage (Óscar caught it with my snake stick, and we transported it to an abandoned house several miles away), and an 8" hatchling that Tato found just off the sidewalk. I knew he had a snake by the way he was sniffing and jumping back, sniffing and jumping back. It was still wearing its baby coat, with a flourescent green tail tip. It didn't connect with his nose, but it easily could have. It's been a summer. I am weary. 

Maybe my native plantings (this is New England aster) grow too big and wild.

Maybe I should have straight square beds of of bare mulch and little sunburned hostas and boxwoods instead. No place for a snake to rest.

Maybe I shouldn't have gotten a puppy who strews his toys everywhere and jumps around like a Superball when I come home. Who lives in every single corner of my heart. 

Who pulls down the covers so he can sleep on soft pillowcases. 

Who, at ten months of age, I've now purchased, twice.

Long may you run, Tater Tot. You don't even know how much I love you.

It has taken me forever to get this written and illustrated. Normally I'd serialize such a long post, but I don't want to do that to anyone. You shouldn't have to wait to find out what happened to Tato, or if he's OK. 
 

Can Phoebe be 30?

 

Ah, Phoebe. The milestones are coming too thick and fast for your poor old mother. I’m still trying to process the enormity that was your wedding, and here you are almost a year later turning 30, then moving to the PNW before fall. I mean, slow down a little! I can’t keep up! 

You’re playing on La Gomera at long, long last, with your sweet husband and your dear friend Carinna,

On the Not Watching Whales trip we took when we were there...

But I hear there were flocks of flying fish!

 I’m here in a frog-choking downpour on Indigo Hill, feeling lucky and graced beyond measure to be your mama. Even if it means I somehow have to bring up a blogpost to honor your birthday, like a fully-laden heron flapping home to the nest with a craw full of half-digested fish. 

It's a darn good thing I got a feeling I'd better harvest most of the garlic today. It's safely drying in the garage, waiting for you and Óscar to take some with you to your new home! Not bad for a first time garlic farmer. Next year: Even more manure, and much more water! Yes, I grew it mostly for you and Óscar, Liam and Ayla and my three fabulous cooking sisters. How much garlic does one person need? Not that much, it turns out. But giving it away, what a joy.

 Tato wants to help me write, so he just leapt onto my lap from a sitting start. And I’m sitting at my drawing table on a high drafting chair. That’s not trivial. Yes, this “tiny ball of sunshine” has grown into a rather large, long, lean, turbo-sweet Boston terrier who knows what he wants and always gets it. 23 pounds of pure genetically hand-selected GO. I thank you for the part you and Óscar have had in making him what he is today. Still very much a work in progress, but oh so much better for your firm hand. Counting on you to keep working with him whenever you come home. 

Do you know you are a glow in my heart? Nobody can light me up like you and Liam do. Nobody can make me laugh like you do. Nothing moves me like seeing you together, speaking your own language, walking out the meadow with your chairs and crossword puzzles to go have a chat with Daddy. What is sacred? Well, that. Your bond with your brother, and the way you honor both him and your dad.

You truly were born at the perfect time of year, Poobs, the time when all the flowers come out to play and all creation begins to buzz and sing. I’m going to walk through the prairie meadow so you can see what’s blooming now.

The Grandpa Ott morning glories you gave me that twined around your front porch railing in North Carolina are losing their minds with the manure I gave them. I said I wouldn't let them climb all over the garden fence, blocking sun from my garlic and tomatoes...well...I guess I underestimated their charm and how much I love them. Next year I'll let them grow only on the north side of the garden. No sun comes from that direction anyhoo. Right. 

 In my mind and heart, you are tightly interwoven with the special and ethereal beauty July brings in both the visual and auditory realms. Summer has found her voice in mid-July. She begins to sing quietly, then more confidently, until the katydid chorus swells each night. 

Do you see him? He'll be rasping tonight!

It was into such a time, and into a riot of flowers, that you decided to be born. What a wise and special infant you were, and you are my wise counsel to this day. You look like you're giving me advice, even here.

                                                 Are you sure you wanna post that, Mommy? 

 I can’t wait to see what kind of life you and Óscar make for yourselves going forward, and of course, I am excited about visiting! Olympic Peninsula, here we come! Happy birthday, my dearest little bird, as you embark on what I know will be your most exciting adventure yet. Excellence got you there, and excellence will carry you forward, and I’ll be watchin’ and creepin’ and visitin’!! Wondering if I can buy a seat for Tato on a plane. Is that done?

Gratuitous happy birthday hot off the presses Tato content now. For you and Carinna!

I tried to get a picture of him with chicory this morning, but he wouldn't smile.

I told him to smile and not eating the chicory

He just eating more.

He's a terrible dog and you have a lot of work to do when you get home. 

All too soon, it'll be Bon Voyage. Please, will somebody slow this all down? 

Happy birthday, sweet Phoebe!!! I am so very proud of you! 

One last gift from your sweet Auntie Barb, holding you here. There's Ida, loving you too. If I've seen this Polaroid (likely taken by your daddy), I don't remember it.

Sometimes Even Anger: An Open Letter to My Rural Electric Cooperative

One of the Three Graces got a haircut. Can you tell which one? The co-op's work. More on that later.

By "open letter," I mean I'm going to post it here as well as send it to the Washington Electric Co-op. This letter was sparked by the June 2026 issue of Ohio Cooperative Living, a slender magazine that we, the co-op members, get as part of our membership in the co-op.

Jeff McCallister 

Senior Managing Editor, Ohio Cooperative Living

6677 Busch Blvd.

Columbus, OH 43229

Dear Mr. McCallister: 

As a magazine editor and author, I often read with pen in hand, but for the June 2026 issue of Ohio Cooperative Living, I grabbed a yellow highlighter. President/CEO Craig Grooms’ opening salvo, “Options for New Power?” opened with a bang. “As the electric industry settles into the new reality that comes with serving the power needs of large data centers…” At the end of his letter, we were informed that “as demand continues to increase, existing coal plants will have to keep playing an important role in keeping electricity both affordable and reliable.” So we aren’t actually ready for the energy demands; we can’t possibly be ready for them; and we’re going to burn more coal to try to meet them. Got it. 

 I moved on to “The Cloud Next Door” and actually started chuckling as data centers were described as “massive, quietly humming facilities” that might be “tucked into industrial parks, converted from former warehouses, or, increasingly, rising up from a farm field into the rural landscape—in other words, places where people live, work, and raise families.” It only got better from there. I was temporarily soothed by this avuncular statement. “When big changes come very quickly, often with little or no information that’s easily accessible, neighbors tend to react with suspicion and sometimes even anger.” Yes, we have some big feelings about our new neighbors. But wait. There’s an upside! 

 “Living near a data center isn’t like living near a factory or airport, Jeff McCallister asserts. “There’s no smoke, no crowds, and no rush-hour traffic jams. The benefits of a nearby data center can be surprisingly tangible.” Here comes the Jobs promo section, I thought. 

“After opening, they still create stable, well-paid technical jobs…” McCallister then contradicts himself by stating, “Employees come and go in small numbers, and there’s no constant flow of trucks. For many neighborhoods, they’re among the quietest commercial neighbors around.” He correctly points out that there are virtually no jobs supplied by a data center, once it’s up and running. A few technicians to make sure the supercomputers and fans or cooling systems are running, 24-7, 365 day a year. And they’re quiet, you say? 

 My daughter was run out of a small western North Carolina town and a job she loved by a data center that had a footprint no larger than a small CVS drugstore. A micro-center, by comparison with the data centers invading our agricultural and urban landscapes at an incredible rate. Ohio is #8 in the nation for new data center construction. We’re buying into it whole-hog, in the absence of any quality of living regulations, especially in rural areas. The small North Carolina data center was voted in by town commissioners and trustees without informing or consulting nearby landowners. It simply appeared, seemingly overnight. The huge powerline supports went up, silver X’s towering over the rich bottomland farm fields, and boom! There it was, a shambling collection of semi truck containers with supercomputers and noisy exhaust fans blowing hot air, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, a mile from my daughter’s home. The noise was astonishing, sickening, even a mile away. No, Mr. McCalliser, it isn’t like living near a factory or airport. It is like living INSIDE a factory or airport. 

The noise was that of a very large jet, revving at the highest RPM, ready to take off. And that noise never, ever stopped once the data center was up and running. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, that gigantic jet engine was screaming, drowning out the birdsong and sending horses in pastures into agitated Brownian motion day and night. My daughter couldn’t sleep at night no matter what sound abatement she tried. I stopped visiting her, because, oddly, I need sleep at night. She had to give up a job she loved and leave a place she adored. She no longer wanted to live in a town that would secretly sign on to such an ill-planned and devastating assault on its residents. Thank goodness she was only renting; there are dream homes worth several million dollars all around the mountains and the golf course overlooking the data center, and nobody can sell their homes, because nobody wants to live on an airport tarmac, apparently. Don’t tell us data centers are “among the quietest commercial neighbors around.” That is an outright lie, and I am indeed reacting with “suspicion and sometimes even anger.” 

Here’s the warning, under “Reasons for concern.” McCallister states that “Data centers use enormous amounts of electricity. While that in itself doesn’t directly raise your utility bill, it can be a challenge for electric cooperatives to insulate current members from the costs of systems upgrades needed in order to serve such large loads.” Right there, Mr. McCallister is saying our rates are going up. We were warned! He goes on to cite water use, saying one data center can use 85,000 gallons of water to cool the processors handling one day’s ChatGPT prompts. Where is all that water going to come from? Supporting AI is environmentally unsustainable, it’s horrible for the planet and it’s horrible for people, as well.

 Nevertheless, “Co-ops are Ready.” Craig Grooms, CEO of Buckeye Power, states that “Ohio’s electric cooperatives stand ready to serve any data center that is built in co-op territory, but our members will not be asked to shoulder the costs associated with serving them.”

Sorry, Mr. Grooms. I don’t believe that for one minute. Even if you can shield us from the economic cost, which you cannot, the actual cost of my rural electric cooperative “standing ready to serve any data center that is built in co-op territory” is taken in the peace of mind and physical and mental health of co-op members. Shame on Mr. Grooms, shame on the Washington Electric Cooperative, and shame on Mr. McCallister for this screed, shot through with palliatives and outright lies. You can have no idea what you’re inviting into your daily life until you have lived next to a data center. Or a mile or two away. And we can be absolutely sure Mr. Grooms won’t have to live anywhere near a data center. He’ll be making enough off serving data centers to live anywhere he wants to. That’s how the brave new corporate world works. The one percent live off the health and well being of the other 99. 

To add absurd insult to injury, the same issue gives us rural co-op members some helpful tips on saving energy and our money. “Add an extra layer of clothes or some cozy slippers in the winter and lighter layers in the summer” and “Wash clothes in cold water to avoid using the energy required to heat it.” That ought to be very effective in offsetting the increased energy costs of my rural electric co-op welcoming data centers with open arms. Maybe we can all live in underground caves, to try to get away from the noise, too. It’s clear that, as humans who are apt to complain about our severely degraded quality of life, we’re just in the way of this much- exalted progress that is artificial intelligence. Not buying it. 

 Julie Zickefoose, Washington Electric Cooperative member since 1992 

Featured twice in your magazine for my art and writing. Ask Chip Gross.

A Hummingbird in Winter

I was minding my own business when several people tagged me at once on a post in a local portmanteau Facebook group, MOV What's Happening. It's kind of a like a NextDoor for Marietta, Ohio and Parkersburg, West Virginia, with everything from the latest convenience store robbery video to fires, car wrecks, lost pets, hair salon recommendations and pleas for help with a hummingbird in December. Does anyone around here rescue hummingbirds? Oh, yes, Julie Zickefoose does. Tag. Tag. Tag. Tag. Arrrgh.

What are the chances that this is actually a hummingbird? I thought. It was very late, around 11 pm. I was very tired. I didn't want to get sucked into the vortex. There was no photo with the post. Maybe it was a goldfinch. How could it be a hummingbird, in Parkersburg WV, in December?

When I woke up at 7 AM, there she was, in my Facebook inbox, asking for help with her hummingbird. I sighed and messaged back, asking for a photo. She obliged.

Well, dip me in chocolate and roll me in peanuts. Not only was it a hummingbird, it was a Selasphorus,  either a rufous or an Allen's hummingbird, which, after all, is what you expect for hummingbirds in West Virginia in December, if you expect them at all. Which you don't. 

For those who don't know, rufous hummingbirds, and sometimes Allen's hummingbirds, which are both of the genus Selasphorus, occasionally move east in winter, instead of south. They come from their breeding grounds in the Pacific Northwest and Canada up to Alaska, and for some strange reason they fly until they hit the East Coast, and then they try to survive New England winters. Some of them make it. Some of them even return to the East year after year instead of going to Baja and Mexico and Central America like they're supposed to. Nobody knows why they do it, but they're remarkably cold tolerant and can eke out a living, especially if provided with a warmed nectar feeder all winter. 

Now take a look at the rufous hummingbird occurrences on an eBird map from Oct 2022-Feb 2023.

Sightings are in purple. Yeah, my jaw is hanging open, too. Citizen science at its best! 

So this eastward push in fall and winter is something rufous hummingbirds do, whether it's good for them or not. Who knows. Maybe it's working for them. Maybe winter hummingbirds will be commonplace as the planet warms. 

Rufous hummingbirds are the reason I take my feeders down in September and keep them down. Because if I ever got one at my feeder, I would give everything I had to keeping it alive. And I would be worried sick through every sleet, ice, and snow storm. Sick, I tell you. Worrying about rufous hummingbirds is why I did this painting. If I ever got one at my feeder in winter I'd be trying to make it wear a little hat. I'd be making it a heated house to live in. It would not be good for either of us. So I take the feeders down. I do not want a hummingbird here in winter. It would drive me mad.

Christina explained that her dad found the hummingbird sitting all puffed up with its eyes closed atop a colorful windchime on their back porch.

Pause to think about that. It was hoping there was nectar in that windchime, hoping its bright colors meant it was a feeder. And when it wasn't, the hummingbird just gave up in the freezing temperatures and went into torpor. 

My heart broke for the first time, thinking about that bird in the freezing cold, hoping, then closing his eyes.

She had it in a cardboard box, in the dark. It had been without food for many hours the day before, then overnight. My brain jumped into action. I told her to get a big plastic box, like a foot locker, that was clear, that had a lid. The bird had to be able to see to be able to feed. Bring it out into the light.

 Then I asked if she possibly had a hummingbird feeder. She thought she might. Put that in the foot locker, put the hummingbird in with it, and see what happens, I told her. She sent me this video not long after, and my heart got squeezed, seeing this tiny creature responding so well to the help she was giving.

 

From that moment on, my day was given to the bird. He was out of immediate danger of starvation, feeding himself. He could stay right where he was; Christina was wonderfully competent. I spent the next six hours texting, calling, waiting for callbacks, reaching out in several different directions to try to find a place for this hummingbird to recover. 

My first choice was a large rehabilitation center two hours away. I couldn't get through to a human by phone, so I sent a Facebook message. Luckily, it was answered by a volunteer, who said she would check to see if they would take the bird. I explained that I was a licensed wildlife rehabilitator looking for care for a rufous hummingbird that had been found in bad shape the night before.  I sent the video above, and she relayed it to one of their animal care specialists. 

Shortly afterward, the volunteer got back to me and read off a bunch of information to me about overwintering rufous hummingbirds. I listened in silence. Yes. I knew all those facts. They didn't need to tell me any of it. She explained that they wouldn't take the bird because it was neither sick nor injured. Wait. This bird is found in horrible shape sitting starved on a windchime in 28 degree snow cover, and I'm being told to turn it loose back out into the snow again? Well, yes. It's not injured or sick, so there's no reason to take it in.

But look at it! Yes, it can fly, but it's not strong, it's not OK by any stretch of the imagination.  I'm not putting it back out into the freezing cold. And there's no way to explain that to the animal care specialist, because I'm not talking to them, and they're not talking to me. I thanked the volunteer who had relayed all the helpful information and hung up. I understood their position, and it might have worked with a robust hummingbird with a steady nectar source, but not with this bird. And I don't think they were seeing what I was in that video clip. A hummingbird that flies all puffed up is in trouble.

 OK. Two hours away was my closest option, and that's a no-go.

All the while, I'm thinking about whether I could care for the bird. Yes, I've got this great big heated greenhouse full of flowering plants. Yes, I'd love to try. But... the greenhouse is made of glass. And as soon as that bird got to feeling better, he'd buzz his wings, pick up speed, and fly straight up, smack into the  glass ceiling. And that would be that. I'd have killed him with kindness and optimism.

So I made another call, and sent another Facebook message to another rehabilitation center, and those went unanswered for several hours. Time was a-wasting. Finally my friend Ryan called a mutual friend who knew someone at the clinic I was trying to reach, and I sent Shane the video, and Shane sent it to Amanda, and I got a four-word answer back. "They'll take the bird." 

By now it was mid-afternoon, and I'd been trying to get an answer since 7 AM. The bird was 45 minutes away. I set out driving. It was after dark when I got there. I kind of knew which house it would be as I drove through the pitch-dark neighborhood. 

It was a house of kindness and light, the only one lit up on that whole street. I was warmly greeted and shown to the kitchen, where the tiny hummingbird, surrounded by hungry teens, bustling dinner prep, and several very interested cats, was calmly feeding from an old hummingbird feeder inside a plastic footlocker. Incredible.

Christina knew about hummingbirds because she had lived in Arizona and fed them there. Lucky for this one it picked her parents' house. She had even gone to a pet store and bought wingless fruit flies to offer him. I wanted to transfer him to my nylon hamper, so we took the footlocker and hamper into the bathroom just in case the bird got out. Christina said he'd gotten out while she was tending to him and flown all around the house, with cats in hot pursuit, but she managed to catch him again and get him back in the footlocker. Yipes. I don't know how many lives hummingbirds have, but this little guy had used several.

I caught him without incident, put him in my  hamper, and headed back home. I hung a little feeder from the ceiling of the hamper and left him alone. He was clinging to the side of the hamper, stressed and unhappy, and he spent the night that way. 

In the morning he was buzzing around the hamper. I didn't see him use the feeder, which worried me. Sure enough, he ran out of gas and wound up on the floor of the hamper. Oh, no. I took him in hand and after about ten minutes I got him to take some nectar from an eyedropper. It wasn't easy. 

 

After he ate,  he seemed better, and I switched out the hanging feeder for one more like the one Christina had offered him. To my vast relief, he drank from it on his own. I knew I needed to get a little video that wasn't compromised by the mesh hamper. I'm so glad I did. His beauty took my breath away. I'd never seen a rufous hummingbird so close, or so incredibly red. So beautiful. So dear. 

We had to hit the road. I was headed to the Ohio Bird Sanctuary in Mansfield, and it was a solid three hours away. I still didn't love the way the bird was acting, and my little voice said, "Might want to give it a day, see if he improves before you make a drive like that." 

But that wise little voice was drowned out by a muffled howl from my soul, telling me I wasn't up to the job. He was going to leave me if I didn't get him help. I tried one more time to feed him, without success; he just wouldn't swallow. I loaded everything in the car, packed a few snacks and some tea, and took off. Before we left the driveway, the feeder had tipped over, dumping nectar all over the hamper floor. I had to turn around, clean out the hamper, and find another feeder he might use that wouldn't tip over. It was 10:15 AM, and we were off to a very poor start. 

I stopped at 11 and tried to feed him. I couldn't wake him up, no matter what I did. This was not good. But I had the bit in my teeth now. I gave up, pressed the accelerator and prayed, eating away at the miles, glancing worriedly again and again at the little bird who hadn't moved.

It was only 24 degrees up here, but at least there was blue sky. I hadn't seen blue sky in way too long.

I got to the Ohio Bird Sanctuary around 1:15 pm and took the hummer to the triage room. Amanda, the director, met me there. I told her he'd been without food since 10, and that I was afraid I was losing him. I asked her to hold him for me so I could photograph his spread tail, something I hadn't been able to do one-handed. I had been corresponding with Allen Chartier, a bander who could help determine if he was rufous or Allen's.

This pose, with his wings wide out...a hard thing to look at. 

It's all in the tail feathers, the second rectrix to be exact, and as anxious and upset as I was I just could not get his tail spread wide enough to get a good photo of it. It kept folding up as I tried.  It was notched (rufous), but it didn't appear lanceolate (Allen's) to me. I suspect this is a pure rufous hummingbird. 

 Amanda couldn't have been nicer. She took him and put him in an incubator, and that was that. 

By now I was in tears, and I had to leave for home or drive much of the way in the dark. I don't like the short days of December, and I don't like driving in the dark any more.

But I couldn't leave without visiting the birds. The cheerful visitor's center receptionist gave me a tiny cup of dried mealworms and sent me out to the aviary. Two blue jays and two cedar waxwings descended on me. Which only made me cry more. How I miss communion with animals and birds, the touch of another living creature! To someone who has spent so many hours with a budgie or a macaw muttering away on her shoulder, so many summers raising wonderful baby birds, so many years with a good dog by her side, living alone without animals is not good. And now I was leaving a precious jewel here, because there was nothing I could do for him any more. The touch of waxwing feet and feathers was like food to a starving person.

I didn't even notice this hermit thrush had only one eye (the one he keeps on me) until I watched him for awhile.

The birds who live at the Ohio Bird Sanctuary are unreleasable. I am so very grateful that this place exists, to give a home to birds who can't fly well enough to migrate or live wild, but who still have so much joy to give to the people who are lucky enough to come visit them. The Sanctuary is not just for longterm clients. They heal and release lots of birds, but they're unique in keeping unreleasable raptors and songbirds around for the public to enjoy and interact with. It's a beautiful combination. I got to meet the gentleman who helped start it in 1988. You can read about its history here

 https://www.ohiobirdsanctuary.com/about-us

The thrush at the end of this clip is not a hermit, as I guessed. When I saw the video, I recognized it as a veery! Who gets to stare at a veery??

There was a father with his adorable young sons there. They are members, and they come regularly to commune with the birds. The boys had asked to come visit the birds today. They were so quiet and respectful and gentle. 

Look at this little guy with his waxwing pal.

I felt SO much better after lingering awhile in the aviary, communing with the kids and the birds. I stopped to visit with a great horned owl, who was hooting the last time I visited several years ago when I was dropping off an injured blue jay. I suspect has been hooting ever since. 

This is the outdoor classroom at OBS, which you reach along an 

elevated boardwalk. I'd love to be there in summer, too.

A very cool timelapse of its building in 2022 here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUnvtzgYPwk

I think I see Amish craftsmanship here!

Shadows were getting long when I left. I thought I might find a nice Amish meal on the way, but it didn't happen.  I grabbed a horrible sloppy Joe, threw it away after one bite, found a quick burger at another diner and kept rolling.

And the moon rose over an open field

The moon never looks as huge in photos as it does in person. It was like a great big old beach ball. 

I had about 20 minutes to race through the garden shop at Sheiyah Market in Berlin before it closed at 6 pm. It's one of my favorite places. I bought a teeny tiny poinsettia that makes me smile. 

I could tell it was just a rooted tip cutting of a regular poinsettia, but I love it just the same, and I don't have room for a great big floppy one. Tiny cur for scale. Me being me, I'll transplant it into a bigger pot and let it be what it is destined to be. 

I stopped to watch the moon rise over the marketplace, vying with the streetlights for size and brilliance, and it made me feel better. Christmas is coming, and I'll see my beloveds soon.

When I got home, there was an email waiting from my new friend Allen Chartier, who had heard through the grapevine that the little cinnamon-brown hummingbird had died before I even got home. Nine hours in the car, 420 miles total over two days I'd driven, and I knew even as I was leaving that morning that he wasn't going to make it.  He was so special, so lovely, so sweet. I had to try, for him, and for the sweet family who took him in off their wind chime. 

I've been sitting on this story for a couple of days, grieving for a tiny soul I only just met, and I finally realized that the only way to process it and to feel better about it is to tell it to you. As my friend Ryan, who ought to know, said to me, "Big hearts break hard."

If you would like to contribute to the good work of the Ohio Bird Sanctuary, I'm sure they would appreciate the help. Tell them it's for little Rufous. 

https://www.ohiobirdsanctuary.com/support-the-sanctuary