Dammit cat.

At 2 a.m. on April 28th, 2002, I cut my hair off in my bathroom. I had been at a bonfire with friends that night and there was a girl there whose hair I thought resembled mine too much. She was a rotten creature and I didn’t want any part of me to resemble any part of her. So I chopped off the hair. Way off. I cut off over a foot. True story.

Ever since starting my new job, my desire to chop my hair off again has grown exponentially. It is my job to romp around in dirt, get slobbered on by dogs, hang out with incontinent cats, and get crapped on by birds. And because of this, I have a hard time bringing myself to do my hair nice and pretty like I used to. Washing it, drying it, it’s all become a chore. So tonight as I contemplated chopping off my hair like I have so many times before, I realized that yes, I really do love my hair, but it’s just hair. And so without a second thought, I went in the bathroom and emptied my locks into the sink.

Chop. Chop. Chop. About ten inches total.

I really love my hair long, but more than anything, I think I love that other people love it even more. And that’s what’s been keeping me hanging on to it. But that’s a stupid reason. There were so many more reasons to chop it. Like the fact that I live in the desert and come summer, my hair would become my worst enemy. Or the fact that it takes forever to dry. Is straight and boring and takes forever if I want to curl it. Is always in snarls after showering. Was getting so long it was approaching stringy. And so on. I do think I look better with it long, but I needed a change, and if I really want it back (which I don’t), it’ll grow back.

My favorite dog photos from this week… starring Shorty, Hera, Olivia, and Kenickie.

Don’t worry, she’s sedated.

Okay, seriously, is there any better way to spend Valentine’s Day than by playing with puppies? I highly doubt it.

(more puppies…)

In honor of this heart-warming day, Miss Molly and I made holiday cookies last night. To ensure a romantic holiday, be sure to whisper these sweet nothings into your lover’s ear.

Once upon a time, twenty-something years ago, my mother was pregnant with me at the same time as one of her horses was pregnant. Cally, my “twin sister” was born 11 days before me (and all these years later, we still have her). My (or should I say “our”) first birthday cake was decorated with her likeness in frosting. I rode horses my entire childhood, collected horse statues, and even went to horse camp. If that wasn’t enough, my mom bought me my own horse for my ninth birthday (but it ended up being crazy and we had to sell him). Oh yeah, and did I mention my mom is a mustang trainer?

So basically, it surprises most people to hear that I don’t really like horses. I mean, they’re pretty when they run, but that about sums up my feelings towards them. I used to adore them, but somewhere along the line (in my angsty teenage years to be exact), I quit loving them. I actually grew to despise them. There are a lot of reasons why, but mostly I can chock it up to being an angsty, rebellious teenager. I no longer despise horses, but I am pretty indifferent to them, and I definitely don’t like riding them. And needless to say, saying that is like stabbing my mother through the heart.

But today my mother would be proud. Because today, I had a moment. I had just walked a mile through mud to take a photo of a horse named Jiji. But when I got to her pasture, she was being a pain in the ass and hanging out in bad light. So while I waited for her to move, Rusty came up to smell me. He chewed on my pant legs and slobbered on my shirt. I pet his nose and rubbed his ears. And as we stood there (in magnificent light, might I add), I felt a little connection with Rusty that has usually always been reserved for cats or dogs, or maybe birds, but never horses. For a moment (and a moment only), horses suddenly made sense to me. But then the moment was over. Sorry mom.

In honor of this short-lived moment (which I’m sure there will be more of in the coming months), here are couple horse photos from this week.

When I first met the Vick dogs a few weeks ago, I’ll admit that I was expecting to have to be a little cautious. These were, after all, vicious fighting dogs, I thought. Georgia was the first I was introduced to. Perhaps a little apprehensive to enter her run at first, I did anyway when her smiling face stared up at me through the fence. And as she sat there happily wagging her crooked tail and licking my face, all my preconceptions were tossed out the window.

All the Vick dogs have heart-breaking stories, but perhaps Georgia’s is the worst. Her’s leads the New York Times article that ran on the front page of Saturday’s paper. And as it is so well-written, I’ll leave Georgia’s introduction in the words of NYT writer Juliet Macur:

A quick survey of Georgia, a caramel-colored pit bull mix with cropped ears and soulful brown eyes, offers a road map to a difficult life. Her tongue juts from the left side of her mouth because her jaw, once broken, healed at an awkward angle. Her tail zigzags. Scars from puncture wounds on her face, legs and torso reveal that she was a fighter. Her misshapen, dangling teats show that she might have been such a successful, vicious competitor that she was forcibly bred, her new handlers suspect, again and again.

But there is one haunting sign that Georgia might have endured the most abuse of any of the 47 surviving pit bulls seized last April from the property of the former Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick in connection with an illegal dogfighting ring.

Georgia has no teeth. All 42 of them were pried from her mouth, most likely to make certain she could not harm male dogs during forced breeding.

Her caregivers here at the Best Friends Animal Society sanctuary, the new home for 22 of Mr. Vick’s former dogs, are less concerned with her physical wounds than her emotional ones. They wonder why she barks incessantly at her doghouse and what makes her roll her toys so obsessively that her nose is rubbed raw.

“I’m worried most about Georgia,” said the Best Friends veterinarian Dr. Frank McMillan, an expert on the emotional health of animals, who edited the textbook “Mental Health and Well-Being in Animals.” “You don’t have the luxury of asking her, or any of these animals: ‘What happened to you in your past life? How can we stop you from hurting?’

Happy Mardi Gras from Ellen Belly.

Lassie here has some rusty joints and needed hydrotherapy. But the thing is, she flat out refused to walk on the underwater treadmill… flat out refused three times a week for three months. But now she does it with no complaints. How so, you ask? Chicken strips. Not dog food, dog treats, or even a tennis ball, but chicken strips… and chicken strips only. Smart dog.

I wish people came in as vibrant of colors.