“The life of an animal lies outside of conjecture. It is far beyond the scientific papers and the campfire stories. It is as true as breath. It is as important as the words of children.” - Craig Childs

I’m a collector of wildlife tales, especially those that recount firsthand encounters that do more than state the facts from a human point of view. I want stories so vivid, so steeped in the raw underpinnings of life - the grit, the damp, and the toe stubbing hardness of stones - that I am forced to reconsider what I believe about myself and my place in the world.

Craig Childs is capable of delivering on all fronts - a writer with a solid grounding in science (he has a master's degree in desert studies), he’s more than a little feral himself. One has only to pick up one of his early books, such as Stone Desert or The Secret Knowledge of Water, which are based on the long stretches of time he spent living out of his truck and trekking through the mountains and deserts of Arizona, Utah, and Wyoming to understand what I mean. Everything he writes is grounded in lived experiences, whether that’s nearly being swept away by a flash flood or exploring the mystery of the Anasazi civilization's disappearance from the American Southwest in the 13th century. Whenever I pick up one of his books I am a) amazed that he survived whatever escapade the book is based on; and b) unable to put the book down until I’ve read it cover to cover. The Animal Dialogues is one such book.

The essays in The Animal Dialogues are entertaining (Childs is an accomplished storyteller), but more importantly they slip in and out of domestication, taking us into parts of our humanity that have been forgotten or ignored for centuries. Childs is not only unafraid of these parts of himself but welcomes the intensity and ferocity the encounters awaken as well. You will come away from reading these pieces feeling both more alive and vaguely disturbed by your reactions. I read them to be reminded that my life exists as part of a larger, wilder whole and that I have only to step outside my comfortable little human box to have my own uncommon encounters. I hope you will too.

To order your copy of The Wild Dialogues and support independent bookstores, visit: https://bookshop.org/a/124434/9780316066471

P.S. Comments and suggestions for future books to share are welcome. Just drop me a line in DMs.

Copyright 2026 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.

Buy Me a Coffee

I love to read and discuss stories almost as much as I love to write them. This week I finished reading Sue Hubbell’s A Country Year: Living the Questions for at least the fourth time since I bought the book in the late 1990’s. I return to it whenever I want to be reminded that it’s possible to live simply and well on the planet - that taking time to notice the ebb and flow of the seasons, how your actions impact the lives of other creatures, and how finding yourself tending hundreds of hives of bees in middle age can be the best thing that ever happened to you.

Hubbell’s writing tends to the reader the way she tended to her bees - matter-of-factly and without fuss. Her writing has just enough description to draw you in and just enough information to make you want to know more. Why did bats join Hubbell for her morning coffee? How can you tell if a beehive is healthy or not without opening it? Why is a hard rain needed to put an end to mud season? And what’s the best way to deal with chiggers? All of these questions and more are asked and answered in Hubbell’s welcoming, no nonsense style so you come away feeling as if you’ve just spent time with an old and very interesting friend. Yes, I love and heartily recommend this book.

Jena

To get your copy and support independent bookstores visit
https://bookshop.org/a/124434/9780395967010

Copyright 2026 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.

Buy Me a Coffee

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Rowdy was a wolf - a real flesh and blood wolf. Born in captivity in 1996, he was rescued by Mission Wolf - a non-profit nature and education center that provides sanctuary to unwanted captive-born wolves and wolf-dog crosses. The author of today’s post, Tizz O’Toole (pen name Niki Flow), became part of the sanctuary’s adopt a wolf program in 1997, help…

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"The animals of the world exist for their own reasons. They were not made for humans any more than Black people were made for whites or women for men." — Alice Walker

I am being chastised for saying I don’t believe that Cherie DeVaux deserves to be celebrated for becoming the first female thoroughbred trainer to win the Kentucky Derby. I’ve been told I’…

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There are few things I enjoy more than stories about chance encounters with critters. You know the ones. They grab you by the senses, startle your imagination awake, and get you thinking. Why did the animal choose to spend time with me? Was it curiosity or a chance encounter? What did the critter think/feel about me? And of course what did I come away w…

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I am sharing this delightful, touching, and inspiring message from Andrea Gibson and Meg Falley two of my favorite humans. In addition to giving some great advice about how to write a love poem to a homo sapien, they have reminded me that I can write one for my animal family as well: https://www.facebook.com/reel/1966730554190652

So here is one for Gabby…

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Today’s story comes from Ellen Britt, a very talented writer, educator, and lover of animals. Ellen is also a homeopathic educational consultant, which made me curious. Had she ever had a reason to use homeopathy with the animals in her life? When she responded with this story I was intrigued and delighted. I think you will be too. Please drop by Ellen’…

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“Suddenly it seems all wrong - the storm on the outside and me on the inside, each of us wanting a little taste of the other. So I run through the upstairs and downstairs, open every door and window, and welcome in the storm…As the storm runs through the house, it’s as if I’ve been encircled by a great, rollicking beast. I feel its playful fingers touch…

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I am going to ask you to read something - something exquisite, heartfelt, and deeply personal. It’s an essay by Susan Osborn - a singer, songwriter, musician, poet, and as it turns, out a purveyor of magic and mystery.

It’s not that Susan went looking for magic and mystery, mind you. It’s just that she was born to resonate - to make music with angels and…

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This lovely poem comes to us from Rocco Priora, Italy.

The Last Tree

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“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal”. - Toni Morrison

Over the 18 months it took me to research and write my novel, We Stand in the Middle (about a 30-something journalist who inh…

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“Hard times are coming, when we’ll be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine real grounds for hope. We’ll need writers who can remember freedom — poets, visionaries — realists of a larger reality.“ - Ursul…

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Today we’re delighted to publish a story by Letizia Stagno, a biologist, writer, and student of horses in the natural world. I find her approach and commitment to getting to know equines without the usual assumptions and requirements refreshing and intriguing. What might we learn if we stopped expecting horses to transport, entertain, and perform for us…

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Today’s post is by guest author, Aleks Haecky. He is a long time observer and student of nature whose writing never fails to move me. Here he managed to make me laugh out loud and groan in sympathy. Enjoy.

Of Mice and Math

cause follows effect
problem trails resolution
begetting begets

When I saw a mouse cross my one curtain rod, in broad daylight, while I was sitting below reading “Ann of Green Gables”, that was the last straw. The mice had to go! I had already experienced the day before how live traps were not the solution. I put up several, and successfully lured mice into them with peanut butter and almonds, carried them out the door and down the driveway, all the way to the ditch where I dumped them into the leaf litter, only to see them take off in a beeline back towards the house, just like my neighbor had warned me. She told me of taking a mouse to the far end of her four-acre property, and the mouse running, to have them both arrive at her front porch at the same time. The mouse looked at her, pleading, and, unfortunate for her, she melted and let her back into the house. Shortly after she reported mice running over her pillow and urine smell in kitchen cabinets. I suspect the cute rodent had a cute litter of cute babies.

My first sign that I had a problem was hearing rustling sounds from the drawer under my stove a few weeks ago. It sounded as if gnomes were rummaging through my collection of old cookie cutters. I ignored it. Ignoring is a terrible instinct we apply when we want unpleasant experiences to un-exist. It didn’t work. The sounds persisted into the next day, and when I opened the drawer, I was met by a waft of “that smell” and the sight of scattered pellets. Also, a chewed up plastic bag and a ball of paper shreds in a corner mixed with cat hair. If your nose has ever been assaulted by the stink of rodent urine, it will never forget that acrid, penetrating smell that let’s you no longer avoid the truth. You have been invaded.

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“Kahuna Nui Hale Kealohalani Makua – Love all you see, including yourself.” — Hale Makua

The name we chose was Nell.

I say we because it was the only moniker my feline friend would deign to respond to and because it reminded me of Jody Foster’s brilliant performance in the movie by the same name. In that movie, Foster speaks fluently and poetically but no one can understand her. She speaks an odd, distorted version of the English she learned from her mother whose speech was colored by an Appalachian accent and distorted by multiple strokes. Like Foster, Nell (the cat) would patiently repeat herself - leading me into the kitchen with backward glances, leaping onto my lap while I was reading, and when all else failed crying piteously until I paid attention.

Through trial and error - including one disastrous trip to the vet over which she nearly disowned me - I began to acquire a rudimentary vocabulary. The trick, I discovered, was the correct interpretation of body language, vocalizations, and situations. Half-closed eyes, for example, could mean annoyance or happiness. Likewise, tail lashing could indicate playfulness or that her hunting instinct had been triggered and she was about to pounce.

I was a slow and frustrated student. I kept remembering the relationship I’d enjoyed with Tom, an all black cat who adopted me when I was four. Tom jumped from a tree onto my father’s head on Halloween night. Despite my father’s indignation and my sister’s allergies Tom stayed, becoming my best friend and port in the violent storm of my family life.

Tom and I never had trouble communicating. We moved through one another’s day like dancers - spiraling in and out of one another’s space to share wet nose touches and cuddles during the day and reconvening at night at the foot of my bed. There, we shared the events of our days in complete silence. It was while I was reminiscing about this in a letter to my mother that it hit me. “Communication has nothing to do with words,” I wrote. “It’s about images and feelings.”

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