Driving Mr. Chicago

In an effort to broaden my horsey horizons, Chicago and I have taken up cart driving, and four weeks into the process, he has his part down, but it appears I’ll spend much of the summer figuring out mine.

Possibly in celebration of the fact that I was, literally, off his back, Chicago breezed through his lessons in wearing the harness, feeling the shafts on his sides and the weight of the cart behind him. He now starts and stops, walks and trots, turns right and left with a beautiful natural lightness. As long as Dick is in the driver’s seat.

I watch Dick (aka “The Man Who Has the Patience to be My Riding Instructor”) ask a few questions, listen to his instruction, and the process is clear and logical and seemingly quite do-able. But put the reins in my hands, and we’re bumping cones, cutting through the shavings pile, knocking over cones, backing out of corners and running over cones. The good news – all that sensory training paid off. The bad news – my learning curve is apparently flatter than that of my horse.

So other than a couple brief moments when we pull it together and trot down the long wall, my Big Red Horse and I struggle to connect with some semblance of relaxed rhythm and move “Forward, forward, forward.

Should my technological skills prove more advanced than my cart driving, I’ll post video of our progress in the future. In the meantime, watch your toes.

Chronicle of the Old Yellow Dog

I’m not sure about the rest of you, but in Zenga’s world, the sun now rises sometime between 5:00 and 5:15.

A.M.

And in Zenga’s world, when the sun rises, so does he. And, therefore, so do I. Between 5:00 and 5:15.

A.M.

And after he rises, Zenga’s first order of business is to demand a trip outside, giving me just enough time to run downstairs, fill up his breakfast bowl, grab his daily supplements, fill up the greyhound’s breakfast bowl, run upstairs, to the back door, and let in the Old Yellow Dog.

Once confirmed that I do, indeed, have his breakfast in hand, he follows me to the kitchen, where I put water on his food, feed him the supplements while walking to the hearth, set his bowl down, and let the greyhound outside.

In the time it takes Zenga to eat, I brush my teeth, let the greyhound in and think about going back to bed – a brief and wishful thought, as by then Z is done with breakfast and demanding to be let out for Phase 2.

The second trip out offers a fascinating (at least to my morning-muddled mind) study in the power of routine. Zenga has a route, snuffling around the lawn, down the hill, onto the trail, through the woods ‘til he hits the driveway. Then it’s along the lilacs, across the driveway and toward the house.

My timing plays a critical role in this ritual. Too early, I disrupt the flow and will be expected to wait until he finds his place again and completes the course. Too late, he’ll repeat the circuit, and once started, cannot be interrupted.

A beautifully choreographed routine, for which my dog has trained me well, much to his delight. After all, a happy dog makes for a happy owner. Even between 5:00 and 5:15.

A.M.

Chronicle of the Old Yellow Dog

I watch the Old Yellow Dog age a little bit every day now. The turnaround spot on our morning walk gets a little closer to home, his turning radius gets a little wider, and the energy to walk across the ceramic tile gets a little more concentrated. So I spend a lot of time waiting for him – to walk with me, to turn around in the doorway, to build up the momentum to cross the floor.

In turn, he spends a few minutes now and then waiting for me – to let him out, to let him in, to bring him dinner, to let him out, to let him in, to make the greyhound move, to let him out, to let him in, to remind him where the water dish sits, to let him out, to let him in, to remind him that I am still in the house, etc..

And he does it with a bold and slightly raspy bark that is demanding and impossible to ignore. I’ve even seen the hint of a stomped foot when my response time doesn’t meet his expectations.

He is consistent and persistent. No need for alarm clocks or roosters at Four Sticks Farm, because Zenga ensures the household is up and at ‘em by 5:50 a.m. Every morning. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. 5:50 a.m.

But when I get to the front entry and meet his gaze as he stops barking and starts preparing to navigate the tile, I see a glimmer of joyful anticipation of what’s to come, unbridled enthusiasm for the trip inside or outside (even if it’s the 37th of the day) a meal, a detour around the greyhound, a drink, or the reassurance that he’s not alone.

It is still a beautiful world in Zenga’s old eyes, and I am lucky he’s willing to wait for me.

Even 37 times.