Food for Thought

Don’t be fooled by the photo – after spying the camera, Biskit inhaled deeply, then briefly stopped breathing to slim his silhouette; and since this was taken last fall, his girth has grown. Greatly. So much so that his winter blanket burst at the seam. Literally. And he can’t blame it on the dryer.

But Tuesday we renewed our commitment to wellness. I’ve been watching a new trainer on RFD-TV lately, an advocate for focusing on the horse’s mind to understand and accept what it’s offering – “The Gift of the Horse.” One might think Biskit comes bearing a very small package, simply wrapped in plain brown paper, but he’s actually proven receptive to the approach, as demonstrated in Tuesday’s long-lining pasture walk.

In a dazzling display of horsemanship Don’ts, I snapped the lines on his bridle, draped them in a mildly knotted heap over his back with the end of one dragging just ever-so-slightly on the ground, then led him out of the barn, past Chicago, Rusty and the afternoon hay, down the hill and out to the pasture.

I needed little focus to understand what was happening in Biskit’s mind. The tossing head, sidestepping hindquarters and erratic gait punctuated with bursts of speed followed by sudden stops drew a pretty clear picture. Which worked out well, as I needed most of my attention to stay on my feet through the mine field of snow-covered frozen manure chunks.

But once I accepted Biskit’s offering of a “Left Turn Only” course, and let him walk in a giant counter-clockwise circle, peace prevailed. And after a couple laps, I set him on a course leading back toward the barn and the forage feast of his slacker friends, but only if he took a Right Turn. No problem for the now quiet-minded horse. Not only could he, would he, turn to the right, but he stopped and started, uphill, downhill, past the barn and down the alley with commendable cooperation.

Five minutes of Ugly followed by ten minutes of Pretty Good equals a successful session for the Portly Pony, so we returned to the barn where our happy day got happier when Biskit stood quietly for a bit of brushing without his usual demands for immediate release.

His reward? An apple and a private stash of hay. We can always buy a bigger blanket.

Boone’s Beginning

Though a lifelong golden retriever girl, when my Old Yellow Dog Zenga aged into Bonus Time, I decided to go with Something Completely Different, and adopted a rescue greyhound from Northern Lights Greyhound Adoption. And they are truly a whole different breed. While the golden shouts “Pick Me! Pick Me!” the greyhound, with a polite but barely perceptible nod murmurs “Thank you so very much for your consideration.”

Boone came to Four Sticks Farm less than a week after he left the track in Kansas City, retiring at the age of 3 with a racing record of 0-0-0. Because he spent his young life in a kennel, and had been neutered only days before moving in with us, our life together started with a few fundamentals:

1. Lifting your leg on houseplants or Zenga is unacceptable.

2. A screen door should be opened, not barreled through.

3. The dog in the mirror is You, and you will not find you by running around the mirror into the kitchen.

4. A dog treat is considered by most canines to be a very good thing, and one worth performing some small act of obedience for.

Fortunately for all involved, Boone transitioned quickly to a life of mostly leisure in rural Wright County. He LOVES his morning walk, no matter what the weather. He has boots and a jacket for the extreme conditions, though he prefers to go au naturel, possibly because the boots have to be cinched circulation-stopping tight to stay up on his stick-skinny legs, and the jacket is Minnesota Viking polar fleece – ‘nuf said.

Boone also loves to run around the horse arena, which he does with great enthusiasm for about 37 seconds. Then, he returns to the house and spends the better part of the day recovering. 37 seconds of joyful outburst followed by 23 hours, 59 minutes and 63 seconds of blissful recovery. On our bed, the guest bed, or any sunny spot he finds in the dining room.

Next to his morning walk, Boone loves a good nap more than any other activity. Including eating. Boone eats only as much as is required to maintain a functioning system, and his long legs, defined waistline, maintenance of his racing weight, and a minimalist attitude toward food makes for a case of an owner who wishes she resembled her dog. Big thighs are the one physical attribute we share, only on an animal who once made a career of running hard and fast, they’re an asset. On a woman who sits at a computer writing about an animal who once made a career of running hard and fast, they’re not.

He makes me laugh though, and since becoming an only-dog has assumed the responsibility of Greeter with great gusto. He plays well with others, including the barn cats and his new boss, the Kwik Trip Kitten. Well, except for that baby bunny he picked out of the ditch on our first walk together. But even then, his cooperative spirit shined through when George pried Boone’s mouth open and dropped the little rabbit onto the grass, setting it free to hop away with a great story to tell its grandbunnies.

Boone is bright and engaging, albeit with a style totally different from that of the sporting breeds of my past. He is certainly no golden retriever. But he is an excellent greyhound.

Boone’s New Boss

Mocha came home vaccinated, de-parasited, neutered and still slightly dopey from his day at the clinic. We moved him directly into the laundry room, with the decision to go for one major transition rather than a series of small upsets. If our little sewer rat was going to convert life as a happy house cat, let it start with a litter box in the laundry room. Right now.

All in all, his conversion progressed smoothly and steadily. His only litter box transgression came within the first week, and was, I strongly suspect, the result of a miscalculated attempt at a high jump over the baby gate separating him from his humble abode.

My only disappointment was an apparent transfer of loyalty when the little chocolate feline chose George as his new best friend, but as time progressed I came to believe that Mocha understood who he needed to win over, and who he’d already won. Smart kitty.

He uses his scratching post, though I still cringe and keep a close watch when he jumps on the leather couch. An indoor cat with claws is a very scary thing.

The catnip mouse brought on a serious bout of paranoia, so with the thought that it might not mix with his post-neuter painkiller, I put him through a few days of detox. But even a drug-free Mocha turned a little too maniacal when exposed to the weed, so he’s now content with shoelaces, ping pong balls, the glass beads in the bowl on the coffee table, the cloth covering the little table on the landing, and the strings that control the dining room blinds. Now that he’s comfortable roaming around on all levels, the house has become a giant kitty amusement park.

The Final Frontier, yet to be completely conquered is the greyhound. Though outweighed by a good 75 pounds, Mocha established his role as the Boss of Boone immediately and without room for negotiation. Boone agreed to the terms and has been nothing but accommodating (except for one brief reactive moment for which he was immediately and eternally regretful) even going so far as to refuse to join everyone downstairs for movie night, allowing Mocha full, free access.

They now share space pretty comfortably, and though Mocha will still arch and hiss at Boone should the dog have the audacity to lift his head while the cat sniffs his feet, he no longer runs in terror, but merely returns to his investigation when Boone lays his head back down in defeat or disinterest.

I think the Kwik Trip Kitten is on his way to King of the Castle.