Biskit

Prior to coming to Four Sticks Farm, Biskit was part of a neglected herd rescued by the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation. He was a demonstration horse at a fundraising clinic given by a local trainer and was standing quietly in a round pen when I walked into the barn. I stopped to get a closer look at the little yellow gelding, and when his soft baby browns met my gaze, there was no doubt that he would be joining Chicago and Rusty at Four Sticks Farm.

I regaled George with as many details of the event as a non-horsey husband can tolerate, ending with a suggestion of what he could get me for my birthday, which was on the following Friday. I told him about the pretty palomino. He told me he already had my birthday present. I picked up Biskit the following Saturday.

Whether a remnant of his sad past, or plain old gluttony, Biskit is always ready to belly up to the hay bale and reluctant to bid it farewell. During primo grazing season, when the paddock is open all day, he is loath to leave the opportunity to gorge on all that forage even for a drink of water or a turn in front of the big barn fan. He leaves his muzzle on low to mow a path to the next spot of greener grass.

I’ve tried to take advantage of that food focus by taking Chicago for a little exercise around the property while Biskit is stuffing his stomach, but he will eventually notice he’s the only pony on his side of the pasture rail and then he’ll panic, running the fence line, tail lifted, head high, calling for his friend. An impressive site, if you ignore the small mounds of manure dotting the alley as they drop from beneath that elevated tail.

Because he has an unspecified neurological issue that affects his balance, Biskit escaped riding duty, with an everlasting assignment as the barn buddy. He is a pasture pal. The support pony, he buys into his place in the herd, which is anywhere behind the polka-dotted butt of the big red horse he calls “Boss.”

What he’s never bought into is that Patience is a Virtue. He protests excessive time in the crossties, with impatient pawing, piles of poop, and puddles of pee in the barn aisle. Our good-natured farrier unpacks his superpowers of patience and proficiency to complete Biskit’s pedicure within the window of three-legged tolerance, finishing the job seconds before the pot-bellied pony snatches his hoof away in a most disrespectful display of gravitational insecurity.

But he is cute. More charming than churlish, Biskit is beloved by most who visit the barn. He’s a BFF to the Big Red Beast, cordial to the cats, and gracious to the golden with a squeaker ball. A birthday gift still giving after 14 years.

Blessings.

Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.