Gratitude

Those lucky to enjoy the companionship of a furry, feathered, finned, scaled, or shelled friend are, indeed, lucky enough.

November highlights the opportunity to reflect on the gifts we’ve been given, and for me, that includes the four-legged livestock with whom I share my life.

My animals get me out of my head, out of my house and into the rest of the world.

Rowdy keeps me moving, with his passion for the park, watching to see what I wear out of the closet, exploding with excitement when he sees what he interprets to be exercise apparel.

Fennel and Mace keep me still, with their appreciation of a warm lap on which to receive a quiet cuddle.

Biskit and Chicago keep me mindful of the natural world, blessing my backyard with the natural beauty of equines.

They all keep me learning, with health or behavioral issues that lead me through coaching clinics, training classes, educational seminars, veterinary consultations, Google searches, and pet care catalogs.

They soothe in the storm of stressful seas and motivate when I crave the couch.

They speak in barks, hisses, nickers, purrs, whines, whinnies, stares across the room and stares across the yard. Incredibly intense stares.

They are extraordinary listeners, exemplary secret-keepers, and conversation starters who provide smooth ice-breaker introductions and spontaneous chit-chat with people in the park.

They make me laugh and cry and think and play.

They bring me comfort, joy, a sense of responsibility, and a reason to get up in the morning – even when I want to sleep in.

They gallop, saunter, strut, trot, run and wiggle into my heart, and transform my house into a home. A dust-bunnied, paw-printed, barn-boots-in-the-back-entry home.

They keep me happy, healthy, humble human.

Grounded.

Fennel

Fennel’s scared and he’s making us late.
I’m not sure just how long they will wait.
His appointment’s been set.
It’s his time for the vet.
But I can’t get him into his crate.

The lives of my barn cats are something of a secret. We often connect at one, some, or all my standard chore times, and while Mace seems to stay in the space between the house and the barn and shows up according to schedule, Fennel lives his own life, a little lion on the loose, a panther on the prowl, a tiger on a tear. Or maybe not.

Turns out my once-courageous kitten grew up to be a cowardly cat. Fennel came to Four Sticks, a 10-week-old bit of orange tabby toughness, ready to take on the Goliath in golden retriever clothing. He honed his hunting skills on baling twine, barn flies and grasshoppers, then leveled up to field mice, woodpile chipmunks and the occasional slow-witted songbird.

His confidence built his social skills – he sought us out, sat in our laps, showed us affection.

But that youthful cat swagger led him out to the acres of adventure and adversity around us. He disappeared for one 24-hour period, then eventually a second. One of his mystery missions took the tip of his tail, the other left an abscess on his foot.

I’ve learned to (mostly) let go of the worry when Fennel doesn’t show up for a day but have been saddened by the fear he’s developed since he started exploring the external environment.

Two months ago, I went to collect my little orange cat for his annual vet visit. He was conveniently located in the barn, so I made a few pleasantries, scooped him up, carried him into the tack room and tried to put him into his little cat crate.

He Houdini’d himself out of my arms, dodged the crate, raced out of the tack room, and scrambled up the hayloft ladder.

So, crate in awkward tow, I climbed up to the hayloft. Though Mace happily roused himself from a cozy divot in a hay bale to greet me, Fennel refused to acknowledge my existence. I shuffled hay bales, cleared a path and by the light of my silvery cell phone, crawled across the scratchy silage to entice him. I murmured a few less than pleasant pleasantries disguised in a reassuring tone to lure him out of his lair, which worked until he spied the crate, which inspired yet another incredibly athletic leap out of my arms, down the ladder and into the tack room.

I wiped the blood from my bicep, hauled the crate down the ladder back to the tack room, this time remembering to close the door behind me. That is to say, the door into the barn. Before I could get to the door into the shop, Fennel had it figured as his escape route and was in the shop and out the cat door.

Three strikes. I called the game and called the vet to cancel the appointment. Next opening, 6 weeks out.

I have no idea what injury or incident elicited the break in our bond, but implementation of Operation Befriend the Feline is showing signs of building it back. Fearful Fennel is still skittish and beats a hasty retreat in response to unanticipated movements, unexpected sounds, and unknown individuals, but his recovery time is getting shorter.

He meets me on the sidewalk most mornings and escorts me directly to the cat chow container. He generally greets me from the top of the hayloft when I’m in the barn and often ventures down for a little cuddle and conversation.

We suffered a brief setback last week, when the strategic use of kibble in the cat dish, closed doors in the tack room and tail-first loading in the crate resulted in successful arrival for, and survival of, the make-up veterinary appointment. Fennel demonstrated his disdain for me and my deceit for about 36 hours, after which he accepted my good faith offering of Iams Healthy Feline, so we’re back on the Barn Buddy Trail of Trust.

He’s a big fraidy cat, that is clear.
But I’m sure he’ll get over his fear.
We got to the vet,
And now I’ll just bet,
He’ll be plenty more brave by next year.

Faith.

Expectations

Back in the beginning, I expected to have a barn full of four horses and a life full of equine adventures with family and friends.

Cue reality.

The herd reached three head, two old pensioners and one young buck (in every sense of the word) and we enjoyed one group ride around the neighborhood before losing old Mike, the parade horse, to the ravages of spinal arthritis and George admitted he’d rather spend his free time on a green golf course than a red horse.

So, I re-evaluated and embraced the practicality of a small herd.

No matter the number of horses though, the barn maintains an Equal Equine Expectation policy. Good manners are a must – keep your feet, your head, and everything in between, in your own space – no crowding. Stand quietly at the gate, in the crossties, and at the mounting block.

Chicago should be able to walk around our backyard trail without dumping me in the dirt at the sound of a squirrel stashing acorns under a pile of dry leaves.

Rowdy has been strongly discouraged from making a mad dash into the pasture with a squeaker ball when the horses are galloping to the back of the paddock.

Mace and Fennel, not exempt from expected barn behaviors, are tasked with getting rid of rodents, and showing up at feeding time for a cursory checkup.

My own Code of Conduct includes measures to make sure these fabulous creatures entrusted to me have safe shelter, healthy food, quality vet care, individual attention, ample opportunity to exercise their bodies and their minds, plenty of treats, and to keep the cats’ water bowl clear of Rowdy slobber.

These are my expectations, not theirs. As head of my herd, I acknowledge the 4-leggeds as beings with brains and some degree of freedom to choose their actions, so I set these standards, present them clearly, offer gentle feedback and consistent reinforcement. In the event of the inevitable infringement, I engage in a bit of evaluation and reflection.

When my toes get stepped on, my space is invaded or my path is blocked by a big equine body, it’s likely not a personal slight. I need to consider the possibility that my request for a little room had not been received. Was he ready to listen? Did I have his attention? Was I clear in my communication? Was I mumbling, as George will tell you I’m often wont to do? Was I distracted by some random thought, a song on the radio, or a rowdy golden retriever?

When I come off the saddle and end up on the ground, was I paying attention to potential perils in the environment? Did I give cues to calm my anxious partner? Was I balanced myself, in a position to stay stable?

If Rowdy races after the horses, squeaker ball in full squeal, is it possibly a lack of planning on my part (there’s a reason for that leash hanging in the barn aisle) given his natural tendency to chase moving objects?

When Fennel doesn’t show up for a day (Mace has perfect attendance) maybe he’s out patrolling the perimeter, or otherwise engaged in the business of being a barn cat. Maybe he’s up in the hayloft sleeping off a chipmunk coma, or maybe he just doesn’t want to make an appearance. Some things just can’t be legislated, especially for cats.

We’re a low-key, laid-back sort of operation here at Four Sticks, a barn of rule followers and keepers of the peace. After years of education and experience we’ve evolved into a herd where everybody fits comfortably in their place, contributes to the common cause, cuts others some slack.

Unless you give a golden a squeaker ball.

Empathy.