November 2023 – From Four Sticks Farm

Prerequisites for Chicago’s new barn buddy were rudimentary – calm compliance was crucial, color was not – so that the next horse in the herd happens to be another golden gelding is pure coincidence.

Biskit and Moe occupy separate spaces on the palomino palette. Biskit was butterscotch pudding while Moe is banana cream pie, with subtle spots on his back and mottles on his muzzle that pay homage to his Appaloosa heritage, and a slightly stilted manner of movement that gives credence to the claim of gaited horse in his genealogy.

Some of the loco in his motion can probably be attributed to the permanent injury of his left hip and pelvis from an accident in his past which earned him everlasting “Companion Only” status, and likely also initiated the injury to his left eye that was serious enough to require removal.

Though Moe is missing one eye, he makes his way with monocular eyesight so smoothly that I tend to forget about the restricted field of vision. Fortunately, I also tend to talk to my animals – nonsensical ramblings of an overthinking mind – so we’ve only had one little spook in the stall when I touched his shoulder without announcing my presence.

Biskit’s mane and tail were wavy and coarse while Moe sports a sleeker, finer look that self-straightens the loosely knotted tangles that twist into his hair during the daily rolls he so relishes.

Both met the 1,100-pound mark on the Purina weight tape, but with the advantages of four inches in height and seven years of age, Moe flaunts the flat belly of youth – no pot belly on this pony. Yet.

He’s gentle and quietly confident, settled in the top spot with just one squeak of a squeal, when Chicago took one step too close to the hay feeder of choice. They’ve now established a harmonious little herd of quiet camaraderie, grazing a little closer together a little more often.

He’s accustomed to Rowdy roaming around the pasture, and while Ruffian would enthusiastically liven up the party, the rest of us are not yet ready to extend that invitation.

Moe appreciates the structure of a schedule but expresses no reproach for the inevitable variations in our daily timetable, especially if there are conciliatory cookies involved.

He comes up from the pasture when he spots me down at the barn and greets me with a heartwarming basso-tenor nicker (which compliments Chicago’s charming alto-soprano) and though some say the vocalizations of a horse are all about command and control, I like to believe they’re the language of affection and attachment.

We’re still getting to know each other, but he’s firmly fixed in the Four Sticks family, and I’m so happy to have him. Turns out, the heart has a miraculous capacity for love – holding memories of the lost while making space for the found. Addition without subtraction.

Welcome Moe.

A new pooch in the pack, a new horse in the herd, new routines to design, and new relationships to develop.

Ruffian is settling in, his adolescent enthusiasm a little less frenzied, a little more responsive to requests for awareness of the rest of us. He’s dialed back the desire for thrashing throw rugs, battering dog beds and running the ottoman obstacle course, but retains an irresistible delight for life that inspires great joy.

Though I cut some slack for the unknowns of his Before Life, Ruff’s a quick study. He’s figured out that sitting or lying down are solid choices during those awkward pauses when he’s been told to do something but wasn’t actually ready to listen.

He understands that the good chews are given out just before I head to the barn for night check, and if I forget, he only needs to sit straight and stare intensely to bore the reminder into my brain.

He knows to eat only from his own dish, and that the chewing of dog beds is frowned upon in this establishment, though that last one is still on his list of 4th quarter goals.

Rowdy, Ruff and I walk most afternoons, practicing and progressing as a mobile unit; Ruff in his harness, Rowdy in his head collar, picking their positions and staying put. Kind of. Ruffian continues crisscrossing and zigzagging, thus tangling leashes and tripping Lisa, but with a little less frequency, so my shoulder now stays firmly in its socket, though the left Deltoid may be slightly over developed.

Ruff still spooks some on the trails – other hikers, horses and their riders, squirrels scrambling up trees, acorns falling down, deer leaping deftly, leaves drifting lazily may all cause a momentary pause in forward progress. We stop, look, listen, loosen the leash, and wait until he determines we may safely proceed, and move on.

While we’re at a standstill, I study that remarkably sweet face surveying his surroundings and wonder, again, what happened to him. Is he listening for the sound of a familiar voice? Scenting for the smell of someone he knew? Mentally mapping our course so he can find his way back? It saddens me enough to stand quietly for a few seconds while he thinks his dog thoughts. For the first 5 or 6 stops anyway.

Down in the barn, Moe moved in, Chicago moved over, and the herd moved back to equilibrium.

Moe is missing one eye, but his calm demeanor and everyone else’s mindfulness of the restricted vision made for a smooth transition.

He conquered his suspicion of the automatic water bowl within minutes, and by the end of our first afternoon trusted me as a reliable source of raspberry horse snacks and reassuring neck scratches.

We’ve learned to walk together, he’s comfortable in the crossties, and we’re getting to know the choice grooming spots. He’s ok in his stall but prefers the wide-open space of the pasture and has singled out a section with plants he particularly enjoys.

Chicago and Moe have settled into a generally accepted equine routine, Moe plays Goldilocks in the cottage that is our run-in shelter, checking each feeding station for the hay he finds Just Right, while Chicago waits. Given that the Big Red Beast has had first pick of the porridge for the last 7 years, this makes my heart hurt a bit, but it’s standard operating procedure for the horses, and it only takes Moe a minute to make his choice, then Chicago moves to one of the other spots so all may live happily ever after.

Much as I enjoy a formal training class, my schooling style has morphed into a more prosaic approach. Core principles of safety, civility and citizenship are presented in a conversational tone – a hand raised casually with a “Give me a sec” gesture, translates in Ruffianspeak to “Wait until I get to the top of the landing, the bottom of the stairs, or on the other side of the threshold.”

A single tasty golf shoe is eagerly swapped for three pieces of tastier dog kibble.

A hand on Moe’s left hip as he walks enters his stall means “Continue walking until all 4 feet have cleared the door.”

I set up the bumpers of consistent, persistent guidance and we bounce down the Alley of Acceptable Actions. It’s shaky for a second, but solid for a lifetime, as we build the bonds of time and patience and practice and trust.

We’re creating the rhythm of routine in established relationships, the comfort of the counted-on response, the presuppositions of partnership, which help me recognize the “Was this really necessary?” expression on Rowdy’s face when it’s time to negotiate a Ruffian respite, and prompt me to keep a couple extra cookies in my pocket to occupy Chicago while Moe cherry picks for the choice pile.

I’m learning to communicate clearly and calmly, to celebrate the desired behavior and ignore the undesired if it presents no danger to self, others, or material possessions that matter.

I’m looking for peace and coexistence vs power and control.

And a bulk discount on dog beds.