Sunday Unscheduled

6:37. I wake naturally, notably more rested than when roused by an escalating ringtone or socked with a sandpapery paw pad, and fully aware that I have nothing on the schedule today. It’s one of the rare days with no calendar commitments so I caution myself to not waste it.

Our many meteorologists predict 60-something degrees, also rare, also not to be wasted.

My Unscheduled Schedule: change the sheets, get a couple loads of laundry done early, walk in the park with Ruff and Rowdy, then spend the afternoon in the barn with the big boys, cleaning equines and their winter-weary equipment.

Fresh linens on the bed, others piled on the floor, breakfast is ready, so I’ll haul sheets down to the laundry room after I eat.

While downing my oatmeal and grapefruit, I solve the sudoku, and with coffee I crack the cryptoquip and nearly complete the crossword when I hear the telltale zzzzzzzzzzttt of tearing fabric. Ruffian’s decided to do a bit of tailoring, splitting the seam on one corner of the flat sheet lying on the bedroom floor, preparing to take a little off the edges.

I recognize his universal sign for “I need something constructive to do,” and outdoor activity is in order, so I heap the linens on the washer, vow to do laundry when the sun goes down, and take advantage of our unusual sweatshirt weather with two of the greatest dogs in the whole wide world.

Off to Montissippi to walk with my gentle-leadered goldens, pleased with their minimal attempts to rub off the head collar, the reduction in pulls off the path, and the nearly never occurrences of Ruff dead-stopping in the middle of my path.

The last occurrence was at this park, when he halted abruptly on the pavement, directly in front me, leaving an angry raw scrape that turned into a thick itchy scab that morphed into a scar on the left side of my left knee cap, which pairs nicely with the scar on the right side of my left knee cap, a memorial to a no good very bad day on my beloved purple stingray on the unforgiving gravel of Coon Rapids Boulevard.

But now we mostly keep moving, mostly in our own lanes.

Thinking while I walked, about my pre-spring cleaning barn project, I realize I need hay cubes at the Country Store which closes early on Sunday, so the dogs and I take the long way home from the park, which is to say we drive completely out of our way to get Chicago and Moe’s Senior Supper, a salt block for Chicago and one more thing that’s been on my mental supply list for a couple weeks, but which I’ve now forgotten, and hope I will remember when I get there. But I don’t.

Once home, I let the golden boys in the dog yard with a big stick of distraction for Ruff. Headed to the barn, forty pounds of hay cubes hefted over my shoulder, feeling remarkably heavier than the 50-pound bags I used to haul around,

Horses in, I head out, to rake the rejected hay remnants from the edges of the shelter, loading the wheelbarrow, hauling and dumping and spreading in the dry lot, giving the ponies something to pick through while they pass the next couple of months of closed pasture.

Shelter clean, horses enjoy fresh quarters, fresh hay and fresh air.

Company! Time for a spontaneous beverage break, chatting, chips and whiling away an hour or two. Or three.
Back to the barn to toss hay down into the small storage stall, but first, lift the pallets, sweep, load, haul, dump, and spread; then climb up the ladder, crawl across the bales loaded in the loft, ponder the probability of ever solving the annual mystery of putting up hay in a manner conducive to a convenient, First In, First Out system of inventory management.

Throw 28 bales over the ledge, climb down the ladder, crawl across the bales scattered in the stall, push, pull and pile them in an orderly stack, sweep up the broken bales, fill up the wheelbarrow one more time, and let Moe pick out his favorite pieces while I set some in front of Chicago and parcel out the rest to the feeders for the overnight ration.

Good night ponies.

A little kibble in the cat dishes for Fennel and Mace.

See you in the a.m., kits.

A shower (how does hay even get there?!) some supper and a cocktail that I fall asleep before finishing.

A good day. Not a moment wasted.

And on the Monday schedule – laundry.