Rainy Days and Reading. Or Not

A friend loaned me a book at the end of March, and I planned to read it before I next see her at the beginning of May.

“Plan” is a word I’ve learned to use lightly, as some stronger lifeforce likes to play with the power of the plot twist.

My road to reading time, paved with good intention, is often detoured by a host of omnipresent obstacles. Barn work, housework, yard work, work work, family events and adventures, text conversations about family events and adventures, phone calls about family events and adventures, dog walking, horse grooming, cat coddling and blog post writing, act as roadblocks to my books.

But Sunday’s rainy weather proved to be a perfect indoor-recess kind of day – finally, a day for doing nothing but getting lost in another time, another world.

Morning chores were completed under cloudy skies with cool temps and fine rain falling. Chicago and Moe stood in the mist long enough to be wet enough to remove “Brush horses” from the day’s To Do list, so they came in the barn for a long, leisurely lunch.

Rowdy and Ruff were still recovering from two days of rabblerousing with Remi during a cousin dog sleepover, which allowed us to skip a cold walk on a muddy trail without threat of any rambunctious ramifications.

So, prop up the pillows and open up the book! However, the view from my couch was one of copious clumps of Ruffian fluff covering the front of every furnace vent, clustered in every corner and collected under every piece of furniture.

Ruff is our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, dropping strands of silky white hair with any and all movement – sit, stand, lie down, get up, walk, run or jump on the window seat in the back entry. A full body shake brings me near to tears.

But before the Swiffer® sheet comes out, the Bona® wet mop must sop up the splotches of slobber slopped across the hardwood.

Ruffian slurps from the water dish in staccato swipes of the tongue, leaving the surrounding area splashed with spots flicked from his mouth, but Rowdy drops saliva in the bowl as he gulps water out, then dumps a trail out the door as strings of slippery spit stretch to the tile.

We keep a bleached-out beach towel on the bathroom doorknob to wipe his chin when we catch him and swab the floor when we don’t, and because he so often bellies up to the water bowl saloon, there’s a whole lotta wipin’ goin’ on.

Rowdy is also a distracted drinker. When I hear the familiar gulp-gulp-gulp-pause-gulp-gulp-gulp, I sneak in and stand in silent stillness until the last gulp goes down, because if his spidey-sense detects my presence, he’ll turn his head mid-guzzle, dump a pool of slobber on the floor and splatter the wall with a shake of his juicy jowls.

Practice has polished my mop and dust process though, so I quickly cleaned the floor and mentally cleared the remainder of the day for nothing but a book and a beverage.

I opened my book to page 38.

Ninety minutes later I opened my eyes to page 41.

And 2 dogs willing me to get their supper.

And 2 horses calling me to let them out.

At this pace, I’ll finish the book for my friend’s New Years visit.

Bring on those snow days.

Slow Spring

While doing dishes the other night, standing at the kitchen sink, hands soaking in hot soapy water (one of my many peculiarities – I find some peace and satisfaction in this chore) I looked out the window to see six deer strolling along the south fence of the pasture, sauntering out of the cattails on the east side into the woods on the west.

Generally, I’d announce their presence, but cervine sightings create a ruckus with the retrievers, and even George getting up to look out the deck door would alert the always-on-call Ruff and Rowdy, which would provoke much barking and jumping and running from one lookout spot to the next until the last white tail high-tailed into the swamp.

And lulled as I was, by the warm lavender-scented suds, I opted to circumvent the canine chaos and said nothing, just kept the secret as I stood, watched, and wondered where they’d stop to sleep.

Our weak winter offered the deer many dining options and we didn’t see much of them this year, but spring brings them back to call dibs on the fresh pasture. I’m happy to see them, though Chicago and Moe, denied access until the grass gets a chance to establish itself for the season, do not share my sense of hospitality.

Spring also brings a series of addendums to the ever-present list of ideas and intentions that get added, edited, sifted, sorted, and prioritized in my mind.

Fill the long-empty bird feeders for the long-gone birds who flew off in search of a more secure food source
Rake the piles of rejected hay left on the shelter floor by the two indulged geldings who may be just slightly overfed and underworked
Spend some serious time with Chicago, Moe and the shedding blade
Drag the two shamrocks and the peace lily out from their winter refuge under the saddle rack and get them growing before going outside for their summer vacation
Figure a way to get Fennel to the vet for annual vaccinations and examination of a suspected abscess on his right rear leg which morphed into a mysterious series of bald patches circling his tail

I’m a card-carrying member of the Lifelong Listmakers Club, but lately the tasks don’t make the move from my noggin to my notebook or beyond. Not much step in my spring so far.

The animals are always priority of course – stalls are cleaned, feed pans and water buckets filled, and everybody gets conversations, confections, affection, and attention multiple times a day, it’s just the extra activities that get shuffled to the bottom of the never-ending list.

Small things, big things, fun things, dumb things all float around my mind, bubble up and settle down to simmer or to soak while I cogitate, procrastinate, and finally opt to activate.

Funny though, over the weekend I realized that my barn chores are once again serenaded by cardinals, chickadees, robins, wrens, owls and red-winged blackbirds in the trees, while turkeys, pheasants and sandhill cranes chime in from the marsh. So, the feeders are full again.

The black mat of the shelter floor is now clearly visible, devoid of the layer of leftover hay. Turns out that if I feed Chicago and Moe like the easy-livin’ equines they are, rather than putting out enough to fuel a couple draft horses plowing the back forty, they cycle back through the ration a time or two, picking out the pieces that they passed over previously.

A few exfoliating sessions in the mud puddles of the “dry lot” have helped them self-shed, shiny summer coats starting to peek through the crusted dirt that’ll clean up quickly with a curry comb.

The shamrocks and the peace lily pushed up through the potting soil despite my inattention, and their tenacity inspired me to add a little fertilizer-infused water to aid the effort.

Fennel’s skin has healed, his hair is growing back, and since we’ve mutually agreed to call an end to his veterinary visits, the cat crate has been removed from the barn, so he no longer eyes me with suspicion, nor bolts when I get close enough to touch him. He trusts me. He really trusts me.

“Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up” said my Calm app the other day. Timely, welcome words. Sometimes it’s ok to take a minute to let the universe unfold.

To stand silently at the sink and wonder where the deer are headed.

Don’t tell the dogs.

Winter Weather

March was mostly a lamb, mild and meek
Devoid of its usual bleak.
I thought we’d get lucky
But now it’s quite mucky
From the 15-inch snowfall last week.

Chicago’s quite light on his feet
When the sun shines its spring-level heat.
The barn roof of snow
Warms up, then lets go
And slides off in one big noisy sheet.

For the most part, Moe took it in stride
But he’d rather be out than inside.
He pooped in his bucket
His version of F*#@ it
When he heard the first rooftop snow slide.

Ruff and Rowdy thought snow piles were grand
Loved to play in the white-covered land.
Never minded the cold
They burrowed and rolled
Chasing snowballs, they climbed and the ranned.

The cats hunkered down in the barn shop
Out the door, two tabbies would not pop.
They had food, choice of stall
To take care of it all
Content ‘til they saw the last snow drop.

We may still have one last winter fling
Warm weather’s not yet a sure thing.
But the air has less chill
And the birds have more trill
So there’s hope, it will really be spring.