During my many riding lessons with Chicago, an often-repeated directive from the Man With the Patience To Be My Instructor was “Forward, Forward, Forward.” Nine years since my last lesson I still hear his voice urging us to move onward with confident energy, even when I’m not riding and especially now as the new year unfolds with its changes, challenges and choices.

My 2025 intention is to make it a book and barn year – a return to the peace-keeping pastimes that help me navigate the nastiness of the noise and remember the serenity of the silence.

To that end, I just finished the first novel I’ve read in many months, and I’m facilitating a few interspecies interventions down in the barn so I can spend more quiet time in the company of all my favorite four-leggeds.

We successfully survived the inaugural occurrence of the Four Sticks Farm Freestyle Equine-Canine mixer, a spontaneous event that occurred last weekend after snow shoveling but before lunch chores, when I decided to clean up the shelter while Chicago, Moe, Rowdy and Ruffian were all in attendance, unhaltered and unleashed. They were unrestrained and maybe I was unhinged, but it seemed like time to move onward with confident energy.

I hoped.

Chicago and Moe have developed a system of determining the “Best if eaten by” date for their hay, only it’s measured in hours. They sort through the flakes, select the choice pieces and stems, then scatter the sizable remainder across the length of the shelter, where it will be trod upon, pooped over, and occasionally peed on, by a certain one-eyed Walking Horse.

However, if I rake up the remnants, load them in the wheelbarrow and slip/slide my way out to the pasture, they will eventually make their way to the scrap pile and finish the forage.

Usually, I get this done while they’re in their stalls enjoying their lunchtime snack-and-snooze. I move the spurned but still-good hay, sweep the shelter and put a couple small fresh flakes on a clean surface for their dining pleasure.

They have trained me well.

But on Saturday, I had a little unscheduled time, the goldens were relatively relaxed from an hour of running and rutting through snow piles, and the horses were serenely snuffling around the backside of the barn. It seemed the god of opportunity had presented an opening to run the experiment of testing the group’s ability to play nicely when allowed total access to the same playground – a free-for-all that could end in either disaster or delight, but I opted to give it go.

Forward, forward, forward.

Moe only pinned his ears and snaked his head at the dogs a couple times, Chicago only once lowered his head with a slight snort, Rowdy only made a single semi-move toward Moe before recognizing just how badly that might end, and sweet, slow-processing Ruffian only offered 3 or 4 play bows with 3 or 4 demanding barks, then realized none of the others wanted to join in any retriever games.

So, he switched to single-player mode and galloped giant, gleeful figure-8’s through the pasture, under the barn rope, around the barn aisle, up and off the bales stacked in the hay stall.

Chicago, Moe and Rowdy stood by the barn door, uninterested and unimpressed as Ruff ran maniacal loops with joyful abandon, eventually skidding to a stop with his tongue lolling out the side of his goofy golden grin.

No animals were harmed in the process, and we made a little progress toward peace.

Forward, forward, forward.

In a crazy figure-8ish sort of way.