Painted Pony

Several years ago, in an effort to encourage me to ride my Big Red Beast with a little more assertiveness, Dick told me I needed to give Chicago a cue he wouldn’t want to ignore. More to the point, I needed to “make him say, Damn!”

Two weeks ago, Chicago crossed back to the dark side of his younger years, and absolutely refused to take the left canter lead. We spent nearly 30 minutes trying every trick from his training bag, and the only cursing came from Dick. I was reminded of why he suggested we take up cart driving.

Last week, we worked outside; relaxed and quiet-minded, with a slow, stress-free, step-by-step plan of action. We started with the right lead, as that’s Chicago’s preferred side – set him up for success, start on the positive, right? So, I moved the hip, picked up the shoulder, and asked for the canter. His response? He took the left lead. Damn!

Today, we repeated our trail ride approach, with only a couple of canter departures, one incorrect, the other correct.

But here’s the thing – two weeks ago, the day after our dance on the dark side, Chicago agreeably acted as canvas for the artistic renderings of four Books in the Barn readers, allowing them to cover his coat with (pretty much) washable tempera paint, including “#1 Best Horse”, which spilled into the ticklish spot on his flank. And last week, he stood motionless as a 6 year old visitor took the shortcut under his belly to brush his other side.

On any lead, that’s a damn good horse.

Words in the Woods

I printed words on index cards and pinned them to trees in the yard. Readers walked Boone around the yard to collect the cards, then sat with him on a blanket to complete each word on this sheet. Reading the word as they took the card off the tree and again after they filled in the “b” or “d” on the worksheet gave them practice. Doing it all with Boone alongside made it fun!

Words In The Woods – B

Words In The Woods – D

Field Trials

For the first time since Christmas, Chicago and went to Dick’s for a lesson last Friday. Being a break of very little exercise, including the Holidays and a sudden onset of middle-age spread, my Big Red Beast and I grew overweight and out of shape during our hiatus, so I thought we’d start with a cart driving lesson. As I type, it occurs to me that, though I believe Chicago can more easily drag me around in a wheeled vehicle than he can haul me on his back, I may be wrong. But I don’t think so.

In any case, Friday’s record-breaking warmth pretty much demanded a trail ride. The picture above was taken by my friend Vikki several years ago, when Chicago and I were younger and thinner (and had less insurance, for you “Fried Green Tomatoes” fans) but his expression was much the same on Friday – “We’re doing what?”

So we started our weekend with an peaceful trail ride on a beautiful morning. We walked, trotted and even cantered a little, around the farm fields on the property. We crossed through water, scary to some horses, but for Chicago, merely an opportunity to indulge in a little refreshment. This wasn’t always the case, as Bob Johnson, “The Common Horseman”, might tell you, if he wasn’t such a nice guy. Bob once spent a good (well, actually not so good) hour standing knee deep in a water-filled ditch, trying to help me help Chicago learn he could, and would, survive the momentary discomfort of wet feet. Ugly stuff, but it built character and strengthened friendships of horse and humans involved.

We also passed several big round bales of hay, another source of imminent danger in the eyes of many equines. Chicago thought about spooking as we approached, then apparently caught a whiff of what was in front of him – horse heaven. He opted to swap his Duck & Spin for a Snatch & Grab, then helped himself to a mouthful of last fall’s grass. He repeated at the next bale. And the next . And at every bale along the trail. Not quite enough to incur boarding fees, but more than enough to ensure his winter weight will linger long into spring.

Keep that cart handy.

Dog Smarts

To look at Boone is to think “dog of very little brain”. After all, his skull is barely bigger than my fist, and he spends the greater part of his day searching out the biggest sunspot in which to sprawl his big striped self. How many neurons can possibly be firing?

I think an animal’s intelligence is less a simple label of “smart” or “dumb” and more a measure of it’s response to the events and environment in which it exists. I also believe that as the one with the opposable thumbs it’s my responsibility to figure out what makes him tick, be it a word, a treat, a toy or a free pass to Petsmart, and after four years together, it turns out there’s a full scoop of kibble in this dog’s bowl. He will consent to the basic “here”, “sit”, “down”, as well as the emergency “hey, Hey, HEY” and “I SAID NO!” commands, but his true genius shines in his independent study.

For example, Boone understands that the yellow tote bag and green fleece mean story time with a young reader, which also means either a walk or a ride. Yea! Good Dog!

He gets (most of the time) that lying on the green fleece, listening to a young reader is much preferable to standing at the door, staring out at anybody other than the young reader. Treats for my four-legged friend!

He knows that when I change out of the barn overalls and into the walking pants, we’re headed outside for our morning scratch and sniff. Yahoo!

He’s learned that a cat with claws gets priority seating. Such a savvy sighthound!

And though his eyes clearly express his sympathetic certainty of the futility of my efforts to zip my freshly laundered and dryer-shrunk jeans, he simply turns his head and looks the other way.

Brilliant.

It’s a Good Life

At the risk of sounding immodest, I’m not completely convinced that our extremely mild Minnesota winter only coincidentally coincides with the fact that I decided to take a break from hauling Chicago for lessons during January and February. Dick (The Man Who has the Patience to be my Riding Instructor) thanked me when I told him about the hiatus, very possibly for reasons unrelated to cold temps and snowy roads, but I chose not to dig too deep. In any case, Mother Nature has served us a heaping helping of Never-ending March up here, with no menu changes in the foreseeable future.

The warm weather cycle of snow and sleet, melt and freeze, creates challenges for outdoor riding, so The Big Red Horse and I spend much of the season walking in the woods, wearing minimal tack, working on quiet cues for bending, straightening, starting and stopping. Our rides relax and reset my spirit, almost as much as the end-of-session apple and grooming do his.

Yesterday we went out while clouds still shaded the sky, leaving the trees lit up with a feathery frost that created a real live enchanted forest. My fairy tale steed apparently also appreciated the magic of our morning, as he whoa-ed and go-ed and flexed with only the slightest signal from me, earning himself a peppermint dessert to finish off that apple.

Life is good at Four Sticks Farm.

Food for Thought

Don’t be fooled by the photo – after spying the camera, Biskit inhaled deeply, then briefly stopped breathing to slim his silhouette; and since this was taken last fall, his girth has grown. Greatly. So much so that his winter blanket burst at the seam. Literally. And he can’t blame it on the dryer.

But Tuesday we renewed our commitment to wellness. I’ve been watching a new trainer on RFD-TV lately, an advocate for focusing on the horse’s mind to understand and accept what it’s offering – “The Gift of the Horse.” One might think Biskit comes bearing a very small package, simply wrapped in plain brown paper, but he’s actually proven receptive to the approach, as demonstrated in Tuesday’s long-lining pasture walk.

In a dazzling display of horsemanship Don’ts, I snapped the lines on his bridle, draped them in a mildly knotted heap over his back with the end of one dragging just ever-so-slightly on the ground, then led him out of the barn, past Chicago, Rusty and the afternoon hay, down the hill and out to the pasture.

I needed little focus to understand what was happening in Biskit’s mind. The tossing head, sidestepping hindquarters and erratic gait punctuated with bursts of speed followed by sudden stops drew a pretty clear picture. Which worked out well, as I needed most of my attention to stay on my feet through the mine field of snow-covered frozen manure chunks.

But once I accepted Biskit’s offering of a “Left Turn Only” course, and let him walk in a giant counter-clockwise circle, peace prevailed. And after a couple laps, I set him on a course leading back toward the barn and the forage feast of his slacker friends, but only if he took a Right Turn. No problem for the now quiet-minded horse. Not only could he, would he, turn to the right, but he stopped and started, uphill, downhill, past the barn and down the alley with commendable cooperation.

Five minutes of Ugly followed by ten minutes of Pretty Good equals a successful session for the Portly Pony, so we returned to the barn where our happy day got happier when Biskit stood quietly for a bit of brushing without his usual demands for immediate release.

His reward? An apple and a private stash of hay. We can always buy a bigger blanket.

Boone’s Beginning

Though a lifelong golden retriever girl, when my Old Yellow Dog Zenga aged into Bonus Time, I decided to go with Something Completely Different, and adopted a rescue greyhound from Northern Lights Greyhound Adoption. And they are truly a whole different breed. While the golden shouts “Pick Me! Pick Me!” the greyhound, with a polite but barely perceptible nod murmurs “Thank you so very much for your consideration.”

Boone came to Four Sticks Farm less than a week after he left the track in Kansas City, retiring at the age of 3 with a racing record of 0-0-0. Because he spent his young life in a kennel, and had been neutered only days before moving in with us, our life together started with a few fundamentals:

1. Lifting your leg on houseplants or Zenga is unacceptable.

2. A screen door should be opened, not barreled through.

3. The dog in the mirror is You, and you will not find you by running around the mirror into the kitchen.

4. A dog treat is considered by most canines to be a very good thing, and one worth performing some small act of obedience for.

Fortunately for all involved, Boone transitioned quickly to a life of mostly leisure in rural Wright County. He LOVES his morning walk, no matter what the weather. He has boots and a jacket for the extreme conditions, though he prefers to go au naturel, possibly because the boots have to be cinched circulation-stopping tight to stay up on his stick-skinny legs, and the jacket is Minnesota Viking polar fleece – ‘nuf said.

Boone also loves to run around the horse arena, which he does with great enthusiasm for about 37 seconds. Then, he returns to the house and spends the better part of the day recovering. 37 seconds of joyful outburst followed by 23 hours, 59 minutes and 63 seconds of blissful recovery. On our bed, the guest bed, or any sunny spot he finds in the dining room.

Next to his morning walk, Boone loves a good nap more than any other activity. Including eating. Boone eats only as much as is required to maintain a functioning system, and his long legs, defined waistline, maintenance of his racing weight, and a minimalist attitude toward food makes for a case of an owner who wishes she resembled her dog. Big thighs are the one physical attribute we share, only on an animal who once made a career of running hard and fast, they’re an asset. On a woman who sits at a computer writing about an animal who once made a career of running hard and fast, they’re not.

He makes me laugh though, and since becoming an only-dog has assumed the responsibility of Greeter with great gusto. He plays well with others, including the barn cats and his new boss, the Kwik Trip Kitten. Well, except for that baby bunny he picked out of the ditch on our first walk together. But even then, his cooperative spirit shined through when George pried Boone’s mouth open and dropped the little rabbit onto the grass, setting it free to hop away with a great story to tell its grandbunnies.

Boone is bright and engaging, albeit with a style totally different from that of the sporting breeds of my past. He is certainly no golden retriever. But he is an excellent greyhound.

Boone’s New Boss

Mocha came home vaccinated, de-parasited, neutered and still slightly dopey from his day at the clinic. We moved him directly into the laundry room, with the decision to go for one major transition rather than a series of small upsets. If our little sewer rat was going to convert life as a happy house cat, let it start with a litter box in the laundry room. Right now.

All in all, his conversion progressed smoothly and steadily. His only litter box transgression came within the first week, and was, I strongly suspect, the result of a miscalculated attempt at a high jump over the baby gate separating him from his humble abode.

My only disappointment was an apparent transfer of loyalty when the little chocolate feline chose George as his new best friend, but as time progressed I came to believe that Mocha understood who he needed to win over, and who he’d already won. Smart kitty.

He uses his scratching post, though I still cringe and keep a close watch when he jumps on the leather couch. An indoor cat with claws is a very scary thing.

The catnip mouse brought on a serious bout of paranoia, so with the thought that it might not mix with his post-neuter painkiller, I put him through a few days of detox. But even a drug-free Mocha turned a little too maniacal when exposed to the weed, so he’s now content with shoelaces, ping pong balls, the glass beads in the bowl on the coffee table, the cloth covering the little table on the landing, and the strings that control the dining room blinds. Now that he’s comfortable roaming around on all levels, the house has become a giant kitty amusement park.

The Final Frontier, yet to be completely conquered is the greyhound. Though outweighed by a good 75 pounds, Mocha established his role as the Boss of Boone immediately and without room for negotiation. Boone agreed to the terms and has been nothing but accommodating (except for one brief reactive moment for which he was immediately and eternally regretful) even going so far as to refuse to join everyone downstairs for movie night, allowing Mocha full, free access.

They now share space pretty comfortably, and though Mocha will still arch and hiss at Boone should the dog have the audacity to lift his head while the cat sniffs his feet, he no longer runs in terror, but merely returns to his investigation when Boone lays his head back down in defeat or disinterest.

I think the Kwik Trip Kitten is on his way to King of the Castle.

Meet Mocha

What a difference a day makes.

After just over 24 hours in captivity, the snarling Siamese was purring, rolling on it’s back so I could scratch its tummy, butting its head against my forehead and weaving through my legs. The breakthrough came after 30 minutes of me on a 3-legged stool in front of the crate, rambling nonstop (and some may say nonsensically, had they been around to witness) about the benefits of being in my tack room rather than in a convenience store parking lot.

Maybe it was the security of a warm crate, complete with personal litter box and a unlimited supply of fresh water and food. Maybe it was the serenity of my soothing voice and kind words. Or maybe it was a burning desire to stop my incessant prattle, but in any case, we turned the corner of trust.

And “she” turned out to be “he”.

His fate remained undecided right up until two hours before his appointment for surrender at the humane society. Surely, he would find a happy home at the shelter. But he trusted me, the crazy cat woman who spent an inordinate amount of time risking road rash and reputation on the Kwik Trip sidewalk. And he was warming to George, who claimed no particular attachment, yet named the little feline foundling within days of capture.

So 10 days after that trap door closed on the stray cat strut, he is at the vet’s office, being vaccinated, de-wormed and neutered. The ultimate trust-tester.

Meet Mocha, the newest animal addition to Four Sticks Farm.

Catching My Prey

In my tack room, in a makeshift litter box in a medium size dog crate, is a very angry Siamese kitten. The Kwik Trip Kitten is safe from the dangers of the streets of Monticello, though she isn’t buying it yet.

On this, the tenth day of my cat catching adventure, George and I stopped to check the trap on our way home. While we walked across the parking lot, she walked up the sidewalk for a little early dinner, and a young couple watched from their car, parked in front of the trap.

We all froze momentarily, each calculating the others’ motives and the odds of success for advance versus retreat. Then we all converged on the sidewalk as the Siamese, apparently more adept at doing math in her head than the rest of us, scrapped her dinner plans and headed for the sewer grate. It was a slow motion version of the climactic bust scene at the end of any cop show drama, except that we didn’t get our man. Or our kitten.

But maybe she’s developed an insatiable appetite for Supreme Supper, because within 30 minutes of our arrival home, I got a call from the night shift – the kitten was in the trap. So my one and only Black Friday purchase was a bag of natural clay cat litter – and I was lucky enough to get one of the last 3 bags on the pallet.

Until now I haven’t thought too much about what happens after we catch this kitty. I guess it depends on whether she decides to trust or not to trust. Or how long I can stand the smell of canned cat food in my tack room.

She’s seal-point in color, rather than the blue-point I thought I saw in the dark parking lot 10 days ago, and a tiny bit bigger than I thought in the original 3 second sighting, but very pretty. Even when she’s mad.