Author: Four Sticks Farm

Trapper Troubles

 

Kwafty kitten.

Day 5 dawned with an empty live trap that showed signs of a visitor who has learned how to get the goods and get out. So tonight I’ll experiment with a slight change in the trap’s position on the sidewalk – angled against the garbage can to deter the dine-and-dash strategy.

George thinks the behavior is more indicative of a raccoon than a cat, a belief harbored by a few other of the eternal pessimists in my life.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe my two-a-day visits will reveal that the only animal I’m fattening up for the frigid winter ahead is indeed a raccoon. Or a possum. Or a rat, a squirrel or some other undesirable, undomesticated wildlife.

But maybe it is the little blue-point Siamese. And maybe her eventual capture will end happily for all of us – her, me and the young convenience store employee who will once again be able to look me in the eye and greet me with a smile because I’ve stopped crawling around on the sidewalk. In the snow.

And maybe, George will make sure that “MILK” and “BREAD” are highlighted in big letters the next time he makes a grocery list.

Kwik Trip Kitten

 

Because George forgot bread and milk when he picked up groceries, I stopped at Kwik Trip instead of going directly home from yoga. And because I was only getting groceries, I parked in front of the store instead of at the gas pump. And because I chose the corner spot for the F150, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the Kwik Trip Kitten.

She spotted me first and was already headed into the sidewalk storm sewer drain. But I saw enough to leave an impression that would haunt me all night. A baby out alone in the cold, fending for herself, cars coming and going in the parking lot and the highway it sits on.

Let the rescue begin.

George stopped at the store in the morning, learned that the employees knew about the kitten and were leaving milk out for it. He told them his wife wanted to setup a live trap and bring the little feline to the humane society. Not sure where he got that last part, but first things first.

I set up the live trap, baited with a can of “Supreme Supper” (first big decision – what flavor would she like? – opted to go right to the top shelf) and left with great anticipation.

The next morning brought evidence that she approved of my menu selection, but the trap had not tripped. I took the can to work with me so it would warm up for Night 2, which saw her return, but yet another trap failure. And last night, one more.

Today I spent too much time kneeling on the Kwik Trip sidewalk during the season’s first snowstorm, trying to re-engineer the release mechanism, so eventually brought the trap home. Consultation with Dad and brother Pete revealed it was missing a key piece, but I was determined not to be outwitted by a simple system of metal wires, and able to improvise with a strategically placed rubber band. One more not-so-quick trip on slippery roads, and I’m back in the cat catching business.

Through this process I’ve met some very kind convenience store employees who care about this little kitten and one who avoids all eye contact. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a crazy old woman with 57 felines in my home.

It all starts with one…

Still Got It

BlogRusty

Blogger’s Note: Rusty is a 30-something Quarter Horse who belongs to my mom and lives here at Four Sticks Farm. He is apparently blessed with a Benjamin Button-like ability to grow younger with the passing years, as his age when we brought him home in 2004, was agreed to be 26, but was adjusted to 30 (again) in 2010, due, in equal parts, to physical condition and wishful thinking.

Rusty is a no-nonsense Head of the Herd, a lifelong lesson horse who loves my mom, enjoys toting around her grandchildren, and tolerates me. My mom comes to the barn with her hair nicely coiffed, lipstick artfully applied and an apple sliced in 8 equal wedges packed in a zip lock bag. I inherited none of these tendencies.

I do, however, keep Rusty’s stall clean and his feed bucket filled, so he accepts my presence as a mild, albeit necessary irritation. I am his cross to bear and the price he pays for being Jackie’s horse, but not his mouthpiece. Rusty prefers to tell his own story:

Another weekend spent providing an introductory experience to the Wonderful World of Horses for a couple of first-timers here at Four Sticks Farm – two tiny, cute blondes wearing pink cowboy boots, who were easy on both the eyes and the back.

Jackie was in attendance, looking lovely as always, in sharp contrast to the smudged rumpledness that is her daughter. How the value of a comb and a little lip gloss continues to elude that girl is truly one of life’s great mysteries.

But I’ll give her this – Lisa knows how to surround herself with a quality team. In addition to her mother, this weekend she brought in the niece A-listers, Allie and Anna, to assist. Two more cute blondes I still take great pleasure in trotting around, and who have become competent, compassionate mentors to the young and the horse-crazy.

Despite the daily display of dopiness, it appears that my barn mates have actually paid attention to my instruction in Behavioral Guidelines for Application Around Barn Guests. The portly palomino managed to keep his feet off everyone else’s, and stood still for some brushing from his amateur admirers.

And the big red dork walked and trotted around the arena like a seasoned lesson horse. He even ambled quietly through the trail like he’d done it a hundred times. Which he has, of course, but Lisa’s limited lumbar mobility might make one think otherwise. Fortunately for all concerned, Chicago has the sense to save his Bad Boy outbursts for the one who will (usually) land on her feet and get back in the saddle. Another great mystery, on so many levels, but one best left unsolved.

We were rewarded with a generous supply of hugs, kisses, apples, and, at the risk of sounding immodest, compliments. My eyesight may be fading but my hearing is not, and from her seat in the saddle I heard one little cowgirl say several times, “Rusty is sooo cool.

It’s all good for this old horse’s heart.

Continuing Education

Biskit

I wrote in the spring that Biskit had been enrolled in the Four Sticks Farm School of Equine Etiquette, but failed to mention that he registered for the Nights and Every-Other-Weekend course. The Slow Track for the Uncommitted. If he was a human being, Biskit would spend six or seven years earning a Bachelor’s degree, then decide to move back into his parents’ basement while he pursued a different major.

The Potbellied Palomino has made progress though. He can now be in the crossties with minimal screaming for help (or demanding his release) head tossing, pooping or peeing. May not sound impressive, but when it’s your ears and your head in harm’s way, or when you’re the cleanup crew, these are huge victories.

He will usually pick up a foot when requested, though he’s taken a page from Chicago’s book and has yet to master the art of balancing on the other three, so hoof cleaning sometimes looks a bit like an interpretative dance of the swift and the stalwart. I suspect my farrier spends all I pay him for Biskit and Chicago on chiropractic care. But I don’t want to ask…

And finally, Biskit will now accept a bit in his mouth, usually without a fuss, and he ground-drives in the pasture, the arena and on our wooded trail. Ground-driving looks a little like cart driving, only without the cart. This means he wears long lines attached to his bridle while I hold the other end of the long lines and walk behind him. This also means wherever he walks, I walk – uphill, downhill, through the mud, around the trees – so if Biskit ever enrolls in the full-time course, he and I have a shot at reaching our goal weights.

He seems to enjoy getting out like the Big Boys, though it would be premature to claim he likes having a job. I think he was absent the day they taught “Work Ethic – What is it Good For”.

And though he signed up for the make-up, my guess is he’s holding out hope that it falls on his off-weekend.

Knowing the Difference

BlogChicago

What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday, Chicago threw a temper tantrum that left me flat out on a path in the middle of a state park. Friday, he won the heart of a frightened little girl, and provided a few quiet moments of concentrated effort for a frenetic one.

A ten year old and her parents visited the farm to meet the me and my animals, in consideration of coming out for some reading skills coaching. The horses were in their stalls and though she was intrigued by them, the child was also scared –  barely able to hold the bucket from which she offered treats. Only with her dad’s hand under hers for support, and the distraction of Chicago with a peppermint, was she willing to touch his oh-so-soft muzzle.

We walked outside toward the Teeter-Totter tree, and she spotted the usually shy barn cat Basil, who worked a little magic by leaving a toasty napping spot on the grass compost when the little girl knelt and snapped her fingers. The little cat lover cradled Basil just right, and the two connected in a quiet bond that may have sealed the feline’s fate as an animal assistant in the Pawsitive Steps reading program.

Probably building on some cat-inspired confidence, the girl returned to the barn, where the Big Red Horse turned on the charm and enticed her to bring the stepstool to his stall front, stand on it and stroke away. She was hooked.

Next up, a younger girl who comes out to practice her reading skills. She has a nearly non-existent attention span, and our activities are rapid-fire, peppered with a steady stream of questions, comments and the search for the next fun thing. She had asked to braid Chicago’s tail, so our letter review game was built around his long sorrel hair, some colored elastic binders and a couple sheets of adhesive alphabet.

She combed, sectioned, twisted and bound the hair with focus and silence. Brief periods mind you, but a marked difference in the frantic flurry of our previous session. We moved up to the mane for pony tails and then used Chicago’s stomach as our sticker board for a last few sounds and letters. All the while he stood calmly in the cross-ties, quiet and cooperative, with not a shred of the bucking bronc I rode (or, didn’t ride) a few days earlier.

How can I not love this horse, who will let little kids brush and braid and paint and polish and poke stickers on all his “Basic Horse Anatomy” parts, without an ounce of objection? A horse who offers assurance to the anxious and calm to the chaotic. A horse who seems to understand that there are people he could mess with, but many that he shouldn’t. The only fool he won’t suffer gladly is me, but I can live with that.

As long as I have bubble bath and ibuprofen.

Trail Trial

BlogChicago

I believe things happen for a reason.

For instance, I believe I titled Chicago’s stories on this blog “… Big Red Horse” as a rather uncharacteristic sign of optimism. Good karma. A commitment to the belief that he and I have settled our differences, made our peace and moved on to a happy life together.

See, I generally refer to Chicago as The Big Red Beast, a nickname reflective of our storied past. He has unseated so many times that I finally perfected the art of somersaulting over his left shoulder, sticking the landing and keeping hold of the reins in my right hand.

But we have worked on our relationship through lessons and clinics; tears and threats; prayers and perseverance; stubbornness and stupidity. And in the end, we’ve made it work. Life is good. Most of the time.

Today we were invited to join a group trail ride at a park five minutes from our house, one we used to ride regularly, but haven’t for a couple years. Yay!

And when my friends were delayed by technical difficulties, I decided this must be divine intervention. By the time I got the message, I was at the park, tacked up, ready to head out. Because it would be at least 45 minutes before the group arrived, I figured this would be a great opportunity for Chicago and I to go solo around the little 45 minute loop we used to ride. I’ve been of the mind lately that this is something we could and should do, and now here was the chance. An obvious sign.

Off we went. Chicago proceeded with caution, stopping a few times to test my judgment and/or resolve, but was easily convinced to continue. By the time we passed the halfway mark, he apparently realized we were on the  homeward stretch and stepped up from his “Are you really sure this is a smart idea?” amble to his “I am Some Kind of trail horse!” walk. Life really was good. Most of the time.

As we neared the trail center, marking the end of our  successful solo trip, I saw movement up ahead. Not a deer, a raccoon, or even a neon-shirted hiker, all hazards that haunt our Trail Rides Past. Nope, this was worse.

The dreaded Park Ranger on a Gator. With a fluorescent vest. To his credit, the guy was moving slowly and slowed a bit more when he saw us. But Chicago started jigging nervously, so we moved off the trail onto a side path, allowing the Very Scary Moving Vehicle to pass. Great, he went one way, we’re going the other, nearly home and completely uninjured after an uneventful ride. Almost.

Chicago continued to jig his way back on the trail and up the hill, mostly in a pretty little leg yield that moved us laterally upward. Then I made a couple mistakes: 1. I let him get straight, and 2. I let him get his head down. And as soon as he had the position, I felt the familiar power of his full 1200 pounds lifting straight vertical from all four legs. Experience has taught me that this is the part that ends badly. All the time.

Based on the dirt smudges on the back of my shirt, I landed right between my shoulder blades, (for my friends who are asking, Yes I was wearing my helmet) but managed to hang on the reins.  Which was particularly useful today, as instead of the immediate stop that used to follow such an unceremonious dismount, this time the Big Red @#$%&!* did his best to make sure we walked home separately.

But I got back on and realized my good fortune (how’s that for positive spin?)in having one more steep hill left, just perfect for extinguishing that remaining equine energy with a little more uphill lateral work. By the top, he waved the white flag and walked quietly to the trailer.

So, was this part of some Vast Eternal Plan to trail ride by our lonesomes? I don’t know. Will I test fate and try it again? I don’t know that either.

What I do know, is that this is the reason God gave us bubble bath and Ibuprofen.

Wild Child

TheFawn0730

She gets bigger and braver every day, as do those of us who surround her. Biskit and I apparently harbor the greatest fascination, since Rusty continues to eye her with the suspicion characteristic of any self-respecting leader, while Chicago maintains the disinterest characteristic of any self-indulgent narcissist. The cats Basil and Mace haven’t lived their extended Barn Cat lives by taking chances on prey so much bigger and faster than them, so we’ve settled into a mutually curious but cautious coexistence.

She will occasionally graze just outside the barn, at the edge of the pasture border, while the horses are in for dinner, with no apparent concern for me or my activities.

On one such evening, I walked into the alley, right up next to the pasture gate – roughly 10 yards from the patch of clover blossoms on which she grazed. I squatted down for an unobstructed view, determined to finally get a really good look. She raised her head, stared confidently into my eyes, and returned to her snack.

We held our positions for several minutes – long enough for my legs to cramp and to create a sweat sandwich between my thighs and the back of my calves that spilled down my shins and pooled into a perspiration picnic for mosquitoes, barn flies and other assorted stinging insects.

Fearing any quick movement might scare her away, I managed to sit through the sweat long enough to pique her curiosity. Maybe she was trying to figure out why The Creature generally given to dragging around a bucket full of muck now sat frozen in a pool of her own bodily fluid.

In any case, she headed right toward me, steady and determined. I was thrilled of course. Initially. Then I realized, again, that I am indeed a slow processor, and that perhaps a little primer in cervine behavior may have been in order prior to this point. What if she charged me? Or bit, kicked, spit, or whatever it is that deer do to mortal enemies and reasonable facsimiles thereof? Somewhere between carefree and caution lies a middle ground of healthy choices that I someday hope to find. But for now I rely on the Luck of the Irish and the Eyes were Smiling that day, because as she neared the rope that separated us, the little one veered off to the greener pasture.

Good thing for the other side of the fence.

Chronicle of the Old Yellow Dog–The Final Chapter

SleepyHeadZ

Yesterday, 8 days after his 15th birthday, I said goodbye to Zenga. I believe he had a stroke or strokes during the night as he was able to stay on his feet for only a matter of seconds, and when he did walk, it was in large erratic circles. He was possibly in pain, probably confused and definitely uncomfortable. When he refused his breakfast, complete with the last of the birthday cookie dough mixed in, the message was clear.

Born to be a Canine Companions for Independence assistance dog, Huizenga was named after a contributor to the organization, but responded to many nicknames in his 15 years. Among them: Z, Zenga, Zinger, Zinga, BaZinga, Paleface, Poochers, Little Yellow Dog, Old Yellow Dog, and He Who Hears Voices.

Zenga didn’t make the cut at CCI because he couldn’t tolerate the feel of wearing the gear necessary to identify him as an official service dog. His release was pretty much a given at the ceremony in which the incoming class of dogs was introduced, where he hopped up the aisle on three legs when his name was called because he was using the fourth leg to feverishly scratch at his “Puppy in Training” cape.

But his tactile sensitivity didn’t keep him from working for many years as a registered therapy dog. Oddly enough, he would endure overzealous petting and clumsy embraces but drew the line at retrieving anything. I guess it’s all about the compromise.

In the end, he earned his keep by lying on a fleecy blanket, listening to children read, admittedly, a job made more enticing by the treats distributed at the end, but one in which he willingly participated. My biggest concern was that while I could rationalize Z’s snoozing to a young reader as “he’s picturing the story as you read it” I had no credible story should he lapse into the deep slumber of his later years, which came complete with a very obvious snore.

I will miss him. I will miss the raspy pant that marked an exciting event, and the quiet that marked its subsidence. I will miss the contortions required to push my chair back so he could worm into the space between my feet and the table trestle while I did the crossword. I will miss the little spark of spirit that he showed in objection to my efforts to unsnarl the little mats that knotted the fine hair under his ears.

But mostly I will miss the look in his eye when he saw me come in the house, down the boardwalk, across the lawn or up the driveway because, with all due respect to my much beloved family and friends, nobody was as happy to see me as Huizenga.

Rest in Peace Little Yellow Dog.

Chronicle of the Old Yellow Dog

SleepyHeadZ

The Old Yellow Dog turned 15 last week. He celebrated by lying on a fleece blanket under a shady tree in the front yard, listening to a little girl practice her reading skills. Her work started with the story of a child baking birthday treats for a golden retriever having a birthday. It ended with the child making no-bake dog treats and feeding several of them to the golden retriever having a birthday.

I honored the old boy with the purchase of four, almost color-coordinated rubber-backed throw rugs, strategically scattered around the ceramic tile to cover all the customary routes with traction only a pawstep away.

Zenga continues to show his age just a tiny bit more every day. His hips get a little looser, putting a little more wiggle in his walk, and his loss of hind-end muscle tone has added one more momentum-building practice swing to get up the step from garage to house.

The bark formerly reserved to demand a trip out or in, now sometimes means “Help me get up” or “Where is everybody?” or “What are you thinking, sitting down in that chair with a magazine?”

And, with increasing frequency, he barks rather fiercely at guests in our home, even if he’s known them all his life and even if they’ve been standing right there in the kitchen for 15 minutes.

But though he no longer shows interest in joining the greyhound and me on our morning walk, he continues to complete his own daily circuit around the yard. And if I happen to catch him at just the right spot, his aging eyes light up and his face reflects the youthful delight of that little yellow puppy with the green ear tattoo I met at the airport in 1996. Then he will pivot (reality check – I have to help lift those heavy hips back to vertical) and trot and hop and bounce up the lawn with all the energy he’s got, fully convinced that he is SomeBody.

Then he spends a several minutes lying on the cool ceramic trying to catch his breath, closely resembling his owner just after she completes her Cardio Pilates workout.

But soon he falls asleep, snoring contentedly, his back secured against the entry wall, his feet within toe-touch distance of the blue-striped rug. And all is well.

Happy Birthday Huizenga.