Obedience 1 for the Third Time

A little short on time, but needing a little training, I opted to combine my errands with Ruffian’s schooling, loaded him into the truck and headed “into town”, where I parked on the main block of the main street, poured Ruff out of his car crate and walked half a block to the post office.

As is his M.O., once out of the truck he moved along with me, sling-shotting between just behind my left knee and just in front of my left foot, where he doesn’t exactly pull, but neither does he walk with what would pass as the “loose leash” expected in our upcoming Therapy Dog evaluation.

In the post office lobby, we met two kind strangers who commented on his good looks and asked permission to pet him. Perfect practice for Exercises 2 and 3 in the Skills Assessment of the evaluation.

He sat readily and quietly for the head pats and ear scratches, and while he’d earn top scores for prompt response to, and maintaining contact with, his handler, based on the quivering of his hind quarters, he’d lose a couple points in the Relaxed Body Language category.

It occurs to me that I could stand strategically for that part of the test, to shield his shivers from the eyes of the evaluator, but
a. I expect s/he will be experienced enough to see through the screen, and even more,
b. I’d like Ruff to believe that he is safe when I’m standing next to him, even when surrounded by curious crowds in strange spaces with odd odors and novel noises.

We left the post office and despite his desire to beeline straight for the truck, walked around the block that is Main Street. We rounded the corner across from the fire station and I noticed the sign on the town’s newest business – a dog training center. Hmmm.

There is a QR code posted on the door, but I opted for an old-school laptop internet search when I got home, and discovered a new Obedience class had started the night before and would run through mid-April.

Mid-April would give us plenty of time to practice our freshly honed skills and even allow enrollment in a second short class to prep for our end of May evaluation.

So, I emailed the instructor who replied Immediately, and yada, yada, yada, Ruff and I are 4 weeks into Level 1 Obedience.

Again.

The third time seems to be a charm for our educational pursuits, and the magic starts once we settle in our space in the training center, but I’ve yet to crack the code for getting my comely coward out of the truck in any public space, without considerable coaxing.

He is slightly more amenable to leaving his safe spot, which is to say I no longer have to drag the whole dang crate, fully loaded with a reluctant retriever, out of the hatchback. But unless Rowdy’s with us to run reconnaissance, Ruff still hangs tight, hugging the blue nylon barrier that protects him from the menace that may forever remain a mystery.

Sometimes he’ll face the fear enough to stand in the opening of the front flap, but he’s yet to summon the courage for the daring leap to the outside world.

So, I tap the top of the travel kennel, jiggle it just enough to encourage him to exit the Explorer without the need to tilt the crate to a 45-degree angle, and after a few moments of soulful stares, reassuring ear rubs and reminders that we have safely completed this mission on at least 67 previous occasions, he takes the trust fall, gives me minimal time to press the close button on the tailgate and we advance post-haste to the entrance of the building.

Once inside, the anxiety eases as we make our way to our usual spot in the back right corner, first chair facing West – seems all the students, 2- and 4-leggeds alike, are creatures of habit who appreciate the comfort of consistency.

Our classmates include two darling doodles and a charming Chihuahua who hops his way around the room mostly on his hind legs. His owner’s objective is to teach him that the tiny toes on all four of his feet should touch the floor, and like the rest of us, she’s seeing some success in embracing instructor Kelly’s counsel that short periods of everyday practice pay dividends.

On a daily basis now Ruffian is sitting, lying, standing, staying, waiting, and loose-leash-walking up in the office, down in the family room, on the stairs, in the barn, on the driveway, in the park. We vary duration, distance and distractions, and all this thinking exhausts much of the mental energy previously used to fuel his desire to chew slippers, socks and throw rugs.

He still conducts the occasional raid of the clothes hamper in the closet, and sometimes grabs the bath mat in front of the tub, but it’s mostly for show or old-time’s sake. He drops them as soon as we make eye contact.

We’re still working in the low distraction zone, but I’m encouraged by our progress. Ruff seems to enjoy the engagement, he’s willing to try what I’m asking him to do, even if it means lying down at the back door or walking in heel position around the pool table.

I like where this is going.

I like the fun of dog training classes, being around people who like being around dogs.

I like learning new techniques from a trainer with a sense of humor.

I like listening to the sound of dog paws padding across a rubber matted floor.

I love watching the lights coming on as Ruff figures out the right response.

I just don’t like pouring seventy-five pounds of pup onto the parking lot.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Obedience Begins Again
We’re at it again
Another dog class
The test’s scheduled for May
Here’s hoping we pass

Practicing Peacekeeping

Despite a lifelong discomfort with loud voices and cursing, Rowdy has adopted an admirable response when he hears them.

No one celebrates the final play of the Super Bowl with greater gratitude than my gentle golden, who holds his breath, just a little, through the entirety of the NFL season. But swear words now invoke the superpower of his therapy dog spirit.

When he senses too-high tension in the tv room, Rowdy will launch a crusade for calmness, approaching the overly fervent fan with ears slightly dropped, tail slowly ticking back and forth as he gauges the proper proximity needed to successfully complete his mission.

A little scratching of that perfect spot behind a dog’s ears restores some semblance of reason to even the most passionate accusations of poor play and outrageous officiating.

Rowdy’s peacekeeping pursuits are not confined to the perimeter of Four Sticks, however.

We recently had a girl start her day with a major tantrum in the entry way of the school building. I’ve heard a few of these rants over the years, but this was top shelf vituperation, a full-on verbal assault of the perceived violation of her rights as a student, the injustices forced upon her at the school, including the totally intolerable situation of her having to be in the same room as another student she deemed despicable. It was a vitriolic tirade, born of incredible pain and sadness, punctuated with a remarkable number of F bombs.

As with many things in life, I believe there’s a time and a place for the F word, and I appreciate its judicious use. But 15 minutes of the tirade seemed plenty to satisfy a need to vent, so I left Rowdy in the office and walked into the hallway, not to counsel, just to offer a little moral support for the teacher who’d been monitoring the meltdown, and because sometimes the mere presence of a second, silent adult can nudge the emotional thermometer out of the red zone.

I said nothing, just stood quietly, and the student didn’t acknowledge me except to slip into her diatribe that she didn’t “need no fuckin’ dog.”

Message received.

Loud and clear.

But Rowdy begged to differ. The words had barely left her lips before he came around the corner, somehow knowing he was needed.

He walked past me, past the teacher, and very gently approached the student crouched in the corner. He touched her knee with his nose, and she reached for his head. He stepped a little closer, touched her just softly enough to make sure she knew he was there, and she started scratching his head, talking just a little quieter, just a little slower.

He stood with her, demanding nothing, only offering quiet connection.

After a minute or two Rowdy recognized that his work was done. He moved over to me, we returned to our office, where he accepted a well-earned treat and curled up on his bed to wait for his call to Study Hall.

He didn’t solve her problem. But within a few minutes she calmed enough to move out of the hallway and into a study space.

Unlike some of the other students, she doesn’t clamor for his attention when she sees him. But when he makes his rounds around the room at the start of Study Hall, sometimes she scratches his head, just a little, and talks to him, just a little, and smiles at him, just a little.

Just enough to keep her at peace.

Just enough to keep him in shape for Sundays in September, with their return of the purple jerseys.

Skol Vikes!

Back on the Therapy Dog Track

Well, I did it. I committed to a Therapy Dog evaluation on May 31, which gives Ruff and his slacker handler 75 days to do what needs to be done to present as a confident, competent team, capable of providing canine cheer and comfort.

Ruffian is still reluctant to leave the safe space of his crate when we’re parked in an unfamiliar parking lot so we’ve launched Operation Dare to Depart, a commitment to driving every day to a new place, waiting for him to leave the confines of his kennel so we can build his confidence while exploring new environments.

Our first foray was to the school where he will one day serve as Rowdy’s Study Hall Monitor understudy. Only 3-4 taps on the top of the crate convinced him he could safely exit the Explorer and head toward the building.

Ruffian is the first dog I’ve had whose energy drops with nerves rather than ramping up. He walked with me across the parking lot in a cautious jog, pausing to check out the scenery, continuing with cheerful prodding.

He willingly walked through the security vestibule, met a couple staff members, and submitted to the swarm of students who surrounded him in the hallway, though it was more frozen fright and less tempered tolerance and, as evidenced by the quaking feathers on his hind legs. Still, he accepted the love and offered a couple tiny pooch smooches in exchange for the many murmurs of admiration.

Then he Goldilocks-ed his way around our office, sniffed Rowdy’s relaxation spots on the carpet, drank from his water bowl and eventually laid on the dog bed he deemed Just Right.

We went to the Science teacher’s classroom and after a quick tour of the attractive aromas of plants, reptiles, amphibians and aquariums, he settled down for his first staff meeting.

Ruff refuses food rewards when he’s anxious, but during the meeting he took the crunchy treat offered in exchange for a down stay and even popped up a couple times for an intermittent reimbursement – a positive sign of getting comfortable in his surroundings.

Since then, we’ve spent two sessions in the parking lot of a local farm store, with the overly optimistic goal of getting out of the truck and meandering through the aisles of garden supplies, dog treats and farm tools.

Before we can get into the store, we have to get out of the truck though, so we’re still working on that.

Ruffian has yet to willingly jump out during our practice runs, even with Rowdy as his emotional support animal. During our inaugural trip he followed Rowdy out but instantly bounced right back off the pavement and into Rowdy’s car crate.

With a ridiculous amount of encouragement after a ridiculous amount of standing under an open tailgate in a northerly wind, we worked our way to a few small circles in the parking lot.

Next up, a city park with a playground and kids and cars and dogs and porta-potties. Ruff came to the edge of the back door of the truck quickly but was spooked by a teenage boy shouting the F word on his cellphone. Once convinced the profanity parade had passed, Ruff left the truck with only a bit of reluctance and only a bit of jostling of the crate.

He acknowledged the group of teenage boys playing video games (sans swearing) at the picnic table, allowed the petting of strangers, including two small spontaneous hugs from a little girl, and accepted the noises of kids on slides, spinners, swings, jungle gyms and merry-go-rounds.

My mom met us to walk the trail around the park, which provided practice in slow, mindful movement in the face of dogs barking behind fences, surveying stealthily from shrubs, and one group of three that snuck up on us from somebody’s backyard. After a few sniffs, they moved on, more interested in staying ahead of their owner than sticking around with Ruffian.

We were passed by boys on bikes, and we passed a flock of poultry. The Boss Hen made a beeline to the edge of the chicken run as we approached, a formidable, feathered foe that I suspect, had she been loose, would present a bigger challenge than even the monster mastiff, but we advanced without incident.

So, Team Ruffian is in spring training mode – practice, practice, practice. Nothing like the possibility of public humiliation to put the pressure on performance and we have 75 days to minimize the possibility of major meltdown.

And to maximize the joy of jumping out of the truck.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Test Schedule
We’ll practice and practice
It’ll be a grand day
If we pass our big test
On the last day of May.

Hot Spots and Hives

As Chicago walked past me the other night, on his way to the hay flakes in the field, I noticed a bump on his belly. I followed him until he stopped at his preferred pile, inspected the lump and found a few more irregularly shaped swellings on his stomach.

Standing in the moonlit pasture at eight o’clock on a Sunday evening, I faced my dreaded animal owner dilemma – Sunday night emergency vet call or wait and see how things look in the morning?

I ran through my standard checklist – he’d been a little quiet lately, but by the end of February we all get a little quiet, as we wish away the rest of the winter. His movement was still sound by 28-year-old horse standards. He was eating and drinking with output proportionate to input, his temperature was normal, and his reaction to the poking and prodding of my amateur examination was complete disinterest.

I opted for the Scarlett O’Hara approach, and in the morning the big bump had mostly disappeared, but was replaced by several patches of puffiness, none of which seemed to bother him a bit, nor did the 5 small weepy sores that now dotted his left side between his shoulder and his hip.

Time for a professional opinion.

Dr Taylor arrived in the afternoon and given the localized area affected, she best-guessed that he’d contracted a bacterial skin infection. I moved him from his stall into the barn aisle, snapped the crossties to his halter as she whispered just the right sweet nothings, so the slightly suspicious Chicago didn’t even feel the sting of the steroids she injected in his neck.

Chicago on steroids – there’s a phrase that would’ve struck fear in my heart back in our riding days when his response to any request he deemed unpleasant or unreasonable was to send me somersaulting over his left shoulder. But the medication worked wonders and within an hour or two the welts were shrinking, and the weeping sores were drying up.

We’re halfway through the 10-day treatment of anti-inflammatory pills (4 tiny green tablets that pair well with his senior feed mash) and antibiotic cream to smear on the sores, well on our way down Recovery Road.

We’re also well into mud season, so before I spread on the salve, I scrape off the sludge. Then, because I’m there with the grooming tools, I give Chicago a full-body cursory curry. Then, because I’m there with the grooming tools, I run a quick sweep over Moe’s coat of many mud clumps and pasture sprigs – remnants of his multiple daily siestas.

Both horses agreeably accept the brushing and extended stall time. Ruff and Rowdy are on spring break from the barn until the frost breaks and the muck dries, so it’s quiet except for their contented sighs and their crunching of the apple-oat treats.

For me, the added time has turned out to be a bit of a blessing, a buffer to the chaos, a boost to the belief that life goes on despite the bluster.

There are things that need doing. Things I can do, must do, want to do. Things that matter; that make a difference, at least to those in my little wedge of the world.

Caring for my horses helps me clean the clutter and calm the confusion in my mind. They are antibiotics for anxiety, sulfa drugs for the soul.

Even with hot spots and hives.

Forward, Forward, Forward

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.

Warmin’ Up

We’re working our way out of the January Big Chill, temperatures below zero since sometime Saturday. But the sun is out, the wind has settled and after 25+ years of living with horses, I’ve amassed an ample stash of unattractive but utilitarian cold weather clothing.

I’ve accumulated an assortment of head bands, stocking caps and an ear-flapped Elmer Fudd hat, neck gaiters, a balaclava, wool socks, winter boots, and insulated everything from underwear to overcoats.

So, I gear up and waddle to the barn, where I get my chores done in a finely honed routine that minimizes exposure to the worst of winter weather.

The single chink in my arctic armor is that although I’ve invested a mountain of money to keep some heat in my hands – silk liners, down mittens, fleece gloves, leather choppers, air-activated, battery-powered and rechargeable hand warmers – I have not yet found a surefire solution to freezing my fingertips.

But that’s what warm(ish) tack rooms are for, so when I lose my hold on the handle of the manure fork, I find Fennel in the heated shop to defrost my digits in his winter-fattened fur for a few minutes.

Our barn opens to a south-facing covered shelter, remarkably toasty, protected from the wind, heated by the sun, and both horses seem content to hang out there much of the day, wandering into the pasture for brief cooldowns when the solar power gets too intense.

Even at 7:00 pm, 2 hours before my usual night check, when it’s twenty below, my time-honored limit for leaving horses outside, I slide open the big door to see Chicago and Moe standing quietly, with plenty of hay leftover from the 4:00 feeding. They’re calm, no shivering, no pacing, no hunched posture, just standing quietly. Waiting? Wondering? Watching the world go by in the woods?

They assess as I, and more importantly, my freshly filled wheelbarrow, assume our positions in the doorway, then move to their places, Chicago at the west side feeder, Moe front and center, grazing directly from the source. They’re built for this.

They demonstrate no distress, in part, I suppose, because I give them more hay (the fuel that keeps their furnaces fired up) than they can consume, which means they get to pick through for their favorite forages, go back through for seconds and thirds, then pee on the remnants just before I come down to re-stock.

Chicago and Moe are more compatible companions than bonded buddies, spending some of their days in separate parts of the pasture, but mostly they hang together in the shelter keeping each other company and keeping each other warm.

They’re also sporting their hi-test teddy bear plush this winter. Because 2024 was unusually mild, Moe’s cold tolerance was never tested, so I wasn’t sure where his internal thermostat is set.

Turns out, he’s a polar pony, showing no sign of discomfort outside, and a definite preference for the wide-open spaces of barn’s backyard to the 10 x 12 confines of a stall in the stable.

In this second year together, my yellow spotted gelding is yielding to the idea that he’s with us for the long haul, that’s this is an ok place to be, and that we’re an ok crew to be with.

He now pauses in the open stall door to accept an extra apple treat or a (very) quick muzzle nuzzle before heading out to his afternoon snack session.

When I go out to take his picture, he follows me around so closely that I can’t capture him on my camera because he moves every time I do, his fuzzy nose on my frozen hand just as I tap the shutter button, which means I have almost no Moe photos that don’t include my left index finger alongside his right nostril.

He loiters in front of the wide sliding door while I churn through chores, luring me over to lavish him with a little mittened neck massage, and this is where I find my favorite hand heater.

The neck under a horse’s mane is blissfully balmy and there is no better way to warm up on a wintry day than to stand in the sunny shelter, hands hidden in a horse’s hair, soaking up all that equine essence.

The biggest banes to Moe’s existence these days are the dogs, at whom he pins his ears when they dawdle as they pass through the shelter to the pasture.

Ruffian recently watched Moe trot toward the barn and started making his way into the merriment until Moe whirled around to clarify the NO CANINES canon. I’m not sure if he was driven by good sense or simple survival instinct, but Ruff was impressed enough by the display of strong, speedy suppleness to stay on his own side of the fence.

Moe may be missing one eye and some strength in his hind end, but his communication skills are still intact.

As is his always available natural handwarmer.

Remembering Mace

Somewhere between my father’s death and his funeral, I said my forever farewell to the Crabby Tabby.

Mace was born in a boarding barn up the road and carried generations of genetic code for rodent eradication. He came to Four Sticks as just a bit of a kit, black stripes wrapped around a brown belly with white patches in all the right places.

We’ve been blessed with many a fine-looking feline here, including a sultry Siamese, a cute little calico, a couple of gregarious gingers and a bashful black-and-white, but in a barn cat beauty contest, Mace would get my vote. He kept his kittenish good looks until the end, with only one small grey spot on one side of his nose to give away his senior status.

He was a fun and friendly kitten, but a barn cat’s path is full of peril, with patches in which he moves from predator to prey, a prospective victim to wise owls, wily coyotes and stronger, savvier strays. Mace endured a couple unfortunate encounters that led to abscesses and operations, which made him more cautious, less charming for the middle part of his life.

Despite his spotty surliness, and unlike Fearful Fennel, Mace was always present and pleasant on veterinary appointment days, willing to walk in his crate and sit serenely in the shotgun seat, untroubled by the ride or the wait in the clinic office. But his silence was not to be mistaken as submission, and the business of our visits was completed posthaste, sometimes supplemented by the donning of leather gauntlets.

Neither people nor pet were ever injured in the execution of the events of those days, and with time and tubes of tuna paste he morphed into a mostly mellow mouser, easily managed on the exam table.

Mace did not suffer fools gladly, and his tolerance for the academic types was limited as well. He didn’t want to be coddled, cuddled or curled up in your arms, just a little bit of plain petting please.

When his affection allowance hit its max Mace clearly communicated his desire to be done. He gave fair warning, but I witnessed a few self-proclaimed cat whisperers walking away wiping away bitty beads of blood. Pay. Attention.

He lived in harmony with the horses, détente with the dogs, camaraderie with the other cats who cycled through.

His sphere of influence decreased as his age increased, but his work ethic stayed strong. I didn’t hesitate for a second to give the go-ahead for a thousand-dollar surgery to repair a deep muscle tear on 11-year-old Mace because he was the only animal on the farm who actually earned his keep. He shed his middle age spread, honed his hunting skills and six years later still left me rodent remnants in the barn aisle.

Mace always appeared for afternoon barn chores, which I initially believed was to have a clear shot at the clean bedding but came to realize that it was strictly a social call. He kept me company while I sifted and shifted shavings, then I’d kneel down and he’d step up on my lap so I could pet his head, rub his ears and scratch along his jawbone where I could feel his petite purr, audible only if I left the dogs in the house and the radio in the tack room.

Mace was a solid citizen cat. Complicated – maybe that’s redundant when you’re talking felines – but I loved him. For over 17 years, a remarkable run for a barn cat.

Though he lived such a long life, the end came quickly. Somewhere between Sunday and Monday his back end stopped propping him up. No marks, no swelling, no blood, no sign of distress, just no ability for forward movement. He mostly sat in his fleecy bed, even when breakfast was served.

I waited half a day, called the clinic and got an appointment with our favorite veterinarian. I swaddled my handsome tabby cat in some clean towels, set him in the front seat and scratched along his jawbone, feeling the petite purr as I drove.

I left the dogs at home and turned the radio off.

It’s a Wonderful Life – 2024

Old friends bring new friends with old connections and a new farrier

innesota golf in February, March & April, May, June & July, August, September & October. And November

Fake mustaches are funny, unless you’re a golden retriever with anxiety issues

Guesting in Grand Marais, cruisin’ in Crosby, & rooting for a national champion in River Falls

Most people are good, many are exceptional, a few are extraordinary

Breakfast on Bridge Street, coffee at Caribou, lunch on the Luce Line, dinner at Dehn’s

There is strength in the circle of siblings

Owls hooting in the front woods, coyotes yipping in the back pasture, deer rustling in the side swamp

There is no rule against getting out of the shower and into your pajamas at 5:00 on a cold and dark December night

Growing old with good friends gets us through good, the bad, the ugly, and the unpleasant

Babies are the best medicine. So are puppies

For better or worse, Chicago, Moe, Rowdy, Ruffian, Mace and Fennel = chores that need doing Every day. And it’s always for better

Solar eclipses, lunar eclipses, meteor showers, shooting stars, comet tails, super moon, harvest moon, pink and blue moon, big dipper, little dipper, orion the hunter, and that one that looks like a chair

It is still a beautiful world

Wishing you a happy, healthy 2025

Peaceful End

After a few tough months that felt like years, my Dad passed away last weekend.

His body and his brain failed him with a steady swiftness the past couple weeks, as he became increasingly less responsive, spending the last two days bedridden, in what looked like a really deep sleep. He showed no sign of discomfort, and my mom and a sister were with him in the end, which brought comfort to the family.

Dad lived eighty-eight mostly happy, healthy years, but dementia made for a wretched end of life and left a lot of fodder for reflection.

I’ll sift through all of that eventually, but for now I’ll appreciate the quiet close, and that he left a family willing and able to slog through this together.

Mostly though I am grateful for the extraordinary healthcare professionals who cared for him when we had to move him out of his home to an unfamiliar place. They are exceptional human beings, models of kindness and compassion who made an excruciating experience bearable.

My dad was a prolific pontificator, always up for discussion on political issues, changing social norms, or controversial calls in athletic events. He was a pretty good listener, though a lifetime of conversations taught me to recognize the signs of an impending monologue and the effective evasive maneuvers.

He taught me how to drive a stick-shift, mix an old-fashioned, and to be contrary enough to ask just a couple questions before agreeing blindly – George wishes I’d been absent that day.

I learned from him to remember we all look at life differently, so be patient, be kind.

Rest in peace Daddy-o.

Grateful for Good Work

November usually brings a dreary month of darkness that I dread. But I’ve found this fall to be a period of quiet reflection. Rather than focusing on the bleakness of bare trees, I’ve turned my attention to the brightness of starry skies, with appreciation for their appearance, every morning, every night. Despite the aggravations of my day, the universe carries on, full of encouraging affirmations, if only I pay attention and acknowledge.

Fennel and Mace, beefed up to combat the upcoming cold, continue to meet my appearance in the barn with little purry meows. Granted their idea of a bivouac is a fleece-lined bed in the heated barn, and they don’t actually address me until I get into said heated barn, and their greetings are really more about food than fondness, but still, it’s feline friendship at its finest.

The change of season comes with a change of chores list.

Cobwebs on the corners need knocking down and sweeping up, dust-coated stall fans need wiping down and packing up, warm-weather water buckets need scrubbing down and heated buckets need hanging up.

Bales of shavings, hay and senior feed must be loaded, unloaded and stacked.

Twiglets in Moe’s tail, mud in Chicago’s mane and the dirt deposited deep in their wooly coats need combing and currying. Both horses, even curmudgeonly Moe, welcome the serenity of a small spa session – we all benefit from barn time.

In the house, Ruff and Rowdy keep the Swiffer sweeper fully loaded, scattering dust bunnies and drool across the floor 24-7, and our daily perambulations in the parks add a pattern of clammy pawprints to the mix.

But they are such loyal dogs who, despite demonstrations of disappointment when they realize I’m leaving without them, greet my return with total joy, all is forgiven, we’re working with a clean slate.

They never really buy into my hard sell that they “get to stay here with George!” Instead, they take the treat offered as a consolation prize and immediately look to the door with hope that I misspoke, and they are indeed, headed out with me on some excellent adventure.

Last weekend I left them “Here with George!” on a Friday night and much of the following Saturday, returned in time for night check at the barn, conversation and a cocktail with George, and found myself encircled by golden bodyguards, stationed to make sure my solo missions were complete.

In truth, I appreciate all these obligations, the standard and the seasonal, as they get me out of my head, with its morass of seemingly unsolvable issues – the politics of international relations, the politics of local relations, the heartache of Lewy Body dementia, the struggle to switch the smart tv back to antenna tv, and the Vikings’ apparent inability to win big over obviously inferior opponents.

They ground me, keep my mind still and my body moving. Without them, I’d undoubtedly waste too much time watching Hallmark movies while eating zebra popcorn and drinking hot chocolate laced with Bailey’s – four more things for which I’m grateful.

It is still a beautiful world.

Dust coated, dog slobbered, hay littered, and hair covered, but beautiful.

Happy Thanksgiving!