Survival Skills

As a daughter of a difficult dementia patient, I’m cultivating a “One Day at a Time” mindset, though mine has an addendum – Every Damn Day. Not a day passes without a phone call, text or email message about my dad or from my mom. Fortunately, the news is rarely urgent anymore, but it is something to be addressed.

Also fortunately, I have siblings who are willing and able to do what they can, so I’m not doing everything, and I’m not doing anything alone. Care by committee.

I suspect that a bit of journaling may lighten the load, so maybe I’ll get to that someday, but in the meantime, I gratefully look for hope, inspiration and comfort in my Happy Place. The barn.

Chicago came to Four Sticks Farm 22 years ago, and Mace joined us 5 years later. Since then, we’ve gone through some rocky moments – The Big Red Beast and Crabby Cat were monikers with meaning – but we have endured. We identified our differences, shed a little blood, a lot of sweat, many tears, and worked our way to the compromise that keeps us solid still today.

They’ve shared their space with five other horses, six dogs, five cats, and an undetermined number of vagabonds who’ve wandered through the barn, including, but not limited to, two feral felines and one really rank raccoon.

Though always the biggest boy on the property, Chicago has always deferred to his pasture mates, except for a few pseudo-threatening headshakes and wildly off-target kickouts aimed at old Zenga and young Rowdy during their first forays into the pasture.

After we lost Rusty, trusty Head of the Herd, I’m fairly certain that Biskit and Chicago did an equine version of Rock/Paper/Scissors to decide which of them had to take on the role, and Chicago offered no resistance to Moe’s claim to the title last fall.

Shifting priorities on my part landed Chicago on the Unofficially Retired list as riding horse a couple years ago, a change he accepted gracefully (and I suspect, gratefully) but he still heads for the barn when he spots me walking in that direction, minds his manners when coming in, going out or standing in the crossties, and still revels in a good grooming session.

For many of his middle years, Mace indicated his irritation quickly and without qualms, hissing, baring, and occasionally, burying his teeth in the forearm of any offender unaware or unresponsive to his “Cease-and-Desist” order. But he’s learned to live with a little less tooth and a little more truce.

Mace knows how to avoid the 1,200-pound cat crushers in the barn and seems to have brokered a deal that allows him unlimited, unfettered access to their 10 x 12 shavings-covered litterboxes.

He’s learned to hunker down when the golden galoot bears down upon him, secure in the knowledge that there is no backup to the bluster and Ruffian will soon move on to bark at something else.

The red flag on his chart at the vet clinic has faded to pink since he figured out the tasty tuna paste squeezed on the exam table is fair trade for a needle stuck in the thigh and a light shined in the eye.

My big red beast and crabby cat have coexisted, mostly peacefully, with their companions for decades, conducting silent surveillance from a distance during the settling-in periods, then welcoming the newbies with minimal fuss.

They have lived through changes in roommates, changes in routines, obnoxious dogs, obnoxious children, surgery, sutures, uninvited guests, and unrequested vaccinations. They’ve learned when to fight, when to sit tight, how to get out of the weather and how to get out of the way.

They’ve learned to keep peace in their little piece of the world.

One day at a time.

Falling into Change

A breath of fresh air breezed through the barn last week when we welcomed a couple of new staff members from the equine clinic for our annual Fall Wellness visit. Fresh faces with fresh approaches examined Moe and Chicago and left me with a fresh outlook.

Dr Ethan had done his homework, arriving aware of Moe’s missing eye and impaired pelvis and Chicago’s missing molar and progressing cataract. He and vet tech Torii handled the horses with gentle confidence, ignoring Moe’s indignant head tossing during the dental exam, and his basically bad manners throughout the rest of the assessment.

Moe is not a fan of Dr Ethan.

His behavior conjured up the Ghost of Palominos Past, as Moe expressed displeasure with the events of the day through conduct reminiscent of his predecessor, Biskit, complete with the bang of a hoof at the base of the stall door. One very solid bang that made his point and made a mark.

And reminded me to move the Equine Etiquette Refresher course back onto the roster of our regularly scheduled programming.

Based on experience, sound judgment, or beginner’s luck, the good doctor saved the best for last. He left Moe to sulk in solitary, and stepped into the stall next door, where he checked vitals of the Big Red Beast, and pulled the needle out of Chicago’s neck before he even realized there was an injection on the agenda.

For the first time in our 22 years together, Chicago is not going into the winter with a little layer of natural insulation; so, for the first time in our 22 years together, Chicago is getting a little scoop of senior sweet feed with his lunch, soaked in warm water for a molasses mash treat, as prescribed by Dr Ethan.

Dr Ethan is Chicago’s favorite.

The new vet team took manure samples when they left, compliments of two horses who reliably relieve themselves in fresh shavings, and Dr Ethan called before the day was done with lab results and recommended next steps.

It’s been a minute since I’ve experienced a change that didn’t leave me at least a little confused, disillusioned, or mad, but working through this old procedure with new professionals left me comfortable, hopeful, and glad.

It was fun to look at Chicago and Moe through new lenses and to watch young practitioners practice their craft with calm, compassionate conviction.

After a few months of mostly dark, it’s reassuring to remember that the world is still (mostly) full of light. I am encouraged to feel the fog lifting, to be reminded there are angels among us, lots of kindhearted, sharp-brained, energetic people willing to do the work that needs to be done, and to do it well.

Beyond the disappointments, there are dreams.

And a surly one-eyed palomino with a fast pass to the Polite Pony program.

It’s Been a Month

Twenty-six days ago, my father moved to a dementia care facility, following six weeks that included two falls (no injuries), two hospital stays, one night at an Enhanced Assisted Living facility and two tortuous weeks at a transitional care unit.

The experience has been a kaleidoscope of anger, anxiety, apprehension, changes of medication, chains of conversation, confusion, consolation, despair, doubt, dread, education, encouragement, exhaustion, fatigue, fear, frustration, gratitude, grief, guilt, heartbreak, helplessness, hope, panic, paperwork, permissions, teamwork, treatment plans, financial plans, aborted plans, whiskey, willpower, and wonder. And prayer.

It’s been a pervasive prowler lurking in my mind, pilfering headspace for all but the basics of getting through the day.

Eighteen days ago I walked full-speed, full-stride into an ash tree with a 108 inch waist – a tree that’s been rooted in the same spot since before we bought the property, a tree that I’ve walked around nearly every day since we bought the property – and did some painful, slow-healing damage to my right thumb and it’s supporting structures, literally, losing my grip.

The pain is decreasing, the strength is increasing, albeit slowly, and I’m learning to brush my teeth with my left hand. Ambidexterity is a beautiful thing.

Seems I’m on a smoother path now, though I’ll admit to adoption of a “hope for the best, prepare for the worst” attitude, and lucky for me, the basics of getting through the day include care of my favorite 4-leggeds, who are constant reminders of comfort of routine.

Prior to the escalated adventure in assisting aging parents, it’d been a season of infrastructure improvement here at Four Sticks Farm. House painting, deck staining and driveway replacement altered the usual and customary operations of our days.

During the months of modifications, Moe made a habit of letting himself on the middle pasture every night. He was able to pop the powered-off electric rope out of the clips on the fiberglass fence poles, allowing the line to sag low enough for him to lift his allegedly disabled back end up, over and into the paddock.

A private all-access pass to an all-you-can-eat, 24-hour buffet.

But his was a one-way ticket, so once in, he stayed in until I came down at feeding time and made him wait while Chicago got first dibs on the hay in the wheelbarrow. I’d open the pasture gate, he’d acknowledge the courtesy with a nod of the head and a gentle whicker, then walk up and move the Big Red Beast away from the wheelbarrow, which was not of any actual interest, as he’d spent the past several hours grazing on the good stuff, but the Head of the Herd has appearances to be maintained.

Since Chicago could be corralled with kite string, I’ve grown lax on the equine containment control measures, so beefed up the low spot by pounding in more fence poles with stronger clips, but still frequently woke to see the electrobraid popped out of the new poles, and the yellow gelding on the grass – rule following is not his priority.

A couple weeks ago we reached the part of our pasture program in which we close the paddocks to allow the roots to grow below ground rather than leaves to sprout above, and strict adherence to the No Admission policy was a must. Even for Moe.

So, commence implementation of Operation KEEP OFF THE GRASS – corroded cords replaced, corroded connections scraped, and the fencer powered on.

Order restored, routine recovered, with the simple flip of a switch.

With either hand.

Fall Ahead

We survived the super sultry stormy spell of summer, recently rescued by a stretch of sunny 70’s. Tank tops have given way to short-sleeved tees, and flannel shirts will follow soon.

We’re in the seasonal sweet spot between stinging bugs and sticking burrs on the wooded trails, neither sweaty spine nor frozen feet at the end of our walks.

The pasture puddles finally dried up, so last night I allowed the dogs to go down to the barn yesterday, and within minutes Ruffian found himself a suitably greasy pile of horse manure in which to relish a roll.

Rowdy was due for his annual Back to School bath, so while he sulked in the tub, Ruff skulked to the other side of the tack room and laid low.

He lucked out, as it was late, and after wrestling with Rowdy, who has no appreciation for spa services – manis, pedis, shampoos or, worst of all, blow outs – I mustered only enough energy for a sponge bath of the greenest spots on his face and head.

I’ve figured out that Ruff’s coat has a self-cleaning quality and with a little air drying and light brushing, he freshens up surprisingly well, which has dialed down the despair of watching him trot over to display his happy dappled self after a romp in the pasture.

So, we returned to the house, all three of us damp and covered in dog hair; and Rowdy woke up this morning with some serious bed head. Clean and fluffy, but waves rippling and curls flipping every which way but straight.

And it mattered not to him, nor the girls at school, that his coat was a bit disheveled – Study Hall Monitors don’t need no stinkin’ hair stylists.

Chicago and Moe now have unrestricted access to the pasture (though interestingly, they continue to come up to the barn for a flake or two of morning and evening hay) until we close it completely for a couple weeks of rest – part of the annual Winter Preparedness Plan.

Mighty Moe has figured out a method for popping the electric rope out of the post clips so he can step over it and enjoy his own private paddock whenever the mood strikes; and since I’ve been spoiled by Chicago, who could be contained with kite string, “Fence Upgrade” has been bumped to the top of my Seasonal To Do list.

Morning chores and night checks are now done in the dark – a true tell of this time of transition.

Grazing schedules, sleeve lengths, sunlight. Lots of things are changing.

But not the green-spotted golden.

Ruffian Review

It’s been a year since Ruffian joined our pack, fifty-eight pounds of cream-colored cheer with a puzzle of a past. Twelve months of pawprints moving in a (mostly) positive direction.

The shaved patches of infected skin have healed, now covered with coat that floats in wispy clouds across the hardwood of our home, and he’s bulked up a bit, tipping the big scale in the vet clinic waiting room at just under seventy pounds.

He’s still got an affinity for paper towels, napkins, and cash register receipts, leather coasters, gloves and golf shoes, slippers from the closet, dirty laundry from the hamper, and clean socks from the dryer. And, despite 12 inches of surgical staple scar across his belly, throw rugs.

But he now relinquishes the riches with reduced resistance, especially if encouraged to bring the treasures to me so he can show off his great find.

He still wrestles with his memory foam bed, but more for energy disengagement than for enemy domination.
He pees on the daylilies, the hostas and the shavings in the stalls, but never in the house.

He still barks at the cats sitting on the sidewalk, but no longer at the horses walking in the barn.

He’ll squeeze through an open stall door to snack on Chicago’s grain but waits at the barn door while I empty the manure bucket in the bin on the other side of the driveway.

He’s earned supervised access to the free world of Four Sticks, where he runs giant figure-8’s around the mound, across the driveway, between the trees and behind the house, a gleeful lope through the yard, sometimes sideswiping the ground with his left hip when he loses control in the turn.

Down the straight-a-ways he flings his legs full-length with joyful abandon and a curiously consistent preference for the right lead, just like his big red barn brother.

He discovered the deer in the back of the pasture and developed a passion for their pursuit, but miraculously returns to the sound of my blaze orange plastic whistle for the promise of a few soft and chewy beef treats.

He relishes a good roll in the greasy piles of fresh horse manures but… The positive spin on this one is still a work in progress.

Last fall we completed a Beginner Obedience class, which is to say we attended four of the five sessions for which he was willing to get out of the truck, but with all the dogs and all the training classes I’ve done, I don’t remember feeling less successful, and that includes Dixie the crabby lab and Boone, the laggardly greyhound. Week 5 was better than Week 1, but barely.

But this summer we completed a Therapy Dog training class, for which I had to only tap the corner of his crate to coax him out of the truck. And once inside the building, he showed potential. Still needs a little polishing, but definitely a little diamond in the Ruff.

He’s settled in, chilled out, grown up, slowed down, emptied our checking account and filled our hearts.

It’s been a pretty good year.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Final Night
Last night of class
We’ll go and then
We’ll pass our test
Just don’t know when

Real Life

I have the beginnings of a blog post for today, but life got in the way the last couple weeks, so I’m breaking the string of alternate Tuesday entries detailing amusing anecdotes about my animals.

Nothing catastrophic, unusual, nor even particularly interesting, but enough to max out my mental bandwidth, leaving just enough to mop up Rowdy’s drool and Ruffian’s hair one more time before sitting down to watch Olympic highlights.

Despite my ever-present intention to Get Better, these short posts take me a ridiculously long time to compose as I sit at my desk in the space at the top of our stairs, Rowdy stretched out behind my chair, Ruff keeping watch on the landing, and Spotify providing some instrumental ambiance.

But when I write, I am transported to the barn, the yard, the house, or the park. I hear the horses’ neighs and nickers, Fennel’s murmurs and meows. I see Mace ambling across the stall, hips canted right of his shoulders. I feel Ruffian’s youthful joie de vivre and Rowdy’s mature c’est la vie.

I am reminded that Four Sticks Farm and my four-legged friends are my happy place, even when they’re only in my mind.

We’re nearing the one-year mark for Ruff and Moe, Chicago’s second year of retirement, Rowdy’s second year as Study Hall Monitor, Mace’s pursuit of Oldest Barn Cat in the upper Midwest, and Fennel’s quest for a lifetime devoid of veterinary visits; plus twin fawns, cocooning caterpillars and more of Ruffian’s Excellent Adventures in Therapy Dog training.

We’ll be back in 2 weeks.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 5
We’re not ready yet
But we’ve practiced the test
My 6th Therapy Dog
Ruff may be the best.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 6
Storms rumbling in
Sherry called on the phone
Safety for all
Our last class was postponed.

Senses Census

Glue sticks and spiral notebooks now occupy the prime retail real estate, and rumor has it Halloween displays are already claiming their share of shelf space, so it seems fair to say we’re midway through the summer, a season rivaled only by Christmas for sensory stimulation.

We had a house painting project happening around here in June, which meant no flowers on the porch or deck, but the garden center conveniently located 4.5 miles due East, and on my way to almost everywhere, seemed to hold a sale of some sort every time I drove by.

Being the civic-minded sort, I stopped in to support the local economy, which explains the excessive pinks, yellows, and purples of the too-many annuals placed around the yard in my temporary holding zones.

Economic assistance. That’s Lisa Logic. I love it, George has learned to live with it.

Painting completed, the plants were moved to their more permanent locations on the deck and after a brief tutorial, Ruffian learned that they are for decorative purposes only, and not, actually, for his dining pleasure.

New this year are some cheerful zinnias and showy cosmos, through which I feel my grandma Maxine, who planted them along the cedar fence in her backyard. When I look at those flowers, I see teenage me sitting with her on the concrete patio that connected her two-bedroom rambler and the detached garage.

I smell the smoke of her PallMall red, taste the real sugar of my icy Coca Cola in a glass bottle, and I hear Herb Carneal calling play by play for our Minnesota Twins as jets cruise across the flight path overhead, approaching and departing Minneapolis St Paul International.

Fortunately, Mother Nature has generously supplied the waterworks this summer, leaving me, the generally neglectful gardener, in a mostly supporting role; and I’ve come to appreciate my watering routine – the grounding of my bare feet on the warmed wood of the deck planks, the cathartic calm of deadheading spent blossoms, and the affable acceptance of a hummingbird’s impatient whirring around my head as he waits for me to move away from his Cuphea café, the new pollinator hot spot at Four Sticks Farm.

The best view from my deck includes Chicago and Moe, sporting shiny summer coats, both spotted with white dots befitting their heritages.

It’s a Pasture Palooza kind of summer, so they’re enjoying as much green freshness as they can manage with swishing tails, twitching ears, and an afternoon break to doze beneath the draft of their stall fans while the bugs are blown away.

The seasonal barn bouquet is one of warm horse and hay and citronella insect spray, but the tack room, unless I remember to run the dehumidifier, retains the faint but foul smell of a stray brown tabby who, many years ago, spent the night as an uninvited visitor. Fortunately, he found more accommodating accommodations elsewhere, so his was a single night stay, but he left a mark.

To minimize the muddy paws and stinging insects of our so-far warm and wet summer, Rowdy, Ruff and I are mostly walking at a park with a paved trail that winds past a target shooting range, through the woods, next to a radio-controlled airplane landing strip, along the Mississippi River, and around a disc-golf course.

The trail takes us across a sunny stretch of wild-flowered prairie grasses before leading into a shady pine forest, where we meet walkers, runners, cyclists, hoverboarders, skateboarders, inline skaters and frisbee golfers.

We hear the staccato pops of target shooters, and the droning whines of miniature flying machines, the thwack of golf discs hitting trees and the metallic ting of golf discs hitting chain-link baskets.

If our schedules have been synchronized, we also hear the threatening vocalizations of a pair of tiny dachshunds asking my golden punks if they feel lucky.

And if we really are lucky, we hear the nearly silent thump of a deer paw landing on soft soil when it leaps through the trees ahead of us.

It’s been a bunch of beautiful days in this neighborhood. Even when the humidity hits the high notes, when I feel that single drop of sweat sliding down my spine, there is respite in the slightest breeze or spot of shade.

The air around the house smells of pink verbena, damp soil, mowed grass, and some wildflower that I’ve yet to ferret out.

I wake up Every morning and fall asleep Every night serenaded by house wren who sings incessantly, staking his claim and looking for love. All. Day. Long.

I look at a world of wildlife.

And cats and dogs and horses.

And flowers.

Fifty percent off.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 3
Obedience night
He did pretty well
The lessons, it seems
Are starting to gel.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 4
He ignored the distractions
That were placed on the floor
I had hope when we started
And now I have more.

Midsummer Musings

Moe is learning it maybe will pay
To be calm and stand still and to stay.
The bugs are so bad
He no longer gets mad
When it’s aerosol, not a pump spray.

Chicago, unlike his friend Moe
Lets me spritz him from forelock to toe.
Goodbye to the bugs
From me he gets hugs
My old pony, I just love him so.

The swallows are back for round two
I’d rather they not, but they do
When the barn door is open
They fly in just hopin’
This time they can stay, I won’t shoo.

The cats don’t seem bothered by heat
Though I question their choice of first seat
They spend most of the day
In the loft with the hay
Coming down once or twice just to eat.

Ruff’s allowed in the barn during chores
Cleans up grain that’s been dropped on the floors
Then unless I watch close
He’ll go roll in the gross
Unperturbed by my shouts and my swores.

Rowdy’s great, just an all-around champ
Edging close to his Senior Dog stamp
Still got plenty of pluck
But to exit the truck
Doesn’t jump, now he trots down a ramp.

It’s a beautiful time of the year
To sit out on the deck with a beer
Watch this place and these pets
Know no better it gets
Raise a glass, nod of thanks, give a cheer.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 2
I opened his crate
He hung in the back
I convinced him to join me
He did really great

Road Signs for Ruffian

Bored by rain
And lack of sun
I logged on to Google
In search of some fun

Something happy
But what to do?
I looked at Ruff
And then I knew

I found the class
No time to tarry
Lest I lose the spot
With trainer Sherry

Eight hours from now
The class would start
Not long to decide
Am I being smart?

Ruff’s sweet and he’s social
With a couple of quirks
But he’s bright and he’s happy
Let’s see if this works

Two openings left
What incredible luck
I committed to going
Then hopped in the truck

With treats and some water
We left home at five
A brand-new adventure
A one-hour drive

He was a little uneasy
But jumped out of his crate
Without any coaxing
Without any bait

It’s fun to be back
In a dog training class
So fun there’s no fear
Of the test we must pass

One week into training
With a click and a treat
He’s happy to work for
A bit of dried meat

Some strangers are dangers
He still sometimes shies
Near umbrellas and paint cans
And frisbee-golf guys

This is only a start
Just a month and a half
But our teamwork’s evolving
He does make me laugh

We’ll see where we are
At the end of six weeks
I suspect we’ll continue
With classes and tweaks

But he’ll get there someday
This good-natured Ruff
A bringer of Joy
A canine cream puff

Some have no faith
Won’t they be agog
When Ruffian turns into
A Therapy Dog

Crabby Cat Grows Up

Mace turns 17 today, big doin’s in the barn cat world.

His hips lean a little to the right when he walks, and his head slants a smidgeon to the left, but all four paws stay on the single-track path, that invisible tightrope on which felines travel.

He gets a little help from a little Cosequin® chewable, but daily life is Mace’s natural fitness center, keeping him strong enough to climb the ladder to enjoy the sultry solitude of the hayloft that is his haven, spry enough to evade the horses’ hooves as they enter and exit the barn, and speedy enough to defend against The Dog, otherwise known as Ruffian, who delights in, literal, feline pursuits.

Mace joined the family as an 8-week-old sweet-faced kitten, happy to be here, eager to be part of the pride. Having been literally born in a barn, he understood the expectations of his employment, no training required, and from the beginning, displayed his trophy rodent remnants on the barn floor to make sure I knew he was putting in his hours.

Adolescence took a toll as the handsome brown tabby suffered a few scraps, scrapes, abscesses, infections, and the veterinary care that went with them. My happy little purrsker, earned a red flag on his chart, notably articulated by the one dvm who, after conducting an abbreviated examination of a very angry Mace, voiced the thoughts of many unable or unwilling to say it out loud, when he told me that if I needed more medication after this initial dose, I could come in the office to pick it up “but you don’t need to bring the cat.”

Message received.

He healed up that time and a couple more after that, the latest being 6 years ago when Mace needed surgical intervention to clean out a deep muscle wound and came home with aftercare instructions and a substantial supply of pharmaceuticals designed to ensure his medical needs could, and would, be met by the Home Health provider who had the courage to be his owner.

All involved lucked out when my horse vet happened to be in the barn for a Wellness visit with the equines when the drain sutured into Mace’s hip was ready to be removed, and he offered to do the honors, a process completed quickly and quietly as I held a purring Mace, perfectly content in his own space.

He earned his Crabby Cat moniker, and over the years a few self-styled cat whisperers, warned of his tempestuous temperament, insisted they knew how to tame the savage beast. They were wrong, but he was restrained, showing just enough turbulence to broker his release without leaving a mark.

Maybe that crossness served him well as a long-term survival skill. He’s tolerated goldens, a greyhound, a poodle and assorted visiting others. He endured barnfuls of little girls reading books, brushing horses, creating art and sharing snacks. He’s shared hay bales, cat beds and deck chairs with Basil, McCormick, Chai, Oregano, and now Fennel, getting along with more grace than growls.

Resilience is a beautiful thing and he’s figured out how to get along or move along – usually to the top of the hay loft.

He still shows up, appreciating a little affection and casual conversation along with his kibble; he still contributes to the cause, working the gardens bordering the barn to rid them of the rodent riff raff; and he still sits on the barn porch, soaking up the sun, watching the world go by in peace.

Happy Birthday Crabby Cat.