Fennel

Fennel’s scared and he’s making us late.
I’m not sure just how long they will wait.
His appointment’s been set.
It’s his time for the vet.
But I can’t get him into his crate.

The lives of my barn cats are something of a secret. We often connect at one, some, or all my standard chore times, and while Mace seems to stay in the space between the house and the barn and shows up according to schedule, Fennel lives his own life, a little lion on the loose, a panther on the prowl, a tiger on a tear. Or maybe not.

Turns out my once-courageous kitten grew up to be a cowardly cat. Fennel came to Four Sticks, a 10-week-old bit of orange tabby toughness, ready to take on the Goliath in golden retriever clothing. He honed his hunting skills on baling twine, barn flies and grasshoppers, then leveled up to field mice, woodpile chipmunks and the occasional slow-witted songbird.

His confidence built his social skills – he sought us out, sat in our laps, showed us affection.

But that youthful cat swagger led him out to the acres of adventure and adversity around us. He disappeared for one 24-hour period, then eventually a second. One of his mystery missions took the tip of his tail, the other left an abscess on his foot.

I’ve learned to (mostly) let go of the worry when Fennel doesn’t show up for a day but have been saddened by the fear he’s developed since he started exploring the external environment.

Two months ago, I went to collect my little orange cat for his annual vet visit. He was conveniently located in the barn, so I made a few pleasantries, scooped him up, carried him into the tack room and tried to put him into his little cat crate.

He Houdini’d himself out of my arms, dodged the crate, raced out of the tack room, and scrambled up the hayloft ladder.

So, crate in awkward tow, I climbed up to the hayloft. Though Mace happily roused himself from a cozy divot in a hay bale to greet me, Fennel refused to acknowledge my existence. I shuffled hay bales, cleared a path and by the light of my silvery cell phone, crawled across the scratchy silage to entice him. I murmured a few less than pleasant pleasantries disguised in a reassuring tone to lure him out of his lair, which worked until he spied the crate, which inspired yet another incredibly athletic leap out of my arms, down the ladder and into the tack room.

I wiped the blood from my bicep, hauled the crate down the ladder back to the tack room, this time remembering to close the door behind me. That is to say, the door into the barn. Before I could get to the door into the shop, Fennel had it figured as his escape route and was in the shop and out the cat door.

Three strikes. I called the game and called the vet to cancel the appointment. Next opening, 6 weeks out.

I have no idea what injury or incident elicited the break in our bond, but implementation of Operation Befriend the Feline is showing signs of building it back. Fearful Fennel is still skittish and beats a hasty retreat in response to unanticipated movements, unexpected sounds, and unknown individuals, but his recovery time is getting shorter.

He meets me on the sidewalk most mornings and escorts me directly to the cat chow container. He generally greets me from the top of the hayloft when I’m in the barn and often ventures down for a little cuddle and conversation.

We suffered a brief setback last week, when the strategic use of kibble in the cat dish, closed doors in the tack room and tail-first loading in the crate resulted in successful arrival for, and survival of, the make-up veterinary appointment. Fennel demonstrated his disdain for me and my deceit for about 36 hours, after which he accepted my good faith offering of Iams Healthy Feline, so we’re back on the Barn Buddy Trail of Trust.

He’s a big fraidy cat, that is clear.
But I’m sure he’ll get over his fear.
We got to the vet,
And now I’ll just bet,
He’ll be plenty more brave by next year.

Faith.

Expectations

Back in the beginning, I expected to have a barn full of four horses and a life full of equine adventures with family and friends.

Cue reality.

The herd reached three head, two old pensioners and one young buck (in every sense of the word) and we enjoyed one group ride around the neighborhood before losing old Mike, the parade horse, to the ravages of spinal arthritis and George admitted he’d rather spend his free time on a green golf course than a red horse.

So, I re-evaluated and embraced the practicality of a small herd.

No matter the number of horses though, the barn maintains an Equal Equine Expectation policy. Good manners are a must – keep your feet, your head, and everything in between, in your own space – no crowding. Stand quietly at the gate, in the crossties, and at the mounting block.

Chicago should be able to walk around our backyard trail without dumping me in the dirt at the sound of a squirrel stashing acorns under a pile of dry leaves.

Rowdy has been strongly discouraged from making a mad dash into the pasture with a squeaker ball when the horses are galloping to the back of the paddock.

Mace and Fennel, not exempt from expected barn behaviors, are tasked with getting rid of rodents, and showing up at feeding time for a cursory checkup.

My own Code of Conduct includes measures to make sure these fabulous creatures entrusted to me have safe shelter, healthy food, quality vet care, individual attention, ample opportunity to exercise their bodies and their minds, plenty of treats, and to keep the cats’ water bowl clear of Rowdy slobber.

These are my expectations, not theirs. As head of my herd, I acknowledge the 4-leggeds as beings with brains and some degree of freedom to choose their actions, so I set these standards, present them clearly, offer gentle feedback and consistent reinforcement. In the event of the inevitable infringement, I engage in a bit of evaluation and reflection.

When my toes get stepped on, my space is invaded or my path is blocked by a big equine body, it’s likely not a personal slight. I need to consider the possibility that my request for a little room had not been received. Was he ready to listen? Did I have his attention? Was I clear in my communication? Was I mumbling, as George will tell you I’m often wont to do? Was I distracted by some random thought, a song on the radio, or a rowdy golden retriever?

When I come off the saddle and end up on the ground, was I paying attention to potential perils in the environment? Did I give cues to calm my anxious partner? Was I balanced myself, in a position to stay stable?

If Rowdy races after the horses, squeaker ball in full squeal, is it possibly a lack of planning on my part (there’s a reason for that leash hanging in the barn aisle) given his natural tendency to chase moving objects?

When Fennel doesn’t show up for a day (Mace has perfect attendance) maybe he’s out patrolling the perimeter, or otherwise engaged in the business of being a barn cat. Maybe he’s up in the hayloft sleeping off a chipmunk coma, or maybe he just doesn’t want to make an appearance. Some things just can’t be legislated, especially for cats.

We’re a low-key, laid-back sort of operation here at Four Sticks, a barn of rule followers and keepers of the peace. After years of education and experience we’ve evolved into a herd where everybody fits comfortably in their place, contributes to the common cause, cuts others some slack.

Unless you give a golden a squeaker ball.

Empathy.

Dirt

Stop by my house unannounced and unexpected, take a moment to look around and you’ll likely spot dust on the mantle, dog hair on the floor and, very probably, a dead box elder bug by the back door. Country livin’ at its’ finest.

Before we moved to Four Sticks Farm, George had started his own business, so we bought a small rambler in our hometown, with the understanding that after a couple of years to get established, we’d find a country place with land and room for horses.

Seven years later we found Four Sticks.

A house just big enough for the two of us, our three boisterous golden retrievers and one sweet little black lab named Dixie. The lot was heavily wooded, so we took much of two years to clear trees, move dirt, plant a pasture, and build a barn. I learned a lot about dirt during the process – who knew there is so much diversity in the world of soil? And you can believe we had the wrong kind in every spot.

So, we dug and scraped and hauled out and filled in and leveled up and tamped down. I use the term ”we” loosely, as there are people with powerful equipment who move dirt for a living. Thank God.

Twenty acres of mostly marsh land became my pastoral paradise. Dogs in the house, horses in the pasture, and cats anywhere in between.

Despite my repeated intention to keep barn shoes barn shoes, and other shoes not, most of my footwear eventually ends up with at least a bit of barn dirt stuck in the soles. And on more than one occasion I’ve crossed my legs at work and spotted specks of dried manure dotting the hemline. Barn jeans are barn jeans, good jeans are not. Sometimes.

No green thumb here, but I like the look of pots on the patio in the summer so have found a few independent varieties (shamrocks and succulents are my friends) that survive with minimal intervention and I plant a new perennial or two every year to add a little long-term interest. All of which means digging in the dirt, and because I find gardening gloves cumbersome, it’s often a deep dive with bare hands.

So, I have animal hair on my activewear, soil in my shoes, dirt under my fingernails, hay in my hair, and dust in my dining room – life when your backyard is a barnyard.

I think it keeps me healthy. I know it keeps me happy.

Dreams.

Chicago

Twenty-one years ago, I watched a little blonde girl take a riding lesson on a big red horse. She was cute, he was stunning.

Twenty years ago, that big, beautiful Paint, with a wide white blaze and 3 white stockings came to live with me.

Though not my first horse – props to Cloud, The Old White Pony – Chicago is my Heart Horse. Heart horse, not to be confused with Best horse.

When I brought him home, he was woefully skittish, I was blissfully ignorant. Chicago was young, living in a disquieting world full of alien threats, while I was middle-aged, living in an exhilarating world full of childhood dreams.

His reactive nature and my natural timidity mapped a course to certain calamity. He perfected a duck and spin move that left me dumped and supine, but a steady diet of prayer and perseverance kept us on track and off the injured list. We put in a lot of time building our respective Profiles in Courage.

Because we were both beginners, Chicago and I took lessons (Friday mornings at 9, for 10 years – the best hour of my week), attended training clinics and rode park trails with experienced friends.

We learned to get in and get out of a trailer, to appreciate unfamiliar environments, to walk through water, to halt on the word “whoa”; and that an instructor moving toward the center of the arena must be the universal sign for “Let’s stop and discuss”. Chicago never missed the opportunity for a rest break and made a beeline for the middle of the ring whenever he rounded a corner and spotted Dick standing at X.

“We” never learned to trust metal garbage cans, chain saws, stealthy cyclists, to canter on the left lead without bucking, or that an instructor saying “Nice!” does not actually translate to “exercise finished”. Chicago schooled under the principle that praise meant he had proven he can perform the requested exercise and had, therefore, been granted permission to dial down the activity and catch his breath.

Back in the beginning, those who knew better knew Chicago wasn’t the right horse for me. But I didn’t. So here we are, still standing, still together, 20 years later.

Some Heart Horses defy the natural assumption of selfless natures, willing to go the extra mile, give the last ounce, or guard their rider with their own lives. Some, like Chicago, dwell deeply in your heart because they challenge you. They make you think and try and work and cry and fall down and get up and think and try some more. They make you mad and sad and so damn happy.

At feeding time, they greet you with a loving nicker when you arrive on time, a reproachful whinny when you’re late.

They toss you in a moment of panic but balance on three legs while you fumble with a roll of flexible bandage on the fourth foot.

They come in off a grassy pasture to see you at the gate and they wait in the open stall door for a smooch on the muzzle before heading back out to that grassy pasture.

They move quietly out of your way when you set your finger on their chest, but they stand completely still when you rest your weight against their neck, working through the worries of your world. And when they know the time is right, they nudge, a firm but gentle nuzzle that assures you all will be well.

We schedule our social times around their farrier times. We make sure they have stall fans in the summer and bucket heaters in the winter. We sweat and we freeze while we spend hours in the barn, mucking those stalls, scrubbing those buckets, taking temperatures, listening for gut sounds, cleaning wounds, and soaking abscesses.

Because we love them. We are connected to them. At the heart.

Commitment.

Biskit

Prior to coming to Four Sticks Farm, Biskit was part of a neglected herd rescued by the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation. He was a demonstration horse at a fundraising clinic given by a local trainer and was standing quietly in a round pen when I walked into the barn. I stopped to get a closer look at the little yellow gelding, and when his soft baby browns met my gaze, there was no doubt that he would be joining Chicago and Rusty at Four Sticks Farm.

I regaled George with as many details of the event as a non-horsey husband can tolerate, ending with a suggestion of what he could get me for my birthday, which was on the following Friday. I told him about the pretty palomino. He told me he already had my birthday present. I picked up Biskit the following Saturday.

Whether a remnant of his sad past, or plain old gluttony, Biskit is always ready to belly up to the hay bale and reluctant to bid it farewell. During primo grazing season, when the paddock is open all day, he is loath to leave the opportunity to gorge on all that forage even for a drink of water or a turn in front of the big barn fan. He leaves his muzzle on low to mow a path to the next spot of greener grass.

I’ve tried to take advantage of that food focus by taking Chicago for a little exercise around the property while Biskit is stuffing his stomach, but he will eventually notice he’s the only pony on his side of the pasture rail and then he’ll panic, running the fence line, tail lifted, head high, calling for his friend. An impressive site, if you ignore the small mounds of manure dotting the alley as they drop from beneath that elevated tail.

Because he has an unspecified neurological issue that affects his balance, Biskit escaped riding duty, with an everlasting assignment as the barn buddy. He is a pasture pal. The support pony, he buys into his place in the herd, which is anywhere behind the polka-dotted butt of the big red horse he calls “Boss.”

What he’s never bought into is that Patience is a Virtue. He protests excessive time in the crossties, with impatient pawing, piles of poop, and puddles of pee in the barn aisle. Our good-natured farrier unpacks his superpowers of patience and proficiency to complete Biskit’s pedicure within the window of three-legged tolerance, finishing the job seconds before the pot-bellied pony snatches his hoof away in a most disrespectful display of gravitational insecurity.

But he is cute. More charming than churlish, Biskit is beloved by most who visit the barn. He’s a BFF to the Big Red Beast, cordial to the cats, and gracious to the golden with a squeaker ball. A birthday gift still giving after 14 years.

Blessings.

Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.

Barn Swallow Baby Blues

Life’s messy.

Sometimes the process of scrubbing, sweeping, and straightening up brings about a grand revelation, a new outlook, an expanded mind, a sense of growth, accomplishment, and/or satisfaction.

Sometimes the mess just needs to be cleaned up. Again.

Rowdy and I usually lose our summer battle with the barn swallows. I’ll think we’ve won the war, armed with his squeaker ball and my leaf blower, but then one particularly persistent pair manage to sneak in and build the nest of their dreams on the light fixture of the hay stall.

The hay cubicle and Biskit’s stall, directly across the aisle, seem to be the attractive neighborhood for avian mosquito monitors, possibly because they’re closest to the barn door, with quick, convenient access to the food source. Chicago’s stall is 10 feet further in, making for a longer, less desirable commute.

During peak season, I’ll sometimes raze the early construction effort above Biskit’s stall and get lulled into believing the demolition has discouraged further new home starts for the summer. But the single-minded barn swallows move in with stealthy silence, determined to pack their mud and feathers on the built-in brooder in my barn.

By the time I spot the finished product, I suspect there may well be eggs in it, and much as I despise the mess, the nuns of my childhood would haunt me forever if I deliberately destroyed a family’s home. So, I wait. I grit my teeth every time one of those birds taunts me with a flyover, convinced they choreograph their barn entries to coincide with my barn chores. As I clean stalls I feel the steely avian glare from the light bulb across the aisle, mocking my lapse of vigilance, declaring their victory.

I wait and watch as they swoop into the barn, crisscrossing just beyond the reach of my manure fork, Rowdy’s squeaker ball or Fennel’s finely honed claws.

About the time I’m convinced my new barn dwellers are actually empty nesters, I’ll hear the soft, steady peeping that is avian infants demanding dinner, and look up at a bunch of baby barn swallows stuffed in a pack of dried mud and feathers, warmed by the overhead light of my small hay stall. How they fit in that nest is a true miracle of nature. Perhaps their incessant squawking translates to “Tell him to stop touching me!” or “No fair, I always have to sit in the middle!” or “You always give her the best bugs”. Somehow, they manage to stay squished in their spots, no loss of life, no accidental over-edges.

The days drag on as the dung piles up. The swallows may be small, but their mess is mighty. Cue the big green tarps to save my hay storage space from weeks of guano, feathers and clots of mud displaced by growing hatchlings.

Finally, the family flies the coop in search of greener pastures, greater opportunity, or somebody else’s barn. I scrape and sweep for one last time and think about the persistence of these plucky little birds. Fiercely determined to build their home, they change their strategy, overcome their obstacles and in the end, accomplish their goal.

There’s a lesson there. Maybe not a grand revelation, but definitely an expansion of the mind – a reminder of the value of tolerance, an admiration for sticking to it, and an appreciation for the satisfaction of figuring things out.

If only they could figure out the housebreaking thing.

Lessons from Lily

For several years I worked with a program that partners with horses to offer physical, emotional, and mental health services to help people enhance and improve their lives. My friend Janet started Hold Your Horses with Lily, a Haflinger/Fjord mare whose sturdy conformation and solid disposition created the perfect foundation for a program that will, as of last weekend, carry on without its Princess Pony in the front paddock.

Lily was not my favorite horse in the barn (heart hug to the Tiny White Administrator), but I loved her. I had great respect for her work ethic, her sense of self and her sassafrass attitude.

Lily carried many of our most challenging clients with kindness and patience, even after she developed health issues of her own. Her devoted care team went to great lengths to make sure Lily lived the best life possible, and she did the same for her clients.

Lily was a true workhorse, but she was also a party animal. She donned costumes, loved little girls in pink, farted during therapy sessions and rocked a forelock beehive.

I have a picture of her in my family room, sitting on a shelf so that during my Mountain Pose I look directly at her face, peeking between the rails of her paddock, and think about what I learned from Lily.

Don’t be afraid. Of thunder booms or soap bubbles or boys in hotdog costumes.

Do your job. Even when your feet hurt.

Eat a healthy diet. But every once in a while, enjoy a little shugah.

Be you. That bristle-brush mane in a herd of silky-smooths is awesome. Believe that.

Surround yourself with a team you can trust, so when you absolutely, positively have to stop drop and roll to scratch that itch, you know they’ll have your back.

Contribute as much as you can whenever you can for as long as you can.

Do what needs to be done, but seize the occasional opportunity to pull free of that longe line and gallop to the far end of the pasture.

Bring joy. Find joy.

Love. Know that you are loved.

Be like Lily.

To learn more about Lily’s legacy, please check out www.holdyourhorses.org.

Mellowed with Age

In the laundry room, in a box, on a shelf, lies a bottle of merlot, set there by the resident pseudo-sommelier, with instructions to leave it undisturbed, allowing it to age to perfection.

That was more than 13 years ago.

In the barn, in the hayloft, on a bale, lies a testy tabby, settled there by his feisty feline self, with instructions to be left undisturbed, and no promise of mellowing with maturity.

That was also, more than 13 years ago.

Mace conducts his barn cat business with simple, straight-forward sensibility, and his 14 years of pest control service shatters the Four Sticks Feline Lifespan record. Runner-up Basil held her own around here long enough to endure her 12^th annual veterinary care visit, just days before she wandered off to disappear in the Great Beyond.

Basil and Mace both came from a boarding stable down the road, part of a long line of barn cats, born with the skills to stalk, stop and stifle rodents, birds, and trespassing felines. Both quiet and unassuming, Basil was shy but social, Mace is reclusive and reserved.

HIs classical tabby stripes and white accessories make Mace the handsomest cat to grace this place yet, though a few years of over-indulgence at the Purina Pub led to a period of cat-door navigation challenges, which led to a couple horizontal hairless strips that left no camouflage for his bulging belly.

And an abscess incident 3 years ago exposed his bare backside, shaved to the skin for deep debriding of inner muscle tissue, with a rubber drainage tube sewn in for added attraction, presenting a less than pretty picture.

That abscess surgery cost more than generally allowed by the Four Sticks Farm Financial Committee, particularly with his advanced age factored into the formula. But when the vet explained the work needed and the estimated expense, I said “Yes” without hesitation and without consulting George, who would’ve selected Option “No” to invasive surgery on an 11-year-old barn cat. Fortunately for all involved, George was absent that day, so was not consulted and was, therefore, outvoted 1 to 1.

Mace survived the surgery, recovered without incident and true to his self-sufficient nature, pulled out the drain tube himself, at just the right time. No unnecessary vet visits for this busy pest patroller.

Despite his good looks and admirable work ethic, Mace sits pretty far down the list of favorites at Four Sticks. The girls who came for Books in the Barn dubbed him Crabby Cat, a title justifiably bestowed and frequently validated. His limit for accepting affection was about .7 seconds, after which he’d hiss, growl, and scramble for release.

His chart at the clinic is red-flagged and during visits our veteran veterinarian, well-versed in the limited window of inoculation opportunity, gets straight to the tasks at hand and saves the small talk for later.

But old age has effected a reduction in the weight and a respite from the animosity. If I’m now in the barn for more than a brief Biskit/Chicago feed, body scan and manure pickup, and if neither Rowdy nor Fennel are in the vicinity to execute a full speed full body slam, old Mace will saunter over and wait patiently for me to sit on the hay pallet so he can climb on my lap, where he’ll sit for as long as I’ll dole out the love. In exchange he offers a barely-there purr, its potency possibly diminished by years of dormancy.

Only 14 years to mellow this cat. Might be time to check that conversion into wine years.

Cheers!

So I Rode

George was gone golfing so there would be no small engines ambushing around corners.

The temperature was moderate so there would be no sweaty streams snaking down my spine.

The wind was calm so there would be no forest gremlins blustering through the trees.

My truck was in the shop so there would be no convenient excuse to run errands on the To Do list.

There were no kids on dirt bikes across the field, no school busses on the roads, no garbage trucks or farm vehicles belching by on their appointed rounds.

So I rode.

The Tree Arch Bridge on the Very Scary Teeny Tiny Trail of Four Sticks Farm

There could be no fairer conditions for this fair-weather rider, no better opportunity to avoid many of the potentials for disaster wrought by scary, spooky, sudden sights, sounds, and specters, so for the first time in nearly a year, I psyched up, tacked up and mounted up on my big old painted pony.

The 2020 riding season was abbreviated by a First Ride fall that inflicted no physical damage, but left another ding on the confidence meter, which dropped riding Chicago to the bottom of the Pandemic Priority list.

Last summer’s adventure included a remarkable demonstration of the unspoken connection between horse and rider. I had just been thinking about how age and absence seemed to have left my seat conspicuously unbalanced in the saddle, and the thought had barely left my brain when Chicago decided to test the theory. It started with a crow, taloned prey in tow, lifting off our tiny, wooded trails, and ended with a striking aerial pas-de-deux, as Chicago copied the crow with his own version of airborne. Only while they both lifted up, I thudded down, on my propitiously padded back pockets.

As is our routine in this much-practiced performance, I stood, swore, and saddled up again, to finish our ride without incident. We had a couple more uneventful walks in the woods during the summer, but most of our time together after that included carrots and curry combs, farriers and fly spray, hay flakes and health care.

I’ve never been big in the brave department and in my Wisdom of Age file lies a thick folder of Chicago-caused confidence shakers. But my recent ride through the teeny tiny forest of Four Sticks Farm brought back memories more daring days. Reflection on our 20 years together reminds me that I’ve mustered up enough courage to persevere through a few problems, learn a few lessons and survived to tell the tale.

The truth is, I love that big red beast in my barn. A little look back at some of my long-ago posts will fill you in on a few of the less-than-stellar rides of our storied past. But you’ll also learn that Chicago has ponied children around the dusty arena and tolerated girls pressing painted hands on the coppery canvas of his ample girth. He’s allowed cats to wrap themselves around his legs, and kids to walk themselves under his belly. He’s ignored rowdy Rowdy’s attempts as self-appointed horse herder.

So, while I’m the one unceremoniously picking myself up, it’s not always him, sometimes it’s me, and most often, a little bit of both.

So, I’ll ride.