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.