Life seems paused, in a bit of a hold Some things shifting to new from the old Thinking and waiting, anticipating Little changes, but nothing too bold
Daily temps rise to early-spring warm We’ve survived the first seasonal storm The horses, they nibble On the sprouting green kibble We all dream of the future new norm
Summer birds have begun to arrive They roost and they sing, soar and dive Wrens swipe bluebird houses And hawks drop dead mouses And the concerts start promptly at five
Some more free time means now I can go Spend more time with Chicago and Moe We can walk through the trails Brush their manes and their tails Feel the peace, take our time, nice and slow
In the barn Fennel’s still our sole cat He hunts, but it sadly seems that The rodents look yummy But they upset his tummy So he pukes on the barn aisle mat
I finally got off of my duff Started taking some classes with Ruff He gets scared in strange places But in most of the cases Settles down once he’s been there enough
On the job Rowdy seems a bit tired Not suggesting he needs to be fired But the time may be near That Ruff conquers his fear Is ready to work, and gets hired
To be sure, it’s a season for change Fluctuation that feels a bit strange But I’ll try to stay quiet Be hard but I’ll try it Not to push or to force or arrange
No plotting or planning or mappin’ No pressure, but maybe some nappin’ Try to go with the flow To really let go To be open to all that might happen
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.
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.
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.
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.
Work in progress
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.
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.
Maxine memories
Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 3 Obedience night He did pretty well The lessons, it seems Are starting to gel.
Smarty pup
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.
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.
The new guys
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
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.
Memorial Day weekend officially ushers us into the unofficial start of summer – we’re now looking at leafed out elms, oaks and maples, flower-blossomed apple trees and lilac bushes, lawns that need mowing, pastures that need grazing.
Chicago and Moe enjoyed an all-time early all-access pass to the pasture, and three weeks into it, their manure and their movement have maintained production standards in quality and quantity, and they’ve demonstrated a willingness to leave the lushness for an occasional break by the barn. The trifecta.
Free admittance to a grassy paddock encourages them to get moving as they find favored grazing spots, though this first time through the rotation offers an overwhelming selection at the All You Can Eat buffet, and they mostly Goldilocks their way through, taste-testing and sampling in search of the just-right forage.
They circle around the field, sometimes, but not always sharing a section, then strolling off to the next best spot.
Moe’s the more likely to head back to the shelter for a bug break, augmented by his aversion to the sound of a spray bottle, even when used to spritz a washcloth with equine insecticide. He now tolerates a roll-on applicator, but his future includes a few counseling sessions to convince him that fly spray is his friend.
Chicago will wander up for water at a leisurely pace but when the buzzing gets the best of him, waves his white flag with a big buck and good gallop off the grass and to the barn.
At some point during the day, Manager Moe will don his Health & Wellness mantle and guide Chicago to the gravel alley that borders the pasture, making him work more than his mandible as they put in a few laps around the dry lot. The submissive sorrel calmly complies, ambling along until the palomino pressure subsides, allowing him to return to roaming freely about the pasture.
It wouldn’t be summer without at least one pair of barn swallows battling for space in the barn, and last week introduced a pair that seemed bigger, more defensive, and less inclined to leave the premises than combatants of the past. I employed my most historically effective eviction strategies – leaf blower, hand clapping, maniacal shouting of uncensored strings of profanity, frantic antics of a maniacal golden retriever with shrilly squeaking yellow ball.
But the only animal affected was Moe, who backed away from his night hay to ponder the possibility of an annulment of his adoption agreement with the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation.
After watching the swallows finally swoop down and fly up into the wild blue yonder, I implemented a closed-door policy, which keeps the barn balmy but bird-free.
Slacker Ruffian has yet to complete the “Barn Swallow Banishment” course and has limited barn privileges but is allowed supervised visits during chore time. He’s fascinated with the horses, wavering between fright, flight, freeze or tease, once offering a big play bow and a bark, which was, fortunately for all, completely ignored by both Chicago and Moe.
He’ll chase the cats if they deign to make an appearance, which Fennel will not, but if Mace shows up, he holds his ground with the haughty disinterest one would expect from an 18-year-old barn cat. He doesn’t engage and Ruffian doesn’t take it personally.
Luckily for those of us who share airspace with him, Ruff’s appetite for horse manure has waned, replaced by a desire for bits of the ration-balancer pellets littering the stall floors, which are less putridly processed in his g-i tract.
Full disclosure: while Ruffian now seems disinterested in eating horse manure, he recently discovered the joy of rolling in it. By chance, the Four Sticks Farm grooming shop had an immediate opening, so his delight and the smelly green spots were short-lived.
Baths bring no joy in Manureville – reeky Ruffian sulked in the tub while I soaped, scrubbed, toweled and fluff-dried; and though I’d love to believe he will remember the consequences of this action, I’m pretty sure it’s on his list of “Lessons Learned” printed with the same invisible ink as “Remember what discomfort comes with tossing back a throw rug”.
Aah, the smells of summer. Fresh cut grass, budding lilac bushes, blossoming apple trees.
A friend loaned me a book at the end of March, and I planned to read it before I next see her at the beginning of May.
“Plan” is a word I’ve learned to use lightly, as some stronger lifeforce likes to play with the power of the plot twist.
My road to reading time, paved with good intention, is often detoured by a host of omnipresent obstacles. Barn work, housework, yard work, work work, family events and adventures, text conversations about family events and adventures, phone calls about family events and adventures, dog walking, horse grooming, cat coddling and blog post writing, act as roadblocks to my books.
But Sunday’s rainy weather proved to be a perfect indoor-recess kind of day – finally, a day for doing nothing but getting lost in another time, another world.
Morning chores were completed under cloudy skies with cool temps and fine rain falling. Chicago and Moe stood in the mist long enough to be wet enough to remove “Brush horses” from the day’s To Do list, so they came in the barn for a long, leisurely lunch.
Rowdy and Ruff were still recovering from two days of rabblerousing with Remi during a cousin dog sleepover, which allowed us to skip a cold walk on a muddy trail without threat of any rambunctious ramifications.
So, prop up the pillows and open up the book! However, the view from my couch was one of copious clumps of Ruffian fluff covering the front of every furnace vent, clustered in every corner and collected under every piece of furniture.
Ruff is our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, dropping strands of silky white hair with any and all movement – sit, stand, lie down, get up, walk, run or jump on the window seat in the back entry. A full body shake brings me near to tears.
But before the Swiffer® sheet comes out, the Bona® wet mop must sop up the splotches of slobber slopped across the hardwood.
Ruffian slurps from the water dish in staccato swipes of the tongue, leaving the surrounding area splashed with spots flicked from his mouth, but Rowdy drops saliva in the bowl as he gulps water out, then dumps a trail out the door as strings of slippery spit stretch to the tile.
We keep a bleached-out beach towel on the bathroom doorknob to wipe his chin when we catch him and swab the floor when we don’t, and because he so often bellies up to the water bowl saloon, there’s a whole lotta wipin’ goin’ on.
Rowdy is also a distracted drinker. When I hear the familiar gulp-gulp-gulp-pause-gulp-gulp-gulp, I sneak in and stand in silent stillness until the last gulp goes down, because if his spidey-sense detects my presence, he’ll turn his head mid-guzzle, dump a pool of slobber on the floor and splatter the wall with a shake of his juicy jowls.
Practice has polished my mop and dust process though, so I quickly cleaned the floor and mentally cleared the remainder of the day for nothing but a book and a beverage.
I opened my book to page 38.
Ninety minutes later I opened my eyes to page 41.
And 2 dogs willing me to get their supper.
And 2 horses calling me to let them out.
At this pace, I’ll finish the book for my friend’s New Years visit.
From Four Sticks Farm 