Back on the Therapy Dog Track

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forward, Forward, Forward

During my many riding lessons with Chicago, an often-repeated directive from the Man With the Patience To Be My Instructor was “Forward, Forward, Forward.” Nine years since my last lesson I still hear his voice urging us to move onward with confident energy, even when I’m not riding and especially now as the new year unfolds with its changes, challenges and choices.

My 2025 intention is to make it a book and barn year – a return to the peace-keeping pastimes that help me navigate the nastiness of the noise and remember the serenity of the silence.

To that end, I just finished the first novel I’ve read in many months, and I’m facilitating a few interspecies interventions down in the barn so I can spend more quiet time in the company of all my favorite four-leggeds.

We successfully survived the inaugural occurrence of the Four Sticks Farm Freestyle Equine-Canine mixer, a spontaneous event that occurred last weekend after snow shoveling but before lunch chores, when I decided to clean up the shelter while Chicago, Moe, Rowdy and Ruffian were all in attendance, unhaltered and unleashed. They were unrestrained and maybe I was unhinged, but it seemed like time to move onward with confident energy.

I hoped.

Chicago and Moe have developed a system of determining the “Best if eaten by” date for their hay, only it’s measured in hours. They sort through the flakes, select the choice pieces and stems, then scatter the sizable remainder across the length of the shelter, where it will be trod upon, pooped over, and occasionally peed on, by a certain one-eyed Walking Horse.

However, if I rake up the remnants, load them in the wheelbarrow and slip/slide my way out to the pasture, they will eventually make their way to the scrap pile and finish the forage.

Usually, I get this done while they’re in their stalls enjoying their lunchtime snack-and-snooze. I move the spurned but still-good hay, sweep the shelter and put a couple small fresh flakes on a clean surface for their dining pleasure.

They have trained me well.

But on Saturday, I had a little unscheduled time, the goldens were relatively relaxed from an hour of running and rutting through snow piles, and the horses were serenely snuffling around the backside of the barn. It seemed the god of opportunity had presented an opening to run the experiment of testing the group’s ability to play nicely when allowed total access to the same playground – a free-for-all that could end in either disaster or delight, but I opted to give it go.

Forward, forward, forward.

Moe only pinned his ears and snaked his head at the dogs a couple times, Chicago only once lowered his head with a slight snort, Rowdy only made a single semi-move toward Moe before recognizing just how badly that might end, and sweet, slow-processing Ruffian only offered 3 or 4 play bows with 3 or 4 demanding barks, then realized none of the others wanted to join in any retriever games.

So, he switched to single-player mode and galloped giant, gleeful figure-8’s through the pasture, under the barn rope, around the barn aisle, up and off the bales stacked in the hay stall.

Chicago, Moe and Rowdy stood by the barn door, uninterested and unimpressed as Ruff ran maniacal loops with joyful abandon, eventually skidding to a stop with his tongue lolling out the side of his goofy golden grin.

No animals were harmed in the process, and we made a little progress toward peace.

Forward, forward, forward.

In a crazy figure-8ish sort of way.

It’s a Wonderful Life – 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is strength in the circle of siblings

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

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

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

Babies are the best medicine. So are puppies

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

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

It is still a beautiful world

Wishing you a happy, healthy 2025

Grateful for Good Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is still a beautiful world.

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

Happy Thanksgiving!

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