Relationship Rehabs

A new pooch in the pack, a new horse in the herd, new routines to design, and new relationships to develop.

Ruffian is settling in, his adolescent enthusiasm a little less frenzied, a little more responsive to requests for awareness of the rest of us. He’s dialed back the desire for thrashing throw rugs, battering dog beds and running the ottoman obstacle course, but retains an irresistible delight for life that inspires great joy.

Though I cut some slack for the unknowns of his Before Life, Ruff’s a quick study. He’s figured out that sitting or lying down are solid choices during those awkward pauses when he’s been told to do something but wasn’t actually ready to listen.

He understands that the good chews are given out just before I head to the barn for night check, and if I forget, he only needs to sit straight and stare intensely to bore the reminder into my brain.

He knows to eat only from his own dish, and that the chewing of dog beds is frowned upon in this establishment, though that last one is still on his list of 4th quarter goals.

Rowdy, Ruff and I walk most afternoons, practicing and progressing as a mobile unit; Ruff in his harness, Rowdy in his head collar, picking their positions and staying put. Kind of. Ruffian continues crisscrossing and zigzagging, thus tangling leashes and tripping Lisa, but with a little less frequency, so my shoulder now stays firmly in its socket, though the left Deltoid may be slightly over developed.

Ruff still spooks some on the trails – other hikers, horses and their riders, squirrels scrambling up trees, acorns falling down, deer leaping deftly, leaves drifting lazily may all cause a momentary pause in forward progress. We stop, look, listen, loosen the leash, and wait until he determines we may safely proceed, and move on.

While we’re at a standstill, I study that remarkably sweet face surveying his surroundings and wonder, again, what happened to him. Is he listening for the sound of a familiar voice? Scenting for the smell of someone he knew? Mentally mapping our course so he can find his way back? It saddens me enough to stand quietly for a few seconds while he thinks his dog thoughts. For the first 5 or 6 stops anyway.

Down in the barn, Moe moved in, Chicago moved over, and the herd moved back to equilibrium.

Moe is missing one eye, but his calm demeanor and everyone else’s mindfulness of the restricted vision made for a smooth transition.

He conquered his suspicion of the automatic water bowl within minutes, and by the end of our first afternoon trusted me as a reliable source of raspberry horse snacks and reassuring neck scratches.

We’ve learned to walk together, he’s comfortable in the crossties, and we’re getting to know the choice grooming spots. He’s ok in his stall but prefers the wide-open space of the pasture and has singled out a section with plants he particularly enjoys.

Chicago and Moe have settled into a generally accepted equine routine, Moe plays Goldilocks in the cottage that is our run-in shelter, checking each feeding station for the hay he finds Just Right, while Chicago waits. Given that the Big Red Beast has had first pick of the porridge for the last 7 years, this makes my heart hurt a bit, but it’s standard operating procedure for the horses, and it only takes Moe a minute to make his choice, then Chicago moves to one of the other spots so all may live happily ever after.

Much as I enjoy a formal training class, my schooling style has morphed into a more prosaic approach. Core principles of safety, civility and citizenship are presented in a conversational tone – a hand raised casually with a “Give me a sec” gesture, translates in Ruffianspeak to “Wait until I get to the top of the landing, the bottom of the stairs, or on the other side of the threshold.”

A single tasty golf shoe is eagerly swapped for three pieces of tastier dog kibble.

A hand on Moe’s left hip as he walks enters his stall means “Continue walking until all 4 feet have cleared the door.”

I set up the bumpers of consistent, persistent guidance and we bounce down the Alley of Acceptable Actions. It’s shaky for a second, but solid for a lifetime, as we build the bonds of time and patience and practice and trust.

We’re creating the rhythm of routine in established relationships, the comfort of the counted-on response, the presuppositions of partnership, which help me recognize the “Was this really necessary?” expression on Rowdy’s face when it’s time to negotiate a Ruffian respite, and prompt me to keep a couple extra cookies in my pocket to occupy Chicago while Moe cherry picks for the choice pile.

I’m learning to communicate clearly and calmly, to celebrate the desired behavior and ignore the undesired if it presents no danger to self, others, or material possessions that matter.

I’m looking for peace and coexistence vs power and control.

And a bulk discount on dog beds.

Halloween

Two barn cats, but neither is black
Prowl around but are easy to track
They spend much of the day
Hiding out in the hay
But will always appear for a snack.

Ruff and Rowdy will work for a treat
Ask reward and then rinse and repeat
There’s no need to get ghoulish
When Ruffian acts foolish
He’s still learning, and really quite sweet.

He’s not brave so Chicago can’t boast
Many fears does this handsome horse host
He’s a little bit spooky
And can get kind of kooky
When he sees what he’s sure is a ghost.

Halloween brings no cause for alarm
An eerie sort of holiday charm
Scary sounds in the dark
Owls hoot and dogs bark
But peace surrounds us at Four Sticks Farm.

Places

Just over a month since Ruffian joined the pack at Four Sticks Farm, and we’re starting to widen his world.

An energetic extrovert at home, which is his safe spot, Ruff gets a smidgeon shy and skittish in unfamiliar spaces, so I stay mindful of the fact that he’s still a pup with a mystery history and there is work to be done.

Obedience 101 is an exercise in confidence construction. Last week he willingly hopped out of the truck upon arrival, unlike our debut performance, which involved the instructor and I hefting his portable kennel on to the parking lot, a little dragging, and a lot of treats to convince him to leave at safety of the 24 x 38 nylon doggie den. Talk about impressive first impressions.

Our Tuesday night class includes five assorted mixes, another golden retriever, a black Labrador about the same size as my rambunctious rogue, and a mammoth merry Muppet of a doodle dog named Harvey, who will definitely be the pick to plan the graduation party.

Ruffian is interested in the activities, and curious about his classmates, but sometimes opts to tuck himself between my knees to simply survey the situation. He’s learning to focus and has mustered the courage to cross over a tiny teeter-totter, step on a mini-trampoline and climb up and down a little ramp.

He’s happy to be there but happy to leave, leaping into his crate as soon as the tailgate lifts to minimum clearance. Tuesday nights are solid sleep nights.

We took our first walk in the park which turned out to be a walk in the park, strolling for 30 minutes with George and Rowdy, on paved trails in a quiet park on a cool cloudy day. Bolstered by the successful maiden voyage, I’ve now repeated the trip four times by myself with both dogs. Successfully. Mostly.

The third outing provided an educational opportunity, thanks to (a term I use very loosely) a heart-stopping moment when both dogs managed the exceptionally unlikely feat of rubbing open the clips on their Gentle Leaders®, allowing them to slide not only off their noses, but also off their necks, leaving them free to roam about the countryside.

I watched Ruffian raise his head, sniff the air, and slowly start to trot. Away. He glanced at me when I spoke his name but continued to move in a direction not toward me. Recognizing this as a call for critical management skills, in which I am neither practiced nor proficient, I stifled the panic and conjured up my A-game Happy Voice, called him as I raised my arms in the universal dog handler sign for “Woo-hoo! How much fun is this game?!!!” and watched him run right to me. Right into my relieved, grateful arms that gathered his sixty pounds in a vise grip, as my thumb slid under his buckle collar for reinforcement.

Ruff stood calmly as I secured the head collar and turned to do the same for Rowdy, the greatest dog in the whole wide world, who had been standing patiently by my side through the whole ordeal.

The rest of the walk was blissfully uneventful, though Ruff did eventually leave a mushy pile of stress relief in the pine trees that edge the trail.

It took an hour for my knees to shop shaking, but The Houdini Hounds incident transpired in fewer minutes than it took me to type the last four paragraphs, and twenty-four hours of reflection resulted in the revelation that Ruffian was not really running from me, just trying to remove an irritant from his nose.

I had him on the head collar because I had assumed he’d pull me down the trail like all the goldens who’ve come before him, but I was wrong. I switched to a martingale collar that proved comfortable for both of us, and we now work our way through the trail sans pulling, partnership secure.

Ruffian’s oafish charm, his enthusiastic embrace of the world around him, and his willingness to accept direction from the two-leggeds for as little as a “Good boy!”, a shoulder rub or an ice cube (he perfected his sit during Happy Hour) earned him a permanent place in my heart, but he and Rowdy are still sorting out their spots in the pack.

Ruff tries tirelessly to befriend, only to be rebuffed by a reluctant Rowdy whose responses range from a sneer with curled lip to a lunge with bared teeth to a snub with closed eyes, lying on the floor sending a prayer to the Gods of Unrequested Roommates, pleading for an end to this nightmare.

As a last-ditch effort to encourage the Happy Hooligan to join his play party, Ruffian will find a rug to drag, drub and drop, leaving a heap of machine washable microfiber anywhere but where it’s supposed to be, after easing his frustration with several substantial shakes.

Though reticent to assume the role of Lead Dog, Rowdy seems set on playing the part of Canine Conduct Controller, sidling up with side-eyed disapproval whenever Ruff engages in any activity considered unacceptable, generally an accurate assessment.

But because his motives are mostly about making friends not mayhem, and because his attention span is still puppy-short, my oft-employed tactic of taking neither notice nor action works as a cease-and-desist order in the world of Ruffian, and no matter the mischief in which he’s currently engaged, he’ll momentarily move on to his next happy place.

Despite the canine cold shoulder, Ruffian’s persistence to win Rowdy’s friendship secures him just enough reinforcement to find comfort and confidence in the presence of his crabby compadre. I’m sure it was the absence of Rowdy that kept Ruff glued to his crate at class, and the presence of Rowdy that kept Ruff with us at the park.

We’ve all got our parts to play, and we’re working our ways to relegation of roles – leading, following, getting out of the way.

Ruffian’s in charge of floor covering configuration.

Back to School

Back to School
On the first Tuesday of the month, new blue backpack loaded with the required supplies – water bowl, lint rollers, slobber towels, canine breath freshener and a bag of Newman’s Own Peanut Butter Dog Biscuits, the Happy Hooligan hopped into the silver SUV that serves as his school bus and headed off on a new adventure.

I work at a school in an adolescent residential care & treatment facility and am delighted to have a new officemate this year. Two weeks of perfect attendance in the books and Rowdy’s earned passing grades for his work as Start of the Morning Greeter and Study Hall Monitor, providing a cheerful calming presence that helps students navigate some of the rough spots.

After happy hellos for all his friends, he relaxes in my office until Periods 3 and 5, when he wanders around the library during Study Hall, accepting ear scratches, belly rubs, back massages, and whispered words of affection in return for tail wags and pooch smooches, with a new-found fancy for the flavor of hands steeped in Fruit Loops with a smattering of #2 pencil. He seems to sense when someone needs a little extra canine composure and settles in while they settle down.

A few of the students consistently engage in a ceaseless stream of adolescent chatter, to which Rowdy remains oblivious. He hangs with them for a while, then heads off to sit by someone else. Nothing personal, no judgement, just doing his job. From his example I am learning to take things in stride, stay neutral, and tolerate the constant, low-volume clamor that translates to white noise in teenage brains. In some cases, it seems the mumbled recitation of rap song lyrics actually motivates completion of a couple math worksheets. It’s no Barry Manilow, but the times they have a-changed.

After our short drive home, my golden guru generally clocks back in for a bit, to school the rambunctious rogue that is his roommate. Ruffian, the golden-hearted galoot, embodiment of enthusiastic charm covered in a creamy white coat, spooks at random, real-life objects, so in tandem with encouraging words from me, Rowdy works him past the trepidation. To date we’ve conquered a doorstop, the tv remote, and a water bucket disguised as a plastic ice cream pail, but the Swiffer® sweeper remains securely posted on the Silent but Scary list.

Neither has made peace with the vacuum cleaner, fundamentally frightening to all my goldens, so on that front they’ve bonded as allies in apprehension.

Ruff retains the title of Class Clown, with recess as his favorite subject but Rowdy endures the juvenile hijinks with remarkable patience. He’ll occasionally take Ruffian to task with a series of snarly barks, to which Ruff responds with an ebullient play-bow, followed by a series of leaps, spins and airs above the ground that would make a dressage horse proud and leave me with supple-spine envy.

Their relationship has passed the point of potential bloodshed or broken bones, so I’ve resigned my position as everlasting referee and learned to let them negotiate their own conflict resolutions unless lamps or limbs are threatened.

Elsewhere on the education front, about the time this post is published, Ruffian and I will be lining up, the behemoth in the back row of the class picture, as we begin our foray into formal training. Though older than the customary Obedience 1 enrollee, we’re starting with the basics to build a solid base and since he’s a quick study, I expect Ruff will sail through and soon be sitting, staying, and heeling on an acceptably loose leash.

Bonus points if he masters enough manners to dismiss from his playful puppy mind the delusions that climbing onto guests’ laps or ever-so-gently holding a human forearm in his mouth are included in the Solid Citizen Canine curriculum.

So, we’re back to, or better yet, still in school. Tolerating and teaching, leaping and learning, growling and growing, finding our way beyond the ABCs to peaceful co-existence.

With a little luck and plenty of perseverance, maybe even floor-cleaning tool toleration.

Ready for Ruffian

Among the constants on my Facebook feed are the postings of the “Lost Dogs MN” page, which feature notices of dogs lost or found around the state. Mostly I glance and scroll, but occasionally I drop down the rabbit hole, lured by a sad-eyed pup or a comment that makes me hope to read a “Reunited” announcement.

In early August I stopped on a post, studied the face of a bald-faced cream-colored golden retriever, and told George this dog may be the next new animal at Four Sticks Farm – strictly a courtesy comment because in matters like this George is nearly always out-voted 1 to 1.

Not that I was in the market for an additional dog. In fact, at the end of July, a mere one week prior, I’d been marveling at the ease and fun of life with Rowdy – how readily he responds to a remarkable number of words, spoken in a civilized, conversational tone, how he can be trusted in the house when home alone, how I can take him out in the yard without worry that he’ll run off, except for the occasional doe sighting, but he’s no match for deer and never gets to the pasture fence before the white tails have high-tailed into the cattails, at which point he executes an abrupt and immediate about-face and returns to me, out of breath but full of joy.

But sometimes, the universe, algorithms and the power of pet rescue groups exert a force the magnets of our hearts cannot repel. I lasted 2 days before contacting the animal control officer regarding the homeless hound, waited out the 5-day stray period (extended in his case to allow for extensive veterinary treatment) started the adoption process on Day 9, and brought him home when his vet care was completed, 18 days after seeing the fateful Facebook feed.

Ruffian (Ruff, Ruffles, Ruffino, Ruffinstuff, Ruffington, Ruffleupagus, or McRuff) met Rowdy, moved in, and made himself part of the pack. He’s sweet, sociable, charming, and compliant. A quick learner and a lover of ice cubes, he responded to his new name within 24 hours and recognized the sound of the freezer drawer sliding open within 48.

He takes his medicine, sits for treats, waits for his food, and chills in his crate. He did walk into a pane of glass next to the open front door, but I’m giving him a one-time pass on that one as the windows had just been professionally cleaned.

For an animal apparently abandoned in an uninhabited area of a wildlife refuge, he is admirably friendly and trusting – when spooked, which has been only by the sudden appearance of a couple scary objects (including the Swiffer sweeper, which even Rowdy still eyes with some suspicion) he’s quickly and willingly worked his way to acceptance with a few encouraging words.

Ruff’s outside time is spent on the deck and in the dog yard, where he finds twigs, wood chips and an assortment of herbs in the cedar planter, for taste testing, which may be a remnant of foraging at the refuge since he shows no inclination for chewing anything but his food, his toys, and small chunks of frozen water while in the house.

The hair on his many shaved areas (treatment for skin infections) is growing back, the muscle on his midsection is filling in, and the kennel cough is calming down. We will eventually start training classes and trail hikes, but for the next couple weeks, we’ll focus on recovery and relationships.

Rowdy is working to concede his only-dog status, handling the new guy with grace. His minimal growling is kept to an appropriate and generally acceptable level. Mostly, the quiet grumbles rumble when Ruff tries to worm his way between Rowdy and me, or between Rowdy and his beloved Big Guy, but Ruff’s response is always one of affable acquiescence. No offense taken, he offers a play bow, grins with his big pink tongue lolling out to one side and moves on.

Biskit and Chicago remain objects of fascination observed from the distance of the deck, and the cats have made themselves scarce around the house, conducting their surveillance under cover of the daylilies by the barn. Mace is too old to care about another galoot of a golden retriever, but I suspect Fennel will stow himself safely in the soffits when Ruff earns his all-access pass around the property.

So ready or not, we’re doing the dog adoption thing. And we’re ready. All of us.

Except the timid tabby at the top of the hayloft ladder.

Zowie

Zounds and gadzooks, I did it. One year ago, I committed to publish an original blog post on alternate Tuesdays, following the alphabet on a tour of topics.

And I did it.

Once or twice, it was right under the wire, but I did it. On time and to the letter. Yee haw!

As part of the process, I experimented with writing style – lists, poems, plain old prose; I relaxed the reins of composition control, conceding to a muse that sometimes detoured my words from their original destination; and I finally figured out that formatting pictures is not my forte’ – tutorials have been added to the list of next year’s To Be Done.

One of my motivations was to speed up the composition process through consistent practice, and while the words now come a little faster when I sit at the keyboard, I still don’t sit at the keyboard as often as anticipated. But I make it happen at least a few days every week, and that’s enough of a pattern to continue with a promise of improvement, so I’ll keep to the rhythm of the current routine – every other Tuesday.

My personal microcosmic zoological garden provides plenty of material for reflection and reportage as creatures pop in, pop up, and pop out.

Like the three big rats that once rode in on a hay wagon, to be swiftly and singlehandedly dispatched by Mace, the tenacious tabby. #barncatsrule

Or the several black snakes that slithered under the concrete apron of the barn door, but fortunately found more acceptable accommodations elsewhere. #wewillallbehappierifyouaresomewhereelse

Or the occasional skunk that sporadically wanders through the property, evidenced only by a telltale aromatic trail. #p.u.

And the 2023 Monarch Mission, likely to expand in 2024, though hopefully to a new location on the property. I’m all in on perpetuating the pollinators but prefer my front porch to be more of a peaceful place to sit and less of a middle school science lab. #caterpillarspoopalot

Over the year, a few issues and ideas floated through as Maybe musings, but because they didn’t fit the Letter of the Week, I squirreled them away for future posts, with mental notes or old-school scribbles on scraps of paper.

I’ll probably post updates on my (very) recently started Front Trail Project, a nebulous, open-ended plan to create a visibly pleasing, natural park-like area for sitting, strolling, riding, ruminating, chasing chipmunks and watching the world go by. This new development makes George kind of sad despite my insistence that it will not add a single solitary task to his regular maintenance duty roster. I’ll only need his help for the occasional heavy lifting. I think.

Living with animals offers ample opportunities for adventure, adversity, frustration, fun, labor, and laughter – plenty of fodder for blog post ponderings.

Of course, most of my inspiration will continue to come from the soul of Four Sticks Farm – Biskit, Chicago, Fennel, Mace and Rowdy, who bring the chaos and calm, the dirt and delight, the worry and wonder, that fill my heart with gratitude and joy. They make my home my happy place. #staytuned

Zen

Youth

I’ve recently been obsessed with a home office reorganization which unearthed unusable pens, unfiled papers, and unframed photographs. The pens got tossed and the papers got filed, but the photos are still not framed, just moved to the big pink box in the guest room closet that doubles as my storage space.

Before closing the lid though, I studied the images, many, most, all of them snapshots of my animals in their younger years. My stroll down Memory Lane brought back the beginnings – of bringing home the big red beast and my palomino birthday present.

I was reminded of a rambunctious retriever who would, I was convinced, grow to be an ironic twist of his name, and I remembered barn kittens braving whole new worlds of horse hooves and hay bales.

I was struck, and honestly, a little saddened, by how, back in the day, we were markedly brighter eyed, fresher faced and shinier coated. And thinner.

We’re all maturing mostly gracefully. I don’t sling 50-pound feed sacks over my shoulder these days, but that works out with the current corporate trend of downsized kibble bags; and a bucket full of manure doesn’t go up and over the bunker wall as easily as it once did, but smaller loads in two trips get the job done with a few more steps for the Fitbit.

Rowdy, the pup who gleefully vaulted off the retaining wall and out of the hostas to run laps around the dog yard, now ambles in to, and out of the Explorer with the help of a foldup ramp, silencing the telltale “hrmmph” of sore joints when he lands on solid ground. But once we hit the trail, he’s all in on the reconnaissance mission, leaving little slack on the leash as he stops, looks, listens, and sniffs for creatures of interest, past and present.

Meanwhile, the new ramp routine allows me to mark off a minute or two of interval training, as I lift and bend, fold and unfold the fifteen pounds of cumbersome molded plastic.

Easy keepers Biskit and Chicago maintain their gelding figures with minimal effort, though the long stems of hay harvested early in the season now wreak a little havoc with their old intestines, so we wait for later cuttings and supplement with softer hay cubes.

Super senior Mace manages to show up first in line for Mess Hall opening, wobbling on a weakening hind end now aligned slightly left of the front. He’s taken to waiting on the rug at the tack room door or on his bed in the barn shop, having recently waved the white flag at the hayloft ladder, but the old brown tabby rarely misses one of his many mini meals.

Fennel, the freshest face on the farm and the only Four Sticks 4-legged not yet supplemented with some form of arthritis assistance, is getting older like the rest of us, having abandoned the grasshopper pursuits of his kittenhood for the grownup work of real rodent eradication, spending off-duty hours in Goldilocks fashion, lounging on whichever of the 3 hay stacks he finds Just Right.

We accept the realities of aging. We adapt, we adjust, we appreciate.

And we anticipate that someday, for real, “Rowdy” will be an ironic twist.

Yielding

eXceptions

Because I own neither an x-ray machine nor a xylophone, this post will deviate slightly from the norm and go with sound over spelling for its subject – a one-time exemption from the rule.

Sharing space with pets mandates rules and routines, some semblance of a schedule, but here at Four Sticks Farm our timetable is built with a bit of flexibility, to foster reassurance yet recognize real life.

The horses come into their stalls for a 4-hour snack-and-snooze at about noon, except when a big event interferes, in which case they eat their supplements al fresco, under the barn shelter, with an extended pasture period to compensate for the loss of naptime in front of a fan.

When we hike, I let Rowdy stop and smell the roses, the dandelions, the tall grasses and the tree trunks, until we’re swarmed by biting bugs and Fitbit announces we’re on pace to complete a 60 minute mile, at which time the Happy Hooligan has to pick up his nose, put down his leg, and deal with the fact that he does not, in fact, get to claim every shrub and sapling within the park perimeter.

Fennel and Mace get to graze from their dishes in the shop at their leisure, except during the implementation of Operation Raccoon Raid Resistance, at which time chow is available only in the presence of authorized personnel.

We all adjust, for the good of the order.

A recent vacation reminded me that airports are full of exceptions to my way of thinking – the contemporary dress code that accepts some pretty remarkable anatomy exposure (I guess when the top is that tight you don’t actually need a bra), the modern mode of speakerphone and videochat (I wonder if Paula picked the muted floral bedspread or the gingham reversible comforter set), and the assumption that a stranger will give up their aisle seat for your middle seat so you can sit by your child, which happened on two of my four flights, once to me, once to a guy who ended up in the middle seat next to me.

In my case, the woman had already made my decision and was comfortably settled in my aisle seat before I got to it, smiling cheerfully as she pointed to her ticketed spot in the middle of the row across. I agreed to the trade without complaint, not because I’m such a swell person, but because I’d rather squish between two grownups than stretch my legs next to a child animatedly piloting Mario and his kart.

Plus, it was a short flight.

It all reminded me that there are lots of ways to live a life, and most are manageable for the rest of us when we practice patience and bring a good book.

Rule-following is rooted deep in my core, cultivated by catholic school and cautious introversion and I find comfort in the security of the structure.

But animals and age bring acceptance of the occasional anomaly, challenges to the status quo. Exceptions to the rule offer an opportunity to review long-held beliefs, practices, and systems, which may remind of original intent, renew commitment, and reinforce behavior. Or they may serve as motivation to refresh, to acknowledge that changing the routine can change the perspective, which can change the mind, which can be enlightening. Or fun. Or at least bearable.

Unless we’re talking deerflies and mosquitoes in the woods on a humid day.

eXamine

*Beauty all around*
*when you look for it*

Visitors

Once upon a weekend, two hungry tabby cats and their sleepy-eyed caretaker entered the barn shop for breakfast. Imagine their surprise at seeing the chow container on its side, the lid lying several feet to the left, the scoop sitting several feet to the right. The water bowl stood upright but nearly empty, its contents covering the surrounding floor.

Due to an unfortunate, though not necessarily uncommon, lapse of communication between the two-leggeds, the overhead door had been open all night, offering free food and lodging to any and all who might wander by.

Luckily, only one took me up on the offer, and apparently wasn’t uber-impressed, as most of the food and water were still here, just scattered and sloshed around the cat corner of the shop.

I swept up the cat chow, re-hinged the container lid, re-hung the measuring scoop, and cleaned off the floor where the mystery guest left a calling card in the form of a yellow puddle and a brown pile.

Monday morning dawned cool and cloudy, perhaps enticing our uninvited visitor to sleep in, or maybe he didn’t realize we open earlier on weekdays, but when I came in through the little door, he was scrambling to get out through the big door.

Not sure which of us was more rattled, but I do know I hit the button on the opener while he ran at least 2 laps up and down the other side of the room, separated only by the car and the exercise equipment.

Though he once again evaded apprehension, the identity of the kibble crook was clear when I caught a fleeting glimpse of his masked mug as he scampered under the weight bench, and I noticed the distinctive wet pawprints left after swishing his snack in the water bowl.

The incident remains under investigation, as I try to determine the mode of entry. It’s possible that I (and only I, this time it’s all on me) left the door partly open to let the breeze blow through the barn. I hope that proves true, because if not, it means the little raccoon has figured out the cat doors.

Yikes.

Yuck.

Stay tuned.

This is not our first raccoon adventure. We once had a family of 5 take up residence in a big maple tree in the west paddock – one of Rowdy’s favorite springs, as he spent many, many, many moments staring into the branches from the base of that tree, praying to the god of Dogs with Strong Prey Drives, hoping for just one of those babies to challenge him to chase.

They did not.

We’ve had several species stop by over the years. Some travel non-stop, others stay for an hour, a day, a season.

Deer roam through randomly, singly, in pairs, or herds of 13. Fawns run wind sprints across the pasture, arching their backs and kicking their heels, bronco-style. One summer brought an orphan fawn who spent a couple months trying to join our little gang of geldings, only to be rudely rejected by then Head Horse Rusty. The ponies did, however, allow the little one to spend much of the summer safely grazing close enough to be protected by their proximity.

Much to Mace’s amazement and amusement, a painted turtle ambled across the alley several springs ago. Its pace was painstakingly slow, but its presence was brief – just the solitary walk across the pasture to the swamp, after which we never saw it again.

One cold January day I slid the barn door open and interrupted a coyote napping in the sunny corner of the shelter – sitting up to stretch out the sleep and jog away just as Biskit and Chicago trotted out to pasture.

Ducks and geese swim in supersized spring-melt paddock puddles, stray cats strut across the yard, and sandhill cranes promenade in the pasture with their progeny. Pheasants and turkeys call from the tall grass and every once in a while, a muskrat, weasel, or one of their kin navigates across the creek that sometimes runs through the culvert.

A giant yellow garden spider graced our day lilies with her home of spun silk, complete with Charlotte-style egg sac, a wild kingdom fairy tale missing only a trip to the county fair and “Some Pig” woven in the web.

The carousel of creatures that cruise, saunter, prance, and wander through the property provides such interest and reminders of the many ways to live a life, none better or worse, just different. We’re a Live and Let Live operation here at Four Sticks Farm, and with a bit of behavior management for a certain golden retriever, all are permitted to pass through in peace.

Though we will keep the barn door closed.

Variety

Ubiquitous

“present, or seeming to be present, everywhere at the same time”

Four Sticks Farm’s Top 10 Omnipresent Elements

Dust – in the barn, in the house, in my hair
Manure – picked up, piled up, properly disposed of
Birds to feed in the backyard – house sparrows, song sparrows, and swamp sparrows, blue jays, yellowthroats and redstarts, red-winged blackbirds and black-capped chickadees, orioles, cardinals, doves and flycatchers, cedar waxwings and woodpeckers
And swallows to battle in the barn
Prints across the whole main floor – matching the tread patterns of golf shoes, tennis shoes, work boots, barn boots, and sweaty dog paws
Things To Do – housework, barn chores, dog walking, horse grooming, and cat napping, events and obligations, emails to manage, blogs to write, books to read, sudokus to solve, thoughts to think, and hgtv to fill in the gaps
Golden retriever slobber spots – upstairs, downstairs, on the walls, and under chairs
Towels – to swab slobber spots and to dry hands after washing them after swabbing slobber spots
Tubes of Gold Bond Ultimate Healing Skin Therapy® to condition hands after drying them after washing them after swabbing slobber spots
The steady serenade of a house wren on a fence post
Tranquility – see all of the above
Except the barn swallows

Unbeatable