Getting in Sync

Summer at Four Sticks Farm started with the sudden death of The Greatest Dog in the Whole Wide World, a disruption to the activities of our daily living and the beginning of a season out of sync.

Heat and rain and high dewpoints, some of my least favorite things, saturated the summer.

Waterlogged trails of soggy grass pock-marked with mud puddles limited opportunities for roaming around our favorite summer spots, and without Rowdy, my steadfast hiking companion to lead our little pack, Ruffian turned out to be a fair-weather walker.

He opted out on the hot days, which was most of them, so for the first time in forever I found myself going solo, which enlightened me to the recognition that even with all those scratch-and-sniff stops to leave his mark, canine camaraderie refreshes my soul in a way that the most thought-provoking podcast cannot.

But with Ruff or without, too many steamy days pushed the once-priority woodland wanderings to the intermittent section of the daily itinerary.

My mom put her house on the market, which meant days of de-cluttering, deciding what to discard, what to donate, what to keep in the new place or in the family.

Showings had to be scheduled, as did inspectors, repairmen (there is a special spot in heaven for people like plumber Dan) junk haulers and movers.

Spreadsheets were created to track To-Do’s; closets and cupboards were emptied, Goodwill and garbage bins filled.

Eighty-six years of accumulation takes a couple minutes to disseminate.

It was a long hot summer, which left me a little tired and a lot sad. I lost my muse and my mojo.

I flipped the page to September on my old-school paper calendar, hanging on the inside of the cabinet door above the coffee maker, with a sigh of relief and a spark of positivity for the promise of a fresh start.

But the weather gods carried a little heat to the new month, and some personnel changes brought the same to the new school year.

Ruffian went on Therapy Dog hiatus while the in-coming Powers That Be draft the documentation they deem appropriate to allow a dog in school. I think he’ll be back eventually, but while we wait, he spends his mornings at home, a victim of politics, power struggles, and peeing on the fenceposts of policy and procedure that inevitably come with new administration.

So, we’re still searching for some rhythm to our routine, but in the meantime Ruff and I finished Obedience 3 and managed to keep our collective composure during a final class conducted while the high school homecoming parade marched past our unsound-proof building.

We finally returned to the local state park last weekend for the first time in 2 years. These are my favorite hiking trails, their only downside being the branches of burrs and stems of stickers that edge the path and latch on Ruffian. I let them hitch a ride as far as the truck, where they get the End of the Line brushoff, left to languish in the parking lot.

The horses’ skin conditions healed, and their summer hair grew back just in time to start shedding in exchange for the winter wardrobes.

The branches of our Honeycrisp tree bow with farm-record abundance, much of the bounty suitable for human consumption despite the farmers’ nearly nonexistent knowledge of apple tree husbandry. Or wifery.

George collected caterpillars from the ever-expanding milkweed crop around the farm and hatched them from a couple cages on the barn porch, setting more than 50 Monarch butterflies on the flight path to Mexico.

And last week I renewed my driver’s license, assisted by a twentysomething who, after entering the data from my completed form, smiled brightly and said she’d add a “Senior” indicator to the front corner of the card.

Having apparently missed that one on the questionnaire, I obviously blinked blankly a couple times too many because she happily added that “lots of places offer discounts” and this would confirm my status.

For those who can’t do the math.

Or identify the obvious.

But she was so delighted to impart this bit of financial insight that I couldn’t help but match her joy. I thanked her with more cheer than generally extended at the DMV and laughed much of the way home.

It is still a beautiful world.

With ten percent off.

ps to Barry:
The summer was long, it was wet, it was hot.
A favorite of mine it was definitely not.
Rowdy is gone and that still makes me sad.
But Ruffian is here and for that I am glad.
The mud has now dried and the sun has come out.
There is plenty for me to give thanks about.
Moe’s legs have returned to their usual size.
And the barn is surrounded by big butterflies.
Time’s moving on and I’m getting older.
But still I believe that the years do get golder.
I made these words rhyme just about to the letter
So I hope that you think that this poem is better.

Rowdyroo

I thought Rowdy was gaining weight because his waist looked a little thicker sometimes, so I cut back on his breakfast and supper rations, which seemed to help a bit.

I thought he was getting sore because he sometimes took an extra hop before he jumped into the truck, so I had him use the ramp for entrances and exits, which seemed to help a bit.

I thought he was having tooth troubles again because he didn’t always clean his plate, so I put water on his kibble, which seemed to help a bit.

The still small voice thought that it was cancer, but that’s where the still small voice always goes isn’t it?

The still small voice was right.

A noticeably swollen stomach got us an Urgent Care appointment with our vet last Monday morning, where we learned his belly was full of blood, most likely due to cancer of the spleen, a condition disproportionately common in golden retrievers, highly malignant, slowly developing and asymptomatic in its initial stages.

Heartbreaking.

And beyond.

Standard treatment for hemangiosarcoma includes surgery and chemotherapy with an average survival time measured in months.

If we opted to pass on surgery? “Spoil him rotten for the next couple days because that’s what he’ll have left.”

There was a tiny possibility that the tumor was benign, so in the beginning, I chose to think positively. After all, this was Rowdy we were talking about – Rowdyroo. Punkin Pie. Smartypup. Study Hall Monitor Extraordinaire and all-around swell dog.

We went to a specialized referral clinic with a blood bank and an oncology department, where an ultrasound confirmed the tumor on his spleen.

I was ready to spend his inheritance, but a few hours into diagnostics, the estimate swelled to a point that would require not only Rowdy’s birthright, but Ruffian’s, Chicago’s Moe’s and most of Fennel’s. And that was only for the surgery. Chemotherapy regimen and other post-surgical care extra.

Plus, there was a noticeable lack of positivity in prognosis. Despite the steady stream of kind and compassionate conversation explaining processes and procedures, cost estimates and deposit requirements, there was little hope expressed. No one mentioned more than “months” in the few references made to the future.

So, we chose a choice that wasn’t within miles of our radar when we started what was supposed to have been a regular Monday morning.

I wanted to bring Rowdy home for the night and to our clinic of 25 years on Tuesday morning, but the treating veterinarian insisted, several times, that he’d already lost too much blood, was still “actively bleeding” and she could not recommend that.

So, I fed him as many of the treats as he wanted from the barkuterie platter offered by the clinic staff, and with George and Ruff sitting on the floor with us, I massaged his shoulders, rubbed his ears and said all the things I needed him to hear.

And then we said goodbye.

Hindsight can be a bitch. I don’t usually indulge much time in the fruitless waste of energy that comes with “should have;” and losing any of my animals always leaves my heart a little heavier. But losing Rowdy lined it with an extra weight – a rucksack of regret.

In retrospect, maybe I should’ve stuck with my standard operating procedure when it comes to extraordinary lifesaving measures. Maybe I should’ve just brought him home and spoiled him rotten for as long as he was comfortable instead of subjecting him to the stress of treatment by unknown people in an unfamiliar place.

But I didn’t, and maybe he deserved better.

Rowdy was an exceptional dog. He could distinguish his “squeaker guys” by name and when asked to find his Squeaker Bone, Big Guy, Squeaker Man, Latte, or the Red Toy, he would search, including Upstairs or Downstairs as directed, until he found the requested toy.

He waited, without reminder, on stairway landings, at doorway thresholds, and at the edge of the open tailgate, until he got a verbal “ok” to continue forward progress.

He knew how to read a room. At home, he found a safe spot to lay low at the sight of the purple jersey and the sound of the Skol Chant.

At my parents’ house, he’d make sure to find them both, in the office, the bedroom, the family room or the kitchen, before he settled on his spot next to the recliner or in front of the couch.

When my Dad was recovering in a transitional care facility, Rowdy spent much of his visits resting his chin on Dad’s feet, grounding them both.

At school, he trotted into the library to start his shift as Study Hall Monitor, and made his rounds around the room, checking in with each student, a brief snuffle to those not interested, circling back to those who needed a little love.

The girls learned to wait for his return. They came to understand that his first fly-by was not a personal snub, just a part of his process.

As was the way he sat at their desks with his back turned to them – his way of positioning himself for a mutually satisfying shoulder massage.

He entertained them with his small bag of tricks, speaking when they asked, even when he had nothing to say and would instead offer chortles, warbles, and whines.

He shook their hands no matter if they asked him to “shake,” “paw,” or “give me 5”.

He bowed, “swam,” and once played a small role in their school production.

He checked on them in the Chill Room if they were struggling to process their way through a problem.
He greeted them in the hallway when we knew they’d had a tough night.

Rowdy didn’t like hugs, even from me, and he gently schooled a few students in the art of acknowledging personal space, though he seemed to soften his stance this year, allowing the occasional adolescent arm to loop around his neck on an as-needed basis.

He had a passion for any rubbery squeaker ball, an outside-only toy, and was sometimes reluctant to give them up, torn between clutching a dirt-encrusted Chuck-it and coming in the house, so he’d stand in the garage for a few extra chomps before setting the ball in a safe spot on the back step, conveniently located for an easy grab-n-go on his way out of the house.

The sole exception to his Hold Tight policy was the intermittent opportunity to sprint across the pasture in hot pursuit of a deer spotted in the swamp. He never came close to catching any of them and it almost always cost him the cherished chuck-it, but I guess the chase was worth it.

Occasionally Rowdy would recapture a lost ball in the woods, and when I went to the barn after returning from the clinic on Monday night, I found his final find – a filthy faded squeaker ball, placed on the floor drain in the barn aisle.

I left it sitting where he set it for several days, then moved it to a shelf in the tack room.

Since Ruff prefers chewing branches and twigs to chasing chuck-its and tennis balls, the rest of Rowdy’s sunken squeakers are now laid to their eternal rest in the swamp of Four Sticks Farm.

The new canine King of the Castle has settled quietly into the rhythm of a new routine – perhaps he paid attention to the lessons of his leader.

Except for barking at the barn cat. Apparently, he was absent that day.

We’re all adjusting to the activities of daily living in a one-dog home, and that is where we’ll stay.

For now.

When I started my search for a new dog to join old Boone the brindle Greyhound in our pack, I didn’t want a puppy. Then I got a 7-week-old Golden Retriever that I named Rowdy.

In late July of 2023 I told George how great life was with a single, reliable, well-trained dog. Then I adopted a semi-hairless maybe Golden Retriever with major skin infections and a mystery history that I named Ruffian.

Life. No promises.

I finally took his travel crate out of the truck and removed the ragged beach towel from the handle of the bathroom door but still look for Rowdy when it’s time for a walk in the woods or for dinner and a drink.

During a break in barn chores, I sometimes look out across the pasture and picture him racing back from one of his deer dashes. Pure joy.

Lest I worry about forgetting the pure joy he gave even better than he got, I look at any of the 565 pictures in my phone’s “Rowdy” album.

Or the filthy faded squeaker ball on the tack room shelf.

Remembering What was Buried

In the spirit of the graduation season, a couple weeks ago I commenced to learn how my little Peace Garden Plot survived the cold and snow, to find what lies hidden under the heavy wet leaves.

So, I pulled on some gloves and pulled off the dead of winter. George can’t refrain from the occasional unsupportive-spouse comment on my efforts to “rake the woods” but it’s only a small section, and the leaves are mostly dry, and the energetic output allows for some extra caloric input in the evening, so I carry on.

Rowdy and Ruffian keep me company, eager to embark on their own expeditions for buried treasure. Rowdy unearths squeaker balls he’s known and loved and lost in the woods, content to celebrate his finds with a proud display wherever I go.

Ruff, however, excavates simply for sport, digging dirt in all the wrong places. He also loves to chew twigs, sticks and fallen branches, dragging them through the forest, across the driveway and into the front yard, leaving a trail of leaflets, bits of tree bark and muddy pawprints wherever he goes, including in the house.

They’re entertaining companions, who make tedious tasks tolerable. If they wander out of sight or earshot, they return promptly when I call, or better, use the official blaze orange hunting dog whistle I wear high-school-coach-style around my neck. A solid tweet brings them running for the payoff of whatever tasty treat I’ve remembered to put in my pocket.

My little plant project began as a brainstorm to beautify the view from the front porch, a little section of the Forest of Four Sticks Farm on the other side of the driveway, the goal being a scenic spot to inspire calm. Then it expanded to an experiment in repurposing, replanting, and rethinking as I transplanted perennials from around the property.

My thumb is far from green, so this is a bit of a trial-and-error research project for which only vegetation with demonstrated Four Sticks survival skills have been recruited.

I failed to map my plotted plants – rookie mistake, product of a deluded mind convinced it would remember what is where – so I spent a couple hours stripping the flower bed of its winter comforter, with a couple prayers to the patron saint of greenhorn gardeners, hoping to unearth something other than wet earth.

Under the saturated maple sheddings I spied shoots. Eureka!

Hostas, lilies-of-the-valley, a tiny clump of dianthus pinks and a rogue day lily, tossed in the woods to make room for the new driveway all survived. My botanical Rip Van Winkels, sleeping under a layer of decaying leaves that could have smothered them, but instead, sheltered them, are now small green spikes, promising to rise and shine for another summer.

Some of the hostas – cherished memorials to cherished horses – were slow to appear, but only because they were buried a little deeper and needed a little more mulch moved, a little more water decanted to encourage them to wake up and soak up the sunshine.

I’m not sure what my little peace place will look like this year, what it will grow into; but as I survey the landscape, pleased with the present, planning the potential, there is hope in seeing the sprouts, and joy in dreaming of what will bloom. Ferns, columbine and more hostas will find new spots this year, with wind chimes, and just enough garden art to add just enough whimsical charm.

But no dogs will be used for the digging.

Holding Pattern

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

Practicing Peacekeeping

Despite a lifelong discomfort with loud voices and cursing, Rowdy has adopted an admirable response when he hears them.

No one celebrates the final play of the Super Bowl with greater gratitude than my gentle golden, who holds his breath, just a little, through the entirety of the NFL season. But swear words now invoke the superpower of his therapy dog spirit.

When he senses too-high tension in the tv room, Rowdy will launch a crusade for calmness, approaching the overly fervent fan with ears slightly dropped, tail slowly ticking back and forth as he gauges the proper proximity needed to successfully complete his mission.

A little scratching of that perfect spot behind a dog’s ears restores some semblance of reason to even the most passionate accusations of poor play and outrageous officiating.

Rowdy’s peacekeeping pursuits are not confined to the perimeter of Four Sticks, however.

We recently had a girl start her day with a major tantrum in the entry way of the school building. I’ve heard a few of these rants over the years, but this was top shelf vituperation, a full-on verbal assault of the perceived violation of her rights as a student, the injustices forced upon her at the school, including the totally intolerable situation of her having to be in the same room as another student she deemed despicable. It was a vitriolic tirade, born of incredible pain and sadness, punctuated with a remarkable number of F bombs.

As with many things in life, I believe there’s a time and a place for the F word, and I appreciate its judicious use. But 15 minutes of the tirade seemed plenty to satisfy a need to vent, so I left Rowdy in the office and walked into the hallway, not to counsel, just to offer a little moral support for the teacher who’d been monitoring the meltdown, and because sometimes the mere presence of a second, silent adult can nudge the emotional thermometer out of the red zone.

I said nothing, just stood quietly, and the student didn’t acknowledge me except to slip into her diatribe that she didn’t “need no fuckin’ dog.”

Message received.

Loud and clear.

But Rowdy begged to differ. The words had barely left her lips before he came around the corner, somehow knowing he was needed.

He walked past me, past the teacher, and very gently approached the student crouched in the corner. He touched her knee with his nose, and she reached for his head. He stepped a little closer, touched her just softly enough to make sure she knew he was there, and she started scratching his head, talking just a little quieter, just a little slower.

He stood with her, demanding nothing, only offering quiet connection.

After a minute or two Rowdy recognized that his work was done. He moved over to me, we returned to our office, where he accepted a well-earned treat and curled up on his bed to wait for his call to Study Hall.

He didn’t solve her problem. But within a few minutes she calmed enough to move out of the hallway and into a study space.

Unlike some of the other students, she doesn’t clamor for his attention when she sees him. But when he makes his rounds around the room at the start of Study Hall, sometimes she scratches his head, just a little, and talks to him, just a little, and smiles at him, just a little.

Just enough to keep her at peace.

Just enough to keep him in shape for Sundays in September, with their return of the purple jerseys.

Skol Vikes!

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.

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.