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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Back when he was very young – Rowdy
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.
Back when he was very young – Chicago
Back when he was younger – Biskit
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.
Back when he was very young – Mace
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.
Back when he was very young – Fennel
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.
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.
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.
Part of the family
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.
The turtle and the cat
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.
Chicago and the beaver
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.
According to a couple dog trainers in our past, the answer is fate, karma, self-fulfilling prophecy. “Why would you give a dog a name like that” they asked.
Call it Cute-New-Puppy-Owner-Brain, but I counted on irony.
Seven years into the deal, we’re somewhere in the middle, the proverbial, perpetual, work in progress. Fortunately, dog training classes are my jam, so Rowdy and I enrolled in the Lifelong Learners Club. Thus far, we’ve graduated from Puppy Kindergarten, mastered Beginner Obedience, reinforced Manners, squeaked through Therapy Dog and soothed our Reactive Rover.
We’ve amassed an arsenal of equipment – buckle, pinch, martingale, limited-slip and head collars, leather leash, nylon leash, short leash, hands-free leash, slip lead, long line and a no-pull harness – each designed to fix a different flaw.
Through practice and positive reinforcement, Rowdy now readily responds to cues given in a conversational tone. Beyond the basics, he’s learned to “Listen” when we work with kids at the library, to deliver the occasional note from me to George, to differentiate Upstairs from Down when asked to deliver said note, and to distinguish between his many fleecy friends – Squeaker Man, Squeaker Bone, Big Guy, and the Squeaker Squirrel triplets – when choosing a dinner or travel companion.
He’s also grown accustomed to waiting on the landing until I get to the base of the steps, and to hang tight in the open doorway until I give him the a-ok to advance.
However, we still have work to do. With a naturally dialed-up prey drive, Rowdy loves the thrill of chasing chipmunks, corralling cats, driving deer, and herding horses, even though the objects of his obsession are, fortunately, fleeter of foot.
If I catch him early in the pre-launch countdown, Rowdy will hold an impressive sit-stay, but if not, the positive reinforcement piece settles in the dust as I shriek swear words that go unheard and unheeded by the golden flash accelerating across the pasture from 0 to 60 in .37 seconds.
The neighbors must be so impressed.
My reactive retriever has also reared his ugly head again, presenting a disconcerting display of ferocity when we meet another dog on the park trails. His aggressive vocalizations belie his genial disposition, and fortunately for my Cowardly Lion, we’ve yet to come across the canine willing to pull back the curtain to reveal the 72-pound weakling pulling those levers of alarm.
So, to return the Happy Hooligan back to his kinder, gentler self, he and I will be participating in a Reactive Dog Workshop for 3 consecutive Friday evenings in June/July – a little information about my social life – which will neither extinguish the prey drive nor cure the crazy greeting behavior but will offer insight and ideas for cultivating a little composure and more acceptable conduct.
In the meantime, we make little adjustments everywhere. We now practice a sit/stay at the end of the driveway when we are picking up the mail, and random recalls when we’re in the barn. I sport a fanny pack around my waist when we walk the trails because even the steely stare of a blue-eyed herding dog shrivels in the presence of a sliced up hot dog.
Though my GreatestDogInTheWholeWideWorld has his imperfections, and I can’t eradicate the natural instincts that are his kryptonite, I can adjust and adapt them to allow his superpowers to prevail.
And someday, someone will look at my sea of golden tranquility, my solid Citizen Canine, and remark “Why would you give a dog like that a name like Rowdy?”
Who told Biskit that the way to get the lead out of Lisa’s back end at feeding time is to paw at the ground incessantly, with bonus points for striking the metal barn door?
What incites Mace to arbitrarily explode into fierce, angry feline mode while sitting placidly in my lap for what seemed to be a soothing chin-scratching session?
Where did Rowdy get the idea that the best time to slurp from his water bowl and drop a trail of drooly drips across the entire main level, is just after I’ve settled into the rocking chair with a book and a beverage?
When did Fennel realize the primo path to the barn is directly in front of my feet, with abrupt, unannounced stops to complain about the walk and equally abrupt, unannounced launches from my arms after I scoop him up in an obviously unappreciated attempt at assistance?
Why does Chicago still, after 21 years at Four Sticks Farm, bolt like the proverbial bat out of Hades when snow slides off the barn roof, then stand in the safety of the open pasture, staring at the offending structure with fear and loathing until I slide open the door, allowing immediate access to the sanctuary that is his stall?
How can I be anything but amazed and amused when I wake up every morning, blessed to live on this little piece of Minnesota marshland with these charming characters? These delightful, genuine, puzzling creatures, who cultivate my curiosity with what they deem acceptable conduct, where they draw the line of expected behavior, and when they opt to do otherwise, grant me the opportunity to figure out why.
We’ve rotated past the festive red of Christmas, through the New Year’s glittery golds and into January’s several shades of white. Our winter palette shifts from shimmering diamond ice on the brilliant blanket of the pristine pasture unsullied by hoofprint paths, to semi-gloss pewter patches of ice cemented in the shady spots, to the flat bone tone of plowed snow piles at the end of the driveway, dulled by road salt and sand.
Around the barn, we get a bit of cold-weather color from the green-flecked feeding spots, littered with bits of uneaten hay, and the rusty splotches that stop the heart of every first-time horse owner until they learn that it’s just a natural chemical reaction between snow and the natural equine response to a full bladder.
The trees surround the pasture with feathery, frost-covered limbs, a living palette of ivory, cotton, porcelain, and parchment.
The rhythm of my chores changes with the cold, but I still bundle up and trundle down to the barn several times a day. I channel my inner efficiency expert to get done what needs to be done before my hands get cold.
To combat Biskit and Chicago’s inclination to loiter by the water cooler under the shelter, I load my round snow saucer with flakes of hay and slide it around the pasture, scattering little piles everywhere. Much like their owner, the old ponies are easily enticed by the promise of a tasty treat and making them move around the field of food helps maintain some measure of muscle mass and keep the joint fluids fluid.
Though my barn time may be briefer, I mindfully run through a mental menu as I check in with the horses and cats to be sure they’re winter-fat and happy. Each of the once-overs includes at least a little eye contact, ear caress and easy conversation so we preserve the social connection that comes more readily during warmer weather. If I stay a little long and get a little cold, my woolly beasts are willing to share the wealth of warmth that radiates from the pleasantly plump hay bellies that function as their furnaces.
Rowdy and I keep moving too, and though our winter trails are shorter, I often come home sweaty from struggling to stay on my two feet while the Happy Hooligan trots easily over the unpacked paths. He is just as enthusiastic with winter’s snowballs on his belly as he is with summer’s insects on his ears, so my cursing is minimal, and my gratitude maximized for the ability and opportunity to stay active with such a cheerful companion.
Sunshine is a rare commodity these days, and even the few clear nights, with charcoal skies and silvery stars, generally morph into mornings of ash-colored clouds.
January is a month of mostly cloudy and the blue we miss in our sky sometimes seeps into our moods, but we manage to slog through with a little help from our friends.
We move in to chill out. We organize, downsize, sterilize, and modernize.
We realize we’re only weeks from pitchers and catchers reporting, and we fantasize about spring.
We socialize. We check in on each other to get out of our heads and off of our couches. We gather to eat and exercise, to spectate and participate, to gab and to get through this together.
The colors change, the chores change, the challenges change, but some things never change.
From Four Sticks Farm 