Jottings

New year, new resolve to be a new me. Two and a half days with nearly 12 inches of snow gives a girl a ton of time to watch and wonder, and where better to find inspiration for improvement than the barn – my herd, my pride, my pack.

Biskit – eternal optimist and concise communicator, stares into the house to ensure I realize he’s done with his afternoon hay and expects I’ll be down shortly with the night ration. My pretty palomino snakes his pot-bellied self in through the guard ropes to demand his turn for grooming, then paws, poops, and pees in the barn aisle when he’s had enough.

Chicago – handsome but humble head of the herd, a low-key leader whose management style leans toward ear flicks, nose nudges, and strategic posterior positions. Calm and cooperative, unless we’re talking blackbirds taking flight from the forest floor or metal garbage cans taking space on the path of travel – he engages agreeably but also appreciates his alone time.

Fennel – facing his fears, rarely anymore does he beat a hasty retreat at the sound of the barn door opener, the voice of the hand that feeds him, or the panting of the rowdy golden retriever, opting instead to stay snuggled in one of his many his security spaces, or to stroll over for a casual scratch behind the ears. Seems he’s finally embraced the idea that while it’s neither Kansas nor Oz, there’s no place like Four Sticks Farm.

Mace – aging gracefully, surrendering the things of his youth. Content to pass the pest control baton to the teenage tabby, and to sometimes pass on the pieces of food on his plate, he now eats because he’s hungry, not because there is kibble in the cat dish, thus preventing the Big Squeeze that used to be his pet door problem.

Rowdy – glee in a golden fleece, always good to go – upstairs, downstairs, for a walk, for a ride, to the park, to the kitchen for a peanut butter bone, he’s happy to be there. And unless he’s lying in the living room with his family and his fleecy friends, Rowdy finds no greater pleasure than chasing squirrels into the trees and deer out of the pasture, ears flapping, lips fixed in his goofy golden grin.

There can be no better model than my animals to lead my quest for a better me. Think positive. Be clear and be kind. Speak your piece and make your peace. Sometimes be social, sometimes be solo. Try, even the scary stuff. Don’t eat if you’re not hungry. Get outside. Move. Play. Ponder. Everyday. Live simply.

Joy.

House

Ours is a small house. Comfortable for us, but more than two guests for dinner leaves limited elbow room around the table, with detours around the dog bed that doubles as the hearth rug.

Because the main bath is also the master bath, visitors are privy to my preferences in hair and skin care products, and to the old orange beach towel hanging on the door handle to swap the slobber from Rowdy’s chin after each of his 157 daily drinks.

Horses in the back yard means hay in the back entry. Hay, shavings, horsehair, and cat fur make their ways inside, to mingle in the drool drip and pawprint parade that meanders around the wood floor of the main level.

Despite the effort to minimize clutter and maximize clean, guests rarely leave without a small dollop of Four Sticks DNA. Compliments of the house. You’re welcome.

Sometimes I think about the luxuries of living in a house without animals. Freedom from dirt, dander, puddles, feeding schedules, farrier schedules, inside time, outside time, stall cleaning and Swiffer swiping. A closet full of fleece, with no need for a lint roller.

Then I see two tabby cats greeting me in the driveway at sunrise, positioned to steer me down the walkway toward the barn, through the tack room, and to the cat chow, lest I lose my way or forget the Order of Go for morning chores.

I see a white-faced golden gazing at me when I come out of the bedroom closet after work, waiting to see what I’m wearing, which will determine the afternoon’s activity. Sliver of saliva stretching from his jowls, he’s ready to roll with whatever I want to do. Barn? Beautiful! Errands? Excellent! Park? Perfect! TV? Terrific!

I see a couple of hefty horses watching me through the living room window at sunset, wondering if I remember they’re waiting for their overnight ration.

What I don’t see is leaving this place anytime soon. I see staying in our little house for many years to come, cramped, cozy and comfortable, filled with family and friends who don’t mind a little crowding.

Just don’t use the beach towel on the back of the bathroom door.

Home.

Expectations

Back in the beginning, I expected to have a barn full of four horses and a life full of equine adventures with family and friends.

Cue reality.

The herd reached three head, two old pensioners and one young buck (in every sense of the word) and we enjoyed one group ride around the neighborhood before losing old Mike, the parade horse, to the ravages of spinal arthritis and George admitted he’d rather spend his free time on a green golf course than a red horse.

So, I re-evaluated and embraced the practicality of a small herd.

No matter the number of horses though, the barn maintains an Equal Equine Expectation policy. Good manners are a must – keep your feet, your head, and everything in between, in your own space – no crowding. Stand quietly at the gate, in the crossties, and at the mounting block.

Chicago should be able to walk around our backyard trail without dumping me in the dirt at the sound of a squirrel stashing acorns under a pile of dry leaves.

Rowdy has been strongly discouraged from making a mad dash into the pasture with a squeaker ball when the horses are galloping to the back of the paddock.

Mace and Fennel, not exempt from expected barn behaviors, are tasked with getting rid of rodents, and showing up at feeding time for a cursory checkup.

My own Code of Conduct includes measures to make sure these fabulous creatures entrusted to me have safe shelter, healthy food, quality vet care, individual attention, ample opportunity to exercise their bodies and their minds, plenty of treats, and to keep the cats’ water bowl clear of Rowdy slobber.

These are my expectations, not theirs. As head of my herd, I acknowledge the 4-leggeds as beings with brains and some degree of freedom to choose their actions, so I set these standards, present them clearly, offer gentle feedback and consistent reinforcement. In the event of the inevitable infringement, I engage in a bit of evaluation and reflection.

When my toes get stepped on, my space is invaded or my path is blocked by a big equine body, it’s likely not a personal slight. I need to consider the possibility that my request for a little room had not been received. Was he ready to listen? Did I have his attention? Was I clear in my communication? Was I mumbling, as George will tell you I’m often wont to do? Was I distracted by some random thought, a song on the radio, or a rowdy golden retriever?

When I come off the saddle and end up on the ground, was I paying attention to potential perils in the environment? Did I give cues to calm my anxious partner? Was I balanced myself, in a position to stay stable?

If Rowdy races after the horses, squeaker ball in full squeal, is it possibly a lack of planning on my part (there’s a reason for that leash hanging in the barn aisle) given his natural tendency to chase moving objects?

When Fennel doesn’t show up for a day (Mace has perfect attendance) maybe he’s out patrolling the perimeter, or otherwise engaged in the business of being a barn cat. Maybe he’s up in the hayloft sleeping off a chipmunk coma, or maybe he just doesn’t want to make an appearance. Some things just can’t be legislated, especially for cats.

We’re a low-key, laid-back sort of operation here at Four Sticks, a barn of rule followers and keepers of the peace. After years of education and experience we’ve evolved into a herd where everybody fits comfortably in their place, contributes to the common cause, cuts others some slack.

Unless you give a golden a squeaker ball.

Empathy.

Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.

Barn Swallow Baby Blues

Life’s messy.

Sometimes the process of scrubbing, sweeping, and straightening up brings about a grand revelation, a new outlook, an expanded mind, a sense of growth, accomplishment, and/or satisfaction.

Sometimes the mess just needs to be cleaned up. Again.

Rowdy and I usually lose our summer battle with the barn swallows. I’ll think we’ve won the war, armed with his squeaker ball and my leaf blower, but then one particularly persistent pair manage to sneak in and build the nest of their dreams on the light fixture of the hay stall.

The hay cubicle and Biskit’s stall, directly across the aisle, seem to be the attractive neighborhood for avian mosquito monitors, possibly because they’re closest to the barn door, with quick, convenient access to the food source. Chicago’s stall is 10 feet further in, making for a longer, less desirable commute.

During peak season, I’ll sometimes raze the early construction effort above Biskit’s stall and get lulled into believing the demolition has discouraged further new home starts for the summer. But the single-minded barn swallows move in with stealthy silence, determined to pack their mud and feathers on the built-in brooder in my barn.

By the time I spot the finished product, I suspect there may well be eggs in it, and much as I despise the mess, the nuns of my childhood would haunt me forever if I deliberately destroyed a family’s home. So, I wait. I grit my teeth every time one of those birds taunts me with a flyover, convinced they choreograph their barn entries to coincide with my barn chores. As I clean stalls I feel the steely avian glare from the light bulb across the aisle, mocking my lapse of vigilance, declaring their victory.

I wait and watch as they swoop into the barn, crisscrossing just beyond the reach of my manure fork, Rowdy’s squeaker ball or Fennel’s finely honed claws.

About the time I’m convinced my new barn dwellers are actually empty nesters, I’ll hear the soft, steady peeping that is avian infants demanding dinner, and look up at a bunch of baby barn swallows stuffed in a pack of dried mud and feathers, warmed by the overhead light of my small hay stall. How they fit in that nest is a true miracle of nature. Perhaps their incessant squawking translates to “Tell him to stop touching me!” or “No fair, I always have to sit in the middle!” or “You always give her the best bugs”. Somehow, they manage to stay squished in their spots, no loss of life, no accidental over-edges.

The days drag on as the dung piles up. The swallows may be small, but their mess is mighty. Cue the big green tarps to save my hay storage space from weeks of guano, feathers and clots of mud displaced by growing hatchlings.

Finally, the family flies the coop in search of greener pastures, greater opportunity, or somebody else’s barn. I scrape and sweep for one last time and think about the persistence of these plucky little birds. Fiercely determined to build their home, they change their strategy, overcome their obstacles and in the end, accomplish their goal.

There’s a lesson there. Maybe not a grand revelation, but definitely an expansion of the mind – a reminder of the value of tolerance, an admiration for sticking to it, and an appreciation for the satisfaction of figuring things out.

If only they could figure out the housebreaking thing.

Catching Up

Lucky for me, my life is full of low-maintenance types, willing to tolerate long lapses in communication and picking up right where we left off when connection is re-established, with a mutual understanding and acceptance of the lives we lead.

The ponies put up with my series of short daily check-ins, probably because my presence, however brief, generally includes some sort of sustenance, and stomachs rule in their world. Chicago most always greets me with a nicker, especially if I start the dialog with “Hi Handsome”. Once in a while he’ll stand at the half-wall that divides the horse shelter from the barn porch, staring toward the house or my truck driving down the driveway. He’ll put on his softest, most mournful equine eyes and let out a high-pitched plaintive whinny that translates to something between I Miss You and You Owe Me.

I recently made my way back to the barn to finally finish the self-shedding process in which Biskit and Chicago were unintentionally engaged this spring. Turns out they united in a show of solidarity with their groom, each emerging from the pandemic period with a bigger belly and a broader backside, though unlike the horses’ seasonal surplus, it’s going to take a lot more than a few strokes of the shedding blade to whittle away my girth.

On the feline front, Fennel has assumed full responsibility for rodent removal around the barn, honing his skills on a daily basis. He courageously takes on mice, moles, voles and small songbirds, but remains leery of the tack room dehumidifier or anyone who doesn’t maintain permanent residence at Four Sticks Farm. He recently joined us on the deck, with much trepidation and tremendous mistrust of the patio furniture. Getting neither empathy nor encouragement from the green-eyed golden, he pushed past his inner Cowardly Lion and found comfort in a familiar lap.

Mace made it through his 14^th annual veterinary checkup without incident to self or vet staff, apparently mellowed by the passing of the Barn Patrol baton and all the pressure that goes with it. Hard to be surly when one spends one’s days snoozing in the sun on the barn porch or sleeping in the heat of the hayloft.

My yearly battle with the barn swallows flared up again last week. While I appreciate their assistance in mosquito control, I prefer they spend their downtime somewhere other than Biskit’s stall, as my experience in playing gracious host has proven the swallows to be houseguests from hell, who make a mighty mess, bring unending bunches of babies, and Never leave.

Rowdy revels in chasing the trespassers with his squeaker ball, so has added Bird Banishment to his daily duties. Border Collies clear geese off of runways, Goldens scare swallows out of barn aisles. Everybody has a job to do, however humble, and Rowdy is all in on making sure he does his well.

So that’s the latest friends. We’ve picked up and caught up on the month since my last post. I love the idea of weekly updates, and it remains a goal, albeit an elusive one, for the slow-processor who writes them. I recently enrolled in a 3-hour online writers’ course offering, among other things, strategies to develop a consistent writing process. So far, I haven’t taken the 3 hours to watch it.

But I’ll get there. Summertime is rife with subject matter at Four Sticks Farm – equine exploits, cat capers, and of course, endless ramblings with and about rowdy Rowdy.

Stay tuned, come back. In two weeks. Maybe three.

Fraidy Cat

Turns out Fennel may not be the bravest or brightest of barn cats.

The experience of losing two of my favorite kittens to wildlife (ok, so since it took 2 times maybe I’m not the brightest of barn owners) taught me a lesson – keep the kittens in the barn at night.

So baby Fennel’s arrival brought a first to Four Sticks Farm – a litterbox in the tack room. Along with a scratching post, a comfy cat bed and an assortment of cat toys not constructed of baling twine. He has access to the attached workshop and to Mace, the ancient barn cat, with outside exploration ~~available~~, ~~encouraged~~, mandated, whenever I am in the building.

He’s learned to climb the hayloft ladder to the wonders of dried grass bales, spider webs and barn soffits; to stalk grasshoppers, leaves, snow chunks and Biskit’s tail; to scale trees and hay piles and the sidewalls of the manure bins.

He’s learned to outrun a 70-pound golden retriever bearing down hard with a slobbery squeaker ball.

He’s also learned to race for the safe space of the tack room at the sound of a stranger’s voice, a horse’s sneeze or the hum of the overhead barn door, which limits his feats of athletic achievement to a 50-yard radius of the barn.

While Rowdy and I fill bird feeders in the back yard and spread hay flakes in the back pasture Fennel never ventures far from the barn porch, yowling a plaintive caterwaul that clearly expresses his woe, his fear and his fervent hope that we will be back soon.

With pet doors conveniently located in 2 of the barn doors, our feline friends enjoy 24/7 access to the heated shop, with freedom to explore the great outdoors whenever they choose. This also provides the convenience of using a horse stall when our Minnesota winter freezes the natural litterboxes outside, or when they just want to save a couple steps.

We generally take a couple minutes and a couple treats to teach newbies the mechanics of the magical 2-way plastic flap, and aside from a couple dicey moments during Mace’s super-sized days, the cats have passed through willingly and without incident.

Then along came Fennel. In his defense, we haven’t taken a couple minutes with a couple treats with him, an intentional omission inspired by my desire to keep him confined to the safety of the building, away from the owls, coyotes and cars that prey on innocent, ignorant barn cats.

I also believed that he’d eventually figure it out, especially after witnessing a wrestling match from which Mace escaped Fennel’s seemingly solid whizzer hold by pushing through the cat door directly behind them. Fennel watched his nemesis disappear through the translucent flap, but rather than follow Mace to finish the fight, he sat down to watch me finish my barn chores, perfectly content to wait for me to open the people door, plenty spacious for the both of us to pass through.

So, it seems my efforts to shelter my little orange purrsker from the dangers of the big wide world have left him cornered in a tiny narrow neighborhood, a misguided tabby traveling down the path of good intentions.

But March has arrived, my annual injection of renewed optimism. I’ll open the doors, embrace the sunshine and enjoy the melted muck, the shedded hair and the growing green that is the fun of Four Sticks Farm in spring.

I’ll hope that Fennel finds his brave; that he moves on from this very scary year aware but not afraid, hopeful and not hesitant, confident and not so cautious. I hope he pushes through that little cat door and sees the beauty of his world, trusting that he’s tough enough to make his way, comforted in the knowledge that when he finds himself sitting solo on the barn porch, help is only a caterwaul away.

Though it may come bearing a slobbery squeaker ball.

Life from a Different Angle

Chicago likes to remind me that the grass is truly greener on the other side of the fence. Even if the grass is last year’s hay and the other side is the barn aisle.

Though 19 years at Four Sticks Farm has allowed for the establishment of a solid chore routine, sometimes things just happen. During a recent lunchtime ritual, I forgot to close Chicago’s stall door, possibly distracted by Rowdy patrolling the pasture in search of something to eat, something to chase, or something in which to roll. Or maybe the disruption was Fennel, demanding I open the tack room door so he could sit in the opening, heating the unheated barn while he decided whether or not he felt up to an outdoor stroll or a hay pile inspection. Biskit may have been pounding the stall wall in protest of the sluggish service. It may have been the need to monitor a water bucket perched under the running faucet, precariously close to overflowing. Or Mace’s insistence that the Time For Which the Cat Dish Has Been Empty had now entered status Completely Unacceptable and required immediate attention.

In any case, The Big Red Beast opted for a little barn walkabout that ended right back at his stall, eating his ration from the outside looking in. With minimal encouragement he quietly returned to the confines of said stall, where he finished his lunch and settled into his bed of many shavings for the noontime nap.

No harm, no foul, just another little lesson in looking at the world through a different lens. Lots of ways to live your life. Or eat your hay. So let go of the judgement.

But do keep the cat dish filled.

Learning to Listen

listen (lis·ten) vi. 1: to pay attention to sound 2: to hear something with thoughtful attention : give consideration 3: to be alert to catch an expected sound

Reading with Rowdy went to the Delano Library this week with high hopes for big improvement in his library listening skills.

Rowdy and I have been working on a “listen” command, that translates to golden retriever as “lay your chin flat on the ground and lie quietly until instructed otherwise” and which lets our little patrons know that he is ready to pay attention to the sounds of their voices sharing their storybooks.

Thanks to a training clicker and a bag of rabbit-flavored mini treats, my happy hooligan mastered the meaning of the word and will eagerly drop his head to the floor, with the rest of his golden giddiness following in some semblance of stillness. He’ll usually stay put, and generally needs only a silent-but-serious look or a subtle “Ahem” as a reminder to set his head back down if he lifts it before official release. Unless…

Unless someone enters the room. Or leaves the room. Or talks in the room, walks past the room, opens the door, closes the door, or drops something on the floor in the room. Shiny objects are everywhere.

We introduced his new trick – which, when the novelty wears off and the reliability soaks in, we’ll call a behavior – last month, using small bits of a soft treat as an intermittent reward. Fortunately, the treats brought out a series of successfully completed reading sessions. Unfortunately, they also brought out a series of soundless stomach releases that I could not pass of as those of the sleeping sibling, napping while her brother read to Rowdy.

So this month we went in sans food rewards, verbal praise only; and Rowdy respectfully showed his readiness to listen when asked, maintaining the position as the kids shared their books with him. Mostly.

Mostly, except for the 2 attempts to complete his favorite roll-on-the-back-and-grab-the-leash maneuver, which threatened to morph into his full-blown clear-the-fleecy-blanket thrashing episodes of old.

Mostly, except for the irresistible lure of toddler siblings with sticky hands and smelly shoes; Rowdy’s Nirvana, a veritable disco ball of distraction.

Turns out though, he really is learning to listen; to pay attention, to hear with thoughtful attention. Especially when he gives consideration to the tiny bit of pressure he feels under his chin from an opposable thumb on the other end of the leash -a low level attention-getter, perfectly suited to stopping the dog without stopping the reader. He picked up on the prompt and stayed alert to catch the expected sound.

Good boy! Let’s go get a treat!

In the truck. With the windows open.

Lost in Translation

Maybe visions of fireworks stilled danced in his head. Perhaps the extra sleep that is the benefit to the rest of us, of Boone’s new anti-anxiety medication protocol provided an energy boost. Possibly 15 minutes of fetching a rubber ball before breakfast, at 7:00 a.m., when the temperature is 80 and the humidity close to the same, is not enough. For him.

Whatever the reason, rowdy Rowdy showed up this morning at the Maple Lake Library. We started out nicely, well within Acceptable-Therapy-Dog-in-Public parameters. Unless we count that part where, for the first time ever, he crawled from the back seat over the center console to jump out of the truck as I wrestled our supply bag out of the front seat. He hit the sidewalk before the bag did, but sat nicely and waited patiently as I snapped his leash on the buckle. Good dog! Sort of.

Dog lying in library He greeted the kids nicely, lying quietly, taking stock and taking advantage of the many bare toes presented at nose level. He could not resist the opportunity to sniff and smooch. Most of the readers tolerated, even enjoyed, the interaction, though one little girl was only too happy to use the towel I offered.

Our rough patch came during the actual Reading of the Story, which, given our goal of helping kids read by “sitting quietly on a blanket, listening to children without judgment, so that they build confidence in their skills”, does not bode well for our success rate of the future.

Rowdy seems to interpret “sitting quietly” to mean wriggling on his back, rolling over repeatedly, mouthing the leash, and/or pawing the edge of the blanket to craft himself a pillow.

Dog watching child write The approximate total of 5 minutes of indiscretions seemed like 5 days, but as is becoming our routine, he composed himself and controlled his impulses by the we end of our book. Just in time to endear himself to his readers and his handler by closely overseeing the group’s work to solve a crossword puzzle.

The Reading with Rowdy spellchecker.

He even renewed a few friendships from last week’s joint session with the pre-schoolers, who came over to replenish their weekly reads. As I checked out books for the young patrons, with the Happy Hooligan on a “Down/Stay” under the desk, he did as instructed. With his head peeking out just far enough for them to pet his ears and him to kiss their feet.

It’s all in the interpretation.

Dog sleeping on blanket