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.

Endless Summer

The rain has been falling all summer.
The wet has become a big bumme.r
Sump reaches near the top,
The pump decides to stop,
My Saturday’s spent with the plumber.

Many days have been humid and hot.
Puddles splatter across the dry lot.
It’s closed to the horses,
And therefore it forces,
Them to chill in an alternate spot.

So much heat, so much wet, so much muck.
A rough summer in which to be stuck.
It’s all sodden and damp,
Like the worst summer camp,
It’s enough now, c’mon, what the yuck?

Some long days for Chicago and Moe,
Who had health scares that sparked weeks of woe.
Both horses are healing,
And seem to be feeling,
Okay with the changed status quo.

We’ve had air hung with smoke and with fog.
It sits heavy on top of our bog.
Depressing and hazy,
And grounds to be lazy,
But instead I’ll go out with the dog.

Ruffian and I are still training.
On class nights it’s usually raining.
So our work’s done inside,
Where it’s easier to hide,
That our “loose leash” is sometimes still straining.

This week it will finally be cool.
For the start of The Fair, and then school.
Summer’s end is in sight,
We will soon, just sit tight,
Welcome fall, the seasons’ crown jewel.

Obedience 2

Two-thirds of the way through our first run at Obedience 2 and we’re holding our own. But our classmates are two 6ish-month old puppies, one a lively labrador, the other a chickenhearted chihuahua, which makes my 3 year-old galoot of a golden the freakishly tall kid in the back row of the kindergarten class picture.

Ruffian is the instructor’s choice for demonstration dog when introducing a new skill, only because the little lab loses any semblance of self-control when Kelly approaches – his tail begins beating the floor as soon as she looks his way – and the chihuahua is, well, a chihuahua.

Ruff’s attention span is growing and his restraint in the company of his canine contemporaries is improving on a weekly basis. He’s an enigma though, compared to every other golden I’ve worked with, because his treat drive can be tepid.

I’ve invested in the expensive freeze dried turkey hearts and bison parts that he deems a fair wage, and amassed a small arsenal of discreet attention-getters – clicks, clucks, hisses, whistles, subtle finger pokes to his meaty thighs, gentle finger pats on his sometimes-meaty head, and my high-pitched happy voice – to refocus his focus on me and the task at hand.

Still, he and sweet lab Winston would drop the gloves and enjoy a raucous retriever rumble if we’d just let loose the leashes.

And he’d welcome the opportunity to pursue Wonton, sitting on his owner’s lap to our right, as I’m fairly sure Ruffian considers the tiny trembler small prey animal.

He is making progress though, and would be, paws-down, top dog of the trio if we practiced, even a little, every day. But the gods of Everything Else in Your Life and the demons of Put That One Off ‘Til Tomorrow are leading the pack this summer, while Ruff and I take the tortoise route.

With the exception of Boone the brindle greyhound, who was granted dispensation from most obedience skills due to his gentle nature, good manners and inherent respect for house rules, (other than the one that requested he sleep on any of his 3 designated dog beds and not the king-size with the pillowy comforter) Ruffian is undisputably the slowest of all my dogs to master the simple art of getting into Heel position.

To add to his mental muddle, last week we introduced “Side,” which is heel position on my right, and I could see the brain cell activation spark, though full ignition will take a few more strikes of the flint.

He’s got a solid Sit, Down and Stay. Most of the time.

Loose-leash heeling looks good until something, or someone, shows up in front of us. Or to the side. Or behind.
His willingness to leave the comfort of his crate continues to be inconsistent, based on location, ambient sound and/or whatever goes through the mind of a trusting soul once abandoned in an isolated wildlife refuge, but the reluctance recedes with a couple taps to the corner of the crate, which convince him to stand up, peek out, and confirm the safety of exiting the vehicle.

His grasp of the basic principles of generally accepted canine conduct, along with the lack of a requirement for polished execution of competition-ready obedience exercises helped us pass the Therapy Dog evaluation on our first attempt, albeit with a performance that was not pretty and fortuitously aided by a benevolent evaluator and a bit of Irish luck.

So, we’ll continue our education to sharpen our skills to get through our 2-year renewal assessment with a lot less stress and a couple less prayers.

Oh, and for fun.

He is not a dumb dog, but he does think differently and therefore, so must I. Solving the puzzle of Ruffian’s processing is definitely a journey; on a road less traveled, full of S-curves, forks and roundabouts.

Obedience 3 begins in August, and I am wearing my walking shoes.

Mud, Bugs & Squatters

June was hot and wet, fourteen inches emptied from the rain gauge last month, an additional three inches this week. Our Dry Lot, “a designated, area without grass, used to protect the pastures from overgrazing while providing space for horses to exercise and socialize in a mud-free environment” has not been dry since December.

When you live in the lowlands, mud management is mandatory, so we’re making our way through the mire, glad for dry day and drain tile.

Now relieved of all riding duties, Chicago is, for the first time in our 23 years together, barefoot. We’re watching for any issues with his soft soles that may show the need for summer shoes, but with the spongy ground and his life of doing nearly nothing, he currently enjoys the literal feel or the ground beneath his feet.

Poor Moe is the 2025 bug magnet, his empty eye socket an open invitation for flying insect inhabitation. The vets assure me I will do no damage, but it’s with the gentlest of touch that I swab out the discharge with a couple wet cotton balls. He stands quietly for the cleaning and accepts the almost-always-on fly mask, removed only during his afternoon snack and snooze in the stall.

Moe’s fly spray tolerance is improving. He’ll now stand still for application to the front end and part of the hind legs. As long as it’s an aerosol can. And we’re in his stall. And I’m restricting his movement by holding him by his fly mask, halter or lead rope. Pony steps maybe, but steps nonetheless.

Along with summer storms, June ushered in a relaxed Ruffian, considerably calmed since assuming the role of Solitary Dog, engaging in watered-down renderings of his rough housing and rug tousling only when his cousin, little lab Remi, comes to visit.

His boisterous behavior has settled at a level Remi finds reasonable, so she’s now willing to play with the formerly raucous Ruff and during a recent weekend stay, introduced him to the joy of cooling off in swamp puddles. Specifically, the mucky pool of marsh water in the front woods, an area Ruffian had not previously ventured into but to which he has since returned several times.

Remi is a petite, short-coated black lab who dries quickly. Ruff is a galootish, long-coated golden retriever who does not.

Mixed with the mud of Four Sticks is that of the county parks through which Ruffian and I continue to ramble. Some have more high ground and dry terrain than others, so “we” choose our daily destination based on recent meteorological conditions.

I spend a fair amount of time with my Swiffers®, wet and dry.

Of course, Ruff’s not afraid of no stinkin’ mud, but he is a bit of a fair-weather walker who heats up much faster than he cools down, so he casts his vote for whichever trail routes us most quickly back to the shade, with minimal mosquitoes and deer flies. It’s the bugs’ busy season, but I’ve found repellants that keep Ruffian and me on their Unacceptable Donor lists.

Fennel fares best of all the beasts around here in the summer, his paws clean, the rest of him free of insect bites, but he does bear the burden of sharing his space with a variety of comers and goers, which he gracefully endures.

After I fended off their protracted campaign to claim the light fixture in Moe’s stall as their nesting spot, the swallows successfully launched a stealthy operation to build on the railing above the sliding door between the barn and the shelter. I don’t know for certain if the mass of mud and feathers holds any nestlings, but have temporarily ceded the territory, just in case.

The adults hang tight to the barn, paying no mind to most of us, but swoop down, hissing and clicking menacingly at the little ginger cat, should he have the audacity to stroll out the big door.

Even the shelter of his barn cannot be called Fennel’s own, as there is a buff and white cat, first noticed on the property last July, who makes frequent appearances.

I’ve spotted him in the driveway, on the hitching post, in the cushioned chair on the porch, in the cushioned chair on the flatbed trailer, in the soffit above the hay stall, in the soffit above the hay loft, in the corner of the hay loft, and at the top of the ladder of the hay loft, just behind Fennel, when I climbed up to toss the last of the 2024 bales over the rail. As I stepped on the floor of the loft, he quietly retreated to the back pallet, monitored my movements, then strolled back to his original position when I headed down the ladder.

A couple weeks ago, he’d slept through his alarm and was still in the shop when Fennel and I went in for breakfast.

Fennel’s fuzzed-out hesitation alerted me to the presence of a foreign body, so I left the divider door open and went in the barn to distribute morning hay.

Sure enough, I was standing next to Moe, setting out the first flakes for his perusal when the new guy scurried for the exit. Low to the ground, laser focused on his only way out, he paused when he saw me but picked up the pace when I stood still and verbally assured him his safe passage.

He used to run when I got close – closer than expected though, so I suspect he’s learned to do the math required to determine the limits of his safe zone. But lately he’s allowed me to get within a few feet, and I talk to him when I see him (ever the trendsetter, I was predicted to be a “crazy cat lady” by a coworker many, many years ago, before the concept was a thing) letting him know he’s welcome to stary as long as he doesn’t hurt the little orange scaredy cat who already lives here.

His response to my chatter is direct eye contact and calm confidence. No fear or movement, no conversation or debate.

He may or may not be a neighbor’s pet. He may or may not be a friend of Fennel. I once heard them conferring behind me, a couple quiet hisses, but no growling. I suspect they were merely ironing out the details of their agreement.

They seem to have an understanding of harmonious cohabitation, so he’s welcome to stay.

Until he meets Ruffian, at which time the contract may require re-negotiation.

We Did It

May 31, 2025 – I realized in the morning that I’ve taken and passed this Pet Partners test, three times, albeit many years ago, twice with sweet golden Zenga and once with Boone the humble greyhound.

Zenga’s penchant for soft fleecy toys was challenged by the miniature Clifford-the-Big-Red Dog stuffed animal that he had to pass during the “Leave It” part of the test, and the evaluator admitted when we were done that she thought we “were a goner” as she saw his wide eyes and raised ears after setting it on our prescribed path. But he heard the unspoken underlying “and I mean it” in my “leave it” request and resisted the urge to grab the little stuffed setter as we passed by.

Boone’s colossally laid-back character made for a colossally stress-free evaluation. He was more likely to lag than drag during the loose-leash walking exercises; he welcomed interaction with people, none of whom he considered a stranger, and he because had no interest in other dogs, whether he knew them or not, ignoring the neutral dog came naturally.

But Ruffian’s big challenges would be 1. relaxing enough to politely interact with strange people in a strange place and 2. getting out of the truck so he could go into a strange place and interact with strange people, neither of which we’ve mastered despite countless trips and training sessions in strange places with strange people.

Appearance and grooming count for this test, so Ruff was subjected to the full spa treatment on Friday night, his resistance to which left me with a pulled hip muscle, but we wouldn’t lose points for a limping handler, so I took that one for the team.

To keep us (well ok, me) calm, we started our Saturday, as we usually do, with a walk in the park, followed by thorough brushing on the grooming table to remove any grassy remains before we headed for the fairgrounds.

Because this evaluation technically begins with the team’s arrival at the testing site, I prepared some strategies for dislodging Ruffian from the truck if he shrunk back to the dark side of his crate when I opened the lift gate and planned to park in a space a little obscured from the entry door.

Fear not, he was right at the front, perfectly placed to show me the deep brown wood tick burrowing into his bright white forehead. I picked it off and tossed it in the dirt, sparing it my usual tick-torture tactics, setting it free to drink on some other dog, then completed a cursory visual check and tactile inspection to make sure this parasite had worked alone, thankful for Ruff’s ivory fur that offers no camouflage for the little bloodsucking critters.

We entered the test building, a cavernous metal structure that houses agricultural exhibitions during the county fair, and as our evaluator reviewed our paperwork, Ruffian and I wandered around to get familiar with the place.

Ruff was uneasy but under control, though he did startle at the giant fan blades spinning slowly and silently on the ultra-high ceiling. The evaluator marveled that no one, neither she nor any of the teams that preceded us, had noticed them all day.

Great to be a pioneer.

We started a little rough, Ruff was obviously stressed, and we finished the first half of the evaluation on the edge of earning a Not Ready rating, which would’ve sent us home immediately. No passing Go, no collecting two hundred dollars, no green participation ribbon.

But Ruffian pulled himself together for his last-chance exercise and proved his Therapy Dog potential. Not only did he accept the hugging, petting and touching of the volunteers, but he looked around for more when they moved away. He showed interest in engagement with very volunteer and earned a “Very polite dog!” bonus comment on his “Offered a treat” exercise.

So, we passed the test. I couldn’t convince him to sit too close to the Very Scary ottoman that held his Certificate of Completion, but we’re good for the next 2 years, plenty of time to refine the skills and build the confidence to face his fears of ceiling fans and furniture.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Pet Partners Therapy Dog
Ten months ago
We faced our fears
With practice and a test
We passed and now
Repeat it all
In only two more years.

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

Obedience 1 for the Third Time

A little short on time, but needing a little training, I opted to combine my errands with Ruffian’s schooling, loaded him into the truck and headed “into town”, where I parked on the main block of the main street, poured Ruff out of his car crate and walked half a block to the post office.

As is his M.O., once out of the truck he moved along with me, sling-shotting between just behind my left knee and just in front of my left foot, where he doesn’t exactly pull, but neither does he walk with what would pass as the “loose leash” expected in our upcoming Therapy Dog evaluation.

In the post office lobby, we met two kind strangers who commented on his good looks and asked permission to pet him. Perfect practice for Exercises 2 and 3 in the Skills Assessment of the evaluation.

He sat readily and quietly for the head pats and ear scratches, and while he’d earn top scores for prompt response to, and maintaining contact with, his handler, based on the quivering of his hind quarters, he’d lose a couple points in the Relaxed Body Language category.

It occurs to me that I could stand strategically for that part of the test, to shield his shivers from the eyes of the evaluator, but
a. I expect s/he will be experienced enough to see through the screen, and even more,
b. I’d like Ruff to believe that he is safe when I’m standing next to him, even when surrounded by curious crowds in strange spaces with odd odors and novel noises.

We left the post office and despite his desire to beeline straight for the truck, walked around the block that is Main Street. We rounded the corner across from the fire station and I noticed the sign on the town’s newest business – a dog training center. Hmmm.

There is a QR code posted on the door, but I opted for an old-school laptop internet search when I got home, and discovered a new Obedience class had started the night before and would run through mid-April.

Mid-April would give us plenty of time to practice our freshly honed skills and even allow enrollment in a second short class to prep for our end of May evaluation.

So, I emailed the instructor who replied Immediately, and yada, yada, yada, Ruff and I are 4 weeks into Level 1 Obedience.

Again.

The third time seems to be a charm for our educational pursuits, and the magic starts once we settle in our space in the training center, but I’ve yet to crack the code for getting my comely coward out of the truck in any public space, without considerable coaxing.

He is slightly more amenable to leaving his safe spot, which is to say I no longer have to drag the whole dang crate, fully loaded with a reluctant retriever, out of the hatchback. But unless Rowdy’s with us to run reconnaissance, Ruff still hangs tight, hugging the blue nylon barrier that protects him from the menace that may forever remain a mystery.

Sometimes he’ll face the fear enough to stand in the opening of the front flap, but he’s yet to summon the courage for the daring leap to the outside world.

So, I tap the top of the travel kennel, jiggle it just enough to encourage him to exit the Explorer without the need to tilt the crate to a 45-degree angle, and after a few moments of soulful stares, reassuring ear rubs and reminders that we have safely completed this mission on at least 67 previous occasions, he takes the trust fall, gives me minimal time to press the close button on the tailgate and we advance post-haste to the entrance of the building.

Once inside, the anxiety eases as we make our way to our usual spot in the back right corner, first chair facing West – seems all the students, 2- and 4-leggeds alike, are creatures of habit who appreciate the comfort of consistency.

Our classmates include two darling doodles and a charming Chihuahua who hops his way around the room mostly on his hind legs. His owner’s objective is to teach him that the tiny toes on all four of his feet should touch the floor, and like the rest of us, she’s seeing some success in embracing instructor Kelly’s counsel that short periods of everyday practice pay dividends.

On a daily basis now Ruffian is sitting, lying, standing, staying, waiting, and loose-leash-walking up in the office, down in the family room, on the stairs, in the barn, on the driveway, in the park. We vary duration, distance and distractions, and all this thinking exhausts much of the mental energy previously used to fuel his desire to chew slippers, socks and throw rugs.

He still conducts the occasional raid of the clothes hamper in the closet, and sometimes grabs the bath mat in front of the tub, but it’s mostly for show or old-time’s sake. He drops them as soon as we make eye contact.

We’re still working in the low distraction zone, but I’m encouraged by our progress. Ruff seems to enjoy the engagement, he’s willing to try what I’m asking him to do, even if it means lying down at the back door or walking in heel position around the pool table.

I like where this is going.

I like the fun of dog training classes, being around people who like being around dogs.

I like learning new techniques from a trainer with a sense of humor.

I like listening to the sound of dog paws padding across a rubber matted floor.

I love watching the lights coming on as Ruff figures out the right response.

I just don’t like pouring seventy-five pounds of pup onto the parking lot.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Obedience Begins Again
We’re at it again
Another dog class
The test’s scheduled for May
Here’s hoping we pass

Back on the Therapy Dog Track

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forward, Forward, Forward

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

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

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

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

I hoped.

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

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

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

They have trained me well.

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

Forward, forward, forward.

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

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

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

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

Forward, forward, forward.

In a crazy figure-8ish sort of way.