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.