Those lucky to enjoy the companionship of a furry, feathered, finned, scaled, or shelled friend are, indeed, lucky enough.
The Golden Guys
November highlights the opportunity to reflect on the gifts we’ve been given, and for me, that includes the four-legged livestock with whom I share my life.
My animals get me out of my head, out of my house and into the rest of the world.
Rowdy keeps me moving, with his passion for the park, watching to see what I wear out of the closet, exploding with excitement when he sees what he interprets to be exercise apparel.
The Old Guard
Fennel and Mace keep me still, with their appreciation of a warm lap on which to receive a quiet cuddle.
Biskit and Chicago keep me mindful of the natural world, blessing my backyard with the natural beauty of equines.
The Big Boys
They all keep me learning, with health or behavioral issues that lead me through coaching clinics, training classes, educational seminars, veterinary consultations, Google searches, and pet care catalogs.
They soothe in the storm of stressful seas and motivate when I crave the couch.
They speak in barks, hisses, nickers, purrs, whines, whinnies, stares across the room and stares across the yard. Incredibly intense stares.
They are extraordinary listeners, exemplary secret-keepers, and conversation starters who provide smooth ice-breaker introductions and spontaneous chit-chat with people in the park.
They make me laugh and cry and think and play.
They bring me comfort, joy, a sense of responsibility, and a reason to get up in the morning – even when I want to sleep in.
They gallop, saunter, strut, trot, run and wiggle into my heart, and transform my house into a home. A dust-bunnied, paw-printed, barn-boots-in-the-back-entry home.
Fennel’s scared and he’s making us late. I’m not sure just how long they will wait. His appointment’s been set. It’s his time for the vet. But I can’t get him into his crate.
The lives of my barn cats are something of a secret. We often connect at one, some, or all my standard chore times, and while Mace seems to stay in the space between the house and the barn and shows up according to schedule, Fennel lives his own life, a little lion on the loose, a panther on the prowl, a tiger on a tear. Or maybe not.
Braveheart
Turns out my once-courageous kitten grew up to be a cowardly cat. Fennel came to Four Sticks, a 10-week-old bit of orange tabby toughness, ready to take on the Goliath in golden retriever clothing. He honed his hunting skills on baling twine, barn flies and grasshoppers, then leveled up to field mice, woodpile chipmunks and the occasional slow-witted songbird.
His confidence built his social skills – he sought us out, sat in our laps, showed us affection.
But that youthful cat swagger led him out to the acres of adventure and adversity around us. He disappeared for one 24-hour period, then eventually a second. One of his mystery missions took the tip of his tail, the other left an abscess on his foot.
I’ve learned to (mostly) let go of the worry when Fennel doesn’t show up for a day but have been saddened by the fear he’s developed since he started exploring the external environment.
Hunting from the Hitching Post
Two months ago, I went to collect my little orange cat for his annual vet visit. He was conveniently located in the barn, so I made a few pleasantries, scooped him up, carried him into the tack room and tried to put him into his little cat crate.
He Houdini’d himself out of my arms, dodged the crate, raced out of the tack room, and scrambled up the hayloft ladder.
So, crate in awkward tow, I climbed up to the hayloft. Though Mace happily roused himself from a cozy divot in a hay bale to greet me, Fennel refused to acknowledge my existence. I shuffled hay bales, cleared a path and by the light of my silvery cell phone, crawled across the scratchy silage to entice him. I murmured a few less than pleasant pleasantries disguised in a reassuring tone to lure him out of his lair, which worked until he spied the crate, which inspired yet another incredibly athletic leap out of my arms, down the ladder and into the tack room.
I wiped the blood from my bicep, hauled the crate down the ladder back to the tack room, this time remembering to close the door behind me. That is to say, the door into the barn. Before I could get to the door into the shop, Fennel had it figured as his escape route and was in the shop and out the cat door.
Hiding from the Vet
Three strikes. I called the game and called the vet to cancel the appointment. Next opening, 6 weeks out.
I have no idea what injury or incident elicited the break in our bond, but implementation of Operation Befriend the Feline is showing signs of building it back. Fearful Fennel is still skittish and beats a hasty retreat in response to unanticipated movements, unexpected sounds, and unknown individuals, but his recovery time is getting shorter.
He meets me on the sidewalk most mornings and escorts me directly to the cat chow container. He generally greets me from the top of the hayloft when I’m in the barn and often ventures down for a little cuddle and conversation.
We suffered a brief setback last week, when the strategic use of kibble in the cat dish, closed doors in the tack room and tail-first loading in the crate resulted in successful arrival for, and survival of, the make-up veterinary appointment. Fennel demonstrated his disdain for me and my deceit for about 36 hours, after which he accepted my good faith offering of Iams Healthy Feline, so we’re back on the Barn Buddy Trail of Trust.
He’s a big fraidy cat, that is clear. But I’m sure he’ll get over his fear. We got to the vet, And now I’ll just bet, He’ll be plenty more brave by next year.
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.
Chicago stands patiently
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.
Biskit does not
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?
Roll CallBarn BuddiesWorkin’ Cat
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.
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.
The Pest PatrolThe Happy HooliganThe Portly PalominoThe Big Red Beast
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.
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 14th 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.
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.
From Four Sticks Farm 