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.

More Hot Spots and Hives

After a sweltering, sticky weekend at an air show in Wisconsin, I came home to find a swollen, stinky Moe.

He seemed unbothered by the tacky fluid seeping through skin stretched too tightly to stem the tide from the dinner plate-sized edema sitting on the center of his stomach, or the saucer-sized swellings surrounding it, or the stumps that were his hind legs.

Even the disconcerting smell of slightly rotting flesh emitted by the gummy golden crust dripping and drying on his belly and back-end seemed of neither consequence nor interest to the placid pony, whose only complaint seemed to be that I was late for dinner.

Just toss a flake of hay in that feeder please.

I snapped a few pictures of the puffy parts to send to the veterinarian, who squeezed us into her Monday schedule.

While under the influence, Moe was perfectly willing to let Dr Abbi and her able assistant swab and scrub the oozing inflammation under a continuous flow of cool water from the barn hose.

Once sober though, he cut off the cooperation. My instructions were twice-daily cold-hosing, and my intent was to go with the no-contact treatment plan, no picking or patting, just running cool water on his engorged appendages, but Moe clearly requested an alternative approach to his rehabilitation.

Twice, we waltzed out to the alley where we engaged in a clumsy circle dance. A little jive, a bit of swing and a whole lot of quick step, choreographed to keep my two feet from tangling with his four while zigging, zagging, shifting and snaking around the hose with its nozzle on the “Shower” setting.

Mercifully, the swelling subsided by Wednesday evening, so the ballroom closed after only two performances.

Equally fortunate was the discovery that Moe would willingly take his medicine – little green steroid pills and large white antibiotic tablets – if I’d sweeten the pot with a modicum of senior feed and splash of molasses.

This discovery negated the need to dissolve the antibiotic in water and administer via the sizable plastic syringe left by the vet, our single attempt at which ended with my hair, my hands, my shirt and the stall walls dosed with a smattering of SMZ. Double strength.

I am now, healthy as a horse.

Fly management was deemed a critical piece of the recovery period, as I can’t spray that raw flesh, though seeping blood and sticky serum is a feast for flying bugs. So, I smear an insect repellant cream above, below, and around the sides of the sores, which is surprisingly effective.

Success has also come with the old gross standby of Fly Ribbons, sticky strips that hang from the shelter ceiling, and are now covered in fly corpses. They’ll keep us from gracing the cover of Barn Beautiful, but they get the job done.

And Bonus Benefit – cause or coincidence, a couple days after the tacky tape appeared, the barn swallows disappeared, so there is no longer guano mixed into the manure picked up in the shelter, and Fennel no longer has to dodge the dive-bombers that harassed him in the shelter doorway.

By Thursday Moe was looking much better, in a ghoulish, zombie sort of way, but he did draw the “Get Out of Farrier Work Free” pass this month.

Chicago, however, came in for a pre-pedicure spa session with a string of oozing open wounds under his mane. Showing signs of neither discomfort nor distress, he had his feet trimmed as scheduled, while I sent snapshots of his sticky neck to the vet clinic, with a request to review the records from our late February episode.

By the time I got the a-ok for Hot Spots and Hives Treatment Take 2, Chicago’s left-side neck and shoulder were popping with quarter-sized welts. Nothing that the steroid pills and antibiotic cream couldn’t contain, so he joined Moe on the rehab roster.

As happens when animals live with a fair amount of free range and free time, the source of the sores cannot be determined for certain. A biting bug or a poisonous plant, contacted or consumed, are the likely causes.

Moe maintains a minimum daily requirement of one pasture nap in the sternal recumbent position, which allows a little repast while in repose, and would account for the draining dermatitis mostly limited to his belly and back legs.

Chicago tends to confine his serious sleeping time to his stall but does relish a good spine-scratching roll in the grass, which could explain the crust on his crest.

So while I lean in the direction of a contact reaction, we examined, evaluated, went with an educated guess to treat the symptoms, and launched an investigation of the pasture which may never prove conclusive.

The Schwarzeneggers in my stalls are on the mend.

The flies are managed and minimized.

The pastures are mowed and treated and temporarily closed off.

And I’m hoping for a hard freeze in August.

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.

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

Hot Spots and Hives

As Chicago walked past me the other night, on his way to the hay flakes in the field, I noticed a bump on his belly. I followed him until he stopped at his preferred pile, inspected the lump and found a few more irregularly shaped swellings on his stomach.

Standing in the moonlit pasture at eight o’clock on a Sunday evening, I faced my dreaded animal owner dilemma – Sunday night emergency vet call or wait and see how things look in the morning?

I ran through my standard checklist – he’d been a little quiet lately, but by the end of February we all get a little quiet, as we wish away the rest of the winter. His movement was still sound by 28-year-old horse standards. He was eating and drinking with output proportionate to input, his temperature was normal, and his reaction to the poking and prodding of my amateur examination was complete disinterest.

I opted for the Scarlett O’Hara approach, and in the morning the big bump had mostly disappeared, but was replaced by several patches of puffiness, none of which seemed to bother him a bit, nor did the 5 small weepy sores that now dotted his left side between his shoulder and his hip.

Time for a professional opinion.

Dr Taylor arrived in the afternoon and given the localized area affected, she best-guessed that he’d contracted a bacterial skin infection. I moved him from his stall into the barn aisle, snapped the crossties to his halter as she whispered just the right sweet nothings, so the slightly suspicious Chicago didn’t even feel the sting of the steroids she injected in his neck.

Chicago on steroids – there’s a phrase that would’ve struck fear in my heart back in our riding days when his response to any request he deemed unpleasant or unreasonable was to send me somersaulting over his left shoulder. But the medication worked wonders and within an hour or two the welts were shrinking, and the weeping sores were drying up.

We’re halfway through the 10-day treatment of anti-inflammatory pills (4 tiny green tablets that pair well with his senior feed mash) and antibiotic cream to smear on the sores, well on our way down Recovery Road.

We’re also well into mud season, so before I spread on the salve, I scrape off the sludge. Then, because I’m there with the grooming tools, I give Chicago a full-body cursory curry. Then, because I’m there with the grooming tools, I run a quick sweep over Moe’s coat of many mud clumps and pasture sprigs – remnants of his multiple daily siestas.

Both horses agreeably accept the brushing and extended stall time. Ruff and Rowdy are on spring break from the barn until the frost breaks and the muck dries, so it’s quiet except for their contented sighs and their crunching of the apple-oat treats.

For me, the added time has turned out to be a bit of a blessing, a buffer to the chaos, a boost to the belief that life goes on despite the bluster.

There are things that need doing. Things I can do, must do, want to do. Things that matter; that make a difference, at least to those in my little wedge of the world.

Caring for my horses helps me clean the clutter and calm the confusion in my mind. They are antibiotics for anxiety, sulfa drugs for the soul.

Even with hot spots and hives.

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.

Warmin’ Up

We’re working our way out of the January Big Chill, temperatures below zero since sometime Saturday. But the sun is out, the wind has settled and after 25+ years of living with horses, I’ve amassed an ample stash of unattractive but utilitarian cold weather clothing.

I’ve accumulated an assortment of head bands, stocking caps and an ear-flapped Elmer Fudd hat, neck gaiters, a balaclava, wool socks, winter boots, and insulated everything from underwear to overcoats.

So, I gear up and waddle to the barn, where I get my chores done in a finely honed routine that minimizes exposure to the worst of winter weather.

The single chink in my arctic armor is that although I’ve invested a mountain of money to keep some heat in my hands – silk liners, down mittens, fleece gloves, leather choppers, air-activated, battery-powered and rechargeable hand warmers – I have not yet found a surefire solution to freezing my fingertips.

But that’s what warm(ish) tack rooms are for, so when I lose my hold on the handle of the manure fork, I find Fennel in the heated shop to defrost my digits in his winter-fattened fur for a few minutes.

Our barn opens to a south-facing covered shelter, remarkably toasty, protected from the wind, heated by the sun, and both horses seem content to hang out there much of the day, wandering into the pasture for brief cooldowns when the solar power gets too intense.

Even at 7:00 pm, 2 hours before my usual night check, when it’s twenty below, my time-honored limit for leaving horses outside, I slide open the big door to see Chicago and Moe standing quietly, with plenty of hay leftover from the 4:00 feeding. They’re calm, no shivering, no pacing, no hunched posture, just standing quietly. Waiting? Wondering? Watching the world go by in the woods?

They assess as I, and more importantly, my freshly filled wheelbarrow, assume our positions in the doorway, then move to their places, Chicago at the west side feeder, Moe front and center, grazing directly from the source. They’re built for this.

They demonstrate no distress, in part, I suppose, because I give them more hay (the fuel that keeps their furnaces fired up) than they can consume, which means they get to pick through for their favorite forages, go back through for seconds and thirds, then pee on the remnants just before I come down to re-stock.

Chicago and Moe are more compatible companions than bonded buddies, spending some of their days in separate parts of the pasture, but mostly they hang together in the shelter keeping each other company and keeping each other warm.

They’re also sporting their hi-test teddy bear plush this winter. Because 2024 was unusually mild, Moe’s cold tolerance was never tested, so I wasn’t sure where his internal thermostat is set.

Turns out, he’s a polar pony, showing no sign of discomfort outside, and a definite preference for the wide-open spaces of barn’s backyard to the 10 x 12 confines of a stall in the stable.

In this second year together, my yellow spotted gelding is yielding to the idea that he’s with us for the long haul, that’s this is an ok place to be, and that we’re an ok crew to be with.

He now pauses in the open stall door to accept an extra apple treat or a (very) quick muzzle nuzzle before heading out to his afternoon snack session.

When I go out to take his picture, he follows me around so closely that I can’t capture him on my camera because he moves every time I do, his fuzzy nose on my frozen hand just as I tap the shutter button, which means I have almost no Moe photos that don’t include my left index finger alongside his right nostril.

He loiters in front of the wide sliding door while I churn through chores, luring me over to lavish him with a little mittened neck massage, and this is where I find my favorite hand heater.

The neck under a horse’s mane is blissfully balmy and there is no better way to warm up on a wintry day than to stand in the sunny shelter, hands hidden in a horse’s hair, soaking up all that equine essence.

The biggest banes to Moe’s existence these days are the dogs, at whom he pins his ears when they dawdle as they pass through the shelter to the pasture.

Ruffian recently watched Moe trot toward the barn and started making his way into the merriment until Moe whirled around to clarify the NO CANINES canon. I’m not sure if he was driven by good sense or simple survival instinct, but Ruff was impressed enough by the display of strong, speedy suppleness to stay on his own side of the fence.

Moe may be missing one eye and some strength in his hind end, but his communication skills are still intact.

As is his always available natural handwarmer.

It’s a Wonderful Life – 2024

Old friends bring new friends with old connections and a new farrier

innesota golf in February, March & April, May, June & July, August, September & October. And November

Fake mustaches are funny, unless you’re a golden retriever with anxiety issues

Guesting in Grand Marais, cruisin’ in Crosby, & rooting for a national champion in River Falls

Most people are good, many are exceptional, a few are extraordinary

Breakfast on Bridge Street, coffee at Caribou, lunch on the Luce Line, dinner at Dehn’s

There is strength in the circle of siblings

Owls hooting in the front woods, coyotes yipping in the back pasture, deer rustling in the side swamp

There is no rule against getting out of the shower and into your pajamas at 5:00 on a cold and dark December night

Growing old with good friends gets us through good, the bad, the ugly, and the unpleasant

Babies are the best medicine. So are puppies

For better or worse, Chicago, Moe, Rowdy, Ruffian, Mace and Fennel = chores that need doing Every day. And it’s always for better

Solar eclipses, lunar eclipses, meteor showers, shooting stars, comet tails, super moon, harvest moon, pink and blue moon, big dipper, little dipper, orion the hunter, and that one that looks like a chair

It is still a beautiful world

Wishing you a happy, healthy 2025

Grateful for Good Work

November usually brings a dreary month of darkness that I dread. But I’ve found this fall to be a period of quiet reflection. Rather than focusing on the bleakness of bare trees, I’ve turned my attention to the brightness of starry skies, with appreciation for their appearance, every morning, every night. Despite the aggravations of my day, the universe carries on, full of encouraging affirmations, if only I pay attention and acknowledge.

Fennel and Mace, beefed up to combat the upcoming cold, continue to meet my appearance in the barn with little purry meows. Granted their idea of a bivouac is a fleece-lined bed in the heated barn, and they don’t actually address me until I get into said heated barn, and their greetings are really more about food than fondness, but still, it’s feline friendship at its finest.

The change of season comes with a change of chores list.

Cobwebs on the corners need knocking down and sweeping up, dust-coated stall fans need wiping down and packing up, warm-weather water buckets need scrubbing down and heated buckets need hanging up.

Bales of shavings, hay and senior feed must be loaded, unloaded and stacked.

Twiglets in Moe’s tail, mud in Chicago’s mane and the dirt deposited deep in their wooly coats need combing and currying. Both horses, even curmudgeonly Moe, welcome the serenity of a small spa session – we all benefit from barn time.

In the house, Ruff and Rowdy keep the Swiffer sweeper fully loaded, scattering dust bunnies and drool across the floor 24-7, and our daily perambulations in the parks add a pattern of clammy pawprints to the mix.

But they are such loyal dogs who, despite demonstrations of disappointment when they realize I’m leaving without them, greet my return with total joy, all is forgiven, we’re working with a clean slate.

They never really buy into my hard sell that they “get to stay here with George!” Instead, they take the treat offered as a consolation prize and immediately look to the door with hope that I misspoke, and they are indeed, headed out with me on some excellent adventure.

Last weekend I left them “Here with George!” on a Friday night and much of the following Saturday, returned in time for night check at the barn, conversation and a cocktail with George, and found myself encircled by golden bodyguards, stationed to make sure my solo missions were complete.

In truth, I appreciate all these obligations, the standard and the seasonal, as they get me out of my head, with its morass of seemingly unsolvable issues – the politics of international relations, the politics of local relations, the heartache of Lewy Body dementia, the struggle to switch the smart tv back to antenna tv, and the Vikings’ apparent inability to win big over obviously inferior opponents.

They ground me, keep my mind still and my body moving. Without them, I’d undoubtedly waste too much time watching Hallmark movies while eating zebra popcorn and drinking hot chocolate laced with Bailey’s – four more things for which I’m grateful.

It is still a beautiful world.

Dust coated, dog slobbered, hay littered, and hair covered, but beautiful.

Happy Thanksgiving!