Prerequisites for Chicago’s new barn buddy were rudimentary – calm compliance was crucial, color was not – so that the next horse in the herd happens to be another golden gelding is pure coincidence.
Biskit and Moe occupy separate spaces on the palomino palette. Biskit was butterscotch pudding while Moe is banana cream pie, with subtle spots on his back and mottles on his muzzle that pay homage to his Appaloosa heritage, and a slightly stilted manner of movement that gives credence to the claim of gaited horse in his genealogy.
Some of the loco in his motion can probably be attributed to the permanent injury of his left hip and pelvis from an accident in his past which earned him everlasting “Companion Only” status, and likely also initiated the injury to his left eye that was serious enough to require removal.
Though Moe is missing one eye, he makes his way with monocular eyesight so smoothly that I tend to forget about the restricted field of vision. Fortunately, I also tend to talk to my animals – nonsensical ramblings of an overthinking mind – so we’ve only had one little spook in the stall when I touched his shoulder without announcing my presence.
Biskit’s mane and tail were wavy and coarse while Moe sports a sleeker, finer look that self-straightens the loosely knotted tangles that twist into his hair during the daily rolls he so relishes.
Both met the 1,100-pound mark on the Purina weight tape, but with the advantages of four inches in height and seven years of age, Moe flaunts the flat belly of youth – no pot belly on this pony. Yet.
He’s gentle and quietly confident, settled in the top spot with just one squeak of a squeal, when Chicago took one step too close to the hay feeder of choice. They’ve now established a harmonious little herd of quiet camaraderie, grazing a little closer together a little more often.
He’s accustomed to Rowdy roaming around the pasture, and while Ruffian would enthusiastically liven up the party, the rest of us are not yet ready to extend that invitation.
Moe appreciates the structure of a schedule but expresses no reproach for the inevitable variations in our daily timetable, especially if there are conciliatory cookies involved.
He comes up from the pasture when he spots me down at the barn and greets me with a heartwarming basso-tenor nicker (which compliments Chicago’s charming alto-soprano) and though some say the vocalizations of a horse are all about command and control, I like to believe they’re the language of affection and attachment.
We’re still getting to know each other, but he’s firmly fixed in the Four Sticks family, and I’m so happy to have him. Turns out, the heart has a miraculous capacity for love – holding memories of the lost while making space for the found. Addition without subtraction.
October, my favorite month, is off to a rocky start.
Biskit suffered a bout of colic last week. The first vet visit came Tuesday night after finding the portly palomino lying at the far end of the dry lot, not his usual nap time. We tubed him with warm water and oil to help move things along his G-I tract, kept him in the barn, monitored his intake and output. He seemed to rally on Wednesday, but by Thursday he’d stopped eating and drinking, and after a few hours of treatment, when it was clear he had some sort of intestinal impediment and was still in pain despite the drugs onboard, I made the decision to let him go.
The Best choice is definitely not always the Easy choice.
Animals assimilate life and death differently than do their caretakers and they accept the inevitable with an admirable grace. Horses who colic often paw at the ground, bite at their sides, or roll violently on the ground, and I’d expect a dramatic display from my Pony of Very Little Patience, aptly nicknamed The Toddler by Dr Heather. But Biskit didn’t demonstrate any unruly behavior; he just stood quietly, occasionally raised a front hoof a couple inches off the ground and glanced back at his belly a handful of times.
He quietly endured the treatments, except for the beginning of the Tuesday night tubing procedure, to which he staged a mild protest, But Dr Steve is a pro, and Biskit was running out of fight, so the job was done in short order. He spent two nights in his stall without so much as one tap of his hoof on the door to object, but he also wouldn’t eat or drink, and the water Dr Steve tried to tube into him on Thursday afternoon stopped at the 2-gallon mark, an indication of obstruction.
I stroked his neck, rubbed his ears, looked into his eyes, told him I was sorry he was hurting so, and that I loved him so very much. And I called it.
Chicago, who stayed inside for 2 nights and a day without complaint, lost his herd, and he watched what he could see of the proceedings, calling occasionally, running sprints in the alley when we moved to the arena to put Biskit down. I walked him in after Dr Steve left, and he sniffed Biskit’s body, then grazed on the dregs of the late season grasses poking through the sand.
When returned to the barn and pasture, the Big Red Beast called a few times, but calmed down – no frenzied galloping, just periodic glances toward the arena, at the green tarped mound that was his companion, whinnying and waiting for a response he’ll never hear again.
We all made it through the night, woke to a cold, steady rain and as promised, the kind young man with the compassion to do this work, came early to pick up Biskit’s body. Chicago, who had been quietly eating his morning hay, walked to the side of the shelter with a clear view of the arena and called again, a final, sorrowful unanswerable call.
Beyond heartbreaking.
Biskit had been the favorite of many friends, family, and visitors, especially the non-horsey types, who I think were drawn to the pretty palomino with the friendly “How ya doin?” expression and small stature with the big belly – the equine version of a Dad Bod.
He was a plucky little pony, a loyal friend who exercised himself by doing laps in the alley when I rode Chicago around our little wooded trails. He walked nicely next to me or anyone else on the other end of the lead rope. Even without the rope. He knew his place in the hierarchy and was clever enough to convince Chicago to take the top spot after we lost Rusty, leaving the other two to battle it out for which had to be the leader.
By Saturday I knew Chicago isn’t cut out to be an only child and I found a companion through the Minnesota Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation, the group that brought me Biskit.
Their introduction was perfectly uneventful and with the first slightly flattened ear from Moe, Chicago passed on the baton of Head of the Herd, relieved, I’m sure, to be removed from a position of responsibility.
So, life moves on. Caring for animals keeps us grounded, and living with 2 horses, 2 dogs and 2 cats cements my feet in the deep shit. Though losing Biskit made me want to sink to the shavings in his stall and sob til my tear ducts were tapped out, the others are still here, still needing love and feeding and exercise and cleaning up, no matter the other trials of the day.
The transition of the new guy, the daily routines of the regulars, and a series of other unfortunate life events left little time for rumination, and I find myself vacillating between stoic stone wall and meltdown dish rag, a sea of salty water pooled behind my eyeballs, constantly threatening to breech the levee, successful in the mission at odd and inconvenient times.
Moe moved into the stall in the barn, and I’m delighted to have him join the herd, but Biskit has a permanent place in my heart. I will remember him every time I look at the scuff marks and manure stains he left in the barn aisle, the dings he pounded in the stall door, and the slow-feed hay net he discreetly untied to convert it to the medium-feed speed he preferred; I’ll remember him when I wear the bracelet of leather braided with part of his pony tail, which still smells like him.
In these past few weeks of shortened sunlight, when I’d go down to bring the horses off the pasture for the night, Chicago was already at the barn, or near the gate, ready to collect his treat and walk up to call dibs on the best night hay. But Biskit would stand at the faraway end, waiting for me to walk the length of the dark field, only the moonlight to help me miss the mounds of manure between us. I’d get a couple steps from him, and in response to my “Hey Pony”, he’d lift his head, amble over, collect his cookie and we’d head to the barn, the two of us shuffling side by side in the silent stillness of a Minnesota night. I will miss that.
Zounds and gadzooks, I did it. One year ago, I committed to publish an original blog post on alternate Tuesdays, following the alphabet on a tour of topics.
And I did it.
Once or twice, it was right under the wire, but I did it. On time and to the letter. Yee haw!
As part of the process, I experimented with writing style – lists, poems, plain old prose; I relaxed the reins of composition control, conceding to a muse that sometimes detoured my words from their original destination; and I finally figured out that formatting pictures is not my forte’ – tutorials have been added to the list of next year’s To Be Done.
One of my motivations was to speed up the composition process through consistent practice, and while the words now come a little faster when I sit at the keyboard, I still don’t sit at the keyboard as often as anticipated. But I make it happen at least a few days every week, and that’s enough of a pattern to continue with a promise of improvement, so I’ll keep to the rhythm of the current routine – every other Tuesday.
My personal microcosmic zoological garden provides plenty of material for reflection and reportage as creatures pop in, pop up, and pop out.
Like the three big rats that once rode in on a hay wagon, to be swiftly and singlehandedly dispatched by Mace, the tenacious tabby. #barncatsrule
Or the several black snakes that slithered under the concrete apron of the barn door, but fortunately found more acceptable accommodations elsewhere. #wewillallbehappierifyouaresomewhereelse
Or the occasional skunk that sporadically wanders through the property, evidenced only by a telltale aromatic trail. #p.u.
And the 2023 Monarch Mission, likely to expand in 2024, though hopefully to a new location on the property. I’m all in on perpetuating the pollinators but prefer my front porch to be more of a peaceful place to sit and less of a middle school science lab. #caterpillarspoopalot
Over the year, a few issues and ideas floated through as Maybe musings, but because they didn’t fit the Letter of the Week, I squirreled them away for future posts, with mental notes or old-school scribbles on scraps of paper.
I’ll probably post updates on my (very) recently started Front Trail Project, a nebulous, open-ended plan to create a visibly pleasing, natural park-like area for sitting, strolling, riding, ruminating, chasing chipmunks and watching the world go by. This new development makes George kind of sad despite my insistence that it will not add a single solitary task to his regular maintenance duty roster. I’ll only need his help for the occasional heavy lifting. I think.
Living with animals offers ample opportunities for adventure, adversity, frustration, fun, labor, and laughter – plenty of fodder for blog post ponderings.
Of course, most of my inspiration will continue to come from the soul of Four Sticks Farm – Biskit, Chicago, Fennel, Mace and Rowdy, who bring the chaos and calm, the dirt and delight, the worry and wonder, that fill my heart with gratitude and joy. They make my home my happy place. #staytuned
I’ve recently been obsessed with a home office reorganization which unearthed unusable pens, unfiled papers, and unframed photographs. The pens got tossed and the papers got filed, but the photos are still not framed, just moved to the big pink box in the guest room closet that doubles as my storage space.
Before closing the lid though, I studied the images, many, most, all of them snapshots of my animals in their younger years. My stroll down Memory Lane brought back the beginnings – of bringing home the big red beast and my palomino birthday present.
I was reminded of a rambunctious retriever who would, I was convinced, grow to be an ironic twist of his name, and I remembered barn kittens braving whole new worlds of horse hooves and hay bales.
I was struck, and honestly, a little saddened, by how, back in the day, we were markedly brighter eyed, fresher faced and shinier coated. And thinner.
We’re all maturing mostly gracefully. I don’t sling 50-pound feed sacks over my shoulder these days, but that works out with the current corporate trend of downsized kibble bags; and a bucket full of manure doesn’t go up and over the bunker wall as easily as it once did, but smaller loads in two trips get the job done with a few more steps for the Fitbit.
Back when he was very young – Rowdy
Rowdy, the pup who gleefully vaulted off the retaining wall and out of the hostas to run laps around the dog yard, now ambles in to, and out of the Explorer with the help of a foldup ramp, silencing the telltale “hrmmph” of sore joints when he lands on solid ground. But once we hit the trail, he’s all in on the reconnaissance mission, leaving little slack on the leash as he stops, looks, listens, and sniffs for creatures of interest, past and present.
Meanwhile, the new ramp routine allows me to mark off a minute or two of interval training, as I lift and bend, fold and unfold the fifteen pounds of cumbersome molded plastic.
Back when he was very young – Chicago
Back when he was younger – Biskit
Easy keepers Biskit and Chicago maintain their gelding figures with minimal effort, though the long stems of hay harvested early in the season now wreak a little havoc with their old intestines, so we wait for later cuttings and supplement with softer hay cubes.
Back when he was very young – Mace
Super senior Mace manages to show up first in line for Mess Hall opening, wobbling on a weakening hind end now aligned slightly left of the front. He’s taken to waiting on the rug at the tack room door or on his bed in the barn shop, having recently waved the white flag at the hayloft ladder, but the old brown tabby rarely misses one of his many mini meals.
Back when he was very young – Fennel
Fennel, the freshest face on the farm and the only Four Sticks 4-legged not yet supplemented with some form of arthritis assistance, is getting older like the rest of us, having abandoned the grasshopper pursuits of his kittenhood for the grownup work of real rodent eradication, spending off-duty hours in Goldilocks fashion, lounging on whichever of the 3 hay stacks he finds Just Right.
We accept the realities of aging. We adapt, we adjust, we appreciate.
And we anticipate that someday, for real, “Rowdy” will be an ironic twist.
It drags on, flies by, costs nothing, is money, marches on, stands still, will tell, won’t wait, and we can waste it, save it, spend it, and keep it. Time remains one of the few elements of our lives that we cannot change, and so we move with it, at warp speed or snail’s pace.
We have moved into summertime here in the upper Midwest. Sorel boots are stowed, down coats dry-cleaned, mittens moved to the baskets on the upper shelf, replaced with sandals, shorts and sun hats. Stall fans are plugged in where the heated buckets hung for the past 6 months.
Our practically perfect seasonal switch has allowed for textbook turf in the pasture, and we’ve already reached all-day grazing mode – in May, an all-time record – which makes for very happy horses.
New pasture access can prove difficult for the fragile inner workings of these mighty beasts who are susceptible to gorging in Mother Nature’s candy shop. But we’ve eased into it, building tolerance and intestinal fortitude by limiting the input and monitoring the output for consistency in amount and texture. Because the going is good, and I see Biskit and Chicago occasionally, on their own accord, wander away from the all-you-can-eat buffet that is the open paddock, I know their guts have shifted into summer gear.
Back in the day, Chicago would trot out of the barn after his noon nap, breaking into a canter when he hit the grass line of the pasture, which Rowdy took as his cue to channel the inner herding dog and bolt after him, barking and circling. Rowdy found it great sport, but it was obvious to the rest of us that he was the only party who bought into the idea of an actual threat. Chicago indulged the pretend power trip by half-heartedly kicking a leg in the golden’s general vicinity, and I’d yell at them both until Rowdy ran back to the barn energized and exhausted by his efforts.
These days, Chicago mostly walks into the field as Rowdy watches from the doorway. If he does follow along, it’s more of a trot than a run and Chicago barely lifts his head, let alone his feet, in acknowledgement. And I say nothing, knowing the game has altered with age, and that Rowdy will return momentarily, pick up his squeaker ball and lay down to catch his breath in the barn aisle.
As we make this seasonal shift, I’m mindful of some other lifestyle changes in the works. I dipped my toe into the waters of the horse world by volunteering at an equine-assisted therapy program nearly 25 years ago, fulfilled the childhood fantasy of my first horse a couple years later and relished every minute of learning about horses. Though I sometimes miss the days of boarding barn buddies, clinics, lessons, and trail rides, those days of total equine immersion, I’m mostly content with our simpler, quieter, stay-at-home horse life.
In April I went to the annual Minnesota Horse Expo, an equine extravaganza of demonstrations, exhibitions, and vendors. Back at the turn of the century, this was a 3-day must-see, up close and personal, event that I attended as a veritable sponge, soaking up all my mind would absorb about living with these creatures I love.
This year, I went once. The Expo has shrunk some over the years, likely due to aging-out of organizers, the outbreak of a contagious equine virus followed by the outbreak of a contagious human virus, so there was a little less to take in, but I saw most of what I’d highlighted on my pre-printed schedule, laughed at the feisty donkey foals who kicked up their heels and ran from their mamas, marveled at the moxie of the people who rode their horses in the very scary fairgrounds coliseum, and savored a cheeseburger and a cold beer from that concession stand in the corner by the arena gate.
I replenished a couple insect repellant products for the pasture ponies, but mostly just browsed, content to look at the latest versions of the gear and gadgets I’ve spent the last year re-homing from my tack room.
While I remember well the thrill of new horse ownership and the fun of First purchases, the truth is that I no longer need a hot pink manure fork, a monogrammed saddle pad or a “Not my pasture, Not my bullshit” tank top – though I’ll admit to an ongoing pursuit for a purple plastic feeding pan for my pot-bellied palomino.
I’ve spent money, made friends, realized dreams, survived disappointments, and worked through fear, fatigue, and frustration. I still find fun in equine education and appreciate any opportunity to hang out with horse people. I adore the two big beasts in my backyard, yet still hope to see horses on the trails with I hike with Rowdy.
Biskit, Chicago and l have our small arena and wooded trails to walk under saddle, in long lines, or on a lead rope. I don’t ride much these days and have spent too much time trying to figure out why – fear, other priorities, sloth, or something else – so for now have opted to grant a little grace and just enjoy the horse time spent with all 6 of our feet on the ground, even if that’s an hour in the barn, silent, save for Biskit’s impatient interruptions, watching the shiny copper coming through a curried coat, feeling the satisfaction of wind-whipped snarls in a mane or tail giving way to my conditioner-covered fingers, and smelling the heavenly scent of all things horse.
Here at Four Sticks, we’ve relaxed into the rhythm of a finely ripened relationship, content to connect in ways that don’t involve a left-lead canter because life looks plenty good at a steady-paced walk.
We’ve got chore time, grooming time, farrier and vet time, as well as just plain old hangin’ out time, surrendering some of the things of our youth, but always embracing our blessings.
Minnesota winter has a way of bleeding into Minnesota spring, draining some of us of all hope that we’ll ever again lay eyes or bare feet on that gift of nature that is warm green grass. But somehow, sometime, the weather gods once again secretly apply the tourniquet, and seemingly overnight, the hemorrhaging stops. The snow melts, the mud dries, the trees bud, the grass sprouts, and the stealthy season sneaks in, confirming our sometimes-shaky faith in the certainty of spring’s eventual, inevitable, arrival.
With the knee-deep snow replaced by firmly packed gravel, Biskit and Chicago now amble up and down the alley, assuming their annual obligation to manicure the fence line by nibbling at the emerging greenery. This early spring sampling serves a dual purpose of initializing their intestines to the richness of real grass while keeping the property pretty. They have a job and they do it well.
The horses move through their worlds with an enviable blend of individuality and group dynamics. One may wander back to the barn for a cool drink or a warm doze under the shelter while the other stays in the dry lot, comfortable in the knowledge that he has food, he has a friend, and he is safe.
Unless Chicago hears a small engine revving up anywhere in a 3-block radius, a red-alert situation often resolved only after much blowing, bucking, and bolting until he becomes aware that he’s the only herd member in panic mode – not a good look for the leader.
They generally graze near, but not next to, each other. Except of course, when the big red paint suspects the portly palomino has found the mother lode of flavorful forage, at which time Chicago moves in and makes Biskit move out.
For the most part though, they live in companionable quiet, able, but not required, to engage or evade as they choose. Fennel and Mace also travel in their own orbits, making their rodent runs, taking their sun siestas on separate schedules, but coordinating their calendars every day for a communal cat nap in the hayloft and some cat chow in the workshop.
I love how the barn boys share their space to preserve the peace, moving around, standing still, staying close, or backing off with neither fuss nor fanfare.
Living space, freedom to move about the cabin of daily life, allows for head space, which lends itself to cogitation, deliberation, reflection, and rumination. Thinking time.
Time to contemplate challenges and chores, guilt and gratitude.
Time to mull over mistakes and making amends, obligations and opinions.
Time to ponder plans and priorities and place in the world.
And my favorite, time to think about nothing in particular, the meditative, rambling, therapeutic, unchecked stream of consciousness. The silent space of simply being.
Who told Biskit that the way to get the lead out of Lisa’s back end at feeding time is to paw at the ground incessantly, with bonus points for striking the metal barn door?
What incites Mace to arbitrarily explode into fierce, angry feline mode while sitting placidly in my lap for what seemed to be a soothing chin-scratching session?
Where did Rowdy get the idea that the best time to slurp from his water bowl and drop a trail of drooly drips across the entire main level, is just after I’ve settled into the rocking chair with a book and a beverage?
When did Fennel realize the primo path to the barn is directly in front of my feet, with abrupt, unannounced stops to complain about the walk and equally abrupt, unannounced launches from my arms after I scoop him up in an obviously unappreciated attempt at assistance?
Why does Chicago still, after 21 years at Four Sticks Farm, bolt like the proverbial bat out of Hades when snow slides off the barn roof, then stand in the safety of the open pasture, staring at the offending structure with fear and loathing until I slide open the door, allowing immediate access to the sanctuary that is his stall?
How can I be anything but amazed and amused when I wake up every morning, blessed to live on this little piece of Minnesota marshland with these charming characters? These delightful, genuine, puzzling creatures, who cultivate my curiosity with what they deem acceptable conduct, where they draw the line of expected behavior, and when they opt to do otherwise, grant me the opportunity to figure out why.
Winter has worn out its welcome. In proverbial Minnesota Goodbye fashion, the cold and the snow and the wind and the ice loiter in the front entry, hand on the doorknob with the promise of heading out, engaged in endless discourse – “one last thing, then I have to get going”. The ultimate unwanted house guest.
By this time in March, I generally have the pasture closed off with the electric fencer on, to allow the grass to get a head start, unfettered by eager equines starved for the sweetness of fresh forage. But compliments of a steady series of cold fronts and clipper systems, Biskit and Chicago still have 24-hour access to the blanket of snow that is our grazing field.
I watch them navigate the course of our infinitesimal climate change with admiration. For all but 3 or 4 hours of snack-and-snooze stall time, they live outside. Their barn opens to an ample covered space with a rubber-matted floor, a heated water fountain, and easy access to the pasture and dry lot.
Early-morning and late-night hay go under shelter, but unless it’s pouring rain, I scatter midday rations in the pasture to encourage exercise. They then have the option to nibble on the omnipresent bits and pieces littering the shelter floor or meandering out to the greener patches on the snow-covered field, and I marvel at how often they choose to navigate the hock-high snow with their natural snowshoes.
Inspiring really, how they go out or stay in, wait for their blankets, or walk away when they see them coming, picking pelting precipitation over stifling surcingles. Even when hunger isn’t driving them, they’ll venture out in the elements, sometimes simply standing, natural sponges to the natural showers. They stroll back to the barn when I slide open the door, coats curled and manes marcelled, no sign of discomfort or discontent.
Biskit and Chicago are cognitive creatures, with environmental awareness and excellent memories, able to choose to stand up front at the gate or out back by the fence, socialize or stay away, soak up the sun, snooze in the shade, or drench themselves in downpours. Good with their choices, ok with their consequences, they hold no grudges, demand do-overs, throw no tantrums. Well, except for Biskit, who’s been known to bang on the barn door when he deems it dinner time and I decide otherwise.
They are content. And I now opt to follow their lead in acceptance of this never-ending winter of my growing discontent. I will find solace in the stronger sunshine that finally illuminates our days past dinner. I will embrace the cold that allows me to toss hay bales sans sweat, and I will find joy in Mudville as the ground around the barn morphs from packed snow into slimy muck.
Winter will wander on; white will give way to green; and I will wait.
Patiently.
Except for maybe just one tiny kick of the barn door.
We’ve rotated past the festive red of Christmas, through the New Year’s glittery golds and into January’s several shades of white. Our winter palette shifts from shimmering diamond ice on the brilliant blanket of the pristine pasture unsullied by hoofprint paths, to semi-gloss pewter patches of ice cemented in the shady spots, to the flat bone tone of plowed snow piles at the end of the driveway, dulled by road salt and sand.
Around the barn, we get a bit of cold-weather color from the green-flecked feeding spots, littered with bits of uneaten hay, and the rusty splotches that stop the heart of every first-time horse owner until they learn that it’s just a natural chemical reaction between snow and the natural equine response to a full bladder.
The trees surround the pasture with feathery, frost-covered limbs, a living palette of ivory, cotton, porcelain, and parchment.
The rhythm of my chores changes with the cold, but I still bundle up and trundle down to the barn several times a day. I channel my inner efficiency expert to get done what needs to be done before my hands get cold.
To combat Biskit and Chicago’s inclination to loiter by the water cooler under the shelter, I load my round snow saucer with flakes of hay and slide it around the pasture, scattering little piles everywhere. Much like their owner, the old ponies are easily enticed by the promise of a tasty treat and making them move around the field of food helps maintain some measure of muscle mass and keep the joint fluids fluid.
Though my barn time may be briefer, I mindfully run through a mental menu as I check in with the horses and cats to be sure they’re winter-fat and happy. Each of the once-overs includes at least a little eye contact, ear caress and easy conversation so we preserve the social connection that comes more readily during warmer weather. If I stay a little long and get a little cold, my woolly beasts are willing to share the wealth of warmth that radiates from the pleasantly plump hay bellies that function as their furnaces.
Rowdy and I keep moving too, and though our winter trails are shorter, I often come home sweaty from struggling to stay on my two feet while the Happy Hooligan trots easily over the unpacked paths. He is just as enthusiastic with winter’s snowballs on his belly as he is with summer’s insects on his ears, so my cursing is minimal, and my gratitude maximized for the ability and opportunity to stay active with such a cheerful companion.
Sunshine is a rare commodity these days, and even the few clear nights, with charcoal skies and silvery stars, generally morph into mornings of ash-colored clouds.
January is a month of mostly cloudy and the blue we miss in our sky sometimes seeps into our moods, but we manage to slog through with a little help from our friends.
We move in to chill out. We organize, downsize, sterilize, and modernize.
We realize we’re only weeks from pitchers and catchers reporting, and we fantasize about spring.
We socialize. We check in on each other to get out of our heads and off of our couches. We gather to eat and exercise, to spectate and participate, to gab and to get through this together.
The colors change, the chores change, the challenges change, but some things never change.
New year, new resolve to be a new me. Two and a half days with nearly 12 inches of snow gives a girl a ton of time to watch and wonder, and where better to find inspiration for improvement than the barn – my herd, my pride, my pack.
Biskit – eternal optimist and concise communicator, stares into the house to ensure I realize he’s done with his afternoon hay and expects I’ll be down shortly with the night ration. My pretty palomino snakes his pot-bellied self in through the guard ropes to demand his turn for grooming, then paws, poops, and pees in the barn aisle when he’s had enough.
Chicago – handsome but humble head of the herd, a low-key leader whose management style leans toward ear flicks, nose nudges, and strategic posterior positions. Calm and cooperative, unless we’re talking blackbirds taking flight from the forest floor or metal garbage cans taking space on the path of travel – he engages agreeably but also appreciates his alone time.
Fennel – facing his fears, rarely anymore does he beat a hasty retreat at the sound of the barn door opener, the voice of the hand that feeds him, or the panting of the rowdy golden retriever, opting instead to stay snuggled in one of his many his security spaces, or to stroll over for a casual scratch behind the ears. Seems he’s finally embraced the idea that while it’s neither Kansas nor Oz, there’s no place like Four Sticks Farm.
Mace – aging gracefully, surrendering the things of his youth. Content to pass the pest control baton to the teenage tabby, and to sometimes pass on the pieces of food on his plate, he now eats because he’s hungry, not because there is kibble in the cat dish, thus preventing the Big Squeeze that used to be his pet door problem.
Rowdy – glee in a golden fleece, always good to go – upstairs, downstairs, for a walk, for a ride, to the park, to the kitchen for a peanut butter bone, he’s happy to be there. And unless he’s lying in the living room with his family and his fleecy friends, Rowdy finds no greater pleasure than chasing squirrels into the trees and deer out of the pasture, ears flapping, lips fixed in his goofy golden grin.
There can be no better model than my animals to lead my quest for a better me. Think positive. Be clear and be kind. Speak your piece and make your peace. Sometimes be social, sometimes be solo. Try, even the scary stuff. Don’t eat if you’re not hungry. Get outside. Move. Play. Ponder. Everyday. Live simply.
From Four Sticks Farm 