Survival Skills

As a daughter of a difficult dementia patient, I’m cultivating a “One Day at a Time” mindset, though mine has an addendum – Every Damn Day. Not a day passes without a phone call, text or email message about my dad or from my mom. Fortunately, the news is rarely urgent anymore, but it is something to be addressed.

Also fortunately, I have siblings who are willing and able to do what they can, so I’m not doing everything, and I’m not doing anything alone. Care by committee.

I suspect that a bit of journaling may lighten the load, so maybe I’ll get to that someday, but in the meantime, I gratefully look for hope, inspiration and comfort in my Happy Place. The barn.

Chicago came to Four Sticks Farm 22 years ago, and Mace joined us 5 years later. Since then, we’ve gone through some rocky moments – The Big Red Beast and Crabby Cat were monikers with meaning – but we have endured. We identified our differences, shed a little blood, a lot of sweat, many tears, and worked our way to the compromise that keeps us solid still today.

They’ve shared their space with five other horses, six dogs, five cats, and an undetermined number of vagabonds who’ve wandered through the barn, including, but not limited to, two feral felines and one really rank raccoon.

Though always the biggest boy on the property, Chicago has always deferred to his pasture mates, except for a few pseudo-threatening headshakes and wildly off-target kickouts aimed at old Zenga and young Rowdy during their first forays into the pasture.

After we lost Rusty, trusty Head of the Herd, I’m fairly certain that Biskit and Chicago did an equine version of Rock/Paper/Scissors to decide which of them had to take on the role, and Chicago offered no resistance to Moe’s claim to the title last fall.

Shifting priorities on my part landed Chicago on the Unofficially Retired list as riding horse a couple years ago, a change he accepted gracefully (and I suspect, gratefully) but he still heads for the barn when he spots me walking in that direction, minds his manners when coming in, going out or standing in the crossties, and still revels in a good grooming session.

For many of his middle years, Mace indicated his irritation quickly and without qualms, hissing, baring, and occasionally, burying his teeth in the forearm of any offender unaware or unresponsive to his “Cease-and-Desist” order. But he’s learned to live with a little less tooth and a little more truce.

Mace knows how to avoid the 1,200-pound cat crushers in the barn and seems to have brokered a deal that allows him unlimited, unfettered access to their 10 x 12 shavings-covered litterboxes.

He’s learned to hunker down when the golden galoot bears down upon him, secure in the knowledge that there is no backup to the bluster and Ruffian will soon move on to bark at something else.

The red flag on his chart at the vet clinic has faded to pink since he figured out the tasty tuna paste squeezed on the exam table is fair trade for a needle stuck in the thigh and a light shined in the eye.

My big red beast and crabby cat have coexisted, mostly peacefully, with their companions for decades, conducting silent surveillance from a distance during the settling-in periods, then welcoming the newbies with minimal fuss.

They have lived through changes in roommates, changes in routines, obnoxious dogs, obnoxious children, surgery, sutures, uninvited guests, and unrequested vaccinations. They’ve learned when to fight, when to sit tight, how to get out of the weather and how to get out of the way.

They’ve learned to keep peace in their little piece of the world.

One day at a time.

Falling into Change

A breath of fresh air breezed through the barn last week when we welcomed a couple of new staff members from the equine clinic for our annual Fall Wellness visit. Fresh faces with fresh approaches examined Moe and Chicago and left me with a fresh outlook.

Dr Ethan had done his homework, arriving aware of Moe’s missing eye and impaired pelvis and Chicago’s missing molar and progressing cataract. He and vet tech Torii handled the horses with gentle confidence, ignoring Moe’s indignant head tossing during the dental exam, and his basically bad manners throughout the rest of the assessment.

Moe is not a fan of Dr Ethan.

His behavior conjured up the Ghost of Palominos Past, as Moe expressed displeasure with the events of the day through conduct reminiscent of his predecessor, Biskit, complete with the bang of a hoof at the base of the stall door. One very solid bang that made his point and made a mark.

And reminded me to move the Equine Etiquette Refresher course back onto the roster of our regularly scheduled programming.

Based on experience, sound judgment, or beginner’s luck, the good doctor saved the best for last. He left Moe to sulk in solitary, and stepped into the stall next door, where he checked vitals of the Big Red Beast, and pulled the needle out of Chicago’s neck before he even realized there was an injection on the agenda.

For the first time in our 22 years together, Chicago is not going into the winter with a little layer of natural insulation; so, for the first time in our 22 years together, Chicago is getting a little scoop of senior sweet feed with his lunch, soaked in warm water for a molasses mash treat, as prescribed by Dr Ethan.

Dr Ethan is Chicago’s favorite.

The new vet team took manure samples when they left, compliments of two horses who reliably relieve themselves in fresh shavings, and Dr Ethan called before the day was done with lab results and recommended next steps.

It’s been a minute since I’ve experienced a change that didn’t leave me at least a little confused, disillusioned, or mad, but working through this old procedure with new professionals left me comfortable, hopeful, and glad.

It was fun to look at Chicago and Moe through new lenses and to watch young practitioners practice their craft with calm, compassionate conviction.

After a few months of mostly dark, it’s reassuring to remember that the world is still (mostly) full of light. I am encouraged to feel the fog lifting, to be reminded there are angels among us, lots of kindhearted, sharp-brained, energetic people willing to do the work that needs to be done, and to do it well.

Beyond the disappointments, there are dreams.

And a surly one-eyed palomino with a fast pass to the Polite Pony program.

It’s Been a Month

Twenty-six days ago, my father moved to a dementia care facility, following six weeks that included two falls (no injuries), two hospital stays, one night at an Enhanced Assisted Living facility and two tortuous weeks at a transitional care unit.

The experience has been a kaleidoscope of anger, anxiety, apprehension, changes of medication, chains of conversation, confusion, consolation, despair, doubt, dread, education, encouragement, exhaustion, fatigue, fear, frustration, gratitude, grief, guilt, heartbreak, helplessness, hope, panic, paperwork, permissions, teamwork, treatment plans, financial plans, aborted plans, whiskey, willpower, and wonder. And prayer.

It’s been a pervasive prowler lurking in my mind, pilfering headspace for all but the basics of getting through the day.

Eighteen days ago I walked full-speed, full-stride into an ash tree with a 108 inch waist – a tree that’s been rooted in the same spot since before we bought the property, a tree that I’ve walked around nearly every day since we bought the property – and did some painful, slow-healing damage to my right thumb and it’s supporting structures, literally, losing my grip.

The pain is decreasing, the strength is increasing, albeit slowly, and I’m learning to brush my teeth with my left hand. Ambidexterity is a beautiful thing.

Seems I’m on a smoother path now, though I’ll admit to adoption of a “hope for the best, prepare for the worst” attitude, and lucky for me, the basics of getting through the day include care of my favorite 4-leggeds, who are constant reminders of comfort of routine.

Prior to the escalated adventure in assisting aging parents, it’d been a season of infrastructure improvement here at Four Sticks Farm. House painting, deck staining and driveway replacement altered the usual and customary operations of our days.

During the months of modifications, Moe made a habit of letting himself on the middle pasture every night. He was able to pop the powered-off electric rope out of the clips on the fiberglass fence poles, allowing the line to sag low enough for him to lift his allegedly disabled back end up, over and into the paddock.

A private all-access pass to an all-you-can-eat, 24-hour buffet.

But his was a one-way ticket, so once in, he stayed in until I came down at feeding time and made him wait while Chicago got first dibs on the hay in the wheelbarrow. I’d open the pasture gate, he’d acknowledge the courtesy with a nod of the head and a gentle whicker, then walk up and move the Big Red Beast away from the wheelbarrow, which was not of any actual interest, as he’d spent the past several hours grazing on the good stuff, but the Head of the Herd has appearances to be maintained.

Since Chicago could be corralled with kite string, I’ve grown lax on the equine containment control measures, so beefed up the low spot by pounding in more fence poles with stronger clips, but still frequently woke to see the electrobraid popped out of the new poles, and the yellow gelding on the grass – rule following is not his priority.

A couple weeks ago we reached the part of our pasture program in which we close the paddocks to allow the roots to grow below ground rather than leaves to sprout above, and strict adherence to the No Admission policy was a must. Even for Moe.

So, commence implementation of Operation KEEP OFF THE GRASS – corroded cords replaced, corroded connections scraped, and the fencer powered on.

Order restored, routine recovered, with the simple flip of a switch.

With either hand.

Fall Ahead

We survived the super sultry stormy spell of summer, recently rescued by a stretch of sunny 70’s. Tank tops have given way to short-sleeved tees, and flannel shirts will follow soon.

We’re in the seasonal sweet spot between stinging bugs and sticking burrs on the wooded trails, neither sweaty spine nor frozen feet at the end of our walks.

The pasture puddles finally dried up, so last night I allowed the dogs to go down to the barn yesterday, and within minutes Ruffian found himself a suitably greasy pile of horse manure in which to relish a roll.

Rowdy was due for his annual Back to School bath, so while he sulked in the tub, Ruff skulked to the other side of the tack room and laid low.

He lucked out, as it was late, and after wrestling with Rowdy, who has no appreciation for spa services – manis, pedis, shampoos or, worst of all, blow outs – I mustered only enough energy for a sponge bath of the greenest spots on his face and head.

I’ve figured out that Ruff’s coat has a self-cleaning quality and with a little air drying and light brushing, he freshens up surprisingly well, which has dialed down the despair of watching him trot over to display his happy dappled self after a romp in the pasture.

So, we returned to the house, all three of us damp and covered in dog hair; and Rowdy woke up this morning with some serious bed head. Clean and fluffy, but waves rippling and curls flipping every which way but straight.

And it mattered not to him, nor the girls at school, that his coat was a bit disheveled – Study Hall Monitors don’t need no stinkin’ hair stylists.

Chicago and Moe now have unrestricted access to the pasture (though interestingly, they continue to come up to the barn for a flake or two of morning and evening hay) until we close it completely for a couple weeks of rest – part of the annual Winter Preparedness Plan.

Mighty Moe has figured out a method for popping the electric rope out of the post clips so he can step over it and enjoy his own private paddock whenever the mood strikes; and since I’ve been spoiled by Chicago, who could be contained with kite string, “Fence Upgrade” has been bumped to the top of my Seasonal To Do list.

Morning chores and night checks are now done in the dark – a true tell of this time of transition.

Grazing schedules, sleeve lengths, sunlight. Lots of things are changing.

But not the green-spotted golden.

Real Life

I have the beginnings of a blog post for today, but life got in the way the last couple weeks, so I’m breaking the string of alternate Tuesday entries detailing amusing anecdotes about my animals.

Nothing catastrophic, unusual, nor even particularly interesting, but enough to max out my mental bandwidth, leaving just enough to mop up Rowdy’s drool and Ruffian’s hair one more time before sitting down to watch Olympic highlights.

Despite my ever-present intention to Get Better, these short posts take me a ridiculously long time to compose as I sit at my desk in the space at the top of our stairs, Rowdy stretched out behind my chair, Ruff keeping watch on the landing, and Spotify providing some instrumental ambiance.

But when I write, I am transported to the barn, the yard, the house, or the park. I hear the horses’ neighs and nickers, Fennel’s murmurs and meows. I see Mace ambling across the stall, hips canted right of his shoulders. I feel Ruffian’s youthful joie de vivre and Rowdy’s mature c’est la vie.

I am reminded that Four Sticks Farm and my four-legged friends are my happy place, even when they’re only in my mind.

We’re nearing the one-year mark for Ruff and Moe, Chicago’s second year of retirement, Rowdy’s second year as Study Hall Monitor, Mace’s pursuit of Oldest Barn Cat in the upper Midwest, and Fennel’s quest for a lifetime devoid of veterinary visits; plus twin fawns, cocooning caterpillars and more of Ruffian’s Excellent Adventures in Therapy Dog training.

We’ll be back in 2 weeks.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 5
We’re not ready yet
But we’ve practiced the test
My 6th Therapy Dog
Ruff may be the best.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 6
Storms rumbling in
Sherry called on the phone
Safety for all
Our last class was postponed.

Senses Census

Glue sticks and spiral notebooks now occupy the prime retail real estate, and rumor has it Halloween displays are already claiming their share of shelf space, so it seems fair to say we’re midway through the summer, a season rivaled only by Christmas for sensory stimulation.

We had a house painting project happening around here in June, which meant no flowers on the porch or deck, but the garden center conveniently located 4.5 miles due East, and on my way to almost everywhere, seemed to hold a sale of some sort every time I drove by.

Being the civic-minded sort, I stopped in to support the local economy, which explains the excessive pinks, yellows, and purples of the too-many annuals placed around the yard in my temporary holding zones.

Economic assistance. That’s Lisa Logic. I love it, George has learned to live with it.

Painting completed, the plants were moved to their more permanent locations on the deck and after a brief tutorial, Ruffian learned that they are for decorative purposes only, and not, actually, for his dining pleasure.

New this year are some cheerful zinnias and showy cosmos, through which I feel my grandma Maxine, who planted them along the cedar fence in her backyard. When I look at those flowers, I see teenage me sitting with her on the concrete patio that connected her two-bedroom rambler and the detached garage.

I smell the smoke of her PallMall red, taste the real sugar of my icy Coca Cola in a glass bottle, and I hear Herb Carneal calling play by play for our Minnesota Twins as jets cruise across the flight path overhead, approaching and departing Minneapolis St Paul International.

Fortunately, Mother Nature has generously supplied the waterworks this summer, leaving me, the generally neglectful gardener, in a mostly supporting role; and I’ve come to appreciate my watering routine – the grounding of my bare feet on the warmed wood of the deck planks, the cathartic calm of deadheading spent blossoms, and the affable acceptance of a hummingbird’s impatient whirring around my head as he waits for me to move away from his Cuphea café, the new pollinator hot spot at Four Sticks Farm.

The best view from my deck includes Chicago and Moe, sporting shiny summer coats, both spotted with white dots befitting their heritages.

It’s a Pasture Palooza kind of summer, so they’re enjoying as much green freshness as they can manage with swishing tails, twitching ears, and an afternoon break to doze beneath the draft of their stall fans while the bugs are blown away.

The seasonal barn bouquet is one of warm horse and hay and citronella insect spray, but the tack room, unless I remember to run the dehumidifier, retains the faint but foul smell of a stray brown tabby who, many years ago, spent the night as an uninvited visitor. Fortunately, he found more accommodating accommodations elsewhere, so his was a single night stay, but he left a mark.

To minimize the muddy paws and stinging insects of our so-far warm and wet summer, Rowdy, Ruff and I are mostly walking at a park with a paved trail that winds past a target shooting range, through the woods, next to a radio-controlled airplane landing strip, along the Mississippi River, and around a disc-golf course.

The trail takes us across a sunny stretch of wild-flowered prairie grasses before leading into a shady pine forest, where we meet walkers, runners, cyclists, hoverboarders, skateboarders, inline skaters and frisbee golfers.

We hear the staccato pops of target shooters, and the droning whines of miniature flying machines, the thwack of golf discs hitting trees and the metallic ting of golf discs hitting chain-link baskets.

If our schedules have been synchronized, we also hear the threatening vocalizations of a pair of tiny dachshunds asking my golden punks if they feel lucky.

And if we really are lucky, we hear the nearly silent thump of a deer paw landing on soft soil when it leaps through the trees ahead of us.

It’s been a bunch of beautiful days in this neighborhood. Even when the humidity hits the high notes, when I feel that single drop of sweat sliding down my spine, there is respite in the slightest breeze or spot of shade.

The air around the house smells of pink verbena, damp soil, mowed grass, and some wildflower that I’ve yet to ferret out.

I wake up Every morning and fall asleep Every night serenaded by house wren who sings incessantly, staking his claim and looking for love. All. Day. Long.

I look at a world of wildlife.

And cats and dogs and horses.

And flowers.

Fifty percent off.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 3
Obedience night
He did pretty well
The lessons, it seems
Are starting to gel.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 4
He ignored the distractions
That were placed on the floor
I had hope when we started
And now I have more.

Midsummer Musings

Moe is learning it maybe will pay
To be calm and stand still and to stay.
The bugs are so bad
He no longer gets mad
When it’s aerosol, not a pump spray.

Chicago, unlike his friend Moe
Lets me spritz him from forelock to toe.
Goodbye to the bugs
From me he gets hugs
My old pony, I just love him so.

The swallows are back for round two
I’d rather they not, but they do
When the barn door is open
They fly in just hopin’
This time they can stay, I won’t shoo.

The cats don’t seem bothered by heat
Though I question their choice of first seat
They spend most of the day
In the loft with the hay
Coming down once or twice just to eat.

Ruff’s allowed in the barn during chores
Cleans up grain that’s been dropped on the floors
Then unless I watch close
He’ll go roll in the gross
Unperturbed by my shouts and my swores.

Rowdy’s great, just an all-around champ
Edging close to his Senior Dog stamp
Still got plenty of pluck
But to exit the truck
Doesn’t jump, now he trots down a ramp.

It’s a beautiful time of the year
To sit out on the deck with a beer
Watch this place and these pets
Know no better it gets
Raise a glass, nod of thanks, give a cheer.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 2
I opened his crate
He hung in the back
I convinced him to join me
He did really great

Early Summer Start

Memorial Day weekend officially ushers us into the unofficial start of summer – we’re now looking at leafed out elms, oaks and maples, flower-blossomed apple trees and lilac bushes, lawns that need mowing, pastures that need grazing.

Chicago and Moe enjoyed an all-time early all-access pass to the pasture, and three weeks into it, their manure and their movement have maintained production standards in quality and quantity, and they’ve demonstrated a willingness to leave the lushness for an occasional break by the barn. The trifecta.

Free admittance to a grassy paddock encourages them to get moving as they find favored grazing spots, though this first time through the rotation offers an overwhelming selection at the All You Can Eat buffet, and they mostly Goldilocks their way through, taste-testing and sampling in search of the just-right forage.

They circle around the field, sometimes, but not always sharing a section, then strolling off to the next best spot.

Moe’s the more likely to head back to the shelter for a bug break, augmented by his aversion to the sound of a spray bottle, even when used to spritz a washcloth with equine insecticide. He now tolerates a roll-on applicator, but his future includes a few counseling sessions to convince him that fly spray is his friend.

Chicago will wander up for water at a leisurely pace but when the buzzing gets the best of him, waves his white flag with a big buck and good gallop off the grass and to the barn.

At some point during the day, Manager Moe will don his Health & Wellness mantle and guide Chicago to the gravel alley that borders the pasture, making him work more than his mandible as they put in a few laps around the dry lot. The submissive sorrel calmly complies, ambling along until the palomino pressure subsides, allowing him to return to roaming freely about the pasture.

It wouldn’t be summer without at least one pair of barn swallows battling for space in the barn, and last week introduced a pair that seemed bigger, more defensive, and less inclined to leave the premises than combatants of the past. I employed my most historically effective eviction strategies – leaf blower, hand clapping, maniacal shouting of uncensored strings of profanity, frantic antics of a maniacal golden retriever with shrilly squeaking yellow ball.

But the only animal affected was Moe, who backed away from his night hay to ponder the possibility of an annulment of his adoption agreement with the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation.

After watching the swallows finally swoop down and fly up into the wild blue yonder, I implemented a closed-door policy, which keeps the barn balmy but bird-free.

Slacker Ruffian has yet to complete the “Barn Swallow Banishment” course and has limited barn privileges but is allowed supervised visits during chore time. He’s fascinated with the horses, wavering between fright, flight, freeze or tease, once offering a big play bow and a bark, which was, fortunately for all, completely ignored by both Chicago and Moe.

He’ll chase the cats if they deign to make an appearance, which Fennel will not, but if Mace shows up, he holds his ground with the haughty disinterest one would expect from an 18-year-old barn cat. He doesn’t engage and Ruffian doesn’t take it personally.

Luckily for those of us who share airspace with him, Ruff’s appetite for horse manure has waned, replaced by a desire for bits of the ration-balancer pellets littering the stall floors, which are less putridly processed in his g-i tract.

Full disclosure: while Ruffian now seems disinterested in eating horse manure, he recently discovered the joy of rolling in it. By chance, the Four Sticks Farm grooming shop had an immediate opening, so his delight and the smelly green spots were short-lived.

Baths bring no joy in Manureville – reeky Ruffian sulked in the tub while I soaped, scrubbed, toweled and fluff-dried; and though I’d love to believe he will remember the consequences of this action, I’m pretty sure it’s on his list of “Lessons Learned” printed with the same invisible ink as “Remember what discomfort comes with tossing back a throw rug”.

Aah, the smells of summer. Fresh cut grass, budding lilac bushes, blossoming apple trees.

And deodorizing dog shampoo.

The Green, The Bugs and The Unavoidable

We’ve just completed one of the best weeks in the barn. Thanks to the nearly non-existent winter, the pasture closed early, but our super-soaking spring brought the grass back to life in record time.

As always, the horses have honored their contract to keep the fence lines neatly trimmed, edging the emerging green on their side of the boards, as well as the several inches under and beyond. Motivation makes many things happen, and fresh forage compels Chicago and Moe to tilt, twist and contort like Olympic gymnasts.

Their Nibbling for Neatness campaign ensures their tummies transition to the richness of spring grass, minimizing the risks of colic and/or laminitis (i.e., stomach and/or foot issues) so while their pasture time is limited in the early days, the length of their snacking stints increases quickly during the first week.

Since this is Moe’s first spring at Four Sticks, I wasn’t sure how he’d react to the Grand Re-Opening of the pasture, but he took his cue from the Big Red Beast, and the initial Removal of the Rope Gate was remarkably uneventful. I dropped the rope, they dropped their heads, and started grazing quietly, side by side.

The only surprise was the willingness with which they walked off with me after their allotted 30 minutes. Moe politely accepted the proffered carrot chunk in exchange for snapping the lead rope under his chin, and Chicago walked over to, and alongside us – well, except for that one stop for an obviously irresistibly tasty tuft of turf – but then he fell back in step and beat us back to the barn.

During the second day, Moe moved on and off the pasture a couple times, sometimes trotting, sometimes shifting between a stiff canter and the gait his genealogy gave him. It was fun to watch him move out a bit, especially given it cost him valuable grazing time. And while I figured they’d be on to me and my carrots, they once again cooperated without complaint as I escorted them back to the hay racks after an hour on the good stuff.

I love them more than most beings in my world, and would like to believe the feeling is mutual, but in my heart of hearts, I know that in early May, the hearts of my horses beat for the bounty of new grass. So, I should’ve known…

Day 3 ruined any adolescent reverie and revealed the secret to the mystery behind all the movement. I buckled Moe’s halter under his chin, ran a hand under his belly, admiring the Appaloosa spots poking through the remains of his winter coat, and noticed his slightly swollen, slightly bloody underside.

Gnats.

The irritating insects had been feasting, getting their pound of horseflesh while leaving swaths of dark and crusty pinpricks on Chicago’s and Moe’s bellies, chests and ears.

Fortunately, scratching the scabby strips makes us all feel better, so we enjoyed a little extra grooming time, then prepared for battle.

Fly masks now shield the eyes and ears, and a generous application of insect repellant ointment protects the rest.

The ointment comes in a jar with the choice of neon pink or clear, and as you might expect, the discerning geldings of Four Sticks Farm opt for application of the invisible. No need to call attention to oneself. Especially if we’re talking biting bugs in sensitive areas.

It’s a sticky substance that coats my hands with horse hair and gnat crust, and adheres to the underside of my fingernails from now ‘til Labor Day – the Four Sticks Farm French manicure – but it’s effective, even as it melts with the heat of the horses, leaving spots of greasy, gnat-bite-free, patches on their glossy spring coats. Practical before pretty.

So, the gnats are here, the flies will follow momentarily, along with mosquitoes, wasps and barn spiders.

But the grass is green, the trees have popped, as have the hostas, ferns and day lilies.

A beautiful day in this neighborhood.

Rainy Days and Reading. Or Not

A friend loaned me a book at the end of March, and I planned to read it before I next see her at the beginning of May.

“Plan” is a word I’ve learned to use lightly, as some stronger lifeforce likes to play with the power of the plot twist.

My road to reading time, paved with good intention, is often detoured by a host of omnipresent obstacles. Barn work, housework, yard work, work work, family events and adventures, text conversations about family events and adventures, phone calls about family events and adventures, dog walking, horse grooming, cat coddling and blog post writing, act as roadblocks to my books.

But Sunday’s rainy weather proved to be a perfect indoor-recess kind of day – finally, a day for doing nothing but getting lost in another time, another world.

Morning chores were completed under cloudy skies with cool temps and fine rain falling. Chicago and Moe stood in the mist long enough to be wet enough to remove “Brush horses” from the day’s To Do list, so they came in the barn for a long, leisurely lunch.

Rowdy and Ruff were still recovering from two days of rabblerousing with Remi during a cousin dog sleepover, which allowed us to skip a cold walk on a muddy trail without threat of any rambunctious ramifications.

So, prop up the pillows and open up the book! However, the view from my couch was one of copious clumps of Ruffian fluff covering the front of every furnace vent, clustered in every corner and collected under every piece of furniture.

Ruff is our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, dropping strands of silky white hair with any and all movement – sit, stand, lie down, get up, walk, run or jump on the window seat in the back entry. A full body shake brings me near to tears.

But before the Swiffer® sheet comes out, the Bona® wet mop must sop up the splotches of slobber slopped across the hardwood.

Ruffian slurps from the water dish in staccato swipes of the tongue, leaving the surrounding area splashed with spots flicked from his mouth, but Rowdy drops saliva in the bowl as he gulps water out, then dumps a trail out the door as strings of slippery spit stretch to the tile.

We keep a bleached-out beach towel on the bathroom doorknob to wipe his chin when we catch him and swab the floor when we don’t, and because he so often bellies up to the water bowl saloon, there’s a whole lotta wipin’ goin’ on.

Rowdy is also a distracted drinker. When I hear the familiar gulp-gulp-gulp-pause-gulp-gulp-gulp, I sneak in and stand in silent stillness until the last gulp goes down, because if his spidey-sense detects my presence, he’ll turn his head mid-guzzle, dump a pool of slobber on the floor and splatter the wall with a shake of his juicy jowls.

Practice has polished my mop and dust process though, so I quickly cleaned the floor and mentally cleared the remainder of the day for nothing but a book and a beverage.

I opened my book to page 38.

Ninety minutes later I opened my eyes to page 41.

And 2 dogs willing me to get their supper.

And 2 horses calling me to let them out.

At this pace, I’ll finish the book for my friend’s New Years visit.

Bring on those snow days.