Slow Spring

While doing dishes the other night, standing at the kitchen sink, hands soaking in hot soapy water (one of my many peculiarities – I find some peace and satisfaction in this chore) I looked out the window to see six deer strolling along the south fence of the pasture, sauntering out of the cattails on the east side into the woods on the west.

Generally, I’d announce their presence, but cervine sightings create a ruckus with the retrievers, and even George getting up to look out the deck door would alert the always-on-call Ruff and Rowdy, which would provoke much barking and jumping and running from one lookout spot to the next until the last white tail high-tailed into the swamp.

And lulled as I was, by the warm lavender-scented suds, I opted to circumvent the canine chaos and said nothing, just kept the secret as I stood, watched, and wondered where they’d stop to sleep.

Our weak winter offered the deer many dining options and we didn’t see much of them this year, but spring brings them back to call dibs on the fresh pasture. I’m happy to see them, though Chicago and Moe, denied access until the grass gets a chance to establish itself for the season, do not share my sense of hospitality.

Spring also brings a series of addendums to the ever-present list of ideas and intentions that get added, edited, sifted, sorted, and prioritized in my mind.

Fill the long-empty bird feeders for the long-gone birds who flew off in search of a more secure food source
Rake the piles of rejected hay left on the shelter floor by the two indulged geldings who may be just slightly overfed and underworked
Spend some serious time with Chicago, Moe and the shedding blade
Drag the two shamrocks and the peace lily out from their winter refuge under the saddle rack and get them growing before going outside for their summer vacation
Figure a way to get Fennel to the vet for annual vaccinations and examination of a suspected abscess on his right rear leg which morphed into a mysterious series of bald patches circling his tail

I’m a card-carrying member of the Lifelong Listmakers Club, but lately the tasks don’t make the move from my noggin to my notebook or beyond. Not much step in my spring so far.

The animals are always priority of course – stalls are cleaned, feed pans and water buckets filled, and everybody gets conversations, confections, affection, and attention multiple times a day, it’s just the extra activities that get shuffled to the bottom of the never-ending list.

Small things, big things, fun things, dumb things all float around my mind, bubble up and settle down to simmer or to soak while I cogitate, procrastinate, and finally opt to activate.

Funny though, over the weekend I realized that my barn chores are once again serenaded by cardinals, chickadees, robins, wrens, owls and red-winged blackbirds in the trees, while turkeys, pheasants and sandhill cranes chime in from the marsh. So, the feeders are full again.

The black mat of the shelter floor is now clearly visible, devoid of the layer of leftover hay. Turns out that if I feed Chicago and Moe like the easy-livin’ equines they are, rather than putting out enough to fuel a couple draft horses plowing the back forty, they cycle back through the ration a time or two, picking out the pieces that they passed over previously.

A few exfoliating sessions in the mud puddles of the “dry lot” have helped them self-shed, shiny summer coats starting to peek through the crusted dirt that’ll clean up quickly with a curry comb.

The shamrocks and the peace lily pushed up through the potting soil despite my inattention, and their tenacity inspired me to add a little fertilizer-infused water to aid the effort.

Fennel’s skin has healed, his hair is growing back, and since we’ve mutually agreed to call an end to his veterinary visits, the cat crate has been removed from the barn, so he no longer eyes me with suspicion, nor bolts when I get close enough to touch him. He trusts me. He really trusts me.

“Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up” said my Calm app the other day. Timely, welcome words. Sometimes it’s ok to take a minute to let the universe unfold.

To stand silently at the sink and wonder where the deer are headed.

Don’t tell the dogs.

Winter Weather

March was mostly a lamb, mild and meek
Devoid of its usual bleak.
I thought we’d get lucky
But now it’s quite mucky
From the 15-inch snowfall last week.

Chicago’s quite light on his feet
When the sun shines its spring-level heat.
The barn roof of snow
Warms up, then lets go
And slides off in one big noisy sheet.

For the most part, Moe took it in stride
But he’d rather be out than inside.
He pooped in his bucket
His version of F*#@ it
When he heard the first rooftop snow slide.

Ruff and Rowdy thought snow piles were grand
Loved to play in the white-covered land.
Never minded the cold
They burrowed and rolled
Chasing snowballs, they climbed and the ranned.

The cats hunkered down in the barn shop
Out the door, two tabbies would not pop.
They had food, choice of stall
To take care of it all
Content ‘til they saw the last snow drop.

We may still have one last winter fling
Warm weather’s not yet a sure thing.
But the air has less chill
And the birds have more trill
So there’s hope, it will really be spring.

Progress

Ruffian and I took our debut solo walk last week, heading out on the 2-mile dirt road loop across the street, and despite my doubts, it turns out he is (mostly) willing and able to leave home without Rowdy.

He looked back once or twice, but I never gave him time to consider the distance growing between him and home. Cheerful encouragement and enthusiastic curiosity kept us moving along with no hint of the dreaded Ruffian refusal. No stopping, stiff legged, frozen in his tracks, engaging all available senses to detect threat and decide direction.

In fact, next to Boone, the old brindle greyhound who subscribed to a deeply held belief that one ought to stop and smell the roses, the daffodils, the daisies, the dandelions and the assorted grasses that grew along the edges of the road; Ruff proved himself my most pleasant canine walking partner.

Full disclosure here – there was no perfect heel position, but neither was there insistence that he stretch to the full four feet allowed between the brass clip under his chin and the leather loop in my hand. The holy grail of loose-leash dog walking, a j-hook of slack in the leash. What a feeling!

When we crested the small hill between a frog pond and a fenced pasture and saw two trail horses with their stoking-capped riders headed our way. Ruff froze. Stock still, staring at the approaching equines like he’d never noticed the pretty palomino and the handsome sorrel paint living on the other side of the dog yard barrier in his own backyard.

We humans waved at each other as I tried to convince Ruffian that forward progress was, in fact, still possible under these circumstances. But Ruffian had entrenched himself in the I’ll wait here camp. So, implement Plan B – move his brain, then move his feet.

I asked him to sit, a word at the top of his lexicon list, and with which he is situationally conversant. A hand resting on the door handle means “please sit pal;” a treat hovering just above his nose says, “park your posterior partner” and an index finger in front of the food dish indicates “find a seat friend.”

But horseback riders on the road did not translate, so I went back to basics, getting his eyes up with one hand while tapping his rump down with the other. And it worked just as they reached us, thanking us for waiting while they walked by, and impressed by the solid sit, though their position down in the ditch prevented them from seeing that his excellently executed sit stuck us solidly in the middle of the road.

Fortunately, the gravel road travel gods held off the afternoon traffic, so we faced no Chicken Challenge by any neighborhood car, pickup or ATV; and once convinced that any danger had passed with the now-distant equines, Ruff trotted merrily all the way home.

Our little rabblerouser is learning. The Attrition through Extinction method has worked its magic, along with Ruff’s response to routine.

He’ll still occasionally go for a golf shoe or barn boot but will almost immediately lie down and move the footwear in his mouth to position for the inevitable “Give” that almost immediately follows.

He heads directly to his crate in the truck when released from the back door even though he’s endured a couple smacks to the skull when he jumps before the tailgate has reached its fully upright and locked position.

He developed a short-lived fondness for scrap paper in the recycling basket, but now backs away empty-mouthed as soon as he hears any verbal disapproval of his garbage collection venture.

Best of all, he’s started to wag his tail when we talk to him. Though he’s always been friendly – overtly, oafishly friendly – always happy to be with us, always sporting a smile in his ebony eyes and his jolly jowls, I noticed that he’d wag his tail while engaged in energetic canine games but not in quiet human conversation.

But now he does, which I take as a sign of security; that he’s learning to trust his place in our pack.

Next up – learning his place on our road.

Sunday Unscheduled

6:37. I wake naturally, notably more rested than when roused by an escalating ringtone or socked with a sandpapery paw pad, and fully aware that I have nothing on the schedule today. It’s one of the rare days with no calendar commitments so I caution myself to not waste it.

Our many meteorologists predict 60-something degrees, also rare, also not to be wasted.

My Unscheduled Schedule: change the sheets, get a couple loads of laundry done early, walk in the park with Ruff and Rowdy, then spend the afternoon in the barn with the big boys, cleaning equines and their winter-weary equipment.

Fresh linens on the bed, others piled on the floor, breakfast is ready, so I’ll haul sheets down to the laundry room after I eat.

While downing my oatmeal and grapefruit, I solve the sudoku, and with coffee I crack the cryptoquip and nearly complete the crossword when I hear the telltale zzzzzzzzzzttt of tearing fabric. Ruffian’s decided to do a bit of tailoring, splitting the seam on one corner of the flat sheet lying on the bedroom floor, preparing to take a little off the edges.

I recognize his universal sign for “I need something constructive to do,” and outdoor activity is in order, so I heap the linens on the washer, vow to do laundry when the sun goes down, and take advantage of our unusual sweatshirt weather with two of the greatest dogs in the whole wide world.

Off to Montissippi to walk with my gentle-leadered goldens, pleased with their minimal attempts to rub off the head collar, the reduction in pulls off the path, and the nearly never occurrences of Ruff dead-stopping in the middle of my path.

The last occurrence was at this park, when he halted abruptly on the pavement, directly in front me, leaving an angry raw scrape that turned into a thick itchy scab that morphed into a scar on the left side of my left knee cap, which pairs nicely with the scar on the right side of my left knee cap, a memorial to a no good very bad day on my beloved purple stingray on the unforgiving gravel of Coon Rapids Boulevard.

But now we mostly keep moving, mostly in our own lanes.

Thinking while I walked, about my pre-spring cleaning barn project, I realize I need hay cubes at the Country Store which closes early on Sunday, so the dogs and I take the long way home from the park, which is to say we drive completely out of our way to get Chicago and Moe’s Senior Supper, a salt block for Chicago and one more thing that’s been on my mental supply list for a couple weeks, but which I’ve now forgotten, and hope I will remember when I get there. But I don’t.

Once home, I let the golden boys in the dog yard with a big stick of distraction for Ruff. Headed to the barn, forty pounds of hay cubes hefted over my shoulder, feeling remarkably heavier than the 50-pound bags I used to haul around,

Horses in, I head out, to rake the rejected hay remnants from the edges of the shelter, loading the wheelbarrow, hauling and dumping and spreading in the dry lot, giving the ponies something to pick through while they pass the next couple of months of closed pasture.

Shelter clean, horses enjoy fresh quarters, fresh hay and fresh air.

Company! Time for a spontaneous beverage break, chatting, chips and whiling away an hour or two. Or three.
Back to the barn to toss hay down into the small storage stall, but first, lift the pallets, sweep, load, haul, dump, and spread; then climb up the ladder, crawl across the bales loaded in the loft, ponder the probability of ever solving the annual mystery of putting up hay in a manner conducive to a convenient, First In, First Out system of inventory management.

Throw 28 bales over the ledge, climb down the ladder, crawl across the bales scattered in the stall, push, pull and pile them in an orderly stack, sweep up the broken bales, fill up the wheelbarrow one more time, and let Moe pick out his favorite pieces while I set some in front of Chicago and parcel out the rest to the feeders for the overnight ration.

Good night ponies.

A little kibble in the cat dishes for Fennel and Mace.

See you in the a.m., kits.

A shower (how does hay even get there?!) some supper and a cocktail that I fall asleep before finishing.

A good day. Not a moment wasted.

And on the Monday schedule – laundry.

What Chicago and Moe Know

It’s been a weird winter up here. Except for a couple January weeks of brutal cold, our daytime temperatures have ranged 10-20 degrees warmer than average and our seasonal snowfall – all six inches of it – has long melted and drained to the low spots, leaving us with a late March look and feel.

The sun finally graced us with a ray or two of hope, after days and days of dismal, drizzly dampness that drove me to search for something bingeworthy, to escape the bleakness of unsettling, unusual weather, the inevitable climate change conversation, discussions of deepening drought conditions, and concerns about the 2024 hay crop.

Then I looked out the dining room window to watch Chicago and Moe.

They live right out there in the elements, on sunny days, cloudy days and mixed precipitation days, in still air, bitter breezes and window-rattling winds.

They have no calendar, no 7-day forecast nor long-term trend-mapping chart.

No snow? No matter to them – just means easy meandering around the field to nibble on last year’s leftovers.

Drizzle, snizzle, fog or frozen ground, Moe still stretches on his side in full-out Dead Horse pose for at least one nap every day, unbothered by the semi-solid matted grass that tamps down his woolly winter coat; and Chicago routinely freshens his mud-molded bed-headed body with a light layer of pine shavings from his noontime stall snooze.

They don’t fuss when they get wet or dirty. They come in from the rain to dry off and go out to the dirt to scrub off, finding a stop-drop-and-roll spot in which to curry their coats with the natural loofahs of pasture grasses and a tiny stemmed, burry plant that Moe discovered, which fortunately glides easily out of his mane and forelock, taking the mud crumbs along for the ride.

They soak up the sun when it shines, taking advantage of the warm spot in the corner of the shelter, standing side by side to share the rays, and on cloudy days they still assume their positions in the Hot Spot to absorb any available btu’s.

They mosey around the pasture, graze some, nap some, think some great horse thoughts, and wander back to the feeders to pick through the remnants of the last of their many daily meals.

They voice no complaint unless I push the envelope on the window of acceptable deviation from the standard Fresh Forage Feeding Time. Though even then, Moe’s nicker may rumble with a tinge of reproach, but Chicago softly whickers in relief at my arrival – undoubtedly reassured that I have not, in fact, forgotten that he is still waiting, ever-so weakly wavering on the edge, just this side of starvation.

The horses accept the word as it presents today. Tomorrow means nothing, average temperatures or typical snowfall totals are irrelevant; and they don’t get caught up in anxiety or bogged down with worry.

They live unburdened by bother about what should be now or what might be next.

They adapt and adjust and experience the day – this day – and if I’m willing to learn, they teach.

Though I may still check out “The Bear.”

Wintertime at Fours Sticks Farm

We were coddled by a mild December
Spared the snow and cold that we remember
But the new year brought a frigid change
Which made the winter not so strange

I bundle up and trundle out to live this life I’ve chosen
With gratitude for thick warm socks and boots to slide my toes in
The weight and bulk of extra layers make daily chores take longer
But I muddle through and I’m still here, so I guess I must be stronger?

Ruff and Rowdy are always game to hike the trails at the park
But our daily treks are shorter now, to be sure we’re back by dark
They like the rhythm of routine, how it connects to time to eat
They recognize it’s mealtime, and when they get their treat

Youthful Fennel still patrols the perimeter of the grounds
Frosty footing shall not stop him from his self-appointed rounds
But oldster Mace stays in the barn throughout the winter season
With food and heat and comfy beds, and horse stalls that he pees in

Chicago and Moe in shaggy coats survive the frigid weather
In their shelter full of forage, standing close together
For snack they head to pasture, with its scattered piles of hay
To ensure they move a little bit, every single day

The outside chores begin and end within the hours of sunlight
Except for final barn check in the dark and peaceful night
When I plant a couple kisses on a couple frosty muzzles
Then head back in to settle down, with a beverage and some puzzles

This longer stretch of darkness grants permission to just be
To read and dream and organize and maybe watch tv
Our winter standard time is not so governed by the clock
A season of serenity, I try to pause and think, relax, take stock

It’s a Wonderful Life -2023

Six seniors meet for supper and close the place down – at 9:00 pm – cheers!
Horses eating hay in the moonlight
Bagpipes and bars in New Richmond warm frozen Irish arses at the St Patrick’s Day parade – ssssSlainte!
Brief battle of wits with a raccoon ransacking the barn – the good guy won
Catchin’ up in Kernersville – has it really been 3 years?
Ruffian – Rowdy’s unrequested roommate – 60-pounds of cream-colored cheerful charm
George’s caterpillar conservation colony sends nearly 4 dozen monarchs in search of warmer weather from the cages on our front porch – fyi, caterpillars poop a lot
Heartbreaking goodbye to Biskit leads to heartwarming hello to Moe
Fiber optic internet reaches Four Sticks Farm – speeding into the 21st century
Rowdy’s work as Study Hall Monitor schools Lisa in open-hearted, clear-headed kindness – be present, be quiet, and understand that some days it’s ok to simply sit and pet the dog
Little kids meeting big horses
Making new friends and treasuring the old, dinners and movies, bike rides and beers, brunches, lunches, picnics and parks, sister sleepovers, sharing frozen pizza with several favorite people
It is still a beautiful world
Here’s Hoping for a Peaceful, Happy, Healthy New Year!

*Muddy Moe – beauty is, truly, in the eye of the beholder*

Meet Moe

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.

Welcome Moe.

Relationship Rehabs

A new pooch in the pack, a new horse in the herd, new routines to design, and new relationships to develop.

Ruffian is settling in, his adolescent enthusiasm a little less frenzied, a little more responsive to requests for awareness of the rest of us. He’s dialed back the desire for thrashing throw rugs, battering dog beds and running the ottoman obstacle course, but retains an irresistible delight for life that inspires great joy.

Though I cut some slack for the unknowns of his Before Life, Ruff’s a quick study. He’s figured out that sitting or lying down are solid choices during those awkward pauses when he’s been told to do something but wasn’t actually ready to listen.

He understands that the good chews are given out just before I head to the barn for night check, and if I forget, he only needs to sit straight and stare intensely to bore the reminder into my brain.

He knows to eat only from his own dish, and that the chewing of dog beds is frowned upon in this establishment, though that last one is still on his list of 4th quarter goals.

Rowdy, Ruff and I walk most afternoons, practicing and progressing as a mobile unit; Ruff in his harness, Rowdy in his head collar, picking their positions and staying put. Kind of. Ruffian continues crisscrossing and zigzagging, thus tangling leashes and tripping Lisa, but with a little less frequency, so my shoulder now stays firmly in its socket, though the left Deltoid may be slightly over developed.

Ruff still spooks some on the trails – other hikers, horses and their riders, squirrels scrambling up trees, acorns falling down, deer leaping deftly, leaves drifting lazily may all cause a momentary pause in forward progress. We stop, look, listen, loosen the leash, and wait until he determines we may safely proceed, and move on.

While we’re at a standstill, I study that remarkably sweet face surveying his surroundings and wonder, again, what happened to him. Is he listening for the sound of a familiar voice? Scenting for the smell of someone he knew? Mentally mapping our course so he can find his way back? It saddens me enough to stand quietly for a few seconds while he thinks his dog thoughts. For the first 5 or 6 stops anyway.

Down in the barn, Moe moved in, Chicago moved over, and the herd moved back to equilibrium.

Moe is missing one eye, but his calm demeanor and everyone else’s mindfulness of the restricted vision made for a smooth transition.

He conquered his suspicion of the automatic water bowl within minutes, and by the end of our first afternoon trusted me as a reliable source of raspberry horse snacks and reassuring neck scratches.

We’ve learned to walk together, he’s comfortable in the crossties, and we’re getting to know the choice grooming spots. He’s ok in his stall but prefers the wide-open space of the pasture and has singled out a section with plants he particularly enjoys.

Chicago and Moe have settled into a generally accepted equine routine, Moe plays Goldilocks in the cottage that is our run-in shelter, checking each feeding station for the hay he finds Just Right, while Chicago waits. Given that the Big Red Beast has had first pick of the porridge for the last 7 years, this makes my heart hurt a bit, but it’s standard operating procedure for the horses, and it only takes Moe a minute to make his choice, then Chicago moves to one of the other spots so all may live happily ever after.

Much as I enjoy a formal training class, my schooling style has morphed into a more prosaic approach. Core principles of safety, civility and citizenship are presented in a conversational tone – a hand raised casually with a “Give me a sec” gesture, translates in Ruffianspeak to “Wait until I get to the top of the landing, the bottom of the stairs, or on the other side of the threshold.”

A single tasty golf shoe is eagerly swapped for three pieces of tastier dog kibble.

A hand on Moe’s left hip as he walks enters his stall means “Continue walking until all 4 feet have cleared the door.”

I set up the bumpers of consistent, persistent guidance and we bounce down the Alley of Acceptable Actions. It’s shaky for a second, but solid for a lifetime, as we build the bonds of time and patience and practice and trust.

We’re creating the rhythm of routine in established relationships, the comfort of the counted-on response, the presuppositions of partnership, which help me recognize the “Was this really necessary?” expression on Rowdy’s face when it’s time to negotiate a Ruffian respite, and prompt me to keep a couple extra cookies in my pocket to occupy Chicago while Moe cherry picks for the choice pile.

I’m learning to communicate clearly and calmly, to celebrate the desired behavior and ignore the undesired if it presents no danger to self, others, or material possessions that matter.

I’m looking for peace and coexistence vs power and control.

And a bulk discount on dog beds.

Halloween

Two barn cats, but neither is black
Prowl around but are easy to track
They spend much of the day
Hiding out in the hay
But will always appear for a snack.

Ruff and Rowdy will work for a treat
Ask reward and then rinse and repeat
There’s no need to get ghoulish
When Ruffian acts foolish
He’s still learning, and really quite sweet.

He’s not brave so Chicago can’t boast
Many fears does this handsome horse host
He’s a little bit spooky
And can get kind of kooky
When he sees what he’s sure is a ghost.

Halloween brings no cause for alarm
An eerie sort of holiday charm
Scary sounds in the dark
Owls hoot and dogs bark
But peace surrounds us at Four Sticks Farm.