Sometime in mid-July I was gifted a little variegated Hosta that was starting to struggle in its home environment, so I planned to make it part of my peace garden project, to find a spot where it could flourish.
I took it out of the truck, set it in the wood chips on the east side of the front porch, and it sits there as I type. Because we’ve had a. lot. of rain, and because it’s conveniently located next to the hose, which is conveniently located to anyone going in or out of the garage, to or from the barn, and up or down the driveway, the plant gets watered frequently and enjoys a healthy dose of morning sun daily.
But it must be strongly rooted in some soil of serious sustenance, because even in this minimal maintenance mode, after all these months, it is still hale and hearty, bright and unblemished by deer, dogs, slugs, grubs or other bugs.
The opportunity to prove its survival skills has been provided to the hearty Hosta by the amalgamation of rainy days, procrastination, hot days, sloth, and low positioning on the priority list.
Its chosen spot in the front yard garden is currently occupied by a sedum plant that is slated to be moved to a sunnier side of the yard, which is presently populated with a couple of columbines.
The perennial repositioning may finally reach the top of the roster this week, given that our summer has stretched though September and beyond, with a couple 90-degree days possible before the weekend.
I appreciate the extended sandal season, but flip flops, capris and short-sleeved tees are not usually part of my back-to-school wardrobe, and the unseasonable warmth is wearing out its welcome.
The Land of Oz apple trees that line the yellow brick road that is my boardwalk to the barn pelt me with random plunks of their overripe fruit, the flesh now bored by beetles and bees. I take no pride in the sinister satisfaction derived by dousing them with insect spray, but I do it anyway.
The lilies, phlox and astilbe surrounding the barn are dead and dry, ready for their seasonal shearing, a chore usually completed in a 40-degree drizzle. But this year the soaking will be from the sweat on my back in the 80-degree sun.
Dead brown leaves fall onto live green grass in the pasture, allowing the three hundred bales of inventory in the loft and hay stalls to remain stable as the horses enjoy fine dining on fresh grass.
Flies still follow Chicago and Moe into the barn, but the absence of an autumnal chill has aborted the usual heat-seeking mission that keeps them hanging on the horses, in favor of a hover, touch and go and buzz the human operation.
The days are hot, but the sun now sets before seven, giving way to clear skies and cool nights. Backyard bonfires, sweatshirts and s’mores can’t be far away, with burning logs in the living room fireplace, insulated overalls and decorated sugar cookies right on their heels. Let’s think about that tomorrow.
Today, I’ll consider the Little Hosta That Can, digging deep roots in a permanent place in the Peace Garden by Friday.
Heat and rain and high dewpoints, some of my least favorite things, saturated the summer.
Waterlogged trails of soggy grass pock-marked with mud puddles limited opportunities for roaming around our favorite summer spots, and without Rowdy, my steadfast hiking companion to lead our little pack, Ruffian turned out to be a fair-weather walker.
He opted out on the hot days, which was most of them, so for the first time in forever I found myself going solo, which enlightened me to the recognition that even with all those scratch-and-sniff stops to leave his mark, canine camaraderie refreshes my soul in a way that the most thought-provoking podcast cannot.
But with Ruff or without, too many steamy days pushed the once-priority woodland wanderings to the intermittent section of the daily itinerary.
My mom put her house on the market, which meant days of de-cluttering, deciding what to discard, what to donate, what to keep in the new place or in the family.
Showings had to be scheduled, as did inspectors, repairmen (there is a special spot in heaven for people like plumber Dan) junk haulers and movers.
Spreadsheets were created to track To-Do’s; closets and cupboards were emptied, Goodwill and garbage bins filled.
Eighty-six years of accumulation takes a couple minutes to disseminate.
It was a long hot summer, which left me a little tired and a lot sad. I lost my muse and my mojo.
I flipped the page to September on my old-school paper calendar, hanging on the inside of the cabinet door above the coffee maker, with a sigh of relief and a spark of positivity for the promise of a fresh start.
But the weather gods carried a little heat to the new month, and some personnel changes brought the same to the new school year.
Ruffian went on Therapy Dog hiatus while the in-coming Powers That Be draft the documentation they deem appropriate to allow a dog in school. I think he’ll be back eventually, but while we wait, he spends his mornings at home, a victim of politics, power struggles, and peeing on the fenceposts of policy and procedure that inevitably come with new administration.
So, we’re still searching for some rhythm to our routine, but in the meantime Ruff and I finished Obedience 3 and managed to keep our collective composure during a final class conducted while the high school homecoming parade marched past our unsound-proof building.
We finally returned to the local state park last weekend for the first time in 2 years. These are my favorite hiking trails, their only downside being the branches of burrs and stems of stickers that edge the path and latch on Ruffian. I let them hitch a ride as far as the truck, where they get the End of the Line brushoff, left to languish in the parking lot.
The horses’ skin conditions healed, and their summer hair grew back just in time to start shedding in exchange for the winter wardrobes.
The branches of our Honeycrisp tree bow with farm-record abundance, much of the bounty suitable for human consumption despite the farmers’ nearly nonexistent knowledge of apple tree husbandry. Or wifery.
George collected caterpillars from the ever-expanding milkweed crop around the farm and hatched them from a couple cages on the barn porch, setting more than 50 Monarch butterflies on the flight path to Mexico.
And last week I renewed my driver’s license, assisted by a twentysomething who, after entering the data from my completed form, smiled brightly and said she’d add a “Senior” indicator to the front corner of the card.
Having apparently missed that one on the questionnaire, I obviously blinked blankly a couple times too many because she happily added that “lots of places offer discounts” and this would confirm my status.
For those who can’t do the math.
Or identify the obvious.
But she was so delighted to impart this bit of financial insight that I couldn’t help but match her joy. I thanked her with more cheer than generally extended at the DMV and laughed much of the way home.
It is still a beautiful world.
With ten percent off.
ps to Barry: The summer was long, it was wet, it was hot. A favorite of mine it was definitely not. Rowdy is gone and that still makes me sad. But Ruffian is here and for that I am glad. The mud has now dried and the sun has come out. There is plenty for me to give thanks about. Moe’s legs have returned to their usual size. And the barn is surrounded by big butterflies. Time’s moving on and I’m getting older. But still I believe that the years do get golder. I made these words rhyme just about to the letter So I hope that you think that this poem is better.
The rain has been falling all summer. The wet has become a big bumme.r Sump reaches near the top, The pump decides to stop, My Saturday’s spent with the plumber.
Many days have been humid and hot. Puddles splatter across the dry lot. It’s closed to the horses, And therefore it forces, Them to chill in an alternate spot.
So much heat, so much wet, so much muck. A rough summer in which to be stuck. It’s all sodden and damp, Like the worst summer camp, It’s enough now, c’mon, what the yuck?
Some long days for Chicago and Moe, Who had health scares that sparked weeks of woe. Both horses are healing, And seem to be feeling, Okay with the changed status quo.
We’ve had air hung with smoke and with fog. It sits heavy on top of our bog. Depressing and hazy, And grounds to be lazy, But instead I’ll go out with the dog.
Ruffian and I are still training. On class nights it’s usually raining. So our work’s done inside, Where it’s easier to hide, That our “loose leash” is sometimes still straining.
This week it will finally be cool. For the start of The Fair, and then school. Summer’s end is in sight, We will soon, just sit tight, Welcome fall, the seasons’ crown jewel.
After a sweltering, sticky weekend at an air show in Wisconsin, I came home to find a swollen, stinky Moe.
He seemed unbothered by the tacky fluid seeping through skin stretched too tightly to stem the tide from the dinner plate-sized edema sitting on the center of his stomach, or the saucer-sized swellings surrounding it, or the stumps that were his hind legs.
Even the disconcerting smell of slightly rotting flesh emitted by the gummy golden crust dripping and drying on his belly and back-end seemed of neither consequence nor interest to the placid pony, whose only complaint seemed to be that I was late for dinner.
Just toss a flake of hay in that feeder please.
I snapped a few pictures of the puffy parts to send to the veterinarian, who squeezed us into her Monday schedule.
While under the influence, Moe was perfectly willing to let Dr Abbi and her able assistant swab and scrub the oozing inflammation under a continuous flow of cool water from the barn hose.
Once sober though, he cut off the cooperation. My instructions were twice-daily cold-hosing, and my intent was to go with the no-contact treatment plan, no picking or patting, just running cool water on his engorged appendages, but Moe clearly requested an alternative approach to his rehabilitation.
Twice, we waltzed out to the alley where we engaged in a clumsy circle dance. A little jive, a bit of swing and a whole lot of quick step, choreographed to keep my two feet from tangling with his four while zigging, zagging, shifting and snaking around the hose with its nozzle on the “Shower” setting.
Mercifully, the swelling subsided by Wednesday evening, so the ballroom closed after only two performances.
Equally fortunate was the discovery that Moe would willingly take his medicine – little green steroid pills and large white antibiotic tablets – if I’d sweeten the pot with a modicum of senior feed and splash of molasses.
This discovery negated the need to dissolve the antibiotic in water and administer via the sizable plastic syringe left by the vet, our single attempt at which ended with my hair, my hands, my shirt and the stall walls dosed with a smattering of SMZ. Double strength.
I am now, healthy as a horse.
Fly management was deemed a critical piece of the recovery period, as I can’t spray that raw flesh, though seeping blood and sticky serum is a feast for flying bugs. So, I smear an insect repellant cream above, below, and around the sides of the sores, which is surprisingly effective.
Success has also come with the old gross standby of Fly Ribbons, sticky strips that hang from the shelter ceiling, and are now covered in fly corpses. They’ll keep us from gracing the cover of Barn Beautiful, but they get the job done.
And Bonus Benefit – cause or coincidence, a couple days after the tacky tape appeared, the barn swallows disappeared, so there is no longer guano mixed into the manure picked up in the shelter, and Fennel no longer has to dodge the dive-bombers that harassed him in the shelter doorway.
By Thursday Moe was looking much better, in a ghoulish, zombie sort of way, but he did draw the “Get Out of Farrier Work Free” pass this month.
Chicago, however, came in for a pre-pedicure spa session with a string of oozing open wounds under his mane. Showing signs of neither discomfort nor distress, he had his feet trimmed as scheduled, while I sent snapshots of his sticky neck to the vet clinic, with a request to review the records from our late February episode.
By the time I got the a-ok for Hot Spots and Hives Treatment Take 2, Chicago’s left-side neck and shoulder were popping with quarter-sized welts. Nothing that the steroid pills and antibiotic cream couldn’t contain, so he joined Moe on the rehab roster.
As happens when animals live with a fair amount of free range and free time, the source of the sores cannot be determined for certain. A biting bug or a poisonous plant, contacted or consumed, are the likely causes.
Moe maintains a minimum daily requirement of one pasture nap in the sternal recumbent position, which allows a little repast while in repose, and would account for the draining dermatitis mostly limited to his belly and back legs.
Chicago tends to confine his serious sleeping time to his stall but does relish a good spine-scratching roll in the grass, which could explain the crust on his crest.
So while I lean in the direction of a contact reaction, we examined, evaluated, went with an educated guess to treat the symptoms, and launched an investigation of the pasture which may never prove conclusive.
The Schwarzeneggers in my stalls are on the mend.
The flies are managed and minimized.
The pastures are mowed and treated and temporarily closed off.
June was hot and wet, fourteen inches emptied from the rain gauge last month, an additional three inches this week. Our Dry Lot, “a designated, area without grass, used to protect the pastures from overgrazing while providing space for horses to exercise and socialize in a mud-free environment” has not been dry since December.
When you live in the lowlands, mud management is mandatory, so we’re making our way through the mire, glad for dry day and drain tile.
Now relieved of all riding duties, Chicago is, for the first time in our 23 years together, barefoot. We’re watching for any issues with his soft soles that may show the need for summer shoes, but with the spongy ground and his life of doing nearly nothing, he currently enjoys the literal feel or the ground beneath his feet.
Poor Moe is the 2025 bug magnet, his empty eye socket an open invitation for flying insect inhabitation. The vets assure me I will do no damage, but it’s with the gentlest of touch that I swab out the discharge with a couple wet cotton balls. He stands quietly for the cleaning and accepts the almost-always-on fly mask, removed only during his afternoon snack and snooze in the stall.
Moe’s fly spray tolerance is improving. He’ll now stand still for application to the front end and part of the hind legs. As long as it’s an aerosol can. And we’re in his stall. And I’m restricting his movement by holding him by his fly mask, halter or lead rope. Pony steps maybe, but steps nonetheless.
Along with summer storms, June ushered in a relaxed Ruffian, considerably calmed since assuming the role of Solitary Dog, engaging in watered-down renderings of his rough housing and rug tousling only when his cousin, little lab Remi, comes to visit.
His boisterous behavior has settled at a level Remi finds reasonable, so she’s now willing to play with the formerly raucous Ruff and during a recent weekend stay, introduced him to the joy of cooling off in swamp puddles. Specifically, the mucky pool of marsh water in the front woods, an area Ruffian had not previously ventured into but to which he has since returned several times.
Remi is a petite, short-coated black lab who dries quickly. Ruff is a galootish, long-coated golden retriever who does not.
Mixed with the mud of Four Sticks is that of the county parks through which Ruffian and I continue to ramble. Some have more high ground and dry terrain than others, so “we” choose our daily destination based on recent meteorological conditions.
I spend a fair amount of time with my Swiffers®, wet and dry.
Of course, Ruff’s not afraid of no stinkin’ mud, but he is a bit of a fair-weather walker who heats up much faster than he cools down, so he casts his vote for whichever trail routes us most quickly back to the shade, with minimal mosquitoes and deer flies. It’s the bugs’ busy season, but I’ve found repellants that keep Ruffian and me on their Unacceptable Donor lists.
Fennel fares best of all the beasts around here in the summer, his paws clean, the rest of him free of insect bites, but he does bear the burden of sharing his space with a variety of comers and goers, which he gracefully endures.
After I fended off their protracted campaign to claim the light fixture in Moe’s stall as their nesting spot, the swallows successfully launched a stealthy operation to build on the railing above the sliding door between the barn and the shelter. I don’t know for certain if the mass of mud and feathers holds any nestlings, but have temporarily ceded the territory, just in case.
The adults hang tight to the barn, paying no mind to most of us, but swoop down, hissing and clicking menacingly at the little ginger cat, should he have the audacity to stroll out the big door.
Even the shelter of his barn cannot be called Fennel’s own, as there is a buff and white cat, first noticed on the property last July, who makes frequent appearances.
I’ve spotted him in the driveway, on the hitching post, in the cushioned chair on the porch, in the cushioned chair on the flatbed trailer, in the soffit above the hay stall, in the soffit above the hay loft, in the corner of the hay loft, and at the top of the ladder of the hay loft, just behind Fennel, when I climbed up to toss the last of the 2024 bales over the rail. As I stepped on the floor of the loft, he quietly retreated to the back pallet, monitored my movements, then strolled back to his original position when I headed down the ladder.
A couple weeks ago, he’d slept through his alarm and was still in the shop when Fennel and I went in for breakfast.
Fennel’s fuzzed-out hesitation alerted me to the presence of a foreign body, so I left the divider door open and went in the barn to distribute morning hay.
Sure enough, I was standing next to Moe, setting out the first flakes for his perusal when the new guy scurried for the exit. Low to the ground, laser focused on his only way out, he paused when he saw me but picked up the pace when I stood still and verbally assured him his safe passage.
He used to run when I got close – closer than expected though, so I suspect he’s learned to do the math required to determine the limits of his safe zone. But lately he’s allowed me to get within a few feet, and I talk to him when I see him (ever the trendsetter, I was predicted to be a “crazy cat lady” by a coworker many, many years ago, before the concept was a thing) letting him know he’s welcome to stary as long as he doesn’t hurt the little orange scaredy cat who already lives here.
His response to my chatter is direct eye contact and calm confidence. No fear or movement, no conversation or debate.
He may or may not be a neighbor’s pet. He may or may not be a friend of Fennel. I once heard them conferring behind me, a couple quiet hisses, but no growling. I suspect they were merely ironing out the details of their agreement.
They seem to have an understanding of harmonious cohabitation, so he’s welcome to stay.
Until he meets Ruffian, at which time the contract may require re-negotiation.
May 31, 2025 – I realized in the morning that I’ve taken and passed this Pet Partners test, three times, albeit many years ago, twice with sweet golden Zenga and once with Boone the humble greyhound.
Zenga’s penchant for soft fleecy toys was challenged by the miniature Clifford-the-Big-Red Dog stuffed animal that he had to pass during the “Leave It” part of the test, and the evaluator admitted when we were done that she thought we “were a goner” as she saw his wide eyes and raised ears after setting it on our prescribed path. But he heard the unspoken underlying “and I mean it” in my “leave it” request and resisted the urge to grab the little stuffed setter as we passed by.
Boone’s colossally laid-back character made for a colossally stress-free evaluation. He was more likely to lag than drag during the loose-leash walking exercises; he welcomed interaction with people, none of whom he considered a stranger, and he because had no interest in other dogs, whether he knew them or not, ignoring the neutral dog came naturally.
But Ruffian’s big challenges would be 1. relaxing enough to politely interact with strange people in a strange place and 2. getting out of the truck so he could go into a strange place and interact with strange people, neither of which we’ve mastered despite countless trips and training sessions in strange places with strange people.
Appearance and grooming count for this test, so Ruff was subjected to the full spa treatment on Friday night, his resistance to which left me with a pulled hip muscle, but we wouldn’t lose points for a limping handler, so I took that one for the team.
To keep us (well ok, me) calm, we started our Saturday, as we usually do, with a walk in the park, followed by thorough brushing on the grooming table to remove any grassy remains before we headed for the fairgrounds.
Because this evaluation technically begins with the team’s arrival at the testing site, I prepared some strategies for dislodging Ruffian from the truck if he shrunk back to the dark side of his crate when I opened the lift gate and planned to park in a space a little obscured from the entry door.
Fear not, he was right at the front, perfectly placed to show me the deep brown wood tick burrowing into his bright white forehead. I picked it off and tossed it in the dirt, sparing it my usual tick-torture tactics, setting it free to drink on some other dog, then completed a cursory visual check and tactile inspection to make sure this parasite had worked alone, thankful for Ruff’s ivory fur that offers no camouflage for the little bloodsucking critters.
We entered the test building, a cavernous metal structure that houses agricultural exhibitions during the county fair, and as our evaluator reviewed our paperwork, Ruffian and I wandered around to get familiar with the place.
Ruff was uneasy but under control, though he did startle at the giant fan blades spinning slowly and silently on the ultra-high ceiling. The evaluator marveled that no one, neither she nor any of the teams that preceded us, had noticed them all day.
Great to be a pioneer.
We started a little rough, Ruff was obviously stressed, and we finished the first half of the evaluation on the edge of earning a Not Ready rating, which would’ve sent us home immediately. No passing Go, no collecting two hundred dollars, no green participation ribbon.
But Ruffian pulled himself together for his last-chance exercise and proved his Therapy Dog potential. Not only did he accept the hugging, petting and touching of the volunteers, but he looked around for more when they moved away. He showed interest in engagement with very volunteer and earned a “Very polite dog!” bonus comment on his “Offered a treat” exercise.
So, we passed the test. I couldn’t convince him to sit too close to the Very Scary ottoman that held his Certificate of Completion, but we’re good for the next 2 years, plenty of time to refine the skills and build the confidence to face his fears of ceiling fans and furniture.
A very scary ottoman
Road Signs for Ruffian – Pet Partners Therapy Dog Ten months ago We faced our fears With practice and a test We passed and now Repeat it all In only two more years.
I thought Rowdy was gaining weight because his waist looked a little thicker sometimes, so I cut back on his breakfast and supper rations, which seemed to help a bit.
I thought he was getting sore because he sometimes took an extra hop before he jumped into the truck, so I had him use the ramp for entrances and exits, which seemed to help a bit.
I thought he was having tooth troubles again because he didn’t always clean his plate, so I put water on his kibble, which seemed to help a bit.
The still small voice thought that it was cancer, but that’s where the still small voice always goes isn’t it?
The still small voice was right.
A noticeably swollen stomach got us an Urgent Care appointment with our vet last Monday morning, where we learned his belly was full of blood, most likely due to cancer of the spleen, a condition disproportionately common in golden retrievers, highly malignant, slowly developing and asymptomatic in its initial stages.
Heartbreaking.
And beyond.
Standard treatment for hemangiosarcoma includes surgery and chemotherapy with an average survival time measured in months.
If we opted to pass on surgery? “Spoil him rotten for the next couple days because that’s what he’ll have left.”
There was a tiny possibility that the tumor was benign, so in the beginning, I chose to think positively. After all, this was Rowdy we were talking about – Rowdyroo. Punkin Pie. Smartypup. Study Hall Monitor Extraordinaire and all-around swell dog.
We went to a specialized referral clinic with a blood bank and an oncology department, where an ultrasound confirmed the tumor on his spleen.
I was ready to spend his inheritance, but a few hours into diagnostics, the estimate swelled to a point that would require not only Rowdy’s birthright, but Ruffian’s, Chicago’s Moe’s and most of Fennel’s. And that was only for the surgery. Chemotherapy regimen and other post-surgical care extra.
Plus, there was a noticeable lack of positivity in prognosis. Despite the steady stream of kind and compassionate conversation explaining processes and procedures, cost estimates and deposit requirements, there was little hope expressed. No one mentioned more than “months” in the few references made to the future.
So, we chose a choice that wasn’t within miles of our radar when we started what was supposed to have been a regular Monday morning.
I wanted to bring Rowdy home for the night and to our clinic of 25 years on Tuesday morning, but the treating veterinarian insisted, several times, that he’d already lost too much blood, was still “actively bleeding” and she could not recommend that.
So, I fed him as many of the treats as he wanted from the barkuterie platter offered by the clinic staff, and with George and Ruff sitting on the floor with us, I massaged his shoulders, rubbed his ears and said all the things I needed him to hear.
And then we said goodbye.
Hindsight can be a bitch. I don’t usually indulge much time in the fruitless waste of energy that comes with “should have;” and losing any of my animals always leaves my heart a little heavier. But losing Rowdy lined it with an extra weight – a rucksack of regret.
In retrospect, maybe I should’ve stuck with my standard operating procedure when it comes to extraordinary lifesaving measures. Maybe I should’ve just brought him home and spoiled him rotten for as long as he was comfortable instead of subjecting him to the stress of treatment by unknown people in an unfamiliar place.
But I didn’t, and maybe he deserved better.
Rowdy was an exceptional dog. He could distinguish his “squeaker guys” by name and when asked to find his Squeaker Bone, Big Guy, Squeaker Man, Latte, or the Red Toy, he would search, including Upstairs or Downstairs as directed, until he found the requested toy.
He waited, without reminder, on stairway landings, at doorway thresholds, and at the edge of the open tailgate, until he got a verbal “ok” to continue forward progress.
He knew how to read a room. At home, he found a safe spot to lay low at the sight of the purple jersey and the sound of the Skol Chant.
At my parents’ house, he’d make sure to find them both, in the office, the bedroom, the family room or the kitchen, before he settled on his spot next to the recliner or in front of the couch.
When my Dad was recovering in a transitional care facility, Rowdy spent much of his visits resting his chin on Dad’s feet, grounding them both.
At school, he trotted into the library to start his shift as Study Hall Monitor, and made his rounds around the room, checking in with each student, a brief snuffle to those not interested, circling back to those who needed a little love.
The girls learned to wait for his return. They came to understand that his first fly-by was not a personal snub, just a part of his process.
As was the way he sat at their desks with his back turned to them – his way of positioning himself for a mutually satisfying shoulder massage.
He entertained them with his small bag of tricks, speaking when they asked, even when he had nothing to say and would instead offer chortles, warbles, and whines.
He shook their hands no matter if they asked him to “shake,” “paw,” or “give me 5”.
He bowed, “swam,” and once played a small role in their school production.
He checked on them in the Chill Room if they were struggling to process their way through a problem. He greeted them in the hallway when we knew they’d had a tough night.
Rowdy didn’t like hugs, even from me, and he gently schooled a few students in the art of acknowledging personal space, though he seemed to soften his stance this year, allowing the occasional adolescent arm to loop around his neck on an as-needed basis.
He had a passion for any rubbery squeaker ball, an outside-only toy, and was sometimes reluctant to give them up, torn between clutching a dirt-encrusted Chuck-it and coming in the house, so he’d stand in the garage for a few extra chomps before setting the ball in a safe spot on the back step, conveniently located for an easy grab-n-go on his way out of the house.
The sole exception to his Hold Tight policy was the intermittent opportunity to sprint across the pasture in hot pursuit of a deer spotted in the swamp. He never came close to catching any of them and it almost always cost him the cherished chuck-it, but I guess the chase was worth it.
Occasionally Rowdy would recapture a lost ball in the woods, and when I went to the barn after returning from the clinic on Monday night, I found his final find – a filthy faded squeaker ball, placed on the floor drain in the barn aisle.
I left it sitting where he set it for several days, then moved it to a shelf in the tack room.
Since Ruff prefers chewing branches and twigs to chasing chuck-its and tennis balls, the rest of Rowdy’s sunken squeakers are now laid to their eternal rest in the swamp of Four Sticks Farm.
The new canine King of the Castle has settled quietly into the rhythm of a new routine – perhaps he paid attention to the lessons of his leader.
Except for barking at the barn cat. Apparently, he was absent that day.
We’re all adjusting to the activities of daily living in a one-dog home, and that is where we’ll stay.
For now.
When I started my search for a new dog to join old Boone the brindle Greyhound in our pack, I didn’t want a puppy. Then I got a 7-week-old Golden Retriever that I named Rowdy.
In late July of 2023 I told George how great life was with a single, reliable, well-trained dog. Then I adopted a semi-hairless maybe Golden Retriever with major skin infections and a mystery history that I named Ruffian.
Life. No promises.
I finally took his travel crate out of the truck and removed the ragged beach towel from the handle of the bathroom door but still look for Rowdy when it’s time for a walk in the woods or for dinner and a drink.
During a break in barn chores, I sometimes look out across the pasture and picture him racing back from one of his deer dashes. Pure joy.
Lest I worry about forgetting the pure joy he gave even better than he got, I look at any of the 565 pictures in my phone’s “Rowdy” album.
Or the filthy faded squeaker ball on the tack room shelf.
In the spirit of the graduation season, a couple weeks ago I commenced to learn how my little Peace Garden Plot survived the cold and snow, to find what lies hidden under the heavy wet leaves.
So, I pulled on some gloves and pulled off the dead of winter. George can’t refrain from the occasional unsupportive-spouse comment on my efforts to “rake the woods” but it’s only a small section, and the leaves are mostly dry, and the energetic output allows for some extra caloric input in the evening, so I carry on.
Rowdy and Ruffian keep me company, eager to embark on their own expeditions for buried treasure. Rowdy unearths squeaker balls he’s known and loved and lost in the woods, content to celebrate his finds with a proud display wherever I go.
Ruff, however, excavates simply for sport, digging dirt in all the wrong places. He also loves to chew twigs, sticks and fallen branches, dragging them through the forest, across the driveway and into the front yard, leaving a trail of leaflets, bits of tree bark and muddy pawprints wherever he goes, including in the house.
They’re entertaining companions, who make tedious tasks tolerable. If they wander out of sight or earshot, they return promptly when I call, or better, use the official blaze orange hunting dog whistle I wear high-school-coach-style around my neck. A solid tweet brings them running for the payoff of whatever tasty treat I’ve remembered to put in my pocket.
My little plant project began as a brainstorm to beautify the view from the front porch, a little section of the Forest of Four Sticks Farm on the other side of the driveway, the goal being a scenic spot to inspire calm. Then it expanded to an experiment in repurposing, replanting, and rethinking as I transplanted perennials from around the property.
My thumb is far from green, so this is a bit of a trial-and-error research project for which only vegetation with demonstrated Four Sticks survival skills have been recruited.
I failed to map my plotted plants – rookie mistake, product of a deluded mind convinced it would remember what is where – so I spent a couple hours stripping the flower bed of its winter comforter, with a couple prayers to the patron saint of greenhorn gardeners, hoping to unearth something other than wet earth.
Under the saturated maple sheddings I spied shoots. Eureka!
Hostas, lilies-of-the-valley, a tiny clump of dianthus pinks and a rogue day lily, tossed in the woods to make room for the new driveway all survived. My botanical Rip Van Winkels, sleeping under a layer of decaying leaves that could have smothered them, but instead, sheltered them, are now small green spikes, promising to rise and shine for another summer.
Some of the hostas – cherished memorials to cherished horses – were slow to appear, but only because they were buried a little deeper and needed a little more mulch moved, a little more water decanted to encourage them to wake up and soak up the sunshine.
I’m not sure what my little peace place will look like this year, what it will grow into; but as I survey the landscape, pleased with the present, planning the potential, there is hope in seeing the sprouts, and joy in dreaming of what will bloom. Ferns, columbine and more hostas will find new spots this year, with wind chimes, and just enough garden art to add just enough whimsical charm.
Life seems paused, in a bit of a hold Some things shifting to new from the old Thinking and waiting, anticipating Little changes, but nothing too bold
Daily temps rise to early-spring warm We’ve survived the first seasonal storm The horses, they nibble On the sprouting green kibble We all dream of the future new norm
Summer birds have begun to arrive They roost and they sing, soar and dive Wrens swipe bluebird houses And hawks drop dead mouses And the concerts start promptly at five
Some more free time means now I can go Spend more time with Chicago and Moe We can walk through the trails Brush their manes and their tails Feel the peace, take our time, nice and slow
In the barn Fennel’s still our sole cat He hunts, but it sadly seems that The rodents look yummy But they upset his tummy So he pukes on the barn aisle mat
I finally got off of my duff Started taking some classes with Ruff He gets scared in strange places But in most of the cases Settles down once he’s been there enough
On the job Rowdy seems a bit tired Not suggesting he needs to be fired But the time may be near That Ruff conquers his fear Is ready to work, and gets hired
To be sure, it’s a season for change Fluctuation that feels a bit strange But I’ll try to stay quiet Be hard but I’ll try it Not to push or to force or arrange
No plotting or planning or mappin’ No pressure, but maybe some nappin’ Try to go with the flow To really let go To be open to all that might happen
Despite a lifelong discomfort with loud voices and cursing, Rowdy has adopted an admirable response when he hears them.
No one celebrates the final play of the Super Bowl with greater gratitude than my gentle golden, who holds his breath, just a little, through the entirety of the NFL season. But swear words now invoke the superpower of his therapy dog spirit.
When he senses too-high tension in the tv room, Rowdy will launch a crusade for calmness, approaching the overly fervent fan with ears slightly dropped, tail slowly ticking back and forth as he gauges the proper proximity needed to successfully complete his mission.
A little scratching of that perfect spot behind a dog’s ears restores some semblance of reason to even the most passionate accusations of poor play and outrageous officiating.
Rowdy’s peacekeeping pursuits are not confined to the perimeter of Four Sticks, however.
We recently had a girl start her day with a major tantrum in the entry way of the school building. I’ve heard a few of these rants over the years, but this was top shelf vituperation, a full-on verbal assault of the perceived violation of her rights as a student, the injustices forced upon her at the school, including the totally intolerable situation of her having to be in the same room as another student she deemed despicable. It was a vitriolic tirade, born of incredible pain and sadness, punctuated with a remarkable number of F bombs.
As with many things in life, I believe there’s a time and a place for the F word, and I appreciate its judicious use. But 15 minutes of the tirade seemed plenty to satisfy a need to vent, so I left Rowdy in the office and walked into the hallway, not to counsel, just to offer a little moral support for the teacher who’d been monitoring the meltdown, and because sometimes the mere presence of a second, silent adult can nudge the emotional thermometer out of the red zone.
I said nothing, just stood quietly, and the student didn’t acknowledge me except to slip into her diatribe that she didn’t “need no fuckin’ dog.”
Message received.
Loud and clear.
But Rowdy begged to differ. The words had barely left her lips before he came around the corner, somehow knowing he was needed.
He walked past me, past the teacher, and very gently approached the student crouched in the corner. He touched her knee with his nose, and she reached for his head. He stepped a little closer, touched her just softly enough to make sure she knew he was there, and she started scratching his head, talking just a little quieter, just a little slower.
He stood with her, demanding nothing, only offering quiet connection.
After a minute or two Rowdy recognized that his work was done. He moved over to me, we returned to our office, where he accepted a well-earned treat and curled up on his bed to wait for his call to Study Hall.
He didn’t solve her problem. But within a few minutes she calmed enough to move out of the hallway and into a study space.
Unlike some of the other students, she doesn’t clamor for his attention when she sees him. But when he makes his rounds around the room at the start of Study Hall, sometimes she scratches his head, just a little, and talks to him, just a little, and smiles at him, just a little.
Just enough to keep her at peace.
Just enough to keep him in shape for Sundays in September, with their return of the purple jerseys.
From Four Sticks Farm 