Back on the Therapy Dog Track

Well, I did it. I committed to a Therapy Dog evaluation on May 31, which gives Ruff and his slacker handler 75 days to do what needs to be done to present as a confident, competent team, capable of providing canine cheer and comfort.

Ruffian is still reluctant to leave the safe space of his crate when we’re parked in an unfamiliar parking lot so we’ve launched Operation Dare to Depart, a commitment to driving every day to a new place, waiting for him to leave the confines of his kennel so we can build his confidence while exploring new environments.

Our first foray was to the school where he will one day serve as Rowdy’s Study Hall Monitor understudy. Only 3-4 taps on the top of the crate convinced him he could safely exit the Explorer and head toward the building.

Ruffian is the first dog I’ve had whose energy drops with nerves rather than ramping up. He walked with me across the parking lot in a cautious jog, pausing to check out the scenery, continuing with cheerful prodding.

He willingly walked through the security vestibule, met a couple staff members, and submitted to the swarm of students who surrounded him in the hallway, though it was more frozen fright and less tempered tolerance and, as evidenced by the quaking feathers on his hind legs. Still, he accepted the love and offered a couple tiny pooch smooches in exchange for the many murmurs of admiration.

Then he Goldilocks-ed his way around our office, sniffed Rowdy’s relaxation spots on the carpet, drank from his water bowl and eventually laid on the dog bed he deemed Just Right.

We went to the Science teacher’s classroom and after a quick tour of the attractive aromas of plants, reptiles, amphibians and aquariums, he settled down for his first staff meeting.

Ruff refuses food rewards when he’s anxious, but during the meeting he took the crunchy treat offered in exchange for a down stay and even popped up a couple times for an intermittent reimbursement – a positive sign of getting comfortable in his surroundings.

Since then, we’ve spent two sessions in the parking lot of a local farm store, with the overly optimistic goal of getting out of the truck and meandering through the aisles of garden supplies, dog treats and farm tools.

Before we can get into the store, we have to get out of the truck though, so we’re still working on that.

Ruffian has yet to willingly jump out during our practice runs, even with Rowdy as his emotional support animal. During our inaugural trip he followed Rowdy out but instantly bounced right back off the pavement and into Rowdy’s car crate.

With a ridiculous amount of encouragement after a ridiculous amount of standing under an open tailgate in a northerly wind, we worked our way to a few small circles in the parking lot.

Next up, a city park with a playground and kids and cars and dogs and porta-potties. Ruff came to the edge of the back door of the truck quickly but was spooked by a teenage boy shouting the F word on his cellphone. Once convinced the profanity parade had passed, Ruff left the truck with only a bit of reluctance and only a bit of jostling of the crate.

He acknowledged the group of teenage boys playing video games (sans swearing) at the picnic table, allowed the petting of strangers, including two small spontaneous hugs from a little girl, and accepted the noises of kids on slides, spinners, swings, jungle gyms and merry-go-rounds.

My mom met us to walk the trail around the park, which provided practice in slow, mindful movement in the face of dogs barking behind fences, surveying stealthily from shrubs, and one group of three that snuck up on us from somebody’s backyard. After a few sniffs, they moved on, more interested in staying ahead of their owner than sticking around with Ruffian.

We were passed by boys on bikes, and we passed a flock of poultry. The Boss Hen made a beeline to the edge of the chicken run as we approached, a formidable, feathered foe that I suspect, had she been loose, would present a bigger challenge than even the monster mastiff, but we advanced without incident.

So, Team Ruffian is in spring training mode – practice, practice, practice. Nothing like the possibility of public humiliation to put the pressure on performance and we have 75 days to minimize the possibility of major meltdown.

And to maximize the joy of jumping out of the truck.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Test Schedule
We’ll practice and practice
It’ll be a grand day
If we pass our big test
On the last day of May.

Hot Spots and Hives

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

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

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

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

Time for a professional opinion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even with hot spots and hives.

Forward, Forward, Forward

During my many riding lessons with Chicago, an often-repeated directive from the Man With the Patience To Be My Instructor was “Forward, Forward, Forward.” Nine years since my last lesson I still hear his voice urging us to move onward with confident energy, even when I’m not riding and especially now as the new year unfolds with its changes, challenges and choices.

My 2025 intention is to make it a book and barn year – a return to the peace-keeping pastimes that help me navigate the nastiness of the noise and remember the serenity of the silence.

To that end, I just finished the first novel I’ve read in many months, and I’m facilitating a few interspecies interventions down in the barn so I can spend more quiet time in the company of all my favorite four-leggeds.

We successfully survived the inaugural occurrence of the Four Sticks Farm Freestyle Equine-Canine mixer, a spontaneous event that occurred last weekend after snow shoveling but before lunch chores, when I decided to clean up the shelter while Chicago, Moe, Rowdy and Ruffian were all in attendance, unhaltered and unleashed. They were unrestrained and maybe I was unhinged, but it seemed like time to move onward with confident energy.

I hoped.

Chicago and Moe have developed a system of determining the “Best if eaten by” date for their hay, only it’s measured in hours. They sort through the flakes, select the choice pieces and stems, then scatter the sizable remainder across the length of the shelter, where it will be trod upon, pooped over, and occasionally peed on, by a certain one-eyed Walking Horse.

However, if I rake up the remnants, load them in the wheelbarrow and slip/slide my way out to the pasture, they will eventually make their way to the scrap pile and finish the forage.

Usually, I get this done while they’re in their stalls enjoying their lunchtime snack-and-snooze. I move the spurned but still-good hay, sweep the shelter and put a couple small fresh flakes on a clean surface for their dining pleasure.

They have trained me well.

But on Saturday, I had a little unscheduled time, the goldens were relatively relaxed from an hour of running and rutting through snow piles, and the horses were serenely snuffling around the backside of the barn. It seemed the god of opportunity had presented an opening to run the experiment of testing the group’s ability to play nicely when allowed total access to the same playground – a free-for-all that could end in either disaster or delight, but I opted to give it go.

Forward, forward, forward.

Moe only pinned his ears and snaked his head at the dogs a couple times, Chicago only once lowered his head with a slight snort, Rowdy only made a single semi-move toward Moe before recognizing just how badly that might end, and sweet, slow-processing Ruffian only offered 3 or 4 play bows with 3 or 4 demanding barks, then realized none of the others wanted to join in any retriever games.

So, he switched to single-player mode and galloped giant, gleeful figure-8’s through the pasture, under the barn rope, around the barn aisle, up and off the bales stacked in the hay stall.

Chicago, Moe and Rowdy stood by the barn door, uninterested and unimpressed as Ruff ran maniacal loops with joyful abandon, eventually skidding to a stop with his tongue lolling out the side of his goofy golden grin.

No animals were harmed in the process, and we made a little progress toward peace.

Forward, forward, forward.

In a crazy figure-8ish sort of way.

Remembering Mace

Somewhere between my father’s death and his funeral, I said my forever farewell to the Crabby Tabby.

Mace was born in a boarding barn up the road and carried generations of genetic code for rodent eradication. He came to Four Sticks as just a bit of a kit, black stripes wrapped around a brown belly with white patches in all the right places.

We’ve been blessed with many a fine-looking feline here, including a sultry Siamese, a cute little calico, a couple of gregarious gingers and a bashful black-and-white, but in a barn cat beauty contest, Mace would get my vote. He kept his kittenish good looks until the end, with only one small grey spot on one side of his nose to give away his senior status.

He was a fun and friendly kitten, but a barn cat’s path is full of peril, with patches in which he moves from predator to prey, a prospective victim to wise owls, wily coyotes and stronger, savvier strays. Mace endured a couple unfortunate encounters that led to abscesses and operations, which made him more cautious, less charming for the middle part of his life.

Despite his spotty surliness, and unlike Fearful Fennel, Mace was always present and pleasant on veterinary appointment days, willing to walk in his crate and sit serenely in the shotgun seat, untroubled by the ride or the wait in the clinic office. But his silence was not to be mistaken as submission, and the business of our visits was completed posthaste, sometimes supplemented by the donning of leather gauntlets.

Neither people nor pet were ever injured in the execution of the events of those days, and with time and tubes of tuna paste he morphed into a mostly mellow mouser, easily managed on the exam table.

Mace did not suffer fools gladly, and his tolerance for the academic types was limited as well. He didn’t want to be coddled, cuddled or curled up in your arms, just a little bit of plain petting please.

When his affection allowance hit its max Mace clearly communicated his desire to be done. He gave fair warning, but I witnessed a few self-proclaimed cat whisperers walking away wiping away bitty beads of blood. Pay. Attention.

He lived in harmony with the horses, détente with the dogs, camaraderie with the other cats who cycled through.

His sphere of influence decreased as his age increased, but his work ethic stayed strong. I didn’t hesitate for a second to give the go-ahead for a thousand-dollar surgery to repair a deep muscle tear on 11-year-old Mace because he was the only animal on the farm who actually earned his keep. He shed his middle age spread, honed his hunting skills and six years later still left me rodent remnants in the barn aisle.

Mace always appeared for afternoon barn chores, which I initially believed was to have a clear shot at the clean bedding but came to realize that it was strictly a social call. He kept me company while I sifted and shifted shavings, then I’d kneel down and he’d step up on my lap so I could pet his head, rub his ears and scratch along his jawbone where I could feel his petite purr, audible only if I left the dogs in the house and the radio in the tack room.

Mace was a solid citizen cat. Complicated – maybe that’s redundant when you’re talking felines – but I loved him. For over 17 years, a remarkable run for a barn cat.

Though he lived such a long life, the end came quickly. Somewhere between Sunday and Monday his back end stopped propping him up. No marks, no swelling, no blood, no sign of distress, just no ability for forward movement. He mostly sat in his fleecy bed, even when breakfast was served.

I waited half a day, called the clinic and got an appointment with our favorite veterinarian. I swaddled my handsome tabby cat in some clean towels, set him in the front seat and scratched along his jawbone, feeling the petite purr as I drove.

I left the dogs at home and turned the radio off.

Peaceful End

After a few tough months that felt like years, my Dad passed away last weekend.

His body and his brain failed him with a steady swiftness the past couple weeks, as he became increasingly less responsive, spending the last two days bedridden, in what looked like a really deep sleep. He showed no sign of discomfort, and my mom and a sister were with him in the end, which brought comfort to the family.

Dad lived eighty-eight mostly happy, healthy years, but dementia made for a wretched end of life and left a lot of fodder for reflection.

I’ll sift through all of that eventually, but for now I’ll appreciate the quiet close, and that he left a family willing and able to slog through this together.

Mostly though I am grateful for the extraordinary healthcare professionals who cared for him when we had to move him out of his home to an unfamiliar place. They are exceptional human beings, models of kindness and compassion who made an excruciating experience bearable.

My dad was a prolific pontificator, always up for discussion on political issues, changing social norms, or controversial calls in athletic events. He was a pretty good listener, though a lifetime of conversations taught me to recognize the signs of an impending monologue and the effective evasive maneuvers.

He taught me how to drive a stick-shift, mix an old-fashioned, and to be contrary enough to ask just a couple questions before agreeing blindly – George wishes I’d been absent that day.

I learned from him to remember we all look at life differently, so be patient, be kind.

Rest in peace Daddy-o.

Grateful for Good Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is still a beautiful world.

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

Happy Thanksgiving!

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.