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
When you don’t yet trust your golden to behave himself when home alone, you will teach him to wait comfortably in a crate for your return, so everyone and everything will be safe.
When that crate is made of metal and your floors are made of hardwood, you will set the crate on a throw rug so the floor will be protected.
When your golden grazes on that throw rug, he will take a liking to the flavor of the fibers, so he’ll trim off just a bit around the edges.
Then he’ll find a piece of landscape edging in the dog yard that pairs nicely with the carpet.
Then he will vomit his breakfast and everything else in his belly, so you will spend the next 2 days withholding food and water, worrying, watching and waiting for a bunch of barium to travel through his GI tract.
When you take him to the clinic on December 13 to find the barium hasn’t passed, you will leave him there for surgery, and your vet will call while you’re sitting in a meeting at work, to tell you that the pre-op checkup revealed a previously undetected heart murmur, so you will approve additional blood work and x-rays as needed.
Then you will learn that his heart is perfectly fine, just a little stressed by the cluster of rug remnants and piece of landscape plastic lodged in his stomach, so he will come home from the hospital with an 8-inch seam of surgical staples on his shaved-to-the-skin abdomen, and a dispensary of medications – antacid, stomach acid protectant, antibiotic, anti-nausea, anti-pain – to be strategically administered for the following 5 to 14 days. When you go to bed that night and the next, you will lie awake for hours, wondering if you’d recognize the signs of GI infection, inflammation, irritation, or other impending disaster.
Then the post-surgical anesthetic haze will lift and he will assume to resume normal pursuits but will be limited to on-leash activities, with food and water intake increased only in infinitesimal increments, so you will appreciate the mild winter weather when you stand outside on yet another potty break, pondering the disproportionate ratio of limited input to limitless output; and you will become a vigilant sentry of the stairs and creative distributor of distractions.
When that 8” seam on his belly begins to itch, you will put a plastic lampshade around his neck which will render him motionless and gagging in a sea of stress saliva, so you will find a newfangled inflatable collar that resembles an old-fashioned life preserver, and he will learn to ignore the incision.
Then he will escape from the metal crate, so you will move to the maximum security of a giant plastic travel kennel which he will not trust, so you will spend a lot of time, including twice daily crawls inside to set his food bowl at the back, training him to relax in the confines of the spacious new digs. And it will work.
When you take him to the clinic on December 27, the staples will be snipped, the healing will be heartening, and permission will be granted for gradual transition to normal activities of daily living, so you will, finally, breathe.
Then you will resign yourself to the reality of keeping the big tan Vari-Kennel in your bedroom for an undetermined amount of time, so you will search for something to set underneath to protect the floor.
Postscript to “Relationship Rehabs”: about the time that post was published, Ruffian was annihilating the bed pictured in the middle photo at the end of the entry. That was number 3, so the Destroyer of Dog Beds has since been enrolled in the FSF Dog Bed Behavior Modification program.
I bought a replica of Rowdy’s orthopedic memory foam cushion, which is the only bed Ruff hasn’t tried to demolish, and three weeks in, under strict supervision, the only damage done is removal of the manufacturer’s tag, even under penalty of law. Scofflaw.
Thanks to our exceptionally mild weather, we’ve been able to enjoy some unusually easy winter walking, so have also been able to maintain our daily hiking routine, and Ruffian seems more at ease in the woods.
Sudden stops are minimal now, less about safety and surveillance, more about snuffling of scat. The trails are littered with the leavings of woodland creatures who’ve passed before us, and the irresistible intrigue of scratch-n-sniff secrets allows ample opportunity to practice our “Leave It”.
But enforcement of the instruction still requires a gentle tug of encouragement, resulting in 60 pounds of semi-cooperation sling-shotting from two feet behind me to three feet in front, requiring me to channel my inner yogi and “activate my core” to counterbalance, keep my shoulder in the socket and my feet on the forest floor.
Fortunately, Rowdy’s excrement explorations rarely require more than a 10 second verbal “wrap it up” warning, setting the stage for Ruff’s eventual acquiescence, as majority rules and the majority are movin’ on.
Speaking of stages, the Happy Hooligan recently made his theatrical debut, playing the part of Max in our little school production of “The Grinch”.
His character spent the entirety of the play in the cave on Mount Crumpit, constructed of two bookcases cleverly disguised with cardboard, so years of yoga came in handy as I spent 20 minutes in Hero Pose, crouched behind Rowdy and next to The Grinch, who, fortunately for all involved, weighs in at a pint-sized 90 pounds.
In preparation for the role, Rowdy learned to speak and bow on cue, neither of which he actually executed during the performance, but the students still adore him, and having seen the skills during rehearsal, they continue to bombard him with requests for the behaviors during Study Hall, so he’s barking and bowing on a regular basis between the hours of 9:45 and 11:15.
Despite some industrial strength vigilance, Ruffian breeched security and helped himself to a snack of fabric wrapping ribbon, which his intestines did not find festive. He’s purged (fingers crossed) most of it in the dog yard, and puked some putrid puddles on the hardwood floors, the scent of which now permeates the house. Nothin’ says Home for the Holidays like a dog in digestive distress, and there are not enough pine boughs or gingerbread houses to clear this air.
He appears to be on the road to recovery so I’m cautiously optimistic that he’ll follow the same path to survival as the steel-stomached retrievers of my past, especially after a trip to meet his new best friends at the vet clinic, where we spent a lot of money for a little information, a few x-rays, a bunch of barium and a passel of peace of mind.
But even with the dismantled dog beds, substandard stage performances, and gummed up gastrointestinal tracts, like the Who’s down in Whoville we’re enjoying the spirit of the holidays – the colored lights, the Christmas cocktails, the chocolate-dipped ginger snaps, the extra efforts to connect with favorite people and share food, laughter, memories and plans.
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.
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.
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.
October, my favorite month, is off to a rocky start.
Biskit suffered a bout of colic last week. The first vet visit came Tuesday night after finding the portly palomino lying at the far end of the dry lot, not his usual nap time. We tubed him with warm water and oil to help move things along his G-I tract, kept him in the barn, monitored his intake and output. He seemed to rally on Wednesday, but by Thursday he’d stopped eating and drinking, and after a few hours of treatment, when it was clear he had some sort of intestinal impediment and was still in pain despite the drugs onboard, I made the decision to let him go.
The Best choice is definitely not always the Easy choice.
Animals assimilate life and death differently than do their caretakers and they accept the inevitable with an admirable grace. Horses who colic often paw at the ground, bite at their sides, or roll violently on the ground, and I’d expect a dramatic display from my Pony of Very Little Patience, aptly nicknamed The Toddler by Dr Heather. But Biskit didn’t demonstrate any unruly behavior; he just stood quietly, occasionally raised a front hoof a couple inches off the ground and glanced back at his belly a handful of times.
He quietly endured the treatments, except for the beginning of the Tuesday night tubing procedure, to which he staged a mild protest, But Dr Steve is a pro, and Biskit was running out of fight, so the job was done in short order. He spent two nights in his stall without so much as one tap of his hoof on the door to object, but he also wouldn’t eat or drink, and the water Dr Steve tried to tube into him on Thursday afternoon stopped at the 2-gallon mark, an indication of obstruction.
I stroked his neck, rubbed his ears, looked into his eyes, told him I was sorry he was hurting so, and that I loved him so very much. And I called it.
Chicago, who stayed inside for 2 nights and a day without complaint, lost his herd, and he watched what he could see of the proceedings, calling occasionally, running sprints in the alley when we moved to the arena to put Biskit down. I walked him in after Dr Steve left, and he sniffed Biskit’s body, then grazed on the dregs of the late season grasses poking through the sand.
When returned to the barn and pasture, the Big Red Beast called a few times, but calmed down – no frenzied galloping, just periodic glances toward the arena, at the green tarped mound that was his companion, whinnying and waiting for a response he’ll never hear again.
We all made it through the night, woke to a cold, steady rain and as promised, the kind young man with the compassion to do this work, came early to pick up Biskit’s body. Chicago, who had been quietly eating his morning hay, walked to the side of the shelter with a clear view of the arena and called again, a final, sorrowful unanswerable call.
Beyond heartbreaking.
Biskit had been the favorite of many friends, family, and visitors, especially the non-horsey types, who I think were drawn to the pretty palomino with the friendly “How ya doin?” expression and small stature with the big belly – the equine version of a Dad Bod.
He was a plucky little pony, a loyal friend who exercised himself by doing laps in the alley when I rode Chicago around our little wooded trails. He walked nicely next to me or anyone else on the other end of the lead rope. Even without the rope. He knew his place in the hierarchy and was clever enough to convince Chicago to take the top spot after we lost Rusty, leaving the other two to battle it out for which had to be the leader.
By Saturday I knew Chicago isn’t cut out to be an only child and I found a companion through the Minnesota Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation, the group that brought me Biskit.
Their introduction was perfectly uneventful and with the first slightly flattened ear from Moe, Chicago passed on the baton of Head of the Herd, relieved, I’m sure, to be removed from a position of responsibility.
So, life moves on. Caring for animals keeps us grounded, and living with 2 horses, 2 dogs and 2 cats cements my feet in the deep shit. Though losing Biskit made me want to sink to the shavings in his stall and sob til my tear ducts were tapped out, the others are still here, still needing love and feeding and exercise and cleaning up, no matter the other trials of the day.
The transition of the new guy, the daily routines of the regulars, and a series of other unfortunate life events left little time for rumination, and I find myself vacillating between stoic stone wall and meltdown dish rag, a sea of salty water pooled behind my eyeballs, constantly threatening to breech the levee, successful in the mission at odd and inconvenient times.
Moe moved into the stall in the barn, and I’m delighted to have him join the herd, but Biskit has a permanent place in my heart. I will remember him every time I look at the scuff marks and manure stains he left in the barn aisle, the dings he pounded in the stall door, and the slow-feed hay net he discreetly untied to convert it to the medium-feed speed he preferred; I’ll remember him when I wear the bracelet of leather braided with part of his pony tail, which still smells like him.
In these past few weeks of shortened sunlight, when I’d go down to bring the horses off the pasture for the night, Chicago was already at the barn, or near the gate, ready to collect his treat and walk up to call dibs on the best night hay. But Biskit would stand at the faraway end, waiting for me to walk the length of the dark field, only the moonlight to help me miss the mounds of manure between us. I’d get a couple steps from him, and in response to my “Hey Pony”, he’d lift his head, amble over, collect his cookie and we’d head to the barn, the two of us shuffling side by side in the silent stillness of a Minnesota night. I will miss that.
Back to School On the first Tuesday of the month, new blue backpack loaded with the required supplies – water bowl, lint rollers, slobber towels, canine breath freshener and a bag of Newman’s Own Peanut Butter Dog Biscuits, the Happy Hooligan hopped into the silver SUV that serves as his school bus and headed off on a new adventure.
I work at a school in an adolescent residential care & treatment facility and am delighted to have a new officemate this year. Two weeks of perfect attendance in the books and Rowdy’s earned passing grades for his work as Start of the Morning Greeter and Study Hall Monitor, providing a cheerful calming presence that helps students navigate some of the rough spots.
After happy hellos for all his friends, he relaxes in my office until Periods 3 and 5, when he wanders around the library during Study Hall, accepting ear scratches, belly rubs, back massages, and whispered words of affection in return for tail wags and pooch smooches, with a new-found fancy for the flavor of hands steeped in Fruit Loops with a smattering of #2 pencil. He seems to sense when someone needs a little extra canine composure and settles in while they settle down.
A few of the students consistently engage in a ceaseless stream of adolescent chatter, to which Rowdy remains oblivious. He hangs with them for a while, then heads off to sit by someone else. Nothing personal, no judgement, just doing his job. From his example I am learning to take things in stride, stay neutral, and tolerate the constant, low-volume clamor that translates to white noise in teenage brains. In some cases, it seems the mumbled recitation of rap song lyrics actually motivates completion of a couple math worksheets. It’s no Barry Manilow, but the times they have a-changed.
After our short drive home, my golden guru generally clocks back in for a bit, to school the rambunctious rogue that is his roommate. Ruffian, the golden-hearted galoot, embodiment of enthusiastic charm covered in a creamy white coat, spooks at random, real-life objects, so in tandem with encouraging words from me, Rowdy works him past the trepidation. To date we’ve conquered a doorstop, the tv remote, and a water bucket disguised as a plastic ice cream pail, but the Swiffer® sweeper remains securely posted on the Silent but Scary list.
Neither has made peace with the vacuum cleaner, fundamentally frightening to all my goldens, so on that front they’ve bonded as allies in apprehension.
Ruff retains the title of Class Clown, with recess as his favorite subject but Rowdy endures the juvenile hijinks with remarkable patience. He’ll occasionally take Ruffian to task with a series of snarly barks, to which Ruff responds with an ebullient play-bow, followed by a series of leaps, spins and airs above the ground that would make a dressage horse proud and leave me with supple-spine envy.
Their relationship has passed the point of potential bloodshed or broken bones, so I’ve resigned my position as everlasting referee and learned to let them negotiate their own conflict resolutions unless lamps or limbs are threatened.
Elsewhere on the education front, about the time this post is published, Ruffian and I will be lining up, the behemoth in the back row of the class picture, as we begin our foray into formal training. Though older than the customary Obedience 1 enrollee, we’re starting with the basics to build a solid base and since he’s a quick study, I expect Ruff will sail through and soon be sitting, staying, and heeling on an acceptably loose leash.
Bonus points if he masters enough manners to dismiss from his playful puppy mind the delusions that climbing onto guests’ laps or ever-so-gently holding a human forearm in his mouth are included in the Solid Citizen Canine curriculum.
So, we’re back to, or better yet, still in school. Tolerating and teaching, leaping and learning, growling and growing, finding our way beyond the ABCs to peaceful co-existence.
With a little luck and plenty of perseverance, maybe even floor-cleaning tool toleration.
Zounds and gadzooks, I did it. One year ago, I committed to publish an original blog post on alternate Tuesdays, following the alphabet on a tour of topics.
And I did it.
Once or twice, it was right under the wire, but I did it. On time and to the letter. Yee haw!
As part of the process, I experimented with writing style – lists, poems, plain old prose; I relaxed the reins of composition control, conceding to a muse that sometimes detoured my words from their original destination; and I finally figured out that formatting pictures is not my forte’ – tutorials have been added to the list of next year’s To Be Done.
One of my motivations was to speed up the composition process through consistent practice, and while the words now come a little faster when I sit at the keyboard, I still don’t sit at the keyboard as often as anticipated. But I make it happen at least a few days every week, and that’s enough of a pattern to continue with a promise of improvement, so I’ll keep to the rhythm of the current routine – every other Tuesday.
My personal microcosmic zoological garden provides plenty of material for reflection and reportage as creatures pop in, pop up, and pop out.
Like the three big rats that once rode in on a hay wagon, to be swiftly and singlehandedly dispatched by Mace, the tenacious tabby. #barncatsrule
Or the several black snakes that slithered under the concrete apron of the barn door, but fortunately found more acceptable accommodations elsewhere. #wewillallbehappierifyouaresomewhereelse
Or the occasional skunk that sporadically wanders through the property, evidenced only by a telltale aromatic trail. #p.u.
And the 2023 Monarch Mission, likely to expand in 2024, though hopefully to a new location on the property. I’m all in on perpetuating the pollinators but prefer my front porch to be more of a peaceful place to sit and less of a middle school science lab. #caterpillarspoopalot
Over the year, a few issues and ideas floated through as Maybe musings, but because they didn’t fit the Letter of the Week, I squirreled them away for future posts, with mental notes or old-school scribbles on scraps of paper.
I’ll probably post updates on my (very) recently started Front Trail Project, a nebulous, open-ended plan to create a visibly pleasing, natural park-like area for sitting, strolling, riding, ruminating, chasing chipmunks and watching the world go by. This new development makes George kind of sad despite my insistence that it will not add a single solitary task to his regular maintenance duty roster. I’ll only need his help for the occasional heavy lifting. I think.
Living with animals offers ample opportunities for adventure, adversity, frustration, fun, labor, and laughter – plenty of fodder for blog post ponderings.
Of course, most of my inspiration will continue to come from the soul of Four Sticks Farm – Biskit, Chicago, Fennel, Mace and Rowdy, who bring the chaos and calm, the dirt and delight, the worry and wonder, that fill my heart with gratitude and joy. They make my home my happy place. #staytuned
I’ve recently been obsessed with a home office reorganization which unearthed unusable pens, unfiled papers, and unframed photographs. The pens got tossed and the papers got filed, but the photos are still not framed, just moved to the big pink box in the guest room closet that doubles as my storage space.
Before closing the lid though, I studied the images, many, most, all of them snapshots of my animals in their younger years. My stroll down Memory Lane brought back the beginnings – of bringing home the big red beast and my palomino birthday present.
I was reminded of a rambunctious retriever who would, I was convinced, grow to be an ironic twist of his name, and I remembered barn kittens braving whole new worlds of horse hooves and hay bales.
I was struck, and honestly, a little saddened, by how, back in the day, we were markedly brighter eyed, fresher faced and shinier coated. And thinner.
We’re all maturing mostly gracefully. I don’t sling 50-pound feed sacks over my shoulder these days, but that works out with the current corporate trend of downsized kibble bags; and a bucket full of manure doesn’t go up and over the bunker wall as easily as it once did, but smaller loads in two trips get the job done with a few more steps for the Fitbit.
Back when he was very young – Rowdy
Rowdy, the pup who gleefully vaulted off the retaining wall and out of the hostas to run laps around the dog yard, now ambles in to, and out of the Explorer with the help of a foldup ramp, silencing the telltale “hrmmph” of sore joints when he lands on solid ground. But once we hit the trail, he’s all in on the reconnaissance mission, leaving little slack on the leash as he stops, looks, listens, and sniffs for creatures of interest, past and present.
Meanwhile, the new ramp routine allows me to mark off a minute or two of interval training, as I lift and bend, fold and unfold the fifteen pounds of cumbersome molded plastic.
Back when he was very young – Chicago
Back when he was younger – Biskit
Easy keepers Biskit and Chicago maintain their gelding figures with minimal effort, though the long stems of hay harvested early in the season now wreak a little havoc with their old intestines, so we wait for later cuttings and supplement with softer hay cubes.
Back when he was very young – Mace
Super senior Mace manages to show up first in line for Mess Hall opening, wobbling on a weakening hind end now aligned slightly left of the front. He’s taken to waiting on the rug at the tack room door or on his bed in the barn shop, having recently waved the white flag at the hayloft ladder, but the old brown tabby rarely misses one of his many mini meals.
Back when he was very young – Fennel
Fennel, the freshest face on the farm and the only Four Sticks 4-legged not yet supplemented with some form of arthritis assistance, is getting older like the rest of us, having abandoned the grasshopper pursuits of his kittenhood for the grownup work of real rodent eradication, spending off-duty hours in Goldilocks fashion, lounging on whichever of the 3 hay stacks he finds Just Right.
We accept the realities of aging. We adapt, we adjust, we appreciate.
And we anticipate that someday, for real, “Rowdy” will be an ironic twist.
From Four Sticks Farm 