“present, or seeming to be present, everywhere at the same time”
Four Sticks Farm’s Top 10 Omnipresent Elements
Dust – in the barn, in the house, in my hair
Manure – picked up, piled up, properly disposed of
Birds to feed in the backyard – house sparrows, song sparrows, and swamp sparrows, blue jays, yellowthroats and redstarts, red-winged blackbirds and black-capped chickadees, orioles, cardinals, doves and flycatchers, cedar waxwings and woodpeckers And swallows to battle in the barn
Prints across the whole main floor – matching the tread patterns of golf shoes, tennis shoes, work boots, barn boots, and sweaty dog paws
Things To Do – housework, barn chores, dog walking, horse grooming, and cat napping, events and obligations, emails to manage, blogs to write, books to read, sudokus to solve, thoughts to think, and hgtv to fill in the gaps
Golden retriever slobber spots – upstairs, downstairs, on the walls, and under chairs
Towels – to swab slobber spots and to dry hands after washing them after swabbing slobber spots
Tubes of Gold Bond Ultimate Healing Skin Therapy® to condition hands after drying them after washing them after swabbing slobber spots
The steady serenade of a house wren on a fence post
Tranquility – see all of the above Except the barn swallows
Minnesota winter has a way of bleeding into Minnesota spring, draining some of us of all hope that we’ll ever again lay eyes or bare feet on that gift of nature that is warm green grass. But somehow, sometime, the weather gods once again secretly apply the tourniquet, and seemingly overnight, the hemorrhaging stops. The snow melts, the mud dries, the trees bud, the grass sprouts, and the stealthy season sneaks in, confirming our sometimes-shaky faith in the certainty of spring’s eventual, inevitable, arrival.
With the knee-deep snow replaced by firmly packed gravel, Biskit and Chicago now amble up and down the alley, assuming their annual obligation to manicure the fence line by nibbling at the emerging greenery. This early spring sampling serves a dual purpose of initializing their intestines to the richness of real grass while keeping the property pretty. They have a job and they do it well.
The horses move through their worlds with an enviable blend of individuality and group dynamics. One may wander back to the barn for a cool drink or a warm doze under the shelter while the other stays in the dry lot, comfortable in the knowledge that he has food, he has a friend, and he is safe.
Unless Chicago hears a small engine revving up anywhere in a 3-block radius, a red-alert situation often resolved only after much blowing, bucking, and bolting until he becomes aware that he’s the only herd member in panic mode – not a good look for the leader.
They generally graze near, but not next to, each other. Except of course, when the big red paint suspects the portly palomino has found the mother lode of flavorful forage, at which time Chicago moves in and makes Biskit move out.
For the most part though, they live in companionable quiet, able, but not required, to engage or evade as they choose. Fennel and Mace also travel in their own orbits, making their rodent runs, taking their sun siestas on separate schedules, but coordinating their calendars every day for a communal cat nap in the hayloft and some cat chow in the workshop.
I love how the barn boys share their space to preserve the peace, moving around, standing still, staying close, or backing off with neither fuss nor fanfare.
Living space, freedom to move about the cabin of daily life, allows for head space, which lends itself to cogitation, deliberation, reflection, and rumination. Thinking time.
Time to contemplate challenges and chores, guilt and gratitude.
Time to mull over mistakes and making amends, obligations and opinions.
Time to ponder plans and priorities and place in the world.
And my favorite, time to think about nothing in particular, the meditative, rambling, therapeutic, unchecked stream of consciousness. The silent space of simply being.
Who told Biskit that the way to get the lead out of Lisa’s back end at feeding time is to paw at the ground incessantly, with bonus points for striking the metal barn door?
What incites Mace to arbitrarily explode into fierce, angry feline mode while sitting placidly in my lap for what seemed to be a soothing chin-scratching session?
Where did Rowdy get the idea that the best time to slurp from his water bowl and drop a trail of drooly drips across the entire main level, is just after I’ve settled into the rocking chair with a book and a beverage?
When did Fennel realize the primo path to the barn is directly in front of my feet, with abrupt, unannounced stops to complain about the walk and equally abrupt, unannounced launches from my arms after I scoop him up in an obviously unappreciated attempt at assistance?
Why does Chicago still, after 21 years at Four Sticks Farm, bolt like the proverbial bat out of Hades when snow slides off the barn roof, then stand in the safety of the open pasture, staring at the offending structure with fear and loathing until I slide open the door, allowing immediate access to the sanctuary that is his stall?
How can I be anything but amazed and amused when I wake up every morning, blessed to live on this little piece of Minnesota marshland with these charming characters? These delightful, genuine, puzzling creatures, who cultivate my curiosity with what they deem acceptable conduct, where they draw the line of expected behavior, and when they opt to do otherwise, grant me the opportunity to figure out why.
Nearly two years ago I wrote a post musing about how middle age moved mean Mace to a more moderate space. Who knew he’d hang in long enough for an encore entry about a now (mostly) mellow old cat. The burly brown tabby turns 16 this summer, mind-boggling to me, but breath-holding to our friends at the Monticello Pet Hospital, where his chart is flagged to encourage efficiency. Get done and get out, save the social niceties for when the golden comes in.
Get off my bale
But Mace’s gravelly growls never passed the Peaceful Protest Level of Objection at our 2022 annual exam, thanks to the introduction of a new modern marvel – the squeeze tube of tuna paste. A dab or two did nicely to distract my bad-tempered barn cat long enough to do what needed to be done.
Probably has a fever
What needed to be done included taking his temperature, a procedure so fraught with tension that a very veteran veterinarian once aborted his attempt to insert the thermometer under the fierce feline’s tail, opting instead to work under “the assumption that he has a fever”. That, my friends, is wisdom. In the interest of self-preservation, go with the educated guess.
The young readers who came to our Books in the Barn program called him “Crabby Cat”, a richly deserved moniker which was clarified to every rookie visitor, and confirmed by those foolish enough to believe they were blessed with cat-whispering capabilities beyond the rest of us.
Soap and clean towels by the barn sink. Here’s the Neosporin and the Band-Aids.
Back when he was very young
Maybe his leonine leanings contributed to his longevity. Mace came to the farm, a two-pound ten-ounce sweet-faced slip of a kitten, full of ear mites and a motor that never stopped purring. But a couple scraps with things that go bite in the night, a couple abscessed wounds, a couple unpleasant vet visits with a couple assumptions of the presence of fever are bound to leave a mark. He toughened up, and for a few years, put up fences for his own protection.
But he still showed up, did his job, and stayed just social enough to keep his spot on the roster while he worked through his temperament troubles.
Eventually, the growling and biting gave way to simply walking away, as time and experience presented a clearer picture of serviceable options. I guess that’s what age does for us. We learn who loves us enough to tolerate the occasional crabby moment, figure out what we contribute to the common good, discover where we feel safe and happy, decide when to pass on the major mousing to the young kits, and we understand why sitting on a cushioned chair in a cozy spot is simply the cat’s meow.
His belly’s a little big, his walk a little wobbly, and his actions a little less animated, but old Mace is still here, snaring the random rodent, missing zero meals, and sitting in front of the electric eye so the barn door doesn’t close until he’s caught a couple rays.
He accepts the occasional wrestling challenge from Fennel, appreciates the occasional cuddle from the two-leggeds, and assures the clinic staff of the continuing need to stock tuna-in-a-tube.
Chicago and Biskit, the horses Are powerful big friendly forces But they’re warm fuzzy friends So I happily spends Lots of time and financial resources.
The cats are named Fennel and Mace They keep rodents from running the place I watch Mace growing older And hope Fennel grows bolder Cuz he’ll have to patrol the whole space.
The star of the show is pup Rowdy In his presence the day’s never cloudy He’s excited to greet All he meets on the street And assumes they will want to say Howdy.
All the work is no cause for alarm Many chores are just part of its charm To my heart it’s a haven Gone too long I start cravin’ The return to my home, Four Sticks Farm.
For several years I worked with a program that partners with horses to offer physical, emotional, and mental health services to help people enhance and improve their lives. My friend Janet started Hold Your Horses with Lily, a Haflinger/Fjord mare whose sturdy conformation and solid disposition created the perfect foundation for a program that will, as of last weekend, carry on without its Princess Pony in the front paddock.
Lily was not my favorite horse in the barn (heart hug to the Tiny White Administrator), but I loved her. I had great respect for her work ethic, her sense of self and her sassafrass attitude.
Lily carried many of our most challenging clients with kindness and patience, even after she developed health issues of her own. Her devoted care team went to great lengths to make sure Lily lived the best life possible, and she did the same for her clients.
Lily was a true workhorse, but she was also a party animal. She donned costumes, loved little girls in pink, farted during therapy sessions and rocked a forelock beehive.
I have a picture of her in my family room, sitting on a shelf so that during my Mountain Pose I look directly at her face, peeking between the rails of her paddock, and think about what I learned from Lily.
Don’t be afraid. Of thunder booms or soap bubbles or boys in hotdog costumes.
Do your job. Even when your feet hurt.
Eat a healthy diet. But every once in a while, enjoy a little shugah.
Be you. That bristle-brush mane in a herd of silky-smooths is awesome. Believe that.
Surround yourself with a team you can trust, so when you absolutely, positively have to stop drop and roll to scratch that itch, you know they’ll have your back.
Contribute as much as you can whenever you can for as long as you can.
Do what needs to be done, but seize the occasional opportunity to pull free of that longe line and gallop to the far end of the pasture.
Bring joy. Find joy.
Love. Know that you are loved.
Be like Lily.
To learn more about Lily’s legacy, please check out www.holdyourhorses.org.
Blogger’s Note: I wrote this post last week, then managed to close the program without saving the work. It was of course, some of my best work 😊 and though I spent the weekend trying to recapture the brilliance of my words, my success was limited. I humbly present Take 2.
Fennel has taken to greeting me on the barn porch in the morning. The sun remains unrisen at that hour, and though this is a daily occurrence, his stealthy block of blackness slinking toward me from under the rocking chair or on top of the hitching post continues to jump start my system with a jolt that my first cup of Laughing Man dark roast will never duplicate.
It must be part of The Barn Cat Code to remain silent until a familiar voice is heard, because neither he nor Mace ever make a meow until I speak to them. Perhaps I’ll introduce an “Announce Your Presence” amendment at the next meeting.
Barn Cat Hierarchy
Because he’s lurking outside in the early a.m. on such a consistent basis, I suspect Fennel must be sticking close to home while giving in to the nocturnal wanderlust his DNA demands. Or maybe Mace assigned the rookie to the graveyard shift, in accordance with the by-laws established by the loosely organized Felines Around Barns Catching Adversarial Trespassers (FABCATs).
In any case, the tabby tyro spends his overnight hours exploring the flora and fauna of greater Four Sticks Farm. He’s cultivating his kitten brain, becoming a solid-citizen cat as he experiences the ways of the world beyond the boundaries of the barn, and learns a little about how the other halves live.
There’s a big wide world of wonder out there, much to be marveled at by a freshman mouser. It’s good for a guy to figure out who’s friend, who’s foe; what’s worth a fight, what’s not; where to hunt, where to play, where to rest, where to steer clear; when to stand still, and when to beat feet.
I suspect he roams through the reed grass, finds frogs in the marsh and mice in the field, climbs trees, runs fence lines, spooks at shadows, feigns ferocity and burrows in the bushes.
The slow return of hair on the slow healing gash on the tip of his tail bears witness to his first successful lesson in wilderness survival, though the cause of the cut shall forever remain a mystery. The little ginger cat is becoming wise to the ways of the woods and the swamp, discovering which are the trails less traveled, which are the most rapid routes home. It’s fun to be Fennel.
So venture out Fennelton, enjoy your overnight explorations, but be home for breakfast.
I started this post with the intention of announcing the summer’s return of Reading with Rowdy, reworked, refreshed, and renamed The Rowdy Readers Club, to our little local library.
But upon further review, the idea of gathering a group of energetic elementary schoolers in a small space with a rambunctious retriever who knows nothing of social distancing seems unwise. So, sadly, for the second consecutive year, the fleecy blanket shall stay in the closet, folded next to the library-only pawprint collar in the 2-wheeled tote that elicits spins of great joy when pulled out and thump, thump, thumped down the steps.
Rowdy in his Unhappy Place
Rowdy may miss the ear scratches, head smooches, belly rubs, sticky fingers and smelly toes that come with children in the summer, but he will not, for one moment, regret the cancellation of the pre-visit grooming session. Five years into our relationship this remains a bone of contention, and he refuses to accept that he must occasionally endure the indignity of the bathtub and the blow dryer.
It occurs to me that by the time we return in 2022 (yikes!) many of the readers we knew way back in ’19 will have grown beyond our program, which makes me a little bit sad. But several of them have younger brothers and sisters who may need some handholding by older siblings, so I’ll have the opportunity to not recognize my old book buddies as they’ve matured 2 years closer to middle-school.
It also occurs to me that by the time we return in 2022 (can’t believe I’m talking about events in the year Two Thousand Twenty-Two!) the gregarious golden retriever will have celebrated his 6th birthday, which puts him solidly in the middle-age sporting breed demographic.
Middle age. A time in which one may be expected to have put away childish things. Key word – may. Rowdy has yet to become the ironic twist of a name I believed it would be, but now we’ve got a whole ‘nother year to make that happen. So maybe we shelve TheRowdy Readers Club in favor of Relax with Rowdy. Possibly Read in Repose, Restful Readers, or even Recline and Read.
Just thinkin’. And hopin’
In the meantime, rowdy Rowdy and I will while away the summer hours hanging out at home, hiking in the park, and horsing around with Biskit, Chicago, Fennel and Mace.
We’ll miss the kids and the books and the fleecy blanket.
Seems all I had to do was put Fennel’s fears into the blogosphere, as within two weeks of my post about the timid tabby he met me on the barn porch in the pre-dawn darkness for morning chores. I’ll confess to a moment of regret for what I’d wished for, as I realized he’d possibly been out all night, facing the perils of the country after dark.
My discomfort deepened with the observation that his newfound knowledge was limited to one-way travel through the feline flaps.
Checkin’ in
Shortly after I wrote about Fennel’s fear of the cat door, he figured it out. Initially, he went from workshop into barn, and I’d find him in the hayloft when I came down in the early a.m. He didn’t seem to realize that there was another door that opened from the barn to the outside world, which was fine with me.
But being a cat of cautious curiosity, he eventually figured out the second door too. Though just as with the first, it seemed to be one-way trip, and in this case, the way back in added the peril of getting past eight equine feet that might move in any direction at any moment.
He figured out how to get out, but he did not know how to get in unless you count waiting outside for Lisa to come down and open the people door. Which I do not.
But here he was, alive and well so I gave a nod to the gratitude gods and opted to think positive, take the small victory and pray for a steep learning curve.
However, on April 1st, there was no Fennel. Not on the porch or in the barn or on the lawn chairs or in the hay loft. He didn’t come when I called him out back, in front, or alongside the barn. He didn’t come when I shook the feed bin and rattled the kibble onto his plastic plate. No joke.
It made for a sad day at Four Sticks Farm to be sure, even though I’ve learned to let go a little of the urge to ride herd too tightly on the barn cats. They keep the barn rodent-free, and in return they get love, food, love, shelter, love, an annual road trip to the vet clinic, and the privilege of roaming the wild kingdom that surrounds our home, where every exploration runs the risk of being the terminating trek. We’ve lost some to cars and more to fates that shall forever remain a mystery. But other than the 3-day adventure of Mocha, the Kwik Trip Kitten, which I’ll save for another post, once a cat doesn’t show up at a regularly scheduled time, s/he never does show up. It’s heartbreaking but it’s reality.
So when Fennel did not appear to demand his Good Night kibble ration, I knew I needed to open his space in my heart and fill it with thanks that he’d been part of our feline family. But just in case, I didn’t slide the barn door completely closed as is the norm, but rather left it open about 6 inches, just enough for a little fraidy cat to fit through in the dark of the night.
Which was apparently what he was waiting for, because he greeted me in the barn the next morning. Real casual, jumping down the hayloft ladder like he always does, like I wouldn’t even notice his Day of Disappearance. Of course, joy beat irritation, so he escaped a serious scolding and instead endured several minutes of being scooped in my arms with smooches and head scratches.
Fennel’s First Catch
Apparently, he also escaped something not so pleasurable though, as I noticed a smear of dried blood on the tip of his tail, a barn cat badge of honor. I’ll never know just how he spent his April Fool’s Day vacation, but I do know that since his return he’s moved to the hayloft for most of his day. He acknowledges my presence at the top of the ladder every time I go into the barn. Every time.
And on Easter Sunday he passed another rite of passage – his first rodent kill, properly presented for my approval. Halleluiah.
So Fennel has faced his fears and found his calling.
I know he’ll do his job; he’ll do his exploring; he’ll find his way home.
March has been a test of trust here at Four Sticks Farm.
A few of our favorite family and friends are working though some heavy heartbreaks, and it hurts that I can’t protect the people I love from such grief. I keep them in my heart and in my prayers, remind them they are loved and let them know I’m ready to listen. Then I trust that that’s enough, but somedays it seems like a mighty big leap of faith.
On a smaller scale of confidence shakers, the Happy Hooligan has developed an obsession with the deer who wander through the back pasture; his sentry shift starts at 5:00 pm and demands he stare through the deck door until sunset.
He’s been banned from the barn because his vigilance paid off earlier this spring with a few epic chases through the cattail swamp. Fortunately, his run across the pasture to get to the cattail swamp sounds the evacuation alarm to the cervine crew, so it’s White Tails in Flight before rowdy Rowdy hits the tall grass.
I don’t believe he has any interest in catching his prey, it’s all about the chase. One giant, disjointed oval through the woods, the reeds, and the swamp, then a return to the barn with energy that is nothin’ but joy. Exuberant, exhilarated, did-you-see-that, aren’t-I-something joy.
But there is no joy in Mudville and to the one with the opposable thumbs and the mop to go with them, it’s a bad habit and a bunch of time in the grooming room with bad words. I tried to use the behavior as a training opportunity to practice a long down/stay in the barn aisle, which worked for a while, but then it didn’t.
Total trustbuster.
From the department of Keep the Faith however, we’ve now slogged through the worst of winter, though we still have a little slogging left to do as rain and rogue snowfalls make for mud puddles, mud pawprints and mud ponies. The pasture looks rough – bare trees and brown grass dotted with a winter’s worth of brown piles; and the horses have donned their seasonal camouflage, red and yellow coats caked with the dark brown mud of the not yet dry “dry” lot.
While I can’t force the grass to green, or keep the horses from their beloved mud baths, I can take the harrow to the pasture and spread those piles of natural fertilizer, and I can spend some bonding time in the barn with a dandy brush and a shedding blade.
I can trust that the snow will melt, the rain will end, and the puddles will dry.
I can breathe deep, stop to stare at the stars and soak in the silence of late nights and early mornings at Four Sticks Farm.
I can be grateful for living a life I love with people I love.
I can trust that the world is unfolding as it should.
I can trust that Rowdy will learn to live in peaceful harmony with the deer who wander through the back pasture.
From Four Sticks Farm 