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.

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.

Real Life

I have the beginnings of a blog post for today, but life got in the way the last couple weeks, so I’m breaking the string of alternate Tuesday entries detailing amusing anecdotes about my animals.

Nothing catastrophic, unusual, nor even particularly interesting, but enough to max out my mental bandwidth, leaving just enough to mop up Rowdy’s drool and Ruffian’s hair one more time before sitting down to watch Olympic highlights.

Despite my ever-present intention to Get Better, these short posts take me a ridiculously long time to compose as I sit at my desk in the space at the top of our stairs, Rowdy stretched out behind my chair, Ruff keeping watch on the landing, and Spotify providing some instrumental ambiance.

But when I write, I am transported to the barn, the yard, the house, or the park. I hear the horses’ neighs and nickers, Fennel’s murmurs and meows. I see Mace ambling across the stall, hips canted right of his shoulders. I feel Ruffian’s youthful joie de vivre and Rowdy’s mature c’est la vie.

I am reminded that Four Sticks Farm and my four-legged friends are my happy place, even when they’re only in my mind.

We’re nearing the one-year mark for Ruff and Moe, Chicago’s second year of retirement, Rowdy’s second year as Study Hall Monitor, Mace’s pursuit of Oldest Barn Cat in the upper Midwest, and Fennel’s quest for a lifetime devoid of veterinary visits; plus twin fawns, cocooning caterpillars and more of Ruffian’s Excellent Adventures in Therapy Dog training.

We’ll be back in 2 weeks.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 5
We’re not ready yet
But we’ve practiced the test
My 6th Therapy Dog
Ruff may be the best.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 6
Storms rumbling in
Sherry called on the phone
Safety for all
Our last class was postponed.

Spying Spring

Punxsutawney has Phill, Four Sticks Farm has Fennel.

He’s a conscientious all-season barn cat, committed to keeping the place rid of rodents even in inclement conditions, but sticks to a skeleton schedule during the winter months, paring down the perimeter of his patrol, turning up the tempo of his trot, and using his vacation time to burrow in his cat bed. Just the basics ma’am.

But our little summoner of spring has started to emerge earlier and oftener from the confines of his cozy den in the heated barn shop.

As I make way to the barn in the pre-dawn hours, more days than not, I detect a shadowy block hunkered down near the end of the walkway. Fennel surveys my approach with his natural night-vision goggles, then advances toward me arched-back and fuzzed-fur, hopping in a sideways crab-like catwalk.

Proper identification presented, business stated, he turns toward the tack room and escorts me to my targeted destination for completion of my mission – breakfast.

The later I am, the closer to the house he is, sometimes jumping through the deck rails to bestow Rowdy with a good-morning chin rub, sometimes abruptly about-facing to lead me down the walk.

Based on the palpable pressure of 3 eyes piercing the diminishing darkness from the depths of the barn shelter, I suspect Moe and Chicago occasionally recruit Fennel for a reconnaissance mission, sending him to scout any activity around the house that would signal engagement of mealtime movements.

Like a couple others around here, Fennel is working to shed the seasonal excess, snacking on the shamrock in the tack room to supplement the chicken kibble, scratching the hayloft ladder to stretch his spine and bulk up his biceps, running wind sprints in the alley and high-jumping onto the trunk of a pasture elm tree, employing the pitons of his paws to pause long enough to make eye contact and elicit admiration for his exceptional climbing skills.

He’ll be fit for battle before the barn swallows return from wherever it is they spend their snowbird months.

We’ve still got a little winter to weather, but the brighter days are on the horizon. Pitchers and catchers have reported, Reese’s peanut butter hearts have been replaced by peanut butter eggs, and stalls are now clean before sunset.

And Fennel has re-upped, ready to return to the fulltime duty roster.

Space

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.

Serenity.

House

Ours is a small house. Comfortable for us, but more than two guests for dinner leaves limited elbow room around the table, with detours around the dog bed that doubles as the hearth rug.

Because the main bath is also the master bath, visitors are privy to my preferences in hair and skin care products, and to the old orange beach towel hanging on the door handle to swap the slobber from Rowdy’s chin after each of his 157 daily drinks.

Horses in the back yard means hay in the back entry. Hay, shavings, horsehair, and cat fur make their ways inside, to mingle in the drool drip and pawprint parade that meanders around the wood floor of the main level.

Despite the effort to minimize clutter and maximize clean, guests rarely leave without a small dollop of Four Sticks DNA. Compliments of the house. You’re welcome.

Sometimes I think about the luxuries of living in a house without animals. Freedom from dirt, dander, puddles, feeding schedules, farrier schedules, inside time, outside time, stall cleaning and Swiffer swiping. A closet full of fleece, with no need for a lint roller.

Then I see two tabby cats greeting me in the driveway at sunrise, positioned to steer me down the walkway toward the barn, through the tack room, and to the cat chow, lest I lose my way or forget the Order of Go for morning chores.

I see a white-faced golden gazing at me when I come out of the bedroom closet after work, waiting to see what I’m wearing, which will determine the afternoon’s activity. Sliver of saliva stretching from his jowls, he’s ready to roll with whatever I want to do. Barn? Beautiful! Errands? Excellent! Park? Perfect! TV? Terrific!

I see a couple of hefty horses watching me through the living room window at sunset, wondering if I remember they’re waiting for their overnight ration.

What I don’t see is leaving this place anytime soon. I see staying in our little house for many years to come, cramped, cozy and comfortable, filled with family and friends who don’t mind a little crowding.

Just don’t use the beach towel on the back of the bathroom door.

Home.

Gratitude

Those lucky to enjoy the companionship of a furry, feathered, finned, scaled, or shelled friend are, indeed, lucky enough.

November highlights the opportunity to reflect on the gifts we’ve been given, and for me, that includes the four-legged livestock with whom I share my life.

My animals get me out of my head, out of my house and into the rest of the world.

Rowdy keeps me moving, with his passion for the park, watching to see what I wear out of the closet, exploding with excitement when he sees what he interprets to be exercise apparel.

Fennel and Mace keep me still, with their appreciation of a warm lap on which to receive a quiet cuddle.

Biskit and Chicago keep me mindful of the natural world, blessing my backyard with the natural beauty of equines.

They all keep me learning, with health or behavioral issues that lead me through coaching clinics, training classes, educational seminars, veterinary consultations, Google searches, and pet care catalogs.

They soothe in the storm of stressful seas and motivate when I crave the couch.

They speak in barks, hisses, nickers, purrs, whines, whinnies, stares across the room and stares across the yard. Incredibly intense stares.

They are extraordinary listeners, exemplary secret-keepers, and conversation starters who provide smooth ice-breaker introductions and spontaneous chit-chat with people in the park.

They make me laugh and cry and think and play.

They bring me comfort, joy, a sense of responsibility, and a reason to get up in the morning – even when I want to sleep in.

They gallop, saunter, strut, trot, run and wiggle into my heart, and transform my house into a home. A dust-bunnied, paw-printed, barn-boots-in-the-back-entry home.

They keep me happy, healthy, humble human.

Grounded.

Fennel

Fennel’s scared and he’s making us late.
I’m not sure just how long they will wait.
His appointment’s been set.
It’s his time for the vet.
But I can’t get him into his crate.

The lives of my barn cats are something of a secret. We often connect at one, some, or all my standard chore times, and while Mace seems to stay in the space between the house and the barn and shows up according to schedule, Fennel lives his own life, a little lion on the loose, a panther on the prowl, a tiger on a tear. Or maybe not.

Turns out my once-courageous kitten grew up to be a cowardly cat. Fennel came to Four Sticks, a 10-week-old bit of orange tabby toughness, ready to take on the Goliath in golden retriever clothing. He honed his hunting skills on baling twine, barn flies and grasshoppers, then leveled up to field mice, woodpile chipmunks and the occasional slow-witted songbird.

His confidence built his social skills – he sought us out, sat in our laps, showed us affection.

But that youthful cat swagger led him out to the acres of adventure and adversity around us. He disappeared for one 24-hour period, then eventually a second. One of his mystery missions took the tip of his tail, the other left an abscess on his foot.

I’ve learned to (mostly) let go of the worry when Fennel doesn’t show up for a day but have been saddened by the fear he’s developed since he started exploring the external environment.

Two months ago, I went to collect my little orange cat for his annual vet visit. He was conveniently located in the barn, so I made a few pleasantries, scooped him up, carried him into the tack room and tried to put him into his little cat crate.

He Houdini’d himself out of my arms, dodged the crate, raced out of the tack room, and scrambled up the hayloft ladder.

So, crate in awkward tow, I climbed up to the hayloft. Though Mace happily roused himself from a cozy divot in a hay bale to greet me, Fennel refused to acknowledge my existence. I shuffled hay bales, cleared a path and by the light of my silvery cell phone, crawled across the scratchy silage to entice him. I murmured a few less than pleasant pleasantries disguised in a reassuring tone to lure him out of his lair, which worked until he spied the crate, which inspired yet another incredibly athletic leap out of my arms, down the ladder and into the tack room.

I wiped the blood from my bicep, hauled the crate down the ladder back to the tack room, this time remembering to close the door behind me. That is to say, the door into the barn. Before I could get to the door into the shop, Fennel had it figured as his escape route and was in the shop and out the cat door.

Three strikes. I called the game and called the vet to cancel the appointment. Next opening, 6 weeks out.

I have no idea what injury or incident elicited the break in our bond, but implementation of Operation Befriend the Feline is showing signs of building it back. Fearful Fennel is still skittish and beats a hasty retreat in response to unanticipated movements, unexpected sounds, and unknown individuals, but his recovery time is getting shorter.

He meets me on the sidewalk most mornings and escorts me directly to the cat chow container. He generally greets me from the top of the hayloft when I’m in the barn and often ventures down for a little cuddle and conversation.

We suffered a brief setback last week, when the strategic use of kibble in the cat dish, closed doors in the tack room and tail-first loading in the crate resulted in successful arrival for, and survival of, the make-up veterinary appointment. Fennel demonstrated his disdain for me and my deceit for about 36 hours, after which he accepted my good faith offering of Iams Healthy Feline, so we’re back on the Barn Buddy Trail of Trust.

He’s a big fraidy cat, that is clear.
But I’m sure he’ll get over his fear.
We got to the vet,
And now I’ll just bet,
He’ll be plenty more brave by next year.

Faith.

Mellowed with Age

In the laundry room, in a box, on a shelf, lies a bottle of merlot, set there by the resident pseudo-sommelier, with instructions to leave it undisturbed, allowing it to age to perfection.

That was more than 13 years ago.

In the barn, in the hayloft, on a bale, lies a testy tabby, settled there by his feisty feline self, with instructions to be left undisturbed, and no promise of mellowing with maturity.

That was also, more than 13 years ago.

Mace conducts his barn cat business with simple, straight-forward sensibility, and his 14 years of pest control service shatters the Four Sticks Feline Lifespan record. Runner-up Basil held her own around here long enough to endure her 12^th annual veterinary care visit, just days before she wandered off to disappear in the Great Beyond.

Basil and Mace both came from a boarding stable down the road, part of a long line of barn cats, born with the skills to stalk, stop and stifle rodents, birds, and trespassing felines. Both quiet and unassuming, Basil was shy but social, Mace is reclusive and reserved.

HIs classical tabby stripes and white accessories make Mace the handsomest cat to grace this place yet, though a few years of over-indulgence at the Purina Pub led to a period of cat-door navigation challenges, which led to a couple horizontal hairless strips that left no camouflage for his bulging belly.

And an abscess incident 3 years ago exposed his bare backside, shaved to the skin for deep debriding of inner muscle tissue, with a rubber drainage tube sewn in for added attraction, presenting a less than pretty picture.

That abscess surgery cost more than generally allowed by the Four Sticks Farm Financial Committee, particularly with his advanced age factored into the formula. But when the vet explained the work needed and the estimated expense, I said “Yes” without hesitation and without consulting George, who would’ve selected Option “No” to invasive surgery on an 11-year-old barn cat. Fortunately for all involved, George was absent that day, so was not consulted and was, therefore, outvoted 1 to 1.

Mace survived the surgery, recovered without incident and true to his self-sufficient nature, pulled out the drain tube himself, at just the right time. No unnecessary vet visits for this busy pest patroller.

Despite his good looks and admirable work ethic, Mace sits pretty far down the list of favorites at Four Sticks. The girls who came for Books in the Barn dubbed him Crabby Cat, a title justifiably bestowed and frequently validated. His limit for accepting affection was about .7 seconds, after which he’d hiss, growl, and scramble for release.

His chart at the clinic is red-flagged and during visits our veteran veterinarian, well-versed in the limited window of inoculation opportunity, gets straight to the tasks at hand and saves the small talk for later.

But old age has effected a reduction in the weight and a respite from the animosity. If I’m now in the barn for more than a brief Biskit/Chicago feed, body scan and manure pickup, and if neither Rowdy nor Fennel are in the vicinity to execute a full speed full body slam, old Mace will saunter over and wait patiently for me to sit on the hay pallet so he can climb on my lap, where he’ll sit for as long as I’ll dole out the love. In exchange he offers a barely-there purr, its potency possibly diminished by years of dormancy.

Only 14 years to mellow this cat. Might be time to check that conversion into wine years.

Cheers!

Overnight Explorer

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.

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.

And please meow a morning welcome upon approach.