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!

Crabby Cat Grows Up

Mace turns 17 today, big doin’s in the barn cat world.

His hips lean a little to the right when he walks, and his head slants a smidgeon to the left, but all four paws stay on the single-track path, that invisible tightrope on which felines travel.

He gets a little help from a little Cosequin® chewable, but daily life is Mace’s natural fitness center, keeping him strong enough to climb the ladder to enjoy the sultry solitude of the hayloft that is his haven, spry enough to evade the horses’ hooves as they enter and exit the barn, and speedy enough to defend against The Dog, otherwise known as Ruffian, who delights in, literal, feline pursuits.

Mace joined the family as an 8-week-old sweet-faced kitten, happy to be here, eager to be part of the pride. Having been literally born in a barn, he understood the expectations of his employment, no training required, and from the beginning, displayed his trophy rodent remnants on the barn floor to make sure I knew he was putting in his hours.

Adolescence took a toll as the handsome brown tabby suffered a few scraps, scrapes, abscesses, infections, and the veterinary care that went with them. My happy little purrsker, earned a red flag on his chart, notably articulated by the one dvm who, after conducting an abbreviated examination of a very angry Mace, voiced the thoughts of many unable or unwilling to say it out loud, when he told me that if I needed more medication after this initial dose, I could come in the office to pick it up “but you don’t need to bring the cat.”

Message received.

He healed up that time and a couple more after that, the latest being 6 years ago when Mace needed surgical intervention to clean out a deep muscle wound and came home with aftercare instructions and a substantial supply of pharmaceuticals designed to ensure his medical needs could, and would, be met by the Home Health provider who had the courage to be his owner.

All involved lucked out when my horse vet happened to be in the barn for a Wellness visit with the equines when the drain sutured into Mace’s hip was ready to be removed, and he offered to do the honors, a process completed quickly and quietly as I held a purring Mace, perfectly content in his own space.

He earned his Crabby Cat moniker, and over the years a few self-styled cat whisperers, warned of his tempestuous temperament, insisted they knew how to tame the savage beast. They were wrong, but he was restrained, showing just enough turbulence to broker his release without leaving a mark.

Maybe that crossness served him well as a long-term survival skill. He’s tolerated goldens, a greyhound, a poodle and assorted visiting others. He endured barnfuls of little girls reading books, brushing horses, creating art and sharing snacks. He’s shared hay bales, cat beds and deck chairs with Basil, McCormick, Chai, Oregano, and now Fennel, getting along with more grace than growls.

Resilience is a beautiful thing and he’s figured out how to get along or move along – usually to the top of the hay loft.

He still shows up, appreciating a little affection and casual conversation along with his kibble; he still contributes to the cause, working the gardens bordering the barn to rid them of the rodent riff raff; and he still sits on the barn porch, soaking up the sun, watching the world go by in peace.

Happy Birthday Crabby Cat.

Wintertime at Fours Sticks Farm

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

Questions

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.

Quirks.

Mace

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.

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.

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.

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.

Maturity.

Limericks

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.

Laughter.

Kaleidoscope

We’ve rotated past the festive red of Christmas, through the New Year’s glittery golds and into January’s several shades of white. Our winter palette shifts from shimmering diamond ice on the brilliant blanket of the pristine pasture unsullied by hoofprint paths, to semi-gloss pewter patches of ice cemented in the shady spots, to the flat bone tone of plowed snow piles at the end of the driveway, dulled by road salt and sand.

Around the barn, we get a bit of cold-weather color from the green-flecked feeding spots, littered with bits of uneaten hay, and the rusty splotches that stop the heart of every first-time horse owner until they learn that it’s just a natural chemical reaction between snow and the natural equine response to a full bladder.

The trees surround the pasture with feathery, frost-covered limbs, a living palette of ivory, cotton, porcelain, and parchment.

The rhythm of my chores changes with the cold, but I still bundle up and trundle down to the barn several times a day. I channel my inner efficiency expert to get done what needs to be done before my hands get cold.

To combat Biskit and Chicago’s inclination to loiter by the water cooler under the shelter, I load my round snow saucer with flakes of hay and slide it around the pasture, scattering little piles everywhere. Much like their owner, the old ponies are easily enticed by the promise of a tasty treat and making them move around the field of food helps maintain some measure of muscle mass and keep the joint fluids fluid.

Though my barn time may be briefer, I mindfully run through a mental menu as I check in with the horses and cats to be sure they’re winter-fat and happy. Each of the once-overs includes at least a little eye contact, ear caress and easy conversation so we preserve the social connection that comes more readily during warmer weather. If I stay a little long and get a little cold, my woolly beasts are willing to share the wealth of warmth that radiates from the pleasantly plump hay bellies that function as their furnaces.

Rowdy and I keep moving too, and though our winter trails are shorter, I often come home sweaty from struggling to stay on my two feet while the Happy Hooligan trots easily over the unpacked paths. He is just as enthusiastic with winter’s snowballs on his belly as he is with summer’s insects on his ears, so my cursing is minimal, and my gratitude maximized for the ability and opportunity to stay active with such a cheerful companion.

Sunshine is a rare commodity these days, and even the few clear nights, with charcoal skies and silvery stars, generally morph into mornings of ash-colored clouds.

January is a month of mostly cloudy and the blue we miss in our sky sometimes seeps into our moods, but we manage to slog through with a little help from our friends.

We move in to chill out. We organize, downsize, sterilize, and modernize.

We realize we’re only weeks from pitchers and catchers reporting, and we fantasize about spring.

We socialize. We check in on each other to get out of our heads and off of our couches. We gather to eat and exercise, to spectate and participate, to gab and to get through this together.

The colors change, the chores change, the challenges change, but some things never change.

Kindness.

Integrity

The quality or state of being of sound moral principle; uprightness, honesty, and sincerity

Living with livestock leads to some level of obligation – daily bringing-ins and letting-outs, checking-ons and brushing-offs, wiping-downs and cleaning-ups – which also offers ample opportunity for observation and reflection.

We’re experiencing an unusually cold December – temperatures below zero, and as I write I see the trees swaying to balance their heavy white hats in 20 mile per hour winds.

I also see a packed white path to the semi-protected sun-catching site in the southwest corner of the pasture, and a variety of brave birds flitting between the snow-covered cedar tree and the suet feeders – reminders of the marvel of instinct that allows animals to adjust, adapt and abide such harsh conditions.

Biskit and Chicago spend about 20 hours of their days outside, coming in around noon for 3-4 hours of quiet time. Given the willingness with which they walk in, I believe they enjoy the chance to eat, drink, and lie down in a shavings-bedded stall, but given the alertness with which they greet me when I return a few hours later – including Biskit’s semi-annoying banging of the metal door – I also believe they are eager to return to the natural elements.

Our barn opens to a covered shelter space, with hay feeders, an automatic waterer that allows 24-hour access to 52-degree refreshment, and cover from rain, sleet, snow, and sun, if they want it.

But they don’t always want it. They wander out to the pasture – wide open for the winter – and find a sunny spot to stand and doze. They snuffle and scrounge around in the snow, pawing up pieces of frozen pasture, and warm their muscles with an occasional session of horseplay – sparring back and forth, a couple of senior geldings playing stallions.

To stoke the furnaces that are their bellies digesting hay, on the super-cold nights I tend to put out a little more than they need, just to make sure the thermostats stay turned to “toasty” and am pleasantly surprised to slide open the big door in the morning to see small piles of untouched hay that they didn’t need – warmth and willpower, admirable indeed!

Though I have a blanket for each of them, neither is interested, beating a hasty retreat when they see me walking out of the tack room with those armfuls of insulated bulk with buckles. Apparently, like their owner, they have a sufficient layer of natural protective padding.

Chicago greets me with the same good-natured nicker every morning, positioned to belly up to the wheelbarrow and browse through the sunrise ration, while Biskit paws at his feeder for the 17 seconds it takes me to climb through the ropes with a couple flakes for him.

Then they carry on calmly, trying each pile of hay before settling on the one that suits Chicago’s fancy, with Biskit taking the next best.

The farm felines live a life of a little more luxury, spending the better part of their days within the confines of the heated barn shop, snuggling in a fleecy bed, or catching a few winks on the cushions of the porch chairs, stowed for the season.

Fennel fuzzes up and heads outside for a few fleeting moments every day, but Mace, the seasoned veteran of 15 winters, takes advantage of the two 10 by 12 shavings-filled litterboxes in the barn, easily accessed through the 6 by 8 flap-filled cat door in the shop, and isn’t likely to brave the elements until the red line on the thermometer reaches 32.

The four-leggeds adapt to what the world presents and live their lives with admirable acceptance – no whining, no resentment, no scheming to change conditions to their own convenience. They seek shelter during the extreme conditions, but still move out, stretch out, and search out the sunny spots for at least a little while, every day.

They spend their time in the snow, the slush, or the sun, sometimes under cover, sometimes not, but always without complaint. They accept the world as it is, patient, trusting. They endure the harsh weather, tolerating the elements and each other with grace, finding a spot to snack, snooze or simply wait it out.

Inspiration.

Expectations

Back in the beginning, I expected to have a barn full of four horses and a life full of equine adventures with family and friends.

Cue reality.

The herd reached three head, two old pensioners and one young buck (in every sense of the word) and we enjoyed one group ride around the neighborhood before losing old Mike, the parade horse, to the ravages of spinal arthritis and George admitted he’d rather spend his free time on a green golf course than a red horse.

So, I re-evaluated and embraced the practicality of a small herd.

No matter the number of horses though, the barn maintains an Equal Equine Expectation policy. Good manners are a must – keep your feet, your head, and everything in between, in your own space – no crowding. Stand quietly at the gate, in the crossties, and at the mounting block.

Chicago should be able to walk around our backyard trail without dumping me in the dirt at the sound of a squirrel stashing acorns under a pile of dry leaves.

Rowdy has been strongly discouraged from making a mad dash into the pasture with a squeaker ball when the horses are galloping to the back of the paddock.

Mace and Fennel, not exempt from expected barn behaviors, are tasked with getting rid of rodents, and showing up at feeding time for a cursory checkup.

My own Code of Conduct includes measures to make sure these fabulous creatures entrusted to me have safe shelter, healthy food, quality vet care, individual attention, ample opportunity to exercise their bodies and their minds, plenty of treats, and to keep the cats’ water bowl clear of Rowdy slobber.

These are my expectations, not theirs. As head of my herd, I acknowledge the 4-leggeds as beings with brains and some degree of freedom to choose their actions, so I set these standards, present them clearly, offer gentle feedback and consistent reinforcement. In the event of the inevitable infringement, I engage in a bit of evaluation and reflection.

When my toes get stepped on, my space is invaded or my path is blocked by a big equine body, it’s likely not a personal slight. I need to consider the possibility that my request for a little room had not been received. Was he ready to listen? Did I have his attention? Was I clear in my communication? Was I mumbling, as George will tell you I’m often wont to do? Was I distracted by some random thought, a song on the radio, or a rowdy golden retriever?

When I come off the saddle and end up on the ground, was I paying attention to potential perils in the environment? Did I give cues to calm my anxious partner? Was I balanced myself, in a position to stay stable?

If Rowdy races after the horses, squeaker ball in full squeal, is it possibly a lack of planning on my part (there’s a reason for that leash hanging in the barn aisle) given his natural tendency to chase moving objects?

When Fennel doesn’t show up for a day (Mace has perfect attendance) maybe he’s out patrolling the perimeter, or otherwise engaged in the business of being a barn cat. Maybe he’s up in the hayloft sleeping off a chipmunk coma, or maybe he just doesn’t want to make an appearance. Some things just can’t be legislated, especially for cats.

We’re a low-key, laid-back sort of operation here at Four Sticks, a barn of rule followers and keepers of the peace. After years of education and experience we’ve evolved into a herd where everybody fits comfortably in their place, contributes to the common cause, cuts others some slack.

Unless you give a golden a squeaker ball.

Empathy.

Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.