Rowdy

Rowdyroo, Punkin Pie, Punkin, Punks, Punk, Pup, Pupster, Poopster, Pooch, TheGreatestDogInTheWholeWideWorld.

What’s in a name?

According to a couple dog trainers in our past, the answer is fate, karma, self-fulfilling prophecy. “Why would you give a dog a name like that” they asked.

Call it Cute-New-Puppy-Owner-Brain, but I counted on irony.

Seven years into the deal, we’re somewhere in the middle, the proverbial, perpetual, work in progress. Fortunately, dog training classes are my jam, so Rowdy and I enrolled in the Lifelong Learners Club. Thus far, we’ve graduated from Puppy Kindergarten, mastered Beginner Obedience, reinforced Manners, squeaked through Therapy Dog and soothed our Reactive Rover.

We’ve amassed an arsenal of equipment – buckle, pinch, martingale, limited-slip and head collars, leather leash, nylon leash, short leash, hands-free leash, slip lead, long line and a no-pull harness – each designed to fix a different flaw.

Through practice and positive reinforcement, Rowdy now readily responds to cues given in a conversational tone. Beyond the basics, he’s learned to “Listen” when we work with kids at the library, to deliver the occasional note from me to George, to differentiate Upstairs from Down when asked to deliver said note, and to distinguish between his many fleecy friends – Squeaker Man, Squeaker Bone, Big Guy, and the Squeaker Squirrel triplets – when choosing a dinner or travel companion.

He’s also grown accustomed to waiting on the landing until I get to the base of the steps, and to hang tight in the open doorway until I give him the a-ok to advance.

However, we still have work to do. With a naturally dialed-up prey drive, Rowdy loves the thrill of chasing chipmunks, corralling cats, driving deer, and herding horses, even though the objects of his obsession are, fortunately, fleeter of foot.

If I catch him early in the pre-launch countdown, Rowdy will hold an impressive sit-stay, but if not, the positive reinforcement piece settles in the dust as I shriek swear words that go unheard and unheeded by the golden flash accelerating across the pasture from 0 to 60 in .37 seconds.

The neighbors must be so impressed.

My reactive retriever has also reared his ugly head again, presenting a disconcerting display of ferocity when we meet another dog on the park trails. His aggressive vocalizations belie his genial disposition, and fortunately for my Cowardly Lion, we’ve yet to come across the canine willing to pull back the curtain to reveal the 72-pound weakling pulling those levers of alarm.

So, to return the Happy Hooligan back to his kinder, gentler self, he and I will be participating in a Reactive Dog Workshop for 3 consecutive Friday evenings in June/July – a little information about my social life – which will neither extinguish the prey drive nor cure the crazy greeting behavior but will offer insight and ideas for cultivating a little composure and more acceptable conduct.

In the meantime, we make little adjustments everywhere. We now practice a sit/stay at the end of the driveway when we are picking up the mail, and random recalls when we’re in the barn. I sport a fanny pack around my waist when we walk the trails because even the steely stare of a blue-eyed herding dog shrivels in the presence of a sliced up hot dog.

Though my GreatestDogInTheWholeWideWorld has his imperfections, and I can’t eradicate the natural instincts that are his kryptonite, I can adjust and adapt them to allow his superpowers to prevail.

And someday, someone will look at my sea of golden tranquility, my solid Citizen Canine, and remark “Why would you give a dog like that a name like Rowdy?”

Resilience.

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.

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.

Jottings

New year, new resolve to be a new me. Two and a half days with nearly 12 inches of snow gives a girl a ton of time to watch and wonder, and where better to find inspiration for improvement than the barn – my herd, my pride, my pack.

Biskit – eternal optimist and concise communicator, stares into the house to ensure I realize he’s done with his afternoon hay and expects I’ll be down shortly with the night ration. My pretty palomino snakes his pot-bellied self in through the guard ropes to demand his turn for grooming, then paws, poops, and pees in the barn aisle when he’s had enough.

Chicago – handsome but humble head of the herd, a low-key leader whose management style leans toward ear flicks, nose nudges, and strategic posterior positions. Calm and cooperative, unless we’re talking blackbirds taking flight from the forest floor or metal garbage cans taking space on the path of travel – he engages agreeably but also appreciates his alone time.

Fennel – facing his fears, rarely anymore does he beat a hasty retreat at the sound of the barn door opener, the voice of the hand that feeds him, or the panting of the rowdy golden retriever, opting instead to stay snuggled in one of his many his security spaces, or to stroll over for a casual scratch behind the ears. Seems he’s finally embraced the idea that while it’s neither Kansas nor Oz, there’s no place like Four Sticks Farm.

Mace – aging gracefully, surrendering the things of his youth. Content to pass the pest control baton to the teenage tabby, and to sometimes pass on the pieces of food on his plate, he now eats because he’s hungry, not because there is kibble in the cat dish, thus preventing the Big Squeeze that used to be his pet door problem.

Rowdy – glee in a golden fleece, always good to go – upstairs, downstairs, for a walk, for a ride, to the park, to the kitchen for a peanut butter bone, he’s happy to be there. And unless he’s lying in the living room with his family and his fleecy friends, Rowdy finds no greater pleasure than chasing squirrels into the trees and deer out of the pasture, ears flapping, lips fixed in his goofy golden grin.

There can be no better model than my animals to lead my quest for a better me. Think positive. Be clear and be kind. Speak your piece and make your peace. Sometimes be social, sometimes be solo. Try, even the scary stuff. Don’t eat if you’re not hungry. Get outside. Move. Play. Ponder. Everyday. Live simply.

Joy.

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.

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.

Barn Swallow Baby Blues

Life’s messy.

Sometimes the process of scrubbing, sweeping, and straightening up brings about a grand revelation, a new outlook, an expanded mind, a sense of growth, accomplishment, and/or satisfaction.

Sometimes the mess just needs to be cleaned up. Again.

Rowdy and I usually lose our summer battle with the barn swallows. I’ll think we’ve won the war, armed with his squeaker ball and my leaf blower, but then one particularly persistent pair manage to sneak in and build the nest of their dreams on the light fixture of the hay stall.

The hay cubicle and Biskit’s stall, directly across the aisle, seem to be the attractive neighborhood for avian mosquito monitors, possibly because they’re closest to the barn door, with quick, convenient access to the food source. Chicago’s stall is 10 feet further in, making for a longer, less desirable commute.

During peak season, I’ll sometimes raze the early construction effort above Biskit’s stall and get lulled into believing the demolition has discouraged further new home starts for the summer. But the single-minded barn swallows move in with stealthy silence, determined to pack their mud and feathers on the built-in brooder in my barn.

By the time I spot the finished product, I suspect there may well be eggs in it, and much as I despise the mess, the nuns of my childhood would haunt me forever if I deliberately destroyed a family’s home. So, I wait. I grit my teeth every time one of those birds taunts me with a flyover, convinced they choreograph their barn entries to coincide with my barn chores. As I clean stalls I feel the steely avian glare from the light bulb across the aisle, mocking my lapse of vigilance, declaring their victory.

I wait and watch as they swoop into the barn, crisscrossing just beyond the reach of my manure fork, Rowdy’s squeaker ball or Fennel’s finely honed claws.

About the time I’m convinced my new barn dwellers are actually empty nesters, I’ll hear the soft, steady peeping that is avian infants demanding dinner, and look up at a bunch of baby barn swallows stuffed in a pack of dried mud and feathers, warmed by the overhead light of my small hay stall. How they fit in that nest is a true miracle of nature. Perhaps their incessant squawking translates to “Tell him to stop touching me!” or “No fair, I always have to sit in the middle!” or “You always give her the best bugs”. Somehow, they manage to stay squished in their spots, no loss of life, no accidental over-edges.

The days drag on as the dung piles up. The swallows may be small, but their mess is mighty. Cue the big green tarps to save my hay storage space from weeks of guano, feathers and clots of mud displaced by growing hatchlings.

Finally, the family flies the coop in search of greener pastures, greater opportunity, or somebody else’s barn. I scrape and sweep for one last time and think about the persistence of these plucky little birds. Fiercely determined to build their home, they change their strategy, overcome their obstacles and in the end, accomplish their goal.

There’s a lesson there. Maybe not a grand revelation, but definitely an expansion of the mind – a reminder of the value of tolerance, an admiration for sticking to it, and an appreciation for the satisfaction of figuring things out.

If only they could figure out the housebreaking thing.