End and Beginning

October, my favorite month, is off to a rocky start.

Biskit suffered a bout of colic last week. The first vet visit came Tuesday night after finding the portly palomino lying at the far end of the dry lot, not his usual nap time. We tubed him with warm water and oil to help move things along his G-I tract, kept him in the barn, monitored his intake and output. He seemed to rally on Wednesday, but by Thursday he’d stopped eating and drinking, and after a few hours of treatment, when it was clear he had some sort of intestinal impediment and was still in pain despite the drugs onboard, I made the decision to let him go.

The Best choice is definitely not always the Easy choice.

Animals assimilate life and death differently than do their caretakers and they accept the inevitable with an admirable grace. Horses who colic often paw at the ground, bite at their sides, or roll violently on the ground, and I’d expect a dramatic display from my Pony of Very Little Patience, aptly nicknamed The Toddler by Dr Heather. But Biskit didn’t demonstrate any unruly behavior; he just stood quietly, occasionally raised a front hoof a couple inches off the ground and glanced back at his belly a handful of times.

He quietly endured the treatments, except for the beginning of the Tuesday night tubing procedure, to which he staged a mild protest, But Dr Steve is a pro, and Biskit was running out of fight, so the job was done in short order. He spent two nights in his stall without so much as one tap of his hoof on the door to object, but he also wouldn’t eat or drink, and the water Dr Steve tried to tube into him on Thursday afternoon stopped at the 2-gallon mark, an indication of obstruction.

I stroked his neck, rubbed his ears, looked into his eyes, told him I was sorry he was hurting so, and that I loved him so very much. And I called it.

Chicago, who stayed inside for 2 nights and a day without complaint, lost his herd, and he watched what he could see of the proceedings, calling occasionally, running sprints in the alley when we moved to the arena to put Biskit down. I walked him in after Dr Steve left, and he sniffed Biskit’s body, then grazed on the dregs of the late season grasses poking through the sand.

When returned to the barn and pasture, the Big Red Beast called a few times, but calmed down – no frenzied galloping, just periodic glances toward the arena, at the green tarped mound that was his companion, whinnying and waiting for a response he’ll never hear again.

We all made it through the night, woke to a cold, steady rain and as promised, the kind young man with the compassion to do this work, came early to pick up Biskit’s body. Chicago, who had been quietly eating his morning hay, walked to the side of the shelter with a clear view of the arena and called again, a final, sorrowful unanswerable call.

Beyond heartbreaking.

Biskit had been the favorite of many friends, family, and visitors, especially the non-horsey types, who I think were drawn to the pretty palomino with the friendly “How ya doin?” expression and small stature with the big belly – the equine version of a Dad Bod.

He was a plucky little pony, a loyal friend who exercised himself by doing laps in the alley when I rode Chicago around our little wooded trails. He walked nicely next to me or anyone else on the other end of the lead rope. Even without the rope. He knew his place in the hierarchy and was clever enough to convince Chicago to take the top spot after we lost Rusty, leaving the other two to battle it out for which had to be the leader.

By Saturday I knew Chicago isn’t cut out to be an only child and I found a companion through the Minnesota Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation, the group that brought me Biskit.

Their introduction was perfectly uneventful and with the first slightly flattened ear from Moe, Chicago passed on the baton of Head of the Herd, relieved, I’m sure, to be removed from a position of responsibility.

So, life moves on. Caring for animals keeps us grounded, and living with 2 horses, 2 dogs and 2 cats cements my feet in the deep shit. Though losing Biskit made me want to sink to the shavings in his stall and sob til my tear ducts were tapped out, the others are still here, still needing love and feeding and exercise and cleaning up, no matter the other trials of the day.

The transition of the new guy, the daily routines of the regulars, and a series of other unfortunate life events left little time for rumination, and I find myself vacillating between stoic stone wall and meltdown dish rag, a sea of salty water pooled behind my eyeballs, constantly threatening to breech the levee, successful in the mission at odd and inconvenient times.

Moe moved into the stall in the barn, and I’m delighted to have him join the herd, but Biskit has a permanent place in my heart. I will remember him every time I look at the scuff marks and manure stains he left in the barn aisle, the dings he pounded in the stall door, and the slow-feed hay net he discreetly untied to convert it to the medium-feed speed he preferred; I’ll remember him when I wear the bracelet of leather braided with part of his pony tail, which still smells like him.

In these past few weeks of shortened sunlight, when I’d go down to bring the horses off the pasture for the night, Chicago was already at the barn, or near the gate, ready to collect his treat and walk up to call dibs on the best night hay. But Biskit would stand at the faraway end, waiting for me to walk the length of the dark field, only the moonlight to help me miss the mounds of manure between us. I’d get a couple steps from him, and in response to my “Hey Pony”, he’d lift his head, amble over, collect his cookie and we’d head to the barn, the two of us shuffling side by side in the silent stillness of a Minnesota night. I will miss that.

Rest in peace Biskit.

Places

Just over a month since Ruffian joined the pack at Four Sticks Farm, and we’re starting to widen his world.

An energetic extrovert at home, which is his safe spot, Ruff gets a smidgeon shy and skittish in unfamiliar spaces, so I stay mindful of the fact that he’s still a pup with a mystery history and there is work to be done.

Obedience 101 is an exercise in confidence construction. Last week he willingly hopped out of the truck upon arrival, unlike our debut performance, which involved the instructor and I hefting his portable kennel on to the parking lot, a little dragging, and a lot of treats to convince him to leave at safety of the 24 x 38 nylon doggie den. Talk about impressive first impressions.

Our Tuesday night class includes five assorted mixes, another golden retriever, a black Labrador about the same size as my rambunctious rogue, and a mammoth merry Muppet of a doodle dog named Harvey, who will definitely be the pick to plan the graduation party.

Ruffian is interested in the activities, and curious about his classmates, but sometimes opts to tuck himself between my knees to simply survey the situation. He’s learning to focus and has mustered the courage to cross over a tiny teeter-totter, step on a mini-trampoline and climb up and down a little ramp.

He’s happy to be there but happy to leave, leaping into his crate as soon as the tailgate lifts to minimum clearance. Tuesday nights are solid sleep nights.

We took our first walk in the park which turned out to be a walk in the park, strolling for 30 minutes with George and Rowdy, on paved trails in a quiet park on a cool cloudy day. Bolstered by the successful maiden voyage, I’ve now repeated the trip four times by myself with both dogs. Successfully. Mostly.

The third outing provided an educational opportunity, thanks to (a term I use very loosely) a heart-stopping moment when both dogs managed the exceptionally unlikely feat of rubbing open the clips on their Gentle Leaders®, allowing them to slide not only off their noses, but also off their necks, leaving them free to roam about the countryside.

I watched Ruffian raise his head, sniff the air, and slowly start to trot. Away. He glanced at me when I spoke his name but continued to move in a direction not toward me. Recognizing this as a call for critical management skills, in which I am neither practiced nor proficient, I stifled the panic and conjured up my A-game Happy Voice, called him as I raised my arms in the universal dog handler sign for “Woo-hoo! How much fun is this game?!!!” and watched him run right to me. Right into my relieved, grateful arms that gathered his sixty pounds in a vise grip, as my thumb slid under his buckle collar for reinforcement.

Ruff stood calmly as I secured the head collar and turned to do the same for Rowdy, the greatest dog in the whole wide world, who had been standing patiently by my side through the whole ordeal.

The rest of the walk was blissfully uneventful, though Ruff did eventually leave a mushy pile of stress relief in the pine trees that edge the trail.

It took an hour for my knees to shop shaking, but The Houdini Hounds incident transpired in fewer minutes than it took me to type the last four paragraphs, and twenty-four hours of reflection resulted in the revelation that Ruffian was not really running from me, just trying to remove an irritant from his nose.

I had him on the head collar because I had assumed he’d pull me down the trail like all the goldens who’ve come before him, but I was wrong. I switched to a martingale collar that proved comfortable for both of us, and we now work our way through the trail sans pulling, partnership secure.

Ruffian’s oafish charm, his enthusiastic embrace of the world around him, and his willingness to accept direction from the two-leggeds for as little as a “Good boy!”, a shoulder rub or an ice cube (he perfected his sit during Happy Hour) earned him a permanent place in my heart, but he and Rowdy are still sorting out their spots in the pack.

Ruff tries tirelessly to befriend, only to be rebuffed by a reluctant Rowdy whose responses range from a sneer with curled lip to a lunge with bared teeth to a snub with closed eyes, lying on the floor sending a prayer to the Gods of Unrequested Roommates, pleading for an end to this nightmare.

As a last-ditch effort to encourage the Happy Hooligan to join his play party, Ruffian will find a rug to drag, drub and drop, leaving a heap of machine washable microfiber anywhere but where it’s supposed to be, after easing his frustration with several substantial shakes.

Though reticent to assume the role of Lead Dog, Rowdy seems set on playing the part of Canine Conduct Controller, sidling up with side-eyed disapproval whenever Ruff engages in any activity considered unacceptable, generally an accurate assessment.

But because his motives are mostly about making friends not mayhem, and because his attention span is still puppy-short, my oft-employed tactic of taking neither notice nor action works as a cease-and-desist order in the world of Ruffian, and no matter the mischief in which he’s currently engaged, he’ll momentarily move on to his next happy place.

Despite the canine cold shoulder, Ruffian’s persistence to win Rowdy’s friendship secures him just enough reinforcement to find comfort and confidence in the presence of his crabby compadre. I’m sure it was the absence of Rowdy that kept Ruff glued to his crate at class, and the presence of Rowdy that kept Ruff with us at the park.

We’ve all got our parts to play, and we’re working our ways to relegation of roles – leading, following, getting out of the way.

Ruffian’s in charge of floor covering configuration.

Ready for Ruffian

Among the constants on my Facebook feed are the postings of the “Lost Dogs MN” page, which feature notices of dogs lost or found around the state. Mostly I glance and scroll, but occasionally I drop down the rabbit hole, lured by a sad-eyed pup or a comment that makes me hope to read a “Reunited” announcement.

In early August I stopped on a post, studied the face of a bald-faced cream-colored golden retriever, and told George this dog may be the next new animal at Four Sticks Farm – strictly a courtesy comment because in matters like this George is nearly always out-voted 1 to 1.

Not that I was in the market for an additional dog. In fact, at the end of July, a mere one week prior, I’d been marveling at the ease and fun of life with Rowdy – how readily he responds to a remarkable number of words, spoken in a civilized, conversational tone, how he can be trusted in the house when home alone, how I can take him out in the yard without worry that he’ll run off, except for the occasional doe sighting, but he’s no match for deer and never gets to the pasture fence before the white tails have high-tailed into the cattails, at which point he executes an abrupt and immediate about-face and returns to me, out of breath but full of joy.

But sometimes, the universe, algorithms and the power of pet rescue groups exert a force the magnets of our hearts cannot repel. I lasted 2 days before contacting the animal control officer regarding the homeless hound, waited out the 5-day stray period (extended in his case to allow for extensive veterinary treatment) started the adoption process on Day 9, and brought him home when his vet care was completed, 18 days after seeing the fateful Facebook feed.

Ruffian (Ruff, Ruffles, Ruffino, Ruffinstuff, Ruffington, Ruffleupagus, or McRuff) met Rowdy, moved in, and made himself part of the pack. He’s sweet, sociable, charming, and compliant. A quick learner and a lover of ice cubes, he responded to his new name within 24 hours and recognized the sound of the freezer drawer sliding open within 48.

He takes his medicine, sits for treats, waits for his food, and chills in his crate. He did walk into a pane of glass next to the open front door, but I’m giving him a one-time pass on that one as the windows had just been professionally cleaned.

For an animal apparently abandoned in an uninhabited area of a wildlife refuge, he is admirably friendly and trusting – when spooked, which has been only by the sudden appearance of a couple scary objects (including the Swiffer sweeper, which even Rowdy still eyes with some suspicion) he’s quickly and willingly worked his way to acceptance with a few encouraging words.

Ruff’s outside time is spent on the deck and in the dog yard, where he finds twigs, wood chips and an assortment of herbs in the cedar planter, for taste testing, which may be a remnant of foraging at the refuge since he shows no inclination for chewing anything but his food, his toys, and small chunks of frozen water while in the house.

The hair on his many shaved areas (treatment for skin infections) is growing back, the muscle on his midsection is filling in, and the kennel cough is calming down. We will eventually start training classes and trail hikes, but for the next couple weeks, we’ll focus on recovery and relationships.

Rowdy is working to concede his only-dog status, handling the new guy with grace. His minimal growling is kept to an appropriate and generally acceptable level. Mostly, the quiet grumbles rumble when Ruff tries to worm his way between Rowdy and me, or between Rowdy and his beloved Big Guy, but Ruff’s response is always one of affable acquiescence. No offense taken, he offers a play bow, grins with his big pink tongue lolling out to one side and moves on.

Biskit and Chicago remain objects of fascination observed from the distance of the deck, and the cats have made themselves scarce around the house, conducting their surveillance under cover of the daylilies by the barn. Mace is too old to care about another galoot of a golden retriever, but I suspect Fennel will stow himself safely in the soffits when Ruff earns his all-access pass around the property.

So ready or not, we’re doing the dog adoption thing. And we’re ready. All of us.

Except the timid tabby at the top of the hayloft ladder.

Zowie

Zounds and gadzooks, I did it. One year ago, I committed to publish an original blog post on alternate Tuesdays, following the alphabet on a tour of topics.

And I did it.

Once or twice, it was right under the wire, but I did it. On time and to the letter. Yee haw!

As part of the process, I experimented with writing style – lists, poems, plain old prose; I relaxed the reins of composition control, conceding to a muse that sometimes detoured my words from their original destination; and I finally figured out that formatting pictures is not my forte’ – tutorials have been added to the list of next year’s To Be Done.

One of my motivations was to speed up the composition process through consistent practice, and while the words now come a little faster when I sit at the keyboard, I still don’t sit at the keyboard as often as anticipated. But I make it happen at least a few days every week, and that’s enough of a pattern to continue with a promise of improvement, so I’ll keep to the rhythm of the current routine – every other Tuesday.

My personal microcosmic zoological garden provides plenty of material for reflection and reportage as creatures pop in, pop up, and pop out.

Like the three big rats that once rode in on a hay wagon, to be swiftly and singlehandedly dispatched by Mace, the tenacious tabby. #barncatsrule

Or the several black snakes that slithered under the concrete apron of the barn door, but fortunately found more acceptable accommodations elsewhere. #wewillallbehappierifyouaresomewhereelse

Or the occasional skunk that sporadically wanders through the property, evidenced only by a telltale aromatic trail. #p.u.

And the 2023 Monarch Mission, likely to expand in 2024, though hopefully to a new location on the property. I’m all in on perpetuating the pollinators but prefer my front porch to be more of a peaceful place to sit and less of a middle school science lab. #caterpillarspoopalot

Over the year, a few issues and ideas floated through as Maybe musings, but because they didn’t fit the Letter of the Week, I squirreled them away for future posts, with mental notes or old-school scribbles on scraps of paper.

I’ll probably post updates on my (very) recently started Front Trail Project, a nebulous, open-ended plan to create a visibly pleasing, natural park-like area for sitting, strolling, riding, ruminating, chasing chipmunks and watching the world go by. This new development makes George kind of sad despite my insistence that it will not add a single solitary task to his regular maintenance duty roster. I’ll only need his help for the occasional heavy lifting. I think.

Living with animals offers ample opportunities for adventure, adversity, frustration, fun, labor, and laughter – plenty of fodder for blog post ponderings.

Of course, most of my inspiration will continue to come from the soul of Four Sticks Farm – Biskit, Chicago, Fennel, Mace and Rowdy, who bring the chaos and calm, the dirt and delight, the worry and wonder, that fill my heart with gratitude and joy. They make my home my happy place. #staytuned

Zen

Youth

I’ve recently been obsessed with a home office reorganization which unearthed unusable pens, unfiled papers, and unframed photographs. The pens got tossed and the papers got filed, but the photos are still not framed, just moved to the big pink box in the guest room closet that doubles as my storage space.

Before closing the lid though, I studied the images, many, most, all of them snapshots of my animals in their younger years. My stroll down Memory Lane brought back the beginnings – of bringing home the big red beast and my palomino birthday present.

I was reminded of a rambunctious retriever who would, I was convinced, grow to be an ironic twist of his name, and I remembered barn kittens braving whole new worlds of horse hooves and hay bales.

I was struck, and honestly, a little saddened, by how, back in the day, we were markedly brighter eyed, fresher faced and shinier coated. And thinner.

We’re all maturing mostly gracefully. I don’t sling 50-pound feed sacks over my shoulder these days, but that works out with the current corporate trend of downsized kibble bags; and a bucket full of manure doesn’t go up and over the bunker wall as easily as it once did, but smaller loads in two trips get the job done with a few more steps for the Fitbit.

Rowdy, the pup who gleefully vaulted off the retaining wall and out of the hostas to run laps around the dog yard, now ambles in to, and out of the Explorer with the help of a foldup ramp, silencing the telltale “hrmmph” of sore joints when he lands on solid ground. But once we hit the trail, he’s all in on the reconnaissance mission, leaving little slack on the leash as he stops, looks, listens, and sniffs for creatures of interest, past and present.

Meanwhile, the new ramp routine allows me to mark off a minute or two of interval training, as I lift and bend, fold and unfold the fifteen pounds of cumbersome molded plastic.

Easy keepers Biskit and Chicago maintain their gelding figures with minimal effort, though the long stems of hay harvested early in the season now wreak a little havoc with their old intestines, so we wait for later cuttings and supplement with softer hay cubes.

Super senior Mace manages to show up first in line for Mess Hall opening, wobbling on a weakening hind end now aligned slightly left of the front. He’s taken to waiting on the rug at the tack room door or on his bed in the barn shop, having recently waved the white flag at the hayloft ladder, but the old brown tabby rarely misses one of his many mini meals.

Fennel, the freshest face on the farm and the only Four Sticks 4-legged not yet supplemented with some form of arthritis assistance, is getting older like the rest of us, having abandoned the grasshopper pursuits of his kittenhood for the grownup work of real rodent eradication, spending off-duty hours in Goldilocks fashion, lounging on whichever of the 3 hay stacks he finds Just Right.

We accept the realities of aging. We adapt, we adjust, we appreciate.

And we anticipate that someday, for real, “Rowdy” will be an ironic twist.

Yielding

eXceptions

Because I own neither an x-ray machine nor a xylophone, this post will deviate slightly from the norm and go with sound over spelling for its subject – a one-time exemption from the rule.

Sharing space with pets mandates rules and routines, some semblance of a schedule, but here at Four Sticks Farm our timetable is built with a bit of flexibility, to foster reassurance yet recognize real life.

The horses come into their stalls for a 4-hour snack-and-snooze at about noon, except when a big event interferes, in which case they eat their supplements al fresco, under the barn shelter, with an extended pasture period to compensate for the loss of naptime in front of a fan.

When we hike, I let Rowdy stop and smell the roses, the dandelions, the tall grasses and the tree trunks, until we’re swarmed by biting bugs and Fitbit announces we’re on pace to complete a 60 minute mile, at which time the Happy Hooligan has to pick up his nose, put down his leg, and deal with the fact that he does not, in fact, get to claim every shrub and sapling within the park perimeter.

Fennel and Mace get to graze from their dishes in the shop at their leisure, except during the implementation of Operation Raccoon Raid Resistance, at which time chow is available only in the presence of authorized personnel.

We all adjust, for the good of the order.

A recent vacation reminded me that airports are full of exceptions to my way of thinking – the contemporary dress code that accepts some pretty remarkable anatomy exposure (I guess when the top is that tight you don’t actually need a bra), the modern mode of speakerphone and videochat (I wonder if Paula picked the muted floral bedspread or the gingham reversible comforter set), and the assumption that a stranger will give up their aisle seat for your middle seat so you can sit by your child, which happened on two of my four flights, once to me, once to a guy who ended up in the middle seat next to me.

In my case, the woman had already made my decision and was comfortably settled in my aisle seat before I got to it, smiling cheerfully as she pointed to her ticketed spot in the middle of the row across. I agreed to the trade without complaint, not because I’m such a swell person, but because I’d rather squish between two grownups than stretch my legs next to a child animatedly piloting Mario and his kart.

Plus, it was a short flight.

It all reminded me that there are lots of ways to live a life, and most are manageable for the rest of us when we practice patience and bring a good book.

Rule-following is rooted deep in my core, cultivated by catholic school and cautious introversion and I find comfort in the security of the structure.

But animals and age bring acceptance of the occasional anomaly, challenges to the status quo. Exceptions to the rule offer an opportunity to review long-held beliefs, practices, and systems, which may remind of original intent, renew commitment, and reinforce behavior. Or they may serve as motivation to refresh, to acknowledge that changing the routine can change the perspective, which can change the mind, which can be enlightening. Or fun. Or at least bearable.

Unless we’re talking deerflies and mosquitoes in the woods on a humid day.

eXamine

*Beauty all around*
*when you look for it*

Writing

Here I am, one month from completing the challenge I set for myself a year ago – to publish one post every other Tuesday, working through the alphabet with topics and titles. So far, I’ve hit every deadline. Sometimes just barely, but always published by 7:00 pm Tuesday.

I started this blog years ago, but until 2022 contributed to it only sporadically, with more intention than conviction; and motivation for my ABC experiment stemmed from a need to either just do it, or just stop it. The past year has been a study in creativity, priorities, time management, and commitment. And stress and satisfaction.

My idea was to find inspiration by choosing a theme-word that began with each successive letter of the alphabet. To minimize stress that ~~could~~ would easily sabotage the project, I allowed 2 weeks between posts, which is a ridiculous amount of time to compose these short little essays, but a critical step in the setup for success for my slothful self.

I wrote out a schedule, assigning each letter to its due date, did the math and realized 26 letters in two-week increments works out to 52 weeks, which equals 1 year, which appealed to my sense of structure and seemed like fate. So, I committed.

Writing is excruciating and I am a master procrastinator. Pressing the Publish button brings tremendous satisfaction, but staring at a blank page, willing the words to appear carries equally tremendous anguish, and I spent a few Monday mornings silencing the crotchety critic in my head to muddle through a shitty first draft (thank you for permission Anne Lamott) then sifting through the rubble of the roughness.

Many ideas meander through my mind while walking in the parks with Rowdy, only to be eternally erased by the time we return to the parking lot, so many profound, cleverly crafted reflections now lie lifeless in the leaf litter of the woods of Wright County.

An equal number of great thoughts are thunk as I drift off to sleep, just awake enough to recognize their brilliance, but not enough to sit up and jot them down – permanent plantings in my Field of Forgotten Dreams.

Painful as the process can be, I love the part when it starts to come together, my headspace is saturated with the subject, and I lose myself to the course of composition.

My animals are my muses, and writing about them centers my mind – deep dives into the sea of events and emotions that embody the experience of sharing a life with these beings I love. Beautiful, perceptive, reactive beings that learn and teach and muddy the floors and clear my head.

When I write about Chicago and Biskit I feel the frustration of getting up off the ground, returning my rear to the saddle, but also breathe in the blissful bouquet of a warm horse’s neck. When I record my adventures with Rowdy, I despair of the dog hair and drool drops, but also gaze into the earnest brown eyes of a devoted canine companion, and the cat chronicles fill my ears and my soul with the various vocalizations of Fennel and Mace.

My writing practice does not make perfect, and there have been Wednesday morning wishes for a do-over “Dang, I wish I’d said it this way”, and Tuesday afternoon assessments of “it’s good to go, don’t keep f*!$@%# with it, just hit Publish”.

My purpose here is to amuse and put a little positive energy into the world, and as such, I’ve not solved any global crises. I haven’t even solved the barn-swallows-pooping-on-the-pony problem. But while lost in the headspace of my posts, I’ve puzzled through some questions, contemplated my core values, opened my heart, and expanded my vocabulary.

As I write about my little part of the world, I ruminate a bit about the rest of it. I reflect on who I am versus who I want to be and realize I have plenty of work to do. Writing on a regular basis has pried open the rusty portal to my mind, making me contemplate, deliberate, muse and ponder.

Who is the person I want to be? Who thought the Crabby Cat would live to be 16?

What am I really trying to say here? What gives those barn swallows the persistence to keep coming back?

Where is the positive spin on this? Where are the most strategic locations to hang the Rowdy drool-drop towels when company is coming?

Why do I think that way about this? Why do the horses only roll their fly masks off in the far ends of the pasture?

How do I phrase this in a way that is engaging, enlightening, or entertaining? How were we so lucky to go 21 years without a raccoon detecting the cat food container?

And what am I going to do for “X”?

Wonder

Visitors

Once upon a weekend, two hungry tabby cats and their sleepy-eyed caretaker entered the barn shop for breakfast. Imagine their surprise at seeing the chow container on its side, the lid lying several feet to the left, the scoop sitting several feet to the right. The water bowl stood upright but nearly empty, its contents covering the surrounding floor.

Due to an unfortunate, though not necessarily uncommon, lapse of communication between the two-leggeds, the overhead door had been open all night, offering free food and lodging to any and all who might wander by.

Luckily, only one took me up on the offer, and apparently wasn’t uber-impressed, as most of the food and water were still here, just scattered and sloshed around the cat corner of the shop.

I swept up the cat chow, re-hinged the container lid, re-hung the measuring scoop, and cleaned off the floor where the mystery guest left a calling card in the form of a yellow puddle and a brown pile.

Monday morning dawned cool and cloudy, perhaps enticing our uninvited visitor to sleep in, or maybe he didn’t realize we open earlier on weekdays, but when I came in through the little door, he was scrambling to get out through the big door.

Not sure which of us was more rattled, but I do know I hit the button on the opener while he ran at least 2 laps up and down the other side of the room, separated only by the car and the exercise equipment.

Though he once again evaded apprehension, the identity of the kibble crook was clear when I caught a fleeting glimpse of his masked mug as he scampered under the weight bench, and I noticed the distinctive wet pawprints left after swishing his snack in the water bowl.

The incident remains under investigation, as I try to determine the mode of entry. It’s possible that I (and only I, this time it’s all on me) left the door partly open to let the breeze blow through the barn. I hope that proves true, because if not, it means the little raccoon has figured out the cat doors.

Yikes.

Yuck.

Stay tuned.

This is not our first raccoon adventure. We once had a family of 5 take up residence in a big maple tree in the west paddock – one of Rowdy’s favorite springs, as he spent many, many, many moments staring into the branches from the base of that tree, praying to the god of Dogs with Strong Prey Drives, hoping for just one of those babies to challenge him to chase.

They did not.

We’ve had several species stop by over the years. Some travel non-stop, others stay for an hour, a day, a season.

Deer roam through randomly, singly, in pairs, or herds of 13. Fawns run wind sprints across the pasture, arching their backs and kicking their heels, bronco-style. One summer brought an orphan fawn who spent a couple months trying to join our little gang of geldings, only to be rudely rejected by then Head Horse Rusty. The ponies did, however, allow the little one to spend much of the summer safely grazing close enough to be protected by their proximity.

Much to Mace’s amazement and amusement, a painted turtle ambled across the alley several springs ago. Its pace was painstakingly slow, but its presence was brief – just the solitary walk across the pasture to the swamp, after which we never saw it again.

One cold January day I slid the barn door open and interrupted a coyote napping in the sunny corner of the shelter – sitting up to stretch out the sleep and jog away just as Biskit and Chicago trotted out to pasture.

Ducks and geese swim in supersized spring-melt paddock puddles, stray cats strut across the yard, and sandhill cranes promenade in the pasture with their progeny. Pheasants and turkeys call from the tall grass and every once in a while, a muskrat, weasel, or one of their kin navigates across the creek that sometimes runs through the culvert.

A giant yellow garden spider graced our day lilies with her home of spun silk, complete with Charlotte-style egg sac, a wild kingdom fairy tale missing only a trip to the county fair and “Some Pig” woven in the web.

The carousel of creatures that cruise, saunter, prance, and wander through the property provides such interest and reminders of the many ways to live a life, none better or worse, just different. We’re a Live and Let Live operation here at Four Sticks Farm, and with a bit of behavior management for a certain golden retriever, all are permitted to pass through in peace.

Though we will keep the barn door closed.

Variety

Ubiquitous

“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

Unbeatable

Time

It drags on, flies by, costs nothing, is money, marches on, stands still, will tell, won’t wait, and we can waste it, save it, spend it, and keep it. Time remains one of the few elements of our lives that we cannot change, and so we move with it, at warp speed or snail’s pace.

We have moved into summertime here in the upper Midwest. Sorel boots are stowed, down coats dry-cleaned, mittens moved to the baskets on the upper shelf, replaced with sandals, shorts and sun hats. Stall fans are plugged in where the heated buckets hung for the past 6 months.

Our practically perfect seasonal switch has allowed for textbook turf in the pasture, and we’ve already reached all-day grazing mode – in May, an all-time record – which makes for very happy horses.

New pasture access can prove difficult for the fragile inner workings of these mighty beasts who are susceptible to gorging in Mother Nature’s candy shop. But we’ve eased into it, building tolerance and intestinal fortitude by limiting the input and monitoring the output for consistency in amount and texture. Because the going is good, and I see Biskit and Chicago occasionally, on their own accord, wander away from the all-you-can-eat buffet that is the open paddock, I know their guts have shifted into summer gear.

Back in the day, Chicago would trot out of the barn after his noon nap, breaking into a canter when he hit the grass line of the pasture, which Rowdy took as his cue to channel the inner herding dog and bolt after him, barking and circling. Rowdy found it great sport, but it was obvious to the rest of us that he was the only party who bought into the idea of an actual threat. Chicago indulged the pretend power trip by half-heartedly kicking a leg in the golden’s general vicinity, and I’d yell at them both until Rowdy ran back to the barn energized and exhausted by his efforts.

These days, Chicago mostly walks into the field as Rowdy watches from the doorway. If he does follow along, it’s more of a trot than a run and Chicago barely lifts his head, let alone his feet, in acknowledgement. And I say nothing, knowing the game has altered with age, and that Rowdy will return momentarily, pick up his squeaker ball and lay down to catch his breath in the barn aisle.

As we make this seasonal shift, I’m mindful of some other lifestyle changes in the works. I dipped my toe into the waters of the horse world by volunteering at an equine-assisted therapy program nearly 25 years ago, fulfilled the childhood fantasy of my first horse a couple years later and relished every minute of learning about horses. Though I sometimes miss the days of boarding barn buddies, clinics, lessons, and trail rides, those days of total equine immersion, I’m mostly content with our simpler, quieter, stay-at-home horse life.

In April I went to the annual Minnesota Horse Expo, an equine extravaganza of demonstrations, exhibitions, and vendors. Back at the turn of the century, this was a 3-day must-see, up close and personal, event that I attended as a veritable sponge, soaking up all my mind would absorb about living with these creatures I love.

This year, I went once. The Expo has shrunk some over the years, likely due to aging-out of organizers, the outbreak of a contagious equine virus followed by the outbreak of a contagious human virus, so there was a little less to take in, but I saw most of what I’d highlighted on my pre-printed schedule, laughed at the feisty donkey foals who kicked up their heels and ran from their mamas, marveled at the moxie of the people who rode their horses in the very scary fairgrounds coliseum, and savored a cheeseburger and a cold beer from that concession stand in the corner by the arena gate.

I replenished a couple insect repellant products for the pasture ponies, but mostly just browsed, content to look at the latest versions of the gear and gadgets I’ve spent the last year re-homing from my tack room.

While I remember well the thrill of new horse ownership and the fun of First purchases, the truth is that I no longer need a hot pink manure fork, a monogrammed saddle pad or a “Not my pasture, Not my bullshit” tank top – though I’ll admit to an ongoing pursuit for a purple plastic feeding pan for my pot-bellied palomino.

I’ve spent money, made friends, realized dreams, survived disappointments, and worked through fear, fatigue, and frustration. I still find fun in equine education and appreciate any opportunity to hang out with horse people. I adore the two big beasts in my backyard, yet still hope to see horses on the trails with I hike with Rowdy.

Biskit, Chicago and l have our small arena and wooded trails to walk under saddle, in long lines, or on a lead rope. I don’t ride much these days and have spent too much time trying to figure out why – fear, other priorities, sloth, or something else – so for now have opted to grant a little grace and just enjoy the horse time spent with all 6 of our feet on the ground, even if that’s an hour in the barn, silent, save for Biskit’s impatient interruptions, watching the shiny copper coming through a curried coat, feeling the satisfaction of wind-whipped snarls in a mane or tail giving way to my conditioner-covered fingers, and smelling the heavenly scent of all things horse.

Here at Four Sticks, we’ve relaxed into the rhythm of a finely ripened relationship, content to connect in ways that don’t involve a left-lead canter because life looks plenty good at a steady-paced walk.

We’ve got chore time, grooming time, farrier and vet time, as well as just plain old hangin’ out time, surrendering some of the things of our youth, but always embracing our blessings.

Transitions.