A breath of fresh air breezed through the barn last week when we welcomed a couple of new staff members from the equine clinic for our annual Fall Wellness visit. Fresh faces with fresh approaches examined Moe and Chicago and left me with a fresh outlook.
Dr Ethan had done his homework, arriving aware of Moe’s missing eye and impaired pelvis and Chicago’s missing molar and progressing cataract. He and vet tech Torii handled the horses with gentle confidence, ignoring Moe’s indignant head tossing during the dental exam, and his basically bad manners throughout the rest of the assessment.
Moe is not a fan of Dr Ethan.
His behavior conjured up the Ghost of Palominos Past, as Moe expressed displeasure with the events of the day through conduct reminiscent of his predecessor, Biskit, complete with the bang of a hoof at the base of the stall door. One very solid bang that made his point and made a mark.
And reminded me to move the Equine Etiquette Refresher course back onto the roster of our regularly scheduled programming.
Based on experience, sound judgment, or beginner’s luck, the good doctor saved the best for last. He left Moe to sulk in solitary, and stepped into the stall next door, where he checked vitals of the Big Red Beast, and pulled the needle out of Chicago’s neck before he even realized there was an injection on the agenda.
For the first time in our 22 years together, Chicago is not going into the winter with a little layer of natural insulation; so, for the first time in our 22 years together, Chicago is getting a little scoop of senior sweet feed with his lunch, soaked in warm water for a molasses mash treat, as prescribed by Dr Ethan.
Dr Ethan is Chicago’s favorite.
The new vet team took manure samples when they left, compliments of two horses who reliably relieve themselves in fresh shavings, and Dr Ethan called before the day was done with lab results and recommended next steps.
It’s been a minute since I’ve experienced a change that didn’t leave me at least a little confused, disillusioned, or mad, but working through this old procedure with new professionals left me comfortable, hopeful, and glad.
It was fun to look at Chicago and Moe through new lenses and to watch young practitioners practice their craft with calm, compassionate conviction.
After a few months of mostly dark, it’s reassuring to remember that the world is still (mostly) full of light. I am encouraged to feel the fog lifting, to be reminded there are angels among us, lots of kindhearted, sharp-brained, energetic people willing to do the work that needs to be done, and to do it well.
Beyond the disappointments, there are dreams.
And a surly one-eyed palomino with a fast pass to the Polite Pony program.
Twenty-six days ago, my father moved to a dementia care facility, following six weeks that included two falls (no injuries), two hospital stays, one night at an Enhanced Assisted Living facility and two tortuous weeks at a transitional care unit.
The experience has been a kaleidoscope of anger, anxiety, apprehension, changes of medication, chains of conversation, confusion, consolation, despair, doubt, dread, education, encouragement, exhaustion, fatigue, fear, frustration, gratitude, grief, guilt, heartbreak, helplessness, hope, panic, paperwork, permissions, teamwork, treatment plans, financial plans, aborted plans, whiskey, willpower, and wonder. And prayer.
It’s been a pervasive prowler lurking in my mind, pilfering headspace for all but the basics of getting through the day.
Eighteen days ago I walked full-speed, full-stride into an ash tree with a 108 inch waist – a tree that’s been rooted in the same spot since before we bought the property, a tree that I’ve walked around nearly every day since we bought the property – and did some painful, slow-healing damage to my right thumb and it’s supporting structures, literally, losing my grip.
The pain is decreasing, the strength is increasing, albeit slowly, and I’m learning to brush my teeth with my left hand. Ambidexterity is a beautiful thing.
Seems I’m on a smoother path now, though I’ll admit to adoption of a “hope for the best, prepare for the worst” attitude, and lucky for me, the basics of getting through the day include care of my favorite 4-leggeds, who are constant reminders of comfort of routine.
Prior to the escalated adventure in assisting aging parents, it’d been a season of infrastructure improvement here at Four Sticks Farm. House painting, deck staining and driveway replacement altered the usual and customary operations of our days.
During the months of modifications, Moe made a habit of letting himself on the middle pasture every night. He was able to pop the powered-off electric rope out of the clips on the fiberglass fence poles, allowing the line to sag low enough for him to lift his allegedly disabled back end up, over and into the paddock.
A private all-access pass to an all-you-can-eat, 24-hour buffet.
But his was a one-way ticket, so once in, he stayed in until I came down at feeding time and made him wait while Chicago got first dibs on the hay in the wheelbarrow. I’d open the pasture gate, he’d acknowledge the courtesy with a nod of the head and a gentle whicker, then walk up and move the Big Red Beast away from the wheelbarrow, which was not of any actual interest, as he’d spent the past several hours grazing on the good stuff, but the Head of the Herd has appearances to be maintained.
Since Chicago could be corralled with kite string, I’ve grown lax on the equine containment control measures, so beefed up the low spot by pounding in more fence poles with stronger clips, but still frequently woke to see the electrobraid popped out of the new poles, and the yellow gelding on the grass – rule following is not his priority.
A couple weeks ago we reached the part of our pasture program in which we close the paddocks to allow the roots to grow below ground rather than leaves to sprout above, and strict adherence to the No Admission policy was a must. Even for Moe.
So, commence implementation of Operation KEEP OFF THE GRASS – corroded cords replaced, corroded connections scraped, and the fencer powered on.
Order restored, routine recovered, with the simple flip of a switch.
Memorial Day weekend officially ushers us into the unofficial start of summer – we’re now looking at leafed out elms, oaks and maples, flower-blossomed apple trees and lilac bushes, lawns that need mowing, pastures that need grazing.
Chicago and Moe enjoyed an all-time early all-access pass to the pasture, and three weeks into it, their manure and their movement have maintained production standards in quality and quantity, and they’ve demonstrated a willingness to leave the lushness for an occasional break by the barn. The trifecta.
Free admittance to a grassy paddock encourages them to get moving as they find favored grazing spots, though this first time through the rotation offers an overwhelming selection at the All You Can Eat buffet, and they mostly Goldilocks their way through, taste-testing and sampling in search of the just-right forage.
They circle around the field, sometimes, but not always sharing a section, then strolling off to the next best spot.
Moe’s the more likely to head back to the shelter for a bug break, augmented by his aversion to the sound of a spray bottle, even when used to spritz a washcloth with equine insecticide. He now tolerates a roll-on applicator, but his future includes a few counseling sessions to convince him that fly spray is his friend.
Chicago will wander up for water at a leisurely pace but when the buzzing gets the best of him, waves his white flag with a big buck and good gallop off the grass and to the barn.
At some point during the day, Manager Moe will don his Health & Wellness mantle and guide Chicago to the gravel alley that borders the pasture, making him work more than his mandible as they put in a few laps around the dry lot. The submissive sorrel calmly complies, ambling along until the palomino pressure subsides, allowing him to return to roaming freely about the pasture.
It wouldn’t be summer without at least one pair of barn swallows battling for space in the barn, and last week introduced a pair that seemed bigger, more defensive, and less inclined to leave the premises than combatants of the past. I employed my most historically effective eviction strategies – leaf blower, hand clapping, maniacal shouting of uncensored strings of profanity, frantic antics of a maniacal golden retriever with shrilly squeaking yellow ball.
But the only animal affected was Moe, who backed away from his night hay to ponder the possibility of an annulment of his adoption agreement with the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation.
After watching the swallows finally swoop down and fly up into the wild blue yonder, I implemented a closed-door policy, which keeps the barn balmy but bird-free.
Slacker Ruffian has yet to complete the “Barn Swallow Banishment” course and has limited barn privileges but is allowed supervised visits during chore time. He’s fascinated with the horses, wavering between fright, flight, freeze or tease, once offering a big play bow and a bark, which was, fortunately for all, completely ignored by both Chicago and Moe.
He’ll chase the cats if they deign to make an appearance, which Fennel will not, but if Mace shows up, he holds his ground with the haughty disinterest one would expect from an 18-year-old barn cat. He doesn’t engage and Ruffian doesn’t take it personally.
Luckily for those of us who share airspace with him, Ruff’s appetite for horse manure has waned, replaced by a desire for bits of the ration-balancer pellets littering the stall floors, which are less putridly processed in his g-i tract.
Full disclosure: while Ruffian now seems disinterested in eating horse manure, he recently discovered the joy of rolling in it. By chance, the Four Sticks Farm grooming shop had an immediate opening, so his delight and the smelly green spots were short-lived.
Baths bring no joy in Manureville – reeky Ruffian sulked in the tub while I soaped, scrubbed, toweled and fluff-dried; and though I’d love to believe he will remember the consequences of this action, I’m pretty sure it’s on his list of “Lessons Learned” printed with the same invisible ink as “Remember what discomfort comes with tossing back a throw rug”.
Aah, the smells of summer. Fresh cut grass, budding lilac bushes, blossoming apple trees.
We’ve just completed one of the best weeks in the barn. Thanks to the nearly non-existent winter, the pasture closed early, but our super-soaking spring brought the grass back to life in record time.
As always, the horses have honored their contract to keep the fence lines neatly trimmed, edging the emerging green on their side of the boards, as well as the several inches under and beyond. Motivation makes many things happen, and fresh forage compels Chicago and Moe to tilt, twist and contort like Olympic gymnasts.
Their Nibbling for Neatness campaign ensures their tummies transition to the richness of spring grass, minimizing the risks of colic and/or laminitis (i.e., stomach and/or foot issues) so while their pasture time is limited in the early days, the length of their snacking stints increases quickly during the first week.
Since this is Moe’s first spring at Four Sticks, I wasn’t sure how he’d react to the Grand Re-Opening of the pasture, but he took his cue from the Big Red Beast, and the initial Removal of the Rope Gate was remarkably uneventful. I dropped the rope, they dropped their heads, and started grazing quietly, side by side.
The only surprise was the willingness with which they walked off with me after their allotted 30 minutes. Moe politely accepted the proffered carrot chunk in exchange for snapping the lead rope under his chin, and Chicago walked over to, and alongside us – well, except for that one stop for an obviously irresistibly tasty tuft of turf – but then he fell back in step and beat us back to the barn.
During the second day, Moe moved on and off the pasture a couple times, sometimes trotting, sometimes shifting between a stiff canter and the gait his genealogy gave him. It was fun to watch him move out a bit, especially given it cost him valuable grazing time. And while I figured they’d be on to me and my carrots, they once again cooperated without complaint as I escorted them back to the hay racks after an hour on the good stuff.
I love them more than most beings in my world, and would like to believe the feeling is mutual, but in my heart of hearts, I know that in early May, the hearts of my horses beat for the bounty of new grass. So, I should’ve known…
Day 3 ruined any adolescent reverie and revealed the secret to the mystery behind all the movement. I buckled Moe’s halter under his chin, ran a hand under his belly, admiring the Appaloosa spots poking through the remains of his winter coat, and noticed his slightly swollen, slightly bloody underside.
Gnats.
The irritating insects had been feasting, getting their pound of horseflesh while leaving swaths of dark and crusty pinpricks on Chicago’s and Moe’s bellies, chests and ears.
Fortunately, scratching the scabby strips makes us all feel better, so we enjoyed a little extra grooming time, then prepared for battle.
Fly masks now shield the eyes and ears, and a generous application of insect repellant ointment protects the rest.
The ointment comes in a jar with the choice of neon pink or clear, and as you might expect, the discerning geldings of Four Sticks Farm opt for application of the invisible. No need to call attention to oneself. Especially if we’re talking biting bugs in sensitive areas.
It’s a sticky substance that coats my hands with horse hair and gnat crust, and adheres to the underside of my fingernails from now ‘til Labor Day – the Four Sticks Farm French manicure – but it’s effective, even as it melts with the heat of the horses, leaving spots of greasy, gnat-bite-free, patches on their glossy spring coats. Practical before pretty.
So, the gnats are here, the flies will follow momentarily, along with mosquitoes, wasps and barn spiders.
But the grass is green, the trees have popped, as have the hostas, ferns and day lilies.
6:37. I wake naturally, notably more rested than when roused by an escalating ringtone or socked with a sandpapery paw pad, and fully aware that I have nothing on the schedule today. It’s one of the rare days with no calendar commitments so I caution myself to not waste it.
Our many meteorologists predict 60-something degrees, also rare, also not to be wasted.
My Unscheduled Schedule: change the sheets, get a couple loads of laundry done early, walk in the park with Ruff and Rowdy, then spend the afternoon in the barn with the big boys, cleaning equines and their winter-weary equipment.
Fresh linens on the bed, others piled on the floor, breakfast is ready, so I’ll haul sheets down to the laundry room after I eat.
While downing my oatmeal and grapefruit, I solve the sudoku, and with coffee I crack the cryptoquip and nearly complete the crossword when I hear the telltale zzzzzzzzzzttt of tearing fabric. Ruffian’s decided to do a bit of tailoring, splitting the seam on one corner of the flat sheet lying on the bedroom floor, preparing to take a little off the edges.
I recognize his universal sign for “I need something constructive to do,” and outdoor activity is in order, so I heap the linens on the washer, vow to do laundry when the sun goes down, and take advantage of our unusual sweatshirt weather with two of the greatest dogs in the whole wide world.
Off to Montissippi to walk with my gentle-leadered goldens, pleased with their minimal attempts to rub off the head collar, the reduction in pulls off the path, and the nearly never occurrences of Ruff dead-stopping in the middle of my path.
The last occurrence was at this park, when he halted abruptly on the pavement, directly in front me, leaving an angry raw scrape that turned into a thick itchy scab that morphed into a scar on the left side of my left knee cap, which pairs nicely with the scar on the right side of my left knee cap, a memorial to a no good very bad day on my beloved purple stingray on the unforgiving gravel of Coon Rapids Boulevard.
But now we mostly keep moving, mostly in our own lanes.
Thinking while I walked, about my pre-spring cleaning barn project, I realize I need hay cubes at the Country Store which closes early on Sunday, so the dogs and I take the long way home from the park, which is to say we drive completely out of our way to get Chicago and Moe’s Senior Supper, a salt block for Chicago and one more thing that’s been on my mental supply list for a couple weeks, but which I’ve now forgotten, and hope I will remember when I get there. But I don’t.
Once home, I let the golden boys in the dog yard with a big stick of distraction for Ruff. Headed to the barn, forty pounds of hay cubes hefted over my shoulder, feeling remarkably heavier than the 50-pound bags I used to haul around,
Horses in, I head out, to rake the rejected hay remnants from the edges of the shelter, loading the wheelbarrow, hauling and dumping and spreading in the dry lot, giving the ponies something to pick through while they pass the next couple of months of closed pasture.
Shelter clean, horses enjoy fresh quarters, fresh hay and fresh air.
Company! Time for a spontaneous beverage break, chatting, chips and whiling away an hour or two. Or three. Back to the barn to toss hay down into the small storage stall, but first, lift the pallets, sweep, load, haul, dump, and spread; then climb up the ladder, crawl across the bales loaded in the loft, ponder the probability of ever solving the annual mystery of putting up hay in a manner conducive to a convenient, First In, First Out system of inventory management.
Throw 28 bales over the ledge, climb down the ladder, crawl across the bales scattered in the stall, push, pull and pile them in an orderly stack, sweep up the broken bales, fill up the wheelbarrow one more time, and let Moe pick out his favorite pieces while I set some in front of Chicago and parcel out the rest to the feeders for the overnight ration.
Good night ponies.
A little kibble in the cat dishes for Fennel and Mace.
See you in the a.m., kits.
A shower (how does hay even get there?!) some supper and a cocktail that I fall asleep before finishing.
It’s been a weird winter up here. Except for a couple January weeks of brutal cold, our daytime temperatures have ranged 10-20 degrees warmer than average and our seasonal snowfall – all six inches of it – has long melted and drained to the low spots, leaving us with a late March look and feel.
The sun finally graced us with a ray or two of hope, after days and days of dismal, drizzly dampness that drove me to search for something bingeworthy, to escape the bleakness of unsettling, unusual weather, the inevitable climate change conversation, discussions of deepening drought conditions, and concerns about the 2024 hay crop.
Then I looked out the dining room window to watch Chicago and Moe.
They live right out there in the elements, on sunny days, cloudy days and mixed precipitation days, in still air, bitter breezes and window-rattling winds.
They have no calendar, no 7-day forecast nor long-term trend-mapping chart.
No snow? No matter to them – just means easy meandering around the field to nibble on last year’s leftovers.
Drizzle, snizzle, fog or frozen ground, Moe still stretches on his side in full-out Dead Horse pose for at least one nap every day, unbothered by the semi-solid matted grass that tamps down his woolly winter coat; and Chicago routinely freshens his mud-molded bed-headed body with a light layer of pine shavings from his noontime stall snooze.
They don’t fuss when they get wet or dirty. They come in from the rain to dry off and go out to the dirt to scrub off, finding a stop-drop-and-roll spot in which to curry their coats with the natural loofahs of pasture grasses and a tiny stemmed, burry plant that Moe discovered, which fortunately glides easily out of his mane and forelock, taking the mud crumbs along for the ride.
They soak up the sun when it shines, taking advantage of the warm spot in the corner of the shelter, standing side by side to share the rays, and on cloudy days they still assume their positions in the Hot Spot to absorb any available btu’s.
They mosey around the pasture, graze some, nap some, think some great horse thoughts, and wander back to the feeders to pick through the remnants of the last of their many daily meals.
They voice no complaint unless I push the envelope on the window of acceptable deviation from the standard Fresh Forage Feeding Time. Though even then, Moe’s nicker may rumble with a tinge of reproach, but Chicago softly whickers in relief at my arrival – undoubtedly reassured that I have not, in fact, forgotten that he is still waiting, ever-so weakly wavering on the edge, just this side of starvation.
The horses accept the word as it presents today. Tomorrow means nothing, average temperatures or typical snowfall totals are irrelevant; and they don’t get caught up in anxiety or bogged down with worry.
They live unburdened by bother about what should be now or what might be next.
They adapt and adjust and experience the day – this day – and if I’m willing to learn, they teach.
Prerequisites for Chicago’s new barn buddy were rudimentary – calm compliance was crucial, color was not – so that the next horse in the herd happens to be another golden gelding is pure coincidence.
Biskit and Moe occupy separate spaces on the palomino palette. Biskit was butterscotch pudding while Moe is banana cream pie, with subtle spots on his back and mottles on his muzzle that pay homage to his Appaloosa heritage, and a slightly stilted manner of movement that gives credence to the claim of gaited horse in his genealogy.
Some of the loco in his motion can probably be attributed to the permanent injury of his left hip and pelvis from an accident in his past which earned him everlasting “Companion Only” status, and likely also initiated the injury to his left eye that was serious enough to require removal.
Though Moe is missing one eye, he makes his way with monocular eyesight so smoothly that I tend to forget about the restricted field of vision. Fortunately, I also tend to talk to my animals – nonsensical ramblings of an overthinking mind – so we’ve only had one little spook in the stall when I touched his shoulder without announcing my presence.
Biskit’s mane and tail were wavy and coarse while Moe sports a sleeker, finer look that self-straightens the loosely knotted tangles that twist into his hair during the daily rolls he so relishes.
Both met the 1,100-pound mark on the Purina weight tape, but with the advantages of four inches in height and seven years of age, Moe flaunts the flat belly of youth – no pot belly on this pony. Yet.
He’s gentle and quietly confident, settled in the top spot with just one squeak of a squeal, when Chicago took one step too close to the hay feeder of choice. They’ve now established a harmonious little herd of quiet camaraderie, grazing a little closer together a little more often.
He’s accustomed to Rowdy roaming around the pasture, and while Ruffian would enthusiastically liven up the party, the rest of us are not yet ready to extend that invitation.
Moe appreciates the structure of a schedule but expresses no reproach for the inevitable variations in our daily timetable, especially if there are conciliatory cookies involved.
He comes up from the pasture when he spots me down at the barn and greets me with a heartwarming basso-tenor nicker (which compliments Chicago’s charming alto-soprano) and though some say the vocalizations of a horse are all about command and control, I like to believe they’re the language of affection and attachment.
We’re still getting to know each other, but he’s firmly fixed in the Four Sticks family, and I’m so happy to have him. Turns out, the heart has a miraculous capacity for love – holding memories of the lost while making space for the found. Addition without subtraction.
A new pooch in the pack, a new horse in the herd, new routines to design, and new relationships to develop.
Ruffian is settling in, his adolescent enthusiasm a little less frenzied, a little more responsive to requests for awareness of the rest of us. He’s dialed back the desire for thrashing throw rugs, battering dog beds and running the ottoman obstacle course, but retains an irresistible delight for life that inspires great joy.
Though I cut some slack for the unknowns of his Before Life, Ruff’s a quick study. He’s figured out that sitting or lying down are solid choices during those awkward pauses when he’s been told to do something but wasn’t actually ready to listen.
He understands that the good chews are given out just before I head to the barn for night check, and if I forget, he only needs to sit straight and stare intensely to bore the reminder into my brain.
He knows to eat only from his own dish, and that the chewing of dog beds is frowned upon in this establishment, though that last one is still on his list of 4th quarter goals.
Rowdy, Ruff and I walk most afternoons, practicing and progressing as a mobile unit; Ruff in his harness, Rowdy in his head collar, picking their positions and staying put. Kind of. Ruffian continues crisscrossing and zigzagging, thus tangling leashes and tripping Lisa, but with a little less frequency, so my shoulder now stays firmly in its socket, though the left Deltoid may be slightly over developed.
Ruff still spooks some on the trails – other hikers, horses and their riders, squirrels scrambling up trees, acorns falling down, deer leaping deftly, leaves drifting lazily may all cause a momentary pause in forward progress. We stop, look, listen, loosen the leash, and wait until he determines we may safely proceed, and move on.
While we’re at a standstill, I study that remarkably sweet face surveying his surroundings and wonder, again, what happened to him. Is he listening for the sound of a familiar voice? Scenting for the smell of someone he knew? Mentally mapping our course so he can find his way back? It saddens me enough to stand quietly for a few seconds while he thinks his dog thoughts. For the first 5 or 6 stops anyway.
Down in the barn, Moe moved in, Chicago moved over, and the herd moved back to equilibrium.
Moe is missing one eye, but his calm demeanor and everyone else’s mindfulness of the restricted vision made for a smooth transition.
He conquered his suspicion of the automatic water bowl within minutes, and by the end of our first afternoon trusted me as a reliable source of raspberry horse snacks and reassuring neck scratches.
We’ve learned to walk together, he’s comfortable in the crossties, and we’re getting to know the choice grooming spots. He’s ok in his stall but prefers the wide-open space of the pasture and has singled out a section with plants he particularly enjoys.
Chicago and Moe have settled into a generally accepted equine routine, Moe plays Goldilocks in the cottage that is our run-in shelter, checking each feeding station for the hay he finds Just Right, while Chicago waits. Given that the Big Red Beast has had first pick of the porridge for the last 7 years, this makes my heart hurt a bit, but it’s standard operating procedure for the horses, and it only takes Moe a minute to make his choice, then Chicago moves to one of the other spots so all may live happily ever after.
Much as I enjoy a formal training class, my schooling style has morphed into a more prosaic approach. Core principles of safety, civility and citizenship are presented in a conversational tone – a hand raised casually with a “Give me a sec” gesture, translates in Ruffianspeak to “Wait until I get to the top of the landing, the bottom of the stairs, or on the other side of the threshold.”
A single tasty golf shoe is eagerly swapped for three pieces of tastier dog kibble.
A hand on Moe’s left hip as he walks enters his stall means “Continue walking until all 4 feet have cleared the door.”
I set up the bumpers of consistent, persistent guidance and we bounce down the Alley of Acceptable Actions. It’s shaky for a second, but solid for a lifetime, as we build the bonds of time and patience and practice and trust.
We’re creating the rhythm of routine in established relationships, the comfort of the counted-on response, the presuppositions of partnership, which help me recognize the “Was this really necessary?” expression on Rowdy’s face when it’s time to negotiate a Ruffian respite, and prompt me to keep a couple extra cookies in my pocket to occupy Chicago while Moe cherry picks for the choice pile.
I’m learning to communicate clearly and calmly, to celebrate the desired behavior and ignore the undesired if it presents no danger to self, others, or material possessions that matter.
I’m looking for peace and coexistence vs power and control.
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.
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.
Part of the family
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.
The turtle and the cat
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.
Chicago and the beaver
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.
From Four Sticks Farm 