We survived the super sultry stormy spell of summer, recently rescued by a stretch of sunny 70’s. Tank tops have given way to short-sleeved tees, and flannel shirts will follow soon.
We’re in the seasonal sweet spot between stinging bugs and sticking burrs on the wooded trails, neither sweaty spine nor frozen feet at the end of our walks.
The pasture puddles finally dried up, so last night I allowed the dogs to go down to the barn yesterday, and within minutes Ruffian found himself a suitably greasy pile of horse manure in which to relish a roll.
Rowdy was due for his annual Back to School bath, so while he sulked in the tub, Ruff skulked to the other side of the tack room and laid low.
He lucked out, as it was late, and after wrestling with Rowdy, who has no appreciation for spa services – manis, pedis, shampoos or, worst of all, blow outs – I mustered only enough energy for a sponge bath of the greenest spots on his face and head.
I’ve figured out that Ruff’s coat has a self-cleaning quality and with a little air drying and light brushing, he freshens up surprisingly well, which has dialed down the despair of watching him trot over to display his happy dappled self after a romp in the pasture.
So, we returned to the house, all three of us damp and covered in dog hair; and Rowdy woke up this morning with some serious bed head. Clean and fluffy, but waves rippling and curls flipping every which way but straight.
And it mattered not to him, nor the girls at school, that his coat was a bit disheveled – Study Hall Monitors don’t need no stinkin’ hair stylists.
Chicago and Moe now have unrestricted access to the pasture (though interestingly, they continue to come up to the barn for a flake or two of morning and evening hay) until we close it completely for a couple weeks of rest – part of the annual Winter Preparedness Plan.
Mighty Moe has figured out a method for popping the electric rope out of the post clips so he can step over it and enjoy his own private paddock whenever the mood strikes; and since I’ve been spoiled by Chicago, who could be contained with kite string, “Fence Upgrade” has been bumped to the top of my Seasonal To Do list.
Morning chores and night checks are now done in the dark – a true tell of this time of transition.
Grazing schedules, sleeve lengths, sunlight. Lots of things are changing.
I have the beginnings of a blog post for today, but life got in the way the last couple weeks, so I’m breaking the string of alternate Tuesday entries detailing amusing anecdotes about my animals.
Nothing catastrophic, unusual, nor even particularly interesting, but enough to max out my mental bandwidth, leaving just enough to mop up Rowdy’s drool and Ruffian’s hair one more time before sitting down to watch Olympic highlights.
Despite my ever-present intention to Get Better, these short posts take me a ridiculously long time to compose as I sit at my desk in the space at the top of our stairs, Rowdy stretched out behind my chair, Ruff keeping watch on the landing, and Spotify providing some instrumental ambiance.
But when I write, I am transported to the barn, the yard, the house, or the park. I hear the horses’ neighs and nickers, Fennel’s murmurs and meows. I see Mace ambling across the stall, hips canted right of his shoulders. I feel Ruffian’s youthful joie de vivre and Rowdy’s mature c’est la vie.
I am reminded that Four Sticks Farm and my four-legged friends are my happy place, even when they’re only in my mind.
We’re nearing the one-year mark for Ruff and Moe, Chicago’s second year of retirement, Rowdy’s second year as Study Hall Monitor, Mace’s pursuit of Oldest Barn Cat in the upper Midwest, and Fennel’s quest for a lifetime devoid of veterinary visits; plus twin fawns, cocooning caterpillars and more of Ruffian’s Excellent Adventures in Therapy Dog training.
We’ll be back in 2 weeks.
Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 5 We’re not ready yet But we’ve practiced the test My 6th Therapy Dog Ruff may be the best.
Work in progress
Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 6 Storms rumbling in Sherry called on the phone Safety for all Our last class was postponed.
Glue sticks and spiral notebooks now occupy the prime retail real estate, and rumor has it Halloween displays are already claiming their share of shelf space, so it seems fair to say we’re midway through the summer, a season rivaled only by Christmas for sensory stimulation.
We had a house painting project happening around here in June, which meant no flowers on the porch or deck, but the garden center conveniently located 4.5 miles due East, and on my way to almost everywhere, seemed to hold a sale of some sort every time I drove by.
Being the civic-minded sort, I stopped in to support the local economy, which explains the excessive pinks, yellows, and purples of the too-many annuals placed around the yard in my temporary holding zones.
Economic assistance. That’s Lisa Logic. I love it, George has learned to live with it.
Painting completed, the plants were moved to their more permanent locations on the deck and after a brief tutorial, Ruffian learned that they are for decorative purposes only, and not, actually, for his dining pleasure.
New this year are some cheerful zinnias and showy cosmos, through which I feel my grandma Maxine, who planted them along the cedar fence in her backyard. When I look at those flowers, I see teenage me sitting with her on the concrete patio that connected her two-bedroom rambler and the detached garage.
I smell the smoke of her PallMall red, taste the real sugar of my icy Coca Cola in a glass bottle, and I hear Herb Carneal calling play by play for our Minnesota Twins as jets cruise across the flight path overhead, approaching and departing Minneapolis St Paul International.
Fortunately, Mother Nature has generously supplied the waterworks this summer, leaving me, the generally neglectful gardener, in a mostly supporting role; and I’ve come to appreciate my watering routine – the grounding of my bare feet on the warmed wood of the deck planks, the cathartic calm of deadheading spent blossoms, and the affable acceptance of a hummingbird’s impatient whirring around my head as he waits for me to move away from his Cuphea café, the new pollinator hot spot at Four Sticks Farm.
The best view from my deck includes Chicago and Moe, sporting shiny summer coats, both spotted with white dots befitting their heritages.
It’s a Pasture Palooza kind of summer, so they’re enjoying as much green freshness as they can manage with swishing tails, twitching ears, and an afternoon break to doze beneath the draft of their stall fans while the bugs are blown away.
The seasonal barn bouquet is one of warm horse and hay and citronella insect spray, but the tack room, unless I remember to run the dehumidifier, retains the faint but foul smell of a stray brown tabby who, many years ago, spent the night as an uninvited visitor. Fortunately, he found more accommodating accommodations elsewhere, so his was a single night stay, but he left a mark.
To minimize the muddy paws and stinging insects of our so-far warm and wet summer, Rowdy, Ruff and I are mostly walking at a park with a paved trail that winds past a target shooting range, through the woods, next to a radio-controlled airplane landing strip, along the Mississippi River, and around a disc-golf course.
The trail takes us across a sunny stretch of wild-flowered prairie grasses before leading into a shady pine forest, where we meet walkers, runners, cyclists, hoverboarders, skateboarders, inline skaters and frisbee golfers.
We hear the staccato pops of target shooters, and the droning whines of miniature flying machines, the thwack of golf discs hitting trees and the metallic ting of golf discs hitting chain-link baskets.
If our schedules have been synchronized, we also hear the threatening vocalizations of a pair of tiny dachshunds asking my golden punks if they feel lucky.
And if we really are lucky, we hear the nearly silent thump of a deer paw landing on soft soil when it leaps through the trees ahead of us.
It’s been a bunch of beautiful days in this neighborhood. Even when the humidity hits the high notes, when I feel that single drop of sweat sliding down my spine, there is respite in the slightest breeze or spot of shade.
The air around the house smells of pink verbena, damp soil, mowed grass, and some wildflower that I’ve yet to ferret out.
I wake up Every morning and fall asleep Every night serenaded by house wren who sings incessantly, staking his claim and looking for love. All. Day. Long.
I look at a world of wildlife.
And cats and dogs and horses.
And flowers.
Fifty percent off.
Maxine memories
Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 3 Obedience night He did pretty well The lessons, it seems Are starting to gel.
Smarty pup
Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 4 He ignored the distractions That were placed on the floor I had hope when we started And now I have more.
Moe is learning it maybe will pay To be calm and stand still and to stay. The bugs are so bad He no longer gets mad When it’s aerosol, not a pump spray.
Chicago, unlike his friend Moe Lets me spritz him from forelock to toe. Goodbye to the bugs From me he gets hugs My old pony, I just love him so.
The swallows are back for round two I’d rather they not, but they do When the barn door is open They fly in just hopin’ This time they can stay, I won’t shoo.
The cats don’t seem bothered by heat Though I question their choice of first seat They spend most of the day In the loft with the hay Coming down once or twice just to eat.
Ruff’s allowed in the barn during chores Cleans up grain that’s been dropped on the floors Then unless I watch close He’ll go roll in the gross Unperturbed by my shouts and my swores.
Rowdy’s great, just an all-around champ Edging close to his Senior Dog stamp Still got plenty of pluck But to exit the truck Doesn’t jump, now he trots down a ramp.
It’s a beautiful time of the year To sit out on the deck with a beer Watch this place and these pets Know no better it gets Raise a glass, nod of thanks, give a cheer.
The new guys
Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 2 I opened his crate He hung in the back I convinced him to join me He did really great
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.
A friend loaned me a book at the end of March, and I planned to read it before I next see her at the beginning of May.
“Plan” is a word I’ve learned to use lightly, as some stronger lifeforce likes to play with the power of the plot twist.
My road to reading time, paved with good intention, is often detoured by a host of omnipresent obstacles. Barn work, housework, yard work, work work, family events and adventures, text conversations about family events and adventures, phone calls about family events and adventures, dog walking, horse grooming, cat coddling and blog post writing, act as roadblocks to my books.
But Sunday’s rainy weather proved to be a perfect indoor-recess kind of day – finally, a day for doing nothing but getting lost in another time, another world.
Morning chores were completed under cloudy skies with cool temps and fine rain falling. Chicago and Moe stood in the mist long enough to be wet enough to remove “Brush horses” from the day’s To Do list, so they came in the barn for a long, leisurely lunch.
Rowdy and Ruff were still recovering from two days of rabblerousing with Remi during a cousin dog sleepover, which allowed us to skip a cold walk on a muddy trail without threat of any rambunctious ramifications.
So, prop up the pillows and open up the book! However, the view from my couch was one of copious clumps of Ruffian fluff covering the front of every furnace vent, clustered in every corner and collected under every piece of furniture.
Ruff is our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, dropping strands of silky white hair with any and all movement – sit, stand, lie down, get up, walk, run or jump on the window seat in the back entry. A full body shake brings me near to tears.
But before the Swiffer® sheet comes out, the Bona® wet mop must sop up the splotches of slobber slopped across the hardwood.
Ruffian slurps from the water dish in staccato swipes of the tongue, leaving the surrounding area splashed with spots flicked from his mouth, but Rowdy drops saliva in the bowl as he gulps water out, then dumps a trail out the door as strings of slippery spit stretch to the tile.
We keep a bleached-out beach towel on the bathroom doorknob to wipe his chin when we catch him and swab the floor when we don’t, and because he so often bellies up to the water bowl saloon, there’s a whole lotta wipin’ goin’ on.
Rowdy is also a distracted drinker. When I hear the familiar gulp-gulp-gulp-pause-gulp-gulp-gulp, I sneak in and stand in silent stillness until the last gulp goes down, because if his spidey-sense detects my presence, he’ll turn his head mid-guzzle, dump a pool of slobber on the floor and splatter the wall with a shake of his juicy jowls.
Practice has polished my mop and dust process though, so I quickly cleaned the floor and mentally cleared the remainder of the day for nothing but a book and a beverage.
I opened my book to page 38.
Ninety minutes later I opened my eyes to page 41.
And 2 dogs willing me to get their supper.
And 2 horses calling me to let them out.
At this pace, I’ll finish the book for my friend’s New Years visit.
While doing dishes the other night, standing at the kitchen sink, hands soaking in hot soapy water (one of my many peculiarities – I find some peace and satisfaction in this chore) I looked out the window to see six deer strolling along the south fence of the pasture, sauntering out of the cattails on the east side into the woods on the west.
Generally, I’d announce their presence, but cervine sightings create a ruckus with the retrievers, and even George getting up to look out the deck door would alert the always-on-call Ruff and Rowdy, which would provoke much barking and jumping and running from one lookout spot to the next until the last white tail high-tailed into the swamp.
And lulled as I was, by the warm lavender-scented suds, I opted to circumvent the canine chaos and said nothing, just kept the secret as I stood, watched, and wondered where they’d stop to sleep.
Our weak winter offered the deer many dining options and we didn’t see much of them this year, but spring brings them back to call dibs on the fresh pasture. I’m happy to see them, though Chicago and Moe, denied access until the grass gets a chance to establish itself for the season, do not share my sense of hospitality.
Spring also brings a series of addendums to the ever-present list of ideas and intentions that get added, edited, sifted, sorted, and prioritized in my mind.
Fill the long-empty bird feeders for the long-gone birds who flew off in search of a more secure food source
Rake the piles of rejected hay left on the shelter floor by the two indulged geldings who may be just slightly overfed and underworked
Spend some serious time with Chicago, Moe and the shedding blade
Drag the two shamrocks and the peace lily out from their winter refuge under the saddle rack and get them growing before going outside for their summer vacation
Figure a way to get Fennel to the vet for annual vaccinations and examination of a suspected abscess on his right rear leg which morphed into a mysterious series of bald patches circling his tail
I’m a card-carrying member of the Lifelong Listmakers Club, but lately the tasks don’t make the move from my noggin to my notebook or beyond. Not much step in my spring so far.
The animals are always priority of course – stalls are cleaned, feed pans and water buckets filled, and everybody gets conversations, confections, affection, and attention multiple times a day, it’s just the extra activities that get shuffled to the bottom of the never-ending list.
Small things, big things, fun things, dumb things all float around my mind, bubble up and settle down to simmer or to soak while I cogitate, procrastinate, and finally opt to activate.
Funny though, over the weekend I realized that my barn chores are once again serenaded by cardinals, chickadees, robins, wrens, owls and red-winged blackbirds in the trees, while turkeys, pheasants and sandhill cranes chime in from the marsh. So, the feeders are full again.
The black mat of the shelter floor is now clearly visible, devoid of the layer of leftover hay. Turns out that if I feed Chicago and Moe like the easy-livin’ equines they are, rather than putting out enough to fuel a couple draft horses plowing the back forty, they cycle back through the ration a time or two, picking out the pieces that they passed over previously.
A few exfoliating sessions in the mud puddles of the “dry lot” have helped them self-shed, shiny summer coats starting to peek through the crusted dirt that’ll clean up quickly with a curry comb.
The shamrocks and the peace lily pushed up through the potting soil despite my inattention, and their tenacity inspired me to add a little fertilizer-infused water to aid the effort.
Fennel’s skin has healed, his hair is growing back, and since we’ve mutually agreed to call an end to his veterinary visits, the cat crate has been removed from the barn, so he no longer eyes me with suspicion, nor bolts when I get close enough to touch him. He trusts me. He really trusts me.
“Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up” said my Calm app the other day. Timely, welcome words. Sometimes it’s ok to take a minute to let the universe unfold.
To stand silently at the sink and wonder where the deer are headed.
March was mostly a lamb, mild and meek Devoid of its usual bleak. I thought we’d get lucky But now it’s quite mucky From the 15-inch snowfall last week.
Chicago’s quite light on his feet When the sun shines its spring-level heat. The barn roof of snow Warms up, then lets go And slides off in one big noisy sheet.
For the most part, Moe took it in stride But he’d rather be out than inside. He pooped in his bucket His version of F*#@ it When he heard the first rooftop snow slide.
Ruff and Rowdy thought snow piles were grand Loved to play in the white-covered land. Never minded the cold They burrowed and rolled Chasing snowballs, they climbed and the ranned.
The cats hunkered down in the barn shop Out the door, two tabbies would not pop. They had food, choice of stall To take care of it all Content ‘til they saw the last snow drop.
We may still have one last winter fling Warm weather’s not yet a sure thing. But the air has less chill And the birds have more trill So there’s hope, it will really be spring.
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.
From Four Sticks Farm 