Expectations

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

Cue reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless you give a golden a squeaker ball.

Empathy.

Chicago

Twenty-one years ago, I watched a little blonde girl take a riding lesson on a big red horse. She was cute, he was stunning.

Twenty years ago, that big, beautiful Paint, with a wide white blaze and 3 white stockings came to live with me.

Though not my first horse – props to Cloud, The Old White Pony – Chicago is my Heart Horse. Heart horse, not to be confused with Best horse.

When I brought him home, he was woefully skittish, I was blissfully ignorant. Chicago was young, living in a disquieting world full of alien threats, while I was middle-aged, living in an exhilarating world full of childhood dreams.

His reactive nature and my natural timidity mapped a course to certain calamity. He perfected a duck and spin move that left me dumped and supine, but a steady diet of prayer and perseverance kept us on track and off the injured list. We put in a lot of time building our respective Profiles in Courage.

Because we were both beginners, Chicago and I took lessons (Friday mornings at 9, for 10 years – the best hour of my week), attended training clinics and rode park trails with experienced friends.

We learned to get in and get out of a trailer, to appreciate unfamiliar environments, to walk through water, to halt on the word “whoa”; and that an instructor moving toward the center of the arena must be the universal sign for “Let’s stop and discuss”. Chicago never missed the opportunity for a rest break and made a beeline for the middle of the ring whenever he rounded a corner and spotted Dick standing at X.

“We” never learned to trust metal garbage cans, chain saws, stealthy cyclists, to canter on the left lead without bucking, or that an instructor saying “Nice!” does not actually translate to “exercise finished”. Chicago schooled under the principle that praise meant he had proven he can perform the requested exercise and had, therefore, been granted permission to dial down the activity and catch his breath.

Back in the beginning, those who knew better knew Chicago wasn’t the right horse for me. But I didn’t. So here we are, still standing, still together, 20 years later.

Some Heart Horses defy the natural assumption of selfless natures, willing to go the extra mile, give the last ounce, or guard their rider with their own lives. Some, like Chicago, dwell deeply in your heart because they challenge you. They make you think and try and work and cry and fall down and get up and think and try some more. They make you mad and sad and so damn happy.

At feeding time, they greet you with a loving nicker when you arrive on time, a reproachful whinny when you’re late.

They toss you in a moment of panic but balance on three legs while you fumble with a roll of flexible bandage on the fourth foot.

They come in off a grassy pasture to see you at the gate and they wait in the open stall door for a smooch on the muzzle before heading back out to that grassy pasture.

They move quietly out of your way when you set your finger on their chest, but they stand completely still when you rest your weight against their neck, working through the worries of your world. And when they know the time is right, they nudge, a firm but gentle nuzzle that assures you all will be well.

We schedule our social times around their farrier times. We make sure they have stall fans in the summer and bucket heaters in the winter. We sweat and we freeze while we spend hours in the barn, mucking those stalls, scrubbing those buckets, taking temperatures, listening for gut sounds, cleaning wounds, and soaking abscesses.

Because we love them. We are connected to them. At the heart.

Commitment.

Biskit

Prior to coming to Four Sticks Farm, Biskit was part of a neglected herd rescued by the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation. He was a demonstration horse at a fundraising clinic given by a local trainer and was standing quietly in a round pen when I walked into the barn. I stopped to get a closer look at the little yellow gelding, and when his soft baby browns met my gaze, there was no doubt that he would be joining Chicago and Rusty at Four Sticks Farm.

I regaled George with as many details of the event as a non-horsey husband can tolerate, ending with a suggestion of what he could get me for my birthday, which was on the following Friday. I told him about the pretty palomino. He told me he already had my birthday present. I picked up Biskit the following Saturday.

Whether a remnant of his sad past, or plain old gluttony, Biskit is always ready to belly up to the hay bale and reluctant to bid it farewell. During primo grazing season, when the paddock is open all day, he is loath to leave the opportunity to gorge on all that forage even for a drink of water or a turn in front of the big barn fan. He leaves his muzzle on low to mow a path to the next spot of greener grass.

I’ve tried to take advantage of that food focus by taking Chicago for a little exercise around the property while Biskit is stuffing his stomach, but he will eventually notice he’s the only pony on his side of the pasture rail and then he’ll panic, running the fence line, tail lifted, head high, calling for his friend. An impressive site, if you ignore the small mounds of manure dotting the alley as they drop from beneath that elevated tail.

Because he has an unspecified neurological issue that affects his balance, Biskit escaped riding duty, with an everlasting assignment as the barn buddy. He is a pasture pal. The support pony, he buys into his place in the herd, which is anywhere behind the polka-dotted butt of the big red horse he calls “Boss.”

What he’s never bought into is that Patience is a Virtue. He protests excessive time in the crossties, with impatient pawing, piles of poop, and puddles of pee in the barn aisle. Our good-natured farrier unpacks his superpowers of patience and proficiency to complete Biskit’s pedicure within the window of three-legged tolerance, finishing the job seconds before the pot-bellied pony snatches his hoof away in a most disrespectful display of gravitational insecurity.

But he is cute. More charming than churlish, Biskit is beloved by most who visit the barn. He’s a BFF to the Big Red Beast, cordial to the cats, and gracious to the golden with a squeaker ball. A birthday gift still giving after 14 years.

Blessings.

Catching Up

Lucky for me, my life is full of low-maintenance types, willing to tolerate long lapses in communication and picking up right where we left off when connection is re-established, with a mutual understanding and acceptance of the lives we lead.

The ponies put up with my series of short daily check-ins, probably because my presence, however brief, generally includes some sort of sustenance, and stomachs rule in their world. Chicago most always greets me with a nicker, especially if I start the dialog with “Hi Handsome”. Once in a while he’ll stand at the half-wall that divides the horse shelter from the barn porch, staring toward the house or my truck driving down the driveway. He’ll put on his softest, most mournful equine eyes and let out a high-pitched plaintive whinny that translates to something between I Miss You and You Owe Me.

I recently made my way back to the barn to finally finish the self-shedding process in which Biskit and Chicago were unintentionally engaged this spring. Turns out they united in a show of solidarity with their groom, each emerging from the pandemic period with a bigger belly and a broader backside, though unlike the horses’ seasonal surplus, it’s going to take a lot more than a few strokes of the shedding blade to whittle away my girth.

On the feline front, Fennel has assumed full responsibility for rodent removal around the barn, honing his skills on a daily basis. He courageously takes on mice, moles, voles and small songbirds, but remains leery of the tack room dehumidifier or anyone who doesn’t maintain permanent residence at Four Sticks Farm. He recently joined us on the deck, with much trepidation and tremendous mistrust of the patio furniture. Getting neither empathy nor encouragement from the green-eyed golden, he pushed past his inner Cowardly Lion and found comfort in a familiar lap.

Mace made it through his 14^th annual veterinary checkup without incident to self or vet staff, apparently mellowed by the passing of the Barn Patrol baton and all the pressure that goes with it. Hard to be surly when one spends one’s days snoozing in the sun on the barn porch or sleeping in the heat of the hayloft.

My yearly battle with the barn swallows flared up again last week. While I appreciate their assistance in mosquito control, I prefer they spend their downtime somewhere other than Biskit’s stall, as my experience in playing gracious host has proven the swallows to be houseguests from hell, who make a mighty mess, bring unending bunches of babies, and Never leave.

Rowdy revels in chasing the trespassers with his squeaker ball, so has added Bird Banishment to his daily duties. Border Collies clear geese off of runways, Goldens scare swallows out of barn aisles. Everybody has a job to do, however humble, and Rowdy is all in on making sure he does his well.

So that’s the latest friends. We’ve picked up and caught up on the month since my last post. I love the idea of weekly updates, and it remains a goal, albeit an elusive one, for the slow-processor who writes them. I recently enrolled in a 3-hour online writers’ course offering, among other things, strategies to develop a consistent writing process. So far, I haven’t taken the 3 hours to watch it.

But I’ll get there. Summertime is rife with subject matter at Four Sticks Farm – equine exploits, cat capers, and of course, endless ramblings with and about rowdy Rowdy.

Stay tuned, come back. In two weeks. Maybe three.