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.

Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.

So I Rode

George was gone golfing so there would be no small engines ambushing around corners.

The temperature was moderate so there would be no sweaty streams snaking down my spine.

The wind was calm so there would be no forest gremlins blustering through the trees.

My truck was in the shop so there would be no convenient excuse to run errands on the To Do list.

There were no kids on dirt bikes across the field, no school busses on the roads, no garbage trucks or farm vehicles belching by on their appointed rounds.

So I rode.

The Tree Arch Bridge on the Very Scary Teeny Tiny Trail of Four Sticks Farm

There could be no fairer conditions for this fair-weather rider, no better opportunity to avoid many of the potentials for disaster wrought by scary, spooky, sudden sights, sounds, and specters, so for the first time in nearly a year, I psyched up, tacked up and mounted up on my big old painted pony.

The 2020 riding season was abbreviated by a First Ride fall that inflicted no physical damage, but left another ding on the confidence meter, which dropped riding Chicago to the bottom of the Pandemic Priority list.

Last summer’s adventure included a remarkable demonstration of the unspoken connection between horse and rider. I had just been thinking about how age and absence seemed to have left my seat conspicuously unbalanced in the saddle, and the thought had barely left my brain when Chicago decided to test the theory. It started with a crow, taloned prey in tow, lifting off our tiny, wooded trails, and ended with a striking aerial pas-de-deux, as Chicago copied the crow with his own version of airborne. Only while they both lifted up, I thudded down, on my propitiously padded back pockets.

As is our routine in this much-practiced performance, I stood, swore, and saddled up again, to finish our ride without incident. We had a couple more uneventful walks in the woods during the summer, but most of our time together after that included carrots and curry combs, farriers and fly spray, hay flakes and health care.

I’ve never been big in the brave department and in my Wisdom of Age file lies a thick folder of Chicago-caused confidence shakers. But my recent ride through the teeny tiny forest of Four Sticks Farm brought back memories more daring days. Reflection on our 20 years together reminds me that I’ve mustered up enough courage to persevere through a few problems, learn a few lessons and survived to tell the tale.

The truth is, I love that big red beast in my barn. A little look back at some of my long-ago posts will fill you in on a few of the less-than-stellar rides of our storied past. But you’ll also learn that Chicago has ponied children around the dusty arena and tolerated girls pressing painted hands on the coppery canvas of his ample girth. He’s allowed cats to wrap themselves around his legs, and kids to walk themselves under his belly. He’s ignored rowdy Rowdy’s attempts as self-appointed horse herder.

So, while I’m the one unceremoniously picking myself up, it’s not always him, sometimes it’s me, and most often, a little bit of both.

So, I’ll ride.

The Golden Shepherd and The Horse Who Will Not Be Herded

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.

Birthday Boys

May is a big birthday month here at Four Sticks Farm.

Boone begins the festivities on May Day, celebrated this year by a visit with Dr. Wilcox for his annual checkup. Other than the obviously rickety rear end, and some pretty gamey greyhound gingivitis, our Teen Idle is a healthy 13 year old hound.

Greyhound on bed

Two days later, Chicago turned an astonishing 21. Astonishing in that it’s been 15 years that this big red beast has taken up residence in my home and my heart, and we’re both still around to tell our tale.

Now that he’s reached the age of maturity, Chicago is finally starting to look more like the Paint horses on his pedigree, growing even more handsome, with all the spots showing up on his sorrel self.

His tail lightened a few years ago, but other than that, most of his color (besides the 3 white stockings that inspired his name) hid beneath his mane or under his belly. Now his white hair is out for all to see.

Finally, a horse who resembles his owner…

Paint horse

Rare is the blog entry missing mention of rowdy Rowdy, and this one is no exception. The gregarious golden turned 2 on May 17, inching his way out of puppyhood, with it’s built-in excuse for bad behavior. He continues to live with energy and enthusiasm, eager to engage in whatever life extends, always under the assumption that everyone else shares his excitement.

Someday, an owner who resembles her dog…

Golden retriever on blanket with books

Rowdy is only weeks away from his first official Therapy Dog gig, with the “Reading with Rowdy” program scheduled to start in mid-June. Our theme this summer is “Figure It Out”, initially intended as a reference to the series of mystery stories we’ll read, and puzzle games we’ll play, though I suspect it will apply equally to Rowdy’s effort to perfect his library manners.

And he will figure it out. Now that he is 2, the day grows ever closer that my happy hooligan masters impulse control.

And that will be a day of serious celebration.

Careful What I Wish For

The light is changing here at Four Sticks Farm, bringing hope of the spring soon to come. If only I can ignore the glare from the snow-covered ground that makes my eyes water and my nose run; the sting of the still-icy air that numbs my chin and reddens my ears; the grimly naked trees that expose the red squirrel who rejoices in tormenting the Happy Golden Hooligan, the feel, or lack thereof, of my fingers frozen one more time by scooping hay stems out of the automatic waterer and snapping the metal fasteners on Biskit’s blanket.

If I can ignore all that and look only at the brilliant blue sky, with a few wispy clouds and a big bright sun, I can believe.

It Will be spring. We will still see some snow and cold and ice and cool and slush and chilly. But spring will come. It always does, though it’s easy to forget that as we trudge through these bleak, record-cold days that are the weeks of February.

Horses at the fence Soon though, I will shed a layer of outdoor clothing from my barn chore apparel and strip a layer of horse hair and mud from my polar ponies.

Soon, I will start a spring conditioning program for my Big Red Beast.

But don’t tell Chicago that.

Soon, I will close off the pasture to allow it to grow without competition from equines eager for the pleasure of grazing green grass.

Don’t tell Chicago that either.

Soon, I will sweep down the winter-crusted cobwebs from the barn ceiling, slog through the alley mud to muck out the manure, drag out the paddock posts and divider fencing, wrestle 2 bulky blankets into plastic bags for transport to the tack store cleaners, curry off several more layers of horse hair and mud – first from the horses, then from their groom, clean and condition the tack that’s been hanging idle since September, scrub off the season-ending stall-window scum, wipe down and hang up the stall fans, towel off 8 muddy dog paws multiple times a day, lug deck furniture down from the garage-attic and up from the barn-shop.

Soon, it will be spring. Hmmm…

Let it snow!

Dog in the snow

Real Life

The Plan

Leisurely morning with hot coffee and the Sunday Sudoku, spring cleaning the mud ponies, a ride on the Big Red Beast, a groundwork session with the Portly Palomino, a long walk with rowdy Rowdy, a couple pots of flowers to plant, a peaceful evening on the deck with a stack of equine magazines and a gin and tonic.

Nowhere to go, nothing urgent to do, beautiful weather, perfect day.

The Reality

The pasture is ready for grazing, except that we haven’t replaced the paddock-dividing ropes that we remove for the winter. And the 2 paddocks that won’t be grazed this week need to be mowed. And George is leaving tomorrow for a week and I need his help with the dividers. So, drink most of a cup of coffee, leave the Sudoku for the later, head out to mow the pasture.

Except that the mower is not on the tractor, so while George is making the seasonal implement changes, which involves a fair amount of sighing and slamming and swearing, I decide to use the time productively and start hauling chairs from the barn to the deck, which reminds of how much stronger I used to be, and how much more yoga I should do, and how much I look forward to a gin and tonic on the deck.

John Deere good to go, I hop on and enjoy the opportunity to ride (even if it’s not the horsepower on which I planned) get some sun, and watch my muddy horses, who realize this activity means the end is near for their 2 month meadow moratorium. They monitor the action closely, especially when George brings out the spools of Electrobraid that separate the big field into 3 paddocks for rotational grazing. Nickering and pacing commence.

It occurs to me that we’re out of dog food and stall shavings, and Country Store closes at 2:00 on Sunday. George can install the dividers without my assistance. More accurately, George would prefer to install the dividers without my assistance, so I head into town for dog food and shavings. And a bag of potting soil. Rowdy rides along – a peace offering for the long walk he’s not going to get.

Once home, I back the truck into the barn, open up the pasture for Biskit and Chicago who stop, drop (their heads) and graze before getting 5 steps in. Since the first spring grazing sessions are short to prevent over-indulgence and it’s serious side effects, I can unload the 20 bags of shavings and complete a couple barn chores in perfect Pony Pasture Time.

DogAndHorsesInPasture

30 minutes later, Rowdy follows me out to bring in the horses, his first full, free access to them. I’m cautious, since he is, after all, a golden retriever, full of joie de vivre, confident that all he meets are friends (except for those menacing trash containers lurking at the end of every driveway on our Tuesday walks, but that’s a different post) but all goes well. The horses have apparently seen enough of him to cross him off the Very Scary list, and are more interested in grabbing one last mouthful of fresh greens than responding to the antics of a herding dog wannabe.

While I’m securing the gate to keep the horses where they need to be (vs. where they want to be) Rowdy runs up with a big golden grin, reminding me of the reason I don’t let the dogs have pasture access. It’s all fun and games until somebody rolls in something dead.

DogInTub

As I finish Rowdy’s de-stinking spa session I realize Boone is due for his semi-annual bath and blowout, and since the tack room and I are already wet and full of dog fluff, we might as well make it a Two Dog Day in the grooming room.

Boone’s weakened back-end, combined with his general apprehension of things related to, well almost anything, means that giving him a bath involves my left arm crooked under his belly to support 74 pounds of sagging greyhound while my right hand shampoos, rinses and repeats.

So. Happy horses, clean canines, just a few flowers to plant and it’s G & T time. Well, actually, then it’s time to bring the horses in the barn for their Snack and Snooze. And as I walk out of the barn , I notice the horse trailer parked outside and remember that I’ve not yet checked the electrical connection for the lights. Which I should do before I need to use the trailer. And the truck’s right here…

And now it’s supper time for the inside animals. And I really need a shower. And the sun is setting. And we’re out of tonic.

But there is still the Sudoku. And white wine.

Friends Around the Farm

Though taken in the early days, this picture captures the essence of Boone and Rowdy’s relationship of mostly mutual tolerance. Mostly Boone’s tolerance that is.

DogsCleaningTheirTeeth

This is about as close as Rowdy and Mace have been, which is just as well since Rowdy believes all the world’s a friend, just waiting to be pounced upon, and Mace is armed with a full set of sharp implements, and not afraid to use them.

BarnCatCaution