Slow Spring

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.

Don’t tell the dogs.

Winter Weather

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.

Spying Spring

Punxsutawney has Phill, Four Sticks Farm has Fennel.

He’s a conscientious all-season barn cat, committed to keeping the place rid of rodents even in inclement conditions, but sticks to a skeleton schedule during the winter months, paring down the perimeter of his patrol, turning up the tempo of his trot, and using his vacation time to burrow in his cat bed. Just the basics ma’am.

But our little summoner of spring has started to emerge earlier and oftener from the confines of his cozy den in the heated barn shop.

As I make way to the barn in the pre-dawn hours, more days than not, I detect a shadowy block hunkered down near the end of the walkway. Fennel surveys my approach with his natural night-vision goggles, then advances toward me arched-back and fuzzed-fur, hopping in a sideways crab-like catwalk.

Proper identification presented, business stated, he turns toward the tack room and escorts me to my targeted destination for completion of my mission – breakfast.

The later I am, the closer to the house he is, sometimes jumping through the deck rails to bestow Rowdy with a good-morning chin rub, sometimes abruptly about-facing to lead me down the walk.

Based on the palpable pressure of 3 eyes piercing the diminishing darkness from the depths of the barn shelter, I suspect Moe and Chicago occasionally recruit Fennel for a reconnaissance mission, sending him to scout any activity around the house that would signal engagement of mealtime movements.

Like a couple others around here, Fennel is working to shed the seasonal excess, snacking on the shamrock in the tack room to supplement the chicken kibble, scratching the hayloft ladder to stretch his spine and bulk up his biceps, running wind sprints in the alley and high-jumping onto the trunk of a pasture elm tree, employing the pitons of his paws to pause long enough to make eye contact and elicit admiration for his exceptional climbing skills.

He’ll be fit for battle before the barn swallows return from wherever it is they spend their snowbird months.

We’ve still got a little winter to weather, but the brighter days are on the horizon. Pitchers and catchers have reported, Reese’s peanut butter hearts have been replaced by peanut butter eggs, and stalls are now clean before sunset.

And Fennel has re-upped, ready to return to the fulltime duty roster.