buckbuckbuckbuckbuck bu-GAWK!

There are a whole lot of chickens on the ol Homestead right now.  Yesterday I actually, in real life, for real, found myself wearing denim overalls and a straw hat, chasing hens off the lawn back to their part of the yard with a pitch fork.

For real.

I'm not even kidding.

It was one of those "wow I really am a hick" moments

Rush Hour

Two weeks ago, it was corn harvesting time; the fields were crawling with combines and the roads were full of tractors.  I had to slow down a couple times. I really like watching combines.  They just devour everything in front of them. Like a boss. They are frickin' HUGE.  They can't go down the road with the header attached.  A pickup truck has to pull it down the road on its own trailer.  It's all very impressive. I'm impressed and I'm not even a five year old boy!

That is actually a very small combine up there. The one we had when I was a kid was smaller.  It didn't even have a cab. Nobody uses a combine with no cab now.  Nobody has a tractor with a piddly little gas engine anymore. Nobody farms 50 acres anymore.  They're out doing a few hundred acres at a time and they're in that machine for like, 12 hours, and they want A/C and a stereo.  You would too. 

I don't even have A/C and a stereo in my truck.  

I should wipe the dust off the dash of my truck. 

 So last weekend, we got stuck following the honeywagon for a few miles. Now as much as I don't mind slowing down for farm activity, I gotta admit, being behind a manure spreader is naaaaasty.

BUT.  Look at this thing.  One side is on the gravel and it's still almost over the yellow line.  MAGNIFICENT MACHINE.  You better respect.  It's a s****y job but somebody's gotta do it. 

And if you're gonna have to do it, get it all into the biggest tank you can fit on wheels, and get it over with.

Eventually those of us in lowly cars get to pass the behemoth. That's something else you wanna just get it over with.  

I took this accidentally cool photo on the way past.  

Sense of scale: see that little silver mirror in the bottom left corner?  That's our VW.  Those tires are just about the height of the roof of our car.

This is not yer grandpa's farm equipment.

(Although maybe it is. Does your grandpa still farm?)

Farmers have a lot of pressure on them, more than ever.  Partly because people like me come along, who want to live in the country but don't have the time/ persistence/ knowledge or GUTS to actually farm, but we take up valuable quality land to put our hay-burners and other useless critters on. Not to mention, subdivisions.  So they have to produce more, with less land.  They gotta work. These guys have a job to do.  

THEY MEAN BUSINESS.

They are not screwin' around here.

So I don't bitch when I have to wait a mile or so before I can get around them.

Anyways it's not so bad. That **** is fast.

So about that auction on the weekend...

No, we are NOT the new owners of a nifty little piece of land on a dirt road.

Yes, it sold for a reasonably low price.  No, I did not cry!  It really wasn't the right place for us, and we knew that.

But.  I still took on my first try at BIDDING!

For the first time ever, I bid on something and I got it!  Does that mean I bought it or I won it?  I never thought of it that way before.  You'll hear about that later.

The second time I bid on something... well I got that too.  Before we all start thinking I'm real naturally good at this auction bidding thing, I have a feeling I got my stuff because nobody else wanted it.

Also I ended up bidding against myself at one point.  So I laughed along with all the ol fellers and said, "I'm new here!" which wasn't totally true because I've lurked at these events since childhood.  The seasoned bidders make it look so easy!!!!

So what did I get?

A big ol hay wagon.

Here, the Farm Pug shows off the new implement.  

You know, cuz if you need hay, it's handy to have a hay wagon. 

Plus when I finally organize  HICKSTOCK, the biggest live show of local country-punk-metal bands, I have a stage.  

More later.  I have more.  Later.

Mud. Only it's not just mud. If you know what I mean.

Long ago in a different kind of life, I loved mud.  I squished it between my fingers and formed it into shapes, which I then put into a fire until those shapes were hard.

Yeah, it was fun, but my future already included one career notorious for being a hard living.

So I gave up the clay thing.

These days, I curse the clay on a regular basis.  Like, daily.

When it's dry, it's rock hard, much like those pots became after sitting on a shelf for a few days.  When it's wet, it's a sticky, slick, sucking mess - much like those pots became after I decided they weren't good enough to fire and tossed 'em into the wet clay bin.  When clay is so dry it's powdered, anything with nostrils is in danger of getting a case of silicosis.  Potter's lung. How about riding instructor's lung?

I just don't love mud like I used to.

Right now I can't look at the corral without disgust.  It's wet.  Most of it is a six-inch deep bog of manure and wasted hay.  Three sets of hooves churn it into a blackened stinking mess pocked with dark poisonous looking water.  The horses sink to the fetlocks with every step and I worry about tendons and stifles.

Have I ever mentioned that spring is NOT  my favourite time of year?

I'm not proud of this, but I have not yet been on horseback this year.  I can't face it.  I don't want to sink to the ankles before I even get onto my horse's back. I hate thinking of the result if the horse slipped in the mud and landed on top of me. I keep thinking I could finally get these horses out of the corral, out onto the hay field and down the road, except that two out of three are not very road and trail experienced yet... and after a long winter is really not the best time to try it out.  I won't ride in the pasture because the grass is too young and the ground too soft.

Also.  It doesn't smell very nice outside right now.

One of my neighbours will be over this week with his skid steer loader and all that crap will be pushed out and over the hill.  Then that clay will at least be just mean ol' clay, without the nasty layer on top.

I hate spring.

I like my neighbour.

We are going to talk more here about the best kind of footing for a riding area.  I'm kind of obsessed with the concept and I'd like to hear other horse-people thoughts on the subject.  Next I'll tell you about The Estimate for turning this corral into a well drained, non-dusty, reliable riding ring.

This week I'm watching the grass turn green and waiting for the ground to firm up.

(Dude.  Boring.)

Hay, Man!

Went to go visit my Hay Man this afternoon.  He's such a character... talks super fast, sometimes getting stuck on a word, leans his head back and closes his eyes when speaking, then looks straight at you when asking you a question.  He ties the hem of his pants with twine string to keep them over his boots.  He knows what year his barn was built (1872 but my memory for dates is not as good as his) and he knows which field each bale of hay came from and how many times it got rained on and how many cuttings of hay those Dutch farmers down the road got last year.

This is how the phone call this morning went:

HAY MAN: What kinda hay you want, youwan grass hay alfalfa hay timothy hay Igot some third cut this year butnotmuch and Igot some good hay yet from two years ago but y'mightfindittoo dusty for the horses.

For a second I thought I got lost and ended up at an auction sale!

ME: Um... well...I guess grass hay, or timothy would be good, and yeah the dust...

HAY MAN: You come out anhave alook I'll giveyou a coupla bales you can try 'em out andseeifthey like it.  Come out at 2 doesthatsuit you?

ME:  Oh, 2 is great, yeah I can do that.

HAY MAN: AlrightgoodHeidithen I'll see you thisafter noon.

At his barn, he pointed out which was only two bucks a bale but likely not horse-appropriate, and that over there for 3.50 a bale, and also told me his beef cattle won't eat last year's rained-on hay unless he runs it through the shredder.  Easier to chew, he figures.  Man, the stuff you learn if you pay attention!!!

Well the hay is green inside, smells good and isn't dusty.  He put two bales in the loader and dumped them into my truck on top of the foot of snow I've been hauling around... and sure enough the horses devoured that hay.


Next week, I scrape together some cash and go get me a truck load.  Three horses empty a hay mow faster than two.  I am so lucky to have a Hay Man!  And better yet, that he's such an interesting and unique character of a person!!  I should write a song about this.

Because you know what I always say.

Less Hatred.  More Hay.

Introductions

Last weekend, we had some visitors from the old neighourhood.  Phyllis, who is part of my writers group, took the scenic route home from her stay up north and found her way here to the homestead.  She brought her travelling companion, an adorable little white canine ball of soft fluff named Sofie.

Of course, being here meant touring the place and meeting those two horses I write about all the time.  

Sofie is a brave and easy going little dog, which is especially endearing knowing that she started off her life in a puppy mill.  Phyllis spent a lot of time gaining Sofie's trust, and teaching her about this big world.  My horses, meanwhile, are a couple of giant babies who have never known anything but love and affection.  They were quite willing to lavish all their attention on this dog. 

Sofie just kind of took it. As long as she had that arm around her, those giant critters didn't freak her out!

Nothing to see here, people.  Move along now.  

Poor dog must have thought she was going to get eaten.  But no, they just wanted to smell her.  How could they know that she darn near fit into one of their nostrils?

The real fun was watching the Pug lose his mind over the pretty white girl-dog.  We wondered if he remembered her from our pool party the summer before.  Either way, he was very happy to see her!

Oh and also?  Phyllis had treats in her pocket.

She is welcome to visit ANYTIME!

And here all this time we were calling it the "honey wagon"...

...this might explain a lot, actually.

(Anybody thirsty?  No?)

Fixing up the place!

I figure with all the rearranging and cleaning up and heavy lifting I've been doing at the Old Homestead, I might like to change things on the Old Blog.  Change is good, right?

So much of what I look at is like this: dirty, messy, ugly.  Let's face it, the former burn pile site ain't pretty.  Neither are my fishbelly-white legs.  (They glow in the dark and the light!)

I'm still making a few changes, which is tricky because after more than four years of blogging I still struggle to operate this newfangled "computer" thing.  I don't give up easily though.  I keep at it, slowly, just like flinging scrap metal into a truck box.

Suggestions for this virtual imaginary interior desecrating project?

Moe the Barn Cat is my HERO

Two weeks ago, he dragged his broken butt back to the farm and plunked himself down beside the south barn wall where we'd be sure to see him.  One emergency vet visit later, and twice daily doctorings by me, and he's up and at it!

He may be hobbling around on three legs, but he's leaving his little bed in the empty horse stall, sitting up on his own, and trying out his right hind to see how much weight he can put on it.  He has been the BEST patient I've ever worked on.  I've had to stuff pills down a cat's throat many times and he's the easiest ever.  He let me clean the wound on his leg, scrubbing the scabs off and all, without flinching or mewing.  Only in the last two days has he tried to pull his leg away; I take it as a good sign that he's gaining strength!  On Saturday evening he took off with his new strange gait before I had a chance to work on him.  By the time I let the horses out of the barn, he was out of sight.  

Just a couple days before that, I got Bucky to bring him out of the barn for some sunshine.

Soon after, he recovered enough to squeeze out from under the stall door and start wandering the barn aisle.  Oh my gosh, we're just so proud of him.  I think cats in general are pretty good at doing their own physiotherapy.  They get up and move when they feel strong enough to.  What really impresses me about this guy though, is his attitude.  He's totally agreeable.  

And has possibly the strongest will to live I've ever seen.

If a cat is close to death, he'll crawl away to a dark hidden corner and pass on.  Not Moe.  Call me sappy, crazy, sentimental, accuse me of anthropomorphizing this critter, but I am so sure he wanted us to find him and help him.  I am convinced he knew enough to let me scrub away at that ugly wound, that it was part of the healing process.  

There was a time when our barn housed up to 20 cats.  Some lived to adulthood, some didn't.  Sweetie and I tried to name them and tame them.  If they got a taste for fresh warm pork, they didn't stay.  We didn't buy kibble for them - they ate our leftovers.  They never got rabies shots and nobody got neutered or spayed.

Now with just Moe and his little brother Larry, the folks can afford a little better to spend some cash on them.  These two are superb barn cats.  They keep the varmints in check, and they always have time for a cuddle.  It still feels a little silly to spend vet money on a barn cat, but man, every time I look into Moe's beautiful eyes, I feel like he's worth every penny.

a blog post in list form: I would really like to tell you...

... about our little orange and white barn cat, Moe.  He dragged himself home - literally dragged, since his hind end is sort of not working - with a nasty wound on one hind leg.  After a vet visit, he's been recovering in a clean empty stall, purring happily whenever we go check on him and take care of him. He's not out of danger yet but we're all cheering for him.  He's amazing.

...why I'm so blasted busy these days.  But in between dump runs and laundry (why do dirty clothes breed so fast?) I find myself with hardly any time to do anything else.

...that it's okay to be this kind of busy, because it's all for a better future.  (Yeah, I'm totally serious!)

...about our sweet little mare.  She's got troubles of her own but man, I love that horse.

...all about that fantastic trip to Newfoundland we took in April, where we did cool stuff and met awesome people and enjoyed the unique culture.  I'd go back in a heartbeat.

...that I watched American Idol all season, most of it anyways. In between dashing down to the cellar to switch the laundry, rushing in from the barn, and other end-of-the-day stuff I caught enough of the show to know that this young woman (yeah I'm gonna say it) rocks my SOX.

... and that as much as I dig Ellen, I miss crazy Paula, and Simon is breaking my heart.  Darn it you sarcastic mean ol' Englishman.  

...everything.  I'd like to tell you everything.  But I have to sleep too.  

I'll tell you about these things.  I will.  

Is this what's meant by the term "Hot Mess?"

Because if so, I'm all for it.  I think "Hot Mess" should be part of our daily lives.  I think this is both HOT and A MESS which when put together is a good combination.

You might be asking why this is today's topic, other than the excuse to put up a picture of this handsome fella.

I'll tell you why.  It's because I've spent most of this week sweating.  It's not particularly hot here in my neck of the woods, but I've been sweating like a horse.  Trust me, that's a large amount of sweat.

The ongoing Clean-up Project here at the farm is at full-on, hardcore, ON A MISSION FROM GOD intensity.  I'm out there flinging bits of metal into the trailer, throwing bags of garbage into the truck, sweeping up ancient mouldy straw, and moving things I probably shouldn't be moving.  I'm wearing either coveralls or overalls, depending on the temperature.  I'm wearing a hat to cover my hair and keep it out of my eyes while I work.  I'm wearing a dust mask over my face; pretty much the majority of my child-sized face is covered.

The sweat drips soaks into the brim of my hat and then drips down my nose, inside that stupid mask, and trickles into my lips.  More drips go slithering down my neck.  I can feel my shirt getting wet under my coveralls.  

My ol' man swaggers along to give the go-ahead for stuff to get pitched out.  He does most of the heavy lifting.  He goes off to do a landscaping job between my trips to the dump.  And get this- he doesn't break a sweat.  I may look like him but I didn't inherit his coolness.

The mess in the barn slowly works itself out... engine blocks in the corner, bumpers and hoods up against the wall... Yeah, what else would be in the barn?  Geez, what kinda farm did you grow up on?

...and as the barn shapes up, I become the mess!  Dust of all kinds sticks to any bit of exposed skin.  I end up sticky and filthy.  

As I'm working away, those two words HOT MESS keep popping into my head.  I disgust myself though, so I'd rather think of THIS.

That's better.

Maybe I got it all wrong though. Should I be swinging a Telecaster instead of a shovel or broom?  Or backed up by a Marshall stack instead of an industrial lawn tractor?  I have gotten the plaid shirt thing right a couple times.  

I'll say this for sure: it looks a hell of a lot better out there in the barn. Neater, tidier, and dare I say, cleaner?  I'm even getting a little silly and doing a few things that make me happy, like setting a few pieces of chrome from an old car on a wall beam just because I like shiny things.  

I need to cheer myself up when I'm tired and dirty and damp under my work clothes.

How to get the hay from the hay mow to the horses.

I took my iGadget out to the barn with me this morning.  I was expecting a phone call and figured I'd better give the old reliability thing a try.  Since I had to go up to the hay mow and had the Gadget with me, I figured I'd take a few pictures up there.  Then I decided I could get a blog post out of it!

This is the view looking to the south.  You can see my barn gloves parked on the bale in front there.

Just behind this spot is a square hole where I throw down the bales.  I flip them end over end then give them a shove with my knee.  It works pretty good.

Now we take a little walk along the edge of the mow.  This usually freaks people out real good and proper.  That small path of planks... that's it.  That's your path.  And the boards themselves aren't very close together.  Jethro won't go up here, because he hates how the planks flex under the weight of his size 13 barn boots.

I'm not so worried. I'm not as big as him.  There's a big solid beam just to the left, and I can grab that if I need a little security.  Plus, I used to spend hours up here, decades ago, looking for kittens with my little sister Sweetie.  I kind of like it up here.


See the white glow over there, past the hay bales?  That's where  we throw the hay out of the barn.  Go... to... the light....

But don't fall out.

No really, don't fall out, because that window, on the third floor of the barn, is pretty high up.  Long way down.  Look at this, my horses look like toys.  Not often you get to see them from this angle, eh?

I'm at least kind enough to give a yell before I throw hay down.  They look up, but not usually all the way up (I don't think their necks are designed to look up!) and swivel their ears to the direction of my voice.

But they're mellow little Appaloosas, and this doesn't really excite them all that much.  Even if my aim is bad, or there's a brisk wind, and they end up with a couple flakes of hay in the head, they don't do much more that walk a few steps and dive their noses back into the feeder. A flake, by the way, is a section of hay.  The baler gathers it up and binds it together into a bale made up of sections.

For perspective, here's a shot with my toes in the picture.

Ya like them purple barn boots?  I got them for my daughter at the thrift store a few years ago.  She quickly outgrew them, and instead of moving them along to another kid, I tried them on.  Much warmer than unlined rubber boots.  And kinda flashy!  Really brightens up the old boring navy coveralls!  But I digress, as I often do when I start talking about workwear.

So yeah, it's fun to see the world from that viewpoint.  Sometimes I take a few deep breaths while I'm there.  I should do that more often.

After throwing some hay down into the corral, it's time to go back down the ladder to the second floor.
I repeat my bale-flipping to get over to the hay chute.  A sturdy piece of plywood with a hand hold fits flush into the floor until I need to push the hay downstairs.

I even get a push broom and sweep the hay leavin's down the chute.  I don't like to have a layer of hay on the cement floor up there.   It eventually rots into a musty smelling mat if it gets left long enough.  Also, sweeping it up means more edible hay makes its way out to the corral.

And I'm sooo cheap, I'd rather have the horses eat every little stem than throw decomposed hay onto the compost.  Of course all of this hay is just compost waiting to happen, if you catch my meaning.  I'd just rather have the horses enjoy it first.

More vertigo! Have a look down the hay chute! Each bale slides down the sheet of plywood, and lands on the one thrown down before it.  When I get downstairs, I stack them up at the end of the aisle, and rake up all the loose hay that's escaped on the way down.  I like to keep about five bales of hay down there.  It shouldn't be stored long term on concrete, but four or five days is okay, and means I don't have to go up to the haymow every day.

Oh look, there's my purple toe again.  Beside the plywood, you can see a gate (which is not as closed as it should be).  This is the section up by the stone wall, not big enough to house a horse, where the stairs go up.  I also park my wheelbarrow at the bottom of the stairs.  I would like to point out that nice cleanly swept concrete floor.

So that's how the hay gets from the hay mow, down to the stalls.

And just remember, people: Make the world a better place. Less Hatred, More Hay.

Yo tellin me things but I gotta make clear - can't say, baby, where I'll be in a year!

Most likely not stage diving, although you never know...

It's a little unnerving, this temporary living arrangement.  However, I'm getting spoiled rotten.  My mom's a good cook.  And it's nice having fields to look at, and dirt lanes for the boy to practice driving skills (I hear chicks really dig that stuff) and it's nice having two handsome barn cats for Lucy to pretend to hate.  It's awesome having more grandparent time for my kids.  It's perfect, having my horses right outside the door. 

Not so perfect having the husband's career an hour down the highway. 

So we drive down the road pointing at farms with For Sale signs that we darn well know we can't afford right now, and Tribble and I plan the flower gardens of the future.  

What was I talking about again?

Oh yeah.  Stand in the corner justa shakin yo azz...

Disoriented

I should be hunting down boxes and putting things in them, but I have to write. I have to get this out. What better way than to share it with the world, I guess.

Yesterday, I walked into my house for the first time in about a month, but who's keeping track. It smelled like a house that hasn't been lived in enough lately; slightly stale and dusty. It looked barren in some places and crowded in others, where I'd pulled a bunch of stuff out from dark corners, intending to purge. The floorboards creaked like they always have and it sounded like my house, my own house, the house my husband and I don't quite own and are about to sell.

I am quite comfortable out at the farm, if not totally. It was my home, and we visit often, so it hasn't been hard to settle in there. It is not home though, despite my parents making us feel at home and welcome. It's "the Farm." It's their home, it's the haven and refuge we escape to. Things change slowly there, but I've showed up and moved things, changed things, gotten rid of things. I had to do it and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

It took years to feel at home in this little house of mine. It took years to scrape off the layers of somebody else's wallpaper until the house felt like a place I could call home. Now I'm preparing it to be somebody else's again. It saddens me, but at the same time I have a nagging awareness that I never truly belonged here. I made friends, the kind I'll keep, and I established networks and familiarity. I can look out my window and see the neighbourhood so much of my life revolved around, but I feel that old claustrophobia again. Too many houses. Too much pavement.

The farmhouse is too close to a highway and at night the big trucks rattle their engine brakes to slow down for the curve. The sky is darker than in town, but close enough to several small towns to see a slight orange haze in the distance.

I walk into the house in the evening after leaving the barn, and I have to look up. There are stars out there, all shapes and sizes. I never get tired of them. The other night, a falling star the size of a firework sizzled through the sky like it was getting ready to land in the neighbour's hay field. I made a wish.

I know there's a place for me to move my little family. I pray that when we can afford it, we'll find it. I pray for a lot of things. I don't know if I'm praying for the right things. All I know is that when I'm under that big sky, surrounded by the crickets that sing all day and all night, I feel like myself. I feel like things aren't quite right but I'll survive.

But right now, between two houses and two worlds, I feel like I somehow belong and yet not belong to both.

I could almost get dizzy.

Life under a bigger sky...

Well Hello. Haven't seen you for awhile. It's a little dodgy out here in the country with the whole internet thing. Some of you will understand. It's weird; you wouldn't think technology of all things would be such a big thing in my life, me, who likes things real low-tech and simple, and only got a cellphone... last week. And yet, in order to keep doing what we do, especially Jethro with his extremely techy recording engineer life, we have to have that connection to the world. Plus I need that connection to people. I don't get out much, y'know.

Anyways. I look out the window and I see a red barns, silos, fields, trees, all under a very big sky. It's just bigger than it was in town.

I put on my cowboy hat for the picture. I snugged up the Noob String under my neck because it was windy and I was sick of grabbing my hat before it blew off. Noob String? That's what my kids call the hat string. Y'know, because Noobs who haven't learned all the horse-show tricks yet have to tie their hats onto their heads. I prefer not to have duct tape on my forehead, sorry. Although, the stupid string makes me look like I have a chin deformation. Ach, who cares. My horse looks nice.

He got a bath that day. I hosed him down vigorously, scrubbed his mane, and washed all the grass stains off his hip and neck. I think he liked it. I swished his tail in a bucket full of horse shampoo, then after I scraped all the water off his coat, I brushed him until the sun reflected off his smooth speckled coat.
ShowSheen helps. I don't know what that stuff is made of, other than magic. I won't comb out a tail without it. LOOK at that tail. Appaloosas aren't famous for nice thick tails. He lucked out! I banded his mane to make him look all perfeshnul. Of course then for the picture I stuck his ordinary red nylon halter on his head because I don't yet have a good leather show halter. I should at least have one that shows off his head a little better. Maybe that will be next year's purchase. Maybe.

A few weekend ago, Jethro left the city, and the house in town, to have some Big Blue Sky time. And some Tractor Therapy. What a great cure for being in a recording studio all week! Some people would think this is work but oh no... just back and forth across the yard, pick up a bucket of manure, dump it on the compost pile on the other side, and back. It's a small bucket and a slow old tractor. It forces a person to slow the heck down. The manure pile stays there until it gets moved, so if it doesn't all get done in one day, there's always tomorrow. Farmers generally don't have this luxury, but here, it's not a luxury: it's just the way it's done.

Jethro loves the old 2 cylinder John Deere, but he's not a time-taking kind of guy. He wants to get it done.

Which is a good reason to have kids. Especially one who loves to work.

Bucky can drive almost anything with four wheels now. He gives his Grandma regular panic attacks. "He's driving Dad's truck? What? He can shift gears??? Oh, he can? Well... alright then... can you move my car?"

Mowing the lawn isn't a chore here. It's fun, because they get to drive a machine instead of push it.

Tribble is happier now, but she's going to see some friends from town this weekend and can hardly wait. She also gets invitations to go out with some of her new friends. She'll be okay. Bucky can never live in an urban environment again. Not enough room to go 4 wheeling.

Me? I miss my friends, and my house, and most of all, my husband. I'm shamefully and embarrassingly broke. I'm working on getting some desperately needed income. But I'm okay too, because I am so flippin busy I don't have much time to think!

And now, while my son is out with my Dad in the truck, my daughter and I have a couple horses who need some attention while the sun is shining.

FRUSTRATION! And relief... And, how am I gonna do all this???

When I let the horses out into the pasture this morning at 7:30, the Little Lady was limping.  

Not good.  This is what we've all been worried about for years.  Maybe you don't know this, but that left hind leg has always been a source of concern, because when she was a yearling, it was broken.  BROKEN.  We forked out the money back then to that leg x-rayed , and sure enough, it was cracked.  By then we'd ALL completely fallen for this tiny cute sweet big-eyed blinky baby.  The crack was right down into the fetlock joint and was getting ready to be a future arthritis problem.  

Nothing could be done but stall rest, and 10 minutes twice each day of hand-walking.  Glenn the vet couldn't make any promises about her condition.  He told us he could never tell us that she'd be sound, even if she appeared to be fine.  We might end up with a really cute lawn ornament.  A much loved little lawn ornament.

So, we did it.  Or I should say, my parents did it, because I lived too far away.  The entire family had a decision to make: if we put the time into this little horse, we make a commitment to keeping her for her lifetime.  No strenuous riding, no barrel racing, no jumping, no breeding.  Watch her weight, and be prepared to get into an arthritis management program at some point in her life.  Never sell her, because we couldn't trust anyone else to get it, and give her the care she needs.  Above all, know that when she is in pain, and we can't make her comfortable anymore, we put her out of her misery.  Scary, eh?  

She healed up.  A year later, she was a new horse.  She was muscular and fit. She didn't limp.  Glenn the vet was impressed.  You could say he was amazed.

Occasionally over the years, she'd look a little stiff if the weather took a cold turn.  Heck, so do I.  She always got over it.  We marveled regularly at how great she's doing, how awesome she is, and how glad we are that we put the work into saving her.

Then this morning, she's all limpy.  

They came into the corral after lunch and she was not putting any weight on it.  At all.  She was walking on three legs and dragging the fourth.  

I dropped everything, left my mother to do the work we'd planned together, and wrapped up the Little Lady's hind legs.  I put both horses in the barn to keep Phoenix from moving her around.  The horses both looked at me like I was nuts, because it's the middle of the afternoon, and this isn't when they get their grain, and can they please go back out?  The barn cats had those cool faces like, "So where's our kibble at?"  

We got in the car and dashed off to get the kids from school.  I was thinking about the stuff I wasn't getting done in the house, and thinking about a horse who will not be used for lessons now, and that maybe this is my wake up call.  Maybe she'll be okay but I can't push her too hard.  Maybe it's my fault for riding her almost every day for over two weeks.  Then I got into the What Ifs and that was too awful to say out loud. 

Back home again, I wrapped her legs with some cold lotion.  Then they blasted out to the pasture like their tails were on fire, and guess what?  SHE CAN RUN ON THREE LEGS.  Forehead slap.

I called the vet and left a message.

After supper I talked to Cindy the vet.  She said she'd come out in the morning, and told me to check the cold lotion jar, to see if it's allowed to stay on overnight.  She told to pick out her hooves real good.  If she's got a stone in there or something, it could affect the weight bearing and then irritate that old injury.

I was feeling a little frazzled by this time, and relieved that Mom happened to have the day off work, and she did the cooking today.  If I'd been alone, we'd be eating crackers and cheese for dinner.  Keeping horses in the barn overnight is a lot more labour intensive than keeping them in the corral for the night.  I threw down a couple hay bales, topped up the water buckets, and brought the horses in.  Fed the cats too, not that they needed it, judging by the pile of feathers in the aisle.

I undid the mare's legs and checked for swelling.  All okay.  I got out the nasty old polo bandages and wrapped her up again, making sure I got under the fetlock for support.  

I was putting stuff away in the tack room when I remembered Cindy's point about the hoof pick.  I wrestled Copper's leg up again - she was losing her good natured co-operation by this time - and dug the hoof pick into the cleft.  It stopped.  It stuck on something.  

Uh oh.

I felt around with my fingers and found...

A NAIL HEAD.  

I PULLED A HALF INCH LONG NAIL OUT OF HER HOOF.

Felt a little dizzy, folks.  It was right up in there, vertically.  

I'm so fanatical about picking up every nail and bit of junk that works its way to the surface of this old barnyard.  And yet.  

So, I got some iodine to squirt on the underside of her hoof, and a square or gauze with some duct tape to stick it on, and made a funny lookin' little booty around her hoof to keep the dirt out until morning when the vet gets here.  

I'm thinking now, maybe she's not permanently arthritic.  Yet.  Maybe it's not the old leg injury acting up - I mean, you'd limp too if you had a NAIL IN YOUR HOOF, right?  

Okay, so it's not so terribly horribly bad, other than the poor girl having a RUSTY PIECE OF METAL IN HER.  Which I pulled out and disinfected and wrapped and holy crap how long does a tetanus shot last???

Poor sweet little mare... she always gets it.  Cut her forehead in June, has to have baby-bum-cream on her little pink muzzle to avoid sunburn, got mudcrack this summer and had the have yellow goop on her pastern to get rid of the scabs, has super sensitive skin and hates being brushed when she's in heat, and also HAD A BROKEN LEG WHEN SHE WAS A BABY.  

I am really, really tired, folks.  I have to do all that laundry I didn't do this afternoon when I was wrapping legs.  Have to go to bed.  My hair is frizzy with humidity and sweat and that bath I had this morning has been totally negated.

How am I going to do this - take care of two horses, make a living with them, when I haven't even gotten my coaching insurance stitched up and therefore haven't gotten any solid gigs out here yet, and still be there for my kids, maintain a long-distance relationship with my husband (I don't recommend this by the way) and feed people, take my dog for a run outside along the hay field, clean the cat's litter box, sweep floors, write novels (which I am taking a break from this month, geez) and like, be me, and sleep?  And have a bath at least once a week?  

I mean, people do this, right?  People who DON'T live with Mom?  

At least I might have a bus stop for the kids, so I only have to drive 5 minutes instead of a half hour to get them to school.

I can do this, right?

I hope my little mare is feeling better in the morning.  When I left her, she was munching  hay like she always hangs in the barn with her legs wrapped up and one hoof encased in duct tape.  It's cool, baby.  Totally normal.  Leave the barn door open, eh?  The breeze is nice...

Okay, so here's the deal

The kids and I are pretty much shacked up at the farm now, and they start school tomorrow.  

Poor ol' Jethro is still at the house, going to work, until our house is sold.

Of course, we'll have to actually put a For Sale sign on it to sell it.  

After that, we temporarily live here until we can find a farm of our own.  

I have mixed feelings about the whole thing, which I'm telling myself is perfectly normal.  Hey, I'm being normal!!!  Wow.  I mean, I love being in the country.  But I miss my little house and my friends.  I really miss seeing my man regularly.

The good thing is, I like my folks, and that's handy when I'm living with them temporarily.  

More good things:

Lucy the Feral Housecat in the Sky with Diamonds absolutely LOVES this big old farmhouse with all its hidden nooks and dark corners.  

Dobby the Former Town Dog is really digging this whole country life thing.  We don't go for walks on a leash anymore.  We go for RUNS in the long grass.  

Bucky hangs with my Ol' Man, driving around in the old truck, scrapping things, welding things, fixing things.  I think they might go to McYuk's or Timmy Snortons every now and then too.

I opened Tribble's bedroom window our first night here, and across the yard, our Little Mare made a snorting noise over by the fence.  This is what we get to listen to at night.  Of course, there are also giant trucks swishing down the highway at all hours, but between jake-brakes we can hear snuffly horse noises.

Barn cats.  

When Jethro is here, he's far enough away from the studio that he can forget about work for a few hours. (I hope.)

We ride every day.  Our horses keep getting better and better.

The kids drive the 4 wheeler and the winter van.

It's not long distance to call my bestest friend. 

Tribble can get violin lessons from her Grandpar.  

Bucky can fix things in his Papa's shop.  

I'm feeling like the weight is lifting off my chest every time I look out the window.  

I'm still facing a heap of troubles, like usual.  Will that ever change?  Does anybody have a trouble-free life?  I highly doubt it.  I am determined to find a way to get my husband, kids, and horses on the same property and at this point I almost don't care what property that is.  

Almost.

The kids are handling this better than expected.  They're already comfortable here, since they've spent a lifetime of weekends and holidays here.  Me?  I'm handling.  

Stay tuned.  There will be more to this new adventurous phase of my life...

LLAMA-A-RAMA

I recently visited a farm with a very interesting watchdog. She's about a year old, very friendly, and spits instead of barking.

Actually, she doesn't spit very often. According to her owner, she has to be severely perturbed before she lets it rip. And there's warning. Like horses, llamas flatten their ears when they're angry. Horses don't hork though. Apparently she stretches her nose straight up before she lets it fly. Good to know.

But she's just the cutest, sweetest, friendliest critter! We were warned that she was in a bad mood... which makes me suspect that if she were in a good mood, she'd have crawled into the trunk of the car and come home with us. Not that I would have minded. I was not-so-secretly plotting a way to stick her in the car without anybody finding out. (Where's that truck when I need it?!?)

Oh, oh- here she is, scratching her belly with a hind foot! My Pug does that! It's so cuuute!

If you ever have the chance to see a llama in real life, you must notice the feet. They're like paw-hooves. Little padded feet with two chunky toenails in front, or maybe a better description would be tiny split hooves. I can't think of another animal foot like this.

Good for sneaking up on, and scratching!

But the face. Oh, the face. With that delicate muzzle with a comical hare lip, and little camel nostrils, and big, heavily lidded eyes, they look perpetually aloof but secretive. Sleepy. Bored yet amused. Like they've got a joke on you. And those eyelashes... you know how I feel about long eyelashes!

She came right up for a snuggle and to my surprise, she has the softest fur, not coarse like I imagined.

Then she stuck her bottom teeth out at me and I laughed.

I would love to have a llama. I mean, I wouldn't want to put the Pug out of work, since he takes his guarding duties so seriously. But c'mon, wouldn't a Pug & Llama Security System be a new form of awesome?

I'd draw the line though, at the llama sleeping in my room.

Okay, maybe just when it's really cold in the winter...

A Boy, A Tractor, A Grandfather

That boy gets more useful around the place every time he's there. 

Barn Cat Bliss

Larry, Curly, and Moe have a pretty sweet life out there in my Dad's old barn.  They've fully recovered from their little stay at the vet's, and have proven themselves smart enough to stay off the road and supplement their daily kibble ration with some nice tasty rodents.  Plus life is fun.  Have a look...