THIS is happening

As much as I still don't enjoy spring like normal people do, some really cool stuff has been going on at the Ol Homestead.  

First of all, these two teenagers got kicked out of mom's pen and had to get their own apartment.

BECAUSE MAMA HAD TRIPLETS!

This is the first time new goat kids have been born at our place.  Usually their people have them moved up to the river where they spend summer by the time the babies arrive.  SURPRISE! Mildred looked like she had maybe a little goat or two in there, but she is just very good at her job.  

Then three days later, our friend came out to do her chores and there was a tiny wet goat kid in the next pen.  She had to figure out who the baby belonged to, and it wasn't the one she expected.  So first-time mother Lucy got off to a bit of a confused start, but we have them in their own pen now, the baby has figured out where milk comes from and the mother has figured out that the whole process is okay, and everybody is alive.  

Phoenix would now like to remind us all what it's all about.

RELAX.  Seriously.  Why so stressful?  (He is a horse, he has no idea what the word taxes  means and he never has to pay bills with no income - he has no concept of income, so really, why wouldn't he relax, right?)  He's totally IN THE MOMENT.

This is simply a great thing to see in the morning.  These critters know how to enjoy a nice day.  

Here's Parker whinnying to me as I walk in the gate.  

Then I sat on the floor of the shed, half in the sunshine, and watched horses chew hay.  

An Adjustment To The Herd

So I'm back down to two horses.  Two speckled freckled horses.  

No more beautiful shiny red horse.  

On Saturday afternoon, Oakie left with her new owner, who is also one of her first owners, and they will have a great life together.  I feel relieved now.  I miss Oakie, there's definitely a blank space where her presence used to be, but I know this is right.  We are adjusting.  It's been four days and the trauma has subsided.

Phoenix spent all of Saturday afternoon frantically running around the corral, whinnying like I've never heard him before, calling her.  He looked over the gate where the trailer left.  He stalked the fence line looking for her.  Back and forth, into the pasture, into the corral. He'd stop at the spot where Oakie's hooves left our dirt and went into the trailer, sniff the ground, and let out a heartbreaking whinny.  

By night time, he was down to searching only once every hour or so.  Selina said she still heard him during the night, through her open bedroom window.  

The funny thing is, and I predicted this, Copper isn't traumatized.  

She whinnied a little at first, but it seemed more like, "it's time to make noise because our friend left, but really I'm just doing this because he is so I guess I'm supposed to."  

Then she headed out to graze, lifting her head occasionally to watch Phoenix in his distraught state.  

Call me crazy, but I am convinced she looked a little smug.

She's the only girl again.  

No more pecking - order battles.  No more competition, no more girly hissy fits.  The mares didn't hate each other, but they didn't particularly like each other.  So really this arrangement works out quite well for Copper.  

On Saturday night, the kids saw Copper get down in roll where the horse trailer had been.  (Take that, Frenemy.)  

It's been four days, and other than being more attached to Copper than usual, Phoenix is okay again.  Copper is like she's always been, only less on guard. 

We're adjusting.

On Friday, Selina and I took Oakie for one last ride through the pasture.  

We admired her.  We soaked up her glossy shiny red coat, her elegant neck and beautiful face, her nice Quarter Horse hip, those dapples that shine in the sun, and we just know she's going to be the prettiest horse on the trail, with her pretty young owner.

Then we stood beside her with the reins clutched in my fist and had a little cry.  

And then I was okay.  

Because it's right.

It's a pretty darn good feeling, y'know, that you've done the right thing.  

Ivan Earlis the Goat, Robert Plant, and Justin Bieber: a farm based comparison of sorts.

Ivan the Angora billy goat does not look like a rock star anymore. Remember how he likes to do rock star imitations?  He was doing his best 1973-era Robert Plant, with those luxurious ringlets.

And you just know when Beatrice and Mildred look at him, that's what they see! 

They can hardly even look at him, he's so stunning!

Just look at that big handsome fella!  

(Which one - Ivan or Jethro?)

Then the shearer came to the farm.

He zipped him out of his goat suit just like they do in the cartoons.

"What is happening to meeeeee?"

Now he doesn't look like Robert Plant anymore.  

Turns out, he's wee tiny under all that curly angora wool, and without his mutton chops or his beard.  I had kind of forgotten that he's only a year old.  

I've been telling him this just gives him another chance to become fabulous again.  And then again next fall when he gets the next crop of dignity shorn off.

"Hey, who's the young fart?"

His owner is very proud of him.  He was a good goat, especially since it was his first shearing.  He didn't nip the shearer's bum and he didn't fight.  If she was ever unsure as to whether or not she really wanted to be a billy goat owner, the little fella just ensured that he'll be a pet forever!

Even if he just went from Robert Plant to Justin Bieber.*

*Not that I have anything against the Biebs.  Other than, I don't understand his boring music or his bizarre pants.  He's a brilliant and ridiculously talented young fella and I sincerely hope he gets all his youthful silliness over with, returns to wearing actual clothes in public, and stops making bad decisions. I suspect the kid is better than all that.

Justin Bieber, wearing stupid pants

A plaid shirt.  I approve.

Oh wait... sigh.

Most boys at 19 are just coming out of their awkward phase, when all their limbs are the wrong length and their faces look different every day and their voices betray them.  This kid magically skipped all that.  His awkward phase involves being surrounded by sycophants, screaming girls and buckets of money. Oh and also, an entire empire of people whose paycheques depend on him.  Considering that, maybe he's handling life pretty reasonably.  I like to think he will get past this awkward phase and get on with making music and quit pretending he's all gansta-n-s**t cuz dude, I know the town he came from, (I'm there at least twice a week) and it is not a gansta-n-s**t kind of place.  This is a town of 30,000 with a unique combination of agriculture, Shakespeare Festival tourist traffic, a few factories, and a history of being a railway hub.  The shopping end of town is anchored by the Canadian Tire store and the TSC.   So all the big-city posturing and stupid clothes make him look kinda silly, far as I'm concerned.  

We shouldn't laugh at them - they're just young guys!  They'll grow up!

Ivan will grow back his curly coat... Justin will grow a beard someday... and Robert can continue emitting his aura of awesome.

Well now son, ya clean up good.  

AWESOME.  FOREVER.

Out of the three of them though, only Ivan has horns.  Rock on!!

Buckethead - this goat thinks he's a rock star....

1) I love how Mildred is ignoring Ivan's bucket related antics.  

2) I especially love how the green bucket is caught in the light from the window like it's the actual source of light.

3) Could this goat have picked a more obscure guitarist to emulate?  Is he going for the rock-nerd audience here?

4) You should see him when he cranks out his Robert Plant imitation...

Amateur Cat Vet

Larry gave up and settled the side of his face against my hand, and the gauze pad soaked with epsom salts.  He wasn't purring but he accepted my help. With my free hand I slowly rubbed under his chin as I whispered to him.  Good boy, good kitty.  We'll get you fixed up.  You'll be okay.  You're such a good patient.  What does the other guy look like, eh?

He looked a little puffy last night when I did the chores.  I saw a bit of blood on the side of his face,  a bloody streak on one ear, and a big tuft of loose hair on his back. "You've been scrapping, eh little dude?"  I gave him a quick check, didn't find anything gaping open or broken, and left him on his perch on the biggest saddle, where he licked his wounds.

This happens to barn cats.  When the snow melts, the feline wanderers set off looking for new girlfriends and trouble always follows them.  They fight.  They come away with some degree of damage.  Usually they get themselves over it.

Larry the Barn Cat

But this morning the whole side of his little cat face was swollen; his eye was almost closed.

Lucky for Larry, Heidi here has a whole cabinet full of first aid supplies in the tack room.  I poured some water into an old margarine tub, shook some epsom salts into it, gave it a stir with the tip of my finger and tucked three gauze pads into the pocket of my coveralls.  I set the water on one of the chairs over by the windows.  The cat, all curled in a ball, was lifted carefully and carried over to the windows.

He wasn't crazy about having his tattered ear bathed but he put up with it.  I didn't expect him to be okay with having his face messed with in his condition but I had to try.  Three times I dipped a pad into the salty water and held it to his swollen eye.  Each time he made a less feeble attempt to leave and each time I held him that way longer.  He sank into my hands like he was giving up.  I don't like it when cats act like they're giving up.  I dabbed at the corner of his eye and took some yuck away.  I held him away from me and got the best look at him I could without my glasses.  I could have convinced myself the swelling was down already.  I could see a tiny puncture mark on the bridge of his nose now.  And his eye was open more than it had been when I picked him up.

He's still got an eyeball.  That's good.

Doctoring done, he tried to wiggle away.  I ran my hand over his back.  Easy little yella fella.  Have a cuddle.  No need to run away, see, everything's fine.   I carried him over to the saddle rack, where I set him down like he was made out of glass.  That's when the purring started, a roar of gratitude.  I had to stand there for a few minutes while he turned himself around to get the maximum attention, rubbing the good side of his face against my chin, nibbling my fingertips, batting a paw on my cheek if I leaned away from him.

I rubbed the back of his neck one more time and left to clean up the barnyard.  When I came back to put away the wheelbarrow and forks, Larry was curled up again on the saddle, and his brother Moe had just jumped up to get comfy on the saddle in front.  He stepped right over Larry to get there.  Larry's ribs rose and fell as he snoozed.

Horses aren't people and don't think like people but it sure is fun to imagine what they'd be saying...

"Noooooo don't wash my face, leemee aloooone...."

"What, me?  I didn't do it."

THE FELLA WITH THE SPOTS: Dude.  

THE LITTLE LADY: Did you just... how could you... you're so... ugh! I put my ears back at you!!!!

THE PRETTY LADY: You're too close to me. Quit looking at me.  Don't even breathe at me!

FELLA WITH SPOTS: Dude.  I'm staying outta this.  

LITTLE LADY: Hey... listen, I'm sorry.  

PRETTY LADY: You should be.  For something.  I don't remember what exactly.  Whatever.

FELLA: Staying out like I'm not even here.

LITTLE: We can be friends again?  Please?

PRETTY: Yes we can! I can't stay mad at you.  Let's never fight again, best little friend!

HIM: See, that totally worked.  I'm so freakin' smart. 

HER: My world is totally perfect now.  At least for the next 5 minutes.

HER: Heh heh... I'm still Horse #2 in this herd!  Yessssss!

The Choices We Make Don't Always Seem Very Smart.

If we were smart, we would not be living in the country.

We'd have stayed closer to Jethro's work.  We'd have kept the house we had.  If we were smart, we'd be city people.  At the very least, bedroom community subdivision people, like we were for 13 years.  We would never dream of building a recording studio in a barn if we were smart.

If I was smart, I would have gotten an actual job.  If I was smart, I'd have worked my way into earning a paycheque that could support our family.

If we were smart, we wouldn't have horses.  They are big creatures that eat hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of hay, and need vet care and hoof trims.  They need acres of land to graze on and large buildings to house them in bad weather.  Owning horses is not a financially wise thing to do.  It's kind of dumb, really, from a money standpoint.

If I was smart, I would realize that teaching riding lessons with those horses is not likely to support the kind of property needed to keep the horses on, and I would have not chosen that path.  A smart way to handle that would have been to pay someone else for the privilege of riding their horse, and let that person pay for the vet and the land and the feed and tack.  

If I was really smart I'd just content myself with a few pretty pictures of horses on my walls, and sigh with envy when other people tell me about their horses, and I'd convince myself that horses are for the lucky few who are very rich and very lucky, but not for me.  

If I had any brains at all, I would understand that writing fiction is a terrible way to make a living, and that the odds of even getting to the place that I could think about earning anything from it is so far fetched that there's really no point even trying, and I'd just write a short story here and there and hide the printout under my bed or let it sit in silence in my computer.  Or if I was really smart, I'd just realize that I should stop.  Find another way to get the words and pictures and voices out of my head.  Crush them down.

Stop wanting that feeling of squeezing a story out of my brain.  Stop needing to search for the perfect word.

Stop craving the warmth of a horse's velvety smooth neck, stop thinking about the satisfaction of working in partnership with such a free spirited and sensitive and intelligent animal, stop needing to soak in their beauty with my eyes.  

If I was smart, I could look out the window of the house I live in and calmly remark on the neighbour's flowerbeds.  Be okay with how close the other houses are.  Be okay with not being able to see a stretch of horizon with no houses on it.

But I'm not smart.  We're not smart.

I mean, if he was smart, he might not stay in a business making a product (recorded music) that most people don't feel the need to pay for (and how does an industry stay functional if it can't profit from what it makes?)  If he was smart he'd be a plumber or an electrician or a truck driver.

We're not smart because we've chosen to keep going, despite the ridiculous odds stacked against us.  We've chosen to fight our way through and stick with it because he's one of the best and he loves it and it's what he does.  

I'm doing what I'm good at.  I'm good at teaching people how to ride horses.  I love it.  I'm getting better at it.  But.  We're not smart, because owning a horse in this century isn't smart, it's considered a luxury, even if it keeps a person sane and happy and peaceful.  

Writing isn't just not smart, it's kinda silly and frivolous.  Who needs it, right?  Will anybody be willing to pay for words a year from now?  

I'm not smart.

I keep writing.  I keep booking riding lessons, and feeling like a million bucks when they hand over their $35.  

He keeps pushing the record button, tuning flat notes, asking for one more take, glowing from the inside out when he coaxes a brilliant performance out of a musician, when he's satisfied with a mix.  

Is it SMART to protect creativity?  Is it SMART to be honest to yourself?

If SMART means being safe and secure, doing the thing with the least risk,  then no, we're not smart.  

We're flaky dreamers who try to magic everything into being okay.

But if SMART means doing what we're good at, doing what we love and what we feel we're meant to do,  maybe we're smarter than we realize. Maybe we can choose to get other people who are good at bookkeeping to do that for us, so we can get paid to do our thing.  If we're smart we'll realize that living in the city can be just as expensive as living in the country but in different ways.  And know that smart people figure out how to manage what they earn and what they spend and what they keep.

If we're smart we'll work at getting smarter and getting help with the stuff we're not good at, and making the best of this.

This is the deal people: We're doing what we do.  We've made some dumb choices, a few good ones, and a few that didn't feel like choices at all.  We have managed to hold onto each other, our family, and a few shreds of sanity.  

These are our choices, whether or not they're right for anybody else.... regardless of what's considered the smart thing to do.  This is what we've chosen.  

  

It's not that I'm on a mission to convert English riders to Western, it's just that....

...when they come over to my place to try Western riding, they like it and they come back!

I am careful not to speak disrespectfully of English riding.  I do respect it. When done right, it's an art form, full of tradition and elegance.  Done wrong - and yes, it can be done wrong - it's a mess of tight reins and grippy knees and snobbery all wrapped neatly in the guise of propriety.

Western riding at its worst is all flapping arms and jerking reins, horse heads flipped up sky high with mouths open to get away from ridiculously harsh bits, and yee-haw and yahoo.

At it's best however, Western is just as much of an art and science. (In fact in my opinion, even more so.)  Western horses learn to collect themselves without constant contact on the reins.  They can be sped up or slowed in each gait, steered with one hand, and move sideways, back, and pivot in circles.  They move along with the lightest cue possible. They can stop with a lift of the reins and a shift of the rider's weight.

Around here in my neck of the woods, English is more common.  This isn't really cowboy country.  Generally, if people want their kids to learn how to ride, they look up a local reputable stable and sign up for lessons - and the majority of the stables are exclusively English.  Then, there are a handful of rural families who keep a few horses and have western saddles to put on them.  Some of those are heaving the saddles onto the horses and hanging on for dear life; others are actually riding western.  There is good and bad in both disciplines.

I believe that good riding is good riding, no matter what tack you're using or what you're wearing.

The fundamentals are the same!  Sit up straight, get your legs under you, use those legs to move the horse.  Soft hands; don't pull on the horse's mouth.

I love English riders.  They have beautiful posture and great balance.  They have a hard time at first with long stirrups and loose reins, but my job is to help them get comfortable and really use their seat and weight.  It's a whole new world.

Above all, people learning how to ride their horses fairly and kindly - and enjoying their horses - that's really what it's all about. (I love my job so much!)

On Mind-reading and Horses and All of Us Talking About Horses!

I recently read something very interesting over on The Mugwump Chronicles.  Janet has been thinking about the responsiveness, the lightness, that we ideally want our horses to have - almost to the point that we think it and the horse does it. She wrote about the discovery that her horses always stood still for her to mount up, because she expected them to.  If any of you horse people out there haven't read this yet, go read it now.  Just go read it.  Even if you aren't a horse person read it anyways.  I'll wait. 





Okay.  I hope you read all the comments too because it really is an interesting discussion!

This is the comment I made:

People meet my horses and always compliment me on how nice and quiet and well behaved they are. And I thank them for the compliment but the whole time I'm thinking, "yeah...because they should be able to be like that and I expect them to." 

And now I'm thinking, duh. What am I expecting during a ride? Confession: they're not all well trained. (one is but she thinks she wants to forget). Don't get me wrong- they're broke. Adequately. They are just right for brand new riders: quiet and polite and agreeable. But I'm still working on lateral movement and lope departures. Collection and lightness. Stuff they should know. 

But I Don't entirely trust my training abilities. 

So. Hmmm. Maybe I don't truly believe it when I think I want them to do something. 

Because last week the one who pretends she forgot all that fancy stuff did a perfect 180 haunch turn. After months of one step at a time. Did she finally figure out what I'm asking or remember it, or did I at last make it clear, or did I expect her to get it right? All of the above?





I've been running this through my brain for a few days now.


I think about it when I open the barn doors and let the horses out for the day.  I don't lead them out one at a time.  I open the door, then let them out of their stalls, and one after the other they neatly walk down the aisle and outside.  In the evening we do the same: I open the door and holler at them, they come in like good little students and head into their own stalls where they wait for me to shut the stall gates.  The only times I halter them to lead them in and out is for practice, or if they know I'm putting them in their stalls to deworm them and they don't wanna.  (And yes, somehow they know.  They just do.)


Now let me tell you about The Loping Problem.  


For years, my half-Arab gelding and I struggled with a nice lope departure.  I'd ask, and he'd slam us into a bone jarring fast trot instead.  He did this to me a few times at shows, which was comical, as he could trot faster than most of those nice little Quarter Horses were loping. I worked on it, mostly out in the pasture field, because in the corral he seemed to run out of room.  It didn't make sense.  He was 14.3h of short bones and muscle.  He could take off from a standstill out in the field on his own.  What was going on?  I tried sidepassing him into it, trotting him in a tight circle in the direction of the lead I wanted, and I tried kicking him senseless.  

I concluded that it was me.  My friend DW had him doing dressage moves, for crying out loud.  The horse was not the problem.  Okay, he was typically stubborn but that wasn't it.  It was me.  I wasn't firm enough, I was a kinda wimpy, and for sure I had this crooked spine problem that I already felt was a problem.  My posture was pathetic and I had great difficulty staying in position without slumping forward.  


Eventually we got it together but it was always a weakness.  Out in the field or on the road, we could lope.  In the corral, we struggled.


Now, big sweet Phoenix who is a darling gentleman on the ground, is totally pluggy under saddle and we're getting some downright ugly lope departures going on.


So we have two situations here.

-they walk single file into the barn and into their stalls because I insist on it.  I had to correct them a few times but now they do it right.  I expect them to do this right.

-I had problems with lope departures with the horse I had for 17 years... and I'm having problems with the gelding I have now... and I'm realizing that I expect to have those difficulties.

(I've eliminated physical problems.  I've got a good fitting saddle and a bit he deals with better than mere toleration.  I lunge him before a ride.)

When I put a student on his back, he plods along like an old pro. He is rock solid and doesn't spook. He goes where his rider puts him.  When I lead him he walks beside me on a nice slack lead rope, he stands tied like a good boy, and lowers his head every time I say "down."

When I ride him, he's lazy and sullen and feels heavy in my hands.

So... I'm going to let him get away with that?  I'm going to let these guys train me into letting them be sluggish and reluctant?


It's so brutally simple, and geez, even slap-your-forehead obvious!  

But I get all hung up on mistakes I made in the past, and pressuring myself to be all perfeshnul, that I forget to...

 just ride and expect my broke horses to just do what I ask them to do!!!





(Isn't it great that we have this place to share our horse philosophies?)

Me and my goofy geldings...

Phoenix has the kind of horse-face that makes you think he's about to speak.  In words.  I don't know what it is, he just looks clever.  He's abnormally expressive, I guess.

He's a GOOF.

During a lesson, I know exactly what's going on with him.  I know when he gets bored - which happens easily.  He does the 11-year-old girl lessons.  It's pretty basic stuff.  Ten minutes in, he's all eye-rolling and stumble-hooved.  That's when I have to change it up, make it more challenging, do something different, anything.  That is, without making it to hard for the rider.  So it's mostly a challenge for...me.

He has one particularly funny/ annoying habit.

He knocks things over.  He seems to believe that he gets points for putting a barrel on the ground.

I might never be able to take this horse to a show.

He'll be going past the little orange pylon set there to mark the corner of the pattern, slow down to a stop, and ever so gently set one hoof on top of it and  - toppled.  The blue barrels are his favourite.  He'll actually lean in until he's close enough to get a knee into it.

He's not a klutz.   Those same little orange pylons will stay up if the rider doesn't quite give him enough to room to get around it, even if he ends up going right over it.  He's capable of walking all four hooves over it without touching it.  It's like he knows.


The little girls think it's hilarious.

Me, not so much. I mean, yeah, it's okay for a laugh, but he's not supposed to be doing that!

The good thing is, I can turn it into a fun challenge.  "He thinks he's supposed to knock over the barrels, but you have to stop him from doing that!"  It's actually good if he doesn't just do everything automatically, whether they cue him correctly or not.  They have to do it right, or he'll just roll his eyes and flap his ears and walk straight into a barrel.

They still love him.

He reminds me a lot of another goofy gelding I loved.  

Is it possible they start off as normal horses and after living with me for awhile they go silly in the head???

THE SCALLYWAG

Pirate, thief, burglar.  VARMINT.

I've got an uninvited guest in the barn.

He's got whiskers and a striped tail like our cats, but he is not a cat.  He has little hand- paws.  

He's a sneak.

Where is he? When I turn off the radio, to listen to the sound of the horses chewing, I can hear something else, and I'm not the only one.  We can all hear him sniffing.

We know if we wait long enough he'll be coming back.

If I hold still long enough, he'll think I'm just another inanimate object in the barn aisle, and he'll sneak his way towards the cat food bowls, where Larry and Moe wait to tell him off.  

You think you know what racoons look like, but to see one for real, this close up, is a surprise.  It's not a cat.  It's not like a dog.  It's not what you expect.  The ears are rounder, the eyes are small black marbles close together in the wide pointy face. They are cute, but somehow, wild and kind of horrifying in an indescribable way.  (You should click on the picture to see this face.)

You don't realize what those tiny shiny black eyes are like until you get this close, and you'll only get this close by waiting quietly, then standing so still, only your thumb moves to touch the button on the igadget to take the picture.  The only sound you can make is breathing.  I was this close to an animal who'd prefer not to deal with my kind.  This is not a cute pet... it could be rabid, it could be defensively dangerous. 

And they're just a nuisance.  They steal anything they can get their little hand-paws on.  And they crap.  They crap dog-sized turds anywhere they want, usually where we don't want it.  They take stuff apart.  They can take garbage can lids off, they can reach into containers; nothing is safe from a determined racoon. 

I wish I didn't kind of admire them.

I mean, look at the little scamp.  "What's in here?" Curious, and clever.  

Indecisive too, and I can sure relate to that.  

And I'm sorry, but he's so cute here.  Without the glint of those close set eyes, he's an endearing ball of coarse fur.  Little bastard.  How is it that the ultimate criminal of the animal world has a mask on his face?

Persistent, too, which is usually admirable... damn you, pirate critter.

Most critters would literally high-tail it after tipping over the pail, but with his stealthy nature, he slinks away dragging his jail-striped tail behind him.

Persistence, or just curiosity? He can't stay away.  He's got to come back.  It's what he does.  He's got to go get that illegal prize, whatever that prize is: cat kibble, garbage, it doesn't matter.  

I'm not sure how I feel about this.