When I Am Old...

When I am old, I shall wear muck boots and lipstick.
And faded denim overalls with a ripped pocket right in front.
I shall spend my husband’s life insurance money
On fresh cut hay, grooming brushes, oats and fencing supplies.
I will haul my fragile bones out to the yard
And meditate to the harmony of my beauties munching hay,
And I shall inhale their scent deep into my cells
Because they are my best medicine.
I shall experience my most intimate conversations
With my special mares
And not give a darn if others think
That I am “that whacky horse lady.”
I shall climb upon my aging friend’s comfortable back at sunrise
And go on an adventure, even if only into the nearby field
So she can graze.
I shall dream of our days gone by…
Of galloping through the bean fields, jumping fallen trees,
And exploring in the woods.
And I shall ask my Creator that when my time on Earth is done,
That I be greeted on the other side
With the familiar whinnies of my very best friends,
My horses.

Authentic Self

In the depths of the horse stalls,
I spot her...
Maneuvering a manure fork like a melody,
In her mud soaked boots and lipstick.

I feel the warmth of her compassionate heart
   as the scent of horse sweat escapes from her pores.
She is always here with me on the farm, feeding chickens,
   grooming horses, playing with dogs.
I ask her to join me on my escapades...
   to the coffee house, on errands, to the river or to meet friends.
She is good company.

Sometimes her hand slips from mine
   in moments where confidence has waned.
As she becomes distant, I begin to disappear.
I frantically search for her warm palm against mine.
I stop.
Breathe deep.
Remember the truth.
And the scent of her, however faint,
Returns.

The Big Yellow Dog

Straight legs, drippy eyes, faded hearing.
She sits in the grass like an old yogi without a mat.
Pondering, remembering fondly...
days of limber legs, boundless running, dips in the river,
and incessant tennis ball chasing.
She welcomes her maturity.
Fourteen years in this body have
brought her wisdom and deep love.
Nose lifts to the wind...
Inhaling scents of the past and present.
Will she see one more summer?
My human attachment longs for the answer to be yes.
She has no attachment.
She knows better.
Time and bodies are only grand illusions.

                                                                          Lovely Chamois

"So Long" to The General

Stanley, aka "The General"

     As our first year with chickens rounded the corner and headed into the second, we ended up purchasing five more baby female chicks. Our four hens became balder by the week as our dear Stanley continued his amorous behavior with fervor.  Known as “rooster tracks,” hens’ backs become featherless when a rooster frequently breeds them. Did you know that they actually stand on the hens’ backs when breeding? Jeesh! Our four little hens were not enough for Mr. Love.  Hence, the new babies. As summer progressed and the fluffy chicks grew into pullets, and then into hens, we kept them side by side with Stanley and his harem, with a fence in between. They got used to each other quickly and Stanley even patrolled the newbies from his side of the fence. When the youngsters became large enough, we integrated all ten chickens. All was going well until Stanley decided that little Clara would be the chosen one.  Boy did he have a crush on her! Poor girl. We thought she might not make it. Seriously. Back to the other side of the fence the youngsters went. A few days later we noticed two large gashes on Clover’s side. She’s one of the adults. Our four older hens were looking haggard and bald.  Besides Stanley’s high testosterone level, he began attacking Pete and me ever since he witnessed us picking up an escaped hen. Some scary moments ensued for us during egg collection and henhouse cleaning after that…on a daily basis. Something had to change.

     I had looked a few months earlier for someone, anyone…who might want a large, red, aggressive and amorous rooster. As you can imagine, that person did not exist. So after our failed hen integration, I suggested that Pete ask our hay guy if he might want a rooster. He had a farm full of virgin hens. Surprisingly, he said “Yes!” He actually wanted a rooster because his “hens needed some teaching.” Apparently they didn’t know how to roost in the henhouse at night. If Stanley knew how to do anything, it was to teach hens. We called him “The General” because he operated in a military fashion and took his job very seriously.  Despite all the breeding, the hens actually seemed to adore him. He protected them, fed them right from his own beak, and ushered them in to roost precisely one hour before sunset.
     As much as we revered and loved our incredible rooster, he had to go. It was the perfect situation at the new farm. He’d have a job to do and would not end up the featured guest on someone’s Saturday night dinner table. Pete loaded him into a large dog crate and drove our red general to his new digs. A large number of hens awaited his arrival, I’m sure not quite aware of what Stanley’s presence would mean for them.
     A week later upon stepping out of his truck at the hay farm, one happy red rooster greeted Pete and strutted around as though he owned the entire farm. His full-feathered hens looked content as well. Our farmer friend loves Stanley already and is pleased with the job he is doing. And back home, our hens have new little feather stems poking out of their backs already. Although we miss Stanley's magnificent presence, I am no longer terrified to collect my breakfast entrée each morning. All is well on the farm.

Partners in Crime

After feeding the horses this afternoon I returned to our fenced in back yard where my dogs were nowhere to be seen.  Usually they wait by the gate for me.  I walked toward the other end of our large yard to see Chamois, our yellow lab peeking out from behind a group of large pine trees.  She looked back behind the pines, then slowly headed toward me with a slight and unsure tail wag.  “Where’s Lola?” I asked.  Like a bolt of lightning, Lola and her terrier speed shot across the yard to greet me.  Normally she then stays by my side.  Not today.  She turned around and sped back over toward the pines, stopping before she arrived.  She turned around toward me again, “C’mon!  Look what we found!”  Clearly she wanted me to follow her.  Chamois stuck close to my heels as we followed Lola.  Tucked nicely between the fence and a pine tree was a ten-inch deep hole that was perfectly dug by some crafty dog feet.  There was nothing in it.  I looked in the yard where Lola now stood with something resembling noodles dangling from her lips.  “Lola, Leave it.” I stated firmly.  Completely obedient, she dropped the delicacy on the grass. She must be more terrier than she is beagle.  A beagle doesn't drop anything.  Both dogs wagged their tails as they watched me scoop up a hunk of intestines and other organs into my glove.  I hurled them over the fence and took a closer look at my dogs.  Lola’s front feet and legs were plastered in mud, as was her entire muzzle and forehead.  She must have done the digging while Chamois served as look-out.   Clearly they were working together on this project.  The best part of the whole thing was their joy in including me in their adventure.  Being one of the pack is pretty cool.  They had no idea they were headed to the bathtub.

Lola and Chamois

Friends

     Twenty-two degrees today. Wind speed of zero, crisp clean air, and the sun’s gift of warmth surrounding the earth. Like cats in a sunspot, the horses soak up the rays while lying down in the reflective snow. Just peering out the window at them brings me to a place of quiet inside myself. They are perfect role models on how to live a peaceful, active life.
     Today after spreading several flakes of hay as a noon snack for my five beauties, I brought out the bucket of grooming supplies and set it on the ground next to me. I just stood watching these incredible mares enjoying their hay when Willow, our 29 year old chestnut surprised me. With a mouthful of green sprigs dangling from her lips, she picked up her head, turned on her hindquarters, and purposefully ambled over to me. After giving her a peppermint from my pocket, I assumed she’d turn right around and go back to her hay. They rarely leave their hay for any reason. However, she stayed. She stood shoulder to shoulder with me and rested a hind leg, inviting me to “be” with her. I picked Willow’s favorite curry comb from the bucket and began to groom her. She contorted her neck, closed her eyes, and let out a contagious sigh. After a few minutes of this I realized that standing behind me nudging my elbow with her perfect black muzzle was Scarlet! She wanted to be next! I turned my attention to Scarlet and began to scratch her ears as Willow walked away and went back to eating. As I curried Scarlet’s velvet neck and rib cage for several minutes, who showed up behind my back, but Grace! Laughing out loud, I began to curry Grace’s lean red back and hindquarters. She, in turn, started grooming Scarlet’s neck with her lips and teeth. Scarlet returned the favor by helping me groom Graces neck. We had become a triangle of “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” This is what friends do. After this joyful interaction ended, I walked away smiling. I’m pretty sure my mares were smiling too.



Scarlet, Grace, and Willow last summer



The Uninvited Guest

     As we headed out to the hen house last Sunday I noticed “something” casing the perimeter of the fenced-in chicken run. It was gray and about the size of a small cat. We had just come from the barn where our two gray barn cats snoozed in a sunspot in one of the stalls, so I knew it couldn’t be one of them. “Pete, what is that?” I grabbed his coat sleeve as we slowed our pace and crept closer. Pink protruding nose, pink toes, hairy body, and a long tail…it was an opossum. In eleven years on our farm, we have never seen one.
     Every horse owner fears the presence of opossums for one reason and one reason only…EPM. Equine Protozoal Myeloencephalitis. It is a neurologic disease in which a parasite invades the central nervous system of the horse. So what does this have to do with funny faced little opossums? Opossums carry the eggs of those parasites in their feces. If a horse eats or drinks from an area where these have been dropped, they get sick. Lesions develop on their brains and spinal cords and they become atrophied and uncoordinated in their hindquarters, leaning and falling down. They lose the ability to know where their feet are. Many have to be put down. If caught early enough, costly drug treatment helps some horses, but not all. It is a frightening and debilitating disease.
     So…now you understand my reaction to the opossum on our property. We have five horses. That day, Pete chased after it in an attempt to scare it off. A few hours later from the comfort of our sunroom, I saw it inside our fenced-in back yard, casing the fenceline from the inside. This is our dog yard and a little too close for comfort. After finding nothing to eat, the opossum left the yard and we lost sight of it. Later that day, Pete saw it yet again by the chickens, scaling their fence like a rock climber. The chickens just stood there carrying on with their rooting and scratching, seeming oblivious to the drooling predator, with the exception of Stanley. A fierce protector of his hens, our red rooster strutted a circle around his girls, puffed up and ready for battle.
     I strive to show compassion to all beings, so eliminating Mr. Opossum was out of the question for me or for any hit man-for-hire. Instead, I simply asked the opossum to kindly leave, that there was no food here for him, and that if he did not leave, he would end up in a live trap and curried to another county via our truck. We haven’t seen him since. No tracks in the snow, no droppings, no pink snout, no opossum. It was that simple. Horses, chickens, and humans can all relax. All is well on the farm.

An opossum I found online