Spring is coming

            I have always been a seeker of beautiful things. As a child, I changed my mind again and again about what kind of career I would have as a grown-up: artist, scientist, musician, gardener, writer. But for each possible path, I was drawn by the same thing. I wanted to spend my time examining the wonder and beauty of the world, and there are many ways to do that.
            It is more difficult than I had hoped to keep that wonder in front of me. I have depression and anxiety that appeared when I was in high school. These things are not just words to me. They are more soul-crushing than any outside obstacle I will ever encounter in my search for wonder and joy. I turn inward, and can no longer see what is outside myself. I continue seeking, but I can not find what I am looking for until I am able to turn away from the broken-ness in my brain and body.
            Perhaps those broken parts will never be completely fixed. I cultivate within myself the strength to reach out again and again because I know that even if I can't be mended, the world is out there and that is where I want to be. A broken person may still appreciate the sheer awesome power of the universe.
            I came to Maine in part to seek out seasons. Glittering snow and ice in the winter, muddy earth in the spring, berries and wild greenery in the summer, and the winding down of the colorful and quiet autumn as the earth falls asleep. This natural clock stirs something in my heart. Somehow with all of the days of the year accounted for as the wheel turns either away from the previous season or toward the next, I find peace in the change. I am not stuck where I am now, because something else is coming. It is easier thus for me to turn my inner eye away from my hurts and toward the physical world in front of me.
            I gave up mild winters in favor of shorter days and deeper cold, months in which the beauty lies in the contrast between brittle, unforgiving ice and the warmth of an orange fire. To me, the cold light of winter only makes the first heat of spring more meaningful. Winter is a passing season. Perhaps my hurts will also pass on to something more comfortable.
           I set little store in the official first day of spring. It is not spring if the bulbs are not starting to sprout and the ground is still frozen. But I can tell spring is coming. I see the tawny leftovers of last year's grass through the snow. My hair is beginning to absorb the returning humidity and revert to its typical texture. Ice that has been seemingly permanently attached to the floor around the animals' water buckets suddenly allows itself to be pried loose.
            The mud is coming. The little green points are coming. The wind is bringing liquid water, banishing the sharp crystalline shards that have scoured my face all winter. Shedding animals coat my gloves with fur. It may be cold now, but spring is coming. Spring is coming. Spring is coming.

Shelter cats, Bella

            I volunteer two days a week at my local animal shelter. I am lucky enough to have a No-Kill shelter near me. No matter which way you slice it, re-homing animals is a tough job. But I like to do what I can to help the critters feel more comfortable during their time in the shelter. I focus on the cats, brushing them, petting them, cleaning their litter boxes, and getting to know them. I try to give them a voice by writing what I've learned about each of them and posting it with their information card at the shelter. I don't have enough energy to do this for every cat, but I try to help the ones who have been there the longest.
            I also take lots of pictures. Each cat gets one picture for his or her profile on the shelter website, so we try to pick the best one. But then I often have leftovers - good pictures that didn't show the whole cat, or adorable pictures of the cat yawning that wouldn't be appropriate as The Picture That Defines This Cat. I hate to discard these, so I post some of them to the shelter's Facebook page. Sometimes, though, the cat I just photographed on Saturday gets adopted on Sunday. And then I have these pictures, but no need to post them. It's the best possible news! I love it when that happens. I do still want to share some of my pictures, though.

            This cat got adopted a number of weeks ago. She was a long-time resident at the shelter. Her name was Bella (her new family may have changed it, I'm not sure). Bella was a mad scientist cat. She could open anything, given enough time to work out the latch mechanism. She would open the door of the community room and go flying through the shelter, zigging and zagging and ducking past people's ankles. She never shut the door behind her, either, so then there was a mass exodus of cats who would quite happily go exploring.

            Bella did not always open the door herself. One of her favorite things to do was to wait just inside the door for some hapless potential adopter - especially someone with children - to open the door. Then, Zing! Out she goes. We put a sign on the door warning about her ninja capabilities, but it did no good. Bella could out-dodge even experienced cat people nine times out of ten, especially the first time she met them.

            For a little while, we swapped Bella out of the community room and into a cage in the lobby. We hated to do it, but it was pure mayhem having her letting the other cats out all the time. But no matter, Bella figured out how to open her cage, too. These are the stiff, cranky cages that new volunteers spend a couple of weeks learning how to open and close, so Bella has a learning curve similar to human shelter volunteers.
            Finally, we had to put latches on the outsides of both doors to the community room. Bella still found the occasional (i.e. at least twice a day) opportunity to go gallivanting about the lobby, but it made things a lot more manageable. And just after that, I came in one Saturday to find she had been adopted. Perfect timing! 

Napoleon the turkey, snowy feathers on snowy ground

            This is Napoleon the turkey. Isn't he a lovely fellow?

            Napoleon is not fond of humans, unfortunately. He has no wish to be petted, nor does he want to sit next to you in the sunshine and enjoy the day. But that's all right. Not everybody has to be cuddly.
            In the morning when I open up his barn, I call out, "Napoleon! Pretty turkey, come out so I can give you breakfast!" He always answers with a bright and cheery turkey chuckle, then hops out of his little turkey-sized door and does his morning breakfast dance. He always sings to me, trilling and chuckling. I try not to get too close, because he likes to snick his head through the fence and steal my hat. Then he parades around with it like a dog, shaking it until he realizes it's no good to eat and drops it in the snow.
            As I'm scooping up his meal and breaking the ice out of his bucket, I talk to him in a high sing-song voice so that he knows I'm working on it. It's hard for him to stand and wait for his food, so he keeps dancing and talking to me until it's ready. It only takes a minute, but to Napoleon it's ages and ages!
            Most of us get a little raggedy this time of year. Fur is ready to shed out, feathers are getting worn and dirty. But somehow, Napoleon has kept himself clean and neat all winter. His bright feathers are as white as the snow. I wonder how long that will last once the snow has melted and the mud comes to replace it? For now, here are a couple more pictures of him, fluffed out like a giant snowflake.

My first foster puppy, adopted

            Today I learned that my first foster puppy has a forever home. The lovely people who have been keeping her for a slumber party decided that they want to keep her for good. They have already selected a new name for her.
            I am so glad. In the first two weeks I fostered this puppy, I could not possibly have let her go to someone else. She and I just seemed to have a bond that materialized as soon as she crept out of her crate to take a treat from my hand. I saw how frightened she was, but also how curious about the world. She wanted to try things, but she wasn't sure what might happen. So I set out to provide her with a structure she could understand, to lay the foundation for anything she might do in the future.
            After a few weeks in our house, my dear foster puppy had learned so much. I was very proud of her accomplishments, because I could see how proud she felt each time she succeeded at something. And I saw that she needed to go live with someone else. Much as I love her, not every dog is a good fit for every household. And that is fine.
            I saw when I dropped her off for her slumber party that she will enjoy living with her new family. She now has two humans to love her and an adult doggie brother to play with. I could see that my training worked; for the first time, we let her off leash with no fence. She romped and zoomed and leaped into the air, and every time we called to her she raced back to us, tail wagging. I suspected that was what she would do, but it is another thing altogether to see her in action and to know that I gave her the skills to have that freedom.
           It does hurt a bit to let her go, yes. But when isn't it a little difficult to take away your guiding hands, and entrust someone you love to what the world has to offer? She was ready. I am glad she didn't have to wait a moment longer to start the rest of her life, with her very own family. Be well, sweet puppy.

            I foster animals in memory of my first dog, Dandy. Let her legacy be the happiness and health of this puppy and many more.

Goose in the rain

            This is Amelia the goose. None of the other geese like her. When they see her getting too close to their enclosures, they set up honking and yelling at her. That makes Amelia hang her head and slowly waddle away. But lucky Amelia does not have an enclosure. She gets to wander around the barnyard as she pleases, so she gets her choice of puddles and sunny spots. (She does share her barn with Popcorn the turkey at night, though.)

            Amelia seems like a very amiable goose. She tries not to get in the way, and while she seems a bit lonely at times she does enjoy finding a good comfortable place to be and settling down there. She loves compost day, like the other geese, only she gets her own private pile of lettuce to work on.
            The one thing Amelia seems to feel strongly about is her pond. In the spring, summer, and fall Amelia has a blue wading pool full of water to splash and play in. The ducks, naturally, also like to get in there and play - but if Amelia spots them in her pool, she has to go chase them out. "Go get your own pond! Like the one in your enclosure, that your geese won't let me swim in!" she tells them. Both parties are so used to this game. The ducks wait until Amelia has wandered away to jump in her pool. Amelia waits until she sees the ducks trespassing, then gets up and waddles over to scold them. And then a few minutes later, the ducks come back and jump in her pool.

            It's still too cold to put out Amelia's pool. But I captured these pictures of her on one of our first rainy days this March, and I think she knows spring is coming. Something about the way the raindrops roll off her back, rather than sticking on and dusting her like the snow does.

Floofy chicken, cuddly chicken

            Before I started working at Peace Ridge Sanctuary, I did not know that chickens could be friendly. I suppose, thinking about it, any animal that has been living with humans for so many generations must have some ability to interact in a way other than "run away! A predator!" For the most part, the chickens are easy to work around. They tend to get out of the way when I enter their barn (sometimes with an offended clucking), and tend not to wait around for me to ask them to move. But one of the new arrivals this winter is a black and white Polish chicken with a remarkably floofy head, and a remarkably cuddly attitude.

            I noticed right away that she was not at all timid. When most of the other chickens had decided my barn-cleaning activity was too much trouble to hang out next to, she remained. She hopped around the shovel as I scooped, pecking at it and watching very closely for any interesting tidbits. Then she jumped up on the water container and kept an eye on me until I had scraped out the whole barn. But now I needed to replace the water, and she was sitting up there. I gently swept my arm toward her in a shooing gesture, which causes most of the chickens to hop out of the way. Not this floofy lady, though. She thought I was offering her a perch, and obligingly stepped right onto my arm.

 

            I have always found it amazing to hold a bird. When I was little, I had opportunities to hold cockatiels and parakeets, and I thought it was incredible to hold in my very hand a creature who could fly out of my reach at any time. Chickens do fly. Some of them are better at it than others. Generally, though, they are are good enough at flying to get out of reach in a hurry if they don't like the way you're looking at them.

            Floofy lady did not seem alarmed to find herself standing on my arm. I held her up in the air and looked at her, expecting her to depart at any moment. She turned her head, that silly tuft of feathers shaking, and I could tell she was peering at me even though I could not see her eye. I spoke to her, and she made some soft little chicken noises back at me. We looked at each other for a while, and then I tucked my arm close to my body. She nestled in and sat down, leaning against me. I stroked the side of her body and she cooed a bit. I don't know a lot about chicken vocabulary yet, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. 

              I did need to get back to work, though. More barns to clean, more ice to remove from buckets. So I held Floofy-head Lady up to a new perch, and after a moment's consideration she climbed on and settled down to watch me again.

            Several weeks later, it seemed like my new friend was not very happy with the other chickens in the chicken barn. They were pulling out her tail feathers. She was moved into the turkey barn with Fiona and Bernadette (our lady turkeys) and her very own rooster, Einstein. Einstein has some floof of his own, and they make a lovely pair. Einstein is very polite to her, offering to share the tasty morsels he finds with her and showing off how nice his little barn is. That barn is where I took these pictures of her on a rainy day this weekend. And this is Einstein on a snow day. (Winter is a terrible time to take pictures of white birds around here!)

A story about horses, part eight

            I remember the last time I rode a horse, as of this writing. I rode Annie, because she would do anything for H., so H. and I took her to a round pen to give me a riding lesson. I was in college, and I would have been seventeen or eighteen at that time.
           It was my first time in a Western saddle. But that didn't really matter. I just felt all wrong. I could not relax. My body was wound up tight like a spring squeezed between your thumb and forefinger. No stretching would loosen me up. Nothing felt right. Annie walked for me, but she flicked her ears back and forth, and kept peeking back at me to see if I was all right up there. Then we tried trotting, and each step jolted me in a different direction. I could not post, because my body was bouncing and flinging back and forth and side to side and I could not feel my thighs settling the way they used to.
            I could squeeze tighter. I could hang on. But I could not relax, and I could not use the reins to guide Annie because I was using my hands to hang on to her mane and the horn of the saddle. I did not pull at her mouth. I let the reins flap and tried not to fall. I had never felt like I might fall before. Annie bucked a little, just tiny hiccups in her stride. She pinned one ear, then the other, and shook her head. After a bit, she stopped trotting and turned her head around to look at me. "Are you ok?" she seemed to ask. I wasn't, really. I was confused. My body was betraying me. Annie refused to trot more than two steps at a time for the rest of the lesson.
            This feeling that my body was a sack of grain flopping all over the place was alien. I remember what it was like to ride, before. I remember a time when I could sit on a horse that was spooking sideways and leaping into the air, and think to myself, "Oh, what did he see over there?" not, "Yikes! I'm falling!" I remember a time when I dreamed of putting a bridle on Mark and flying across the bright summer grass with him, together, as though we were one animal. I never got to ride him that way. And now my last memory of riding is one of simply trying not to fall. And trying not to make Annie's back too uncomfortable with my bouncing, clinging efforts to stay attached to it.

A story about horses, part seven

            I remember when Annie was a foal. A little spindly chestnut, all leggy with her fur sticking up all over. Annie did not have a mother; the mare died giving birth to her. It was a terrible event that everyone grieved after. I have forgotten the mare's name. I did not know her well. Annie was full of life, though. She was cute and sweet, and very clever. I carried her bucket of Mare's Match out to her in the mornings. It took all my strength to carry that bucket, but I did not complain. I loved to watch her slurp it down. I loved the smell of her fur and the milk. I watched her eyelashes flick as she blinked, and I rubbed her all over. She seemed like she was the same size as me, but I'm sure she weighed a lot more. I felt like Annie was my foal. I loved her with all my heart.
            I remember when she was four years old and learning what a saddle is for. She was just as sweet and smart then. She was always gentle with me, and I think she remembered when we were the same size. Then Annie became H.'s horse. H. rode her, trained her, loved her. They learned a lot together, more than I will ever know. Annie would do anything H. asked. I was so glad my foal had grown up to be H.'s horse.

A story about horses, part six

            I remember the first time I feared riding a horse. I don't remember how old I was, but I would have been in middle school. So somewhere between eleven and thirteen, probably. The horse was Talana, my mother's mare who had been in training for several years at my sister's house. Talana was not having a great day that day. She did not want to be tied to the trailer for grooming and tacking up, and broke her nice English bridle by pulling back from the trailer. We put a different bridle on her, and took her to a field to ride around.
            The grown-ups failed us this time. They did not supervise correctly, and they set us up to have difficulties. N one was there to tell H. not to tie Talana by her bridle (the grown-ups were in the house), and no one was there to tell me what to do when she began to back up, step by determined step, a look of defiance in her eye (H. went back to the barn to get something, leaving me alone with the horses). H. was only a year older than me.
            The field that was available to ride in, the only available field, was next to a stallion's field. There was a sturdy fence between, with an electric tape across the top, but the stallion was flirting with Talana from the start. He was strutting his stuff and talking to her, and showing off his lovely tail in the wind. She wanted to go talk to him, but we wanted to ride around. Again, in a saddle, I felt as though I could not tell Talana what I wanted her to do, and she paid me no mind. She did not turn and make a circle when I asked her to, and did not "Whoa!" when I asked her to, instead picking up her pace to a trot and then a canter. She whisked us up the field to the fence and halted just where she wanted to, out of reach of the electric wire. She put her head up and gave that stallion her best "You can't get me, Na-na-na-naaa!" strut. I clung on for dear life as H. shouted instructions at me.
            I never felt in danger of falling off, but I did feel threatened by the stallion. I did not know if he or Talana might try to jump the fence, or what might happen then. I did not want to be in the way if that happened. So once Talana stopped, I hopped right off of her and led her out of the field. And I declared quite firmly that I was done for the day. No one could convince me otherwise, because I did not feel safe.
            After that, I avoided opportunities I would otherwise have leaped at to ride Talana. I wanted to ride Mark, but I did not trust Talana. I felt like I did not know her. I felt like no one was in control of the situation, and I did not like that one bit. It was not fun. I swore up and down that I was not afraid, but I was.
            Eventually, I did ride Talana again. But I would say that I never had a good experience with her under saddle. I have had good experiences with her on the ground, and I remember sitting on her when I was quite small. It was never Talana's fault. It was always the grown-ups, who were supposed to know what to do, who set us up to fail. Talana's saddle, my mother insisted, "fit her perfectly," but she was referring to herself, not the horse. She seemed to think that having the saddle fit the person was enough, but that saddle pinched Talana's back. It took an attempted riding lesson with our friend and farrier for me to find out that Talana would never be happy with me or anyone sitting on her in that saddle. He said that the saddle pinched her right under where my thighs were, which was why she always bucked a little and pinned her ears when trotting. Without the saddle or a person on her, she trotted beautifully for him. He also found that her mouth was hard. The farrier was able to get her to respond better, but he said, "You should not ride this horse. She needs gentle re-training. She has been yanked around too much for you to ride right now, but if I spent a little time with her, she would make a lovely pony for you." He never got the chance to spend that time with her.
            After this lesson, I was not afraid anymore. I understood why Talana was so grouchy, and it was not my fault nor hers. But around this time, my mother became very nervous around the horses. I did not ride again for several years.

A story about horses, part five

            I remember the difference between riding in an English saddle and riding bareback. Somehow, the saddle was always in the way. The stirrups were too big for my tiny feet, and it was hard to get everything adjusted to fit me comfortably. And when I tried to do the stretches, leaning back to touch my head to my horse's rump, the back end of the saddle jabbed me in the spine. I could flex enough to bend despite it, but it was not comfortable. I never seemed able to communicate with my horse, either. Perhaps as a tiny child of fifty pounds, my gentle movements did not make it through the saddle and the saddle pad to where the horse could detect them. It always seemed to me that the grown-ups were telling me to do everything "More, more!" But I didn't want to hurt the horse, and I didn't know how hard was too hard.
            On the last day of my riding class, the teacher had us ride bareback. Most of the other students were very uncomfortable. I think they had never sat a horse without a saddle. But me? My tall horse Bruce and I cantered back and forth and in circles around the others. We trotted and spun the other direction, and won all the games. I held the crop I had been told I must use to get my horse to move, but that day I did not use it at all. Bruce didn't need me to. He could tell what I wanted from my legs.
            I remember what it felt like to ride Bruce that day. He was the tallest horse I had ever ridden. I felt very high up in the air. But without the saddle, I felt like my legs and seat were part of Bruce's body. I couldn't fall off, because we were moving together. I finally felt what a posting trot is supposed to feel like, the easy rhythm you settle into when you and your horse are so tuned in to each other. I could ask him to move a little faster by changing my rhythm just a bit, or to slow down a little. And Bruce was happy. When we stopped, he would turn his head around and nuzzle my knee.
            I remember what my riding instructor said to me that day, one of the only times I remember getting specific attention from the instructor: "So that's all I have to do to get you to do these things right? Take away your saddle?" It felt like a backhanded compliment. Had I really been doing everything wrong the whole time? I guess I hadn't been paying a whole lot of attention to the other students and the explanations the instructor gave didn't make a lot of sense to me. I just wanted to ride horses. Bruce didn't care what the instructor was saying. He was just blissfully happy with the belly rubs I gave him after taking his bridle off and brushing him down.

A story about horses, part four

            I remember the new green bucket. The old red bucket was older than me, and it had suffered greatly in its years of service. It had been kicked, stepped on, tossed in the air. I had worn it on my back like a turtle, peeking my head out and slowly creeping across the barn floor. The old red bucket had one handle; the other had broken off at some point. And then one day I was mucking stalls, and the single handle broke off. The old red bucket was retired and the new green one with yellow handles came to replace it.
            Mark did not like the new green bucket. He did not like how large it was. He did not like how shiny it was. He did not like the noise it made, which was ever so slightly different than the noises the friendly old red one had made when I dragged it across the ground. When he saw the new green bucket, Mark would throw his head up in the air and shake it back and forth. He would neigh and snort and back up to get away from it. And when he was far enough away, he would put his head down low to the ground and snort and look at me with the most pitiful expression, asking me to take away that scary nasty unfriendly bucket. It just made him feel wrong to see that thing in his stall or his field.
            So I talked to him. I stood in front of the bucket, and I told Mark that it was all right, I would not let the bucket eat him. I had that bucket under control. It wasn't going to get up and chase him around, because I would not let it. He looked at me doubtfully. But Mark wanted to trust me. He wanted to believe that I would keep the bucket from doing something terrible to him, that I could fix the wrongness of it somehow.
            I brought the bucket out into the field. Mark got a good look at it from all sides, but a good distance away where he could dash to safety if it showed signs of life. It didn't. The bucket just sat there, and Mark decided that maybe it wasn't alive after all.
            I brought out his halter and lead rope, and led him around far away from the bucket. When he was calm, I brought him up to it and let him sniff it. After a moment, Mark looked at the bucket, looked at me, and nudged it gently with his nose. "Ok," he seemed to say, "I guess it's ok now."
            Mark did not ever spook at the bucket again.

Walking nicely

            Fable has a tendency to walk ahead of me when I am leading her. Well, who is the leader, then? I'm thinking it's me, but Fable's thinking it's her. That can be a serious problem! What if she thinks we ought to go left, but I'm by her shoulder? She's going to walk right over me, because she expects me to move out of her way.
            So I am working on teaching her to follow - to really follow. She has to keep her head by my shoulder, or behind my shoulder. The way I get her to do that is by finding a way to demonstrate to her that it's easier to stay back a bit and follow me than to try to get in front and push me around. When I am moving around Fable, I try to keep in mind the idea of "gate open, gate closed." The "gate" in this case is in my body language and my mind. I am imagining that there is a barrier in front of Fable that keeps her where I want her. If this mental gate is open, she can walk through it. If it's closed, she can't.
            What I need now that I have this idea of what I want is a way to communicate that to Fable. How can I show her what I'm asking for? I need to give her a physical barrier that she can see, telling her where I'm closing that mental gate on her. Right now I have two methods for doing this. Sometimes I do it by taking my whip and waving it like a windshield wiper past my shoulder. This way, Fable will see that she needs to walk behind wherever I'm swinging that whip, or she'll get bumped on the nose. I'm not trying to bump her nose, but she's free to walk into it and discover that the barrier is really there, and it will get her. It's just easier for her to stay back a bit.
            Sometimes I do the same thing with the end of my lead rope, swinging it in helicopter circles to make the closed gate. I am not as good at doing it that way, because I find that I am thinking about a bunch of things at once and my coordination quits on me part way through. I end up with my rope getting tangled or flopping down when I was thinking more about what Fable is doing than what my rope swinging hand is doing. That's ok. I just need to practice.
            This works because swinging the rope or swishing the whip gives Fable a clear visual explanation of where I expect her to be. She sees that moving object in front of her, and that means the gate is closed beyond that point. Sure, she can charge through it. If she's doing that, maybe we need to do something different right now. But she doesn't charge through it. What Fable has been doing is getting right up to where that barrier is, and trying to decide if I really mean it. Can she get me to stop waving the whip by pressuring my shoulder a little bit? Nope, the whip swings a little wider or faster. Will it really tap her on the nose if she just walks ahead? Yep! Gee, it's so much work trying to get past the barrier I've set for her. She's starting to learn how to stay back. I can practically feel her thinking it over as we work on this.
             Fable still needs the visual reminder to do this correctly. We've only started working on it recently, because we could get along more or less all right with her leading how it was up to this point. But now we can do it better. It will be better because Fable will understand where she is going - wherever I'm going. And I won't have to worry about getting her to back off of me and get out of my space, because she'll be far enough away to watch out for me.
            We just work on this a little bit at a time, every day. We work on lots of other bits of things, just a little at a time, too. I am beginning to see the bits falling into place together as Fable learns what to expect from her new home and her new people. I see her relaxing more. It makes me happy.

Fable

            This is Fable. She's the biggest animal at Peace Ridge Sanctuary right now.

            She is a recent arrival. We weren't expecting to take on a horse this winter, but she needed us. Fable is about fourteen years old. She's a Standardbred mare. Considering the sudden changes in her life, Fable is fairly cooperative about things. She likes to get petted.

            She likes to get treats.

            So far, it seems like peppermint is her favorite, but she's not choosy. A bit of carrot or lettuce works just fine. Fable came with a different name. But along with her new life, new home, and new friends, we wanted to give her a new name. She doesn't seem to mind, especially since we often use it to say, "Fable, good girl!"
            What are we doing with this horse? Well, we want her to be healthy and comfortable. We want her to have good mental health, too. Everyone wants to know what work she can do, but we are more interested in what kind of relationship we can develop with her. As part of that, she does do some "work," in that we ask her to use her brain and her body as we start some groundwork with her. But our focus is not on what she does. It's on how she can learn to be comfortable enough with us to be herself, a happy, lovely horse. Fable is a smart girl. I'm sure we can do great things together! But the together is the point, not the things. Personally, I'm hoping for some fun play times and some pleasant restful bonding times.

            For now, she is in a temporary barn area, with supervised turn out in her field. Soon the snow will thaw, and Fable will get her very own barn right in her field, and she can come and go as she pleases. Fable is looking forward to that, but for now she's enjoying her hay pile, her daily brushing, and her play time, and being a very good sport about everything. Good girl, Fable. We're going to be good buddies.

A story about horses, part three

            I remember the first time I combed out Mark's mane without having to get a bucket to stand on to reach the part near his head. His hair was fine and wispy, and it tangled if you so much as looked away from it for a moment. He hated to have it combed, but without the combing it braided itself into wild ridiculous patterns as though a child had tried to tie it in knots. I could always comb the part near his withers, but Mark would bob his head up and down to try to keep the rest of it out of my reach. He always succeeded, because I was only about eight years old, maybe nine, and I was not tall.
            But this time I was gentle combing out the tangles. Instead of trying to pull the comb through as quickly as I could (thinking that the sooner it was finished, the better), I went very slowly as though I were combing my own hair. It had just occurred to me that if it hurt my head to yank the brush through a tangle, it might hurt Mark too. So I carefully picked out the knots, working my way up his neck toward his head. And slowly, Mark let his head down. I combed all of his mane, and all of his forelock. It was still dusty and yellow from the dirt, and the hairs that had been twisted tight together lay crooked and kinked in odd directions. But it was not tangled anymore. Mark sighed a big sigh, and I hugged his head.

More about "A story about horses."

            I have now shared two parts of "A story about horses," and I also want to share a little background about this story.
            This story is as true as I can make it. Memory, of course, is a funny thing. Some things I remember very clearly, with images and feelings and scents and sounds. Other things, I only remember because of how they made me feel, but I have lost the details. The memories I have recorded in "A story about horses" are particularly clear ones. They are what I think of as defining points in my childhood relationship with the horses I knew.
            It seems like every child wants a horse. I was the lucky person at my school who had a horse, but I was not allowed to ride most of the time. I was also not taught other basic things about how training horses works, but I was freely allowed to spend time around the horses. So I learned many things by figuring them out on my own. I trusted in the horses to be kind to me, and I loved them with all my heart. Between these things, I grew up comfortable around these animals, mostly unconscious of my small stature compared to theirs.
            And when I think about it, I am still not very large compared to a horse. I am a small person. I only weigh a hundred pounds after a big meal. But one of the magical things about working with horses is that it doesn't really matter how big you are, because what you use to handle and train a horse is your brain. My body may be tiny, my muscles may be unkind to me, but my brain is still working most of the time. The things I did not learn when I was younger? It doesn't really matter that I didn't know them. I am learning them now. And I feel better when I am able to use my brain to communicate with a horse's brain. The ways I have to move my body to do that are good for me. My body feels better when I have spent an hour ignoring my cramped muscles and instead thinking about presenting myself to the horse in the way that will tell the horse how I want them to move.

A story about horses, part two

            I remember the first time I was stepped on by a horse. I was leading Mark from one field to the other. The fields were large for a single horse, but eventually he would mow the grass down and the weeds would grow up as tall as my knees unless we cut them down. So I would move him to the other field to work on the grass over there for a while. It was summer, terribly hot. The flies would bite Mark, and when he swished them away with his tail, they would bite me.
            The flies were not the reason Mark stepped on me. He stepped on me because he did not know what to do with his excitement about moving from one field to the other. Most of the time, Mark's life was boring and lonely, but the days when he got to go run in a new field were wildly exciting to him. He saw that the other gate was open, and he began dancing his hindquarters back and forth as I led him. That was all right, but he forgot for a moment - his head high out of my reach, his eyes focused on that luscious new grass ahead - that I was walking next to him. Mark put his foot down on top of mine, his shoulder pressing my shoulder.
            "Hey!" I said. I stopped walking and pushed his shoulder. "Get off!" I felt pressure on my foot, but it did not exactly hurt. He wasn't leaning on me. It was more as though he set his foot down for somewhere to put it, but his weight was still back in his hindquarters. As soon as I pushed on his shoulder, Mark brought his head down and looked at me. I remember the exact moment he realized he was standing on me, and the spark in his eye as he all but jumped away. He put his head down and looked me over. I rubbed his face, and led him onward. My foot did not bruise. Mark was always a little more careful with his feet after that. I think I was eleven or twelve years old.

Our current household crew

            My home is full of furry creatures. My partner and I are currently living with three cats of our own, and two foster dogs. We recently returned two foster kittens to the SPCA of Hancock County, Maine. These are our beasties:

            Warbear, shorthaired silver tabby. She's about a year old, sleek, shiny, and loves to be snuggled. But... she wishes most of the other critters would go away. She will grudgingly tolerate their presence in her home, if we insist.

            Brenna, longhaired tortoiseshell. She's about two years old, silky, talkative, and loves to be brushed or just hang out nearby. Brenna is a mellow, easy going cat. She hides from new things for about two weeks, and then magically reappears once it seems like everything is safe again. Brenna likes to sing in the stairway, where her voice echoes loudly.

            Wren, longhaired tabby. Wren is about eight years old, and mostly blind. But she is the friendliest cat I've ever met. Anyone can just pick her up and hug her, and she is delighted for the attention. She likes to keep to one or two rooms, and snoozes in the same spot most of the time. She likes dogs, kittens, humans, and the warmth of the wood stove.

            Alice, foster dog. We are fostering Alice for Peace Ridge Sanctuary (where I also work). She's about twelve years old, but still enjoys a good run. She weighs about sixty five pounds, now that she has lost some of the excess weight she arrived with. She is a lifetime foster, which means that this is her forever home, but the sanctuary provides for her care. Alice likes getting brushed, trying to convince us to let her eat mussels she finds on the shore, and spending every waking moment with her humans. She has separation anxiety, doubtless from being tossed from one home to another and into the shelter. She is not a big fan of other dogs, especially in her house.

            Penny, foster dog. Also for Peace Ridge. Penny is available for adoption at the moment! She is a very smart little cattle dog mix, about six months old. She is shy in new situations, but is learning that the world is actually kind of fun to explore. She loves clicker training and playing with other dogs. She tries very hard to convince Alice to play with her, but Alice won't have it. We keep them separate to reduce the stress on Alice while Penny stays with us.

            So these are the furry creatures who are living here! Penny might have an adoption pending, but I can't say for sure as I'm writing this. If so, hooray! If not, you may be seeing more pictures of her here, and stories about her, too. She's a great little pup, and I'm enjoying working with her. Some lucky someone is going to have a wonderful companion when she gets her forever home.

The dog in my profile picture

            Who is that dog in my profile picture? That's Dandy, my first rescue. She was a puppy in a box on the side of the road, and I was a five year old who wished on every shooting star and birthday cake for a dog. (Well, specifically for a Dalmation, but I didn't really know what to call other kinds of dogs.)
            Dandy grew up to be twenty pounds of adorable mutt. Who knows what breeds are mixed in her genetic history? Who cares? I never cared, beyond mild curiosity. She was my dog, and that was all I needed to know. Dandy was my best friend, my best playmate. She was the best dog ever, and there will never be a better one.
            I went away to college, and when I came back Dandy was in terrible shape. My parents had not cared for her properly as she aged. She had been stepped on by a horse and left to recover without vet care. Her rear legs did not seem to work much anymore, and she was starving. They offered her food every night, but it was poor quality kibble that she would not eat. They threw their hands up in the air, thinking she was so old anyway.... maybe she just won't get better.
            I was upset. I took her to Maine with me, determined to give her my very best until her last day, whenever that would be. My poor skinny pup, with her legs shaking as she stood! But she followed me everywhere I went, no matter how hard she had to work to make her body go. I fed her good food. I brushed her and bathed her filthy coat. (Four times, until she no longer stank.) I petted her. I gave her a pile of blankets to sleep on. I carried her up and down the stairs with me. I took her outside and taught her how to walk again, and she discovered a new way to run. She would hop her rear end in an odd gait, both feet down then both feet up in the air. The pain receded as she gained muscle and learned to balance again. She learned how to guess where her hind feet were, because she could not feel them anymore.
            Dandy had a laundry list of old dog problems. Her eye gave her trouble, it had for years. She had daily eye goop for it, and never complained once. She was on pain medicine for months, until we discovered that she shook less without it. She could not control her bowels, but she had a predictable schedule. She had warty nubbles in various places on her body, including under one eye and on some of her toes. Sometimes these would get scraped open and needed daily attention to keep them clean. The list goes on a bit. But through everything, Dandy kept her cheery expression and was always up for a bite to eat. Wherever I was, Dandy was too.
            After a year and a half, bladder cancer sneaked up on Dandy. There was nothing we could do. We kept her comfortable, and when her condition dove for the worse I knew it was time to let her go gently. She was tired. I could see that she would trudge onward as long as I asked her to. But the vet said that she would not recover at that point, and everything would be downhill. I wanted to spare my dear, loyal puppy that unneeded pain and fear. I took especial care of her that last day. I walked her, bathed her, brushed her. I fed her delicious people food she usually did not get to have. She trundled along after me, as always, but I could tell it was not a good day for her. I held her when it was time to let her go, and I felt her relax in my arms. The last thing she knew was my touch as I stroked her.
            Dandy was sixteen years and eleven months old. She died on August 16th, 2013 at 4:10 pm. That date and time is seared into my memory like no other.
            Everything I do now for the other animals, I do in memory of Dandy. I want her legacy to be the network of living, breathing animals I lend aid and comfort to. Dandy was my first rescue. I want the space she left in my heart to be filled with love for the current and future creatures who pass through my care. I can't just leave it empty.

A story about horses, part one

            I remember the first time I rode a horse all by myself. I was four years old. I had been sitting on horses since before I could walk, but always with a grown-up right there to catch me. I had never been afraid of a horse, and it did not occur to me until years later that anyone could ever fear horses, or what a horse could do to a child. 
            The first time I rode a horse all by myself, it was night time in the summer. Mark, the palomino gelding I had always known and who was truly my first horse, was munching away at his grain in his stall. I was sitting on his back, rubbing his shoulders and just generally feeling calm and happy. I was warm, I was comfortable, and I felt love for Mark and love from Mark. My parents were outside the stall, in the barn aisle, tending to the other horses. 
             A fox began to bark out in the woods. Mark never did like to be shut in a stall, so the outside door of his was left open. My parents never thought he would leave at dinner time, but that fox made him really curious. He lifted up his head and looked past me over his shoulder. I could feel him thinking, "What's that?" 
            Mark turned around, still slowly munching a mouthful of grain. He swiveled his ears back and forth and peered out into the darkness. I sat up and looked, too. Then he shifted his weight forward, and on we went out into the night to see what the fox was doing. I knew just what to do. I sat up, looking forward, and gathered his long white mane into my hands. I remember feeling peaceful and curious, and not at all afraid. Mark stepped out at a walk, but upon leaving the confines of the stall moved into a gentle trot. I held on, comfortable and unperturbed. It was fun, and I laughed. Mark would take care of me, and we would have a little adventure.
            My parents were alarmed. They shouted, but not too loudly for fear of spooking the horse, "Whoa! Whoa! Hang on, we're coming to get you!" I did not understand. Why were they coming to get me? Mark and I were doing great. We were going to see the fox.
            Dad came out through the stall, and jogged after us. But Mark and I paid him no mind. We trotted over to the fence and stopped, looking out into the trees. We could not see the fox, but that was all right. We were just curious, anyway. Dad came up next to Mark and reached up, pulling me down into his arms.
            "It's all right, I've got you," he said. I said, "You didn't need to. I was fine."

Introduction

            I live a hairy life. There is cat hair on my coffee mugs, dog hair on my carpets, horse hair on all my jackets and gloves. I have a feather collection - feathers that drifted across the barnyard at work from the domestic birds I help care for. I spotted these particularly pristine, but no longer needed, feathers and brought them home to admire.
            I work at Peace Ridge Sanctuary in Penobscot, Maine. I go to work in the morning and let the animals out, if it's not too cold. Then I clean as much as I can before noon. Then I rest. Then I go play with Fable the horse, and then I go home and care for my three cats, two foster dogs, and sometimes foster kittens. Then, I sleep. Tomorrow, I do it again.
            Why? Because they are all beautiful, every one of them. Because helping creatures live comfortably is something I have been driven to do for as long as I can remember. Because of the wonder that is another living, breathing being.
            Another thing I have always been driven to do is write. Write about my experiences, my ideas, my reactions to the world. It helps me organize my brain, but writing is also the medium in which I am most comfortable sharing and interacting with other people.
            So here I am, writing a blog about animal rescue. There will be pictures and videos. There will be stories. There will be ideas. This space is where I will present (parts of) my inner workings so that the world may benefit however it will. If you find value in what I post here, I am glad. I hope the animals benefit, too - I hope that what you find here helps you to go out in the big wide world and speak gently of other living creatures.