God Save You, If You Fall for a Horse-Girl!

So, back in October, we put Reno down.  It was a very hard decision.  Lots of you have been there.  I had great advice from multiple horse-owning friends, about how it could go if I did nothing, and I knew I didn't want to go there.  So it was done. 

I stayed away from the barn as much as possible.  Poor Princess got fed, and that was it.  Good thing I had bought those crazy goats.  They kept her company.  Another friend offered to bring me a loaner horse for the winter.  I even went to meet him.  Seemed fine.  But he was recovering from a significant injury and we wanted to be sure he was really, really healed up before he came.  So it went on a little longer than we planned.

And then I started looking on Craigslist...

Of course, you know where this is going.

I love to hunt.  I love the bargains.  I would like to think I have enough maturity to be sane about what I am contemplating.  I have mucked stalls in below-0 weather, busted frozen tanks, hauled water, dragged sandbags through rain, hauled hose through drought, put up hay, again and again and again--done it all.  This was the perfect opportunity to start down the ramp to less commitment, less work, more free time.   I had gotten another collie, so I would be able to show more in AKC.  After all, dogs can't kill me and I don't need a special vehicle to get them from here to there.

But I just couldn't put my saddle up for sale.  Even after I got bucked off my neighbor's horse and limped around for a month.  My significant birthday is coming up this year, and I still haven't made it to "combined training".  I learned that moniker back in 5th grade, when I was cleaning stalls all day on Saturday at my lesson barn, in order to earn 30 minutes of free riding time.  All the bigger girls went to "combined training".  I wasn't sure what it was, but I was sure I wanted to go.

I sold my saddle once, when Rachael was about a year old.  Handyman was sad for me, but I told him I would get another, and I did.  I rode Reno several times, have ridden Princess quite a few too.   And got a free horse from a nice lady in Michigan, and rode him a few times as well.  But still hadn't quite made the "love-connection"--which, like a good marriage, is more about long-term compatibility than about hearts and cupids and L-U-V.

There are always horses on Craigslist.  Most are half-broke, un-broke, green-broke, were-broke or too-thin/old/small/young to break.  There is always a smattering of expensive halter horses, ranch horses, great trail horses and sweet retirees that should be able to stay where they are forever.  And an even smaller portion of actual candidates for bus-driving wannabe's who can't quite give it up....

There was a nice looking TB gelding who had been an eventer and ridden by a 4h'er, available for FREE lease.  He had that good, smart, calm look about him.  He had one issue, the farrier, which was not insurmountable.  I made an appointment to see him--in January.  Bleh--a tough time to try a horse.  But he had that look on his face that reminded me of Reno, that decency you cannot dismiss.

But before I got to meet him, one night I searched "horse stall" on Craigslist because I had seen an ad for these iron stall fronts that were kind of cool, and I wanted to see if there was an affordable price range.  Just curiosity for curiosity's sake...I have stall fronts already, for cryin' out loud.  And half-way down the list of ads was a headline "DUTCH WARMBLOOD MARE $6000, MUST-SELL, MAKE OFFER"; so of course, I had to at least look. 

Notice it did not say anything about "stall fronts".  I do not look for mares.  I search "gelding".  I am a gelding person, except for Princess and she barely qualifies as a mare, since I have never seen her even put her ears back at any living thing, ever.  Well, the picture was great.  A big chestnut mare, in full-on dressage mode, white boots and all, doing her thing.  It was impressive. 

Have I mentioned that I specifically do not like chestnut mares?  I avoid them at all costs.  I make fun of them.  "CMS"--Chestnut Mare Syndrome, rhymes with PMS, something else no one enjoys.  I turn my head purposely away from chestnut mares.  But there was the very first horse I got in 4th grade, for free, Schnook.  She was a chestnut mare.

A chestnut mare that was 24 years old when I got her.  She was turned out in a 20-acre field with a bunch of other horses, and I could climb through the fence, catch her, bridle her and lead her over to the fence to get on.  I could ride her bareback, in that field; and if I fell off, she stopped and let me catch her again.  (What is up with that?!  Obviously, an angel from heaven taking the form of an old, sway-backed, chestnut quarter horse mare.)

Well, I avoided responding for about 48 hours.  I told myself all the reasons I could not own a chestnut mare, let alone a $6000, Dutch Warmblood, chestnut mare.  I found the ad again, against my will, and read it.  The person said the mare had been trail ridden, had been a show hunter, and had NO issues.  Said she was more interested in the home than the price and would entertain all offers to the right situation.  Wanted the horse to go to someone who had always wanted a quality horse but could never afford it.  (Pretty much sums up my horse life.)  So, since writing is one of my strong suits, I responded...

"Time will ease your pain.  Life's about changing.  Nothing ever stays the same."  That Patty Loveless song from 1999 has run through my mind many, many times.  Mostly because it is so true.  And then there's that great quote from The Sound of Music, "When God closes a door, He always opens a window."  Also true.

That beautiful horse in the picture above, is gone from our lives now.  He looks so wonderful there.  We were so lucky to have him.  I wonder if we will come across another as good, ever.

I had to make that horrible, horrible decision to say goodbye to Reno, the best horse ever, in the fall.  He was 29 and I only got to love him for 5 years.  What a great 5 years he gave me.  It was a beautiful day, and I didn't want to try to coax him through a tough winter when he couldn't really eat hay very well.  He was showing signs of pre-Cushing's syndrome, and was even foundering on the grass that came in after the drought ended.  So I couldn't turn him out very much, and he couldn't eat hay very well!  It was not a good situation. 

It was the right albeit terrible decision.  Several friends, whom I will never be able to repay, came and managed the whole process for me.  I could not attend.  Some may be able to do that, but when I talked with the vet on the phone, even she said she couldn't do it with her own horses.   The only good side to it, was that he could be buried here.  We had enough discussed it with several friends who had experience with the process and although Handyman thought it would be nigh-on impossible, it wasn't---again, thanks to some very helpful friends.

"Hi...if you're not doing anything today, could you come attend the euthanization of my 1000 lb. pet and put him in the ground for us? That would be great.  Thanks!  Oh, and I won't be here.  So good luck with all that." 

He is gone but not forgotten and we are getting a stone carved for his site, and planting a super knockout rose outside the fence nearby (otherwise those silly goats will eat it.)

Princess is a little lonely without him, but she does have her goatie girls.  I am not sure if I am actually done with horses.  I did get bucked off my neighbor's horse soon after Reno was gone.  It was not fun.  Probably the most painful part (okay not really), was that I was hurt and could not get back on and ride that sucker into submission myself.  Fortunately, I wasn't so hurt that I couldn't drive a bus! 

That realization that comes over you as you do the quicky assessment, while still lying on the ground....nothing is broke, but something is definitely messed up---dang! he is going to step on me if I don't move fast, and what will happen to my family if I am REALLY injured?!  No surgery today if I can get up quickly!  (which I did.)  But my back/pelvis was jammed up for about 3 weeks.  Sleeping on heating pad, Aleve for breakfast and very slow walking for about a month, and I am back to normal.  Also made me miss Reno all the more.

It was a nasty buck and twist and brought my age right into focus.  Will I keep doing this?  Should I just move over to dogs for good?  Handyman would love to turn that barn into a woodshop.  What  about llamas?  Yeah.  Llamas!  They can't kill me and #3 would love to show a llama at the fair. 

Me?  The one who has looked down my nose at llamas for many years, is actually signing the little one up to lease a llama for the summer.  Pack up the chaps, Honey.  We're getting a pet that can spit at us! :)  Oh, and you don't have to shovel their poop, and they don't need a farrier, and they don't bite or kick or rear or buck.  And, oh yeah...you can't ride them.  :(

Handyman wants to buy me a mountain bike...so we can spend time together.  It's pretty hard to say no to that.  I'm just not sure if I'm interested in working that hard.  Something about having the animal do the work, while I just hang on...but then we won't be hanging out together...


Well, you gotta try these things out, or you'll never know.  I don't think I would be able to turn down just the right horse if it came walking into my life, though.  We may borrow a horse from a friend, just for a companion.  But I'm not sure I'm ready to sell my saddle yet.

The Story of Mr. Bingley

When we scouted this place out back in 2002, there was an orange cat hanging around outside. The house was vacant. We were told it had been vacant for a year. And prior to that, had been a rental for awhile.

We are all cat lovers. Handyman, like my dad, loves cats. Handyman could never have cats as a child, because his brother is allergic. He had to satisfy himself with the barn cats at his grandparents farm, when he visited them every summer.

When we married in 1991, I had two cats. The amazing Chelsea, best female cat ever; and her neurotic mother, Monet. Monet and Handyman bonded while we were still dating, when she jumped out my open apartment window and landed (much to her surprise), one-story below ground in the old coal dump area outside my ancient apartment building. She was stranded in the brick, room-size well when he showed up one day, and like the prince he still is, he rescued her.

I remember telling my vet that I was getting married and needed to change my name in their files. He said, "You are going to ruin a perfectly good relationship by getting married?!" I replied, "He likes cats." Dr. McCune said, "Oh, I understand."

But back to Mr. Bingley. There was never a doubt in anyone's mind that we would tame any cat on the premises, once we moved in. Each time we came to look at this place, and talk ourselves into the big plunge of remodeling it; he was here. Big, orange and quiet, skulking around.

When we finally took posession, we saw him still. Not skinny, but skittish. Soon enough, little #2, almost 4 at the time, sat on the sidewalk by the garage and up he came, to pet her! He rubbed on her immediately and that was all there was to be done. He sniffed noses with our big male cat through the cracked-open patio doors and soon came in to join our family.

We had named this place Netherfield, an homage to our obsession with Jane Austen literature. (We try not to call it Neverdone, but that does creep in occasionally.) So the only logical name for this feline was Mr. Bingley, the popular owner of Netherfield, in Pride & Prejudice. The moniker fit, as our Mr. Bingley possessed all the same characteristics of his namesake: good humor, gentlemanlike behavior and kindness.

We enjoyed his wonderful presence for over a year. He never wandered far, always coming in at night. We were sure he appreciated his home. Then one day, no Mr. B. The next day, no Mr. B. It was heart-breaking. We printed flyers, called our neighbors, drove around calling. Nothing. He was gone. There was only one logical conclusion to all this: coyotes.

No matter what Hank the Cowdog says, coyotes are NO fun, at all. They wake us at night with their infernal partying. They eat our pets, feline and avian. They creep us out at all hours of the day and night. They had to have eaten our big buddy and what a roast he would have made. We were heartbroken.

A year went by. I picked out another cat at the humane society, when I was there getting some free barn cats. Tony, all personality in a short-haired package. He fit right in.



Then one day, a friend mentioned that he had a big orange cat that had showed up in his barn and was scaring his half-grown kittens that lived there. These friends live about a mile away, straight west as the crow flies, but across a swift-flowing creek, and a lot of fields. He asked if we were missing any cats?!

"Well, we were, about a year ago," I told him. It was a big, orange male cat. He said this one was shy, and hard to catch. But, he said once he caught him, the cat was not agressive, seeming to like being petted. He said his neighbors had told him that the cat had been hanging out in their barn until they chased it off. I couldn't believe that it could be our guy. It'd been too long. But I agreed to come look at it, the next time he was able to catch it.

So, when he called early one morning, I went over. We had three cats in the house then, since we had acquired Tony. I did not need another cat. I knew better than to take #2 or #3. They would want to bring home any cat from anywhere. They didn't clean litter boxes. #1 wanted to go, and since she was beginning to show signs of adult behavior, I agreed.

When we got there, our friend Rob was standing at the far end of his barn holding this giant pumpkin-colored cat and I gasped. Mr. Bingley was a big bulky cat with very matte hair. It wasn't shiny or sleek. It was very unique, I thought. This guy had it. As I went closer, I didn't think it was Mr. B. The face seemed wider and the eyes were green. Mr. B. had gold eyes, almost exactly the color of his fur.

But everything else was the same. The size, the color, the hair. He was neutered. He was kind. He was heavy. We agreed to take him. Can eye color change? I didn't feel like I could say, "almost, but no." So home we came.

He never hissed at any of our other cats. They never hissed at him. He immediately took up residence on the foot of my bed, where he sleeps every single night. He goes out, wanders around and comes right in. He never skulked around the house. He was never intimidated by our tribe of very vocal dogs. But his eyes are definitely not gold.




We got out the scrapbook and looked at the old pictures of Mr. B. This guy has the same number of little stripes in the middle of his forehead. We couldn't bring ourselves to call him Mr. Bingley in the beginning. We were only about 85% sure it was him. But then, we couldn't not call him Mr. Bingley.

We avoided the issue for awhile and called him "the interloper", "the impostor", and "the stunt double". Then he just became Mr. Bingley again. If he is not the original, he is so precious a duplicate, that I feel blessed to know him. If he is the original, I am, of course, thankful that he was protected and generously returned to us.

And so to quote Spenser, through Jane Austen's Sense & Sensibility: "For there is nothing lost, but may be found, if sought..."

Move over, Reno!

The fame is spreading here at Netherfield! Reno was simply the first of our stock to go Hollywood! (I'm sure someone will be contacting me soon about writing a cookbook, for people who don't have kitchens.)

We received word last month, that Tucker the Wonder Dog, and his sister, Tasha the Judge-Nipper have gone global!

2012 Welsh Corgi Calendar from Brown Trout



Taken almost two years ago, my little rodents' picture made the cover! I told Handyman, we now have celebrities pooping in our yard!

I know there have been several catty comments going on around the water dish, about the "younger set" getting all the attention. But we are doing our best to keep everyone on the same pay grade.

I did make a complete fool of myself at Tractor Supply, showing the clerks my dogs. They were like, "Oh, you have corgis." I'm going, "No. These are actually my dogs."

They say, "Those are your actual dogs?"

Me: "Yes! It's so exciting."

Them: "Cool. Here's your change." They were clearly in awe.

So, since my dogs' photo is by far superior to several of the other months, I have already cut up my calendar. Using the cover shot to cover up the ridiculously bad January selection. February is a cute blue merle Cardi, so I will go with that. March is, of course, MY DOGS, so that will do. June is #1's best friend's dog, Sparky, so we will keep that one. And all the rest will probably be hidden.

I am not one bit of a stage mother. Don't think it for a second. The girls haven't minded giving up their beds for the corgis at all.

Hollywood comes to Reno

The greatest horse in the world finally got some notice...and brought in a little cash, for once!

Handyman has a side gig, other than remodeling. He does lighting for film and tv. And every now and then, he lets us be part of it. Back in the 90's, #1 got to be in a spot for the Children's Museum. I think that was the last time we got to be part of it.

All the girls wanted to meet Jim Varney, but that didn't work out. #1 wouldn't go meet Jake Lloyd, no matter how much we begged her. She did get to stand next to Peyton Manning, but Handyman didn't introduce them. #2 did get to meet Julianne Hough, her personal hero, and get her picture taken with her.

#3 doesn't get it yet.

After I bathed him and sprayed his tail with Pam spray (a quickie detangler), he was ready for his close-up:

As is usually the case, he did take after take after take, patiently and with good humor. He was a little put off by the big fuzzy mike, but kept his cool.

Meanwhile, the peanut gallery begged for handouts:


The spot turned out beautifully! click HERE

I even got to be in it! But Reno deserved much more screen time. It's the second time in my life that I have received a free, 24-year old horse that has changed my life.

On the Road Again

We headed back out onto the gravel road, across the rickety bridge and hung a left onto the bigger gravel road, that eventually joined the paved road. The goats were making their goat noises and we were all laughing, and it was sprinkling rain again.

I only missed one turn, amazingly. I do have some weird innate talent for directions or at least remembering how to get somewhere once I have been there. It's not as great a skill as my wacko-memory for phone numbers, but it's pretty handy.

We came upon the "knife sale" place again, and #2 piped up from the back seat, "Don't make eye contact!" I thought I would crash, laughing so hard. Then we heard the water noise. And it wasn't water. Then I had this flash-back to my friend April saying, "Goats pee a lot." It honestly never occured to me that a goat would pee IN MY CAR, WHILE IT WAS MOVING. I guess I figured they would be uncomfortable or unsure enough, to just hold it.

I was wrong.

Okay, well we have that plastic floor mat, that has curved edges and there is hay to soak some up. What else can we do, but continue?

As we were getting closer to civilization and it was supper time, I did agree to whip into a McD's for girl sustenance. But I stayed in the car, while they ran in and ran out. The sky was getting darker, and we had a ways to go, albeit all interstate from here on out.

As we pulled back out onto the road, we heard it again..."water". Ick. Oh well.

The rain really started coming down as we merged onto the interstate. I do have a small amount of weather phobia, handed down through the generations, like Bubonic Plague. I have done my best to overcome it, and had a modest amount of success with that. Being a mom, and a great actress, has its rewards.

But I do much better when I can look at the radar screen, which I could not, in the car. So I did the next best thing, which is to turn on my favorite, local talk radio station. They always have current weather info. I trust them. I have listened to this same radio station since I was a child. The child of a woman with weather phobias...

So I turn on the radio, and I turn up my windshield wipers. Coincidentally, we are friends with a talk-show host on this radio station. He is personable, generous and very kind to my girls. So when his familiar, smooth voice came right into our car, we felt a little safer...until he broke into his own show to start announcing tornado warnings, and sightings.

I continued to drive north, not going much slower for the weather. Our friend, on the radio announced, "If you are in the area of Taylorsville, you should take cover immediately! A tornado has been sighted west of Taylorsville, heading east at 20 mph. Take cover immediately."

Amazingly, it was at that very moment that we passed the giant, green interstate sign that read, "Taylorsville, 1/2 mile." #2 shrieked from the backseat, where the goat was letting go once again, "Mom! Are we in Taylorsville?! That sign says Taylorsville!"

There was this weird juxtaposition in my head. Our friend's voice, so comforting...was now scary to us and that just didn't fit in my brain. My only thought was, "What would Handyman do?" I knew he wouldn't stop. There were semi's blowing by me, as I slowed because the rain was so heavy that even high speed wipers weren't doing the job.

I just knew that Handyman would not stop, and so I was not stopping on the side of the road, in a deluge, in an SUV with GOATS in it, to wait for a tornado to come.

I told #2 to watch out the left side. If she saw, actually saw, a tornado, I would consider pulling over. I explained to her that I could drive north at 55-65 mph, and that was a lot better than a tornado moving towards us at 20 mph. We weren't going to sit and wait to be hammered. We could beat it.

I don't suppose it helped much that I had let them watch Twister that summer.

We kept listening to our friend on the radio, telling us to take cover. The sky was that awful shade of green/black, that you learn as a midwestern child. That color that just means "fear".

I can't remember if anyone prayed out loud. If we didn't, I know we all were praying silently. Even the goats.

And sure enough, as always happens in this crazy state, we drove away from the chaos--never saw a funnel cloud--and into bright, beautiful sunshine. By the time we crossed into the downtown area, it was all clearly behind us.

Only I would drive through a tornado, with two goats in a car. These things never happen to other people. We made it home. Handyman had made a little pen for "the goatie girls" and a little hayrack in their stall. We unloaded them into the barn area, where they peed again. #1 heroically cleaned out Handyman's truck immediately, as per my instructions, so as to hide the unpleasant details from her dad.

I swore them both to secrecy--the girls, not the goats. They were never to tell their father that 2 goats had urinated in his car, multiple times...no matter how funny it was. What ever possessed him to put that tar paper under those floor mats, is beyond me. But I can't tell you how thankful I was for that.

Handyman, who actually loves Jane Austen, and all our theme-related pet names, actually named the new girls...Flora and Fauna. And yes, I know it is not Jane Austen'ish. But once we heard them, we knew we'd hit on the right ones.

(If anyone has a day-trip to beat that one, I would love to hear about it!)

Goat Saga, chapter 3

Before I continue, my daughters have pointed out that they BEGGED me to go along. I did not draft them. They couldn't bear the thought of me being alone on such a long drive--and seeing something first! Thank heavens for their selfishness. Not sure I would have made it without them. Misery loves company.

They also both testify that when we passed the "Knife Sale" domicile, there was a man out front...with a long beard. I am not kidding. I did not see that gentleman, because I could not take one eye off the windy, curvy road. I only saw the knife sale sign because it was on a 4x5' sheet of plywood leaning up against the mailbox. And "Knife Sale" is not a sign one sees frequently. I think it was God's providence that I did not see that gentleman. Or else we might not be goat owners today.

And so I continue, we DID actually turn off the paved road. By this time, the road signs were just random numbers and letters strung together. In the flat counties where I grew up, west of Indianapolis, those numbers mean something. Usually they relate to the orientation of the roads based on the county seat. But down here, where all surfaces slant and sometimes you can't even see the sun, I doubted there was any plan to it.

We wandered a little on the gravel road and then, were to turn left onto a smaller road, that had a rickety little bridge, I kid you not. My daughters, of course, do not know anything about "Deliverance"; but I'm telling you, by this time, my heart is doing a little jig and the infamous music is playing in my head. And my mother's voice is ringing out, "Why would you bring two young girls out here, for a CRAIGSLIST ad?! Have you completely lost your senses?!" And I was agreeing with her.

Then suddenly the mailbox with the right number appeared, and there was a clean, modest little house with a barn. The cars looked like they were in working order. The sun was shining. My mother's voice faded somewhat. We got out.

There was nothing fancy, and nothing scary, in immediate view anyway. A nice, tall woman came out and she knew my name, so we had actually arrived, sans GPS even! As we entered the dark, cool barn, I had a small wave of fear, but was quickly settled by a healthy, shiny horse, and the ambient smells and sounds of a farmyard.

We met our girls, one of whom was relatively wild...a young 'un she hadn't taken much time with. She was the one going into the dog crate. The big girl was tame and like all goats, curious and bright-eyed. The girls loved them at once. The lady told us the goats had just taken a leak, so we might be able to avoid that in the car. (This had not crossed my mind really. Or if it had, I guess I thought goats wouldn't feel comfortable enough in a moving car, to pee. Too late now.)

We were able to load the little gal into the crate. She was about the size of a small German Shepherd. The larger goat wasn't too keen on jumping into the back of my Expedition, which I had stocked with hay, for eating or sleeping on. So the lady just gathered her up, all 85 lbs of her, and hefted her in. Down came the tailgate and the bleating began.

As with horses in a trailer, once they're in--you hit the road. I handed over the cash, we waved and back out on the gravel we went. And I reminded #1 that we now had to follow those directions backwards. I hope she had been paying attention because it might be important...I had absolutely no idea where we were.

Since it's my birthday, I will blog B4 I work!

So, it was a beautiful summer afternoon, as #1, #2 and I headed off in search of our next farm addition: The Goat Girls! We spent much of the time pondering what names would fit with our Jane Austen theme. I think we were pretty settled on Jane and Lizzie, or Eleanor and Marianne. Although Marianne didn't seem very goatish to me.

The drive was lovely and we soon arrived in Brown County, with its charming, windy roads. As we turned off the main state road, with which I felt familiar, it had started to rain. And as this is Indiana, the sun was still shining brightly and the rain was heavy enough for wipers. We continued to wind south, I think.

I had written directions off my email and had an address. We wound down past the Story Inn, which I have been to once before. I remembered that it was in the absolute middle of nowhere, and felt a little blip of anxiety as we turned away from Story and headed off in a new direction, on a smaller road.

Then I paid a little more attention to my written instructions and noted that it said 20 miles past Story. I gulped. Twenty MORE miles, on this road? I'm sure I spoke out loud at that point, because I am not known for shutting up at appropriate times. It was something like this, "Good grief! How much further now?!" At which point #2 asked from the back, "Are we in Kentucky?" and we all laughed. "Who knows? We could be close to it, at this rate."

The rain sort of ended, but the curving road did not. I'm sure if the roads were straight, we would have been on our way home by now. I really wanted to see this route from the air--or maybe not.

The homes got smaller and further between. We saw a mobile home on a sharp slope, with skirting that made almost a basement underneath the one end, seriously. Out in front of this place was a piece of plywood propped on the mailbox, handpainted to say "Knife Sale" ?!? I shrieked a little, and pressed on the accelerator harder.

And I drove a little faster and wondered what in the world was I doing, bringing two daughters into the hill-country on a Craigslist expedition to pick up goats from someone I have never seen and don't know?! What if it was a nefarious trap?! There isn't good cel coverage down here...what have I done?!? I had some confidence in the tone of the emails we had exchanged. The language the woman used indicated knowledge of dairy goats--I tried to soothe my anxiety.

I kept driving and driving and finally, and in Jeff Foxworthy's immortal words, "we turned off the paved road..."

Adventures in animal procurement

I haven't shared this hilarious story from last summer, and I want to do so before I forget it all. I am old, now. In 2010, I was far enough beyond breast cancer to begin a post-cancer mid-life crisis that for me, predictably, involved horses. I found a 5 year-old thoroughbred, with no issues, on the Internet, and obtained him--without specifically asking my husband--for free. The owner delivered him to the stable I where I've been connected for many years and I thought all my dreams had finally come true.



It was very exciting. I owned a TB. He was handsome and athletic and I was boarding him at a real stable. It was what I had wanted all my life, honestly. It was also over 90 degrees every single day from May on. It was quickly determined that he would need training that I couldn't provide. Then I started cleaning stalls to pay for the training.

I had learned in college that I could trade hard, honest work for whatever horse-stuff I couldn't afford. And I was eager to sustain my fantasy that I could be a good wife, mother, rural property owner and equestrienne. I would drive 12 miles one-way to clean stalls for several hours. Then I would groom my horse after someone else had ridden him and I would drive home exhausted, cook for my family, do laundry and clean my barn. Just what every girl dreams of...

Long story short, he wasn't quite the right fit for me. A terrific horse, a tremendous opportunity, but I couldn't sustain the training he needed, either financially or logistically. So I made other arrangements for him and began a descent into horse-divorce depression. Death of a dream. And in order to short circuit that mourning period, I decided I'd get what I'd REALLY been wanting--dairy goats.

I was sure that my horse phase had officially ended. I had had to work myself to the bone to pay off the training debts for a horse I couldn't consistently ride. I told myself that I was too old, too weak, too chicken and too poor for any more horsey adventures. Goats would be just right. They couldn't kill me. I didn't have to be brave and I didn't have to do a whole lot with them to prove myself to anyone. And, Handyman and I love goat cheese...

So, I found just the ones I was looking for on that mother-of-all bulletin boards: Craigslist. Two dairy does, under a year old. Specifically, an Alpine and a Toggenburg (which I had wanted since my first summer camp job in Michigan, where we had one.) Toggs are uncommon and so this convinced me that I was destined to be a great goat cheese maker. The arrangements were made.

These two little gals were down south, a little more than an hour away. In hill country. I had discussed with the owner about putting the smaller goat in our large wire dog crate. She thought that would work, but thought the bigger goat would not fit in a crate. I was not going to borrow someone's horse trailer to pick up two little, albeit not mini, goats. The dog crate would take up one half of the back of the Expedition and the larger goat would have to be loose, next to the crate.

I am not terribly knowledgeable about goats, but a little horse and dog experience, some riding instructor safety training and enough fear of the unknown to keep me wary, made me think that an unrestrained goat weighing almost 100 lbs., loose in the back of my Expedition might not be the smartest decision ever. So, Handyman graciously cut a piece of plywood to fit upright behind the seat of his Expedition. The Expedition with the rubber floor mat with the curved edges. (This will be important later.) Handyman is such a smart guy that he took the mat out and put roofing felt paper underneath the mat, to cover the holes where the seatbelt clamps are placed. I don't know why he thought of this, but we were all so thankful for this foresight.

I drafted #1 and #2 to go with me. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon and we were driving to one of the most scenic areas of our state to pick up our new pets. What fun! (Why Handyman puts up with these sporadic plunges of mine that always involve money and more work, is beyond me!)

Dreamin'

What if your dream horse came into your life belonging to someone else? The color you wanted...the build you wanted...the talent you wanted...the personality you wanted. Would you be happy, or jealous, or a little of both?

What if you were busy living your life and he was more than you could ever spend on a horse, but you got to ride him, for free?

What if the more you got to know him, the more you loved him and then you had to stop riding him because he was going to go showing with someone else?

What if you didn't get to see him again for awhile? Would you be able to just fuggedaboutit--sorta like a high school romance, great and dramatic, but burnt out and over.

What if you could have him, at your house, indefinitely...but he was too lame to ever jump again and might not become sound?



What if your husband said, "That's why we built three stalls." :)

Pinch me...I think I'm dreaming...

NFL Combine

Yeah, yeah...I know all about the Combine. Handyman worked the Combine, all 23 days of it. He shot each of the candidates ("future millionaires" as he called them) inside a big black box, opposite the greenscreen, where his co-worker, a young married woman, spent her days spraying the young men down with water...so they'd look sweaty.

But here at Neverdone, we have our own stinkin' Combine. It's the NFL Combine, and by that I mean Neverdone Farm Labor Combine...where we evaluate candidates' abilities to cut the mustard, as it were, here on the farm.

Our first draftee (and by "draftee" I mean indentured servant), shows great promise and has the added advantage of living here, so her commute would be short...

Here she is demonstrating the poop-sled tow. This is an incredibly important skill, as our ATV has a serious starter disability right now. Handyman keeps asking why, if the horses are so wonderful, they forget to poop outside? Doesn't this young athlete look great?!



Once you reach the dumping ground, you gotta unload that sled, and Candidate #1 has it all together here. Her technique is efficient and smooth. Her demeanor is stable (no Ryan Leaf episodes here!) Let's see what she can do in the barn...



Here, #1 demonstrates that old quad-cramper, the muck tub drag--again, a crucial skill every barn worker must be able to do, a lot.

And then there's the "unload"--this is where skill is vital! Without the proper skill set, you can wind up with a big mess and twice as much work! #1 again shows she is the go-to-gal, with this brilliant, neat download!





After a quick tete-tete with her agent, #1 considers our contract offer (room and board with phone and internet privileges and the possibility of driving a motor vehicle and an assortment of Goodwill clothing) and discusses whether she's ready for the next big step...

Top 10 List

Year's End

I love New Year's...it's a great big way to wipe the slate clean and go at it once again. Like Mondays, only a lot more fun and with great snacks! I got to go to lunch with BFF today, cleaned my stalls this morning and wear my way-cool purple shiny silk shirt from GW again. So it's already been a good New Year's Eve afternoon.

But to succinctly wrap it up, I'll give you my Top 10 Lists for 2010.

Top 10 Things for which I Am Grateful:

1. A personal relationship with the one, true God, through the person of His only Son, Jesus Christ. This has to come first, not because it should but because it is the filter through which I try to live, really. That doesn't make me better than anyone, or smarter or more spiritual. I am the chief among sinners, but thankfully, I am "on the line" and appreciate each time the Lord reels me in for a little one-on-one with the Holy Spirit, reminding me of the stupidity of "going it alone". I tell my children, the only hope we have is through Jesus. Hope for the future of our country, hope for our lives, hope for the dreams that are in each of us.

2. Loving, kind, well-mannered, funny parents. Yep, they're all that and more. I am thankful for their raising of me and their continued relationship which has evolved into a wonderful friendship, where I get all their best stuff! As I have posted here many times, my poor dad is still barn-building for me after all these years! And my mother will soon begin sleeping more peacefully, knowing that my kitchen/laundry/dog kennel/storage room will soon be completely demolished and replaced with something akin to a...kitchen!

3. Of course, HANDYMAN! I am what I yam because of him. Really. My parents got the first couple decades, but I grew up a lot when I met Handyman, because I wanted him to like me. I paid attention to what was important to him and I morphed! I gave up some of the goofy, girly nonsense and got serious about being a grown-up. I also read Debi Pearl's "Created to be a Help Meet" and learned how Biblical truths will always, always, always work--duh! And then of course, I read 17 years worth of This Old House magazine, so I can converse intelligently about moulding, spray-on insulation foam, underlayment, fiber cement siding and drip edge. ;)

4. My Bratinellas--all three of 'em. Because, well because I like them better than I like anyone else's bratinellas! They know me. They know my bark is worse than my bite and they know that I am trying to teach them things it took me awhile too long to learn...like picking up after oneself. They know Mommy loves Daddy the most and she's gonna do what he wants first. And they forgive me...thank heavens!

5. My awesome estate. Some might disagree with me, but it's wonderful in the summer, and terrific on dark, starry nights and pretty in the fall and wonderful in spring and even pretty in winter. It continues to evolve into something more terrific each year. And this year will be the biggie: New kitchen, back room stops being a storage unit and will become living space, with NEW back staircase, new laundry room, new mudroom. And I'm gonna make Handyman build a riding ring, pour concrete on the barn porch and frame up the tack room, so I can really ride horses again. (My dad better get back soon. There's work afoot.)

6. My critters. Goes without saying. Even on the most bitter winter mornings, IN THE DARK, once I get out there, I am so glad to be with them and feed them and rub their long, shiny winter coats. They give me something to get out of bed for...durn it! And the ones in the house are even better with that non-stop flow of love. Poor Handyman, didn't know what he was getting into. I promised him, once the kids left, I would be a crazy cat lady, who cleans the litter boxes. Next up, baby goats and bees!

7. I have this amazing, small circle of friends who are as faithful and loyal as anything I could have hoped for. When you're in high school, you think your friends are so deep and true and life-long and nothing could be further from the truth! You don't even know what life is about or what hard really is. When your friendships aren't about what any of you are wearing or doing, but about slogging on through devastating personal crisis or illness or significant loss and you keep linking your arms together and pulling forward and laughing whenever possible and taking care and not calling as much as you should...this is friendship. And I have been the beneficiary of some beautiful friends over the last decade or so. Women who I should get together with MUCH more than I do...who have been the sisters that I never had to grow up with!

8. In-Laws--I sure lucked out in this department. When I hear the stories from others, I almost can't believe the grief other women suffer. My in-laws have given me about 2 hours total of trouble in 20 years. Maybe less. In return, I have eaten at their table and opened their gifts and dumped off the bratinellas many, many times. My FIL is gone now, but I remember that a long time ago he told Handyman to get on with marrying me or he would do it himself!

9. My health. Of course there is no order to the things on this list. They're all about equal for me. But this would fall pretty high. Having walked through cancer, I feel stronger and surer and much, much more focused and I am glad for that experience. I recognize moments now and am more willing to sit and soak them up. I can just enjoy time for what it is. I regained a sense of wonder about much that was being swallowed up in the inanity of everyday American existence.

I am THANKFUL for the "broken" American healthcare system that allowed me to pick my doctors, and organize my treatment program according to what I wanted and needed. I didn't require the approval of anyone or anything. We pay our own health insurance, and for the majority of our medical needs, we pay for those too. My insurance company didn't give me one minute's trouble about anything I needed and I was NOT booted out. I didn't ask anyone else to pay for me and I'll be the first to join the group of "folks who don't want to pay for others' healthcare".

10. I'll be a little flippant and just say, that I love the internet. I love shopping on it. I love reading other blogs. I love reading the news on it. I love emailing my kids' teachers. I love skyping with my parents. I love watching old tv shows and movies, INSTANTLY. I love watching horse-for-sale ads on youtube. Okay, I love the White Knuckles dog video on YouTube. I even like Facebook, a little. The internet is awesome, and I hope the government keeps its grimy, greedy big paws off of it!

Leave me your list, if you wish!

Summer in full swing

It is with great relief and a fist full of benadryl, that I announce "the first cutting is in the barn!" Yee ha--what a summer it has already been.

You may remember that last summer, the very kind firefighter around the corner, GAVE me his 3 acre field of grass/alfalfa hay. It was my first time to be master of my own destiny and what a lot did I learn! I learned head knowledge about hay and made contacts. I learned to be obsessed with the weather forecast and then to not trust anything I heard. I learned that no matter how well my plans were laid, I really had no control over anything. And I learned not to cry, because trusting the Lord is much more rewarding, even in matters of animal fodder.

So this year, I have that same field and I called my "Hay Guy" from last year. He was glad to hear from me and tipped me off that he would be fishing in Canada the first week of June. I could/should call him whenever I thought the weather was ripe for cutting...dum dum dum...heavy hangs the head that wears the hay crown.

Now last year, the month of June was NINE INCHES over for precipitation. Last year I didn't get the hay cut until JULY 3--AND THEN IT RAINED ON CUT HAY FOR TWELVE HOURS on the fourth of July. Do you see the ulcers forming in my duodenum? I get a twitch over my eye just typing "rain on hay for twelve hours". I prayed for a new learning experience this year...learned the whole rain lesson, Lord, TYVM.

So this year, I called the Hay Guy the Sunday, a week before Memorial Day and by golly, we got her done! And the absolute most wonderful thing happened to me--I got to drive the tractor with the baler attached. It was one of the highlights of my life--I know I could not stop smiling. I almost cried. I will never forget how wonderful it was. There was just something about the perfect weather, bright sunshine, the great smell of the hay and the process that just charmed me.

And then, Handyman actually got off work at a reasonable hour and he showed up at the field while I was driving the tractor. Could it get better?? There was a small crimp in the happiness when Handyman tried to back the hay wagon up to our barn. You may be nodding your head right now, thinking "You CANNOT back a hay wagon." And you'd be right in saying just that.

I was in the hayloft at that time, sweeping vigorously in order to keep my lips together. #1 was down below, yelling directions at her father, and then yelling up at me to call my neighbor to come over to back the wagon FOR her father. I explained to her that I would do no such thing and that she should keep her lips zipped.

45 minutes later, we settled for having the haywagon in the same field as the barn and cursed our complete lack of foresight in how we laid this whole place out. It is completely unhandy, in every possible way--But it looks nice from the driveway. Fortunately we had hired two teenage boys to loft the bales from the trailer across the three-foot gap to the barn loft door. We kept the teenage girls in the loft, catching the bales.

No elevator this time--Handyman thinks elevators are for wimps--okay, not really. But we were in a hurry, what with all that time spent trying to back towards the barn, from the north, from the west and then the north again. The rain has been pretty frequent since then and I see lots of hay still in fields all around here, almost falling over.

And I'm SO completely thankful to have my first cutting successfully put up! I'm looking forward to getting at least one more cutting and HOPING I get to drive the baler again. I'd be willing to pay more just for the chance to do it. Call me crazy!

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Yeah, yeah, yeah. My one fan (ccw) told me to my face the other night, that he was bummed that I wasn't blogging. Frankly, I'm bummed that I'm not blogging. I think about blogging every day. Then I think I must be pretty vain to think that my life is so entirely interesting that I qualify for daily blogger status. I mean how many times can you blog about where you have found socks? Or how many types of manure you handle in one day? (Bet I'd win.)

But really, the world is turning here at Netherfield. On Valentine's Day, Handyman's dad went into the hospital, and stayed for a long time. They tried to send him to a rehab a couple of times, but he got bounced back and then after yelling in my face that he wanted to die, he up and did just that.

It was my first up-close experience with death of a close loved one. I got to experience every single step of it, even the final end. I don't know how people go through this stuff without knowing Christ personally. What a bulwark it was for me to have God to rely on in all the various stages, with all the people I needed to help, in all the ways I was called upon to help.

All these decades of reading Dear Ann Landers and Carolyn Hax, and Billy Graham and all those columns in the magazines about life, have really helped. I was able to walk through those weeks without regret, saying what I needed to say and thanks to my dad, peeking during an altar call, I was able to reassure a lot of people that Grandpa knew Christ. And that was the ultimate peace for me and Handyman. We could say goodbye.

It was the first funeral I went to as a representative, rather than an attendee. And our friends came out of the woodwork--and what a blessing that was. You know how you never want to go to a funeral and you wonder if it's even worth your time...well it is. We were so blessed by the friends who toiled through an insane traffic jam to see us, just briefly--who bought us food because the stupid funeral home didn't even have a coffee pot that worked, who put on lunches for a huge entourage after the way-out-of-town burial--who colored with our kids in the funeral home kitchen so we could keep shaking hands. Note to self: remember how many ways you can be the body of Christ.

I actually stood at someone's bedside as they passed into eternity and I had absolutely no fear in my heart because I had said goodbye, days before, face to face, when he knew what I was saying AND because I knew he had asked Christ into his heart. Honestly, I always wondered if he remembered that he did that, and I probably should have talked more about it with him, but "that peace that passes all understanding" thing? It's real.

I could walk my kids through this first major loss of their lives with confidence in God and offer them peace for their broken little hearts.

Spring is coming now, I think. We have chicks in our attic room, with their mothers. We have contractors bidding on some alterations to our roof that are LONG overdue. My new horse is in training and I also have the opportunity to ride some other nice horses, to get legged up. #1 thinks she might get her drivers license this summer and #2 and #3 are going to school in the fall. Should be an interesting summer.

I have about 295 blogs in my head regarding the switch from homeschooling to public school, that I will be happy to unload at some point, but we're wrapping up some strep throat, orthodontia and raccoon attacks, so I really have to get out of this chair. Oh, and I didn't get pictures of the big crawdad I caught in the pasture this morning, complete with tail full of caviar, I mean eggs. I did release her into the creek and boy was she happy...

I haven't been posting because..........

because I gave up complaining about the weather for Lent! It's true. One of my daughters gave up wearing pants (which is wearing a little thin with her at this point.) I couldn't really think of anything I relished that I could possible give up, without harming someone else..."I won't clean the chicken house for Lent".

Then it dawned on me. I love to complain about the weather. It is the one thing I allow myself to complain about. I complain heartily. I complain about the weather with regularity. It is the outlet for the sarcasm I try to banish from the rest of my speaking day. I had to admit; I LOVE complaining about the weather.

And this state gives me so much material to work with. So, I gave up complaining abou the weather for Lent. It is a big sacrifice this year, because of the ridiculous statistics we are racking up here. But, I shan't go into them now.

Our life is roller-coastering right now as Handyman's father has been in the hospital since Valentine's Day. Two times he was sent out to rehab (after having a feeding tube put into his stomach). And two times he has been rushed back to the hospital. Today he is being moved to hospice. It is not going to be a long stay.

I am confident that he answered the call of Christ in the recent past and can rest assured that he will be free from his failing physical body soon.

Winter blues

Well, the firefighter came and plowed out our driveway for us--first time ever to have that done. And it is appreciated. The piano teacher came zooming up the driveway in her little sedan, lamenting about customers cancelling. She said this is nothin' compared to northern Illinois. We must have gotten about 8" last week. It is pretty, I'll say that. And a ton more coming in tonight.

But I'm done with it. And now the Colts have lost. And Handyman is in Connecticut, via truck, not plane. And then there's this...in my chair, in my office, this morning...and on the floor. (Okay--I took the picture on my phone to send it to Handyman and then I cleaned it up and I don't know how to send it to my computer.) IT was a mouse, in a couple of pieces on the floor next to my chair and IN my chair, was barfed up more mouse with a big wet spot and a pile of erp. Aren't you glad I don't know how to send it from my phone. I'll be happy to send it to your phone if you like...

This never happens when he's home. Either the vermin sense his missing presence and they stridently march in, or the cats are just lazy when he's here, thinking he'll cover for them. Either way--it NEVER happens during the day. And that means, mice are running around here at night!

Where's my Lysol? Where's the sun? It's 8 degrees this morning and I have the Superbowl Blues. My favorite commercial--probably the Google ad, followed by the Underwear in the Office people. The Who (who I never liked, never listened to and was shocked that they were chosen), was undoubtedly the WORST halftime show EVER. They should have gotten Garth Brooks or Tim McGraw AND Faith Hill or Billy Joel and Elton John or someone who could sing! And what's a pinball wizard? That was the only song I had even heard of.

Horses--the gift that keeps on taking!

That is a quote from my Uncle Rick--equine benefactor! Here's a funny list I found at a new horse blog: Always There Are The Horses...

Since I am in the horse-shopping mode, determined to get my batootie back into the show ring, after twenty-odd years, I need all the advice I can get:

Check out this humorous list of 10 simple exercises that will help you become a better equestrian.

10. Drop a heavy steel object on your foot. Don't pick it up right away. Shout, "Get off, Stupid, GET OFF!"

9. Leap out of a moving vehicle and practice "relaxing into the fall." Roll tightly into a ball and spring to your feet.



8. Learn to grab your checkbook out of your purse and write out a $200 check without even looking down.



7. Jog long distances carrying a halter and a carrot. Go ahead and tell the neighbors what you are doing - they might as well know now.



6. Affix a pair of reins to a moving freight train and practice pulling to a halt. Smile as if you are having fun.



5. Hone your fibbing skills: "See hon, moving hay bales is FUN!" and "No, really, I'm glad your lucky performance and multimillion dollar horse won the blue ribbon. I am just thankful that my hard work and actual ability won me second place."

4. Practice dialing your chiropractor' s number with both arms paralyzed to the shoulder and one foot anchoring the lead rope of a frisky horse.



3. Borrow the US Army's slogan: Be All That You Can Be -- bitten, thrown, kicked, slimed, trampled, frozen...

2. Lie face down in a puddle of mud in your most expensive riding clothes and repeat to yourself, "This is a learning experience, this is a learning experience, this is ..."



1. THE NUMBER ONE EXERCISE TO BECOME A BETTER EQUESTRIAN: Marry money.

My New Year is just getting started...

Due to family illness and the glorious weather, our holiday season dragged out for quite awhile. Which isn't always a bad thing. It was fun, there was lots of food and I got a boot dryer!

What woman doesn't want/need a boot dryer?! Any woman, like me, who treks to her barn and henhouse four or more times a day, needs a boot dryer. I also had to pull out the YakTrax I got last year. These are stretchy traction devices for the bottoms of my boots. My chickens are envious, but I think their little toenails would get in the way.

It wouldn't be winter here at Netherfield/Neverdone if we didn't have a chicken in the kitchen and this year is no exception. One day last week, I was setting out the little banty hen who has decided to go broody (it's winter you moron!)and I discovered she had been sitting on/in a broken egg. Ugh. It's way too cold for that. At first I set her outside to get some water, thinking I had pulled out all the egg bits. But a Rhode Island Red came over immediately and started pecking at the little gal, so it was off to the kitchen for a grooming session.

Keep in mind that we do have a slop-sink bathroom off our kitchen, so I am not talking about bathing a chicken in my kitchen sink! And what morning would be complete with bathing a chicken. Chickens are not big on bathing, even when they need it and this little gal was no exception. She was fortunate to get a warm water bath and I discovered her entire belly is completely bald! She has made a big brood patch on her belly to keep the eggs warm!

So then I got started blow-drying. Other than becoming alarmed when she could see herself in the full-length mirror, she LOVED being blow-dryed on low. She almost sprawled out on my lap to help! And there's no better smell for your kitchen than a boot-dryer on high with a little blow-dried chicken on the side!

Every day is another mind-numbing routine of busting and refilling water bowls for chickens, barn cats and horses. There is a heater in the horse water tank that runs on a timer and this week I have been shoveling clean snow into the tank. If it would ever get warm enough to melt just a little, the snow on the steel barn roof will melt and channel into the tank. But for now, it's easier to shovel powdery snow than to haul water out there.

The barn cats sit faithfully on their little heating mats and eat their canned food quickly. Whatever freezes in their dish, I give over to the dogs to remove! Keeps them busy and entertained.

Then there's the never-ending process of emptying the muck tubs of their frozen loads. The colder it is, the more the horses stand in the barn and fill their stalls. I got in a little bit of trouble last year for breaking too many muck tubs by dropping them on their sides to dump them. Cold and plastic don't always work well. So my solution this year--always have Handyman dump the muck tubs. It's worked great so far.

Crazy

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE:

The "tipped" ear is actually a purposeful mark from the Feral Cat Group in our area. They catch 'em, neuter 'em and release 'em. They "tip" their left ear to mark who's been "done". Then when the Humane Society takes them in throughout whatever manner, they also know from the ear tip that that cat is already neutered. Thus, they don't have to spend a lot of time on them...which is how our barn cat "JOE" ended up being a girl! ;) Now she is Jo, as in Jo March, not Joe Hardy.


Here's Bob renamed Tony, who continues to amaze us with his fabulous personality. He has met three nutty, loud, pushy dogs and two other cats and hasn't hissed one time. He has been chased and nibbled and carried around and has yet to stop smiling. He leaps up on the bed and trots around the house looking for company. How he ever ended up in the slammer is beyond me (although he is missing the tip of one ear, which says frostbite).

************************************************************************
Crazy...that song by Patsy Cline...that aptly describes our weather, our remodeling, our furniture arranging, the laundry and our recent trip to the Humane Society.

Uh oh, you should be saying. I know someone is going to get me that shirt that says, "one cat away from being the crazy cat lady". And I probably deserve it. I have already told Handyman that once the kids are gone, I will probably be an animal hoarder--who CLEANS the litterboxes.

Anyway, our county shelter, right next to the 4H fairgrounds where we live all summer, is a no-kill shelter. One of the few in our entire state. It was in the news all week due to being maxed out: 18 dogs in crates in the lobby, one day of 15 dogs coming in, one person bringing in 21 kittens in one day...yada yada. What is the matter with people?

Attached to our Humane Society is a LOW-COST SPAY/NEUTER CLINIC! How easy is this people? You can spay your cat for less than $30, in one day and never worry about this again, OR you can pretend you owe this little creature nothing and push your responsibilities off on the rest of us (READ TAXPAYERS), to the tune of at least $150 per animal, according to the staffer yesterday.

So, we were there to get feral cats for our barn. They would be neutered, vaccinated and microchipped and they would be free. My favorite price. I told them I wanted boys and that I knew my kids wouldn't rest until the feral cats were non-feral anymore. But, no boy cats in the feral room--would I be interested in less-social tame cats for my barn, for free?? Uh, yeah.

Then, as we waited to see the wall flowers, we gazed at the big glass-enclosed room with the sign overhead saying, "These 6 cats URGENTLY need a home", and I asked what was the story with these 6 particular cats? Well, they are the ones that are just done with the whole cage-living situation and really, really need to get out. So they get to socialize in there and jump on shelves and hang out listening to the never-ending barking going on in the lobby.

So I start reading the little personality profiles hanging there and then I get choked up thinking of Mr. Bingley, who was here when we came and how much we miss him and I say, trying not to cry, "I could probably be talked into another cat..."

And they smile and beckon me in to the little room.

Where I meet "Bob", who butts the brim of my hat with his head so hard that it almost falls off. And I say, "I'll take him too." And they gave me the free shirt that says "SOFTY".

Okay, not really. But I did bring Bob home, along with two quiet guys originally named Reebok and Thomas, now named Joe and Frank for the Hardy Boys. Joe and Frank are friendly and adjusting to life in the hayloft. They look nothing alike and I pray to heaven they like to catch mice...

Hay Day!

The day came, bright and sunny. The tractor was already working its way around the field when I got the call from Field Owner. My excitement at finally seeing bales was "dampened" by the color of bales. It was a little sad to see what had been a glorious green field, packaged up into brown bales. The brown-ness was only on the top layer; as the hay was lifted into the baler, you could see green underneath. And I began to be more confident that the Hay Guy had done the right thing, letting it lay in place to dry.

Although Neighbor Rob was worried that it was still dampish...but his worries were for naught. Hay Guy's plan saved what could have been a complete debacle and earned my everlasting loyalty. (He later told the field owner that had I not called him all the time, he might have blown off the job altogether! Score one for tenacity.)

Neighbor Rob owns a couple of older hay wagons and we asked if we could hitch one onto the tractor/baler combo. Hay Guy didn't want to wait for us to get back with the wagon, but we assured him he could keep going.

At this point, Handyman was about 15 miles away putting in a window with my dad. I was feeling overly conscientious about having men putting up my hay, who had no vested interest in it, i.e. the gracious Field Owner who owns not one horse. He had already given me the field, for free. It was hay he could have made money on, but gave it to me as a thanks for driving his "punkins" to Awana last year. No big deal to me, at all.

And now there he was, putting up hay for the first time ever, while I'm burning up the cel phone to Handyman saying, "Are you comin?! Are you done yet?!" Now Handyman is not one to be budged, especially when a job is coming to its rightful completion. So we continued on.

I had offered some of the hay to another neighbor across the street from me, since they had graciously hauled Reno home two summers ago, for free. Reno, the free 24 year-old horse, had refused to get into the first trailer I "borrowed" and I had called them, on the verge of desperation, since they had a stock-type trailer, thinking he might consider that bigger. I was right. And I wanted to pay them back in some way.

So they came with their old tractor and wagon and kids on the back. It made for quite a little traveling party as we all circled the field. Field Owner was meeting new neighbors and experiencing what he'd missed in his cushy-suburban youth. Handyman did show up in time to pitch-in, and #1 got to drive our SUV pulling a trailer around the field. The highlight of her summer. She took her responsibility very seriously. And I was too busy to shoot even one picture! So bummed. It was such a pleasant afternoon.

At the end, there was 297 bales. Not bad for a 2+ acre field. We are so fortunate to have another neighbor with an elevator, free for the borrowing. But first Handyman headed over to Neighbor Rob's to help throw 95 bales up into his loft. The elevator doesn't fit there, as he has a lower slope and lower loft floor, so it was hand tossing, just to keep the old pecs in shape.

Then we loaded the elevator out of the neighbor's loft, hauled it home, set it up and Neighbor Rob's wife, Chris, my dad and I were on the receiving end of 75 more bales. It's always rewarding to labor, and it's so much more fun with friends.

My mom had made a big pot of spaghetti for everyone, but we were all in and separated by the end of the evening. Field Owner ate with us, at 9pm, but it wasn't quite the party I had envisioned.

Second cutting, here we come. In the Hay Maven's world, it ain't over yet!