Moses, Maggie and the Butter Dish

 

Moses

     Almost everyone has heard the lazy student’s lame excuse for not turning in homework, i.e., “The dog ate it.”  I could have used that one over and over again if I’d had Moses when I was a child.

     Moses is my 9-year-old American Mastiff. I chose him after an internet search, and flew to Houston, Texas, to get him. I brought him home in a small carrier that fit under the seat in the airplane. Today, at 115 pounds, he’d require a seat of his own.

     I’ve never had much luck training dogs. Moses had to repeat first grade, so we never went any further. He responds to, "come," "sit," and, "shake," most of the time. He’ll "stay," for a few seconds. He likes 98 percent of the folks he meets, but I never know who will fall into the two-percent category. He’s unpredictable. He might snap at someone for no apparent reason. He once bit a deputy sheriff who came to check on the burglar alarm. No skin was broken, but the deputy called twice to gather material for his report.  So I put him in an outside pen when anyone comes to visit.

     When I was having a doggie door installed in one of my back doors, friends admonished me, “A burglar could crawl through a door that big!” My reply was, and still is, “Let him try.”

     Moses is so tall that he can easily reach my kitchen countertops when he stands on his hind legs. He has eaten chicken thawing in my sink and a pork chop dinner that was cooking in my crock pot. So, everything edible that I don’t want refrigerated has to go on top of the refrigerator, which often gets quite crowded. I have a Scat Mat (a plastic strip  that sends out a mild shock when touched) that I can put on the counter to keep him off. I also have fake ones I keep on the sofa to fool him. So far so good.

     He’ll eat anything. Once I set some butter out to soften before baking cookies. It disappeared. For some reason, I thought a butter dish would deter him. I searched antique shops in Springville, Trussville and Tallahassee, FL, before finally finding a gaily-colored, hand-painted one last October in Cordoba, Spain. One day, I came home and found the top in the floor, where Moses had knocked it so he could eat the butter.

Maggi

     But today takes the cake, or the butter, if you will. I forgot to put the Scat Mat across the countertop. I came home this afternoon to find the top of the butter dish missing and the bottom empty. I immediately knew what had happened. 

   You see, while Moses is tall enough to grab food off the counter, Maggie, my sweet rescue dog, is the one who likes to bury stuff. Somewhere in the three or four acres surrounded by an underground electric fence she has buried three flip-flops, two doggie toys, and one mud boot. I figure Moses knocked the top of the butter dish off the counter. Maggie grabbed the top and ran off with it. So, after searching the house and the driveway surrounding it, I spent another half hour scouring my woods, looking for signs of digging. Nothing turned up.

     I know it’s out there somewhere. It’s probably in the same hidey-hole as the shoes and dog toys. Maybe I’ll stumble on that hole one day.

     Yeah, and maybe one day pigs will fly.

The Mysterious Case of the Missing Glove

For some reason, I’ve never been able to keep up with gloves, umbrellas or sunglasses. Like a puppy who escapes every enclosure, they wander away from my car, purse and house. One day here, the next day gone. Poof! Just like that. The latest example of Glove Loss has me wondering whether I might have a poltergeist living with me. The alternative is even scarier than that.

I’m partial to the Isotoner brand for my “nice” gloves, or those that I don’t wear to the barn. I had a nice pair of black Isotoner driving gloves a few years ago, but the left hand took legs and walked off.  As everyone knows, you never throw out the other one. The mate might turn up one day, or you might buy another pair just like them. In theory, the next single glove you lost would fit the other hand, and you’d have a pair because you had kept the first. In practice, however, you end up with two left - or two right-hand gloves. Works the same with socks and earrings. 

A few years ago, a friend gave me another pair of black Isotoners for Christmas. They were a little thicker than my “original” pair, so not quite as dressy, but I really liked them. Last fall I managed to lose that Gift Pair. But the circumstances are quite mysterious.

Spotting them in the passenger seat of my car one day, I decided to put them in my purse before they fell out of the car unnoticed and got chewed up by one of my dogs. (It happened to my good sunglasses.) A few days later, I got to ruminating on the way things fall out of my purse, so I put them in the shoe-box-turned-glove-box on my coat-closet shelf.  But a few days later, when I went to get them, one of them was missing. Not the pair mind you, just one of them. Or so I thought. 

I did a thorough search of all of my coat and jacket pockets, the kitchen table where I dump stuff when I come into the house, the shelf that holds the shoe box and my car.  I concluded that it must have fallen into the dark, mysterious depths of my coat closet when I tossed them into the shoe box. But I didn’t feel like tackling the job of a closet search, not knowing what kind of dust monsters I might find hidden there. 

So, I bought another pair of Isotoners during the Christmas holidays. They weren’t anything like the Lone Survivor, being thicker and black-and-gray in color. I tried to put the missing glove out of my mind. Imagine my surprise a couple of weekends ago when I was digging around in the canvas bag in which I carry my Sunday Bible and Sunday school lesson book and found a pair of black Isotoner gloves at the bottom. They were as unfamiliar to me as a foreign language. I had no idea how they got there, either. “These can’t be mine,” I thought. “This is a whole pair and I’m missing only half a pair. Besides, they’re thicker than the Lone Survivor.” When I went to my shoe box to put them away, however, I realized that the Lone Survivor was actually the original Isotoner I had held onto for years hoping its mate would return. I had mistakenly thought of it as the missing mate to the Gift Pair I’d received. 

I had been so sure of tossing the Gift Pair into the shoe box I would have staked my life on it. I had a picture of the scene embedded in my mind, clear as a Windexed-window. Only that picture showed a thin pair of Gift Gloves like the Lone Survivor.

I pondered all of this for a while, and finally came to the conclusion that I had, indeed, put away the thicker gloves, then took them out again and wore them to church and put them in my Church Bag.  Not only do I have no recollection of that action, I have no idea why I transposed the identity of my Missing Pair to that of the Lone Survivor. 

The only thing worse than losing gloves, umbrellas and sunglasses is losing your mind.

Critter Costs

My critters are eating me out of house and home. 

Seems like every week I’m spending a hundred dollars or more on hay for the horses, llamas, donkey and goat; for dog and barn-cat food, sunflower seeds for the birds, corn for the deer and fish pellets for the few remaining finned critters in my run-off pond. You might as well call the latter heron food, because when the pond becomes a mud hole in late summer, a blue heron treats it like his personal cafeteria.

I ran a Quicken report, and I almost fell out of my chair. Then I realized the 2013 report included the purchase of a used three-horse slant-load Sundowner with weekender package (tiny living quarters). Take away the trailer, and I still spent almost $7,500 on food, farrier visits and vets.

Actually, that amount included some “extras” this year. I bought two llamas and two ponies, plus two saddles. I had mats put down in my two horse stalls, which entailed ground preparation. I also bought a deer feeder with a timer so I can spread corn at a set time each day. It took me hours just to anchor it to the ground. I need stilts to put the corn in the hopper, but that’s a story for another post.

What it didn’t include was the money spent on trail riding, i.e., for diesel fuel, insurance on my dually, camping and riding fees.

I wish I could say 2014 would be cheaper, but that would be a lie. I’ve just signed a contract to have my shed-row barn extended, a lean-to built for my round bales of hay, and another shed built for my Sundowner. Then I’ll need to get an electrician out to add some lights and plugs. I really need a run-in shelter in my far pasture, too.

Are my critters worth it? You bet they are! I enjoy having all the pasture animals come up to me when I walk out to the barn. I love trail riding, and it’s fun to watch the birds fight for space on their feeders. I’ve even learned to identify some of them. My dogs offer protection from home invasion (especially my Mastiff), from loneliness and from the cold on a winter night. (Yes, they sleep with me.) I’m looking forward to seeing more deer once I’ve loaded the feeder.

I just wish I could count animals as dependents. I’d never have to pay income taxes again.

Let it snow

It’s snowing.

For Alabama, this is more than a natural phenomenon. It’s an event, something for adults to curse and children to celebrate. It’s a time for school closings and traffic gridlocks as the roads ice over.

This storm caught everyone, including the TV weather men, off guard. Local channels showed pictures of the interstates looking like a dominoes game of Mexican Train, with cars pointing in every which direction. Many folks had abandoned their cars, and businesses and community centers opened their doors to those who needed a warm place to crash. 

My youngest daughter, who stayed home from work because the baby was sick, couldn’t get to the school to pick up my other grandson. A friend of hers made it through and got him, but it took that mom three hours to travel the five miles home. My oldest daughter holed up in a coffee shop about a mile from the library where she works. A friend offered her a bed for the night. 

As for me, I stayed put. I'm as snug as the proverbial bug in a rug. No need for me to stick my tootsies outside. My tenant climbed the hill on foot this morning to tell me he had abandoned his car crossways at the bottom of our driveway. I couldn’t go anywhere even if I wanted to. As long as the propane lasts and the power stays on, I’ll be fine.

My critters have plenty of hay, and I moved my tractor yesterday evening to give them  more shelter. Their water tank is the type that doesn’t freeze up, except around the top between the ball and the inside rim. Donkey can easily paw that loose. I’ve seen him do it. Mallory, my TWH mare, is wearing her new horse blanket. The others don't need blankets because they’ve grown thick, furry coats for the winter. I even remembered to fill the bird feeders yesterday, and the feathered friends covering the perches are chirping their chilly thanks. At least, I think they are. I wasn’t about to open the window to find out.

So, after a lunch of toasted cheese sandwich and Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, I  did what any red-blooded American woman would do under the circumstances:

I made a batch of chocolate-chip cookies.

Making time for what matters

When I sold my business and retired in 2011, it was to write more, ride more, and spend more time with my animals. Life has a way of filling up the cracks and crevices in our daily schedules, like sand fills in a bucket of pebbles, leaving you wondering how you ever found time to work before retirement.

Over the past few days, I’ve made time for my animals. I rode Mallory, my Tennessee Walker, though my woods Saturday. Yesterday, I rode Jazzy, the paint pony I bought for my grandchildren. Both days were sunny reprieves from the cold spell we’ve had, making them perfect for horseback riding. I’m so glad I took advantage of the rise in temperature, because by 10 a.m. this morning, a blustery wind had kicked up, the sun was hiding behind some dark snow-clouds, and a few tiny pieces of frozen water tried their best to make it to the ground before disappearing.

This morning, before the cold had enveloped my senses once again, I sat down on a piece of leftover fence post and watched my critters munch. One of my barn cats, Barney, strolled up and asked me to pet him. I obliged. Betsy, my goat, wondered over for some head-scratching, too. Sometimes I think that goat is part dog, she’s so affectionate.

So there I sat for 10 minutes or so, petting two of my critters against the backdrop of llamas, donkey and horses chomping on dry hay. The crunching sound they made was  like a barnyard lullaby, so soothing that I could have fallen asleep had I been lying down.

“Ahhh,” I thought to myself. “This is the life. This is why I moved to the country.”

I am truly blessed.

View from my front porch

It’s so easy to let my mind get caught up in the whirlwind of chores as soon as my feet hit the floor each morning. Today, however, I decided to take a few moments to enjoy the view from my wide front porch. The weather was a bit nippy, so I pulled the hood of my housecoat over my head, wrapped up in one of those wooly stadium blankets that zips and buckles around you, and took my mug of hot coffee to my Paw-Paw’s rocking chair. 

The only sound was the twittering of birds and the creaking of that old rocker as it moved back and forth against the wooden floor. There were no deer to watch, no mist hovering over the leaf-covered expanse I call my front yard. The bare trees enabled me to see clear to, well, clear to my first trail. I sometimes wish I could see to the road in front of my property, so I could watch the cars go by. But to do that would mean clearing more underbrush and cutting down some trees. It would also mean a loss of the privacy that I’ve come to enjoy so much.

During spring and fall, I often have my coffee and even my lunch on the porch. I might have a glass of wine in the swing in the early evening, too. In summers, I have to use the ceiling fan, which irritates the mother birds trying to build their nests in the crook of my beams.

But I didn’t ponder all that this morning. I didn’t make plans for the day, either. I just sat, rocked and sipped, enjoying the cozy feeling of snuggling inside a warm blanket and watching the steam rise from my mug.

 A friend once said, “Sometimes me sits and thinks, sometimes me just sits.” 

The latter has its benefits. 

Making hay when the sun don't shine

Guess what I was doing when the BSC Championship kickoff was taking place? I was snipping twine from a new round hay bale.

When the weather dips below 30 degrees, I worry about my outside critters. I don't have a real barn, just two doorless stalls and a couple of run-in sheds to accommodate my three horses and two llamas, and my late neighbor's aged horse, donkey and nanny goat. It's enough to keep them out of the wind. Most of the horses grow furry coats in the winter, anyway, and my llamas think they’re back in the Peruvian Andes during this type of weather.

Eating hay helps keep the animals warm. If I had been smart, I would have planted some winter rye, but I wasn't and I didn't, so I'm having to buy hay again this winter. Square bales weren't lasting very long, and I could see that they really needed two or three bales per day. That's $10 to $15 per day. So I bought a round bale for $50, delivered. I knew I could get it cheaper, but I'm loyal to my hay supplier, who made sure I had hay during the drought a few years ago. 

We put the bale under one of my sheds to keep it out of the rain. Wet hay can get moldy, and horses can't eat moldy hay. I didn't have a round-bale feeder to contain the hay, and didn't want to buy one until I could see how long the round bale would last. I knew there would be some waste because the horses would scatter the hay. I didn't realize that when horses scatter it, they also pee and poop in it. They won't eat the spoiled hay, and I can’t say that I blame them, so about a fourth of the first round bale was wasted. I spent two hours cleaning up that mess so I could set up a feeder and get a second round bale.

When I trudged through the woods to feed yesterday morning, I discovered that the entire second bale was gone. They had eaten it all in seven days. That's when I called my neighbor's daughter and asked for help. Her husband offered to buy the next bale, but I needed it right then. So he called his next door neighbor, and after dropping his son off at ball practice (in this weather???) around 6 p.m., he picked up the hay and delivered it to my house.

It took me a few minutes to remove the strips of pink twine that encircled the hay bale. Horses have a nasty habit of accidentally swallowing baling twine and forming calcium rocks around the twine, necessitating expensive surgery to save their lives. And it took me several more minutes to figure out how to secure the gate because the “lock,” a double-end snap connected to a chain the size of Alaska, and just as cold, wouldn't budge. My fingertips were freezing inside my gloves, and I couldn't manage the chain and hold the flashlight at the same time.

By the time I walked back to my house, I had missed the BSC championship kickoff. That’s okay. I enjoyed the game more (despite the outcome)  knowing my critters were warm and well-fed. 

I slept better, too.