Continuing the conversation about the animal police over at Smells Horsey, I wonder if they would have let me have this behemoth as a mouser?! (Maybe the Oregon Humane Society is more sane than the Santa Fe Animal Shelter, where I wasn't allowed to adopt a cat because I told them that he would be living ... gasp ... outside.)
Looks to me like the below pretty much sums up the peril of the silly ideology of some animal rescue and adoption agencies that animals are better off living inside.
Have you guys seen the kids flick Mousehunt with the incomparable Nathan Lane?
Synopsis--Two hapless brothers inherit an old mansion from their father which would be worth millions, if only they could evict a smart, tenacious mouse that is intent on staying in the house and making life miserable for the brothers.
It's one of my favorites. I can't help thinking of the cat ... Catzilla ... they adopt from the Human Society ... Check it out. Rent it if you haven't seen it. Hilarious for kids and adults.
Boone the tomcat lives in the barn and greets me like a long-lost friend every single morning when I go down to feed the horses.
He lurks in the juniper beside the path and then leaps out at me all sideways, tail puffed up with that black-eyed, feline insanity that seems to get the best of them at times. I usually freeze in my tracks, a behavior I'm beginning to think just reinforces his craziness. After I say hello, he de-frizzes himself and trots straight at me, nearly swooning with love.
Or is it?
I can't believe I am still falling for that trick where the tomcat lays on his back in the dust, furry belly just begging to be rubbed, and all of a sudden it's like I've got my hand caught in a bear trap of the most evil and excruciatingly painful design imaginable and from which it is almost impossible to extricate one's self.
About half the time, I don't even like the mean little ... well ... I won't say it here. I will attempt to be polite.
And then he pulls a stunt like this.
He really is not nice. Nope. Not at all. Definitely not a nice cat.
The Augur (pl: augures) was a priest and official in the classical world, especially ancient Rome. His main role was to interpret the will of the gods by studying the flight of the birds (flying in groups/alone, what noises they make as they fly, direction of flight and what kind of birds they are), known as "taking the auspices." Wikipedia.
The secret cause of all suffering is mortality itself, which is the prime condition of life. It cannot be denied if life is to be affirmed. --Joseph Campbell.
The kids and I arrive home last night to find the heeler dogs out of their kennel and the five geese attacked and terrorized, huddled together in a bloody heap in a corner of the fence. The two old ganders look like they have taken the brunt of it. The young gander and the two female geese seem the least damaged, although blanketed in shock, the final defense of prey.
Upon further inspection, I see that one of the lungs of the largest gander, Hermano, is punctured. “Oh no. Oh no.” I am whispering, touching his broken body softly, so softly, wondering at the frailty of his flesh, bones, feathers, this fragile package that houses spirit. His once sleek back is covered in puncture wounds from those senseless, spoiled dogs, and I hate them for a minute, hate them with every fiber of my being. I detest their waste, because this carnage has nothing to do with hunger.
Here Lila Jane (my daughter wanted to name her Lila, and I wanted to name her Jane) is working on the vaulting barrel in the back yard. She's got this stand move down pretty well, I think. However, if she continues to insist on doing it backwards--which makes it no longer a compulsory move, but a freestyle--then she's going to need to scootch her bob tail closer to the handles. (And please don't send me any nasty emails about what a meanie I am for chopping off my dogs tails and then making a stew out of them or something. I didn't. They came to me that way. Sans tails. I don't agree with it. But it's pretty common here in New Mexico. [And I just made up the stew part ...]) Got to give her credit for trying a backwards stand, though. It's particularly courageous when your tail has been "lobbed off by someone so &%#!ing stupid, I mean, someone who should never even own a dog blah blah blah". (A little taste of how some charming people communicate with you on the blogosphere.) There's that whole balance issue, etc. Standing facing the tail-end of the horse is tough to accomplish on a moving horse, even at a walk.
I need to talk to her about this head-first dismount thing, though...
It's amazing what you can do with a tractor and a front-end loader and a little time by yourself. Just moved this big heavy barrel from the garage to the backyard. I'm going to be demonstrating vaulting for a group of dressage riders next week at my coach's new barn. Apparently they are all around my age. So I have to practice. Quite a lot. And then a little more. J. asked me to move it outside anyway for her. How I have gotten talked into this, I'm not quite sure. I will not be wearing a unitard.
I am wondering what the potential is for total heeler havoc with this big interesting blue thing in the back yard. As you can see, they are already trying it out. I expect there will be fights over who gets to sit on it. Thankfully, it's too heavy for them to carry around as they frolic, which is what the tenacious heeler sisters really like to do when they get a hold of something interesting. Frolic. Loads of it. Life is one big heeler frolic.
Now I'm just thinking out loud here ... but ... is this a potential circus act? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Vaulting Heelers. Can I quit my day job now???
(Oops. shouldn't have mentioned the word c-i-r-c-u-s. The self-righteous, animal rights wacko nut jobs who know absolutely nothing about me will be after me now about how teaching pets to do tricks is The Root of All Evil and blah blah blah ... and then that's generally when I respond--Well, what have you done? How many dogs, cats, and horses have you rescued and either taken superb care of for the remainder of their natural lives or found good homes for???
And the answer is more often than not resounding silence. Or you go look at their profiles on MySpace, which are sometimes plastered with photos of whales and cute dolphins, and learn that the only pet they've ever had is a goldfish, not even a gerbil. They'd probably run in terror if my horses came cantering up to them in the pasture, just because they wanted to say hello and were hoping that they might have something good to eat in their pocket--because, after all, you know, these self-appointed guardians have had so much first-hand experience with heelers, and horses, and whales.)
Boone the barn cat comes out of the barn to greet me every single solitary morning of the week. No matter what. The young Tom pussyfoots around the horses like most cats with a healthier sense of self-preservation most likely wouldn't. And then again, maybe Boone is just more easygoing than I would be if I were his size and shared my home with a herd of horses.
Catching up with The Amazingly Well Red Dawg (who is sporting her fancy new southwestern collar) after her brush with death with my son's testy quarter horse mare Piñon.
Tell me, Red Dawg, what have you learned from your experience?
I'm hungry.
Yes, well, we'll get to that in just a few minutes. (Didn't you just gobble down half a can of Trader Joe's Lamb and Rice Dog Food and then some of Lila's too?) What tactics will you use in the future when dealing with testy, pissy mares like Piñon? Any words of wisdom for your fellow Australian Cattle Dogs out there?
Bacon is good.
I guess we'll have to talk some more about horse safety, won't we? And I'm still going to have to watch you like a hawk apparently ...
I've often been perplexed by the use of the word blue in reference to the coloration of blue heeler dogs and other animals. Consider blue roan, for example. A color of horse. But after taking this photograph of Lila, our blue heeler puppy, it's all clear to me now!
And as I looked out the windows of my house this frigid winter morning onto miles and miles of rolling hills and mountains covered in snow, with the thin early morning sun just creeping over the horizon, the whole landscape, even the piñon, the pine, and the juniper are drenched in it.
My son's horse Pinon is on my shit list today. While she's as gentle and as solid a horse as I've seen, great with kids, she can't stand the tenacious heeler pups. In that regard, she is all mare, testy and irritable. For weeks now, she's been pinning her ears, shaking her head, giving them the curt flick of a single nostril in their direction. And those guileless pups don't have a clue.
I've spent a lot of time teaching them that they can't chase the horses. That the horses are mine. Not theirs. And they are not to chase, bark at or in any way taunt my horses. And they've been doing great. I think they have exemplary behavior around the horses. But that's no guarantee.
Poor Red Dawg was simply trotting behind Pinon yesterday when whack. That right hind hoof shot out with deadly lightning precision and got that poor pup right in the head. She flew through the air, landed in a soft heap of paws and fur and puppy fat, woofing piteously in pain and shock. I rushed across the pasture at the little heeler, expecting her to be dead when I fell to my knees to help her. But as I tried to carry her back up to the house, the Red Dawg wriggled out of my arms and trotted up herself. Now she did sleep quite a while yesterday in the house on her cushy bed in the living room. And she looks a little beat up. Just a little like Rocky Balboa after a prize fight.
As far as I can tell, she's OK. I hate it when this happens. But I haven't lost a dog to a horse kick. Yet. Horses and dogs can be a wonderful, and a sometimes trying, combination. Then add the kids who love the dogs into the mix.
One of the things that I enjoy about Australian cattle dogs is their unwavering, bright eyed, and bobtailed sense of adventure about every single day they are alive. As far as they're concerned, this 3 feet of snow that's way above their heads is yet another delicious episode in a life full of exploration and wonder. And this is the first winter for these two. I'd say they've had quite an introduction to the idea of snow.
Once the sun sets at the end of the day and all of the exploration is over, they tumble together in a furry heap of deep contented dreaming in front of the wood-burning stove.
When I woke up yesterday morning, the first thing I did was rush to the windows and look outside to count all five of my horses standing by the fence.
Then I turned my ear toward the open window and listened. Very intently. For the sound I was hoping to hear. At first, there was only the murmuring of the wind. I listened harder. Hoping they'd been smart enough to put themselves inside.
Nothing.
I yelled for them out the window, "Goosies!"
A heeler puppy yipped.
I tried again. Only this time louder and longer. "Goooooooosies!"
And then to my relief, floating across the pines through what little early morning light could pierce the curtains of ceaseless, falling snow, came the raucous, agitated honking of my beloved geese.
Charlotte Gray and her little kittens have weathered out the storm in their little corner of the barn. Essentially, they're all piled up together in their blanket in the loose hay. Just look at their winter coats! They've been eating lots of leftover turkey from the Christmas dinner. Along with leftover yams and stuffing. Apparently, they think I'm quite a good cook. My husband says I always have to have something to worry and fret over, or I won't know what to do with myself. So I have had plenty to keep me occupied these last 48 hours.
My five African geese love the snow. And I believe they are impervious to the cold. Maybe it's all that venom and bile and downright goose meanness that wards off the chill.
On a cold day like today, I start thinking about all of the goose down things I own. We all sleep on goose down feather beds. We sleep beneath goose down duvets. There are more than a few goose down coats hanging in our closets. And, oh my lord, I believe our pillows are even chock-full of goose feathers.
Just don't let my pack (forget the word flock) of charming pets get wind of that one, or Heaven knows what they might do me.
Their feathers do look pretty dapper against all that fresh white snow, don't they?
Every Christmas, we head up to the Mesa and cut down our own Christmas tree. We usually get one so large that the Star on the top of the tree is way up in the clerestory windows of the house. It's something we all look forward to. Our annual family Christmas tradition.
And then we realized something. We're the owners of two, not quite six months old, heeler puppies who love nothing more than to romp and play in our living room.
Have you ever had a 12 foot Christmas tree with all the trimmings crash in the middle of the night onto the floor? Glass bulbs shattering, tinsel tearing, jingle bells rolling across the floor? That happened to us last year, because we (well, I?) got greedy and dragged home a monstrously huge Christmas tree, and our stand wasn't quite buff enough to handle that big boy.
We could just see our two tenacious heeler puppies chasing each other around this year' s gigantic Christmas tree, sending it careening to the floor. (Something we don't want to repeat.) So, unfortunately, no fresh-cut Christmas tree for us. We're settling for one of the tabletop variety, at least for this year, until the puppies grow up a little more.
My official name is The Red Baron. My nine-year-old boy thinks this is a perfectly suitable name for a big red GIRL dawg. It's even inscribed on the nametag of my pretty purple collar from the PetSmart, much to his mother's dismay. She insists, quite pointedly, on calling me Red Dawg.
This pesky weed continues to grow in my flower pot! Good things the flowers are long gone, or my very particular gardener husband would not be amused.
I was hoping Lila the tenacious heeler puppy would have outgrown napping in the flower pots by now. (We have eight or ten of these on the deck, and in the spring and summer they are overflowing with my husband's glorious flowers.) But that does not appear to be the case.
I'm gonna have to get some of that weed-be-gone stuff.
I go to the feed store before the weather gets really cold to buy two polar fleece doggie beds filled with aromatic cedar so Lila and Red Dawg can be warm. Then I have 9-year-old C. crawl into the deep dark recesses of the insulated doghouse that Dennis built and place both beds inside. Not just tossing them in there or anything, you know, but building a snug puppy nest. Now these are puppies, mind you, who have a bigger collection of bones, chewy toys, rope pulls, and fluffy stuffed squeaky animals then any puppy really should ever own. And, these are not solely outside dogs. They spend a good part of their time in the house with our family. They dine on canned dog food from Trader Joe’s first thing in the morning. And they each have a snug little bed in the master bedroom where they spend each and every night.
I'm still picking the shreds of snuggly warm polar fleece up from where they have scattered what’s left of their new beds around the yard, having tore them to pieces with their saber-tooth canines during yet another joyous romp of sheer puppy delight.
I am looking for that little kitten, the one that my puppies attacked, but I can't find her. I think she's gone. I am climbing up the bales of hay that are stacked nearly to the ceiling of the barn to check on Charlotte Gray and the remaining kittens. The calico one that is usually so shy is curled up in the straw nest that the kids and I made for them way up in the rafters. This one is the smallest, and meows in a shrill, high voice, as I pick her up for the very first time. I hold the patchwork kitten close to my chest, wrap it up in my arms, and in a few minutes the little thing is purring, enjoying my warmth, I think.
I'm wondering if it is a boy or a girl. So I turn the kitten over gently in my hands, and I've never seen anything like what I see. She is deformed, or sick, or something, I don't know what. I feel ill. And she is crying now. I sit her down, gently in the straw, as if she is a factory second from the china teacup store that will break in my hands if I don't watch out or she will break my heart.
Why does God let things like this happen? I don't understand.
I am standing in the pasture outside of the barn with my head pressed against Toby's furry neck. He smells like hay, and dirt, and sunshine. I lean into the warmth of the big draft horse, and wrap myself up in him like a blanket.
Lila and Red Dawg's very first snow. Not a lot of it. But enough
to make a big impression on these heeler puppies who were born in July. Having
two puppies can be trying. Twice the training. Twice the puppy poop. Twice
the puppy energy. Twice the food bill. Twice the squeaky toys ... etc. But
they keep each other such good company, and they are great friends. Every now
and then I read these articles about animals that ask silly questions like—Do
animals have emotions? Do animals feel love? What a waste of time and money
to embark on a study like that if you ask me. Just watch these two and there's
your answer.
Charlotte Gray's kittens are growing. She gave us quite a surprise when we found her and her newborn kittens in one of the chickens' nests in the henhouse. She moved them pretty quickly to the barn where they have a cozy house in the hay. We had to climb way up into the dark recesses of the hayloft to catch these fat little furballs on video.
Well, we woke up this morning at dawn in the tiny mountain village of Cloudcroft after a lovely Thanksgiving with 23 family members. After driving home nearly 200 miles today (You don't get to stay long when you've got as many pets as we do) and then doing some riding, we're all pretty passed out. Including Red Dawg and Lila Jane, the tenacious heeler puppies who seem to be growing right before my very eyes. I suspect they'll grow an inch during this nap, being in the horrid juvenile phase and all. Although they now seem to have enough of an attention span to work on "sit".
I've never had a red heeler before, and I am loving Red Dawg's freckles. More pop out on her coat each day!
If Fat Head
the Rooster
hadn't met
an untimely
and unsavory
demise
by drowning
in the stock tank
(Imagine the evil bird's surprise,
perched up there like he owned
the whole damned barnyard,
admiring his cocky reflection in the clear,
cool water in between
scouting out
with his hard beady eyes
the next innocent to victimize.
After all of that chasing and
pecking at the kids,
surprise commando attacks,
rocket blasting in full feathered
wing-beating, red-combed,
firecracker feathered wrath
out from behind the manure pile--
I'm going to chalk his bitter end
up to chicken karma, or fate, or an example of the
not oft-enough-seen justice of the universe
or something just plain well-deserved.),
then this tenacious
heeler puppy
would not
be emerging
from her tour
of the hen house
Well, actually I'm getting some help with my heeler pups from the Monks of New Skete. (Bless you, brother men.)
I'm a much better horse trainer than dog trainer, but I'm learning and we're actually doing OK. These delightfully devilish Australian Cattle Dog youngsters are pure energy. I highly recommend this and this if you are as dog-training impaired as I am.
Charlotte Gray, the only elusive barn cat that I managed to not get the vet's to get spayed, gave us quite a surprise yesterday morning. Dennis had been telling me she was getting as round as a bowling ball and that he was pretty sure she we were going to have kittens here pretty soon. Well, he was right ...
Four little black and white kitties.
I'm reading up on when I can safely take them from Charlotte and raise them up somewhat civilized so I can find them nice homes. I'll be waging a big, splashy kitten adoption campaign in the lobby of the kids' school here in the future.
Any readers living in the Santa Fe, New Mexico area who'd like to adopt one after they're weaned, I'd be happy to hear from you!
I lost one of my very best friends a couple of weeks ago. Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler
got too big for her britches and went snuffling along the road, probably in
pursuit of a big fat rabbit, or some delicious early autumn scent. She probably
never even saw the car or truck coming. Dennis laid her to rest on the hill
by the round pen where we used to watch the trains
pass by. I have not even had the heart to go up there. Yet. And her green-cushioned
chaise on the front porch is heart-achingly empty.
The momma cat who had her four kittens in our barn is gone. Either 1) she deserted them right after they were weaned (bad momma, bad) or 2) she got eaten up by coyotes (poor momma).
We named them Simon, Charlotte Gray, Shiner Boch, and Bob. Two of the kittens are pretty wild, despite our best efforts to tame them. And two of them are very tame.
I've had two of them fixed already. My vet got me some help for paying for that with an organization called PAWS. Two more to go. Or I'm going to have a cat explosion in my barn. Which will make Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler very unhappy.
6:10 a.m. The horses are loaded into the trailer. We're running behind The Schedule. (I am married to a former Navy man.) And Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler is nowhere to be found.
We're stomping around in front of the house calling, "Matilda! Matilda!" The two horses in the trailer are whinnying and whickering to the three left behind in the pasture as Dennis is muttering something about how if that damn dog is going to be a big pain in the ass we're not taking her to the mountains with us. She can just stay at home.
I know we're both thinking that the blue heeler dog is hiding somewhere nearby, peering at us from behind a pinon, no doubt, because when we first brought her home from the Animal Shelter last autumn, she wouldn't have anything to do with riding in the truck, with the exception of the ride home from doggie jail, for which she seemed exceedingly grateful. She did have a wonderful dog time on her first trip to the mesa with us a couple of weeks ago, I'm reminding myself. I keep looking.
He spits a wad of Skoal in the dust, gently lowers the hoof of the horse he's working on, straightens himself up to his full 6' and says, "No thanks. I'm afraid of barn cats."
The geese pour out of their safe and secure little gooseyard like water from a pail when I open the gate for them first thing every morning. But, what's this?!
A wiley hen who has ingeniously allowed herself to be swept out of the gate in the midst of all of the wing flapping and honking. Generally speaking, I think the hens heave a huge sigh of relief when I let their unpleasant housemates roam free outside of the chicken yard. This red hen may be reveling in her freedom right now, but she hasn't thought this one out, because I don't have time to catch her and put her back in the chicken yard. LIttle does the escapee realize that she'll be keeping company with a gaggle of vile web-footed beasties all day long.
But as 8-year-old C. likes to say when I complain about the five feathered fire-breathing dragons, "But Mom, they're our evil geese." There are times when I think Dennis is right. We should have named them Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, etc.
This evening Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler snuffles out of nearly 200 bales of hay one half-starved calico cat and her brood of kittens. The momma cat coils back between the hay bales and the barn wall, glowering, growling, fur standing on end like a pissed-off porcupine. She is impressive. I depart the barn with Matilda in tow. Lock the too-curious heeler in the chicken yard. Return. Tentatively reach with one hand into the small crevice, expecting a lightning strike of teeth and claws. Instead, the cat lets me scratch her head and replies to my overtures of friendship with a piteous meow, telling me that she is very hungry, please. Her eyes mirror her dilemna. I rush up to the house, making a bee line to the kitchen. Return with one can of Matilda-the-tenacious-heeler food and a bowl of water in tow. Spoon the lamb and rice mixture out onto a pie pan. Sit in the straw and wait. Call "Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty..." Out she ventures, one dainty paw after another, crouched low, sniffing. She takes a few tentative bites then carries chunks of the dog food into her den for her kittens.
I haven't had a cat in years. I wonder how she wound up here? A feline refugee. I hope she and her little family stay.
My husband Dennis is returning from a rare trip back east today, and the kids are with their dad. So, I’ve been on my own all week. An unusual circumstance that has made for difficult sleep.
an inch during this nap, being in the horrid juvenile phase and all. Although they now seem to have enough of an attention span to work on "sit".
or fate, or an example of the 
