The Animals I Love

When I return Tripp to his pasture, and Ghost Ryder did not come with us on a given day, almost always that Ghostie boy waits at the fence or leans on the gate, waiting for his friend and, truth be told, probably hoping he can come in himself for the treats he smells mixed in with the applesauce on Tripp's velvet nose.  As we near him, Ghost rumbles a nicker, deep in his throat, a welcome, a reminder that he waits for his brother-from-another….farm, or just a gentle accusation that he got no treats today and, what the heck?

A final pat for Tripp, a scratch here, a soft word to one horse or the other there, and I return to the barn to hang Tripp’s halter, then turn the RAV4 a few miles north, heading home. At times I wish the horses lived behind my house, in that pasture where we walk the dogs each day….but they live at this farm, happy, safe, well cared for. It involves work, taking care of horses. And, the road between us is short

; I could get here more…. I SHOULD get here more….but, when I do not see them for a few days, I know they are safe, well fed, loved.

And, certainly they have more horse-y company than I could elsewhere provide.

As I pull the little blue SUV into the drive, turn off the engine, prepare to disembark……home…..behind the fence to our back yard, I see a white and black, or black and white, or both, body jump from under a tree and fly towards the house’s back door. Before I leave the car, the front door opens, and, like exiting a clown car, dogs stream out, run around me, tails wagging, Whisper, usually a fluorescent tennis ball gripped in his mouth, grinning around it, shines his joy with his eyes. Gentle Jenni runs to me, as the boys twirl circles, touches me, before reversing course, flying back into the house.

River follows Whisper……

They love me, greet me with joy at my return, but, also, my return guarantees, if Mike waits for me also, that he will saunter to the deck, pick up a chuck-it, and throw the ball.  Oh, how can they bear it?? At last! It’s been……MINUTES since anyone tossed a ball their way.

Whisper drops the ball under the porch swing as Mike settles himself, a doggy crouch behind the swing, eyes flitting from the ball to the chuck-it, his whole being urging Mike to pick up the ball he has brought—THAT ball, and no other—and throw it. River sits in front of the swing, watching, grinning, his own ball at his feet. Jenni lays in the yard, a ball between her front paws, eyeing

Whisper, waiting on him to fly by so she can herd him back.

And when Mike picks the ball up in the chuck-it bowl, Whisper takes off!! Flies over Millie’s ramp (she had trouble with steps towards the end of her life) and sails past Jenni, glancing over his shoulder for the ball’s trajectory, runs it down as it goes over him or bounces past, or, at times, catches it in air, Jenni at his shoulder, her own ball glowing in her teeth, as she urges him back to the porch, where he, again, drops the ball under the swing.

About every fifth time this happens, River also drops a ball, races to get it, usually scooting on the ground a bit as he reaches it, brings it back, and again takes his place in front of the swing.

River thinks Whisper get a little carried away with this ball thing….there’s fun, and, then, there’s exhaustion. He doesn’t get that Whisper is just a t-a-d crazy.

As they fun and chase, I put on “house clothes.” Soon, the game ends, they all come in, Whisper gasping for air, lapping cold water eagerly, wagging that feathery tail, grinning his happy grin…..River runs to me for a greeting rub. “I missed you.” Jenni quietly waits her turn, or not, perhaps shoving the boys away. “Where you been?”

And, then, soft feet padding, interrupted by an obnoxious “m-e-r-o-w-w-w” brings Henry to my lap, shoving his short little nose under my hand. He has long lived with dogs….but their noses work better for such things. I rub his silky fur, grit my teeth as he kneads my legs (those ¾-inch claws hurt), and tell him, “No I will NOT get up and open ANOTHER can of food. Deal…” With, perhaps, a bit of a nip—or, at times, a firm bite—Henry jumps to his recliner, sighing. Mom fails again.

They take time, these animals…….they take lots of money…….I worry for them, over them, about them…..and do better when I can reach out my hand and feel fur or hair or some coat of an animal beneath my fingers, communication following the nerves in my hands straight to my heart.

And settles there…..restoring my spirit, confirming I am loved.

People exist who do not love animals, certainly. Good people. Caring people. People exist who do not even like animals. "Good" does not require wanting animals in your life; it is not an obligation for worth. In fact, lots of folks who do have companion animals should not have them.

But I heard a woman say one time, after a rescue group had protested the donation of a puppy to an organization’s benefit auction, “Those people are so worried about a dog. I’ll bet they care more for dogs than homeless children.” Try to explain care for animals and care for all people—including homeless children—are not mutually exclusive when someone has no concept of relationships with dogs….cats….horses….rabbits or gerbils, for that matter. Understanding why auctioning off a puppy to the highest bidder might not be the most responsible idea.....impossible.

At times I wonder would I be better off without them—without Whisper, his chemically-challenged mind working so hard to please me, perhaps the smartest dog I have ever had, and I’ve had genius-level pets before; without Jenni, sweet, quiet, shadow to Mike, his retirement present, adoring him, quietly following him all day, for whom Mike made a special seat in his truck; without River,

my sweet, big puppy, about whom a woman in our class said, “I have never seen a dog so attached to his handler as he is to you;” without Henry, who brings me live rodents as gifts, who hides under cars to escape dive bombing blue jays, who lies softly next to me at night, nuzzling me, who walks with the dogs and me whenever he has a chance; without Tripp, the answer to a lifelong dream, the realization that, yes, you can bond with a horse, can, in some very rare, magical, mystical moments, blend your minds and feel the thoughts of a creature of myth, realizing he wants to bond with you as well…and his buddy, the beautiful Ghost Ryder, who wraps his neck around my back when I hug him.

               I know people exist who do not love animals…..or want animals…good, caring, giving, people, who tolerate my obsession with these creatures. Usually they have more money than I do, a cleaner house (though, truth be told, lots of animal folks have cleaner houses than I do), and they do not buy cars based on how comfortable the dogs will ride in it or how much tack can be carried in the back.

               I know these people, love many of them, want them to love me….but when I think of not having the companion animals with whom I share my life, of what my life would be without them, I feel a deep, real sadness, my chest clenches, and I wonder, “What would I do without them?” I force myself to relax; no one will come and take them away….

               It is not required, this love of animals. But, how grateful I feel to have inherited that trait from my mother, who her whole life wanted, regarding pets, another one. She was never allowed all the ones she craved; but I think she smiles to see my life, my animals.

             

  Perhaps, in some way I cannot now understand, my mom gifted these animals to me, reminders of the kind, loving woman who raised me. Either way, understood by other humans or not, what I truly feel when I see any of my animals?

               Grateful.