Morning Horses

No people (or horses) were harmed in the making of this story…..

I wanted one thing yesterday—to go to the barn…to see the horses, inhale their scent, bring in Tripp and ride his beautiful self, lose my work ego and nature in the rhythm of his movement, look ahead and glance between those gorgeous ears as he moved them backwards to listen as I sing to him, read his movements willing me to hurry up and hurry up and finish so we could open the gate (we haven’t mastered closing the gate  yet), return to the barn, and eat his beloved applesauce and treats, having done all I asked, restoring my soul.

And, no, he isn’t spoil….maybe a little.

Yesterday morning I packed a backpack with barn clothes and my NEW pink-and-brown boots. Who doesn’t want new cowboy (girl?) boots. (Well, if you don’t, that’s okay. We may not do lunch, but we can email…..do facebook….you’ll come around soon, I’m sure). At the end of the day, I changed into riding clothes (not fancy; jeans, t-shirt, NEW pink-and-brown boots), waited for the bell, raced (as fast as I am able) to my car, headed out. I even made it halfway there.

Never mind what happened.

I wanted ONE THING.  I didn’t get it.

We won’t blame my husband, Mike, but there the blame lies anyway.

So, being the mature, adult female I have grown into, I had chocolate chip cookies for supper and retired to bed even earlier than usual. It’s hard to get to bed earlier than 7:00, but you can do it if you try.

This morning, then, I thought to go and at least say hello to the horses, just a nibble of equine sweetness before work. I really do better everywhere if I have a horse fix. Now, I need all my horse friends to know that I know better, not to scold me, to understand that I understand the idiocy ……. When you go to the pasture, don’t take treats.

Even at 5:00 in the morning.

At first I just made the rounds, a rub here, a kiss on the nose there. Tripp, predictable as ever, smelled me up and down, sure there was a carrot, a peppermint, an apple slice SOMEWHERE. I left the treats outside of the gate, though, actually having a smart thought for once. As I rubbed the Black Beauty's beautiful head, he hefted up from his lying position, not sure, I guess, he should trust me (though, why not I don’t know) in the dark, and from the back of the pasture, illustrating his name perfectly, the apparition-like figure of Ghost Ryder slowly worked his way forward. Lights illuminate the path out to the pasture, but once inside, it fades quickly; for all the world, his ghostly presence took its time to clarify into the beautiful horse I know. If my sweet Tripp swept me for treats, my affectionate Ghostie boy stopped and lowered his head as I wrapped my arms around his neck, returning my cuddle, quiet, waiting for my timing.

Not, I’m sure, that he didn’t sniff a time or two, and realize that I had no food on me.

After a bit, I gave in to those searching eyes all around me. “Okay, I’ll give you all a couple carrots.”

Oh, yes, we know where this is going.

Pretty Freckles had just waited at the gate, eyeing the bag. I started with placing a few carrots in her bucket—two or three. In my hand, I gave Tripp a carrot, moved to Ghostie, handed him a carrot, walked to Black Beauty, a carrot, gave Tripp another, Ghostie, Beauty, Tripp.

Then I said, “Okay, one more for each, then I have to leave.”

I can’t SWEAR they understand English, but Tripp did not want Beauty to get one more than he should, or maybe one more at all. He turned to tell Beauty so, and, never intending harm to me at all, of course, brushed me with that beautiful left hip.

That doesn’t sound like much, but remember, even after growing at a rather alarming rate after the calamity summer before last, Tripp outweighs me by roughly 900 pounds.

He knocked me down.

Well, the ground was kind of, er, sort of damp, so not too hard, and hay littered it, but it did jar me a bit—and knocked my glasses, oh, I guess sailing is as good a word as any.

To say I need glasses to see is like saying an ocean needs water to be wet. At 16 years old, the optometry school in Memphis, Tennessee, brought in all the students they could find to let them see my eyes. “You don’t see many like hers.” Fortunately, even with eyes that have "odd" features, my vision can be corrected—with glasses. So, this morning about 5:00—in the dark—I looked for gold-framed glasses—in straw—without glasses.

I called Mike.

Who was, like most retired people with sense and a brain at that hour, still in bed.

“Um, hey, I’m at the barn, in the pasture with the horses.”

“Okay.”

“I just got knocked down.”

“Okay.”

“I’m okay. My glasses got thrown off, and I can’t find them in the dark.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes with a flashlight.”

“And bring my spare glasses.”

“Okay.”

I do admit it seemed like a long wait….in the dark, functionally blind, on my knees in the dark, feeling the ground to try to find my glasses touching hay and, well, God knows what else (it is a horse pasture, after all), unable even to get a true picture of where I am because I cannot see. The horses, realizing something must be amiss, (they rarely see me crawling) stood around looking at me, once in awhile one ambling over nibbling at the ground for a dropped carrot, mostly just watching. “You okay?”

Except Freckles. She, who had missed the ruckus thought, “Hey! Look! There’s a carrot on the ground! Thanks!” I tried to shove her away, terrified SOMEONE would step on the glasses I could not see.

Finally I saw a blur of light walking towards the gate and heard a familiar cough. Freckles saw (and heard) it, too. She ambled towards Mike. "Hey! Did you bring carrots, too?" Mike, not as comfortable as I am around horses (and, it must be noted, never having been crushed, broken, or concussed by them), excused himself, walked around her, and made his way--carefully--to me.

I stood, my knees cold and wet. Great. Now my quick stop at the farm and early arrival at school plan had flown the coop—or barn, anyway as I saw the return-trip-home-cleaning-up-clothes-changing in my future.

Mike handed me my glasses. Anyone who cannot see the wall when you wake up in the morning understands that relief of putting on glasses and having the dark come into focus. Those with good vision, just take the glasses of someone who does not see well, try them on, and kind of reverse the process. "Miraculous" fits the feeling.

We began the search. Of course, I did not know exactly where I had been because, well, couldn’t see where I had been. Then I had moved as I searched, though not too far for fear of getting too far to search for the glasses. After five minutes or so, I said, “Well, I'll just get another pair. I need a new pair anyway.”

  

I heard Mike say, “Wait! Here’s some carrots.”

The things you hear at 5:00 in the morning in a horse pasture.

And, then, “Here they are!”

So, to be angry because of yesterday or grateful because he’s my hero this morning. Life, surely brings difficult choices……but, as I am sure I will, again, want chocolate chip cookies, let’s just go with hero.

And, here is the beautiful Tripp…..butter wouldn’t melt.

Soon, again, I’ll go to the barn. I hope I’ve learned………no treats in the pasture. Ever. Not ever.

Usually.

He Came to Work

He came to be my service dog.

I had thought my puppy raising days behind me. I tried rescue….and, surprisingly, all the rescue folks turned me down. That’s a bit of a shock, having rescue tell you that, no, they don’t believe you can have their dog. In one case, I was one of several who applied for a particularly sweet-sounding girl, and the foster home who knew her believed another applicant would serve her better—and the heck with me.

Well, who could blame them? Their interest lies with the dog. 

Baby River

I had queried with another group about another dog, and, after getting answers understood to not even bother to apply. I gotta tell you, I have a reputation—and it is NOT one where dog people don’t want their dogs in my house. Generally, a dog in my house gets all the exercise he needs, all the tennis balls she wants, quality food, soft beds (usually a person’s), training…….

So, though I thought puppy raising days behind me, here he came. 

He has big paws to fill. My previous service girl, Millie, defied the prototype of her border collie breed. Calm, sweet, she actually had been a rescue, a beloved companion before injury brought to me a need for a helper. Wild as a buck on arrival, her sweet nature responded to training, bonded to human outreach, and a couple of years after a time when no one wanted to be in the same zip code with her, she morphed into the dog for whom I was envied. “I wish my dog listened like Millie……obeyed me like Millie does you……was as sweet as Millie is…..” It took time and work, but, oh, man, not one iota of effort failed the worth of it. When she went anywhere with me, she kept close, watched me, willingly let others love on her when appropriate, but never let there be a doubt to whom she belonged.

Millie

The loss of Millie, that beautiful, big, chestnut, flame-coated girl, devastated me, taking a friend and more—my helper. For two years I wore a surgical shoe and walked with a cane. She wore her service dog vest, my wallet in the pocket, so I did not have a purse or bag to keep up with.  The injury came after a routine surgery; I had dreamed of pedicures and pretty shoes and, instead, through no animus or intention, received damage and new boundaries. It took a toll, this adjustment to new limits. When unable to do some things I saw others doing, a walk up a hill too strenuous, a group outing beyond my new capabilities, I reached for my sturdy, beautiful girl who read my spirit, bringing comfort as well as physical aid. I still miss that lovely dog.

And I need, well, not a replacement, but another assistant in the day, not just from my own wants, but a couple of medical practices have recommended a service dog for a couple years now. Though out of the surgical shoe and past need of a daily cane, restrictions from that injury haven’t changed much. Stability can, at times, be an issue…..well, the medical folks recommend a dog.

And, so came a puppy.

I read on a herding dog board about a girl who had a dog named River, and I thought that name so beautiful, so different…..so, River.

The dogs who were already here adore River; he adores them, and they taught him lots of useful things.  “That flap in the door? It lets you outside and inside quickly and easily.  It’s better to potty outside. Chasing tennis balls is fun. We run in a field every day, and they have ponds for swimming!”

Perhaps the most appreciated—“When the bell rings, a person is at the door. You stare at it, look at Mom or Dad. But, don’t make any noise.” Not having dogs bark at the doorbell? Priceless.

River grew and grew and grew….. training started early.

And continues still…..

But, though I try not to compare, I see a bit of Millie in this dog. In the class where we practice jumping or climbing or fun things, he watches me closely. Another dog mom says, “I have never seen a dog so focused on his human as River is.” At times we switch dogs, working each others’ dogs to see how they do—and how we do with another person’s dog, giving commands. River will do what they say, but he continually checks with me. “Where are you? Why are you there and I’m here?

Because I still work each day, the dogs and I go to sleep earlier than my husband. River touches me—albeit through covers—all night. Whisper, my beautiful white-faced boy, starts on the bed with us. But, fortunately for human house inhabitants, he gets warm after a bit and goes to the floor. River scoots closer to me.

Whisper

When my husband leaves for a car ride with the other dogs (we also have the gorgeous Jenni, Mike’s retirement present, a girl who herds), River never lifts an eye. He stays with me.

When he came, a car ride made him so sick, the poor little puppy ran away from the very thought of a ride. “No! No! NoNoNoNoNo!” We took him on short rides, but no joy. We got him medicine, but by then his mind had settled. Poor boy grew so terrified at the thought of a car moving that he drooled if I just set him in the car and didn’t even turn it on. It took months, but finally he could get in the car, drool, but not throw up.  And now, if I go somewhere—anywhere—besides work, my sweet River wonders why he is not in the car with me. Especially he looks forward to our class of running, jumping, climbing. The first time he ran to the door excited to go the whole class clapped at the news, excited for the puppy who had overcome his fear and sickness!

And we still work on his basic skills. Soon, he will have his Canine Good Citizen Certificate. Though he tends to pull when we walk outside, like in a park, he improves each time, and inside, as in PetSmart, you have never seen a better loose leash walk. He doesn’t want to sit, but he wants to do what I want him to do, so he works to please me, to help me.

River practices "Down!"

He learns.

After his CGC, we can get him the skills he needs for Service Dog certification. Still a big puppy at a year-and-a-half, he learns quickly. This puppy, this gift, already he shows the talent he brings to the help he will give. Ah, what a gift, the promise of this puppy.

He has come here to be my service dog. Though his job does not entail some of the detailed tasks others with that title must perform, I wait impatiently for his training to finish, for his help with mobility and stability issues, for his help when my limits bring frustration, for his very presence and usefulness to lessen that physical pain, hopefully decrease the strong medicines I take.

Training takes as long as it takes, worth the time, worth the work.

Beautiful River, rolling along….

Beautiful River