I had started cooking dinner when we received the text. Our good friend badly fractured her wrist in a horse-riding accident. This was on top of unfortunate health related news she received the day before. Cath and I had two immediate reactions: sadness for our friend, and a mutual decision to substitute mashed potatoes for the broccoli we were planning to serve with dinner.
Continue reading “Life is too Short to Eat Broccoli”
In June of 2010, Cathy sat in her car in the deserted parking lot of the Culpeper Baptist Church. The representative of Herr Fuchs had not yet arrived, and Cath was becoming a bit anxious. Antibes’ fresh cooled semen was a precious delivery and Cath wanted to make sure all went well.
Continue reading “All That Jazz”
It was an early winter morning a little before sunrise – that liminal period of time between darkness and light. When I left the house to feed the horses, it was so quiet, the silence felt deafening. I soon discovered the opposite was true. In that cold predawn stillness, sound was everywhere, once I started listening.
I have to admit on most mornings, I’m on autopilot as I walk to the barn. Typically, I’ve only been up about ten or fifteen minutes and haven’t yet had my coffee. It’s pretty rote – walk to the barn, feed the cats, feed the horses and return to the house to make coffee.
I suppose I have the sudden snorting of a buck to thank for my change on this particular day. I stopped and tried to pinpoint his location in the paddock, but couldn’t see him. The question of whether he was sounding an alarm, or merely indicating curiosity was soon answered – I heard muffled footfalls, and then saw six deer leaping our fence before clamoring into a neighbor’s field. Our dog Carmen and I were both so startled, neither of us did anything except watch them go, their white tails vivid in the half-light. I have no idea why Carmen didn’t chase them – it was the first of three unusual non-actions on her part that morning.
The deer must have disturbed some nearby turkeys, as two of them started “gobbling” in the woods by the pond. I looked for them as well, but couldn’t tell if they were on the ground, or the low branches of a tree. Carmen, for the second time that morning, did nothing.
By now, my ears were evidently alert, as I heard a woodpecker tapping near the side of the house. A few footsteps later, the whinnies of our neighbors’ horses came from about 100 yards away. That was unusual for them at this time of the morning. Perhaps something was about, as they were joined by the barking of our friend’s dogs, Jonah and Jebson, about a quarter mile down Swains Road. Carmen’s ears pricked up. Much like the dog telegraph in the movie, 101 Dalmatians, the two frequently start a message that circulates among the other dogs in the neighborhood. This morning, Carmen must have decided they were just gossiping – after listening for a second, she trotted to the barn, with nary a bark.
It was chilly in the barn and there was a skim of ice on the water buckets. Our cats, Ollie and Mama Cat, stared silently at me, waiting for their breakfast. The horses weren’t so quiet. Stella and Katie nickered, snorted and pawed the ground. They too wanted their breakfast, but made a much bigger demonstration than the cats about it.
I fed the cats and then the horses, left the barn and started making my way back to the house. It was nearing sunrise now and there was some color in the eastern sky. Carmen and I stopped for a moment just outside the barn and looked to the east. We disturbed a couple of crows who scolded us with their caws, but the cardinals in the nearby evergreen didn’t seem to mind our presence and continued to sing their song of CHEER, CHEER, CHEER ,,, PRETTY, PRETTY ,, PRETTY, PRETTY!
I thought about the birds and animals, both tame and wild, who were there to greet Carmen and I that morning. It brought to mind one of my favorite quotes from Maya Angelou – “Listen to yourself and in that quietude you might hear the voice of God.” While watching the sun rise that morning, I had an additional thought – In the quietude of a winter’s morning, hear the voices of God’s creatures and feel blessed, for we are all God’s creatures.
Cathy was thrown from her horse two months ago. While she has some lingering pain, overall, she was pretty lucky. It reminded me of the story my friend Bob Bishop told of being thrown by a horse, but unfortunately not clear, as the horse galloped away. He too was lucky as you’ll soon find out.
This is Bob’s story and it’s a good read. All I’ve added is a bit of editing.
In 1952 Crested Butte, Colorado was a bucolic place in the summer, with blue skies, white clouds and mountains surrounding the area. At the time, Crested Butte was a little town of maybe fifteen frame houses, a general store, and a post office/sheriff’s office. All were two stories high, and each had a door on the second floor. Crested Butte typically received twelve to fifteen feet of snow in the winter, and with drifts, that door became the only way people could exit their house. They would chop stairs in the snow and ice down to the street. As spring approached and the likelihood of more snow lessened, they tunneled through the snow to the front door and used that as access as the snow started to melt.
Needless to say, it was not the multimillion-dollar ski area it is today.
My father and mother were asked by our friends, the Dorsetts, if mom could help them out at the boy’s camp they had founded a few years earlier. This was mid-May, two weeks before the camp was to open for the summer, and the camp cook had just quit. The Dorsetts knew that mother was schooled as a dietician, and also knew she was a good cook. Coincidently, father had just accepted a new job with Aetna Life Insurance Company, which required him to attend a four-week school in Hartford, Connecticut. Mother and father agreed they could help the Dorsetts out and a little extra money would be welcome. My brother and I could go to the camp for free, and they waived the requirement that a camper must be at least twelve years old, for nine-year-old me.
The camp was three miles down a dirt road from the town of Crested Butte, at the base of Mt. Crested Butte, which rose almost three thousand feet straight up from the meadow. We kids slept in Conestoga wagons – not replicas, but real ones left there by those who rode in them to seek their fortunes in the west decades earlier. Inside the canvas covered wagons were four sets of bunk beds, two on each side. Light came from three kerosene lanterns hanging in the middle. There were six wagons with eight boys to a wagon, for a total of forty-eight campers. The only electricity in the camp was in the kitchen, the residence “hall” for the staff and counselors, and the dining hall.
It was pretty idyllic, for a young lad of nine. Other than the mandatory arts and crafts sessions, we were free to go fishing, hiking, or horseback riding, or to just play. I generally chose horseback riding, and off we rode to the meadows beyond the camp for romping around, and frequently to play flag football on horseback.
Great fun, until …
One fateful day, my horse saw something. A snake? A gopher hole? I’ll never know. She reared up – I was just moseying along, reins held loosely, and then I was airborne. Spooked by whatever she had seen, the horse took off at a gallop. I was thrown off, but unfortunately, not completely. My left foot caught in the stirrup, and I was just tall enough that my head almost reached the ground. I remember fervently hoping I didn’t hit a rock with my head, although it was clearly beyond my control. My journey across the meadow continued with me hanging upside down, bouncing off the ground in synch with the horse’s gallop. The direction I faced changed with each bounce – seeing the meadow stretching endlessly behind at one moment, and next peering at the blue sky from under the horse’s belly. Although I have no exact recollection, I was later told the whole journey lasted less than a couple of minutes before my horse was pulled to a stop by one of the counselors.
The next thing I remembered was lying in my bed in our Conestoga wagon, just staring up at the canvas top. I could talk and move my arms, but I had no sensation below my waist. In time, the “local” doctor (from Gunnison, 30 miles away, the last 15 on a dirt road) came in to evaluate my condition. He reminded me of a shorter, thinner Santa Claus, with white hair and a beard. After an eternity of poking, prodding and sticking pins into me everywhere, he drew a deep breath, turned to my mother and said, “He’s paralyzed, and it’s either temporary or permanent. Either way, the only thing you can do is make him comfortable.” He said if I could ever wiggle my toes, the paralysis was probably temporary, a traumatic inflammation of the spinal cord, and I would likely become fully functional. If not, well …
What’s a nine-year-old to think? Honestly, not much. I had no idea what “permanently paralyzed” meant. It never occurred to me I wouldn’t be able to walk, bike, play baseball, or go horseback riding again. My brother and some of my wagon-mates kept me supplied with comic books, Archie and Jughead, which helped while away the time. I was not in pain, but ached all over. I slept a lot.
As time passed, I kept looking down at my toes. I concentrated as hard as I could on wiggling them, but nothing happened. Until, on the third day, I stared at my toes, willing them to move. And then I swear, my right big toe did. I swear. I saw it move just a little. Didn’t it? I thought it did. I concentrated even harder, and, sure enough, I could actually see it move. Not much, but it actually moved. Yippee!!!
A couple of hours later, Mom came in with my lunch, and I said, “Mom?! Watch this!” And I wiggled my right big toe. She looked at me and said, “What, Bobby? What do you want me to watch?” I yelled, “Mom! LOOK! Look at my right foot!” She turned to look down at my feet, I wiggled my toe, and her eyes glistened as she turned back and looked at me. She broke into a huge smile, leaned down, and gave me a BIG hug.
In a couple more days, I could wiggle all of my toes. The doctor came back to check on me a week after the accident. I recognized him as he pulled the canvas flap aside and climbed into the wagon. I said, “Hi. Watch this.” He started smiling as I performed my new trick (wiggling my toes), and said, “You sure are one lucky little boy.” Pause. “I think you’re going to be just fine.” Then he left.
A couple more days passed, and I was up and walking, although I needed help to keep my balance. Another week, and I was fine, walking and running around – just as if it never happened.
Later in life, I learned there is real value in being as good as you can be, but it is really good if you’re also very lucky.
Postscript: I started having back problems in 2017. It began with tingling in both quadriceps, but two months later, I had a pinched nerve in my neck. The MRI showed “severe” narrowing of where the nerves go from the spinal cord out to my left at L2-3 and to my right at L3-4 (aka “spinal stenosis”). Oh, also some scoliosis, having lost 4” of height in the last twenty years. I mentioned the horse escapade to my orthopedist and asked whether it might have some bearing on the condition of my back. He looked at me over the top of his horned-rim glasses and said, “It can’t a-helped” and smiled. And so did I.
Addendum:
I should mention Bob later attended the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and served for several years in the Navy as a submariner. He’s a great storyteller and I’ve done a couple of previous blogs with him about his time in the Navy. If you would like to read them, you can do so here:
I’m no Doctor Dolittle, but I do “Talk to the Animals” here at Rohan Farm, and do so on a pretty regular basis. Most mornings, we have conversations, although they tend to be a trifle one sided, at least in a verbal sense. Still, I think we have a pretty good understanding of each other.
It starts when I wake up in the morning. Carmen, our dog, will stir and I’ll ask her if she had a good night sleep. She doesn’t answer, and instead does a couple of “downward dog” yoga stretches while waking up and looking at me. Eventually, we are both awake and go downstairs and out the door.
At the barn, I greet our horses, Katy and Stella, with a good morning, and ask them if they had a restful night, and whether there were any visitors to the barn. They tend to just look at me, and the look says “Where were you? It’s time for our breakfast!” On cold mornings, when there’s some ice in their buckets, I’ll also ask if they were warm enough during the night. Of course they were, but it seems a friendly thing to ask. While getting their food, I keep a bit of chatter going about the beautiful sunrise outside the barn, or the new snow on the ground, and aren’t they going to be surprised when they are turned out. They respond by stomping their hooves, or scraping the bars on the stall doors with their teeth, wanting to know where the hell breakfast is. Eventually, I give it to them, and things quiet down, while they munch away.
Now, it’s time to feed our cats, Stan and Ollie, and I again greet them with a hello and ask how their night was. Lately, it’s been fairly cold, so we’ve allowed them to sleep in the heated tack room, rather than the barn itself. They purr and wrap around my legs, or rub up against Carmen as they wait for breakfast. I’ll ask them if they heard Momma Cat out in the barn last night. Momma is a cat whose owner moved away, and we have seemingly adopted. Cathy frequently sees her, but she is quite shy around Carmen and me and we rarely do. As I leave the barn, I call out a loud hello to Momma Cat, and noisily put some food in a bowl in the hay area for her. Of course, she is nowhere to be seen.
Carmen and I then return to the house for our own breakfasts. As we enter the mudroom, Carmen immediately sits in front of her dog bowl. She hasn’t barked, or said anything verbally, but she might as well have said “OK – you fed everyone else, now it’s my turn. And don’t even think about making your coffee before feeding me.”
After a couple cups of coffee and small breakfast, it’s time to go back to the barn and let everyone out.
The cats go first, and I remind them to come back at dinner time, if they want to sleep in the tack room. Otherwise, they are on their own. I tell Stan to watch out for our other neighbor’s un-neutered male cat that sometimes comes slinking around the barn looking for a handout. Stan and he have a history, so I figure a word of caution can’t hurt. I also remind Stan doing a walk-about for a week or more in winter is probably not a smart thing to do, but he ignores me whenever I tell him this.
Finally, it’s time to put the horses out and I take a few flakes of hay to the nearby paddock. While in the hay area, I note that Momma Cat has already eaten most of her food, and disappeared back into the hay. I say hello again, and call “Here kitty, kitty, kitty…” a few times, but get no response
As i put Katy’s grazing muzzle on, I tell her I’m sorry she has to wear it, however, it’s for her own good, and as a pony, we don’t want her developing health issues from overeating. After taking her out, I return for Stella, who has waited patiently. Leading her to the paddock, I usually just tell her to enjoy the day, and remind her not to pick on Katy.
With that, it’s back to the house, and the rest of my day.
The thing is, I think Dr Dolittle had it slightly wrong when he said “Oh, if I could talk to the animals, just imagine it …” Talking “to” the Animals is easy. I mean, I do it every morning. It’s talking “with” the animals that is harder. While “Talking to” and “Talking with” are often used interchangeably, they aren’t quite the same, are they? “Talking with” implies a conversation between two or more. “Talking to” can imply a one way, or one sided conversation, or perhaps even a lecture.
I guess it’s not that different from people in that regard. Talking to people is easy. Talking with people is what’s hard, and these days, with the fences everyone puts up, getting harder. We all know people that are great talking to, or at you, but maybe aren’t so good at the listening and understanding part.
Upon further consideration, I think it is easier to communicate with the animals. I may do most of the verbal talking, but the interchange and understanding that goes back and forth is pretty good, at least in comparison to some people I know.
Addendum:
⁃ While I do the morning feeding at the barn, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Cathy does 90% of the animal care on the farm. Afternoon feedings, stall cleanings, horse healthcare and a myriad of other horse and animal maintenance chores are all under Cath’s purview. While I can’t say whether she talks more or less than I do with them, her understanding of their wants and needs is infinitely greater than mine.
⁃ Carmen is the smartest dog we’ve ever had and a GREAT communicator. Here’s a blog she wrote about a year ago: My name is Carmen. I’m about 44 years old now, and in my prime. Some guy named Shakespeare once said every “dog will have his day.” I think every day is my day, and I […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/04/07/whosagooddog-carmen/
Live Life Exuberantly 