What is Old is New

      Anything worthwhile will happen again - and again.  Often a new idea is just a recycled old one.  Even this blog is a recycled newspaper column, which makes me feel downright futuristic.

    This story began because I butted in on two women chatting in a line somewhere.  I don't remember where.  Possibly it was a grocery store, post office or the DMV.   The details have evaporated because my brain is periodically mush.  I do remember the pair marveling over the new innovation of ordering groceries online and having them delivered.

    Naturally I couldn't resist.

    "Actually," I informed them, in the tone of someone about to ruin a perfectly good conversation, "that isn't new at all.  My father delivered groceries nearly a hundred years ago." 

    They blinked.  I beamed.  History had been served.

    I've sometimes claimed my parents were horse illiterate, but that is not entirely true.  My dad, as a pre-teen, was the designated delivery boy for the family grocery store.  He would load up the wagon, hitch up Bill, (I seem to remember being told that was the horse's name,) and off they would go.  Dad wasn't thrilled  about the job, and Bill was a bit cantankerous, which is a polite way of saying the horse had opinions, and they were not always in line with that of his driver.

    My grandmother, meanwhile, was not delighted watching her youngest son disappear down the road behind a horse she didn't trust.  (Pop had three much older brothers as well as a sister,)  Grandma was especially worried Bill would balk at the Canadian National Railway tracks.  I think she imagined the horse going on strike over the tracks as a train rumbled toward my father.

    Fortunately Dad's career as a reluctant teamster was short-lived.  His oldest brother came home from university with a car, and that was that.  Horse power gave way to horsepower, and Pop happily retired from the Bill-and-wagon delivery service.  I have often wondered what became of Bill.  Hopefully he found a second job somewhere that appreciated his boundaries.

    Years later, when I got interested in driving my Miniature Horses, Pop finally admitted he had a fleeting familiarity with horses.  Fleeting indeed.  He also confessed that harnessing had been a challenge for many folks.  Novice farmers would have to chalk the harness outline on their horses, he told me.  I have never verified this, but considering I own five harnesses and none of them resemble each other, I tend to believe it.  I've had moments where I have stared at a piece of tack like it was a cryptic IKEA part.

                                               

                                          Bosely, in harness, imitating a unicorn
 

    Dad watched a lot of Westerns.  The movie theaters were full of them, and there were many TV programs featuring tales of the West in the 60s and 70s.  At home, Pop would loudly correct film makers.  Whenever the pioneers crossed the plains with horses pulling their prairie schooners, he would harrumph, and declare, "Most of them did not use horses.  It was impractical.  It was usually oxen that brought the wagons west."  He was right, I discovered.  Oxen were strong, ate scrub, and were easy to harness.  Yes.  They were practical.

    So, back to the delivery of groceries.

    My husband continues to go to the grocery store in person.  He insists on inspecting the produce himself, as though he is auditioning for a role as The Tomato Whisperer.  It gives him somewhere to go, and he gets to grumble about the quality of his meat purchases without blaming someone else.  Retirement hobbies come in all forms.

    My goddaughter and daughter-in-law, on the other hand, fully embrace deliver services.  They have full-time jobs.  They don't have time to fondle avocados. 

    While I don't have regular grocery delivery, I have been ordering dry goods online for years.  It makes sense.  I don't have a young man or woman with a horse and wagon bring food to my door, but I do appreciate the trucks (especially the electric ones) pulling into the yard to drop off my order.  It's an old idea, recycled.

    Bill would be proud.  Or at least he would pretend to be, before refusing to cross the driveway. 

     

     

     

Report on Spice

     I had planned to do another interview with Spice.  I enjoy the ritual of me asking questions, him flicking an ear, shifting his weight, offering the kind of answers only a pony can give.  But this time, he wasn't in the mood.  He turned away, not rudely, just quietly, the way an old friend might when he is too tired to talk.  His reluctance was the its own message.  My old man is slowing down.

    I knew it would happen eventually.  Horses in their thirties move differently, rest more, let the world pass through them instead of charging at it.  But knowing something and watching it unfold are two different things.  We have been together since 2002, when we both had more spark - when he trotted everywhere and I didn't yet feel the stiffness in my own joints.  We aged in parallel, but suddenly he seems to be pulling ahead.

    A few weeks ago, I looked out my kitchen window in the late afternoon and realized something was wrong.  Spice was colicking.  Even from a distance, I could see the restless cycle: lie down, get up, pace, lie down again.  A choreography of discomfort.

    My reaction was instinct.  I moved as fast as my nearly 80 year-old legs would move.

    The grass between the barns was damp and cool under my boots as I moved him there, hoping it would ease him.  I called the veterinarian with one hand while caressing him with the other.  I gave him electrolytes and TTouches.  I murmured to him.  I tried not to let my voice shake.

    Dr. S. arrived within the hour.  The first treatment didn't quite take.  She left, then returned.  The second treatment, plus an ultrasound, finally did what we needed.  Spice passed a massive turd, and gradually felt better.  Relief passed over us, though only one of us had produced the offending object.  It was well past midnight.

    When the crisis passed and the adrenaline drained, I stood beside him and felt the weight of the moment.  He was eating less.  Chewing slowly.  Something deeper was going on.

    I called the clinic again and scheduled a dental appointment.  Spice's regular vet, Dr. L. came out to see both him and Boudicca.  Spice's session was long.  Boudicca's was routine.  One of Spice's teeth had to be extracted.  I kept the tooth afterward.  It's an ugly, decayed-looking thing, and I sympathized with him more than I expected...I'd  had a recent extraction myself.  Aging is humbling for all species.

                                                   

                                                       Spice's offending tooth
 

    Dr. L. put Spice on a strict mash diet.  He has been on mash for years  (soaked beet pulp and alfalfa pellets) but ever since we started hiding his Cushings's pill in it, he has been suspicious.  He has always preferred alfalfa flakes.  He knows what he likes, and he has earned the right to have opinions.

    Keeping Spice away from alfalfa has been a challenge.  I put him on the short, moist grass between the barns to reduce the risk of choke.  But he still wants the good stuff, and when he sees Boudicca getting her half flake, he looks at me with a mixture of longing and indignation.

    So, yes, I admit it: he gets hay.  I choose only the leafy bits, never the stiff stems.  After so many years, I trust him.  He's a canny old man who knows his own needs.  I watch him select each mouthful with care, his soft nose sorting through the options.  So far, it's working.  He hasn't lost much weight, and although his coat is dense, it lacks the curls typical of a pony struggling with Cushing's.

    He did have a couple of bouts with horse lice.  (Horse lice are species specific.  Although they can get on people, and spread to other equines through our clothes and grooming tools, they can't live off the blood of people.)  I dusted both him and Boudicca thoroughly.  The powder works, but none of the equines enjoy getting sprinkled.  Spice tolerates it with the stoicism of someone who has endured worse indignities.

    Just a few years ago, Spice was a ball of energy.  Walking wasn't his preferred gait. He trotted or cantered everywhere.  He loved to jump.  When I let him out of his enclosure, I would lower the top two rails, but he didn't wait for the bottom rung to be removed.  He jumped over.  It was a signature move, a small act of rebellion and joy.  Now he scrambles over at a walk or waits for me to lower the rail.   

    He takes long naps.  His world has softened.

    And yet, when the light hits him right, I see the horse he was - the spark, the mischief, the pride.  Age doesn't erase those things; it just tucks them deeper inside.

    According to the Guinness World Records, the oldest living horse is 37.  Spice isn't registered, and his exact age can't be proved, but by my calculations he is 30 or 31.  I once imagined he might be a contender.  Now I know that is unlikely.

    As I age alongside him, I'm confronted with my own mortality.  I once though he would outlive me.  That belief was comforting in a strange way, as if handing him the final chapter of my story would spare me from writing his.

    Life rarely follows the script we draft for it. 

    Now my goal is simpler: to keep Spice comfortable, content, and as Spicey as possible.  I want to honor the years we've shared, and to walk with him, slowly, into whatever comes next.

Mud

     Mud happens, especially if horses live in the Pacific Northwest.  Every year, when the rains come (and they do come in our area,) we know mud is going to be created.

    Towards the end of September, when the weather reports start to threaten rain, we call our local supplier of wood shavings.  We have used the same business for over 30 years, and the employees and my husband have formed a friendly relationship, enough so that I know the dumping of the shavings will take longer than the process of emptying the truck.  Who says women are the ones who gossip?

    Anyway, we order enough piles of shavings to create eight or nine (sometimes more,) four foot tall stacks along the driveway fence-line where we routinely toss hay.  Many people are startled to learn that we don't spread the chips.  Spreading creates mud that much faster.  If we allow the stacks to stand, the horses gradually flatten them.  Before they are leveled, the animals have dry places to stand and eat.  That is the idea.

    However, the stacks do not last.  When spring approaches, as it is now, the wood chips are history; in fact, they have become part of the mud.  Sometimes we will take advantage of frozen ground, and add a few more piles of shavings.  There are many years, like this year, when the weather is not conducive to more shavings.

    So we have mud.  Mud that is composed of wood and horse manure.

    I actually prefer the mud after a deluge of wet.  The odor is less.  (I'm immune to the smell of horse manure after 70 years of smelling it, and fortunately the neighbors have never complained.)  Soggy. muddy surfaces are slippery, but at least I know my boots are going to stay on my feet, as long as I keep my balance.

    Less moisture means the mud will get sticky and often the odor is stronger.  Cloying mud makes walking become an exercise in leg weight lifting that develops strong thighs.  Muscles have to be applied to get the feet moving.  Occasionally, if boots are a looser fit, the foot moves, but not the boot.  Children, especially, like to move fast, and they will run through the muddy ground.  Suddenly, I hear a yelp, and look to find a child hopping along holding up a foot with a saturated brown sock.  Behind them is a boot poking up from a mound of mud.  At least the human did not do a complete face-plant in the muck.

    Boots are essential.  When they are purchased the stores identify them as rain boots.  Fine.  They work in puddles.  However, we need proper footwear to plow through mud.  I tend to go through a pair every few years.  My last pair gave out right at the beginning of autumn.  Suddenly, I was experiencing wet socks inside my boots, and when I carefully inspected them, I found a crack in the rubber above the sole of the right boot.  I borrowed another pair up until Christmas when my daughter-in-law asked for my wish list.  Boots were on the top of my Santa requests.  I got them a bit late (Amazon was running slow,) but they fit perfectly, and comfortably.  I was delighted with the horses dancing across the boots.  They have been in service most days this winter.

                                                 

 

    I have had volunteers appear without boots.  I usually turn them away, although I do have a collection of old boots in the tack room.  Most of them have leaks.  That can be temporarily remedied with a plastic bag inside the boot; however, I do tell people to get their own appropriate footwear.  On rare occasions, rodents have snuck past the cats and nested in old boots. 

    The horses have to contend with the mud on a daily basis, and they can't put on boots.  They dislike the muck as much as humans.  We do the best we can to mitigate the problem, knowing that mud can cause thrush, abscesses, and scratches (fungal hoof infection.)  We work diligently to keep the stalls dry, as well as the main arena.  Unfortunately, the areas in front of gates tend to stay overly moist.  Once again, we try to bring in fresh wood chips to absorb the moisture. 

    I'm not sure why, but some of the horses seem to delight in mud baths.  Please explain to me why it is the horses with lighter colored coats who enjoy a roll in a patch of mud.  Summer is a glorious palomino.  Some of the golden ones have a darker coat, but Summer is a paler version, especially in the winter.  The children will spend hours grooming her.  An hour later I step outside to discover she has had an exuberant roll that has smeared her in a dark brown paste, and her four white socks are hidden in mud.  Sigh.  Keeping her clean is a constant chore.

    We live in an area noted for wind storms.  Although the wind can bring in the rain, often we get a major blow for days, without the moisture.  As long as the power grid stays intact, I am happy to get a few days of wind over 10 mph.  The mud will start to dry.  I appreciate nature's natural "hair dryer".  I think my horses do, too.  Most horses are fidgety in the wind, but mine have learned to accept it.  It means we don't have to scrap off mud, or pick out mucky hooves, although we do have tangled manes and tails to comb.

    We have had a relatively dry autumn and winter.  That is not good for the water reservoir in the mountains, but it has made the ground easier to navigate.

    We have mud.  It's manageable, as long as I can keep my boots on my feet. 

     

     

A Girl for the Horses

     Let's face it.  I need help, and help seems to come.  Somewhere out there is another girl for my horses.

    Even before we moved to our Buckley location, I had a helper.  I can't remember how we found G.  It was as if she had come with the horses.  We wanted to breed and compete with our Quarter Horses and Miniature Horses.  I was gifted with a pretty blond girl with oodles of 4-H experience.  We paid her a pittance to train and show our horses.  She was a superb rider, and also a carriage driver.  When we moved to Pierce County, she was our faithful employee for a few years.  We even bred a warmblood for her to own and train to jump.  But then, marriage and childbirth led her life in a different direction.

    I needed another girl for the horses.

    B would be our next employee.  With a personality as brilliant as her red hair, she, like G, was a treasure.  In spite of the age difference, we became companions.  As well as shows and training at the farm, I took her to clinics when I was participating.

    I especially recall one weekend when I was the injured person, but she was the individual who suffered nightmares as a result of seeing the fiasco.  We were attending a clinic.  I was riding our Shire, Mac.  We had enjoyed a lunch break, and B and I were leading Mac from his stall to the arena.  I was concerned because some workers had started a huge bonfire in a pasture we had to pass.  I was ahead of B, walking my horse, paying close attention to the flames.  What I failed to notice were the "killer" cows in the pasture on the other side of the road.  Mac did.  He shied on top of me, directly in front of B.  I was shoved, and I tumbled to the ground with Mac's hooves slamming against me.  I was up in a short minute, but I knew I had several lacerations.  Nothing was broken, and fortunately there were medical folks participating in the horse clinic.  I was quickly and efficiently helped.  It was B who would have the most trauma, though.  She had been convinced I would be totally squished by the ton of horse.

    She stayed with us for several more years, but she, too, left to start her own family.

    Occasionally, one of my students would step up and help.  N certainly did.  She would go on to study equestrian practices through her university studies.  AB was a somewhat indifferent student, but she became an amazing helper when she grew into a young adult.  J began lessons as a youngster, and she still comes to ride, always offering to stay.  She is willing to drive to the farm when her job schedule allows.

 

    K visited her grandmother down the road, and she often came to help.  Eventually, she would enroll in veterinary school.  AG had to do community service to graduate from high school.  She returned  for years after she had completed her allotted hours, giving up almost all of her weekends to assist me.

    T was older than most of my "girls."  She was already in her 20s when she came to help.  At the time, we had multiple volunteers.  She organized them.  In an emergency, she was always available.  Her skill with heavy machinery, as well as horses, was put to excellent use.  She would, in one way, stay with our organization, even after she moved to the Mid-west.  T became a board member.

    One of the girls became family, in the heart sense of the term.  She originally came to the farm tagging behind her horse-crazy older sister.  The sister would outgrow us, but not so AH.  She would stay.  Even as a pre-teen she had a gift with the horses, especially the shy, timid ones.  As she grew, so did her abilities.   I could always depend on her.   If my husband and I took some time away, this young teenager faithfully attended to the horses, even when she was running a high temperature.  She understood caring for the animals came first.  She married, had a child, and stayed in close contact.  AH is a daughter and another board member.  Unfortunately, she doesn't live close enough to be her on a daily basis.

    As I have aged, I find I need more help.  I was unable to teach because I was under the care of so many doctors this past summer.  I had four trips to the hospital.

    I leaned on another young woman.  This one, is my granddaughter.  KA stepped up to look after the animals for me.  Occasionally she gave lessons.  I don't think the farm could have continued without her.

    She is now planning for the arrival of her first child, and I know her time will be limited even though she assures me she will continue to help.  She has expressed interest in taking on the organization.  Time will tell.

    Meanwhile, I need to send out another plea for help.

    Wanted:  A girl (or boy) for the horses. 

     

Birds

     I'm not what anyone can call a formal bird watcher, but I do love to watch birds, and I have noticed, in the last few years, that there are far more varieties than when I was younger.  Or, perhaps, it is just that I am now looking.

    When I was a child, the first bird I recognized was a robin,  According to my parents, they were a harbinger of spring.  That is no longer true, at least not is this part of Western Washington.  I see robins all year around.  (The barn swallows indicate the changing of the seasons now.)  I also could name a crow, and probably I saw enough English sparrows to name them.  In fact, I think I called all small brown birds sparrows, including wrens and some finches.

    Now I recognize a lot more birds. I think because of the horses and the barns, we attract birds.  I have hay and grain laying around, and for the predator birds, well, barns unfortunately attract rodents.  I'm happy to see the falcons and eagles soaring and diving over our fields.

    In fact, some studies have shown that birds and horses have a somewhat symbiotic relationship.  I'm always amused when I see a bird perched on one of my equines.  I used to assume that they were always cow birds, but I have since learned that many types of birds go for a ride on an available steed.  Yes, birds are equestrians, as the 2026 Budweiser commercial demonstrates. 

    My knowledge of the birds around me has expanded.  I have seen towhees, juncos, and many starlings.

    Sometimes the birds I see give me a rush of excitement.  Only once have I seen a meadowlark or a goldfinch or a mountain bluebird.

    I thoroughly enjoy the times I have seen red-winged blackbirds.  They are striking in the contrast of their black feathers and the brilliant red on their wings.  

    I am delighted by the black-capped chickadees.   It seems that if I see one, I will see a banditry.  (The name of the group is as delightful as the birds.)

    A few years ago I looked outside to spot a smallish bird strutting in front of the barn where we had dropped a lot of grain.  I thought, "That looks like a quail."  I got out one of my bird books to confirm the sighting.  And then there was a whole covey of about twenty between our house and the barn.  Two days later they returned, but I have yet to see them again. 

    In the summer we have barn swallows and house finches making their nests in, and round the barns.  I have noticed there are fewer than we enjoyed when we moved in over 30 years ago.  All the housing development around us is probably making us less hospitable.

    The development, with all the domestic gardens, has ensured that all summer long, when I look out the kitchen windows, I will see a hummingbird.  They especially appreciate our bright scarlet "Lucifer" plants. 

    One of my favorite visitors is the occasional blue and brown scrub jay.  The birds are loud in voice as well as color, and since blue is my favored color, I welcome the sight of the jays.

    Occasionally, I will hear a woodpecker, and catch a glimpse of them, but since we no longer live in the woods, I rarely see them.  When our son was a grade schooler, they were a preferred bird. As a middle-schooler, he successfully rescued, raised and released a barn swallow.  

    We have had a problem with flooding in our pastures.  The city accepted some responsibility and dug a low spot in one pasture.  In late fall, winter, and early spring, it becomes a shallow pond.  The water attracts ducks, and more recently Canadian geese. I have seen as many as a dozen pars of ducks on "Lake Harris."  Usually it is only one pair; the ducks are regular visitors.  The geese are a little less common, but we have had half a dozen visiting at a time.  Autumn before last we had one goose who, alone, stayed for weeks.  I was beginning to wonder if we had a permanent guest, but one morning the bird was gone, and did not return - yet.

                                                       Ducks on Lake Harris
 

    About 15 years ago we saw the first Eurasian collared dove.  They quickly became ubiquitous.  Human guests often mistook their loud, repetitive cooing for an owl's whoo-ing.  I had to correct them.  Since the doves are not indigenous, I hope they are not frightening off our native feathered friends.

    I mentioned owls.  I have heard them in the evening, but never sighted one, and I would appreciate attracting one to our barn.  They are better than cats at catching rodents.  An owl would be an asset.

    I enjoy hearing the outside birds, but I am not proficient at telling one chirp from another.  I can tell a few, like the doves, or crows, or chickadees, but usually I just appreciate the sound. 

    I still often can't tell one brown bird from another.  In the past few weeks little brown birds have been hopping around my main barn.  They rub their bodies in the fallen alfalfa, and they peck around the farm vehicles.  They seem only marginally concerned about me as they go about their business.  As I did as a child, I call them sparrows, but that could be wrong.  Like all birds, they are welcome.  They seem to know it, too. 

     

Stallions

     Women should not handle stallions.

    Yes, that is what I heard 40 years ago.  Females were solemnly informed they were too weak to handle an intact male horse.  Not only that, but a stallion would smell when a woman was menstruating and become unmanageable.  (The horse, not the woman - but perhaps, now that I think of it, the condition was often associated with both.)

    The sentiment has been disproven so often that the myth that women cannot deal with stallions has been almost forgotten, but I certainly remember disapproving looks when I handled our colts.  My husband, the less experienced horseman, took them into the show ring until they were gelded.  That was the way the system worked. 

    Yet, my relationship with our stallions has routinely been a positive one.  For a short time we bred Quarter Horses, although we did not own a breeding stud.  We always took our mares to the stallion. 

    Then we bred Miniature Horses.  We had stallions.  Finally, we acquired Devon, an Exmoor stallion, when we attempted to increase the number of Exmoor ponies in the world.

    Although we had a couple of Miniature stallions, we ended up gelding my favorite, Shadow.  Donny became the primary gene donor to our mares.  The decision to geld Shadow was not an easy one, but he tended to have progeny that was taller than desired in a breed that valued height more than temperament.

    Temperament in stallions is not always a condition that is desired as much as I think it should be, although owners do take it into some consideration.  Certainly draft horse people do not want a ton or more of horse who can be difficult to control.  Even Thoroughbred owners demonstrate sense.  Chinook Pass set a North American record at Longacres in 1982.  I believe it is a record that still stands.  Chinook Pass raced as a Thoroughbred gelding.  Years later, he was boarded at a facility where I had my mare, Splash, trained.  He was involved in a second career as a dressage horse, and he was noted for his friendly demeanor.  Apparently, he was a nasty, unmanageable stallion, but a model equine gelding.  At least his owners and handlers realized he would be more valuable as a gelding.

    The stallions under my care have always been gentlemen with an emphasis on the gentle.

    Donny could certainly be handled by anyone, even children (although I didn't encourage it when he was a stallion).  He was small, but powerful.  Donny loved and trusted his people, perhaps more than he loved his mares.  He was a fertile little guy.  He was also a showman, demonstrating that horses are thinking animals, anxious to please.

    We did geld him when we decided that breeding Miniatures would no longer be part of our business.  I have to admit that I am not comfortable selling the animals who come into our care.  Passing them on for money feels like a betrayal, especially when I am not sure of the homes that they will be getting.  We did try to sell Donny as a stallion, but when no one wanted him (their loss) we decided to keep him as a gelding.  He more than made up for his lack of breeding potential.  Donny, with his amazing temperament, became an ambassador for the equine world.  He did it all.  He traveled to events.  He pulled a cart.  He carried toddlers.  He did it with a cheerful disposition, the same disposition he exhibited as a stallion.

    Later we tried breeding again.  This time it involved Exmoor Ponies, those amazing equines that have survived history, and several extermination attempts.  We had a couple of Exmoor mares, and they were almost too old to have foals.  We wanted to try to get them pregnant.  We were offered a stallion from Canada.

    Devon had been used to breed Exmoor mares in Canada and on the United States East Coast.  He had been suffering from Canadian winters.  He needed a climate where he wouldn't have to stay in a barn for months at a time.

    He arrived with a commercial hauler, and he promptly endured himself to all who met him  He was a beautiful fellow, and always well mannered.

    No, he did not manage to get our older mares pregnant, and not for lack of trying.  Age or the equines involved was probably the primary barrier.  Certainly, it wasn't Devon's fault.  He had proved himself, and he left some Exmoor foals in the world.

    Devon didn't leave us with any progeny, but like Donny, he left with people knowing that even if Exmoors are direct descendants of wild horses, they have manners.

    Donny and Devon were known for their wonderful personalities, and they were trained and shown by women.  I'm not sure either of them exactly favored women, but both of them usually behaved better for females.  Maybe it was because the mares had taught them respect.  Men might be competition, but women were to be esteemed.

    Perhaps we should start a new "myth."  Stallions should be trained and handled by women.  

     

     

         

Boyd

 

    Boyd was supposed to be a barn cat, or at least and indoor/outdoor cat.  That was my plan.  Life had other ideas.

    I had stopped by the veterinarian's that day, over 15 years ago, probably to pick up some medication for a horse or my dog.  On the counter was a poster of a large grey tabby.  Suddenly I teared up.  "Neffy has been gone for six months," I explained.  The staff all knew my beloved old tortoiseshell cat.  She had been our working barn cat, as well as my evening lap companion for over 14 years, but her health had been failing when she disappeared.  Neffy was independent, opinionated, and a superb hunter of rodents in the barn.  She was also my buddy.  I missed her.  Her absence left a hole in my being.     

    The receptionist glanced at the photo.  "He's looking for a home.  We put him in a local rescue last night.  He was an outdoor cat, and the family brought him in with his sick sister to be put down.  We kept him because there is nothing wrong with him except he needed his shots, and to be treated for fleas.  We did all that.  He's only a couple of years old.  He's pretty big.  Oh, and he's a Manx."  Then she explained when she saw my slightly puzzled expression, "He doesn't have a tail - only the tiniest stub."

    Something felt right about this cat.  "I'll take him," I said impulsively, but firmly.

    We made arrangements for me to come back in a few hours with a cat carrier.  Over the lunch period, the staff would transport him to their office from the rescue home.

    I walked in, and the receptionist put a bewildered big tabby in my arms.  He allowed me to stroke him as he nervously shed hair all over my clothes.  "What's his name?"

    His last owners didn't give him one.  They called him "boy."

    When I brought the cat home, it was my husband, Steve, who decided we wouldn't confuse the new pet by radically changing his non-name.  We would call him Boyd.  He answered to it immediately in a shy, confused way.

    As I have down with most of my new cats and kittens, I left him in the bathroom for a few days, with a litter box, and I brought him out in the evenings to sit with me as we watched TV.  He quickly adjusted to the routine in a tentative, timid manner.  Boyd never ventured far from my side.  I soon released him from the confines of the bathroom, and his litter box took its place in the laundry room with Boyd enjoying the run of the house.  He even got along with Snickerdoodle, the dog.

    There were a couple of mishaps.  He had accidents with bowel movements, and the vet explained that was not uncommon for Manx cats.  A careful diet took care of the problem most of the time.  Boyd also thought he could scratch his claws on Steve's recliner.  He accepted that as a no-no when I dusted the two cat trees with catnip.  At one point he believed he might stalk my pet budgies, but when the plexiglass side fell on him, he decided they didn't really exist, and he ignored the flight cage.

    So, living in the house was going well for Boyd.

    It was the outside that bothered him  Boyd wasn't bold like Neffy.  He always moved cautiously, especially when he was beyond the walls of the house.  I would bring him out with me, and he would sit by the door or slink under bushes.  I tried to explain to him that living on a horse farm meant he had a job.  Boyd was never convinced.

    Eventually, he did manage to establish himself as a hunter in the barn, but I learned to leave my bedroom window open.  The leap to the sill was about four feet.  He made it every night, returning to the house in the wee hour of the morning.

    It might have gone like that for more years, except construction began by us.  What had been a dairy farm with one old home, became a development with no cows and 65 new homes.  Our dead end street became a thoroughfare.

    Boyd had no traffic sense.  I watched him amble across the road, oblivious to the cars, and I decided I didn't need an outdoor cat.  The neighbors had cats.  They could maintain the rodent population in my barn.  Besides, I had always worried about the bird population.  Boyd could live in the house.

    He didn't seem to mind at all.  In fact, I think he was relieved.  Sometimes he sat on the bedroom window sill and gazed outside, but usually he was content to laze around the house.  He played with his toys, especially his purple ball that I had crocheted for him.

    Years passed, with Boyd my constant inside companion.  He would press against my thigh, or stretch his upper body across my lap because he was too big to lay his whole body on me.  He seemed to enjoy the company of Snickerdoodle, too.

    If I left for any length of time he was stressed.  I could tell.  He would shed.  Boyd, in many respects, was more like a dog than a cat.  He didn't pretend to be independent.  He always wanted to be near me.  He had beds in every room of the house, some of them meant for the dog.

    As he aged, Boyd put on more weight, and he got diabetes. I had to learn to adjust his diet, and to give him shots.  He was an ideal patient, and he even lost enough weight that I didn't have to continue poking him.  He enjoyed his wet, fish Friskies.

     The vet warned me Boyd's kidneys were failing him.  I was cleaning his litter box often, at least twice daily, but he never had an accident.

    Then he wasn't interested in his food, or his toys, although he drank a lot of water.  He hardly lifted his head as I stroked him.  We all knew our time together was ending.

    My beloved daughter-in-law is a veterinarian's technician.  She was with me as I held Boyd to cross the rainbow bridge.

    For years my little dog looked for his friend, quietly wandering from room to room, inspecting all of Boyd's resting places.

    I often dream of Boyd.   He haunts me.  My journal is full of stories about him, and I don't have a cat any longer.  Perfection can't be replaced.

    Somewhere in my house is a purple crochet ball.  Boyd hid it before he left, and I have never found it.  I wonder....