In Defense of Spiders

     I like spiders.

    There, I said it.  I have spider jewelry and spider plushies.  I am a spider fan.

 

    The statement usually earns me a variety of reactions, ranging from puzzled looks to outright alarm.  Most of my students, in particular, tend to respond with shrieks, dramatic leaps backward, and urgent announcements that there is a spider somewhere within a fifty-foot radius.  It never fails.  A tiny spider the size of a raisin can reduce an otherwise sensible person into a flailing dance of terror. 

    Meanwhile, I am usually trying to rescue the poor creature before it gets squashed.

    I understand where the fear comes from.  Spiders have eight legs, multiple eyes, and a tendency to appear unexpectedly.  They emerge from dark corners, descend silently from ceilings, and occasionally materialize in places where no creature should reasonably appear.  When you walk into my tack room, and suddenly notice a large spider sitting motionless in a web just inches from your face, your heart may pound dramatically.

    Spiders know how to make an entrance.

    Yet, despite their eerie reputation, most spiders are far more interested in catching insects than interacting with humans.  In the Pacific Northwest, we are fortunate to have relatively few spiders that pose any real danger.  The infamous black widow with the red hourglass belly is the species that gets mentioned most often.  It certainly deserves respect, but even black widows are not the aggressive monsters depicted in horror movies.  They generally bite only when they, or their offspring are threatened, or if they are accidentally pressed against human skin. I have never seen one.

    The spiders I see most often are harmless neighbors sharing space in barns, sheds and houses.  They spend their lives quietly going about their business, constructing elaborate traps and hunting pests while asking nothing in return.

    Spiders are often described as creepy.

    However, take a moment to consider the fact that they can produce silk stronger than steel by weight.  They create intricate webs that glisten with dew in the morning like jeweled lace.  They can feel vibrations through those strands, and instantly determine whether an insect, a leaf, or a potential mate has arrived.

    Evan stranger, some spiders do not bother with webs at all.

    Wolf spiders roam the ground at night, hunting on foot.  They carry dozens of babies on their backs, creating one of nature's most unsettling forms of public transportation.  If you accidentally startle a mother wolf spider, what first appears to be one spider can suddenly become dozens.

    That image may haunt your dreams.

    Then there are jumping spiders, my personal favorites.

    Unlike many spiders, jumping spiders are cute.  (I think so.)  Their large forward facing eyes give them a surprisingly expressive appearance.  They seem curious rather than sinister.  Instead of waiting in webs, they stalk their prey like tiny cats, carefully measuring distance before launching themselves through the air with astonishing precision.  One will turn and appear to look directly at you, tilting its head as if trying to figure out what sort of giant creature has invaded its world.  They seem intelligent.  Probably they are.

    My granddaughter knows how much I enjoy them, and she once offered to get me a jumping spider as a pet.  I confess I was tempted.  A tiny spider living in a terrarium sounds considerably easier to care for than some of the horses I have known.  But jumping spiders only live for one or two years.  I am reluctant to get attached to a critter that will cross the rainbow bridge so soon when I am emotionally involved.

    Despite their reputation spiders perform vital services wherever they live.  Every day they capture enormous numbers of insects.  Without predators such as spiders, insect populations would increase dramatically.  Gardens, forests, fields, and barns would all be far less pleasant places.  

    A few days ago a student alerted me that a brilliant, iridescent yellow spider  with a small, jagged black stripe, was sitting on top of a pole.  I found it beautiful.  I smiled and gave it a wave of my hand.  Then, the unexpected happened:  the spider lifted its front legs and waved right back.  I stood there, completely captivated.  Normally, an encounter with a spider goes one of two ways:  they either scurry wildly into the nearest dark crevice, or they freeze in terror.  This little one did not leave.  It held its ground, keeping it's attention locked on me.  In that quiet arena, it truly felt like we were connecting.

    Probably, when I waved, tiny eyes focused on my hand, felt waves in the air, and processed a creature thousands of times its size with pure curiosity rather than panic.  Its wave was a lovely, instinctual acknowledgement of my presence.

    I exited the arena feeling a deep sense of gratitude for the encounter, and I left my bright yellow friend behind to return to its patrol of the arena.

    Walk into almost any barn and you will find spiders tucked into corners, stretched across rafters, or hiding near lights.  While students are busy yelling about them, spiders are diligently working the night shift.  They capture mosquitoes, gnats, moths, and countless flies.  Every insect trapped in a web is one less pest buzzing around a horse's eyes, biting sensitive skin, or causing irritation, even infection.

    In many ways, spiders are among the most underappreciated barn workers.  

    They never ask for feed.  They never need hoof trimming.  They never require veterinary care.  They work around the clock, rarely take a day off, and expect no recognition for their efforts.  

    Plus, if horses have four legs to create more stability than our meager two, consider how much more solid an eight legged mount would be.  I have my fantasies.

    So, the next time you spot a spider in the barn, perhaps pause before sounding the alarm.

    Look closely at its web.  Notice the remarkable engineering.  Consider the tiny predator waiting patiently for its next meal.  Yes, it many be a little creepy- only a little.

    Beneath that spooky appearance is a hardworking ally.

    And while everyone else is screaming, that spider is busy helping the horses by eliminating flies - and charming me. 

     

     

     

     

Back in the Saddle

     Riding again should not be a big deal, but to me, it is.  After years of letting life pile up like unstacked hay bales, I finally swung a leg over a horse again.  Or, more accurately, I awkwardly stretched a leg over a horse again.  My body and gravity had a few contrary opinions.

    My grounding began years ago with Buddy.  Sweet, insecure Buddy who accidentally sat on me. I had been riding alone, full of misplaced confidence, and the kind of optimism that usually precedes a bad idea.  Students had noted that Buddy was wobbling, falling, scrambling back up.  I decided to 'check it out.'  In hindsight, I should have checked out a veterinarian instead of checking out the emergency room ceiling tiles.

    Buddy, it turned out, had cancer and a failing heart.  He would not survive a week after I returned from the hospital.  I hobbled about, first with a walker, then a cane, and a forced awareness that I no longer bounced.  I had lost confidence, and confidence is the first thing a rider needs, even before balance, even before boots.

    I kept teaching, but riding became irregular, then rare.  I would not ride alone any longer, and I was alone more often than not when the opportunity to ride presented itself.

    Spice, my beloved old pony gelding, made his opinion clear when I tried to get on him.  He tolerated the mounting, but movement was not on his agenda.  He gave a small crow hop, the equine equivalent of  'absolutely not.'  Getting off was worse.  Dressage saddles have high cantles, and my leg had no intention of going anywhere near that altitude.  My teenage helper watched in horror as I slowly tipped over like a felled tree, dragging the saddle with me.    Spice, bless him, stood like a saint, and made sure not to tread on me.  The teenager was kind enough not to laugh, though they had every right.

    I still wanted to ride, but between my health issues and the horses' advancing ages, it seemed unlikely.  The urgent care staff began greeting me by name.  The horses kept me going.  They always have.  They are healers, even when they are not carrying you.

    Before my health took its nosedive, I had bought Rosie and Summer, officially for students, unofficially for me.  Rosie, a sturdy little POA type pinto, had spent much of her career giving birthday party rides.  Summer a gentle Kentucky Mountain Saddle Horse, had spent her life being kind.  Both were older, thus affordable, and exactly what I needed.

    Riding again became a bucket list item.  For a while, it looked destined to stay there.

    Then my goddaughter announced she wanted to ride again, and she wanted her daughter to learn.  She suggested we set a date, saddle up Summer, and go for it.

    My heart rate spiked, but I agreed.  The consensus was that I should get on first.  I surprised myself.  I actually got on.  The mounting felt like climbing a cliff face, but Summer stood patiently, as if she had been waiting years for me to remember who I was.

 

    The ride was short and awkward, but it was a ride.  The dismount was graceless, but it was a dismount.  Summer was endlessly patient.

    My goddaughter and her daughter rode beautifully, vaulting off like gymnasts.  A week later we did it again.  I rode longer.  My goddaughter put Summer through her paces.  I felt proud.  I I am no longer a great rider, I am still a good teacher.

    We plan to continue.  Somewhere inside me, the muscle memory waits, ready to become the equestrian I used to be, ready to be one with a horse in motion. 

Doing the Puyallup

     My husband and I "did the Puyallup" a few days ago.  It was fun, and we even got in for free because it was Friday, and my husband is a Vietnam-era veteran.  The Western Washington State Fair was lively and familiar, full of music, laughter, animals and the comforting scent of fair food drifting through the air.  We wandered through the crowds until our legs reminded us that time has its own way of keeping score.  A few hours were enough.

    It wasn't always that way.  There were years when we spent an entire week at the Fair, not as visitors, but as exhibitors.  The Fair folks paid us to be there with our beloved Exmoor Ponies; those sturdy, ancient souls who carried the wild spirit of the moors in their eyes.  It was an honor to show our precious animals, to tell their story, and to feel the quiet pride of representing something rare and beautiful.  It was also thoroughly exhausting, but we never minded.  As long as we had ponies to bring, we "did the Puyallup."

                                 

 

    The Exmoors are a special equine, rarer than giant pandas, remnants of the last Ice Age, and living proof of endurance and grace.  To stand beside them, and speak for them was a privilege, especially knowing how few people even realize they exist.  For the last week of the Fair, we were tucked into the "Animals Around the World" barn, sharing space with Highland cattle, a zebra or two, and other exotic critters.  It was a long week, the kind that leaves you bone-tired but full of stories.

    And we almost did not make it that first year.

    Our horse trailer had taken a beating.  I had been competing and training on the local dressage circuit with my husband's Shire, Mac.  He was a magnificent, gentle giant who could not help being a literal ton of horse.  The trailer needed repairs, and time was slipping away faster than we could catch it.

    I phoned around until I found a professional horse hauler who said he could take us.  From the start, his tone rubbed me wrong.  It was clipped, condescending, as though we were small potatoes compared to the owners of the sleek Thoroughbreds he hauled to racetracks across the country. Worse, I sensed he thought that because I was just a "little woman" he could talk down to me.  Still, I did not have many options, and I was preparing to agree to his terms.

    Then he said, "I won't be able to pick up your ponies until after the Fair.  They will have to stay overnight."

    "Pardon?"

    "I won't be able to pick them up until Monday sometime.  They will have to stay on the grounds."

    That was wrong on so many counts.  The fairgrounds closed and were deserted after the Fair: no security, no staff, nothing.  Further, our contract required us to remove our animals immediately after closing.  Suddenly, again, we had no way to get our trio of ponies to Puyallup. 

    I think it was the next day I was at a local tack shop that sold mostly Western gear, but welcomed every discipline.  I was whining, I admit, about the unaccommodating hauler.  Mike, the cowboy owner, listened quietly.

    "When do you have to get there?" he asked.

    I explained early, before opening, so we could set up and settle the ponies.  Then late at night a week later, when everything was over.

    He nodded thoughtfully.  "What were you going to pay that guy?"

    I told him.  It wasn't an unreasonable amount, but enough.  The money had never been the problem.

    Mike nodded.  "I'll do it."

    And he did.  He proved himself a consummate professional with his personal rig. He arrived at our property before dawn.  Our three usually unruly ponies loaded relatively quietly, as if they sensed the importance of the moment.  Mike hauled them safely to the fairgrounds with time to spare even when we got caught in an unloading line.  We left our stallion, Devon, at home, even though he was the most cooperative loader.  The gelding, Bramble, and the two mares, Flax and Cactus would represent their kind.

    "I'll see you Sunday," Mike called as he drove away with the empty trailer.

    The week was successful and thoroughly exhausting even though we had help and worked in shifts.  After all, we still had a herd of horses at home who required care.  The ponies on exhibit were remarkably well-behaved.  We all enjoyed the week, but by the last day fatigue had settled deep into our bones.

    That Sunday afternoon, I was sitting by our booth, so tired I had drifted into a kind of fair-induced trance.  Someone slumped into the seat beside me.  I turned, and there was Mike, grinning.

    "My family is 'Doin' the Puyallup.'  The trailer is ready to go when you are done."

    Hid kindness is unforgettable.  Out horse community is not large, but we support each other: Western, English, draft, pony.  It doesn't matter.  Mike is a prime example of the quiet generosity that holds our world together.

    In the years that followed, when we were still exhibitors, we had our own trailer repaired and ready, and we did our own hauling.  Yet, that first year stays with me:  the stress, the relief, and the gratitude. 

    This year, when my husband and I went as attendees rather than exhibitors, we found our old exhibit barn.  It had flowers.  We especially admired the dahlias; bright, bold and beautiful. 

    But in the corner, I saw ghosts of our ponies, long since crossed over the rainbow bridge.  I missed them fiercely.  I felt the kindness of our local horse community, the friendships forged in hay dust and long days, and the quiet love that lingers long after the ponies themselves are gone.

    Walking out of the barn, I realized that the Fair will always hold a piece of our hearts, not because of the rides, or the food, or the crowds, but because of the memories we made there, the people who helped us, and the ponies who carried our dreams so gently.  The Fair has aged, and so have we, but the tenderness of those years remains, soft and steady, like the echo of hoofbeats fading into the evening air.  

 

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a Horse

     Fuzzy Wuzzy was not a bear - he was a horse.  Or at least, he should be.  What is it with people?  We simply cannot resist messing with hair, especially horse hair.

    A horse's hair comes in three categories: Permanent, temporary, and tactile.  Humans meddle with all three.

Permanent Hair:  Mane, Tail, Eyelashes, Feathers

    Let's start with the mane and tail, those glorious, functional fly-swatting assets.  Many breeds allow the mane to grow long and luxurious, exactly as nature intended.  I have always let my horses wear their manes however they please, flopped on one side, both sides, or in whatever eccentric arrangement the wind decides.  A respected horsewoman once told me, "I like a pony with a mane on both sides.  It indicates good balance."  I took that as gospel.

    Then come the disciplines that insist on short manes, tight braids, and that dreaded bridle path (the clipped patch behind the ears, often a folded ear length.)  Countless horses must endure a buzzing razor right next to their sensitive ears just so the hair stays "tidy.

And then there are the extremists.  Arabian and American Saddlebred showers sometimes shave off six to eight inches of main to show off the throat latch and neck.  I once asked a Saddlebred show person, "What?  You can't walk around to the other side?"  Logic, apparently is optional. 

    Some breeds require all hair to remain, including my beloved Exmoors.  Also Iberian horses, Icelandics, Peruvian Pasos, and Friesians discourage clipping the bridal path.  I follow the Exmoor standard for all my horses: no clipping, no buzzing, no nonsense.   

                                                         Exmoor Ponies with Hair

    The tail is no safer.  A tail's job is simple: swish flies.  I long, thick tail is a blessing.  My mare, Rain, has a scruffy tail, but I have never added extensions or stuffed her tail in a bag to force it to grow.  A bagged tail cannot fight flies, so the horse must stay stalled - a ridiculous trade-off.  And what horse wants a tail so long it drags on the ground like a Victorian train?  Some people, apparently.

    Draft horse folks sometimes go the opposite direction and dock the tail, claiming it prevents harness tangles.  I have driven carriages tor over 30 years and never once had a properly hitched harness catch a tail.  Thankfully, docking is falling out of fashion, and is even banned in some regions.

    Then we come to the eyelashes and feathers.  Eyelashes are usually left alone, unless someone gets overzealous with clippers, which I will get to later.  Feathers, those lush hairs around the fetlocks, are either treasured or despised.  Draft horses, Friesians, and moorland ponies wear them proudly.  Miniature Horse people often pretend their animals do not have feathers at all, and shave them off immediately.  My husband adored his Shire's feathers; he treated them like heirloom lace.  Horses, of course, do not care either way.

Temporary Hair: The Coat

    Now for the temporary hair: the coat.  Twice a year, horse owners drown in fuzz.  Fall shedding is manageable.  Spring shedding turns barns into snow globes.  Every post, tree, and fence becomes a scratching station.  Grooming becomes a marathon of airborne fluff.

    I adore winter coats.  My horses grow their own blankets, and living where I do, they do not need manufactured ones unless they are sick.  I understand why winter horse show people clip.  Sweat is a problem on a thick coat, and some climates are harsh requiring extra barn stall hours.  But most horses acclimatize beautifully if we let them.  And really, a soggy textile blanket on a rainy day is worse than no blanket at all.

Tactile Hair: Whiskers and Ear Hair

    Tactile hair is an important component of the horse's sensory system - like a cat's whiskers.  These coarse hairs help horses understand their environment, especially while grazing.  Yet some people shave them off because they think whiskers look "messy."

                                                            Whiskers
 

    The ear hair is equally important.  The inside of a horse's ear should be thick with protective fuzz to keep flies out.  But some owners shave that, too, leaving the horse defenseless.  Excessive face shaving sometimes goes so far that eyelashes get clipped.  Eyelashes!  At that point we have crossed from grooming into absurdity.

Let Fuzzy Wuzzy Be a Horse

    Nature gave horses hair for a reason.  Humans need to stop fussing with it.  Let Fuzzy Wuzzy be a horse - not a fashion project. 

     

 

     

Talking ears

     I missed a teaching moment.  One of my very young students mentioned that horses could not talk, and I quietly corrected her by explaining that horses use body language to communicate.  I stressed that learning horsepersonship was a form of learning a new language.  She was fascinated.  I was pleased with my response until I realized, much later, that I had neglected to mention an important component of equine communication.  That was the horse's ears.

    Horse's ears are remarkable.  They move. 

    The next lesson I corrected my omission, but it didn't have quite the same impact.  Too bad, because a horse's ears are a major part of their method of talking.

    Horse ears truly are extraordinary.  They swivel, flick and rotate; apparently, up to 180 degrees, using 10 - 16 muscles.  I am still not sure why the number varies, although AI insists it has something to do with how deep the muscle is located.  I know a few people who can wiggle their ears, and it is a charming party trick, but my own ears remain firmly fixed to the sides of my head.  Horses, meanwhile, carry theirs like little satellite dishes perched on top of their skulls, constantly scanning the world with enviable agility.

    They also hear better than humans, especially higher pitches.  Perhaps that was why old Skeeter loved opera.  You would think she would prefer sopranos, but she had a fondness for tenors.  Their voices soothed her, especially during fireworks season, when she needed all the comfort she could get.

     Like me, horses can lose some hearing as they age.  Sigh.  They probably don't lose as much as humans, but it is always sad when any creature is diminished in any way.

    I have noticed that most sale photographs of horses feature ears pricked sharply forward.  This appeals to humans.  It looks alert, eager, engaged.  In reality, forward ears simply mean the horse is paying strict attention to something in front of them.  Achieving that look often requires the photographer's assistant to perform ridiculous antics - waving objects, making odd noises, or otherwise bewildering the poor horse into focusing on chaos. 

                                             

                                                High alert

    The neutral position is far more common: ears relaxed, slightly floppy, soft.  It is a peaceful look, and it puts me at ease, too. 

                                               

                                                  Neutral Ears

    What fascinates me most, though, is when a horse multitasks with its hearing.  It is a prey-animal trait, but it is also a teaching advantage.  I tell my students that when a horse's ears are turned back toward them, the mount is listening to its rider.  But usually my schooling horses have one ear on the rider and the other aimed at me.  My authority tends to take precedence, but I am always impressed by how cleverly the horse anticipates instruction from more than one direction.  In the pasture, they do the same - ears twitching and swiveling, gathering information from multiple sources.  They pay attention to each other, too, so any situation of concern is quickly transferred through the herd.  

                                                  Multitasking

    Horse ears are certainly a form of sign language.

    When I mention that horses put their ears back when they are angry, some students get nervous.  I have to explain that listening ears are different from rage ears.  An angry horse pins its ears flat against its neck until they almost disappear.  I call it the "snake" look because the head seems to become an extension of the long neck.  I have rarely seen the position, and when I have, it is usually directed at another horse or a dog.  (Most horses are suspicious of dogs.)  The pinned ears are often accompanied by a squeal of displeasure.  Beware the horse with no visible ears. 

    Many horses are sensitive around their ears.  Our gentle Rain required us to take apart a bridle rather then squish her ears to put it on.  Someone in her past had been rough with her, and we respected her concern. 

    My husband's Dolly was the opposite.  She adored an ear massage.  She would sidle up to a human, drop her massive head, and present her ears like a queen offering her hand for a kiss.  She luxuriated in deep rubs, fingers inside her ears, pulling and kneading for her blissful abandon. 

    A horse's ears are important.  They have things to say.  And if we are willing to listen, really listen, we discover that horses have been talking all along.  Their language is not built from words, but from motion, intention, and quiet honesty.  The ears are simply the part of the conversation most humans overlook.

    We may not have the talent to swivel our own ears, but we do have the ability to pay attention.  And when we do, horses reward us with a dialogue richer than anything spoken aloud. 

Invitation to Play

     Play is important to health.  Children know this instinctively.  Foals know it even more instinctively.  As we age, we tend to play less, as if frolicking is something we should have outgrown along with braces and questionable hairstyles.  But the truth is: frolicking remains essential.  Even if our knees disagree.

    When our farm was breeding Quarter Horses and Miniature Horses, we had front-row seats to the daily circus of young equines discovering the world.  Foals raced simply because moving fast was a spiritual calling.  They bounced off each other like furry pin-balls.  They pulled tails with the same gleeful commitment human toddlers reserve for pulling hair.  They chased equine-sized balls with the enthusiasm of golden retrievers who have just discovered the joy of fetch.  And Splash (my beloved Splash) was notorious for romping off with hammers and tools whenever my husband  tried to repair fencing.  Nothing says 'I love you' like stealing your partner's equipment and galloping away with it.  

    Young horses are imps.  Professional grade imps.

    As our herd aged, their enthusiasm for play diminished.  They still occasionally chase each other for the sheer joy of motion, but mostly they behave with the sedate dignity of retired archivists.  Play, apparently, is beneath them - unless they think no one is watching.

    Bay, for example, has a long-standing hobby of scattering grooming tools.  She flips through the grooming caddy like a young child rummaging for a favorite toy.  Except, Bay is actually searching for dropped horse treats.  Still the enthusiasm with which she flings hoof picks and curry combs across the arena suggest she is having fun.  Or redecorating.

    Shilo delighted in dislodging hats.  He grabbed them off human heads and tossed them with the flair of a magician revealing a dove.  His two-legged partner would yell and chase after their headwear, which only encouraged him.  Horses absolutely understand hilarity.  They are connoisseurs of slapstick.

    Rain, in her late teens, would nose at a horse ball when she thought no one was looking.  She was the equine equivalent of a grandmother secretly playing video games at midnight.

    Play is important.  Maybe it becomes more important as we age, especially if we want to avoid becoming the kind of person who complains about teenagers or weather patterns.

    I use play when I teach riding.  Both horses and children get bored plodding around the arena like they are stuck in a never ending parade.  Games evolved out of necessity, and possibly desperation.

    The favorite game involves tennis balls and a basketball hoop meant for very young children.  The tennis balls are placed on slender PVC poles held by orange highway cones.  A few balls may be balanced directly on the cone if a small pony is involved, or if the human rider is flexible enough to bend down without tumbling off the horse.

    The mounted student must retrieve the ball and toss it into the hoop.  Sometimes the toss point is close.  Sometimes it is halfway across the arena.  Sometimes, if the lesson is a double or triple, the students pass balls in the air to each other like a mounted version of dodgeball, except with more shrieking.

    Over the years, I've had to ensure my horses are accustomed to objects flying over their heads.  Occasionally they endure a blip on their head or rump when a human misses a catch.  The equines are remarkably forgiving.  More forgiving than most humans, honestly. 

    Some horses don't just tolerate the game.  They join it!

    Snickers is especially fond of foiling her rider.  If she can approach from the front of the pole, she will knock the ball off before her partner can grab it.  Sometimes she uses her teeth and grabs a cone off the ground, shakes it like a terrier with a sock, and tosses it triumphantly.

    Her behavior always gets a reaction.  Usually laughter.  Horses adore laughter.  It's their version of applause.  Once, when Snickers' rider grumbled about her knocking over the ball, I informed the student, "Don't complain.  You taught her to do that when you laughed."  Snickers is a quick study.  And a menace.

    Now we have Summer.  Calm, stoic Summer.  When she first arrived, I assumed she would be the sensible one; the horse who ignored chaos and maintained her dignity.  I was wrong.

    Early with her introduction to the game, she investigated the cones.  Then she licked them.  Then she learned to knock them over with the precision of a bowling champion.  Any object in the arena is a target.  There is no point in getting annoyed.  She is simply participating.  Enthusiastically.

                                       

 

    We invited the horses to play.  They accepted the invitation.  Complaining about their involvement is like complaining that your dinner guest showed up hungry.

    Play is good for horse and human.  And if we're honest, it's good for anyone who has forgotten how to frolic. 

     

     

     

Wildlife welcome

     I was teaching a lesson to one of my adult students.  It was his second time on a horse, and he was still riding with the earnest concentration of someone trying to remember which end is the front.  Suddenly I called, "Whoa," and my ever-compliant mare stopped as if she had been waiting all day for the chance to show off her brakes.

    "Look," I whispered, pointing.

    My student let out a soft, reverent ahh, the kind usually reserved for fireworks or newborn babies.  Two deer minced, yes minced, down the sidewalk of the newest housing development, tip-hoofing into a neighbor's backyard like they were late for a garden party.

    Our acreage has been under siege since the day we moved in.  At first, only a few houses dotted our dead-end street.  Within a year, another side sprouted homes.  Now, the last two borders of our property are in jeopardy.  We are victims of living in an old logging town that is suddenly fashionable because it sits neatly between two major cities.  Humans love convenience.  Wildlife tolerates it.

    New neighbors mean more riding students, but I will always welcome the wild neighbors who wander through.  Over the years, the cast has been varied and delightful - like a nature-themed vaudeville troupe. 

    Birds of every feather visit.  I am especially fond of the ones who nest in the arena rafters and barn beams.  They are my unpaid, highly effective insect-control staff, chirping cheerfully as they work overtime.

    Most years we have bunnies hopping across the property, performing their daily commute.  I haven't seen any this years.  The developer has already cleared the blackberry hedges that framed our land, and the rabbits have apparently unionized and refused to work without proper bramble coverage.

    Earlier this year, a possum ambled across my lawn at dusk, looking like a small, elderly gentleman out for his constitutional.  In years past possums have lived in the barn, and I welcome them.  They keep the rodent population in check, and they never complain about the rent.

    My son, who had property nearby, reported raccoons on his porch.  They never visited me, possibly because the neighborhood cats have established a strict, "No Masked Bandits" policy. 

    Elk don't stay, but they cross behind our property nearly every fall, sweeping through like a migrating parade.  That land is now slated for over a hundred homes, and I am not sure what will happen to the elk with their corridor blocked.  In years past, when they were set to cross the road, the police would halt traffic, and give the herd right-of-way. It felt like the correct level of respect for creatures who look like they could be extras in a mythological epic.

    About a decade ago, a friend who was custodian of the acreage below us came to warn that a cougar had brought down a deer in the back pasture.  We appreciated the heads-up.  Our horses were safe, but the message was clear: nature still had teeth.

    We had leased that cougar territory for years, especially for our Exmoor Ponies.  The Exmoors themselves could qualify as wildlife, just not North America natives.  They are a breed officially categorized as "wild," and they take the designation seriously.  All four of our ponies lived to old age, a beloved shaggy gang of characters.

    When they lived on that pasture, they blended into the wild setting so well that the deer accepted them as honorary members.  I would walk down to check on the ponies and discover I had acquired extra ones - slender, delicate, suspiciously deer-shaped ponies.  They matched the Exmoors' coloring, and made use of the camouflage.  It fooled me.

                                   An Exmoor Pony watching "deer" friends
 

    I believe the deer that the cougar took down would have survived if the Exmoors had still been in residence.  My ponies were fierce protectors of their space, and none of them would have been easy targets.  But the cougar had to eat, too.  I respect that.  I suspect the big cats still linger near the river, though their territory shrinks by the season.

    Coyotes are plentiful. I often hear them singing at night.  It is an enthusiastic, slightly chaotic choir.  I think they will survive the development boom.  They are crafty scavengers.  Once I spotted what I thought was a grey dog enjoying the spoils of an odoriferous tipped garbage can.  Only after I passed did I realize, "That wasn't a dog.  That was a coyote having a lunch buffet in the center of town."  As long as the White River runs nearby, coyotes will find a place to raise their families.  I admire their flexibility.

    The deer are not so lucky.  They will likely be pushed out, though come autumn, they may return to nibble the windfall apples under our tree.  I remember one lazy afternoon when a doe and her half-grown fawn felt so comfortable they lay down under our kitchen window by the tree where they had gorged on the fruit. We tiptoed around the house so as not to disturb their nap.  I still hope they will return.

    Our town is developing.  More people.  Fewer wild animals.

    But on our property, the wild ones are welcome.  Always.