Update: Morph conclusion

 Ready for the end of my story?  Here it is! See Part one for the first half.  Enjoy, and feel free to comment.

 

                                                Update:  Morph  (conclusion)

 

    "Isaac, it's too bad you can't be a horse.  A horse could get us out of this mess." 

    "A horse is possible," Isaac said.

    What?  What?  What?  Obviously I hadn't heard correctly.  I inhaled and held my breath.  As if it was a horse who sensed the rider's sudden tension, the Galloway stopped moving, ignoring the choreographed movement flowing about it.

    Then my car twisted, shuddered, moaned.  The fender-bender that had slowed us was nothing to the crunching and deterioration of my old car.  I pictured parts scattered on the pavement with me standing, bewildered, in a puddle of metallic bits of a wrecked Isaac.  I began to panic in earnest.  I meant to yell, but all I could force from my throat was a soprano squeak. 

    But even before I could imagine the worst, I felt myself levitating, my driver's seat jerking erratically as it curved below me into a padded barrel.  The sunroof was retracting, leaving me exposed to the wind and direct sunlight.  I was sitting in a saddle.  A saddle?  Not quite the dressage saddle I had owned for years; more like an Australian saddle, with a very high pommel, complete with a small driver's panel, and the music still played. Do Your Thing.  Really?  For a brief moment I wondered if my car had developed a twisted sense of humor, but I had a more immediate concern.

    I became Ms. Obvious, "Isaac, you're a horse."

    "Is that acceptable?"

    "Perfect," I sputtered.  The whole transition had taken less than ten minutes.  The traffic continued to revolve with us as a stationary member of the chorus.

    Isaac was a glossy blue-black giant of a horse, almost a Fresien, with a lot of Percheron.  The steering wheel had become unused reins, draped over the pommel/panel.  Behind the saddle's cantle spread a huge, powerful rump with an incongruous identification chip at the base of a glossy black tail.  He had humongous black hooves with silver shoes.

    I had always had a preference for ponies or exceptionally large horses.  Isaac most definitely fit the latter category.  We towered over the rest of the traffic.  I might be wearing my barn jacket, but I didn't have my helmet, and I lacked a seat belt.  No matter.  This was Isaac.  He would keep me safe.  The Galloway Model 3 had always been one of the safest cars on the road.  After all, it had been designed by a woman automotive engineer especially for women.  And riding used to be as natural to me as walking.

 

Image by Angie Blanchard

 

    I squeezed with my legs, and realized that Isaac wouldn't understand body ques.  He was a machine, after all.  "Isaac, let's get to my appointment the fastest route you can find."

    Isaac began to maneuver around the other vehicles, moving forward as they reversed.  We wove and twisted.  When we came to the offending crashed cars, I was met with gaping drivers; stupid men in skinny jeans and stenciled t-shirts advertising Exxon.  (One of those defunct oil companies, I think.)  They were trying for a retro look, obviously.  The wrecked cars were hunks of metal out of the Twentieth Century. If their voices were any indication, only their cars were injured.  We passed, and the two men went back to arguing with each other.  Horses were only moderately interesting since these idiots had major concerns of their own.

    Isaac pounded the pavement, his tempo exact with each footfall.  The road was completely open.  My car/mount sped into an Olympic extended trot.  His gait was smooth, and it felt like an Icelandic's amazing tolt.  I couldn't remember  riding being this easy.  Why had I forgotten how wonderful it was to feel a powerful horse beneath me?  It was puppies and sunshine and birthday cake and foals in a verdant pasture, and the touch of a beloved companion.  I had forgotten.  For years partnering with a horse had been why I got up in the morning.

    Again I rode.  Although I was mounted on a mechanical creation, I thought I smelled the musty odor of horse sweat.  The wind blew, and my short, gray hair became thoroughly tousled.  I forgot about where I was going, or why.  Isaac  was singing about Joy, and time was an unimportant dimension.  The perfume of hyacinths, and freshly mown grass reached my olfactory receptors.  A horse has incredible fragrance advantages over an enclosed car.

    We were again flowing with traffic, but Isaac kept pace.  He could have passed, but we were following the rules of the road.  I was breathing deep in my chest, not thinking about where I was going.  I was in the "now" and now was fine.  The world was a place of limitless wonder.  How had I forgotten?  Sit straight.  Relax into the heels, and allow the rhythm of the mount to become the only motion the body needs.  Muscle memory clicked into place.

    Abruptly, Isaac pulled over to the side of the road, and halted, each leg in perfect square alignment.  My senses lurched.  I didn't want this waking dream to end. 

    "Isaac, why are we stopping?"

    "Authorities, behind us."

    I checked my rear-view screen on the saddle's pommel.  A police sedan flashed red and blue lights circling the vehicle.

    Now what?

    I swiveled to watch a young, holographic officer materialize from the car.  He was probably sitting in a police station across the city, but I saw a figure of a freckle-faced man, too young, in my opinion, to be an authority figure.  Was he trying for an Opie look?  Did he have a fixation on Ron Howard in  The Andy Griffith Show?  I didn't find the look reassuring if that had been the intention.

    The holo peered up at me, "Ma'am, you can't ride your horse on the public road.  Please turn your music down.  (Isaac was just starting Walk On By.  More EV humor?)

    I glared at the cop, "This is not a horse.  It's a Galloway."  Isaac lowered the volume.

    "Ma'am, I can see it's a horse."

    I held my tongue, biting it and hoping I didn't start spitting blood.  That wouldn't do much for my case.  I repeated, "It's a Galloway Model 3.  A Galloway is a car."  The I thought further, "Hold on, I've got the registration papers."  I fumbled for documents, realizing I wasn't sure where to find the glove compartment in the saddle, or even where the glove compartment would be hidden.  Later, I would realized that I was so flustered, I hadn't ordered him to check the nearly invisible ID chip.  I had reacted as if I had been driving twenty years ago, when registration and insurance were printed.  He looked like a character from pre-streaming, and he had me leaving my brain in a time-warp.

    "Ma'am, this is not a car.  The public roads are for motorized vehicles."

    "Damn it, Isaac is a car!  A Galloway.  Old Model 3."

    The holo showed no emotion, and no reaction to my lack of patience.  Who knew what the real officer was doing sitting behind his terminal in a police station.  Maybe he wasn't even at a police station.  Maybe he was in his pajamas in his family breakfast nook.

    "You need to be in a registered vehicle, Ma'am."

    Double damn.  I couldn't figure out how to access my documents.  Undoubtedly that had been in the information I hadn't taken time to access when the update finished.

    The cop had every reason to believe he was dealing with a case of lunacy.  I had to do something.

    "Isaac, can you change back into a car?"

    "Of course." 

    "Stand back, " I ordered the cop.  "We're about to get wider and lower."  Not that space mattered to an hologram.

    The shuddering returned, but this time I wasn't worried about the destruction of my ride.  My beautiful horse was about to become a beloved, but very mundane old EV.  Once again, I sat behind the driver's wheel with my seat belt snuggly in place.

    I glared at the officer.  "See.  Car."

    He wasn't looking at me, but gazing off at some screen I couldn't' see. His expression was still neutral, as if a horse becoming a car was a common traffic occurrence.

    Then he looked at me, "Ma'am, I have to apologize.  Sometimes we don't get these updates promptly.  Galloway Motors has notified us of the new Morph update.  I'm sorry for the inconvenience.  Be safe, and enjoy the rest of your day."

    In convenience?!  Inconvenience, you holographic cousin of a toaster!  I was too busy breathing to shout at the disappearing image as it faded, and his car swiveled, driverless, in front of us. 

    What to do?  We were late, late, late.  I was about to notify the doctor's office when I glanced at the charge icon on my screen.  "Isaac, your battery is low."

    "Apologies.  The Morph application needs more configurations.  That will happen with future updates.  For now, the ability to morph is a major drain on energy.  Let me reassure you this will improve with future tweaks."

    "You hardly have enough charge to get to the clinic.  What if a charging station isn't available?"

    "Checking."

    More minutes passes as I tapped on the mostly decorative steering wheel.

    "I would not be able to charge until much later this morning.  Based on that information, and the fact that we would be over an hour late, I have rescheduled your appointment.  The office was already aware of the traffic accident, and they have agreed to see you tomorrow morning at the same time without financial penalty.  If that does not meet with your approval, I will link with them again."

    "Not necessary.  Thank you, Isaac.  You've done well.  Let's go home."

    I leaned back, and took a deep breath, suddenly aware that I had had a conversation with my car.  I had thanked him (it?), and I felt  like I had made a real connection.  Should I be worried?  I wasn't.  In fact, I felt mellow.  Artificial emotional intelligence struck me as a plus, not a threat. 

    "The Look of Love," Isaac crooned.  The song had always been a favorite, although its tempo was difficult to match with a dressage horse.

    I saw no more accidents, and I settled into the the driver's seat, as I realized that, even though the trip had been less than successful, I was content.  No stress.  Isaac was looking out for me, and even if the car was just a car (or was it?), I didn't care.  Was it an accident Isaac was still crooning The Look of Love as we bumped into the garage? 

    Outside the car, I inserted the nozzle into the charging port.

    A message flashed on my eye-d from the clinic, "Based on you bio signs, your appointment to the clinic has been canceled."  For the briefest moment I felt disappointed.  Why?

    I glanced over at Isaac.  I had been looking forward to practicing my dressage!  I wanted to ride!  I wanted to team up with a horse, even if that horse was a machine.  It didn't matter.  I was sure Isaac was capable of upper level movements.  I would get out the old dressage tests, and Isaac could accompany himself in a free style.  He would match any tempo.  Riding him would take the sport to a new level.  I would contact Galloway Motors and ask them to add touch sensors allowing me to control my mount with my legs, and weight shifts for light steering.

    The charger was rapidly refreshing the batteries. 

    I nearly tripped on the single cement step leading to the house patio.  The stumble made me pause.  I glanced over at my car, and on impulse said, "Isaac, please assume any shape that will make you most comfortable."  I didn't expect a reaction.  The thought was ridiculous, the urge of a woman who talked to inanimate objects.

    I gasped.  My car was morphing.  I watched as the vehicle clattered and shook, and metal came apart and reassembled.  This change appeared to be even faster than the previous two.

    Isaac lay before me, a gigantic blue-black cat complete with wire whiskers. The charger was an extension of his curled tail.

    I stared, reluctant to leave the garage, but finally I turned to go into the house.  That is when I heard it, a steady bass-baritone rumble, sustained, because there was no need for breath.

    Isaac purred.

 

     

     

     

    

Update: Morph Part 1

 Reader alert:

This is the first half of a two part piece of fiction, so it you want to read the story all at once, it is okay to wait until I publish the second half in a few weeks.  

Yes, I'm the author.

Please feel free to comment, edit and offer improvements to this work.  I'm open to suggestions.

 

                                             Update: Morph (Part 1)

 

      It wasn't that I wanted to die; I just wasn't interest in living.  I kept up with my routine chores, but that was all I had the energy to accomplish.

    Time stretched, and I stayed alone after the last big pandemic.  I was a senior woman who had outlived her friends and spouse.  My only child circled somewhere in space, and my dressage career had ended with the near extinction of the horses that consumed unnecessary space, food and income.

    I drew some comfort from the technology around me.

    I always updated the car, even though I seldom needed it to chauffeur me.  Somewhere I had heard it could be dangerous to keep updating because Galloway Motor vehicles might soon be self aware.  My techno feed was full of information like that, and most of it was as phony as a phishing scam.  I suffered from enough anxiety without worrying about the emotional and intellectual condition of my car. 

    I'm not sure why, but one of the few causes of my depression was stressing about the IA technology that powered the machines in my life.  I did feel a sense of responsibility to the devices that proliferated in most human lifestyles: my screens, my audio devices, my coffee maker, my food preparer, my vacuum, even my toaster got any recommended maintenance.  Taking care of the smart machines in my life had become as important to me as mucking out stalls had been in the days of my horses.  If my car sent me a message to update, it was connected to the net and the bytes were allowed to flow.  It was what I did.  I was a responsible owner.  Maintenance was a routine, not dissimilar from the way my horses were always fed on a regular schedule, back when I had horses to feed.

    My life revolved around routines.  They kept me sane.  I puttered about my property keeping the landscaping clear enough to inhibit wildfires.  The outside cleaning and gardening machines were updated and kept operating efficiently. I ate regularly, and my meals were reasonably healthy because of my autochef.  I considered myself informed on local and world affairs.  Usually that was enough to keep me from dwelling on any personal losses.

    Only lately I had been suffering from a crushing bout of the blues, more than I could remember in my long life.  I woke up in the night and thought about all the people and animals that used to create joy in my waking hours.  Isolation hadn't been a problem for me, at least not for many years.  I still had books, music, and sometimes I joined eye-d chats, and those had been sufficient to fill extra hours.  However, now I wept into my well-laundered pillow.  I had no idea why the chemicals in my body betrayed me after years of coping.  Crying did not help.  Tears just made my sinuses plug up like water balloons.  I would wake with my head throbbing; thoughts dulled.  Nothing made me enthusiastic to continue my life.  I didn't exactly want to stop existing; but living made no sense.  I knew I suffered from a drastic physiological imbalance.  Drugs had fallen out of favor in society even before the Big Pandemic, but I couldn't help thinking that  good dose of Prozac would have fixed me.  That shows how old I am. 

    "What's the matter with me?  I used to be able to make myself at least fairly happy."  I couldn't seem to talk myself out of my funk. 

    Anyway, my holodoc had other treatment ideas besides solitary conversations.  It told me to come into the clinic.  Into an actual office?!  What an archaic idea.   Apparently the bio-check demonstrated that more than the chemicals and synaptic impulses in my brain were wonky.  I was seriously in need of a lifestyle change.  So, reluctantly, I set a date, hoping electrotherapy had gone out of fashion.  The fact that I rather complacently made the appointment was an indication, in itself, that I wasn't making my normal neural connections.  Even a few months ago I would have protested, and come up with excuses not to leave the property.  Some of the excuses would even have been valid.  but I allowed myself to be ordered to arrive in town the next morning.         

    I woke up relatively early; the idea of going somewhere had upset my sleep pattern worse than the morose memories and occasional sobs.   I shuffled around the house keeping to my morning routine of dry cereal and coffee without checking on the car until close to leaving time.  My eye-d informed me that the Galloway was charged, but it also told me that an update was available and recommended.  I didn't hesitate.  My habits dictated I comply.  If a device needed attention, that device was serviced.  Anyway, automotive updates were usually tweaks, and they rarely took more than a few minutes.  I didn't glance at the allotted time for completion.

    "Update permission granted."  Then I returned to preparing myself to leave.

    When I stepped outside the wind threatened to knock me over.  The smell of evergreens with a slight fragrance of apple blossoms blew to me from the bank on my side of the Shuswap Lake.  Honeysuckle?  Was there a hint of honeysuckle?  Wasn't it too early?  A blue sky with a floating clouds assured me rain was not in the forecast.  My eye-d confirmed my weather prediction, but it didn't tell me about the hefty wind and the low temperature.  Well, it was March, and I wouldn't need a coat because of the car's environmental control; however, I returned to the hall closet anyway, and retrieved an old fleece lined jacket that I had worn in the barn back when I still had a couple of horses, back when I had a job compiling music for freestyle presentations.  Back before the price of hay and veterinarian care became unreasonable.  Back when I still had the urge to ride myself.  Back when I faced each day with the delight of knowing I had an equine companion eagerly waiting for me to appear with a flake of alfalfa, and an oat treat in my pocket.

    "House, secure yourself."

    Then I again glanced at my eye-d for the car app.  Still downloading What the..?  This must be some humongous update.  I would be late!  I couldn't tolerate being late.  My blood pressure was probably soaring enough to alert my autocratic outodoc.  My old Galloway had had a multitude of improvements over the years, including new batteries and tires, but it still needed to be stationary when it was updating.  I let myself into the driver's seat, gyrating and twitching as if my impatient movements would speed the process.  I remember yelling at student equestrian riders to stop wiggling in the saddle to encourage impulsion.  Extraneous movement only confused a horse.  At least my care didn't care.  I felt like I had molten lead settling in my chest in spite of, or maybe because of, the movement.  Minutes passed.  More minutes.

    "Breath.  Be still.  Steady," I encouraged myself.  I would hardly make my appointment on time.  If I had been a rubber band I would have snapped, slamming into the passenger door, then ricocheting back to the driver's seat.  Human ping pong anyone?

    Finally.  I glanced at the screen.  Update:  Morph.  Complete.  A page of information followed but I flicked it off.  I didn't have time to read or listen right now.

    The rich voice of Isaac Hayes inquired, "Where can I take you?"  Years ago, I had named my car Isaac for my favorite vocalist/musician.  That was even before it was possible to program navigator voice in the vehicle.  Isaac's music and the footfalls of a horse seemed to form a perfect partnership, although most dressage choreographers used instrumental music.  I appreciated his incomparable voice.  A more recent car update allowed me to program Isaac as my personal holographic chauffeur.  I had considered it, but I still sat in the driver's seat, as if I actually controlled the car.  Today, with my anxiety and depression, the sound of Isaac's voice gave me only a small dose of pleasure.

    "Doctor's office." 

    "On our way," Isaac replied as the garage door lifted.  He began to croon By the Time I Get to Phoenix in his creamy bass-baritone.  I didn't quite relax into the seat, but at least the lead in my stomach melted a little.

    I was surprised at the number of vehicles on the road, and a lot of them had passengers.  Who were all these people?  Delivery drivers, of course, but more than that it seemed people were getting out.  Holos and robots hadn't entirely taken over the workplace apparently.  

    How long had it been since I had left the property?  Months?  Years?  Was it when I took my last barn cat to the vet to be put down because she had stopped eating?  I had that cat in my arms as she sighed and took her last breath, her tortoiseshell coat silken under my fingers.  I had begun to sob with explosive gasps that cam from someplace deep around my heart, and I wasn't sure I could stop.  I don't remember coming home, but finally I finished weeping, curled up on my bed surrounded by a mound of pillows I had dampened with tears and snot.  Isaac was parked and charging in the garage.  He had safely driven me home.  At the time, I had vowed no more companion animals since there were no more horses.

    If I could do without people after the Big Pandemic and the Mars colony exodus, I could do without a furry family.  That had been three years ago. 

    I needed to stop thinking about losses.  I had blubbered enough.  I ordered myself to focus on what was outside my windows.

    Isaac steered us past homes, and some walk-in businesses advertising with subdued signs.  I hadn't been in those for years, either.  Did real people work there?  Maybe.  Most of the cars had real humans inside.  Only a few were completely riderless, and most delivery trucks had a human aboard. 

    The commercial vehicles kept to their own lanes.  The department of transportation assumed that vehicles were self-driving since that had been the norm for the last 20 years. Most roads were four lanes, two for each direction.  One for commercial trucks, and the other lane was for passenger cars.  Since the cars, themselves, controlled the flow there was no longer a reason for multiple lanes on highways.  The cars were always synchronized; speed limits exact.  There was no longer a need for massive freeways, and road rage was a crime of the past since humans were passengers. 

    The Theme from Shaft serenaded me.  I checked the time on Isaac's screen.  We still had a few minutes to spare.  I would make my appointment.

    Apparently, I had been prematurely optimistic.  We began to slow.  The cars in front of us were steadily dropping speed.

    "Isaac, what is the problem?"

    "Verifying."

    We were completely stopped.  The traffic behind us boxed us in.

    "Isaac?"  My voice sounded slightly hysterical.

    "It appears tow fuel injected vehicles with human drivers have collided into each other.  They are unable to proceed, and they both lack computer assistance.  We will have to wait for authorities to arrive, and sort them out."

    Gas powered care with human drivers?  Did such a thing happen anymore?  And was it even legal to allow them on public roads?  What were the odds?  I had just been thinking about how pleasant the driving experience had become.     

    "What should we do, Isaac?"

    "Calculating.  I will have to reverse course, and find another suitable route."

    "We'll be late!" I wailed.

    I could feel Isaac maneuvering to get into the reverse lane, but so were all the vehicles around us.  I knew their computers would be linking to each other, creating the best method of turning for all of us  But we were going to be late!  The vehicles pivoted like synchronized swimmers.  Trucks, sedans, SUVs, sports cars, every type of wheeled transport consulted with each other to formulate the best method of untangling themselves.

     I groaned, my stomach clenching like a dishrag twisted to expel moisture.  I glanced over to the bike path beside us, and checked the spaces between the other vehicles.

    Now if I had a bike...or better yet, if I was on a horse...     

 

to be continued

     

The Zen of Poop

         I spend at least an hour a day picking up horse poop.  There are days when I resent having to shovel manure, but most of the time swinging a plastic fork is a chance for my brain to have free range. (No pun intended, but I little free range would mitigate the amount of manure I have to pick up.)  While shoveling, I can mull over life's problems, I can come up with story ideas, I can even discover new blog plans.  In fact, lots of blogs and newspaper columns have come out of the manure pile, so to speak.

    I often find myself counting "road apple" piles.  Everyday I check on my old mare, Bay.  In the spring, if there is fresh grass, she can produce as many as 16 piles, although that decreases in the winter.  I do expect at least 13 from her, though.  I remember one big storm when she gave me 21.  I said to my husband, "She had the sh.. scared out of her."  If there were less than 10 piles a day from her, I would worry about colic.  Fortunately, that is one of the few problems she has.  She suffers from ulcers, allergies, arthritis, a club foot and a nervous nature.  Needless to say, she is a beloved pasture ornament, or in her case, an arena ornament. 

    As a side note, the term road apple comes from the mid-twentieth century when horses were still a major means of transportation.  Apparently the piles of manure, from a distance, looked like apples.  Weird, because I wouldn't be interested in dark-brown, rotten apples.

    Although the smell of horse manure doesn't bother me, I'm aware that a horse with diarrhea has a much stinkier aroma.  I know some people don't like the odor of horse fecal matter, but I'm so used to it I seldom notice - unless the smell is off.  In that case, it may be time to call the veterinarian.

    I also worry if the manure is too loose.  Horses don't normally drop cow pies.  Their poop should be firm, but not rock hard.  I do have one mare who tends to have looser manure than the others, but I have noted over the years that she also drinks more water than her pasture mates.  Since she has been a loose stool dropper for over 10 years, I've come to assume slightly less formed turds are normal for her.

    However, this does bring up the point that water is just as important as hay.  On freezing winter days we do have heaters for all the water tanks, but I still lug a bucket or two to any equine who seems reluctant to drink in freezing weather.  They appear to be like me.  I enjoy warmer water or hot tea on a cold day.  Heck, I like tea anytime.  Earl Grey especially.  I wonder if tea is good for horses?  

    Hmm.  A tangent.

    I have to point out, picking up manure can lead me on multiple tangents, and with multiple horses, I have lots of opportunities for tangents.

    Some time in the past I read that horse manure can be one of the best fertilizers in the world.  I wish I could locate that article, but I suspect is was something I dug up in university, and it is probably buried in a stack of scholarly research articles catalogued in college libraries. Anyway, my own personal experience would indicate what is widely known: horse manure is one of the best fertilizers for gardens if it is sufficiently composted.  I've had success even when it is not composted well.  Most of my plants like it, although I keep it off the rhododendrons.

    Horse poop also gives me a certain peace of mind.  To explain, a horse who is not pooping is sick.  I've spent sleepless nights worrying about a pony in obvious discomfort and stress as they strain to unsuccessfully eliminate waste.  Veterinary calls are made, of course, but still... Over the years most of our horses pull through a bout of colic, but not all.  I remember the first little mare we lost.  She was a Miniature Horse, and we weren't prepared to lose her even after we called in two vets who did all they could to save her. In my experience, the minis are more prone to colic, and some research does indicate they are likely to get impaction colic, with hardened fecal matter because of their smaller size with less space in the intestines.  I haven't found any research numbers on the size of the problem, but I imagine the papers are out there.     

    In my years of horse-keeping, colic has been the prime killer of many of my horses.  No real surprise.  I've seen pictures of a horse's intestines, and the coils appear to be miles long.  Apparently, they are "only" about 70 feet, compared with a human's roughly 15 feet.  (Both are scary numbers to me.)  Anyway, I have been told that what horses ingest, they have to poop out.  I hate throwing up, but I guess our gag reflex saves our lives.  Horses can't vomit.  It is a huge disadvantage.

    So, as I trudge out to the barn to scoop poop, I comfort myself that all is well with my equine friends.  And I think up stories, as I reassure myself that manure is worthy of praise, and the aroma many not be fit for a perfume bottle, but it certainly has value.

    As a side note: for anyone who would like some fertilizer, I'm willing to share at no charge.  I've got a continuing supply.  I'm told my horse's poop grows superior tomatoes, among other fruits and vegetables.  Just saying.

     

 

     

Letting Go

    A few days ago a friend passed away.  Her family is devastated, and I have lost another contemporary friend.  I've reached the age when people of my years are dying.  Those of us left behind grieve.  I am grieving.  We do.  Grief is part of reaching old age.  It is a sign that we have been loved, and that we love in return.

    I am reminded of when we lose an animal companion.  Dogs especially give us unconditional love.

    So do many horses.

    And over the last 60 years, I have lost many equine companions - most through illnesses brought on by old age.  I had a veterinarian say that I have the biggest collection of senior horses on our plateau. He confided to one of my friends, another horse owner who has since passed away, that he almost dreaded a phone call from me because it often meant he would have to put an animal down, not because I didn't give good care, but because most of my animals were/are older.

    Yes, I've had to let many, many go.  I remember those horses.  They haunt me.

    Most recently we had to let a draft horse cross the Rainbow Bridge.  Bonnie hadn't been in our herd for long; she was a senior when she came into our care.  She was the size of a small elephant, and her breeding could have been anything from Percheron to Belgian, although she resembled a Suffolk Punch.  Bonnie easily weighted a ton - a ton of love.  She spent her last years as a pasture ornament, and as a companion to the Quarter Pony, Shilo.  She suffered from a neurological problem, not too uncommon for draft animals.  She was losing control of her hind quarters.  Letting her leave this world was merciful, but I still wept.  Every time I walked into the barn she would call from one of the open stalls.  I still hear her, if only in my imagination.

    Mac was another draft who lost control of his hind quarters.  In his case, it was a slow decline, until the day he couldn't get up.  He came to us, already a Western Washington pulling champion.  I made him, a Shire, into a competitive dressage mount, and he carried me for years.  He flourished.  We had a tight bond, although he shared his love with everyone.  The day we let him cross the Rainbow Bridge was devastating.

    In the beginning days of Friendly Horse Acres, Jodee and Splash came to us as a set.  Jodee was a retired barrel racing champion.  Splash was an unrelated foal, although we purchased both horses from the same farm.  Jodee was a treasure.  Anyone could ride her, and she obviously knew the experience of her rider.  I remember the days she decided school was out for me.  I had been keeping her speed to a controlled walk or trot, with the occasional brief canter. That day she decided I was ready for a full gallop along a country road.  Clearly, she knew she didn't have to baby me anymore.  She didn't.  I loved it.  Everyone loved her.  She developed cancer, and our veterinarian struggled to keep her well, but at age 32, we had to let her go.

    Splash, too, would live to be about 32, but for her life was quieter.  From the beginning she had hip problems.  She could carry a rider, but only on a good day.  She became a decent carriage horse, though.  I always referred to her as "my" horse, even when we had 21 equines on the property.  In her case, her heart failed her.  She did not die alone.  She was surrounded by eight human mourners as we said goodbye.

    Splash

 Her little companion, Donny, a Miniature Horse gelding, was by her, too.  He mourned with us, and insisted he stay by her body until it was picked up.  It took him days to resume eating properly.  

    Donny would remain with us for more years as a driving and riding pony.  He also performed as a therapy horse.  I have vivid memories of him trying to keep his footing on the polished tiles of nursing homes. Originally, he had been our stallion for a small herd of Miniature Horses, but his most important contribution to the world was as a therapy horse - for humans, as well as other horses.

    Donny's death pushed me into a depression.  All of my horses have been hard to lose, but Donny hit me with an extra impact.  I was alone with him, in the barn, when he went.  That loss was hard, hard, hard.

     Donny

So many horses gone.  I could (and probably will in the future) fill pages of stories about them, knowing that as many as I write, I will forget one or more of them.  That is, until I lie down to sleep.  Then I will think, "How could I have forgotten Dolly or Peach or Bosley or Skeeter or William or Abby or Melissa or Shadow or Buddy or Chester or Manny or Flax or Cactus or Bramble or Devon or PeeChee or.... It's a long list, because I have lived a long time, and we got out of the business of breeding and selling because I could not part with them, and the only way I could be sure they were loved was to keep them close.

    However, I wouldn't trade having them in my life.  They gave me joy.  Each of them.  My world has been better for having them.  Love is like that.  I take delight in remembering Shadow trotting down the road, pulling a cart, oblivious to leaving me standing in the lane.  I see Buddy patiently letting children scramble up his legs to reach a stirrup.  I see Peach disappear under a cloud of people at a fair as she quietly accepted their pats.  And I see Abby flopping on my feet to keep me in place.

    Letting go is not easy, but it is the price we pay for accepting the love our horses and friends give.  I hope my friend's family remembers times of joy.  I will try to remember her that way, as I remember other friends who are gone, both two-legged and four.

    My brain plays tricks.  I will think of a friend, and get ready to phone, then realize a phone call will no longer reach them.

    I will step outside and expect to see a horse or pony who no longer is in the pasture or barn to greet me.  I cry, but that is all right because it is a physical reminder of the love they gave. That love lasts forever.

     

     

The Friendliest Horse

Let's start this story from my point of view.

Shilo is beautiful, especially in the summer when he shines golden with a few dapples to add to his radiance.  He's a Quarter Pony, although there are no papers to prove his pedigree.  But his appearance is minor compared with his temperament.  In all my 70 years or so of horsing around, he is the friendliest equine I have ever met.  He is the first to greet everyone.  He comes to the fence or gate, and puts his head in a position for pats.  He is a mooch for horse treats, but really he is happy with nothing but attention.  He always wants attention.

It someone goes out to the pasture to fix a fence, he is right beside them.  Ignore him, and a cap is gone.  Attempt to leave his area, and he dances about, trying to block any exit.  He wants to be with people.  Other horses are okay, but want he really wants is people.

This friendly behavior should be a plus, but not always.

Take the fence fixing situation.  He can slow the whole process.  Shilo isn't adverse to trotting off with a hammer.  Sigh.  And try grooming his pasture mate, Bonnie...poor Bonnie.  He is intent on putting his body between you and Bonnie. If that doesn't work, he will nip the poor mare.  

Further, there is the problem with conducting lessons.  His pasture borders the arena, so he can clearly see there is action right beside him  He sees other horses, but more than that he sees people.  People: his favorite companions.

Usually we turn the electric fence off when we are conducting lessons.  We don't want the students hurt.

But trust Shilo.  He discovered the power was off.  He barged through the wires that appear to be white ribbon.  The first couple of times he managed to duck under the top rung and climb over the bottom, spaced low for the Miniature Horses we no longer have.  However, when I tried to adjust the wires the third time, he just plowed through in spite of the power being turned back on.

The lesson was interrupted.  My youngest granddaughter (16) admitted his frolicking, including bucking and rearing, once he got in the arena, frightened her.  I had to grab him, and lead him back, past the now shredded electric ribbon, while he kept insisting he wanted to be with us, to be part of the action.

Eventually, my husband had to completely adjust and repair the wire.  And we now have to leave the electricity flowing when we have lessons in that area.

Having a super friendly horse isn't always a bonus.

 

Okay.  There are two sides to most stories, and here is Shilo's version.

I just want to have fun.

I like people.  When I was younger it was people who finally fed me, and they took me away from the stupid, bullying stallion.  I'm a grateful kind of guy.

You have to understand I look forward to training; I love treats.

And the day I realized the fence wouldn't shock me; well, who wouldn't want to go and play with the students and the other horses?  I discovered the nipping ribbons weren't on, and all I had to do was step over the bottom rung, duck under the top, and there I was - with the gang.  The Treatsinthepocket woman was there, the curly maned young woman who called Treatsinthepocket "Grandma," and who sometimes comes to help with the lessons was there, and so was the slight girl with the uncertain gait, and the man who always seemed to be fascinated by the stone he carried.  They had the brown pony mare with them, as well as the bay mare.  

I didn't know the pony well, but I'm always interested in other horses.  I tried to greet everyone.  I was so pleased.  Treatsinthepocket got a halter with a rope, and put them on me.

I thought, "oh, joy, I get to play, too," but she led me back to the pasture with big mare, who I like, although she can be a bit of a bore.  

Well, now I knew what to do.  I stepped through the ribbons again. I was out in a minute!  I'm a fast learner.  Back in the arena.  I knew the game. Oh, bother!  I was returned to the pasture.

Treatsinthepocket had disappeared to turn on the nipping.  I had already committed myself to stepping through, and I got a little bite, but I was out!  The ribbons had come loose from their posts.  They trailed behind me like a long, flapping tail.  

Okay!  I was back in the action.  Curly maned girl approached me.  Did she want to play, too?  I danced, shook my head and bounced to my back legs, then whirled and bucked out.  Curly maned girl backed off.  So disappointing.  I was sure she wanted to play.  So, I did a little more dancing to encourage her.  No biggy.

Treatsinthepocket returned, and snapped the rope back on my halter.  "Good," I thought.  She gets it!  She was muttering.  I tried dancing and tossing my head, but she put me in the driveway pen, and proceeded to tie off the fence.  Such a disappointment.  Another big sigh.

Later that day Gruffmanwhotrimshoofs appeared and adjusted all the ribbons so I couldn't step out anymore.  More sighs.

I still like people.  And I still just want to have fun.

Won't someone come to play with me?  I promise to nuzzle you, or rest my head on your shoulder.

 

Welcome to my world with horses

Welcome to my blog post.  I'm Laverne.  I'm 78 years young and I've spent most of my years with horses.  I still have a pasture full of the critters.  Well, actually just six now - down from 21.

I'm hoping this blog will bring me renewed delight in writing.  Perhaps some people will even read it!  Anyone out there?

Over 30 years ago, I was privileged to be chosen to write a weekly newspaper column called Hoofbeats for the Enumclaw Courier Herald.  For many years, starting in 1990, I could call myself a paid writer, although I think I was paid $12 a column.  Even given inflation, that was a pittance: however, writing those columns gave me enormous pleasure, and made me brave enough to submit articles to horse magazines.  Many were accepted.

I ended up writing a couple of self-published books: The Hoofbeats of my Heart and The For Always Pony.  Look for them on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.  (I had to get the plug in.)

The writing experience gave me joy.

Then I stopped writing for pleasure, and returned to university for a Bachelor's degree, followed by a Master's.  Somehow, the creative juices stopped flowing the way it had in the days of the newspaper column.

I remember clearly how my initial foray into published writing began.  Over 30 years ago Friendly Horse Acres had recently moved to Buckley, Washington.  The community was small, and a lot of property had enough acreage for livestock.  The local feed store hosted a celebration of horse people, and they sponsored an exceptionally well attended parade of people and horses around the parameter of the city in late September.

My husband and I were breeding Miniature Horses.  We decided to walk the distance (about six miles,) dressed in pioneer costumes, and leading a pair of minis.  Okay.  We were younger, but that trek turned out to be a grueling hike, as we tried to keep up with the mounted participants.  By the time were were within a mile of our own farm, heading up a hill, we were wiped out.  Suddenly, a woman sporting a professional camera popped out of the foliage.  "Hi, I'm Shannon.  Can I take your photo and interview you?"  Of course, we agreed.  I recognized Shannon as the Enumclaw Courier Herald reporter who wrote the horse column.  I read it religiously every week.  We ended up with a full page spread in the paper, as well as being the subject of the newspaper column.

Shannon stayed in touch.

About a year later she announced she would be leaving her reporter job, and the courier Herald to return to her home in Ireland.  Although the reporter position would be filled by a professional journalist, she was offering the Hoofbeats column to a community member.  Qualified readers were asked to send in sample columns.

Yes, I was the chosen one.

I remember cussing at the typewriter, but just when I got the job, my parents presented me with one of the best gifts I have ever received.  It was a Brother word processor, complete with floppy disks.  That machine was a treasure. It sang.  And almost all of my articles came off the machine.  When it finally became inoperable, I cried.  Sure, we had PCs by that point, but I felt more creative with that old machine.  Somewhere, buried in a drawer, I'm sure I have a collection of floppies.  Oops, I glance up about the cabinet.  There they are, behind a doll and a crochet horse.  Now, if I had that word processor...

On with my story:

Without the support of that Brother, I hope to recreate my newspaper column in a new form.  Look for stories about horses, of course.  Maybe some research fact articles.  Maybe even some fiction.  No one knows what I'll be up to - least of all me.

I should be including some interviews with local motocross riders who insist horsepower in any form is still horsepower, even if it isn't the four-legged kind. 

Hope someone decides to come along for the ride.  We won't know where we're goiong until we get there.

Keep Horsing around!