Fireworks

    The dreaded Fourth of July relentlessly approaches.  Of all the USA holidays it is the one I intensely dislike.  I feel it has become sanctioned animal abuse.  I'm talking about the fireworks that proliferate in many communities, and certainly in mine.

    Perhaps I should point out, to those who do not know me personally, I am a green-card carrying Canadian.  Because I am a grey-haired pacifist grandmother of mostly Celtic decent, I'm not yet on ICE's target list, and if I become one, I will happily return to Canada dragging my family with me.  I don't look forward to moving given my age, and I am very, very content on our little horse farm, but I will go if I have to.  Anyway, I grew up in an area in British Columbia where most private fireworks were banned.  I didn't miss them.

    Let's return to the Fourth, the present, and the fireworks in our immediate vicinity.  I admit to enjoying the new shows that use drones and other modern, quiet technologies accompanied by music.  It is the noise of the fireworks that are so common in our town that start long before the Fourth that bother me and my animals.  The explosions may not be legal, but I hear them in the latter part of June.

    So does my dog.  He is one of the 50% of canines who are terrified by the noise.  I use a Thundershirt and chemicals, but he is still a wreck.  Lately, at age 14, he has become a little deaf, so I am hopeful that this year will be a bit more endurable for him. 

    But about the horses:  Sure, I have seen pictures of war horses, but I am perfectly aware they are an exception; the booms are nothing horses willingly tolerate. 

    Most of my horses and ponies are in pastures with access to shelter.  People who don't know horses would think they are okay.  I know better.

    Horses are flight animals.  For horses, running away is a go-to method of avoiding disturbances.  That is why I don't teach lessons around the Fourth.  Even the most placid pony can suddenly spook at an unexpected boom.

    Rarely do my horses start running when the fireworks are detonating about their heads, but it has happened.   There have been years when they frantically gallop around their enclosures until they realize they can't avoid the noise or the lights above their heads. 

    In some cases fireworks are the cause of death in horses.  I can't find the statistics for horses in the United States, but a British study recorded 98 injuries and 20 fatalities over a nine year period.  I would guess the numbers are higher in the United States.  Although there is no hard data, various veterinarian on internet sites mention the problems that arise because of fireworks.

    Stress caused by excessive noise causes horses to get colic.  Colic can be a killer.

    We are fortunate we did not lose one of our best lesson horses to explosions.  Skeeter would never win any beauty contest.  She was a sturdy brown pony large enough to carry most adults, and small enough that children were not intimidated by her size.  Her features were coarse with large ears, and she was blind in her left eye.  Beauty, as often quoted,  is only skin deep.  Inside, Skeeter was beautiful.  Anyone could ride her.  She was much loved and appreciated.

     She was also terrified of loud noises.  I have wondered if she lost her eye in a hunting accident, and that added to her fear of explosions.

    Regardless, the first year we had her, our city had no limitations on fireworks.  It was so bad, one of our cars suffered burned paint caused by burning firecrackers and other incendiaries set off in late June.  People in the neighborhood had a habit of aiming their noisemakers towards our property since we were/are one of the few open spaces in town.  (After we sent a letter to the city, the explosions directed at us have somewhat stopped.)

    That year was Skeeter's first Fourth of July with us, but by the end of June, after days of booms, she was severely ill with colic.  She was so sick we had to trailer her to a veterinarian's property outside of the city limits where he could monitor her, and keep her marginally more comfortable.  Fireworks were well on their way to killing her.  She was saved, but it was a near thing.  I've estimated that her hospital stay cost us the same as a week in a luxury hotel. 

    So it goes.

    Skeeter lived to be in her late 30s, perhaps in her 40s since we never learned her exact birth date. Cancer finally forced her across the Rainbow Bridge.  In the years before her death, we learned to take care of her, and we catered to her fear of loud noises. Weeks before any fireworks were exploded, we hooked up a sound system into her stall.  We would gradually increase the volume as the Fourth approached.  I am a fan of symphonies so we played the local classical radio station for her.  Although I am not an aficionado of most opera, it turns out Skeeter enjoyed the singing.  She seemed to be especially rapt when a tenor voice performed.  By the time the Fourth rolled around we were pumping up the volume as high as it would go.  I didn't care if our neighbors didn't appreciate her choice of music blasting across the pasture.  They had their unmelodic booms, and Skeeter had her opera.  (Actually, no one complained about the music; maybe they shared Skeeter's taste.)

    Since Skeeter passed years ago, we have developed methods of discouraging the fireworks to stay away from our farm.  We leave the barn and arena lights blazing all night.  Our vehicles get tucked out of the range of most of the pyrotechnics.

    Still, I worry about my dog and the equines.  This year we have a new horse and pony.  I am hoping they will be able to stand the stress.

    As usual, I am not looking forward to the Fourth of July.

    Incidentally, happy Canada Day on the first of July.

    May your day be safe and quiet.

     

     

 

Jodee

     The name on her registration papers stated: April Star Jodee.  She was the best horse anyone could want.  Her glossy coat shone a dark chocolate brown, with a black mane and tale, and a white star on her forehead.  Jodee was a Quarter Horse.  She had the kindest brown eyes that were mirrors to her gentle, ageless soul.

 

    Steve Mark, and I felt privileged to have her come into our lives.

 

    To a small extent, I believe she has come back to us, even though it is about 15 years since she crossed the rainbow bridge.  I'll get back to why I feel that way. 

 

     Jodee came into our lives because Steve and I decided it was time we acquired horses.  Steve had recently survived a life-threatening accident, when a slash from Devil's Club on his arm became infected.  There is nothing like a stint in the hospital to remind you that life is finite.  What we had intended to do "someday" became "today."

                                                                     Jodee

 

    I began a search for horses.  I think I found the number in The Little Nickel classified ads.  Does anyone else remember that ubiquitous little yellow paper that was stacked for free at every retail outlet?  The paper predated the internet.  Is it still published?  I believe it is online now.

 

    I called local phone numbers and landed on an extension and an address close to us in Kent.  Steve and I, along with a very young Mark, headed out to find a horse, and at the same time we met new friends.  For the purposes of privacy, I won't mention their names, but I will say we met a wonderful couple with children close to Mark's age.  They were life-long riders, and they competed in barrel racing.  Jodee was for sale because her peak racing days were over.  Also on the market was a young Paint palomino filly.  We made arrangements to bring both equines home to Auburn.

 

    I can't remember what we paid for the pair, but whatever it was, it was a bargain.

 

    Even though Splash, the filly, wasn't a year old, she settled into her new home as comfortably and quickly as Jodee who was an old pro at accepting new situations.  Jodee, we quickly realized, was a natural mother.  She had had foals, and although Splash was not her own, Jodee's maternal nature kicked in.  It made the new environment an easy adjustment for both equines.

 

    I promptly began to enjoy Jodee under saddle.  Steve and Mark climbed on in turn.  At first I restricted myself to a sedate walk with an occasional trot, but Jodee, as she would with all her riders, determined when it was time to increase the pace.  She had, after all, been a racer.  However, she was always careful to keep her riders seated. 

 

    Given the many years we partnered with her, I don't ever remember Jodee losing a rider - except once, and that time she lost three in one go.  Jodee had been in her pasture that afternoon when Mark was entertaining a couple of his elementary school friends.  My son coaxed a willing Jodee to the fence, carefully avoiding the top rail where an electric wire ran.  Mark swung himself up on the horse and urged a second boy to follow.  Both boys waved over the third.  That child clambered the fence, the same as the others, but Jodee, without any physical restraints, had angled her hind end away from the fence.  The third youngster had more of a stretch.  As he did the splits to land behind the other two boys, his foot touched the wire. 

 

     Poor Jodee!  The jolt sent her spinning, and three boys unceremoniously hit the dirt.  No one was hurt, but the gentle mare seemed genuinely upset that her patient tolerance had been rewarded with a burst of electricity.

 

    Years Passed.  Jodee became a lesson mount for us.

 

    She would have two foals of her own, but she mothered every foal on the property.  When a young, first-time mother was uncertain of the the procedure with a new baby, Jodee stepped in.

 

    The only creature Jodee mistrusted was dogs.  Probably she had cause.  As a mother, she didn't want those "wolves" messing with her precious babies.

 

    As she aged, and her health deteriorated, Jodee still was a treasure.  At some point we stopped riding her, but her human friends realized she still liked to get out and about.  Most evenings, someone would come to take her on a walk in the neighborhood.  Although we had a halter on her, the rope usually remained in our pocket.

 

    Our veterinarian, at the time, was a crusty chap who had put down many equines.  He knew the drill.  Yet, he fought to keep Jodee alive because he admired the mare.  When the day came to let her go he, too, had tears.

 

    We all knew one of the great ones had left us.

                                                            Jodee

 

    Now, to explain why I think a part of Jodee has come back.

 

    Two new horses are in our pasture.  One is a red roan pinto pony.  The other is a glorious golden gaited mare, only slightly older than Jodee was when she came into our lives.

 

    The reason the palomino girl reminds me of Jodee..? 

 

    It is because a couple of months ago we got a phone call.  The woman on the recording called herself, "a voice from the past."  Indeed.  It was the woman who had sold us Jodee over 30 years ago.  We had lost touch as she and her husband left the state, then returned without our knowledge.  Now a widow, she was back, located only an hour from us, and she thought of us, and took a chance on our old phone number.

 

    We reconnected.  We felt as close as we had when we first met her.  Weeks later she confided that her health was slipping Tentatively, she asked it we would be interested in buying her horses.  We knew her.  We knew any animal of hers would be stellar, and spectacularly well-trained.

 

    So, once again, we have a new brilliant mare, and an adorable pinto pony.  The personalities are not the same; the old pony is not my Splash, and the palomino is not Jodee.

 

    Yet, when I look at the golden mare, and she stares with her remarkable amber eyes, somehow I feel as if a part of Jodee has returned. 

     

     

     

The Way It Used To Be

     Sometimes I feel diminished.  

    I remember the way it used to be, back in the days when we had Miniature Horses, and the freedom to share time with the rest of the world.  today, the minis have crossed the rainbow bridge, and the insurance companies dictate what we can do - which is very, very little.

    There was a time when we visited nursing homes, attended festivals, lectured at libraries, and even marched in parades.  (I admit parades were never my favorite - but anyway...)  For a few years the Puyallup Fair paid us to present our Exmoor Ponies to the public.  That was exhausting, but memorable fun.  We spread the word about our wonderful rare breed animals. 

    It wasn't always the Miniature Horses who were trailered out for day trips.  Our Shire draft horse, Mac, was a special hit with the nursing and assisted living homes.  The minis are adorable, but Mac could brighten the face of many seniors living his or her last years in a facility.  We discovered there was noting like a draft horse to create delight, and bring out memories of days farming with the big animals. 

    Today we don't have a draft horse, any more than a Miniature or an Exmoor.  Bonnie was our last draft and she passed away a year ago.  She never made any outside visits.  I think she would have enjoyed the attention.  Draft horses are big loves.  

    I remember a number of festivals where we were invited at the last moment.  I think it was a Federal Way City festival where I was expected to bring a cart and pony.  A week before the event I suddenly realized that the two minis I had intended to bring were unavailable.  Shadow had come up lame, and Peach was pregnant.  I looked out in the pasture.  I had eight days to train a mini to pull a cart, then present the horse in public.  Mischief, a sorrel pinto, was my candidate.  She was an apt pupil.  She took to driving as if she had been born to it.  (Maybe she was.)  A week later we were surrounded by people and booths in a large park.  Mischief never put a wrong foot forward, after that single, intense week of training. 

    Sometimes the events were more popular than we expected.  On one memorable library visit the librarians realized the crowd exceeded their expectations.  We were asked to move our program outside.  Fortunately, I had enough helpers to manage the three minis who were part of the program we had planned.  I can't recall the other two horses, but I do remember that Peach was with us this time.  She was a bright chestnut, class B Miniature.  (The B indicated she was more than 34 inches, but under 38 inches at the last hair of her mane.)  I think I had completed the story part of the performance when I realized Peach had disappeared.  I could see the student who was supposed to be holding her lead rope, but Peach was invisible.  I peered closer.  There was a mound of children.  And just barely, I spotted a small patch of red fur.

    Peach was completely covered by children!

    And she was patiently standing completely still.  She might even have been enjoying the attention in a bemused sort of way. 

    Horse shows used to be part of our program, too.  Yes, I competed.  I took dressage lessons at Fox Ridge Farm.  Steve took a few lessons, too, although he never entered a show.  I rode my beloved little PeeChee, and later I showed the draft horse, Mac, under saddle.

    But more than my own outside equine activities, my students took part in some of the local horse shows.  They got some treasured ribbons presenting the Miniatures to the public.  I was proud of them.

    Not only do we no longer have the Miniature Horses, nor the draft horses, nor the Exmoor Ponies, but the world has far fewer venues for people to show horses.  Subdivisions have taken many of the places that were once sites for horse events.

    And the insurance company has taken away our right to show our horses in public anyway.  We are restricted to our property, and even than what we can do is extremely limited.

    Talking to an insurance agent, I was told his company blames the lawyers.  

    Whatever.  The United States is a country that points fingers. 

    The bottom line is, people cannot be educated about horses, nor can those of us who own them, share them without Big Brother stepping in. 

    I admit I don't have the energy for the multiple programs that were part of our past, but I would like to think I could pass the torch to others.  Legally, it is doubtful.

    We still attend the Black Diamond Labor Day festivities, as we have done for almost 30 years.  However, gone are the days when we take a mini or two.  Twenty years ago we offered cart rides, and we participated in the parade.  I can still see Donny, our one-time herd stallion, and later our remarkable little gelding, going up and down a series of eight concrete stairs.  I didn't know horses could navigate steps.  Now we participate in the celebration with only a cardboard cut-out horse that looks remarkably like our Arab, Bay.  I hope the insurance adjusters don't decide that is too much. 

    Going to places without a horse in tow is the best we are allowed to do, and sometimes I worry that will be taken away from us, too.

    Yes, I feel diminished, and a little angry - certainly irate.  Horses need to be shared. 

                                                                Peach

    The mission statement at Friendly Horse Acres is: Horses and humans healing each other physically, emotionally and spiritually.  We will fulfill that mission as long as we are permitted. 

     

 

Interview with Spice

 I intend to record this blog as a podcast.  So enjoy what you are reading, and prepare to listen to the recorded version, when I figure out the technology.

Laverne

Welcome, listeners, to the first podcast of Talking Horses.  Today I have a special treat for you.  Spice, the oldest resident equine at Friendly Horse Acres, has agreed to be interviewed.  For those of you who don't know him, Spice is a Welsh/Shetland cross gelding who has served as a mount for over 30 years.  He is a handsome red roan pinto.

Welcome, Spice, and thank you for consenting to talk to me.

Spice

 There are cookies in it for me, right?

Laverne (sotto voce)

We'll talk about it later

Laverne (normal voice)

So thank you, Spice for your service, especially as a therapeutic riding mount.  Have you enjoyed the work?

Spice

Sure, it's good, as long as the work stays interesting.  I'm easily bored.  Going around in endless circles is not my favorite activity.  I like a bit of action at a faster pace.   I'm the kind of guy who enjoys a brisk trot, or better yet, a jolly canter.  I'm an agreeable sort of guy, though, so mostly I just try to get along. 

Laverne

What would you prefer to be doing? 

Spice

Jumping.  I love jumping.  Anything is good.  Rails, barrels, hay bales.  Put a barrier in front of me, and I'll go over it.  I do it for fun, even if I don't have someone urging me.  My complaint about jumping with a rider is the constant repetition.  Come on, people, if you've done it three times, lets move on to something else.  If you stayed on a few times, let's call it good.  I don't give a rip about your form.

Laverne

Anything else you particularly enjoy? 

Spice

Yeah, I do enjoy doing tricks.  I come when I'm called from anywhere if I hear the person, I grin on command, I bow as long as a human bows with me, I climb on a platform and spin slowly and I don't mind a rider running and jumping on my back.  Of course, the rider has to be light.  Oh, and I do give exuberant kisses.

And I do expect to be rewarded.

Speaking of which, about those reward cookie treats...

Laverne (sotto voce)

Later.

Laverne (normal voice)

Any special memories?

Spice

That Halloween soon after I came to the farm was a blast.  You had advertised a haunted barn, and after scaring people inside the barn, they were routed out of the arena to the back lawn.  They didn't know the biggest scare was outside.  I was under a sheet, and along with a couple of students in costume, and you, too, we burst out from behind a wall of hay and chased them, screaming, out of the arena.  I love to create chaos.  Too bad we never did it again. 

Laverne

Is life good for you?

Spice

I'm pretty content.  The food is good, the attention is adequate, and the mares are a bonus.  Also, I like the treats.  About the treats...

Laverne (quickly)

Any not so good times?

Spice

Well, a year ago,  last spring didn't start off very well.  I couldn't eat enough to keep my weight, and my winter coat didn't want to shed off.  You thought it was my teeth, but that was only part of my problem.  You had to call in a new vet because Dr Bob retired.  I liked her.  She was pretty gentle with her needles, and she took her time doing the dental.  The needles hardly hurt.

Turns out I have cushing's disease, but there are some pills for it.  Nasty pills.  You tried to force them down me with the pill pockets for horses, but you can't fool me.  I spat them back on you.  Serves you right. Those treats could fool the other horses, but not me.  Then you dissolved the pills in mash, but I eventually got wise to that.  For awhile the new vet said I was doing okay, and the weight came on.  This spring she said I was not swallowing enough.  Now you are hiding the pills in Fig Newtons.  So far, so good.

Laverne 

Any dislikes?

Spice

Dogs.  I hate dogs.  Your little mutt is the worst.  I run him out of my territory.

Laverne

Anything you would like to add?

Spice

If you can't lose twenty pounds, stay off my back.

And about those treats.

Laverne 

Ummm

Laverne (sotto voce)

Shh about the treats.  Later.

Laverne

Thank you, Spice, and thank you, folks, for joining us for this podcast of Talking Horses.  Please join us next time.

Fading voice imploring, "Spice, get out of my pocket.  You'll get the treats."

Moods

         "They are not machines,"  I warn my students.  Every horse or pony is different, and they all have moods.  I know I have days when I feel frisky, and days when I am a little blue - especially as I get older.  Okay, I am old.  Anyway, horses are the same as people.  They have moods.  They are sometimes happy,  they are usually content, but they do have days when they are angry or depressed.

    I am not sure why the concept that horses have feelings is hard to grasp, but it sure is true.  If they have personalities, it stands to reason that they will have moods.

    I have met many horse people who protest that they wouldn't own a mare.  "Too moody," they proclaim.  Well, I'm fond of mares, and most of my horses are female.  I've had geldings, of course, and we have even had a few stallions, but mares seem to come my way.  Have I found that mares are moody?  I'm not sure.  I do think they have a lot of personality, but perhaps I am biased.  I'm a female myself.  I have noticed by geldings are characters.  The stallions we have had have been delightful.  All the horses have more good days than bad.

    But, bad days happen.

    Take Rain, a pinto mare, who is usually the most complacent and loving of animals.  She is the one I place with beginners.  She is a lets-get-along type.  However, notice the word 'usually.'  I do remember the lesson where she was suddenly explosive (fortunately before she had a rider).  She bucked and pulled at the end of a rope.  Controlling her was the same as a youngster with a temper tantrum.  Why was she suddenly misbehaving?  To this day I don't really have a clear idea.  I think I made an excuse that she was probably in heat, but since that has never happened before, or since, I can only chalk her behavior to a random mood. 

    Spice is a gelding.  I used to claim that he dumps 50 percent of his riders 50 percent of the time.  He has mellowed a little with age, and that statistic no longer stands.  His behavior is not malicious, just mischievous. Spice is a jokester.  Like most comedians, he has a high IQ.  He likes to outsmart his riders.  This is not necessarily a mood thing.  He is always thinking.  Having said that, I have seen him lose his temper.  Spice is a firm believer that a rider is a partner, and as in any good partnership, both parties have a say in the relationship.  I had on rider who decided she was the boss.  Period.  For a lesson and a half Spice put up with her.  Finally, he lost his patience.  He bucked until she was on the ground.  (Bucking, other than a little crow hop, is not in Spice's normal repertoire.  He likes to fishtail, testing a rider's balance.)  Normally, when he loses a rider, he returns to the fallen human to check on them, to encourage them to get back on him.  In fact, after he has made the point that he can lose them, he becomes a more mellow fellow.  This rider was different, though.  He dumped her, and retreated to a corner of the arena as far from her as possible.  He stayed there until I had dusted off my student, made sure only her pride was hurt, and informed her she wasn't a good match for Spice.  Pushed too far, it is apparent Spice has a temper.

    Spice is not the only equine sensitive to his rider.  I am not the first person to notice that horses will often reflect our own moods. Many years ago, when Friendly Horse Acres was not yet a nonprofit, we hired a wonderful young trainer.  She became a dear friend.  As well as working for us, she showed her own horse in her final years of high school.  She was active in 4-H.

    She appeared very depressed on one particular occasion, and I inquired, "What's going on?"

    "My horse just isn't cooperating.  He behaves perfectly at home, but as soon as we get in the show ring, he loses focus and forgets everything."

    I thought, then asked, "Do you like showing?"

    "I did a few years ago, but now it's just a lot of pressure."

    I think I grinned.  "So you don't enjoy it anymore, and neither does your horse.  Is that a surprise?" 

    She understood at once.  Her horse was reflecting her own mood.  That is something horses do, too.

    They also have squabbles with each other. I've seen horses that groom and play with each other decide they have had enough of the other animal.  Using horse body language, they say, "Give me some space."  Woe to the pasture mate who is not paying attention.  Later, they will be buddies again.

    As a horse caretaker, it is important that I am aware of my horses' moods.  A horse that becomes exceptionally quiet, contrary to their normal nature, may be sick.  I actually appreciate a horse who lets me know they are not feeling well.  Since quines are prey animals they may try to hide an illness.   The sick animal in the wild herd is the one to get eaten.  Buddy had cancer and a heart condition.  He did his best to hide it until he was too ill to be saved.  Bay, on the other hand, has mastered the sad puppy eye.  She comes for help and looks pathetic.  Fortunately most of my horses are like Bay, just not as dramatic.

                                                                     Bay

    On the other hand, a frisky horse is a happy horse.  I especially remember waking on a cold winter morning to hear, and then see, the horses playing in the new snow.  they were obviously enjoying themselves.  Later, as the winter progressed, they became less enamored of the cold, but that first snowfall was greeted with delight. 

    Horses have their emotional ups and downs.  They are thinking, feeling creatures, very similar emotionally to humans.  When we form a relationship with a horse we need to be sensitive to the animal's moods.  Some horses are more consistent that others, but even the most reliable of equines is going to have a bad day, or a silly day, or a blue day.

    So, to the people who expect a horse to be exactly the same everyday, I can only say: Get a bicycle, or take up motocross.

 

 

Haunted Barn

     I have a theory that ghosts are left-over energy. I've heard them, even when I have not seen them.

    Are our barns haunted?  I believe so.  Perhaps my definition of haunting isn't quite the same as that of the ghost hunters on TV.  (I won't be calling them to inspect our property.)  My husband is a fan of all the shows that follow people in so-called scary situations, but I'm a skeptic.  Those shows look staged to me.  I don't find my barns frightening, but maybe they are to someone not as familiar with them.  After living on this property for over 30 years, I can attest that the barns, especially the main barn, are haunted, and they probably appear like ghost hunter terrain to some folks.

    We are in the process of renewing our farm insurance.  Usually the process is only a case of adjusting a few numbers, but this time the insurance company requested we refill a bunch of forms - pages of them.  They also wanted pictures of the hours and the two barns.  The demand made me have a good look at the buildings, especially the barns.  Although we had them painted a few years ago, they are looking weathered.  I know those buildings are about 50 or 60 years old, but still. ...

    If the exterior is looking worn, the interior is not better.  The inside of the main barn shows its age.  Only the tack room, in the original, smaller barn, is not to disreputable, but that is because my husband and father re-paneled the area.  They did a fantastic job, and the room is still the attractive, if cluttered. 

    But the rest of the barns, well, it has never been too great.  At one point we took advantage of the appearance.  We promoted an event for the community before Halloween.  The barn was advertised as haunted.

    Before we started to decorate, I mentioned to a young neighbor boy who had been helping us with the feeding when my husband and I were at work.  In the winter, that occasionally meant he had to be in the barn at dusk.  When we said we were going to advertise a haunted barn, he muttered, "Won't take much.  It's already spooky." 

    Now, this isn't going to be an Halloween blog, and I don't think that boy meant that the barn is haunted.  However, it is.  All year 'round.

    I don't see ghosts in the barn.  I hear the sound of my horses - the horses who have passed away.  Recently we lost a draft horse, a huge ton of loving mare.  Bonnie greeted me from a stall as soon as I walked in the barn.  Her neigh was a deep rumble in keeping with her prodigious size.  I heard her before I saw her when she was alive.  Now there is no Bonnie to see, but many days and nights I still hear her.

    Other horses make themselves known.  Me beloved pony, Peecheeyouresocute, called PeeChee, still makes herself heard.  Little Donny, our Miniature Horse stallion, is audible to me, hooves scampering down the aisle of the main barn,  Buddy, the Arab, occasionally stomps in the first stall at the entrance to the barn.  William shuffles about in the next stall.

    And there are others.  since we have been in business in one way or another for over 40 years, it makes sense that we have lost a lot of horses.  Most of them lived to old age, at least into their 20s.

    I'm not sure how I know which horse is the ghost, but my brain will say, "That's Skeeter or Flax or Peach.  Yet, I will hear a sound, and they are with me.

    Neffy (Nefertiti), was a catty little cat, and she was my cat - her choice.  She was an indoor/outdoor cat back before the huge subdivision grew by us.  In those days we were at the end of the road with trees and pasture around most of the property.  The area was ideal hunting for a canny little cat.  She used all her nine lives, and made herself useful every day.  She cuddled with me, but no one else.  Even then she was a hunter.  I used to point out that I wasn't sure she knew how to retract her claws.  When she crossed the rainbow bridge, her presence was felt in the barn, and sometimes in the house.  For a short time her brother, Toot, was around, too, but he didn't stay long.  I heard him in the hay loft.   

    The barns are the main source of ghosts, but the house has one persistent presence, and that is our last cat, Boyd.  Boyd was a 15 lb Manx.  He lived his last years in the house because the new subdivision
produced traffic - lots of traffic.  Boyd didn't have car sense.  However, when I insisted he become a house cat, he wasn't upset.  He settled in, content to chase crochet balls of yarn.  (He hid his favorite purple ball, and I still haven't located it.)  He spent his evenings cuddling beside me.  Although he and the dog, Snickerdoodle, were not friends, I would consider them close frenemies.  They took comfort in the company of each other, especially when the humans were absent.  Boyd's kidneys failed him a few years ago, but he haunts the house.  Even Snickerdoodle notices.  The dog often looks for his cat companion, then seems to find him.  I don't see Boyd, but perhaps Snickerdoodle does.

    I want to go back to my theory that ghosts are energy.  The first law of thermodynamics, which has to do with conservation of energy states: Energy can change forms, but is neither created not destroyed. 

    My companion animals including cats, dogs, horses and birds have strong personalities.  If their energy cannot be destroyed, it is somewhere.  I believe a lot of it is in our old barns.

    I have one more example of ghosts as energy, and it has nothing to do with death.

    Years ago, when we were preparing to move from Auburn to Buckley, I stood in my treasured wooded backyard.  Moving is traumatic, even if it is positive.  Suddenly, that afternoon, that yard was full of ghosts, only all of them were still alive at the time.  I heard myself telling my parents I was pregnant, I heard the arrival of our first two horses, I heard our son playing with his remote controlled cars, I heard moments of love.  There were many, many haunting memories, tumbling over each other.  In fact, on that occasion, I even saw images, as the memories came.  Good memories all.  Ghosts of the living, but energy left over from past strong emotions.

    So, if my barn is haunted, so be it.  I don't mind.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story

     My short story Update: Morph, had a beginning in a dream.  Yup, a real I'm-asleep-dreaming dream.  I often remember my dreams, but rarely are they coherent or particularly interesting.  Well, this dream sure was interesting, at least to me, and it made coherent sense.

    I recall waking up several years ago thinking,  "Wow, I've got to write that one down."  I admit, the story, as I eventually wrote it, has a lot more detail than a 10-15 minute dream.  Also, the actual dream ended with the arrival of the police officer.

    Many elements of the dream are very much a part of my own life.  The horses, the dressage, even the cat/s are bits that anyone who knows me will recognize.  My son had transformer toys.  Some people will even recognize the car.  I'll write more about that a little farther along.

    The end segment of the actual dream annoyed me, because I definitely was enjoying this particular dream.  It struck me as something my imagination had grabbed, and put into my subconscious so I wouldn't forget it.  I had not wanted it to end.  Dreaming it was like reading an excellent tale, or watching a film, and enjoying it immensely.  The end was a disappointment because, well, I didn't want it to end, and I sure didn't like it finishing with the car being forced to its original form.  I seldom wake up angry, but that cop had me more than irked.  He didn't get it!  My horse was a car!  My car was a horse!

    So, I wrote the story, and gave it an end, one that pleased me.  I did submit a version of my work to my college extension writing class, and a number of students said the ending frightened them.  Interesting.  Just proves writers don't always know how their stories will strike other folks, because I had intended nothing scary.  In fact, I found my story rather comforting.     

    Now this particular work was on my computer for a number of years, and it went through many, many tweaks.  In fact, the version that appears here, in my blog, is different from the document I used to type it into the blog formatting, and even more different from the story I presented to my writing class.

    Perhaps the biggest change, though, is the model of the car, from Tesla to Galloway.  As I got ready to publish it here, I found myself surrounded by different times.  The culture of the United States has changed.  When we bought our Tesla in 2019, we were environmentally conscious.  My husband and I were showing we cared about the environment, and we were taking our stance against the gas companies.  Our family was among the first half dozen in the town to have an EV with self-driving capabilities.  We were also purchasing a car that was noted for its safety, especially in regard to senior drivers like us.  The AARP had highly recommended it.  (I wonder if they still do.)  Anyway, I've been in the car when it has been threatened.  Some careless driver was coming out of a side street, barreling along with no regard to other traffic.  We were nearly t-boned.  The Tesla flashed red on the dashboard, blared an alarm, and if my husband hadn't immediately jammed the brakes to prevent the thoughtless driver from ramming my passenger door; the car was ready to stop itself.  To quote the young man who went with us on our demo drive, "Teslas don't like to get hit."  I realize accidents happen, no systems are perfect.  But in our case, the car was out to protect us.  I like that.

    Tesla Motors keeps updating their cars to that our 2019 model has the same bells, whistles and features as the 2025 models.  Other EVs, as far as I know, do not offer this feature.  What you buy is what you get, even with an electric Corvette (I asked), but not with a Tesla connected to Wi-Fi.

    No, we are not selling our Tesla.  It continues to keep us safe, and it doesn't use gas.  If we sold it, someone else would be driving it, anyway.  I'm fond of Amenadiel, and he is not responsible for a CEO who has gone off the tracks of sanity.  (Yes, we named our care Amenadiel.)  To protect it from vandalism, we felt the necessity to purchase a couple of decals.  We didn't want to be too antagonistic, but we did want to get our point across.  We chose the message "Vintage Tesla.  Pre-Madness Edition."  So far, so good.  Amenadiel remains unmolested.

    Anyway, I decided I didn't want Update: Morph to get tangled in politics, or magnetized decals, so I chose to change the name of the motor company.  I've always enjoyed research.  My criteria was high.  I wanted my car to be for women, designed by a woman, and I wanted it to be based  on reality.  I didn't have to look far, nor was the search hard.

    Almost immediately, thanks to Google, I found a woman automotive engineer, Dorothee Pullinger, who was instrumental in creating a car for women after the First World War.  Further, the workforce at Galloway Motors was largely women, at Dorothee's urging.  The Galloway was produced from 1920 until 1928.  The company was located in Scotland, and that appealed to my own Scottish heritage.  I like all the information except the fact that the Galloway is no more.  However, in my world of the future, Galloway Motors still exists, and has evolved into an automotive giant.

    So Isaac, a fictional cousin to Amenadiel, came into existence as a Galloway.

    Isaac is a car - who purrs, and can do dressage.

    I have dreams for Amenadiel.