I knew a girl once who told me she didn't need a man. Implying the only reason I had a husband was because I did. She claimed to not need a man because she was quite capable of taking care of herself.
I never argued. I was always sad to know she just didn't get it. I don't need Martin to take care of me. I am quite capable. But sometimes it's nice to have someone to look after the things that are hard. Someone to share the weight.
Reiley's rabbit Chocolate, lovingly known as Bunny Bunny, died today. She's been sick since before Easter and has not recovered despite antibiotics and our best efforts. Tonight Martin did what had to be done and put Bunny Bunny down.
She is buried in the field under the spruce trees where the cows won't trample her. It is the first grave on our property but likely won't be the last. We wrapped her in a blanket so her fur wouldn't get dirty and marked her place with a stone. I'll go back tomorrow and carve her name.
In the field with my man-boys and boy-men I cried and didn't hide my face. It's ok to be strong, but it's ok to be soft too. Together we take turns being both.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Story of a horse
It occurred to me that I've never told the story of Bud. My lovable but frustrating horse that I often refer to as Dink. Really it's not fair to him. You don't have the full story. He is a dink sometimes none the less, but you need the full story for it to be fair I call him that.
Bud is a purebred registered Morgan. He was born with a fancy pedigree name that, to be honest, I don't even know. His papers are in the safe at my mom's house I think. I've just never cared enough to look at them. His familiar barn name was Bubba. I don't call him that either. I take offence when someone does. That life is long gone.
When I was two years old my family adopted my sister. She was 8. She was put in foster care when she and her siblings were removed from her mothers care, or lack there of. My mother (so the story is told) told her she could pick a new name for herself if she wanted to. A new life, a new name. She did. A beautiful new name.
Bud came from a similar situation. So, new life, new name. He is Bud, or Budward or Dumb Ass or sometimes even Dink.
As a stud colt he was shown all across the US and won awards that covered the walls of his breeder. He was something to look at. He still is. A champion. But as he got older he became violent and unpredictable. Only to be handled by the owner. I met him at this time, when I was hired on to muck out stalls at his barn for the summer, but never allowed in his. He was 2 and a nervous ball of power and energy.
He was only allowed out of his stall to be exercised under saddle. After his lesson he was returned to his stall where he paced in a constant state of anxiety. He became too much of a problem when he started to toss his head in the show ring. They would put up with him being difficult to handle, using the fact that he was a stallion as the excuse, but when he could no longer be shown, he became worthless to them. They had him gelded but that didn't help. They couldn't sell him as he would give them a bad name. It's at this time that we found him. Three years had passed since I'd seen him last. He was now 5 and if we didn't want him he'd be shot. So my mother and I took him. That was 7 years ago.
When he first came home we could ride him anywhere. He'd go with the whites of his eyes showing and his chest covered in sweat. It was quickly evident just how damaged this horse was. So we stopped. Everything. And started again at square one. We asked nothing of him and offered trust. We didn't ask him to go anywhere or do anything he was afraid of. Turns out he was afraid of everything. He had never been allowed out of his stall so he didn't have one sweet clue how to be a horse. He didn't know how to graze, what a stream was, what a puddle was, what the wind was. Nothing. He had instinct but no teaching from another horse on how to behave. We left him in the company of the cows and he started to learn.
We brought him back slowly using natural horsemanship and the guidance of Pat Parelli. Very similar in style to what I'd naturally been doing with horses my whole life, but with more tools and understanding. When we started riding again he would only follow the dog. And did what the dog did. So we rode for a few months with his nose dragging on the ground. It was two years before I could ride him down the road where he'd never been before.
He's come a long long way in seven years. I can confidently take him anywhere. He is not dangerous. The tension is gone. He's a relaxed, happy boy. (On a side note, what we've learned through Bud has translated to our dog and kids.) But he can still be a dink. He's a smart horse, which is why I think he snapped being cooped up in a barn all the time. He likes to push my buttons. Plus he still carries scars from his past life. He tenses when new men come around. He is very claustrophobic. He likes to scare himself like a little kid on Halloween. Having been gelded late imprinted stallion behaviour on his brain so dominance fights can be fun between us. He is a challenge and everything I get from him is earned. He is affectionate and sweet and loves to play and think. Plus he is wicked fun to ride and full of spunk.
To see a horse who was once afraid to stand alone in a field now gallop it's length, is a beautiful thing. Who was once afraid of trees, ride through the woods. Who was once afraid of a puddle, plod through a river with water up to his belly.
Then he sees his shadow flicker and jumps in fright while I'm on his back. Chases the cows so they can't have a turn drinking water. Turns his butt to me and farts when I come to say hi. Jumps into the road because he sees a mailbox. Dink.
I've always thought control is an illusion. There can't be control, control is forced. Instead, there is partnership. I had to earn that from Bud, and to know I have is an honor. He had plenty of reasons to never trust again. He can be a dink, but I love him anyway. I've learned a lot from him. Most of all, that pedigrees don't make a horse. Or a dog. Or a person.
Bud is a purebred registered Morgan. He was born with a fancy pedigree name that, to be honest, I don't even know. His papers are in the safe at my mom's house I think. I've just never cared enough to look at them. His familiar barn name was Bubba. I don't call him that either. I take offence when someone does. That life is long gone.
When I was two years old my family adopted my sister. She was 8. She was put in foster care when she and her siblings were removed from her mothers care, or lack there of. My mother (so the story is told) told her she could pick a new name for herself if she wanted to. A new life, a new name. She did. A beautiful new name.
Bud came from a similar situation. So, new life, new name. He is Bud, or Budward or Dumb Ass or sometimes even Dink.
As a stud colt he was shown all across the US and won awards that covered the walls of his breeder. He was something to look at. He still is. A champion. But as he got older he became violent and unpredictable. Only to be handled by the owner. I met him at this time, when I was hired on to muck out stalls at his barn for the summer, but never allowed in his. He was 2 and a nervous ball of power and energy.
He was only allowed out of his stall to be exercised under saddle. After his lesson he was returned to his stall where he paced in a constant state of anxiety. He became too much of a problem when he started to toss his head in the show ring. They would put up with him being difficult to handle, using the fact that he was a stallion as the excuse, but when he could no longer be shown, he became worthless to them. They had him gelded but that didn't help. They couldn't sell him as he would give them a bad name. It's at this time that we found him. Three years had passed since I'd seen him last. He was now 5 and if we didn't want him he'd be shot. So my mother and I took him. That was 7 years ago.
When he first came home we could ride him anywhere. He'd go with the whites of his eyes showing and his chest covered in sweat. It was quickly evident just how damaged this horse was. So we stopped. Everything. And started again at square one. We asked nothing of him and offered trust. We didn't ask him to go anywhere or do anything he was afraid of. Turns out he was afraid of everything. He had never been allowed out of his stall so he didn't have one sweet clue how to be a horse. He didn't know how to graze, what a stream was, what a puddle was, what the wind was. Nothing. He had instinct but no teaching from another horse on how to behave. We left him in the company of the cows and he started to learn.
We brought him back slowly using natural horsemanship and the guidance of Pat Parelli. Very similar in style to what I'd naturally been doing with horses my whole life, but with more tools and understanding. When we started riding again he would only follow the dog. And did what the dog did. So we rode for a few months with his nose dragging on the ground. It was two years before I could ride him down the road where he'd never been before.
He's come a long long way in seven years. I can confidently take him anywhere. He is not dangerous. The tension is gone. He's a relaxed, happy boy. (On a side note, what we've learned through Bud has translated to our dog and kids.) But he can still be a dink. He's a smart horse, which is why I think he snapped being cooped up in a barn all the time. He likes to push my buttons. Plus he still carries scars from his past life. He tenses when new men come around. He is very claustrophobic. He likes to scare himself like a little kid on Halloween. Having been gelded late imprinted stallion behaviour on his brain so dominance fights can be fun between us. He is a challenge and everything I get from him is earned. He is affectionate and sweet and loves to play and think. Plus he is wicked fun to ride and full of spunk.
To see a horse who was once afraid to stand alone in a field now gallop it's length, is a beautiful thing. Who was once afraid of trees, ride through the woods. Who was once afraid of a puddle, plod through a river with water up to his belly.
Then he sees his shadow flicker and jumps in fright while I'm on his back. Chases the cows so they can't have a turn drinking water. Turns his butt to me and farts when I come to say hi. Jumps into the road because he sees a mailbox. Dink.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
It's silly right?
She emailed me and said something so simple. When are you going to start selling your work? I read it and laughed. I have no idea how to even approach such a thing. Plus, who'd want to buy, as in pay money for, my pictures? Silly right?
Then I told Martin what she said and chuckled as I did at the ridiculousness of the idea, waiting for him to laugh back. Except he didn't.
Now I'm reading stuff online and asking questions and putting together a group of pictures for friends to critique, all the while hiding under the couch waiting for them to laugh and tell me I'm silly. Your pictures are nice, but they aren't professional. You need to know everything in this here big stack of books if you want to be good enough to sell your pictures. Then I'll crawl out and laugh and say I know, I was just checking.
What do I know? Nothing. Well, I know I don't even dare breathe the words and I feel bare naked in front of the whole world when I don't like being in public in a bathing suit. And I can't even remember the password for my paypal account if it still exists and I'm not good at remembering to mail stuff and I have cows so I can't possibly have time for this. I know that.
Then I told Martin what she said and chuckled as I did at the ridiculousness of the idea, waiting for him to laugh back. Except he didn't.
Now I'm reading stuff online and asking questions and putting together a group of pictures for friends to critique, all the while hiding under the couch waiting for them to laugh and tell me I'm silly. Your pictures are nice, but they aren't professional. You need to know everything in this here big stack of books if you want to be good enough to sell your pictures. Then I'll crawl out and laugh and say I know, I was just checking.
What do I know? Nothing. Well, I know I don't even dare breathe the words and I feel bare naked in front of the whole world when I don't like being in public in a bathing suit. And I can't even remember the password for my paypal account if it still exists and I'm not good at remembering to mail stuff and I have cows so I can't possibly have time for this. I know that.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The stuff you remember
I went to school with both of them. She was the cousin of an elementary school friend. He was just a kid from Hebron that lived close enough he walked to school. I met them in grade 7 when our elementary schools combined in junior high.
She was awkward and religious and didn't celebrate birthdays or Christmas or anything else. I understand more now, but at the time, that's all I knew. She played the flute in band. I forget what year it happened but she was in a bike accident and knocked out all her front teeth and had to get an insert of fake teeth. She wasn't pretty, her long brown hair was drab and often greasy. She dressed like an old lady in clothes that looked like they were going to be thrown away. The difference between her and most was she didn't seem to care. She was the opposite of cool.
He was the definition of cool. With good looks and nice clothes, he was popular. He pretended to be a bad ass but it was clear to see he was a softy at heart. He hung out with the cool boys, all of which I think I had a crush on at one time or another. The popular girls hung at his side and held his attention, but I don't recall him with a girl friend. With a word, be it a compliment or insult, he could sway the school population and change your position in the social ranks. He was funny. We shared a home room in highschool and sat next to each other in typing class. He called me Mistybush Rouge Cheveux, of course curious if I was a true redhead. In his group of friends he was apparently the last to get laid and the most curious about it. On his own, without peer pressure, he was a really nice guy.
In the six years they shared a school and likely classrooms, they must have known the other existed. Our school was small. But I don't think I ever saw them speak to each other, or even acknowledge the other. They were after all, pretty much complete opposites. Their circles did not over lap.
A few years after graduation I heard that they married and lived in the same neighbourhood he was born.
And that he killed himself.
Our graduating class has never had a reunion. If we did, I wonder if she'd come. I wonder if people, who never cared about her one way or another back in school, would suddenly see her. I wonder how loud the whispers would be.
Highschool is a strange place. I'm left wondering about a lot of things that happened back then. How the paths of people cross, intertwine and veer away again. I've always wondered about theirs. How their paths came to cross. How it started, how it ended. If anyone else wonders too.
She was awkward and religious and didn't celebrate birthdays or Christmas or anything else. I understand more now, but at the time, that's all I knew. She played the flute in band. I forget what year it happened but she was in a bike accident and knocked out all her front teeth and had to get an insert of fake teeth. She wasn't pretty, her long brown hair was drab and often greasy. She dressed like an old lady in clothes that looked like they were going to be thrown away. The difference between her and most was she didn't seem to care. She was the opposite of cool.
He was the definition of cool. With good looks and nice clothes, he was popular. He pretended to be a bad ass but it was clear to see he was a softy at heart. He hung out with the cool boys, all of which I think I had a crush on at one time or another. The popular girls hung at his side and held his attention, but I don't recall him with a girl friend. With a word, be it a compliment or insult, he could sway the school population and change your position in the social ranks. He was funny. We shared a home room in highschool and sat next to each other in typing class. He called me Mistybush Rouge Cheveux, of course curious if I was a true redhead. In his group of friends he was apparently the last to get laid and the most curious about it. On his own, without peer pressure, he was a really nice guy.
In the six years they shared a school and likely classrooms, they must have known the other existed. Our school was small. But I don't think I ever saw them speak to each other, or even acknowledge the other. They were after all, pretty much complete opposites. Their circles did not over lap.
A few years after graduation I heard that they married and lived in the same neighbourhood he was born.
And that he killed himself.
Our graduating class has never had a reunion. If we did, I wonder if she'd come. I wonder if people, who never cared about her one way or another back in school, would suddenly see her. I wonder how loud the whispers would be.
Highschool is a strange place. I'm left wondering about a lot of things that happened back then. How the paths of people cross, intertwine and veer away again. I've always wondered about theirs. How their paths came to cross. How it started, how it ended. If anyone else wonders too.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Domesticated
I love dogs. If you know anything about me at all, you know that. But when it comes to dogs vs. cats, I have to say that dogs drool and cats rule.
I read recently that cats are the only animal to domesticate themselves. They chose to live with us. Which makes me believe that really, they domesticated us. They are so cunning that they decided to train humans to keep them, house them and feed them. The best part is they did so while having us believe it was our own idea. That was a key part of the plan.
They likely saw us a an attraction for rats. Where there are humans there is food to catch. Then they saw the food on our plates and our warm soft beds and decided they needed to get in on this deal. I don't know how they communicated this plan to all cats across the globe (another reason they are the superior species) but they did and now we're spending large percentages of our income on feeding them, tending to their comfort and their bathroom needs. The amount of forethought this required is astounding.
I read recently that cats are the only animal to domesticate themselves. They chose to live with us. Which makes me believe that really, they domesticated us. They are so cunning that they decided to train humans to keep them, house them and feed them. The best part is they did so while having us believe it was our own idea. That was a key part of the plan.
They likely saw us a an attraction for rats. Where there are humans there is food to catch. Then they saw the food on our plates and our warm soft beds and decided they needed to get in on this deal. I don't know how they communicated this plan to all cats across the globe (another reason they are the superior species) but they did and now we're spending large percentages of our income on feeding them, tending to their comfort and their bathroom needs. The amount of forethought this required is astounding.
Perhaps the real reason they domesticated us was because they saw what we did to soft pelted animals and thought it would be best to train humans not to hunt them. It's probably a good thing they did, because Hobbes has the softest pelt I've ever touched.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Bright idea
Sometimes an idea should remain just an idea. To bring it to reality would ruin it. And sometimes our desire to act on the idea is amplified by our inability to actually do it. For example: Maybe I'm sitting on the couch and it's 10:30 at night. All I want in the world is a fudgescicle. Not the no-name kind made with frozen brown water, the real deal. In order for me to actually have a fudgescicle I'd have to drive 20 kms* to get it, which isn't going to happen at 10:30 at night, but that only makes me want it all the more, until I'm actually contemplating driving 20 km for a stupid fudgescicle. If I actually made my idea a reality I'd feel stupid for driving 20 kms and by the time I got the fudgescicle and ate it, it'd be close to midnight and I'd feel gross.
Bud the horse has been living in the barn with the cows all winter. It's an open area with an indoor and outdoor space. Plenty of room, but not enough to run. Lately he's been acting like a brat. Wanting stimulation, wanting to run, wanting to do something. I can't blame him, with the snow just about gone and the fields bare, spring fever has hit us all. So I've been taking Bud outside in the evening light to play games, be stimulated and to stretch his legs and run. It's really his idea. He's been leaning his head over the fence and staring out into the fields for days.
Outside on the lunge line poor Bud is so out of shape he can't run a lap without panting for air. At one point he stopped and looked at me with pleading eyes as if asking What was I thinking? I don't feel so good.
Bud the horse has been living in the barn with the cows all winter. It's an open area with an indoor and outdoor space. Plenty of room, but not enough to run. Lately he's been acting like a brat. Wanting stimulation, wanting to run, wanting to do something. I can't blame him, with the snow just about gone and the fields bare, spring fever has hit us all. So I've been taking Bud outside in the evening light to play games, be stimulated and to stretch his legs and run. It's really his idea. He's been leaning his head over the fence and staring out into the fields for days.
Outside on the lunge line poor Bud is so out of shape he can't run a lap without panting for air. At one point he stopped and looked at me with pleading eyes as if asking What was I thinking? I don't feel so good.
I just laughed. After all, it was his idea.
*It is actually a 20 km return trip to our nearest convenience store. I know, it's not very convenient.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Manboy
He's 14. When you are a 14 year old manboy you don't give hugs anymore apparently.
Reiley and his brother spent March break at my parent's house. The week was spent skeet shooting with Pappy and working on the tractor for Mimi. Spent not just doing big kid stuff, but man stuff. He always comes home walking taller.
Usually when he goes to bed he reaches over the back of the couch and gives our shoulders a pat. That's our good night hug - a pat.
The other night though, his first night home from vacation, when he was ready to doll out his goodnight pats, I was standing in the kitchen. I grabbed the chance and gave him a real hug. At first I got the one arm pat on the back. But then he paused and gave me a real hug back. Good hugs are like recharging batteries. I guess he realized you never outgrow a good hug.
Reiley and his brother spent March break at my parent's house. The week was spent skeet shooting with Pappy and working on the tractor for Mimi. Spent not just doing big kid stuff, but man stuff. He always comes home walking taller.
Usually when he goes to bed he reaches over the back of the couch and gives our shoulders a pat. That's our good night hug - a pat.
The other night though, his first night home from vacation, when he was ready to doll out his goodnight pats, I was standing in the kitchen. I grabbed the chance and gave him a real hug. At first I got the one arm pat on the back. But then he paused and gave me a real hug back. Good hugs are like recharging batteries. I guess he realized you never outgrow a good hug.
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