Fuzz

I can tell what kind of person someone is just by looking at their horse. It has nothing to do with breed, or size, or color. It has a little to do with how fat they are, but not much. Their name doesn't come into play, and I couldn't care less whether they ride english or western. I know the people with the fuzzy horses will get along with me.

I live in New England. We have cold nights, snowy winters, and- as horrible as it sounds- ice in our water buckets sometimes. I love it here. I spend time every day smashing ice out of buckets, and our ponies grow fur. Lots and lots of fur.

I don't want to be the one to say it, but it seems I don't have any other choice... We're not going to blanket anyone. We have ten ponies- eight of which find pleasure in rolling in mud puddles- and I'm not going to chase them down to put clothes on them. Their winter coats start growing around mid-September, and as the seasons change so do they. It's natural.

We worked inside in the CT Expo Center last November (a treat for the critters, yes) and across the aisle from us was a Horse Farm. Fantastic! More critters! Except... compared to ours... their horses looked awfully... sleek.

Oh. They must be THAT KIND of Horse Farm...

Their barns are heated. And air conditioned. They have an indoor arena. Their horses don't behave well outdoors. They blanket their horses to transport them in their heated trailer. They have a jack russel terrier and probably a lot of riding crops and silly dressage hats and special tools to teach their horses to jump over fences.

If it gets too drafty in their heated and air conditioned barn, they have entire outfits to put on their horses. Sheets for the summer, blankets for the winter, boots for traveling, face masks if there are flies (there shouldn't be- don't they have automatic fly sprayers?), and tons of other silly things we don't put on our ponies.

Our ponies grow thick winter coats because it's what ponies (and horses!) are supposed to do! They get fat because they eat well and when you stand in the pasture and yell "Cookie!" at the top of your lungs even the oldest ones come running. When the winters are light, the coats aren't as plush. When winter is over, they shed. We don't clip them. Each pony, depending on their breed, size, age, and personal preference, sheds when they want to.

Fluffy winter pony coats keep Casey busy year-round. In the spring the first ponies start shedding and it's his responsibility to keep them brushed, and every year his designated one shedding blade as "his" brush. (http://www.jeffersequine.com/jeffers-double-shedding-blade/camid/EQU/cp/IA-E4/cn/2511/ This one is usually the one.) Patch and Jazzer don't usually let their coats go till July, and by the time they're all done Casper is growing his coat back in for the autumn. Casey's favorite brush in the winter is one of our many metal curry combs (http://www.jefferslivestock.com/reversible-curry-comb/camid/LIV/cp/D5-C2/cn/31092/ ) which seem to be the only things that can tackle the mud they always manage to get into.

Because they do get into mud. Because they're outside, growing their winter coats, like they're supposed to.

Moving on

Sometimes, things don't work out like a farmer (or a farmer and his herdsman) plan. Sometimes the redesign of the barn doesn't work. Sometimes the job doesn't go like it was planned. Sometimes the lamb doesn't make it. Sometimes the pony isn't a good fit.

There are times when it's difficult to make the responsible choice. It's never easy to sell something you've spent so long growing to love. It's difficult to make that "adult" decision.

I loved Ingrid the moment I laid eyes on her. She needed us as much as we didn't need her. She ran with a fluidity I had never seen in a pony before, and it amazed me. She had been bounced from home to home, and tracking down her lineage was far from easy. It took us a month to get an answer back from the Fjord Horse Association, and another six months before the results from her DNA test came back. Eight weeks before I could take her by the halter. A year and a half before she would take a cookie from Ted. Things always took time with her. A lot of time.

Rocky was a spitfire. I called him our "Donkey-in-training" because, to me, he was pure donkey. He was stubborn and sneaky. He didn't like having a long mane (donkeys don't, you know) so he would rub his mane off- and his neck raw- if I didn't keep it roached. When he worked with girls on the pony wheel he would do his best to make sure they payed attention to him. He was good at making sure they payed attention to him. When they would turn away from him to lift a kid onto his back, Rocky would turn his head and nip them on the butt. Never very hard, and never when they told him not to. He never bit a child. After all, why bite a child when you can kick the parent instead?

What we do is a business, in the end. It's a sad but true fact. Sometimes, just like with people, ponies don't work out here. Patch loves what he does. He wants to come with us. Jazzer practically glows when he sees his saddle. Truffles will bully her way into the trailer.

Rocky wasn't happy. He needed a backyard and a bratty spoiled princess to be at his best. I hold out hope that he got that.

We weren't Ingrid's forever home. I wish we could have been, I really do, but we weren't. We didn't have the time, the training, or the funds to keep her. We understood that.

Sometimes, in a farmer's life, you have to sell what you don't want to. You have to cull the herd. And you have to learn to accept it. I'm trying.

Yes, I do work here...

We have one fair left, then our busy season is over.

While I dream of cool days in the barn with no parents asking inane questions ("Why can't I feed the llamas rabbit food? It's the same shape!") our ponies must dream of early nights and extra cookies they only get in the barn.

Fairs are fun, don't get me wrong, but after the woman insisting that all four of her children need to go on ponies at THE SAME TIME, so we should saddle two more just for her, then having the gal to rant and rave that one of her daughter's rides "wasn't what it should have been. It was too bumpy" and claim that ALL of her children should go on again because she had appaloosas FOREVER and she KNOWS what a pony ride should be...

Oy vey. Ted tells me I could write a book of all the obnoxious things people say and do to us in the petting zoo.

How about the twenty-something woman who found me sitting atop the cow's fence holding quarters in my hand. When she asked if I was handing out quarters for the machines and I replied in the affirmative she simply held out her hand with full expectations of me giving her money.
"No... I exchange bills for quarters..."
With an abrupt, "Well that's not fair!" she turned around and stormed off.
Which part wasn't fair, exactly?

And Moe... Sweet, little, lovely bane of my existence, Moe. He's tiny. Very tiny. But he's the runt of triplets, and he's going to be tiny for the next six months. He's not sick. He's not dying. He doesn't have bloat. You can't buy him. In a year he'll be the same size as the others. His mother was a runt too. When you do buy him, and he does grow, and he gets all bucky, and he smells like a gym sock, I don't want him back.

Our llamas won't spit on you. If you scream out across the petting zoo that they will, I will ream you a new butthole. If I catch you splashing them with water at 10:30 at night TRYING to make them spit, I will ream you a new butthole and kick you out of the petting zoo, or the fair if the entrance is close enough.

Pollyanna WILL chew on your stuff. If you make a valid effort to stop her, and as a result something is ruined I have no problem replacing it. When you OFFER a straw hat to the camel, laugh as she takes it, photograph her chewing on it, then get upset when you take it from her and it's ruined, I won't. If you didn't want it ruined, you shouldn't have wasted the time taking pictures. If you didn't want it ruined, you should have taken the hat off when I told you she would chew on it.

Our donkey isn't a jackass, she's a jenny, and this is a CHILDREN'S petting zoo, so stop talking like that.

If a quarter machine is broken, why can't they tell someone? We can't fix it if we don't know. I went to fill the machines the other day, and one man came up to me and said he just put a quarter in the machine and it ate his money without giving out any food. No problem. Here's another coin, please use a different machine and I'll fix it shortly. All of a sudden I had a line of fifteen people trying to tell me they lost a quarter too! Sorry, he JUST lost his (I watched him walk over from the machine) so I can give him his money back. How am I supposed to know you did too? Or are you just lying to get a free quarter?

I love my job, don't misunderstand me. The animals are my life. The children never fail to bring a smile to my face. I love being able to explain the difference between a llama and an alpaca, and I'll do it seven hundred times a day. Having heard Ted tell the Jacob sheep story millions of times doesn't make me love the breed any less.

But when I try to politely correct a parent that just told their child our ram is a goat, I can't help but get a little peeved when the parent then responds with, "I don't care what it ACTUALLY is, I told him it was a goat, so that's what it is!"

Yeah. No. Is Fair season almost over?

All's Fair...

Fair season is different for us.

I never showed cows. I don't have fond memories of long hours practicing show circles or clipping or washing. I have memories of never-ending circles, swollen feet, and the desire for something other than fair food. I'm slightly envious of those people who think "working a fair" means sitting around staring at cow butt for three days.

We start around Wednesday if the fair starts Friday night. Earlier in the week if the fair starts Friday morning. Ted gets the tent crew together, usually Little Bobby (who isn't very little anymore) and his friends, or a couple men I know, and they spend the hot day swinging sledgehammers and pounding stakes into the ground. I show up in the evening if I can to help finish up tying tent ropes and making sure all the knots are tight.

Thursday is fence. Loading fence from on trailer to another at the farm. Hauling fence to the fairgrounds. Taking the fence off, fighting with Ted over which animals are going where, which fence is holding who, how much room to leave, where feeders will go, what we want to double-fence, and just how we think the public will move through. Fence that was light and easy to throw at 8:30 in the morning feels quite a bit heavier at 2:30 in the afternoon. We find a place to park the house trailer, try to figure out where we'll put the horse trailer, and head home praying we'll sleep well.

Friday comes earlier for me than Ted. I have a last-minute trip to the grocery store to make sure we have milk and eggs and enough food to feed the weekend crews. Cases of water. More Gatorade than the state of Florida drinks in July. Paper plates; I always need more paper plates...

It takes at least two trailer-loads, one extra girl, Ted, and me to get our animals to the fairs. Our first load contains sheep and goats, llamas, and the camel. It's a process that involves a lot of backing the trailer up into the barnyard, hoping Ted doesn't hit the barn (again), and chasing animals that would probably much rather stay home sometimes. Jimmy-Joe, ponies, and the cows make up the second trip. Sometimes the cows get loose.

Then we have to hang water buckets. Post signs. Keep the pens clean. Brush and saddle ponies. Make sure all fences are connected. Get the cash register set. Clean up. Get any kids that are working to the fair...

Then before I realize it, it's 6:00 and the work really begins...

Weather

It's stormed here recently, in case you didn't know. Ted calls them "Whoopee-bangers." Usually I roll my eyes, but in this case, I agree.

We lost our kennel building, though the outdoor, fenced-in runs weren't harmed at all. A large maple limb came down perfectly in our barnyard, and because it didn't take down any fence, and wasn't endangering anything, we decided to leave it for a bit. The llamas are having a ball eating the leaves, and the chickens have decided it makes the perfect roost. There's another branch down atop a couple of the outdoor monkey cages, and every once in a while I catch them throwing leaves at each other. The day after the "big storm" another smaller storm came through and knocked a tree down over the driveway.

Clockwise from top left: The tree in the side of the kennel; the outside of the kennel; inside one of the dog runs in the kennel; llamas enjoying the maple limb; and Topaz "hiding" where she thinks I can't see her.

Other people got it worse than us. One of the neighbors had her electrical torn from the side of her house, but she still had power. She was scared to death and called Ted in a panic. He called CL&P for her, and they took care of her. Three houses down the street had two trees over both their cars and live wires in their yard- all while they were in Vermont. Their neighbors received a "natural skylight" in their living room.

Somewhere across town, someones chicken coop lost fencing...

Ted called me up yesterday afternoon, asking if I was coming over. He said he got me something. (A PUPPY?) I hate surprises. (Unless they're puppies.) I headed over. (Maybe a puppy!)

When he told me it was on the kitchen counter I was disappointed. (No puppy.) Apparently, someone brought a chicken to the local vet, claiming that their dog caught it in their yard, but they got it loose from the dog before any damage was done.

What should a vet office do with a frightened little hen with a bruised leg and nowhere to go? Of course, they call Ted.

She has an almost hawk-ish look to her. When I first walked in she was laying down in a rabbit cage, and all I saw was her head. My first thought from across the kitchen was, "He must be insane- I don't do raptors!" But she's a sweet little hen. Soft as can be, and the most beautiful slate gray. Ted and I debate on breed. I think she's an araucana, and Ted thinks she must be something else. (My response? "Well, wait till she lays an egg.") She's rumpless and tiny. She can't possibly weigh more than our cockatoos.

Our cockatoos who are keeping her company in the extra outdoor monkey cage on the porch till her leg gets better...

Time to play

"Guess The Chicken Breed"

Pierre

I tell people that the official farm dog of Connecticut is the poodle, and I believe it with all my heart because of Pierre. He's a mini-poodle, but we don't hold that against him.

Mary likes poodles, and it's seeped into me. I love Pierre. I love his bigger cousins, his smaller cousins, and anything crossed with his cousins. I never thought that I'd be a "Poodle Person," but I am. And I'm proud of it. I get defensive when people call them "froofy dogs"; you mean to tell me a hunting dog is "froofy"? I'm patient and tolerant when people actually take the time to listen and learn about the purpose of the "poodle cut".


Poodles are smart. Super smart! They learn rules quickly and retain the knowledge. After years of Pierre I can't imagine a lab as a farm dog. They're too slow, too clumsy. Pierre is light on his feet and knows more commands than my nephew does. When we take him to fairs to set up he knows to stay under the tent and near the truck. I told him one year to "stay close" and he spent half an hour whining at the edge of the tent, staring at the high school girls that wanted to pet him. A simple, "Fine, go Pierre" and he took off towards them like a rocket. They pet him for a few minutes and he came back to lay in the shadow of the truck, completely satisfied with himself.


I like a poodle with a simple kennel clip. I like a sleek head, and in the winter a puffy tail. I make no illusions that the "poodle cut" is cute, though I have the utmost respect for the groomer that can do it well. I am comfortable trading a $45 grooming bill ever couple months in exchange for a dog that doesn't shed and is mostly hypo-allergenic. (Poodles have hair, not fur. No fur equals no dander, which is what most people are allergic to.) I have friends that think I'm crazy for being that way, but I also have no problem paying for someone to shear my sheep and llamas, or do the ponies' feet, or any of the many other things we eat the cost of because it's just easier that way.

Pierre came to us from the local animal control years ago when Mary finally realized that Putz, her ancient toy poodle, wasn't going to live forever. I remember Pierre being on a leash twice. We never bothered after that.

He's getting old- though we don't know exactly how old- and it's beginning to show. He was an adult when he came to us eight or nine years ago, so his age is an elusive number, the way it is with most adopted dogs. In my eyes he's always been a coppery champagne color, and I try not to notice the gray creeping into his muzzle and ears. He tries to be the energetic dog we all know and love, but we've come to notice he needs more and more time to rest and recoup after a long day.

Lately, he hasn't been obeying as well. Mainly because he hasn't been hearing as well...

It's impossible for me to think of how the farm will be after him. I have trouble remembering it before him. I drive down the driveway slowly, and when he comes running to the car- his one and only vice- I simply open my door and let him hop in. The ride to my parking space is enough to pacify him. As much as my llama gets annoyed if I see anyone else in the barnyard before him, Pierre refuses to stop hopping on me till I pet him first. Skeeter can wait, he insists, the world revolves around poodles, not terriers.

At least, my world does.

Happy Birthday, Em

My llama, Emerald, is three years old now. I love him. Usually, he loves me too.

Is it corny to say that three years ago, my life changed? It did.

Llamas are very private with their births. Unlike cows and horses, llama births usually happen in the middle of the day. In the wild it gives the crias time to dry off and get moving before it gets dark, and cold. The other females in the herd will usually stand around the llama giving birth, practically blocking her from view. This happens a lot. Emerald was no different.

Emerald was born quickly. It took Opal, his mother, less than half an hour to drop him completely. On a hot afternoon in June she managed to give birth in the time it took three girls and myself to load ponies and goats into the trailer, grab a few bottles of water from the house, and climb into the truck. The girls and Ted took off down the road to go to Wolcot School, and I turned around to find a wet Emerald and very trusting Opal laying on the ground.

I called Ted screaming. What else was I supposed to do?

He tried to calm me down. It didn't work. He turned the truck around and came back. What else was he supposed to do?

From day one, he's been my llama. He's been my world. He's been my dreams and my future. When plans are made, they involve him. When Ted brings him somewhere and I don't go, he calls me just to let me know.

My llama listens to me... Most of the time. It drives Ted mad because HIS llamas don't listen to him... Ever. Well, Pit doesn't listen to him. When Emerald misbehaves and gets punished he is visibly upset when I yell at him. It breaks my heart when his ears pin back and his head bows down, but I know it's for his own good. After all, he can't be allowed to go on chewing on electrical cords, or playing with my phone, or- the biggest no-no of all- stealing my coffee. They're just not safe things for him to do.

Just like any relationship, Emerald tests me and pushes me. Sometimes he misbehaves and I can tell it's on purpose. Sometimes he's in a bad mood, and sometimes he just wants to be hugged. I try my best to read his emotions as well as he reads mine. He somehow knows when I need him to nuzzle me. He knows when it's important- REALLY important- to listen to me. He knows when he can get away with murder.

He's three years old now, in human years. If his recent moods are any indication, he's just turned fifteen in llama years.

I love him anyway.

Happy Birthday, Emerald.

Ram

We don't have normal sheep. We don't have white fluffy things that bleat from the hillside pasture and lay quietly when it's time to shear.

Our sheep are amazingly strange. They grow up with people surrounding them, petting them, picking them up and feeding them. They don't run from herding dogs, and they don't understand that they are supposed to have flight zones. They're too smart for their own good.

Jacob sheep are often cited as one of the world's oldest breeds of domesticated sheep, with their lines and lineage dating back to biblical times. The name Jacob itself is in direct relation to Jacob of the Old Testament, who bred spotted sheep with multiple horns. There are even paintings and engravings of spotted sheep in Egyptian tombs. They are considered "unimproved" or
"primitive" sheep, meaning that they have not been drastically over-bred to resemble the animals they are today. As much as they have many wonderful characteristics, they have just as many undesirable ones. The gene that carries the multi-horn trait also carries a split-eyelid trait. Although it looks to be a white sheep with black spots, if crossbred with another breed the lamb will undoubtedly come out nearly solid black.

Jacobs are not a terribly useful breed of sheep, though if you ask someone trying to sell one they will waste no time in telling you that they are a multi-use breed. If you ask me, their small size- rams rarely weighing more than 120 lbs.- detract from them being used as a meat breed. On the flip side, it does make them much easier to handle as pets. Their light, spotted coat needs only to be sheared once a year, but while a few hand-spinners value it for its low lanolin content and smooth feel "on the hand", it has very little use commercially. When blended as a whole, the black wool turns the entire batch a rustic gray, which can not be dyed. And don't try to milk them. It's just not a pretty picture.

Those horns, though. The trademark of the breed. Both males and females are horned, though the male's horns far surpass the female's in wow factor. Marsha, our best ewe, has a set of four beautiful horns that average out at about six inches long, and maybe a whopping inch in diameter at the base. Patrick, our current ram, turned four-years-old this past March, and his horns are each easily two-and-a-half-feet-long. Sherman, our last ram, topped that by another six or eight inches. Jacobs must be horned to be registered, though how many horns is quite open to the owner's preference. Most "British" Jacobs are two-horned, and resemble many other horned breeds of sheep. We prefer to breed for four horns, though some Jacobs can be registered with up to six horns sprouting from their heads. Personally, I've never seen a six-horn Jacob, and knowing our four-horns, I can't imagine where they would put two more horns.

What brings this post about, is Patrick. Patrick was, obviously, born on St. Patrick's day four years ago. His mother was a two-horn registered ewe named Alice. Alice was probably one of my favorite ewes of all time. She was a sweet docile girl with two beautiful swept-back horns. She faithfully gave us a single four-horned lamb every year and nursed and raised it wonderfully. Until she had twins for the first time ever. Patrick was orphaned, and raised in the house with the poodle and the monkeys. She nursed and raised his twin with no other complications.

Patrick's father Sherman was getting old, and understandably so. When he finally passed away the winter before last he was seventeen years old. We knew it would happen, so when Patrick's horns began to come in a wonderfully as they did we made the decision to leave him intact and keep him to replace Sherman as our breeding ram. We eventually sold his mother and full-blooded sisters, as well as a couple older ewes who we knew were not producing the quality we wanted. When our lambs were sheared last summer I was thrilled to find out that three of them were Sherman's before he passed away.

And while Patrick puts out beautiful babies, he's getting out of control. His testosterone is clouding the parts of his brain that tell him to behave. He wants what he wants and he wants it NOW. He rams the gates if I'm cleaning and not paying enough attention to him. He starts chasing the lambs if he thinks they're getting in the way of his food. If he has any concerns about Ted or me not feeding fast enough he'll rev up and ram at us. I have never been rammed at by any other sheep before.

Sherman used to curl up on my lap and fall asleep!

We've gone through four gates on the sheep stall in the barn. We are constantly fixing holes he pokes in the barn walls with his horns. At least twice a month I walk up to the barn to find his horns stuck on some fence or feeder because he's been ramming at it. When we separate him from the ewes he calms down a bit- at least enough to be respectful- but for this farm it's not a permanent solution. Sherman was trustworthy. We could let Sherman out in the barnyard and he would buddy up with Jazzer and putz around. If Patrick gets loose Jazzer goes running for the hills.

Patrick is a gorgeous ram. He's nearly breed-perfect. He throws some of the most beautiful lambs I've seen in a long time. He's just too much. This is the first year Ted and I have been hoping for a ram lamb, just so we could consider replacing him.

But where would he go? The few other Jacob breeders in the state have all but closed up shop, and those that are left have breeding rams that they're perfectly content with. I have a nagging concern that anyone interested in him through Animal Finder's Guide would just be looking for an interesting trophy ram, and even when he makes me angry I don't want him mounted on some guy's wall in Montana.

But sometimes, usually when I'm standing in the shower staring at yet another bruise I know couldn't have come from anyone but Patrick, I can't help but consider what he would look like mounted on MY wall...

Casey

I was going to post about taking Casey to the farm, and how much help he's been now that he's older, but instead I'll just post pictures.

Amy, Emerald's sister and the first llama born in February, loves Casey. (I love Jasper in the back going, "Um, Guys? I'm kinda pooping here, can you give me some privacy?")

She LOOOOOOOVESSSS him.

If I saw hime not working, it was usually because Amy accosted him and nuzzled him into submission. I can't say it really bothered him much.

Of course, her adoration for him DID cut into his Jazzer-Time.

Casey cleaned the sheep all by himself (well, for the most part) and even dumped the wheelbarrow on his own TWICE. And it only fell over once!

He spent all day eyeing the lambs and trying to catch one. I helped him catch this one.

Patch

Patch is old. Old as dirt; old as the hills; old enough to be your father. Patch is probably the oldest thing on the farm- except for maybe Ted... And Jazzer. In my mind, Patch must have come with the farm. When Ted and Mary sold Carmen for the down-payment on the farm, Patch must have been tethered to the tree in what is now the barnyard.

Patch is old, and durable. He is so far beyond bulletproof he makes superman look fallible. He trusts everyone absolutely. He has never kicked, would never dream of it, and is the first to scold a younger pony that does. Children can run around him in circles, crawl under his legs, poke at his feet, pull on his tail, jab him in the nose, and he will simply smile at them with a dopey look upon his face. When little girls dream of a pony they can bring into the house and have tea parties with, they dream of Patch- even if they don't know it.

Patch is old, and handsome. He's a sloe-eyed paint pony, big enough to hold a good-sized adult, as well as all the children he loves. His patches- his namesakes- are light auburn these days, having faded a bit over his almost thirty years. His mane is thick and heavy that falls to the left... and to the right. His forelock is nothing short of fluffy, and nothing much beyond that. He has a beard, even far into summer, and it's the last trace of his winter coat to fall. He is fat in the belly, skinny in the knees, and soft in the muzzle- the way every pony should be.

Patch is old, and a thief of the highest degree. His talent came to fruition when I began using carrots as treats while working with Ingrid and Billie-Jo. I would fill my back pockets with thick, fat carrots that Ted bought in 50 lb. bags. Patch would meet me at the gate, and before it was latched he would have stolen the first one, nipping it from my pocket and running for the hills before I could stop him. He would take about ten minutes to eat it before he snuck up behind me again and yoinked another. He knows just how to nuzzle pockets to push out cookies and sugar cubes. He knows that if anyone in the barnyard gets a cookie he should get one too, and he won't leave you alone until he does.

Patch is old, and he steals more than just treats. If Casper has a fan club, then Patch has a cult following. Because he is so old it seems everyone knows and remembers him. When women who used to work for Ted show up at the pony rides with their own children they always point out Patch. They comment on how old he was when they were young, how old he must be now, and how he just has to be retired soon. Their children always ride him. Girls fight over Patch. I couldn't imagine my life without him; Erin holds a place for him at her home when Ted finally relinquishes him; Winter says that someday he'll be hers; Annie is simply in awe that he's still walking, and still giving rides.

Patch is old, and should probably retire soon, but wouldn't have any fun if he did. Life is good for him as it is. He spends most of his time putzing around the barnyard, doting on the baby llamas, rubbing off patches of fur on anything that will stand still long enough (his favorite scratching post is the large yellow bucket we feed hay out in), and gumming on mouthfuls of hay then spitting them out. When I make him unhappy, by shooing him out of my way or not giving him the treat he wanted, he shows his displeasure by sauntering past me and farting in my general direction. When it comes time to catch ponies to go to work, we never have to catch him. He beats us to the gate, and doesn't need a lead line on him to bring him to the trailer. He knows what's going on, and he wants to be in the middle of it. He loves giving pony rides. LOVES. When we bring him out he positively lights up with the prospect of doing it. He puffs out his chest, not his belly. His ears perk up, and I swear I've seen him grinning as I saddle him. He really truly loves what he does. I don't know what Pony-Heaven looks like, but I imagine for Patch it's a cool autumn night with a nine-year-old girl feeding him a chocolate-covered banana. (He prefers them with nuts.)

Patch is old, and I love him.

Rain

Rain… is a good thing.

There’s a song out now by Luke Bryan that says just that. He’s right.

When the hay needs water, when the cornfields are parched, and when the pond can barely sustain the frogs, let alone the fish, rain is a good thing.

We don’t grow plants on the farm- another good thing, since I have the complete opposite of a “green thumb”- but we still take advantage of dreary days. Ted bunkers down inside, making pots of soup, mending saddles, and catching up on Fox News. He and Mary bicker. I run errands.

When it’s nice outside I have cleaning to do. There are stalls to be cleaned, ponies to be groomed, and llamas to work with. I’m constantly adding to the ever-expanding manure pile. Ted moves fencing around, and plays on the tractor. I try to bring Billie-Jo out every couple weeks and cross-tie her in the barn, with the hope that when it comes time to have her feet done she’ll stand still long enough… and NOT kick anyone in the head. Crias need to be halter-broken, goat feet ALWAYS need to be done, and whenever I think I’ve almost caught up Ted pulls into the yard with a truck full of hay to unload.

Rainy days mean I can lounge around. The barn stays full and crowded with animals that don’t want their hair to get wet. I get to run to the feed store to pick up shavings, or to Tractor Supply to re-fill our “cookie jar,” or to the laundromat to get the horse blankets washed before the next job.

Today, it was to Mackey’s for a 50lb. bag of lime (we’ve been out for ages) and a new halter for Emerald. For the life of me, I still don’t understand why they don’t make llama halters in green. They make pony halters, horse halters, sheep halters, and even ALPACA halters in beautiful forest green, but my llama named EMERALD has to go out wearing blue.
Well, he’ll survive. Even if he is a little cranky because it’s rainy.

Chosen

Suburban Connecticut is a far cry from the rambling ranches of Colorado and Texas. Twenty-acre plots that seem so massive here don’t dare dream of competing against the thousand-acre behemoths supporting countless head of beef cattle. We manage somehow, though.

I’ve been working for Ted for something close to ten or eleven years now. It’s my world, and my life.

I remember the first time I met him, when I was maybe fourteen years old. It was Chester Fair, I was wearing black shoes, and, God, my feet hurt at the end of it. Then, standing in front of the sheep, he handed me sixty bucks and asked if he’d see me next weekend.

If he only knew what he was getting himself into…

I was not born into the “farm life”. My family has never been concerned about acreage, fence lines, or zoning. My grandmother had horses, but growing up three thousand miles from her made them a distant idea, like space travel, or winning the lottery. I had dogs and cats when I was a child, not goats and sheep. Our dinners came plastic-wrapped from the grocery store. Hamburger had very little to do with the wide-eyed cows mooing from the side of the road as we drove past. Being a little girl, I always wanted a pony, but I had very little idea of what it meant.

I was always the animal girl. Tormenting the cat by dancing with him down the hallway. Feeding the dog table scraps and insisting she come in when it got too cold out. Laying out a blanket for said dog so she would be “extra warm”. I was the one outside in the woods catching frogs and bugs to bring inside in mayonnaise jars and Rubbermaid totes. If a stray cat showed up, it was probably my fault. I wanted ponies and cows and elephants.

Sometimes you don’t grow out of things.

I chose to be country. It wasn’t an option my suburban parents thought they were offering me. They knew I never had a problem getting dirty, but… needing muck boots because I get knee-deep in manure? Sure, I always liked the way grass smelled, but… spending so much time in the hay barn I came home reeking of it? Weren’t there other options? Wasn’t I offered the chance to become a chef? Couldn’t I become a nurse like Q or maybe an accountant?

Nope.

There’s a draw to farm life. There’s nothing more emotionally freeing than stabbing a pitchfork into a dirty stall to release anger and frustration. There’s a sense of importance when you head up the hill after a cup of coffee to hear all the critters calling to you, “Feed me! I’m hungry! I need you because I don’t have thumbs!” It makes me feel calm and content when I can sit in a clean stall and reflect on everything. I take pride in my callused hands and farmer’s tan.

I sometimes worry that because it’s a life I chose, not a life I was born into, I’m somehow missing something. Does it matter that I never had a pig named Bacon? I was never in 4H; I never showed cows. Am I less a farmer because I grew up in a home with a swing set in the backyard and not a barn?

Nah. It’s what I love, and that’s all that matters, I’m sure.