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.