Nestle

I never planned on Nestle being my favorite pony. Cocoa was my favorite. Tall, fat, geldings were what I had an affection for. They were reliable, hardworking, and easily bribed with treats of sandwich crusts and apple cores. Cocoa was the center of my world. A fat paint with chocolate brown patches and a clean white tail. He nuzzled my hand and gave kisses freely. He loved everyone, but he loved me more. He was an alpha in our herd and played favorites with the mares. When Cocoa was caught easily, it seemed, everyone was caught easily. He led by example, and sometimes catching ponies would take forever.

He was my dream pony, my everything, so when he died, I was at a loss. I had lost dogs and cats and goldfish before, but they were never the perfect animals of my dreams, like Cocoa was. For the longest while I knew he would never be replaced. I couldn't look at farms for sale with green rolling pastures because I couldn't see any pony but Cocoa in them. Llamas, yes; sheep, of course; even goats and camels, but no ponies. If it couldn't be Cocoa, it couldn't be.

Right?

Nestle was Cocoa's favorite. He always had a favorite, and when Chocolate and Ruth left, it was Nestle. When it was cold or windy out, she cuddled with him in the barn. When food was put out he Alpha-Male'd the other ponies away from her food for her. Towards the end, when Cocoa was in the barnyard being medicated, away from the other ponies, she stood at the gate keeping him company.

I think Nestle misses him as much as I do. I love her for that.

Finding out that I love her- almost as much as I loved Cocoa- has been a process. She doesn't nuzzle the way he did, but her touch is just as warm and reassuring. I call her my "Co-dependent pony" because she needs to be comforted as much as I do some days. When she's working, she wants someone with her; not to make sure she behaves- she's too old for that now- but to keep her company. When on the wheel, she likes to be the pony at the front, so she can see the line of children, parents, or workers.

She has a long, black mane that constantly gets in her eyes. Ted has said on more than one occasion that we should trim it back, but it suits her personality. Always wanting to be in the middle of everything, but somehow always holding back. She seems shy to me.

Nestle is a quiet pony in our herd. She doesn't make much noise in the field, and since Cocoa left, doesn't cause much trouble. When we're out on a job, though, she screams to other horses. The horses from Wood Acres Farm are used to it. They usually answer back, and she's satisfied that they heard her.

She is so unlike Cocoa that, to this day, it surprises me when I feel my heart swell thinking about her. Cocoa tolerated being brushed, and she revels in it. Her thick velveteen coat comes clean easily, and when I'm done she doesn't promptly go and roll in the biggest mud puddle she can find. After long work days, or cold days when I know her joints are bothering her, I rub her down, massaging her shoulders, back, and rump. Her eyes glaze over with contentment, and if she were a cat I think she would purr.

When her body lets her, she works as hard any she can, and when her body doesn't let her, I understand. Residual effects of Lyme Disease make her feel older than her years say she should. I understand. After all, who hasn't woken up with creaking bones and stiff joints, regardless of their age?

When Cocoa passed, I remind myself, I wasn't the only one who lost someone they loved. Nestle did too, and without realizing it, she helped fill the hole he left.

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.