Pacas

Deep down inside, I'm a bleeding heart. I think, honestly, most of us are, to an extent. I know Ted is too. There's a reason his farm is such a hodge-podge of critters; from ponies kids have outgrown, to monkeys that have outlasted too many owners.

If there's one thing that makes my heart bleed, it's big eyes and an empty stomach.

Which would be how we ended up with two alpacas. Right before Christmas, dropped off at the auction, and, really, what were we supposed to do? No one else wanted them. No one else put up a half-assed bid like we did.

We have llamas because alpacas are useless... right? Glorified sheep. Twice the price and half as smart.

Someone asked me if I felt like I was "cheating" on our llamas by "harboring the enemy" and I don't. Not in the least. It's the bleeding heart in me. I may not love alpacas as much as I love my llamas, but I hate the idea of starving animals much more than I hate any breed.

It's a mother and son. She's about three or four years old, and he'll probably be one sometime this spring.

Her name is Carol. As in, "Christmas Carol," because she found a good home right before Christmas, and she just simply is a Carol. She's shy, of course, but absurdly trusting. Eats like a hoover vacuum, and has finally stopped letting the boy nurse. She is beautiful, in a snooty persian cat sort of way. Solid white fleece, clear blue eyes, and what looks like thick black eyeliner around both her eyes. If she were a teenage girl she'd be a heartbreaker.

She's not halter-broken at all. She doesn't mind me putting one on her, but has no idea what it's for. The walk from the yard into the barn the day we got them was the longest walk I think I've ever taken. She hasn't been trained for ANYTHING, and she has such a long way to go. She isn't a huge fan of coming out of her stall, and if it's anywhere near dinnertime you can find her laying down in the barn patiently waiting.

Nicholas (named after the famous Saint, of course) can't stand to be penned up. He whines constantly to get out, and buddies up to Ruby once he is. He's dwarfed by Emerald- his back is almost low enough to pass completely under Emerald's belly. He doesn't understand he's not really one of the herd yet.

He should have been sheared last summer, so his fleece is thicker than anything I've ever seen- or touched. I had to trim some of it away under his tail just so he could go to the bathroom without anything getting stuck in it. He looks so fat and chubby, but underneath the fur all you can feel is bones.

My bleeding heart just can't stand that...

Jack

I don't have any pictures of Jack when we first got him. This disappoints me, and is one of the few regrets I really have. I use it as a reminder to take pictures of EVERYTHING- beautiful or not.

Jack was ugly. Hideous. Disgusting. He was an emaciated excuse of a bull, standing barely at my hip, with horns and ears grown all akimbo. I laughed at him- which I don't think he remembers- and scoffed at Ted. "Why'd you go and pay money for the ugliest cow on the planet?"

It wasn't very much money.

Jack is nothing short of handsome.

Ted shrugged at my comment and told me to give him something to eat. He needed it.

It took a long time for Jack to grow into himself. Ted wanted to name him Fu- like Fu Manchu- from some song or another. I named him Jack.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat

His wife could eat no lean

And so together, hand-in-hand,

They licked the platter clean.

The girls all agreed, Jack stuck, and Kiki just kept getting fatter- and not with a baby. He was a dingy gray all over, and frightened of everything. The people he came from claimed he was in a field with some heifers, and insisted he bred them, but we doubt it. He was so thin we're sure his body naturally steered itself- looking for any nutrients it could. We love him anyway.

Jack doesn't moo. Ever. He huffs. If there's anything he feels warrants a moo, he headbutts and pushes on Kiki until she moos for him. He likes people on his level, and won't come up to an adult standing tall at the fence. His love for children is baffling, but they always seem to love him in return, regardless of the menacing horns and sneaky glint in his eyes.

I came back from vacation, and while my llama loves me, Jack was the only one who seemed to visibly miss me. Cleaning his stall, and he didn't want to run wild with Kiki and chase the llamas. He wanted to stand beside me, nuzzle me, and lick at me. Lick at my leg, lick my shoe, wait till I crouch down and lick his rough sandpaper tongue across my cheek.

When Jack finally gained enough weight to not be considered starving, he changed. He came out of his shell, he developed a personality. It took almost three years, but he noticed that he was getting two meals a day, without doubt. He bloomed from a washed-out gray to black and silver. His fur thickened and feels like crushed velvet. He loves having his hump rubbed, and behind his horns scratched.

He's the most handsome bull I've ever know.

Casper

Patch used to be our mascot. When we had hats made, they had Patch embroidered on them. When we needed a default pony, it was Patch. Girls who used to work for Ted would show up at jobs and ask where Patch was, how he was doing, and if they could feed him the rest of their fried dough. Sometimes they marvel that he's still alive.

Unfortunately for Patch, though he still has a loyal fan-base, he's being replaced by a new generation of riders- and workers. These days, Patch is the doting old grandfather. Casper is the cool bachelor uncle.

If Patch's fan club has hats, then Casper's has T-shirts, mugs, embroidered jackets, and probably matching tattoos.

Ted loves the story of how he bought Casper. A friend of a friend who knew somebody was looking to sell some ponies. When Ted showed up the farmer led him out to the back pasture where, to quote Ted, "There were ten or fifteen Caspers all standing around eating." (This is my favorite part- the simple idea that out there, somewhere, are more sturdy, dependable, white ponies. Now, all we have to do is find them.)

Ted asked how old they were and the farmer responded, "Oh, about ten." A bit gangly for ten, but, Ted figured, they probably hadn't been fed too well lately.

Ted bought one (he says if he knew then what he knows now, he would have bought them all) and brought him home. The workers hated him. He was clumsy, nippy, and stupid. He ate like he had never seen food before, and flipped out at the silliest things. He was bossy and horrible even on a lead line. Ted was about ready to ship him. Sometimes, the pony's not worth the trouble if nobody wants to work with him.

Then the farrier came. Casper stood better than expected. Ted, curious, asked if he knew anything about horse teeth. Well, sure, a thing or two. A vet could say exactly how old the horse was, but he could give Ted an estimate.

Casper held his mouth open. He probably tried to eat the farrier's hat. He laughed. "How old did you say he was?"

"The guy I bought him from said he was ten, but he sure doesn't act ten."

"Probably because he's closer to ten months than ten years!"

Casper grew up with us. He knows just how to maneuver the pony wheel the way he wants, what to lean on to get the other ponies to do what he wants, and how to weasel an afternoon off of work. He's learned that the first pony ride of an oblivious baby is just as important as the hundredth pony ride of the handicapped boy. He loves them all.

Little girls see him from a hundred yards away and realize all their dreams have come true. They see Valhalla, and it is the saddle upon the tall back of a gleaming white stallion. (Even if he really isn't all that tall, is rarely "gleaming", and hasn't been a stallion since he was six months old.) They ask for him. ALL THE TIME.

Casper is handsome, I'll admit that. He's endearing too. He loves little children, and he loves old women. He's good at his job, though probably because it's the only thing he's ever done.

He loves being dirty, and washing him is fruitless. The minute he's clean and dry he promptly goes out to find the biggest, deepest, smelliest mud puddle in the pasture. He loves having his feet cleaned and trimmed, but seems to find perverse pleasure in laying his long neck across your back and leaning all his weight on you as soon as you pick up his first foot. I've been knocked flat on my butt by him on more than one occasion. He insists on loading into the trailer last. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Casper's a great pony, he really is, and although I wish we had more ponies his size, I can't say I'd be happy with more of him. After all, isn't he one-of-a-kind?

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?