Shadow

Pat's been on vacation this week, fixing fences, putting gutters on the bunkhouse, and finishing mowing the south 20. He put a new gate on one of the arenas yesterday afternoon with five frisky horses breathing down his neck jockeying for position all wanting a moment of his attention. Or more accurately a chance to check out his breast pocket where he usually keeps a treat or two in the event someone stops by for a visit.

With the finishing touches on the gate, Pat hopped into his pickup and drove over to the corral expecting to dish up dinner before retiring himself to a well deserved meal. It was a cool evening and everyone seemed in high spirits as they raced Pat's pickup through the pasture, around the corner, and into the corral.

Once inside, each took up their usual spot in the feed line; each that is except Shadow, who decided instead that a nice roll in the dirt would feel good before diving into his dinner. And since he eats first, everyone waited until he finished his ritual cleaning. Pat watched as Shadow dropped to the ground and rolled a bit from side to side--a form of equine bathing. Horses like to cover themselves with dirt as do elephants to keep the bugs at bay and to feel refreshed (it's a horse thing!).

Pat waited and watched but Shadow didn't get up. He tried to get his legs under himself but instead managed to wedge his legs underneath the wood-paneled fence. Wanting to help, but not wanting to get himself kicked by the now flailing horse, Pat called me on his cell phone to come quickly. I'm not sure what he was thinking. Perhaps he thought that someone was about to get the crap kicked out of them and it wasn't going to be him. Call Sandy?

Running to the corral and seeing a struggling horse lying on the ground sent shivers up my spine. I reached for my phone and called our neighbor, Kurt. He came immediately and with Pat on one side and Kurt on the other they managed to free Shadow from the fence. Once free, he was able to pull his legs under himself, rock back and forth, then stand. Whew! A sigh of relief all around.

Since Shadow had the bout with colic just a few weeks ago, Pat wasn't too convinced that he simply dropped to roll and couldn't get up. This horse looked dazed. The true test for a horse, and especially for this big guy comes when he turns down dinner. After Shadow found his legs and was checked for boo-boo's, Kurt walked him to an awaiting pile of alfalfa--his favorite item on the menu. He sniffed, then walked away without indulging. The same with water, he sniffed, then walked off.

Certain that Shadow was indeed in trouble, we hooked up the trailer, re-called the vet, and Pat and Shadow headed down the road toward town. I stayed behind to finish feeding, gather the cats, button up the barn, and wait by the phone for news that Shadow was alright.

Two hours later, Pat called. The vet, still not sure exactly what was going on, did say that Shadow was not colic or impacted--good news. However, he thought something was indeed wrong and wanted to keep him overnight.

Pat had a fitful night worrying about his beloved friend--his first horse--his backcountry buddy. At the age of 18, Shadow's an old horse, but with good care he could live another 10 years or more. Our eldest, Clancy, is now 26 years old; and although he no longer takes long trips, he enjoys good health and the company of his younger brothers. Unlike most of his friends, Pat believes that a horse deserves the utmost respect not only when they are of service, but for as long as they are living. So, we will do as much as we can for as long as we are able to provide a safe and happy environment for our friends and companions.

It is now the next morning. Pat heard from the vet a few moments ago. Shadow has pooped several times and is outside grazing. He still wants to check his white blood count since he had symptoms of salmonella recently. The blood work should reveal more information. In the meantime, Shadow seems to feel better, and when Shadow feels better, so does Pat. All is well for now.

Too Close

Last Thursday a storm passed over with high winds, thunder, and one very loud lightening strike, but not one drop of rain. Missed us again, or so I thought. While fixing dinner and expecting Pat any minute, I occasionally glanced out the kitchen window for any sign of life on the drive, which always includes snakes. On one such glance, a streak of red a mile or so away on Hastings' Ranch caught my eye. I quickly grabbed the binoculars (there's a pair on every window sill) and confirmed my fear--fire! Not only fire but fire only yards away from hundreds of bales of freshly stacked hay. The rows of hay lie just yards away from Ed and Sue's house. I called Pat expecting that he was somewhere nearby so he could stop and lend a hand. He said he saw firetrucks just ahead and wondered where they were going. All's well then, help is on the way. Thankfully the fire was quickly extinguished without damage or injury.

On Saturday afternoon I remained tucked inside the house while the temperatures rose into the nineties. On the south side of the house all the blinds were securely closed keeping the sun at bay and the house a bit cooler, but also obscuring my view. It wasn't until Luna needed a pee break that I noticed a 1/4 mile line of fire about a half mile south of the house. Thick black smoke rose darkening the sky as Luna and Cali strolled along completely oblivious.

Fortunately we were upwind and (hopefully) out of harms way. Fire trucks from miles around arrived pumping gallon after gallon... My phone began ringing as friends in Great Falls called after seeing the fire on the evening news--wanting to know how close...

"Too close" was my answer. On the flat windswept prairie, the rule is--if you can see smoke, it's too close. And so it is.

His Brother's Keeper?

By my calculations, I had between 15-20 minutes to round up the kittens, button up the barn, feed the horses and get myself inside before the storm hit. The thunder was no longer in the distance and the lightening no longer held my fascination--it was too close for comfort.

First the kittens, then the horses, I decided. Uncle Charlie's always easy to catch; in fact, he practically dives into my hands. The other two, however, are quite another story. Almost every night as I manage to get one or two inside the barn, Ernie weasels by racing at high speed toward the corral for one last dump before calling it a day. Even though time was of the essence I stepped back and allowed him his business. Quickly, he pawed, sniffed, rejected, scooted, pawed, sniffed, then finally sat over his freshly made divot.

The horses decided they couldn't wait their turn. Eager for their groceries, all five led by Koda came thundering around the corner of the barn. By the look on Ernie's face I'd say that if he hadn't been in mid crap he would have pooped himself. With the sound and sight of approaching horses, he flew straight into the air, pinched the loaf, then scrambled as his feet hit the ground finding safety on the other side of the fence next to his brother Chip. The horses couldn't have cared less about Ernie or his business, they were only concerned about the menu. Once they saw that dinner wasn't being served in this corral they began to retreat back to the north side of the barn. Wasting no time, Chip dove under the fence and immediately began covering Ernie's abandoned turd. I stood in amazement over this gesture not sure what to make of it. Are these three little guys a band of brothers? It seems so.

Ever since they were born I've thought about how most litters of cats and dogs are split up once they are weaned. The more I get to know these little ones and see the nurturing relationship they have with Puff and each other I can't imagine sending the boys off and leaving Puff behind. I'm sure it hasn't crossed Puff's mind either.

Several weeks ago, when they received their first shots, the vet asked if we were thinking about having Puff spayed. I said we were. He recommended having the surgery soon after the kittens weaned. Her surgery was planned for tomorrow. I say, "was" because I cancelled it on Monday morning. I realized that I couldn't send Puff to the vet for a day and leave the kittens behind. I'm not sure what she would do, but I know that being separated would cause great emotional distress for all concerned. Also, the prospect of having Puff recovering from surgery while managing very busy kittens would not best serve her. Puff's attachment and devotion to her kittens does not make her unusual, but what I think is unusual is how many of us casually sell or give away kittens and puppies, whether for profit or convenience with little or no regard for the emotional consequences.

Puff deserves the company and companionship of her three sons for as long as nature allows. If the day comes when one or more decides to take a walkabout, we all will grieve as much as we need for as long as we need, but we will also have our wonderful memories of a life as it was meant to be. And so it is.

Oh yeah, the storm. I made it into the house just in time to find Luna cowering next to the toilet and Cali waiting by the door ready for her evening walk--come hell or high water.

Crop Circles

I am endlessly fascinated with all things different, odd, or unexplained, which prompted me to wonder about crop circles yesterday afternoon as I watched Pat maneuver the tractor around the south 20 mowing down the now dry grass and weeds. After five hours of repetitive back and forth passes he managed to cut about a third of the twenty acres without creating a single straight line. This was not without trying; and as he said, "cutting a straight 200' line is difficult if not impossible, let me see you do it." It's not that I don't believe him. I'm sure it is indeed difficult to maintain accuracy with such distances, especially when there are obstacles like badger holes and boulders that must be avoided.

But what I am saying is that I don't believe the argument that the mysterious crop circles are products of human engineering and intelligence, especially when you consider that these phenomena occur in the middle of the night. I'm just saying that if a circle appears in my field, I will know with no uncertainty that no one around here had anything to do with it. And so it is.

Half Moon

After a long day of mowing, weeding, cleaning, and organizing areas large and small around the ranch, the barn and most of the landscape looks well attended to. The kittens played outside all day, the horses grazed in the north pasture, and the dogs lazed in the yard keeping careful watch over all. We toiled under a mostly blue sky with cool autumn-like temperatures.

If feels like summer never actually came this year. Our weather from June on has resembled a very long spring now folding seamlessly into fall. Not that I'm complaining, this has been a perfect season with many beautiful sunny, but temperate, days followed by cool breezy nights--sounds almost too good to be true.

We fell into bed last night around 10 o'clock. Pat's snoring began almost immediately, while I laid awake reviewing the day's accomplishments. A cool breeze found its way through the open window animating the curtains into a slinky dance. This ghostly apparition set the stage for a chorus of yipping coyotes in the not too far distance. I slid out of bed not wanting to disturb Pat or the dogs, then positioned myself kneeling at the window, listening to the call of the wild. There were several voices harmonizing as I scanned the landscape looking in the direction of the call.

In the distance, a dark orange half moon sat low in the sky bidding farewell before slipping behind the Adele range. By 10:30, we'll have a moonless sky allowing millions of stars their first appearance in many weeks. The Milky Way streaks across the darkness like a veil of vapor. I often wonder why I can see the Milky Way, as if it is out there somewhere, separate from our mother planet. How do we see it if we are in it? It's like seeing the forest from the perspective of one of the trees.

I also wonder if the coyotes anticipate a moonless night, as they yip with great expectation. What does a moonless night mean to them? A better chance at hunting? Or something bigger? Perhaps their instincts inform them that change is on the way. While I may never know what lies in the mind of coyotes, or how the phases of the moon affect the various creatures that feel its pull, what I do know is that as my senses sharpen to the world around me I feel a greater calm and peace in the knowing that all is well--and so it is.

The Perfect Coverup

Uncle Charlie's feet barely touched the ground as he flew through the closing door nearly getting his tail pinched as I jumped back not knowing what was racing toward me. Each evening before dark sets in, I return to the barn for a head count and to close up the doors with Puff and kittens securely tucked in for the night.

Tonight, however, Uncle Charlie had his own ideas. There may come a point in time when our toms will insist on spending the night prowling, but 8 weeks is far too young. So when Uncle Charlie decided it prudent to escape the closing door, my curiosity allowed me to stand back and watch before scooping him up. Not wanting to create a late night rodeo chasing kittens hither and yon, I closed the door, causing Puff enough concern that she sat on the inside of the door crying for her wayward son.

Hopping onto the fence for a better view, I scanned the corrals searching for movement in the waning sunlight. Finally, I spotted the little bugger. He managed to flee to the far end of the outer corral--a spot clinging to the last ray of vanishing light where he circled, pawed, and sniffed, then apparently dissatisfied with the choice, he walked a few feet to the north, circled, pawed, and sniffed once again before plopping his bottom into the second freshly dug divot. How a kitten decides where to poo, choosing one spot over another and another, completely baffles me.

After sitting stoically erect over the impression for a few moments, he hopped up, turned around, admired his accomplishment, then scooted in a circular direction pulling dirt with each turn creating the perfect cover up for his tiny poo.

Once Uncle Charlie finished his business, he agreeably bounded toward the now closed door, answering his mother's concerned call. I cautiously opened the door hoping the other two kittens weren't waiting for a similar opportunity. Not a problem, thankfully. Puff escorted her bold little boy to the awaiting kennel where his brothers had already snuggled down in their favorite corners. Puff circled a few times before settling into her resting spot. Bold little Uncle Charlie waited until his mother sighed, then cuddled up close to her. When I looked back one more time before leaving, Puff had her arm firmly wrapped around Uncle Charlie's neck secure in the knowledge that at least for one more night all is well. And so it is.

Itchin' To Shoot Somethin'

After the dinner dishes were prewashed by Cali and stacked into the dishwasher by your's truly, the two of us headed out for our after dinner stroll. Luna usually hangs back more interested in Pat's attention than most anything else on the planet, even gophers! It's all good, though, everyone's happy. She and Pat will take their walk later on.

Our gravel driveway runs a good 1/2 mile where it ends with a few mailboxes, a cattleguard, and the decision to turn left or right. Right will take you to the interstate 3 miles south, left will take you god knows where.

At the midway point along the driveway there is a Y. Coming up from the road, bearing right will drop you at Gerard's place, head left and you'll end up at our place. Cali and I got as far as the Y when I noticed a lump in the road about 100 feet ahead. Taking a closer look seemed foolish, so I fumbled around each pocket searching for my phone thinking I'd call Pat and he could drive up with the gun. Of course, the phone's sitting on the kitchen counter leaving us to hike back to the house as quickly as possible. I sure didn't want Mr. Snake to get away. Just last weekend Pat and I spent half a day learning gun safety and practicing shooting paper gophers. By now I'm itchin' to shoot somethin'.

Having reached 90 degrees this afternoon it was a bit too warm to run, but with the promise of a treat, Cali managed to walk really really fast. By the time we reached the house my heart was pounding with excitement. I was finally getting a chance to shoot the dreaded snake. I yelled up the stairs for Pat. With competition from the TV, it took a few yells before he reluctantly answered. I told him to put on his shoes and come with me. "There's a snake on the driveway near the mailboxes. Come with me while I shoot it", I bellowed. Down he came--hiding his excitement, but I could tell. "You load while I drive", I said. He took the gun and ammo and we both hurried out the door.

At the Y, I stopped the car scanning the road hoping the snake was still enjoying the warm gravel.

"There he is", I yelled-- with the excitement of a 6-year-old catching the first glimpse of Disney World.
Pat responded, "you mean that pile of horse shit?"
"What? That's horse shit?"
"If you don't know the difference between a snake and horse shit..."

I turned the car around and headed back home more disappointed than embarrassed, but embarrassed all the same. What if I truly don't know the difference between--
a snake and _____.

Fire Season

According to my calender it is mid-summer; however, if you're a student or the parent of a student, you are probably counting the number of days left until the buses begin rolling, once again signalling the end of another summer and the beginning of a new school year.

But right here in my corner of Earth, mid summer means combines, balers, tons of dust, and the ever present fire danger. Since we haven't seen rain for many weeks, it wouldn't take much for fire to erupt. Last week a plumb of smoke arose from behind Square Butte blackening the sky overhead. Our neighbor informed us that a fire broke out on a ranch in Fort Shaw about 20 miles west as the crow flies. A baler struck a rock, sparks flew, and within an few minutes 15 acres were consumed. Sitting at the foot of the Rocky Mountains it's nearly impossible to avoid rocks. Even the most careful farmer and rancher knows that fire potential awaits every turn. Thousands of acres can disappear within hours. There is a vigilance in the air as we watch over ourselves and our neighbors. We keep fire extinguishers in all vehicles, the tractor and on the riding mower. Periodically I check the 360 degree view from upstairs, at times confusing a distant plumb of dust for a plumb of smoke.

Last night's local news reported a couple of fires 70 or so miles to the south and west. As the sun rose this morning, winds began blowing from the southwest creating a veil of smoky haze and a chilling smell that reminds us of our vulnerability and our responsibility. For now, spending mid-summer on the prairie with eyes wide open.

And so it is.

Chip Off The Old Block

Twice today, I entered to barn to find Chip frolicking behind the haystack with a dead body in his mouth. While not entirely sure whether Puff's catching the mice, or if it's Chip himself, one thing is for sure, he's got the instinct and the tenacity of a true mouser.

On my first trip, I was horrified by the grizzly discovery of a disembodied head lying in the middle of the floor. Curious to know what happened to the rest of it, I peeked into every nook and cranny wondering if Puff had eaten it. I had my fingers crossed it wasn't true. Killing a mouse is one thing, but eating it is quite another. Friends have told me that when you feed a barn cat it is likely to kill more mice because it is killing for sport rather than for food. Conversely, an unfed cat will only kill when it's hungry. So it seemed unlikely to me that Puff was eating as well as killing.

As I was about to leave the barn, Chip appeared from behind the haystack with what looked like a string hanging from his mouth. He wouldn't come to me, but instead ran back into the dark corner. I grabbed a broom and went after the little bugger. After poking him a few times he finally sprang forth and showed me his coveted prize. He had the headless mouse in his mouth and could not have been more pleased with himself.

A few hours later, I return, lunch in hand.
Puff, Ernie, and Uncle Charlie dive into bowls.
Chip--conspicuously missing.
Thumping sounds behind hay.
Chip emerges.
Fully intact body dangling from mouth.
"Cute factor", zero.

We're losing our kittens and gaining cats. Boy they grow up so fast. Maybe now I can get something else done around here!

Trust the Process

More and more each day, the kittens (yes, the kittens, again) grow and gain greater independence from Puff. This is all normal, expected, and desired. However, I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown watching these small vulnerable kittens take on the harsh dangerous world. Nothing stops them; no gate is too tall; and no one, especially me, possesses the agility and speed necessary to catch and contain their fearless spirit.

For the past 6 1/2 weeks, these tiny creatures have challenged each and every attempt made for the purpose of "keeping them safe". The reality is they are outside cats; and in order for them to develop their innate survival skills, they must stretch their reach beyond the four walls that they're apparently outgrowing.

The problem belongs to me, this I know for sure. My inability to let them go and experience what may, keeps them bound in ways that are neither healthy nor natural.

What to do! Do I open up the barn and allow? Do I keep creating bigger and stronger barriers? Is it more beneficial for a kitten to experience the world when his curiosity calls? Or is it better (safer) for him to wait until I'm ready?

Of course I know the answer to these questions. I must honor, respect, and trust the process. Even if that means....

Awaiting His Turn

This morning like most every other morning, I was greeted at the barn door by four hungry, sleepy little souls. As I opened the door, sunlight flooded the opening much to every one's delight, including mine.

Once the bowls hit the floor, my next chore took me to the back of the barn where the litter box sat begging my attention. Not my favorite chore, but certainly a necessary one, I quickly whisked the box outside to the nearest waste can.

Within a few minutes, the box was once again ready for use, and not a moment too soon it appeared. Our littlest kitten, Ernie, promptly hopped into the box, went through the preliminary motions, assumed the position, then dug and pawed as if....

Not believing that a 6-week old barn kitten would know what the box was for, but rather, assuming he was mimicking behavior he had seen Puff demonstrate, I leaned in for a closer look. To my complete astonishment, there lie buried beneath an adequate amount of litter was the most precious little turd I'd ever seen.

To my greater amazement, was the fact that while Ernie made use of the box, his older brother, Chip, sat quietly alongside awaiting his turn.