Artemis

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I don’t want to write this post.

If I write the post, it will make it real, and I’ve done a pretty good job bottling things up until now. It’s amazing how far you can repress with the help of a busy schedule and a whole lot of negative self talk.

I mean, come on, Becky. It’s not like it’s unexpected.  Labs don’t live forever –  they really don’t. Cancer, bad hips, weight related conditions… it’s not like you see them trit-rotting around at 17 years old. She was going to be 12 this August.

Besides.  She was a dog.  And unless you’ve crossed the line from repression into outright denial, putting a pet to sleep is just something you have to acknowledge.

 

Humans live 70 to 80 years, if we’re lucky.

Dogs and cats are not nearly so long-lived.

It’s a part of life.  It’s a normal part of life that was hardly a shock, because I saw it coming, years in advance.

And yet.

I just really, really, really don’t want to write this post.

I don’t know why it is so hard for me.  I don’t know why it hurts so much that I find myself not crying, hiding away in that small, grey hollow place of true grief.

When my cat Fuego died in my 20s, I was devastated. I took two days off of work and howled into my pillow, creeping about the house with red, puffy eyes.

When Artemis died I took off the morning, and then was back to taking work phone calls by that afternoon. It’s not because it hurt any less.  It’s because I just didn’t have time to mourn her, so I swallowed it. I swallowed my grief down deep, like a cold, empty seed.

I can’t even say it’s because I miss her so much.  I started missing her years ago. She was so strong and healthy, right up until she hit 10 years old, and then BAM.  Old age.

Everyone should get the chance to own an elderly lab at least once in their life.  They really are the world’s most perfect dog. You have all the amazing good nature of a Labrador, without any of the ability to counter surf or any of the previous exercise requirements.  It feels like using a cheat code to dog ownership.

I can’t even say that I avoided writing this post because of how much I miss her in my every day life.  That sounds awful, but I began distancing myself from her as I saw that final vet appointment creeping closer and closer. There was no sudden goodbye to this one.  It came on, one day at a time.  She stopped being able to run after a ball.  She got out of breath on long walks. She became frightened of fireworks.  She stopped wanting to walk up the stairs. Her eyes, always so soft and deep, turned shallow and flat and bright.

Her eyes were no longer the same.  The lights were on, but nobody was home. She spent more and more time sleeping, and I spent more and more time not waking her up.

I didn’t want to see what was right in front of me.

These past few months her life turned into a series of simple pleasures, and my relationship with her turned into a series of countdowns, a mathematical equation where I tried to balance my love for who she was versus the difficulty of her current life.

Trying to compute where it breaks even is impossible.

Because that’s the real hard question, isn’t it?  How long can your love for them outweigh the selfishness of where they are?

I referred back to this stupid, hateful, unbelievably useful blog post more often than I care to admit.

The Good Death

I’ve always said it, and never had trouble with it before: Better a week too early than a day too late.

I’ve never struggled with the “when” before.

This time I did.

I would text my friend “It’s time.  I have to make the appointment.” and then it would be time to actually make the call and I would chicken out.  I didn’t have the money for the in home euthanasia service she deserved – I’d have it next check.  I couldn’t do it and then send the kids right back to their dad’s, I need to give them a day or two to mourn.  I was too busy at work to be able to break down and cry for a day. The ground was too cold.  The wind was to wrong.  The Tuesday wasn’t Tuesday enough.

 

Last week I walked Artemis to the backyard, the sun shining on her shiny, dark coat  The vet trailed me as we walked slowly back.  She asked me “How long has her breathing sounded like that?” and for the first time, I questioned the timing.

I didn’t wait too long… I think.  I hope.

I know if I’d been a little less selfish, I would have been writing this post last winter, instead of this spring.  Maybe I should have.  Maybe it was wrong of me to wait this long.  I dunno.

Still, the weather did exactly what I wanted it to do.  It was warm, low 70s, with a picture-perfect sky. We were in that cool spot beneath the branches of the giant tree and the breeze ruffled the leaves, making that soft, slippery whispering sound that always soothes me.

The kids were in the house, waiting to say goodbye until after it was over.  You can be there, but only if you can avoid sobbing.  Artemis hates it when we cry. Remember how she sometimes leaves the room?  She deserves to not have us be sad or worry about us, in that moment. They agreed to be inside.

The weather was warm, and Artemis was happy.

 

 

She was not relaxed, because I had made 3 pounds of bacon earlier that day, and then mixed the leftover spoonfuls of bacon grease in with dried cat food, and was feeding it to her a little at a time.

Cat food: The forbidden treat.

Her eyes were frantically bright with her greed as she finished the bowl.  She resented the vet messing with her hind leg, and swiveled her hindquarters away away from her in irritation as the vet put in the sedative. Artemis laid her head on my shoulder as the needle went in, which almost broke me, because how do you replace the weight of that head that has leaned against you for almost a decade?  How do you savor it enough to make it last forever, when it’s the last time?

But Artemis hated crying, so I sobbed once, and then stuffed it down, hard. I’ve found if you blow out a short, sudden, hard breath, you can usually make your voice stay steady despite tears.

Good dog. Such a good, strong, steady friend.  Best dog ever.  Best dog.  Such a good, good girl.

Artemis heard none of it – she was too intent on being hand fed bacon-grease-cat-food. I had her lay down, which she obeyed, as she always did, and continued to feed her.

She stayed awake long enough to lick the bowl and snuffle the last scrap. She huffed the ground in front of her, and tilted forward to fall asleep, snoring on the soft grass.

Such a good, good girl.  Such a good dog, yes you are.

When the final shot went in, there was no fanfare, no final exhalation.  One moment she was softly snoring, my hand on her fur, the next moment she was gone.

I hate that moment, when the that true, true friend that was with you through all those memories and beautiful, hard years is just… gone.

She was good. She was strong. She was kind.

She had a wonderful life, with one family. She lived on a farm, and roamed the house at will, and ate an entire pillowcase full of Halloween candy, wrappers and all, EVERY SINGLE YEAR.

There really aren’t many regrets I have for her. My only regret was that I should have made that final vet appointment a few months earlier… except that the day was so perfect, and her passing so beautifully peaceful, that it’s hard to actually regret it.

And yet.

I am so utterly sad to have to write this post.

I am so sad that I am almost angry about it.  I resent it. I resent that dogs live such a short time. I don’t want to say goodbye to my friend. I don’t want to stop making memories with her. I don’t want to be strong in front of my kids, so that I drag them unnecessarily into my own grief.

Mostly, I just miss her.

She slept in my room for nearly 12 years. She got me through lonely years of staying at home with the children, hard years of marriage and my divorce. She was my steady friend.

I got her because when I was looking for a dog,  DragonMonkey was 3 and Squid was 1. They needed a trustworthy dog who could put up with their  out of control antics.

The boys are in high school and junior high now.

And the twins?  The twins are four years younger than her.  They don’t ever remember a moment with out her. They grew up hanging on to fur, while she patiently let them. They laughed as the boys careened behind her, tying her collar to a wagon then throwing the ball, giggling as they rocketed down hills doing “summer sledding”.

I had all that, and now I just have a stupid paw print on a stupid foam pad, waiting for a picture insert I can’t bring myself to order.

I also have a card from the vet hospital that’s sitting in my car, unopened, because I know it’s going to say something like “For your loss” or something about rainbow bridge, and the card will be cream, or blue, with swirly font, and it just irritates me that I have to read something like that.

I’m annoyed I can’t quit talking to her, even when she’s not here. When I let the dogs out in the morning and  I say “Good girl, Artemis” without thinking, or a long kiss and “Artemis, ‘mere,” with no response, I feel my breath hitch as I realize what I just did. You shouldn’t be able to surprise yourself into sadness.  It’s like tickling yourself, but so much worse.

 

Mostly I’m just sad.  I’m sad I’m sitting here at my desk, typing on my computer, writing this stupid post that I just really, really, really don’t want to write, and there’s no scratchy-soft fur at my toes. There’s no solid presence there. And it SUCKS.

So, yeah.

I used to joke that I was going to write Artemis “Bad Dog” Bean on her tombstone, because she used to counter surf and eat EVERYTHING.  The sheer quantity of food she could manage to shove inside her was absolutely mind boggling.

She once ate two large pizzas.

She once dove headfirst into a bag of dog food and ate 17 POUNDS.

She once ate 19 fresh chicken eggs off the counter.  That was actually preferable to the time she ate SIXTEEN BOILED EGGS.

You really haven’t smelled dog farts until you’ve lived in the house with a dog that has eaten sixteen boiled eggs.

You never actually saw the evidence – you would just turn around and notice that Artemis now resembled a beach ball with legs poking out of it, and then try to find what was missing.

I remember the time she kept breaking into the pumpkin garden and eating enter pumpkins.  I couldn’t figure it out – no food was missing, no trash was missing, the dog food tote was still full… and yet Artemis could hardly walk and her farts were peeling the paint off the walls.

It was a complete mystery till she started pooping out elephant-sized turds with pumpkin seeds in them.

Every year – EVERY SINGLE YEAR – one of the kids would leave their bag of Halloween candy down and she would eat it.

Not some of the chocolate, not some of the candies: the whole dang thing, 100% of the candies, wrapper and all. In case you’re curious, most wrappers just look weird, but 3 Musketeers Wrappers really do sparkle in a dog turd.

I’m sure chocolate is poisonous to some dogs, but it sure wasn’t to Artemis.

I’m deeply convinced that my method of refusing to feed her till she pooped normal again was the only thing that kept her from dying/needing surgery after all her food escapades.

She was wonderful and 100% trustworthy with all the animals.  She completely ignored the horses – Reverie tried to chase her one time, but Artemis continued snuffling the grass.  Reverie’s angry charge came to a screeching halt. She unpinned her ears, and snuffled her once as Artemis continued to nose around the grass.  Artemis’ lack of response confused Reverie so much that she never chased her again.

She smiled more than any dog I knew, and learned at a young age that I couldn’t resist the backwards head tilt.

She was a powerhouse of a dog who could sniff out a ball in any circumstances and out charge any dog after a ball. It wasn’t even that she was faster, I think she just wanted it more than they did.  I think she only failed to find a ball twice.

She used to wag her tail so hard while she looked for the ball that twice she actually sprained it, and for weeks afterwards her tail hung flaccid behind her.  It looked weird, and made us laugh.

I absolutely could NOT keep the kids off of her.  Every time I entered a room, she’d be laying down in front of them, basically encouraging them to ride her.  I used to chide her for it.  How was I supposed to teach my horde of children dog manners when she basically was unteaching them every time my back was turned?

She was perfectly obedient, except for occasionally wandering off and the counter surfing (which was solvable by making sure all food was put away at night.)

I do mean PERFECTLY obedient.  She had a perfect recall, 100% of the time.  She heeled off leash.  She knew “leave it” and “go potty” and “find it” and “go” and “come” and “go get it” and “load up” and “go to bed” and “gentle”.

She knew them 100% of the time, regardless of who said them.

She never growled at another dog.  She preferred playing with little dogs to big dogs, and would lay down to gently wrestle with them, with just her giant block head.

She was beautiful.

She raised my babies with me, with her amazing patience and her love for small things. She was a source of strength when I was lonely, or life was hard, with how she would creep up beside me and press against my leg, or my foot, or lay her head in my lap.

It’s hard to feel truly desolate, when you have that gentle well of love looking up at you, burying her roots in your soul, tethering you to the here and now.

She was so good, through and through.

And she is so missed.

Artemis Good Dog Bean
August 2012 – May 2024

My Loyal Dog

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Oops. I just found this unpublished post in my drafts. I think I wrote it in February or March of 2021? It makes me so much more grateful for my barn.

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The coyotes are loud tonight.

January was their real mating season, and they were crazy loud then, but tonight they’re especially noisy. I can hear them yowling and yipping on the back mountain. I used to find it beautiful to listen to, but now I’ve got the goats.

I don’t have quite enough land to warrant the way my neighbors would hate me if I got a livestock guardian dog, but I’ve got enough to worry about wildlife creeping onto our property.

We have the goats area fenced, but let’s be real- all it would do is stop the coyotes from dragging off one of the goats after they killed one. So, on nights like tonight, I sleep with my ears pricked and my boots ready by the door.

Sometime right before midnight, the coyotes break out in a chorus loud enough I can not only make out the individuals, but I swear I can hear the breaths they take in between each high-pitched call. I bolt out of bed and shove my legs in some jeans and my feet into cold boots. One quick swipe of the flashlight I keep by the coffee pot, and I’m out the door.

It sounds like they’re right outside my window, but I actually think they’re on the lower half of my property. Still, it’s way, way too close. I turn on my flashlight flash it over the hill and the yowling stops at once, except for one half-grown pup whose quavery call turns into a whine in the silence.

You can almost hear them waiting in the now-quiet, poised for flight but not yet gone. The air has a tense feel, although Reverie is still laying down, so it’s possible that’s just my imagination. Still, maybe it’s a sixth sense but I swear I can still feel the coyotes on our property.

Artemis is by my side, growling. Our backyard is fenced, and there’s a good three hundred feet beyond the gate before the land slopes down, so even if my gut is right, the pack is not nearly as close as they feel.

“Good girl,” I say, and she pricks her ears up at me, pleased. She growls again, and gives a deep, deep bark.

“Good girl,” I say again. She wags her tail twice, hard, so very pleased with herself. She stands beside me, hackles raised, and growls again. I feel like a scene from an Old Western. It’s just me and my trusty dog, standing guard beneath the full moon against a pack of varmints. I encourage Artemis again, and she takes a few bounces forward, barking deep and loud.

In the silence afterwards, I swear I can hear the coyotes mumble a cuss word and flee. We’re still in the backyard, so I know there’s no chance of her running off and actually coming into contact with a coyote, so I encourage her again. “Good girl. You tell ’em”

She barks deeply again, still growling, and she’s so very pleased to have this job. I’m proud of her, too. “Good girl. You go get ’em.” Her body stiffens, and she stares at me with electric tension. “That’s right. GO GET EM ARTEMIS!”

And she’s off, running full tilt, every line of her movement tense with explosive eagerness as she leaps forward and…..

Frantically searches the bushes for her ball. She’s determined to uncover it, convinced there’s a ball hiding in the foilage. She’s completely ignoring me now.

Oh thaaaaat’s right. “Go get it” in Lab-Speak means find your ball.

There is no more trusty sidekick. There is no more helpful growling. There is no more defending the homestead. There is only the invisible ball she is certain she’s going to sniff out, if only she can circle the tree and crash through the underbrush, one more time.

From further away, near the treeline, I hear the lone yip of that half grown coyote.

I swear it sounds like laughter.

On Dating

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There comes a time post-divorce when you heal enough to get a vague sense of curiosity.  They say there are plenty of fish in the sea. What do they look like? What kind are they? Is it as bad as they say?

I’m not sure what it says about me that I returned to dating for the same exact same  reason I crane my neck to look at roadkill, but I’m sure it says something.

Internet dating has always worked for me. After all, I don’t drink, I go to bed around 8:30 pm, and my weekdays are filled with work and kids, and my weekends are filled with, “Man, I don’t think I can let this farm chore be postponed even a second longer, I guess I better do it today.” Where else am I supposed to meet people, other than the internet?

Internet dating is also a pretty decent choice for someone with my social skills. I’m decent at carrying out a conversation when I have a keyboard under my fingers. I’m not so great at the real-life small talk thing.

Hi. Want to talk about horses? How about dairy goats? They once did a study and found that the scent women find most attractive is Good and Plenty mixed with cucumbers. Weird, huh? What’s red and bad for your teeth? A brick hahahaha. I’m thirsty. Do you like true crime documentaries? Hey, where are you going?

 

As I began to research I was amused to discover that OkCupid was still around. I briefly considered reviving my old profile from back in 2003/2004, but there was something depressing about that, so I decided to choose another site.

Only… only, it’s not like it was back in the early 2000s, where you chose from OkCupid (where the young folk went), or PlentyofFish (where the Christian folk went) or eHarmony (where the “I actually wanna get married” people went). Now?

Dude.  DUDE. There are SO MANY DATING SITES.

SO.

MANY.

OPTIONS.

Oh, sure, OkCupid, eHarmony, and PlentyofFish are still around, but so are a bazillion different others, and they all have their own private little niche.

What is it about people and creating niches, anyways?

Figuring out dating apps is a bit like trying to learn how to read those old ads for horses, back when you used to have a strict character limit. You guys remember the ones I’m talking about –  16hh OTTB chsnt H/J Gld…You had to know what you were looking for and understand the lingo before you could even start looking.

Who would have thought there would be such a steep learning curve for love?  And yet there was. You had to know what you wanted out of a relationship before you could even figure out how best to present yourself, and you had to create an account and figure out how best to market yourself before you could even look at who else was out there.

Did you want long-term commitment/marriage? You should probably choose eHarmony.  Everyone knows what Tinder is for, although I was surprised to discover that it has actually become a fairly popular dating site, not just an… errr, fairly popular “dating” site. Where you interested in speed-dating? Try Hinge.  Did you want more security as a woman? Try Bumble. How about long-term dating? Match. And so on, and so on. Each site had their own quirk.

Also, they all want you to swipe right if you like someone, which pretty much everyone knows and understands….

Except for my brain.

Every single time it mattered I ended up overthinking it too hard, and then panicked and swiped the wrong direction.

Oh, lordy, it’s a nazi axe murderer who is looking for a third in their open thruple, and that third needs to be diaper kink-friendly….  NOPE. Nope, nope, nope.  Not for me. I need to not swipe right. Don’t swipe right, Becky.  Left.  Swipe left. I definitely need to swipe left.Left, left, left…..

And then, like a horror film, my finger would slowly descend to left hand side of the cell phone screen, and swipe.

Do you know what happens when you put your fat, useless finger on the left-hand side of the screen and swipe?

Yeah, that’s right.  YOU SWIPE RIGHT.

The same thing happened with people I was legitimately interested in.

Hi, I’m the sexiest man alive, and I’m currently in the market for a single woman in her 40s with ADHD and a bunch of kids.  I breed Morgans and Andalusians and own properties all over the world. I’m looking to find someone to drink coffee, read books, pray, volunteer at soup kitchens, and admire beautiful horses.  If it develops into something more, that’d be great.  If it doesn’t, maybe I could just pay you to travel the world and ride my horses in exotic destinations….

And every single time I’d panic and swipe the wrong way, and “YOU MISSED A MATCH” would flash across the screen.

I suppose this is how it all starts.  One moment you’re young and hip and good with technology, and then the next thing you know, you’re talking about “the Google” and responding to Nigerian prince scams.

Technically speaking, if you swipe the wrong way it’s not a total loss.  Most of those places offer monthly memberships for a premium price, so you can go back through missed matches….But I hated the idea of it. It felt like a tax on me being stupid.

Plus, I wasn’t even sure I was ready to go on a date. The idea of dating had me lingering somewhere between nervous and nauseous. It felt too weird, and too soon. Mostly, I was just kind of playing around with the idea. Window shopping available men became my new evening hobby. I’d curl up on the couch after the kids were in bed, listen to the rain outside, and flip back and forth between a dating app and Zillow, happily browsing other people’s personal lives and personal homes.

Actually, internet dating and shopping for a house isn’t a bad comparison. When you first start looking for a house your list of needs is a mile long. I want a 2500 square foot single story ranch home with 3 bathrooms and 5 bedrooms, on 15 acres, under $200,000, with a barn and indoor arena and an in ground pool…

After a couple of months of looking at homes, and seeing the actual market availability, your needs become a little more…. reasonable.  “I’d like a house, with a bathroom, and it would be nice if the roof didn’t leak.”

I remember the first night I started looking through different profiles.  There was a person in a town about an hour away from me, and he had horrible serial killer eyes….except, I suppose, not really? If he really had serial killer eyes they’d probably be soft, and sweet, and approachable. After all, everyone knows that serial killers don’t actually look like serial killers…

I digress. How about this: he had the kind of eyes that looked like what you’d would imagine serial killer eyes to look like.  They were flat, and hard, and I’m pretty convinced that he was born without eyelids and had never blinked once in his entire life.  Every single vein in his body was sticking about 2 inches out of skin, like his blood was straining to escape his body.  He glared. Angrily. Plus, his neck was literally 100% the exact same size as his head.

I screenshot him and sent him to my friend.  “I should swipe right on him.  He looks friendly.”

“Oh, yeah, you definitely aren’t going to die going on that date.”

We both laughed, and I continued on.

But you know what?  A month or so later, the app became annoyed at how picky I was and started to recycle some of my old rejects through. CreepyEyes popped back up, and this time I briefly hesitated.  “Huh.  Not for me, but not so bad” was my thought, as I swiped him left… or rather, put my finger to the right, so I could swipe left, which resulted in us being paired, and me frantically trying to unmatch him.

And then a month later, when he came by again, I actually considered swiping right on purpose. “Oh, sure, he looks like he’d kill me… but you know, I don’t see too many red flags, aside from the fact I’d probably die….”

On the other hand, for all that I’m joking about other people’s profiles, do you have any idea how hard it is to write one of those things? It’s awkward as all get out, trying to brag on yourself without actually, you know, bragging on yourself.  It’s stressful creating a sales ad for your entire personality, asking people to pick you without seeming too needy.

In the end, like I always do, I decided to just go for blunt honesty.

 

I figured that was about as straightforward as I could get, and it seemed to work pretty well. Also, I was surprised at how easy the whole process was. There was no sudden onslaught of photos of male genitalia.  There were no inappropriate requests, beyond the one guy who said hello and then wanted me to drive an hour into the woods (out of cell phone reception) so he could cook me dinner. I’m sure he had nothing but the best of intentions, and while I do enjoy a nice homecooked meal, I’m sure you are all shocked to hear I didn’t take him up on his offer.  Gas is expensive, after all, and a single mom must be frugal.

Eventually, I decided to go out on my first date.

Fresh Starts

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Life isn’t all maudlin and sadness over here, despite how my last post sounded. I have found a new rhythm, and it suits me.

Reverie is four years old now, and away at training.

Can you believe that?

I know, I know.

She was born, and then life got busy and crazy, and now she’s four.

Reverie is probably as tall as she’s ever going to be (14.3), but she only recently began to fill out.  She’s shaped just like her mother so I know she will fill out, but I almost waited until she was 5 to start her. It’s not that she needed time to mentally mature, just physically, since I’m not exactly a tiny dewdrop fairy of a woman. On the other hand, that filly has been aching for a job since she was two. In the absence of me giving her something to do, she assigned herself her own job, which is to gently and lovingly dismantle every. single. gutter. on. the. farm.

It’s like that old saying goes – nature abhors a vacuum, luck favors the prepared, and Reveries abhors proper building drainage.

Anyways, she’s away at training at Silver Mesa Morgans in Monmouth, Oregon, and she’s doing great. When they picked her up they asked me what my goals were, and like any prepared owner, I told them my detailed plans: “Uh…. don’t make her hate being ridden?  And make her sorta rideable?”

It’s good to have goals.

I went out to visit her this past week, and they’re doing an amazing job. Every horse pricked up its ears and came to say hello with a friendly expression when I walked past their stall (a fantastic sign!). Reverie heard my voice and somehow managed to get the top of her chin over the 7 or 8 foot wall on the back of her stall and strained to catch a glimpse of me, which made me feel really, really good about myself.

 

I haven’t been away from her for more than a day or so since 2018, and I was surprised how much I have missed her while she was gone.

They tacked her up, which brought me joy, because she was clearly delighted to be chosen to work.

She’s right where she needs to be – no rush, no pushing her unnecessarily, giving her space to learn and actually enjoy the process of learning, and it was fantastic to realize that by next month, I could actually be up on her.

In the meantime, I’m far from horseless. Scandias Mademoiselle, otherwise known as Madam, is currently in the barn.

Madam is intelligent, sweet, and kind.

Madam is… gorgeous.

Madam is smooth as silk to ride.

Madam is a lady.

Madam is claaaaaaasssssy, and probably way too good to be in my barn, but I am not complaining. Besides, Madam is relaxed and happy, and seems pretty darn content with her new life.

DragonMonkey likes to crawl up on her back and play games on his phone while she wanders around grazing. I’m not gonna lie – it looks soothing, and I’m distinctly jealous I’m no longer an agile, bounceable teen.

Magpie loves her and is always begging to ride her. She’s currently asking for horseback riding lessons, because her current dream is to be a pickup man at a rodeo.

Since she’s probably gonna end up around 5’3 and maybe 100 pounds sopping wet I don’t know if that’s in her future, but maybe she could take over my own childhood dream of being a jockey?

Anyways, life is quiet, and that’s good. I have a barn full of goats, mostly because it turns out that once you’re an adult with your own disposable income, the only thing telling you that you can’t get another goat is your own pocketbook.

I don’t have a problem. I can stop accruing goats any time I want…

I figure I’ll probably give them their own intro post soon.

Artemis is getting old, which feels weird, but also somehow peaceful. It seems strange to think of life before her.  On some days it feels like she has always been here, and like I have always lived in Oregon.

Other times my brain stutters and stops and struggles with the fact she’s been in my life for a decade.  How in the world? Wasn’t I just blogging about getting her?

And yet.  She’s covered in benign cysts (according to the xrays) and her muzzle is greying, and she has definitely turned the corner this year from older lab to just plain old 🙁

Also, if you ever get the chance to own an old lab, do it.  Old labs are absolutely, the 100% pinnacle best of dogdom. She has all the sweet, loving devotion of her youth, but she’s twice as peaceful, and BONUS, she’s too clunky to get up on the counters anymore.  10/10 recommend this experience.

I’m not really sure how to end this post. I’ve been out of the habit of writing for so long, but I recently switched from dayshift to graveyards, and realized that the only way to start back writing again is to, well, start back.  I’m not quite ready to plunge back into the world of trying to write for money.  Besides, there’s something therapeutic about this.  I started this blog way back when I was 25, trying to figure myself out  I’m 41 now, and in the same odd position, albeit with a lot more responsibility. and oddly, a lot less stress.

Still, I’m out of practice at it, so instead of coming up with something catchy, I’ll just end it with some gratuitous photos that make me happy.

Life Really Does Go On

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It’s a strange thing, learning to be alone again.

For so many years, loneliness was a commodity to lust after. No matter how much love there is in a home, at the end of the day, four is a lot of kids.  I have always equated being a mother of young children to receiving a back massage.  Even if you desperately want a back massage, no matter how nice it feels at first, if someone touches you for 15 hours straight, your skin is going to be raw, and you’re going to need a break.

For so many years I dreamed of a break, drinking in tiny sips of freedom through late night trips to the grocery store, or stolen hours at the barn. Those brief moments of quiet fed my parched, raw soul.

And now?

Now I have a whole river of solitude, dark and unending, every other week. I stand at its silent banks and long for noise.

The end of a marriage is so very, very sad. That part was never a shock.  The hurt feelings, the deep emotions, the feeling of loss…. none of that was a surprise.

What I wasn’t emotionally prepared for was how logical it was, or how very much it reminded me of playing the world’s most depressing game of Monopoly.

Trying to boil down 14 years of love, heartache, work, laughter and tears into a series of financial transactions… To be honest, it felt dirty.

I’ll trade you a share of the retirement for a share of equity in the home, and switching the kids on Mondays.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200.

 

All I can say is that I’m glad it’s behind me.

The truth is, the divorce isn’t new. I’m nearly a year and a half into this not-married life. I keep running into people who haven’t heard about it, which I suppose is my fault. It’s a hard thing to discuss. Do you post on Facebook? Do you let the information drip out of you, leak by leak, one friend at a time? Do you elaborate everything, in hopes the rumor mill does the job for you?

Or do you just sit there, hurting, and silently wish it would all go away?

2020 was…well, 2020.  I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to simultaneously homeschool a bunch of kids while struggling in the death throes of a marriage, while working the front lines of social worker through a global pandemic…. but you know, I honestly just can’t recommend it.

At all.

2020 culminated in the wonderful December fanfare of getting a 4 am phone call from my uncle, his voice heavy with tears, letting me know my dad had passed. It was completely and totally unexpected, and I spent the next month just sort of swimming through a blur of post-death paperwork. One bad year just kind of drifted into the next, which drifted into the separation, which drifted into long Covid, which drifted into one altering catastrophe after another.

At some point life just stopped being hard, and life-numbing blows became… well, just life. There’s something very humbling about being at the end of your rope, about having nothing left to give… and then just getting up and continuing to trudge along. It’s not depressing. Analyzing something as depressing requires energy, and energy is something that doesn’t exist when you’re that low. What it is, is bleak.  And what do you do with bleak?

Well, I don’t know about you, but I hunkered down, quarantine style, and kept to myself. And then I just slowly lived out what may very well be the most meaningful Disney song ever to be written:

I won’t look too far ahead
It’s too much for me to take
But break it down to this next breath
This next step
This next choice is one that I can make

For the most part it was easy to do. I switched positions at work. I got Covid, and experienced months of low heart rate and exhaustion afterwards. I threw myself into making the change as easy as possible for the kids, if there even is such a thing.  I refinanced the house into my name. I painted the walls. I redecorated the garage and turned it into a bedroom. I hired someone to put in walls down in the basement. I worked overtime to make ends meet.

My therapist is always telling me I should learn to feel my feelings, instead of eating or repressing them, but she never said anything about outworking them.

Busy hands are happy hands?

Life even conspired with me to make it easy to focus on the here and now. For a while there it felt like each week brought a fresh new horrifically life-altering event. They say that grief comes in waves, but the wires on my life kept getting crossed, so instead of waves of sadness I just got hit with waves of tragedies and mishaps.

At some point, it almost became funny.  “Wait, wait, wait… you’re never gonna believe what else happened this week,” I would tell my therapist, giggling out the story in shell-shocked laughter.  “The extra photos they needed on my mammogram turned out clear, so that’s nice, but the dog’s cancer has spread, and also the lawn mower broke again. My amazing church helped me with my broken car, but now the check engine light is on, right before I start another new position at work that requires two hours of driving a day….   and remember how last week literally every single aspect of my life simultaneously caught fire?  Well, the latest catastrophe has a new twist!  But before I get into all that, can I just brag? I rearranged the entire living room and repainted the entire downstairs according to some Feng Shui video I saw on Tiktok. Dude, you should see it. It’s legit!”

BUSY HANDS ARE HAPPY HANDS, ALRIGHT?

Eventually life settled down, or at least stopped crashing on me in waves, and I began trying to figure out who the heck I was.  That sounds cliche, but after so many years of putting everything else on hold, I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself for half the month.

Besides, it turns out that who I was in the past is not who I am today, so it didn’t quite work. That’s the problem with growth. You don’t fit into your old, discarded habits, and it leaves you too exhausted to try anything else.

Writing was the only thing that still felt good, but I found that I couldn’t. The words would blur and hammer around inside me, so I would open the laptop and stare at the blank screen.  After a bit I would quietly close the lid on the laptop, page still blank.

There are some things that are just too raw for words, especially if your kids have learned how to Google your name and regularly snoop on you.

On the weeks the kids were with me, it felt almost like it always did.  School, then work, then dinner, then homework, then showers, then bed. No, you can’t play video games on the weekdays.  Yes, you need to brush your teeth. Break up a squabble.  Cuddle on the couch.  Rinse, repeat.  Rinse, repeat.

It’s every other week that’s the problem.

At first it was easy, with the Covid exhaustion and the rush of getting the house together, and catching up on housework. Eventually though, I ran out of things to catch up on.  It’s mind boggling how tidy a house stays when there is only your stuff to pick up.

Busy. Hands. Are. Happy. Hands.

I started reading up on DnD. I dragged out my old guitar. I did all of my laundry, and put it all away.  I took loads of things to Goodwill. I watched a lot of SG1. I tried to teach myself to sleep in the middle of the bed, instead of just the corner edge. I let myself go back to my natural rhythm of early bedtimes and pre-dawn risings. I let the backyard grass grow wild, so the horses could graze by the kitchen. I took long, long walks.

I developed insomnia and crept around the house, listening to the way the walls echoed and the floorboards creaked under my feet. You wouldn’t think the presence of other people sleeping could have a weight, but it does. Without them the house felt eerie, like it could float away at any second.

It was easiest just to put my head down,and keep trudging through. Summer faded into fall, fall faded into winter, winter faded into… well, less wintery winter?  The Pacific Northwest decided to skip this last spring. Winter Part Two faded into summer, or so they said. It was a bit hard to tell.

Fourth of July was always more of the Bean’s holiday than mine, so it was an easy one to give up… in theory.

The reality of it was a lot rougher than I imagined. I volunteered to work On Call at my job.  Busy hands are happy hands, after all? I called my kids and enthused with them about their plans. I locked up the horses to keep them from panicking, as there’s a neighbor nearby who occasionally likes to set off tannerite.

Eventually there was nothing more to be done inside the house. Have I mentioned how mind boggling it is how clean a house can stay without kids?  I thought about accepting my friend’s offer to join their family’s celebration, but something about borrowed family seemed worse than nobody at all. The on call phone refused to ring. Eventually the silence of the home got to me, so I crept out into the backyard.

The thing with being alone is that silence can be almost louder than noise. After so many years of shrieking laughter and sibling squabbles, the dull roar of silence sinks into my bones, overwhelming me with its weight.

There’s a large swing under the giant maple tree in my backyard, so I wrapped myself up into a blanket and climbed on it, pulling the rope to set it swinging.  I wrapped myself up in a blanket to watch the crescent moon while I listened to the sound of fireworks all around me.  That’s one of my favorite things about living in the country – the sounds float over the hillsides, and if you are still enough, you can hear them all. Muted booms from distant city-led fireworks, nearby scratchy explosions from someone’s driveway., someone’s loud laughter… if you close your eyes, it can sound almost like a song.

The neighbors beyond the big hay field were setting off those rat-a-tat-tat fireworks, punctuated by the sound of a too-tired child starting to cry. Their dog was barking, either out of excitement or because he was locked away.  I’m not quite fluent in my Twilight Bark anymore, but whatever he was saying, he was definitely repeating himself. Three sharp barks, a pause, and then four slower barks.  Three sharp barks, then four.  He didn’t sound upset, just insistent.

In the distance, the muted booms of distant cities and their professional fireworks, all competing.

Up the hill, the neighbors were gathered together and using the long stretch of pavement for what I think must be an annual party. They were setting off something shrill, and possibly large.  It whistled up into the air, ending in a loud crack. I heard a woman’s “oooh” of appreciation float over on the evening air.

All around me, the clamor of a rural Fourth of July pounded, and screeched, and shrilled through the air.

I closed my eyes, and slept.

Life Goes On

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One year today.

I have zero regrets about saying goodbye Caspian. Zero. It was time. I did right by him.

And so long as I don’t think about it, it doesn’t actually bother me all that much. My days are full and I’m too busy to dwell on anything, much less things I’d rather not think about. Reverie fills my heart and she keeps me on my toes enough that there’s no time to miss him.

But danged if it isn’t still pretty raw, when I stop moving long enough to remember him and how very good he was.

I miss his canter. I miss his steadiness. I miss his kind eyes, and how very beautiful he was.

It feels like forever ago, and also no time at all.

A Rose By Any Other Name…

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The door slammed open, and there she stood, highlighted in the doorway by the setting sun behind her. For a moment, everything was still.

 

Ravenna DarkEye, they whispered. Assassin. Lone Wolf. No one to trifle with.

 

The slight breeze blew at The DarkEye’s hair, lifting it slightly, but beyond that she could have been a statue. Hers was a cold, dangerous stillness, and everyone knew it.

She moved inside, the door shutting slowly behind her. Her weight balanced easily over the balls of her feet, and her step was silent. Her stride was long, and loose-limbed – hunter’s grace and quiet athleticism in her lean, rangy build.

 

All eyes were on her as the crowd gathered there held their breath. They were motionless, an instinctive freezing- the hare before the hunting fox. This was a formidable, capable woman.

 

Ravenna reached the front, leaning one-elbowed on the counter. The shopkeep behind it swallowed, the sound eerily loud in the unnatural silence.

 

“Can I…. can I help you?”

 

“Coffee.” Ravenna paused, staring hard, and then added, “Black. Strong.”

 

Everyone nodded. Of course. Of course a woman like this would take her coffee black. None of that sissy stuff, not for a warrior such as she—

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?”

“What? Oh. Oh, sorry, I was daydreaming. Hi.”

“Welcome to Starbucks! What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a grande salted caramel latte, but can I substitute white mocha instead of the regular mocha?”

“Of course.”

“And only half sweet please – just 2 pumps of toffee nut, and two pumps of white mocha….and instead of regular milk, can you make it breve, – with the half and half?”

“Certainly! That will be –“

“Oh! I almost forgot. Can I get it in a venti cup instead of a grande cup, so I can extra, extra whipped cream?”

“Of course.”

“Name on the cup?”

“Becky Bean.”

“Oh my gosh, what an absolutely adorable name! I love it! Becky Bean! It sounds like a character from a book.”

“Thanks. I always thought it sounded like the comedic sidekick, or something. But it suits me. You got the extra, extra whipped cream part, right?”

“Yup!”

“Thanks.”

How Not to Write a Book

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The Crappy Dragon Book is really coming along.

Mel and I are a pretty good team. . Oh, sure, we’re still in that butterflies and rainbows “dating” part of our work relationship.  I get that.  Still, we work well together. Our strengths/weaknesses really compliment each other.

I think in a perfect world she and I could regularly churn out 3-4 books a year.  I’m not just saying that – I know exactly how much work goes into a book.  The thing is, there’s a lot of forward momentum when you have someone to regularly brainstorm with, and it’s easier to avoid dead ends with two sets of eyes.  Also, we both type fast.  I’m not sure where she is, but I know that when I know what I want to write, I can churn out a clean 2-3,000 words in under two hours. Most of my blog posts take me about 30-45 minutes, from beginning to end.

Three to four books a year is actually a low estimate of what we could do, in a perfect world. I’m taking into account that we would have to plot out and write new books every single year, year after year, and lowering the number accordingly.

I mean, drive is not a problem.  I can’t stop writing.  Oh, sure, sometimes the words dry up to a trickle, but whenever I go too long without writing, I end up narrating things in my head.  The words are there, and they demand an outlet.

Drive is obviously not a problem with Mel, either.  I mean, she doesn’t just run.  She runs ultras.  And she doesn’t just run ultras…. oh no.  No, that’s not hard enough.

I kid you not, the woman just posted something about how she wishes she could run a 200 mile race.

A.

Two.

Hundred.

Mile.

Race.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER?!  I don’t even like driving that far without plenty of snacks, and a book on tape, and a really good reason.

So, yeah.  We could do it, in a perfect world.  Easy peasy.

There’s just one problem with that:

We don’t live in a perfect world.

Mel and I both have full time jobs.  We both have kids.  We both have animals we need to care for, and husbands who want love and attention, and house stuff that goes awry.

The truth is, whenever I had this mental image of me for-real working on a book, it always looked so peaceful, so creatively serene.  The light would filter in through the windows, afternoon sun filtered into a golden haze.  The breeze would stir the curtains slightly, casting shadows against the art on the wall.  There’d be a meaningful paperweight sitting at the corner of my desk, from which I would draw inspiration when times got tough.  I’d be sitting at some kind of giant mahogany desk, leaning back in my chair with my brow furrowed.  My head would be tipped back and I’d gaze at the ceiling as I fought to find the right word, the right descriptor, the right plot twist……. and then, suddenly, everything would click into place. I would nod my head decisively, bend forward over the keyboard, and my fingers would begin to fly as the world that lived in my mind spilled forward into living words.

Can’t you just see it? Isn’t it beautiful?

Yeah.

That is NOT what real life writing looks like at all… at least not for me.

Here is a list of real-life issues that have occurred while Mel and I were working on the book:

  • Sorry, BRB, I need to go clean up kid vomit.
  • Sorry, BRB, my car is crashed.
  • Sorry, BRB, gotta cook dinner for the kids.
  • Sorry, BRB, I need to go hose puke off the car seat.
  • Sorry, BRB, friend died
  • Sorry, BRB, there is diarrhea all over the couch.
  • Sorry, BRB, I need to go run a 100 mile race.
  • Sorry, BRB, goats are puking.
  • Sorry, BRB, dying family member.
  • Sorry, BRB, all four kids are fighting.
  • Sorry, BRB, haven’t slept in two days.
  • Sorry, BRB, my mom broke her leg.
  • Sorry, BRB, computer broke.
  • Sorry, BRB, gotta operate on a cat.

actual photo from one of our Facebook plotting sessions

 

Author life: It’s such a glamorous life.

On Writing and Horse Bootcamp

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This blog has been oddly silent.

I mean, I’ve never been the most dedicated poster, but lately I’ve been even quieter than usual.

This is because I’m writing.

I know. “Sorry I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been writing” is a weird excuse, but it’s the truth. In a perfect world I could manage to write and do regular blog posts at the same time, but the truth is I’m not very good at typing on phones anymore. I miss phones with real keyboards – I can’t write effortlessly on these new-fangled contraptions like I used to. It ends up being 90% typos, and fixing it is more trouble than it’s worth. I try voice to text, but it usually ends up gibberish…. so I find myself waiting to write until I’m sitting down by a real keyboard.

Of course, once I’m sitting in front of a real keyboard, I always ask myself: do I want to write a blog post, or do I want to write something that will eventually earn me money?

I know, I know. Some people want to publish because of lofty dreams and aspirations. That’s not me.

I’m not saying that I’m entirely mercenary. I write because the words bubble up inside me and explode out in unhealthy ways unless I let them spill out like lifeblood on paper.

That’s why I write.

Publishing, on the other hand, is a whole different ballgame. I want to publish because

I’m not dumb – I know I won’t make a ton of money. Still, it’d be nice if I could make enough to do little projects around the farm. Maybe I’ll name my books after my hopes and aspirations?

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

Anyways, I’m writing. And for once, I actually have a pretty good feeling that it’s going to be done sooner rather than later. This is all because of a Facebook ad that I stumbled across a couple of months ago. I can’t remember exactly which book it was trying to sell me, but even if I did I probably wouldn’t say… and that’s because I want to be honest about it without hurting anyone’s feelings. And here’s the honest truth:

Holy crap, the writing was AWFUL. It was some kind of dragon story, and the excerpt was so horrible I downloaded a sample. People would shout things wincingly (<– I’m not making that up. “…he shouted, wincingly” was honestly part of the book.) The plot was confusing and cliche, all at once.  The grammar was all over the place, and the whole thing was just… just WOW. It was bad. It was really, really bad.

It also had 4 star reviews from several hundred people, which meant that it was selling pretty well.

If you’re curious how that is even possible, it’s because there’s a science behind independent publishing, and if you churn out a book every 30 days you can beat the Amazon algorithm, and then if you give some of your books away for free, people will respond favorably.  Once you  get the 50 review minimum Amazon will start recommending the book to people, and…..

And if you’re really interested in learning more, there are better blogs than mine to explain about it.

I sent a screenshot of the book (even the cover had problems!) over to Melinda over at Dr. Mel Newton. “Look at this! This is awful! We could write ten times the book, without even proofreading it once.”

We laughed, and then went on with our day.

The reason I shared it with her is that she’s kind of an awful human being.

I mean, she’s really the best kind of human being, but she’s just awful in that she actually follows through on stuff.

She’s like that kid in high school who does all their homework before they watch TV… only they’re not actually going to ever sit down and watch TV, because they’re off learning how to play classical piano, and eating only salads and lean grilled chicken.  You kind of like them, because they’re the best people ever, but also you don’t’ want to hang out with them too much because you can’t relax on the sofa with three ice cream sandwiches and binge watch Grey’s Anatomy.

Although, now that I think about it, I never binge watched TV in high school. What did I do? I guess I binge read Dragonrider of Pern books? It’s getting to the point I don’t even remember what life was like without chasing after a pack of kids.

Anyways, in case you think I’m making this up, here’s proof:

Back in 2015 I went to a writing conference. I attended a couple of “how to write magazine articles and make money” classes and came away with some great notes. I’ve shared those notes with a couple of people. We all agreed it was really good advice.

I’m not sure any of us ever did anything with them, but seriously – it was super advice! It was just the best advice.

When I found out that Mel was looking to do more nonfiction writing, I shared the notes with her.

“Oh, that’s great!” she said. “Thank you!”

And then she did something really weird.

She actually went and DID all the stupid advice I sent her.  Like, immediately.

Ick.  Who does that?

As a result started getting picked up by Equus (a very big name horse magazine) and having people regularly buy her columns, and just… I bet she went out and ate a big bowl of salad and went for a run in celebration. Oh, that’s right, she probably did do that, because she regularly runs 100 mile ultras.

Sigh.  She’s not even human, I swear.

Still, she’d enjoyed the advice so much I sent her some fiction tips. Once again, she expressed a ton of gratitude, and went off and PLOTTED AN ENTIRE BOOK.

Everyone who knows anything about writing knows that you’re just supposed to dabble, and endlessly revise the first 30%, and never actually finish anything. I mean, duh.

Anyways, one evening as I was having trouble falling asleep, I started thinking about this wish list, and how much I wished that I actually could do Tinder For Writers and find someone to collaborate with.

And then I remembered the crappy dragon book, and I got an idea.

The next morning I got up, and started writing an email to Mel. In the subject line I typed “A Really Good Bad Idea”. In the body of the email, I basically said “Do you remember that crappy dragon book? Dude. We could do that. And I’m not just saying it… I mean, we could literally do it.”

And she took me up on it.

And you know what? It’s kind of perfect. We’re both good at what the other person is not-so-good at. We made a list of ideas, and we chose to start off with…

Wait for it…..

Crappy Dragon Book.

Yes, that’s it’s current working title. No, that’s probably not the title we’ll eventually publish it under. There’s still a lot of behind the scenes work to do between now and a finished book, but it’s actually really, really working. I stay up in the evening and vomit a bunch of ideas and scene suggestions onto a document, and then she shows up in the early morning and basically turns into the annoyed robot from Wall-E and sweeps it all up into some kind of format and works on it… and then we go back and forth and back and forth.

And now we’ve got the thing, like, 80% plotted and have about 20k words in it. I kid you not, I’ll be very surprised if we don’t have a finished product by January.

So, yeah. I’ve been writing. I just haven’t been writing here.

Anyways, now that you know what I’ve been doing with all of my “free time”. As for what else I’ve been doing, I’ve been pretty busy. Last week Carrots had some laminitis, so I sat there and imagined the worst.

By Friday she was visibly limping, horribly uncomfortable while standing, refused to do more than nibble at her meds, and I steeled myself for the worst.

When the vet showed up on Saturday morning, she walked right up to the fence, no trace of a soreness, no heat in her legs, barely registerable digital pulse, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. She nickered happily.

I glared in relief, which I didn’t even know was possible to do until that moment.

That pony is just…. She’s kind of too perfect.

So she’s on a diet now and on an exercise regimen. Last night we moved the goats in with her, and it’s been very entertaining to watch. I figured she could use the company, because Reverie went off to boot camp yesterday.

Here’s the thing with Reverie – if she’s not the smartest horse I’ve ever worked with, she’s in close running. I don’t say that as a compliment – I kind of like dumb, happy-go-lucky horses.

Reverie is not lazy and dumb and happy-go-lucky. Reverie is sweet, and loving…..and eerily intelligent and easily bored.

She’s also alpha – very, very alpha. The good news is that she’s a nice alpha, not one of those bitchy mares that takes joy in ordering others around. She just stands her ground and doesn’t like to give in when another horse heckles her. She’s also sweet natured at heart.  She’ll trot away from a giant pile of food to meet me at the gate to let me scratch on her (IT’S SO NICE HAVING A HORSE THAT ENJOYS BEING SCRATCHED ON!!!).  She’s also happy to accept my leadership – I’m sure we’ll have battles in the future, but for the most part she doesn’t challenge me too much.

PHEW.

The bad news is that she’s alpha enough that she’s been ordering Carrots around for several months now. I think the passing of the baton happened some time right after her first birthday, and I just can’t help but think that it’s an absolutely horrible thing for a yearling to grow up thinking she runs the entire world, and that everyone 4-legged needs to get out of her way.

So, I contacted my farrier – Rose. Rose is amazing, and runs a happy, healthy herd. She has a bunch of Appaloosas she’s owned almost since birth, and a tiny herd of rescue minis that were all foundered and lame enough to put down, that she nursed back to health. She came with a trailer and I walked Reverie over and loaded her in.

By “loaded her in” I mean I made a complete hash of the job, and I’m too embarrassed to talk about it, but Reverie doesn’t phased at all by my ineptness (I swear, I used to know how to handle horses.) and I resolve to do much better in the future. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that for today.

Anyways, when we arrived at her place and unloaded Reveri, she looked around alertly, paused at the entrance, and hopped neatly down.

One of Rose’s appaloosas whinnied hello – a high, bright tenor.

Reverie raised her head and answered back in her deep, almost stallion-like baritone.

I walked her over and let her sniff through the fence – there was no squealing or striking – just a lot of intense interest.

Aside from a rare glimpse of a neighbor’s horse when I walk her in the lower pasture, she hasn’t seen another horse since January, when Caspian was put to sleep. (One of these days I’ll get around to owning a trailer.)

I was surprised that she didn’t seem as short as I thought she would – I guess she really is growing up. She was still literally less than half as wide as Rose’s foundation bred Appaloosas (who are all GORGEOUS), so she’s not that big yet.

Eventually, once the excitement had calmed down, we turned her loose. Ears pricked, she floated out in a graceful, delicate trot straight at the big horses, neck arched, eyes bright. She moves like poetry.

She made a beeline straight for the alpha mare, reached her neck out as if to sniff at her, then suddenly pinned her ears, planted her front hooves, and double barrelled the alpha mare straight in the chest.

C-RACK, went Reverie’s hooves, as they made impact with the much larger mare’s chest.  I couldn’t believe my eyes. To be honest, I’m pretty sure the only reason it made contact was because Rose’s big mare couldn’t believe her eyes either. Did she just….. Did she really just…..?!?!?!?!

It was a little bit like taking your 11 year old scrawny pre-teen out for a nice dinner and as soon as you turn your back, your kid strides right up to some giant thug on the corner – the one with the tattoos and the hard eyes – and ineffectually shoves at their chest, telling them to “Get off my corner. This is my neighborhood now.”

Luckily, Rose’s mare and I were on the exact same page.

And thus began Reverie’s schooling.

The neat thing was, none of the horses were particularly mean about it. When I worked up at the ranch we had a large herd of 40-50, all divided up in different paddocks (or sometimes running altogether). Horses can be downright cruel sometimes. Rose’s herd could have been much, much meaner with their discipline. They didn’t corner her or kick unnecessarily. They just decided to push her all over the property, whether she wanted to go or not.

We’re trotting….

We’re trotting…..

We’re trotting in total unison….

Oh, crap! I didn’t see you there. My bad. I’ll just….I’ll just go around you.

Ack! With emphasis! I’ll go around you with emphasis! Sorry!

If she refused to move out in a submissive enough way, she got a double barrel kick in her direction.

Oh, are you over there? Well. I want to be over there now. SO MOVE, little snotty red horse.

I would feel sorry for her, but honestly, these were foundation appaloosas, and while powerful, they weren’t exactly moving at the speed of sound. Reverie only got kicked once, and that was because she tried to stand her ground and let it happen.

Even when she was trotting off, she didn’t look very repentant. In fact, she looked like she was enjoying the heck out of herself.

Okay, maybe she is looking at me for a little backup in this pic.

I mean, look up at that last pic. That is not a horse who is having a bad time, despite the fact that in that pic she has 8 horses trotting after her.

Despite the action shots, the whole thing was pretty low key, and by the time I left, everyone had settled down.

Reverie was exploring the place with an unbelievable enthusiasm. I did feel a bit guilty about that – I know she has been bored, but I didn’t realize she was that bored. The look on her face as she navigated the hills and explored the different terrain made me feel a bit sad for her.

We are in the process of fencing in the lower pasture – it will be done by next spring, and I will probably even have the upper part fenced off for light grazing by the middle of September. Still, up till now, Reverie has been 100% bored stiff. She’s in a dirt paddock with a stodgy old pony who has no sense of playing. I gave her things to play with, but she’s not mouthy and doesn’t really enjoy that. I did consider letting her play with the goats, but I am not entirely convinced playing with the goats would result in happy, not-hurt goats. The few times she’s been able to herd cats in the paddock, she’s enjoyed herself a little too intensely. I could see her happily herding goats to death, or trying to engage in a fun little kicking fight. Maybe when she’s older? We’ll see.

I was pretty impressed at how brave she was with terrain. At one point she was exploring a lower area that was blocked with a bunch of scrub brush. She walked up to it, and picked her head up high to see if she could see over.

She couldn’t, so she busted right through it.

CRASH CRACKLE SNAP, went all the brush as she disappeared.

Rose’s herd stared at her, horsey eyebrows raised.

“That’s mostly stinging nettle”, commented Rose.

CRASH CRACKLE SNAP, went all the brush, and Reverie came out the other side, tail flicking in annoyance at the welts rising on her skin…. and with a giant, tomboy grin on her face. Well, alrighty then. I guess she’ll be okay on trail?

Anyways, that’s where Reverie is right now – learning how to play nicely with the other horses, and take orders, and share her toys on the playground.

Scat, Reverie

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Hey, Reverie. Yeah, I see you sweetie. You just need to back off for a bit, okay? You can’t share Carrots’ grain. I mean, even on a normal day I want you eating out of your own bucket, but right now hers definitely has too many medicines in it. I’m just going to stand guard till she finishes it.

Yes, you look pitiful. No, I’m not changing my mind. Scat.

Yeah, see, where I come from “vaguely turning your head to the side while giving me sideye” does not constitute a “scat”.

I’m sorry, did I use too many words? The basic underlying definition of “scat” means “get further away from me”, not “try to get as close as you can with a soft, sad expression.”

Why, yes. Yes, that is Finn. And no, I’m not buying your sudden intense interest in the 3-year-old. You and I both know that as soon as I move away, you’re going to dive headfirst into the grain pan that you’ve “forgotten” all about. Yes, I just waved my hands in the air with sarcastic quotes around the word “forgotten. It’s a human thing – you wouldn’t understand.

What you can understand, right now, is that scat means move. So, you know, move. Away.

Yeah, nope. “Move Away” does not mean “move to the other side of the pony and try for the grain again.” Nice try, though. Keep on moving, sister.

Oh heeeee-double-hockey-sticks-NO.
Uh uh.
No you did NOT.
You did not just subtly angle your butt towards me and give me that pissy body language. Uh-uh. Nope. I don’t think so, girlfriend.

I hope you like moving, because this was just going to be a 3 minute scat thing, but now it’s going to be a whole session.

That’s right, pissy pants. Move.
(And yes, Finn. I see you, “wunning with Wevewie.” That’s such a wewy, wewy, bad idea. I’m gonna have to ask you to stop when I notice it in a few laps.)

(Insert joke about chestnut mares)

Okay, but for real. Why are horses prettier when they’re being total snots? Did I just bond unnecessarily hard with some evil-eyed carousel horse at Disneyland or something? Why can’t I get that fluttery feeling looking at a placid-eyed horse in a stall? What is wrong with me?

That’s a vaguely better expression, but not good enough. Keep moving. In fact, why don’t you turn around and go to the right.

Yes, yes, I know you prefer to do everything in a half rear levade thingie. Impressive.
Now go left.

Nice, but your eyes still look..,.I dunno. Not kind? Keep going.

Holy moly, you’re beautiful. Like…. like seriously. Wow. You totally fill my eye. How are you only a yearling and already so gorgeous?! You are 13.2 hands of absolutely perfection. Someone who desperately wants their next show horse is gritting their teeth in frustration at my luck, while I’ve got you ungroomed and just hanging around in my backyard, jogging through poo piles. Ah, well. Such is life. I have to admit, you’re pretty enough that you kind of make me want to take you to shows, although I’d probably end up throwing dirt clods at anyone who points out your supposed faults.

Maybe it’s better if I don’t take you to shows. I don’t think I want to be known as Dirt Clod Becky in the Morgan showing world. Still – golly, you’re pretty.

Oh, are you trying to say you’re sorry? Are you all calm and submissive and wanting to “join up”? Are you lowering your head and asking to be my friend and… HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA – Oh, man. Sorry. Sorry, I’m out of breath from laughing so hard. Reverie, I was not born yesterday, and I have lived with you for almost a year. You are such a dirty liar. Don’t you dare start slowing down.
**Insert kissy noise**
I said MOVE.

Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. What happened to that soft, sweet, totally apologetic filly from three strides ago? LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE, that’s what. Now, move.

Mmm hmmm. Don’t you wish you were over here, getting scratched and loved on, instead of moving out in endless boring circles? Well, maybe you should have thought twice about talking back to me with your butt earlier, hmm?

Keep going.

That’s a much better expression. Good girl. Please turn around.

That’s a good girl on the side, too. I love that look on you – listening, respectful, but still enjoying yourself. I believe that expression a lot better than your earlier pretend head skating.

Okay, I’m gonna get closer, just to make sure you can still be polite with a little bit of pressure. Turn around, please.

Very good girl. Now, turn around and see if the right side of you is still in a better mood, too. I need to make sure both RightReverie and LeftReverie are in agreement.

You are gorgeous when you gallop, but you don’t have to run if you don’t want to. We could do this at a walk if you wanted.

Excuse me. Yes, I know Carrots is over there, but I’m over here. Kindly pay attention to me.

Much better.

Gorgeous, inside and out.

There you go – good girl. See, now that’s a face I believe. Turn around again, please, one last time. Does your left side still remember how to be a nice, respectful filly?

Oh, good. Good, it has. It looks like you’re good, through and through. You may stop, whenever you want. All pressure is off.

(Literally every single time I set aside a weekend to clean the paddock this summer, it has poured and made everything wet and super heavy. Every. Single. Time….. which is why I now have photos like this. I shall title this one: Million Dollar Dream Horse Standing Proudly On Poopie Mountain.)

But seriously, very good girl. Stand there for a moment, so you don’t think you can run at me every time I take off pressure….. okay. Good. Would you like to come over for a scratch?

I’ll take that as a yes. I love you too, girl.