It's All in the Delivery

Dewey's Nemesis. Effing Fed Ex. If you're a rider on a young tall horse, and you're riding next to the road, Fed Ex will find you. Fed Ex will test your skills at staying on and controlling your horse when he turns and tries to run the other way. I don't know if Dewey got a bad package once. A letter bomb. Some sort of hate mail. Because when he sees Fed Ex he knows DANGER. Fed Ex has the biggest, whitest, rattliest trucks on the road. Fed Ex is not going to slow down. They are Federal EXPRESS. They are in a hurry. Young thoroughbreds do not enjoy a big rattly white monster coming at them at 45 miles an hour on our road. I always put my cowboy blinders on and scan the road for the white monster. The delivery hell. Delivering me from my spinning and terrified horse to the hard ground. I keep a watch. You can hear me mutter, out on the trail, when I see it coming. F**cking Fed Ex... And turning my horse into the nearest driveway or getting off and making space. Dewey can do space between him and the evil. Just can't do bearing down, rattling, speeding, white vision of hell. We never wave at FedEx.

On the mountain, with Fed Ex at a safe distance, Dewey thinks. Someday. I will get a delivery I like.

Saddle Up

So I got a new old saddle for $150 bucks after selling my Aussie saddle since it was too wide for Dewey anyway, and I like to switch things up. I decided a Big Horn half synthetic saddle could be my western lightweight alternative, and it's been fun to try. I like to worry about the saddle fit, and then make the blanket match the saddlebags (I guess I am a girl in some ways), and I like to take Dewey out for the nice walk through the neighborhood trail because it's quiet and no one is talking to me and I see birds flying and I get to test my skills if Dewey gets nervous. But either turning 8 is making him mature, or we've just been lucky the last few months, because Dewey is becoming a laid back guy. He'll do whatever I ask, he's seemed to stop throwing in the occasional buck and stopped being wary of things. Now if he's worried about something on the path, he'll stop and we'll both look at it and then we'll keep going, or I'll get off and walk him past it, or we'll just give it a little more space so he feels comfortable. The riding is giving me a place to put all the stress of summer. The kids have only been back in school for a week but I'm still dumping all the activity and food preparation for those two months of sunup to sundown service out on the trail. I've been too tired to actually do the big trail that requires walking over a huge hill to get there. It's the more beautiful trail, it has water and large empty space. For now I'm just doing an hour ride a day, walking around trying out the different saddle. Letting my mind wander. I will get back to writing and doing work. Getting to ride Dewey is the one place I don't have to do anything else except ride Dewey, and contemplate things.

Saddle Up

Sold my Aussie saddle, and going to try a big horn synthetic western saddle. We'll see. Just wanted something lightweight that I can climb on and off on trails and won't kill my butt or his back. Kids going back to school and then I'll be working too so do I ever actually get to ride? Maybe my riding is less than I want, but I do GET to ride, and I get to have this tiny farm and the future hopefully will be more time on a porch sitting and looking out at rolling green hills. Dewey has still managed to get out every other day mostly, even in this busy summer. But it will be nice to spend a little more time less harried and slower. Horse time is stolen time.

A Road Less Travis

Did I mention the sheep is a pain in the ass? Dewey loves the sheep. No sheep, he seriously freaks out if Travis is somewhere out of his eyesight. So Travis doing his job. Filled the job of best friend. Company. If Travis is laying by the fence, a cottony lump at rest, Dewey is standing near him, head lowered. We used to have sheep here that ran away if you looked at them. Travis is more the bust into the barn type. If you come out to the barn, he comes running over. If you open a door, he says thank you, I will go in first. He's like a hundred pound hunk of solid wool bashing into everything. He is a ram. His style is knock it over, ask questions later. He would kill for hands. As it is, if he wants to break into something, he knocks it over, paws at it, attacks it basically with his face. But if I get him out of the chicken house, let's say, where he has escaped and is ransacking it like he's on the SWAT team, all I have to do is grab the top of his wooly neck and he comes along with me peacefully. Like hey, where ya been. Sure I'll go. Sorry. Sorry I made this huge mess. Just foolin around.

I'm Not the Only One Who's Nuts

The f**ing squirrels. It isn't enough that they raid my chicken house. They started eating the chicks. Not eating them like, cleaning their plate and leaving a nice tip. They just eat the head off. They leave it for me to find, like a calling card. Like a challenge. Like WE DID THIS. What are you going to do about it? So now they're caged in behind wire at night. And then I start checking my chicken house a billion times so I can get the eggs before they do. I plug every hole, so they can't get in. I open the door and there's a chicken on the nest doing her low warning crrrrrrrr when she sees me and there in front of her is a dumbass squirrel just waiting there with his tail twitching, he's just standing there like he's at the drive thru. He knows his food is coming. Dammit! So I put poison under the tack room and blocked all the holes there and there should be a serious Jonestown going on under there with I hope every squirrel on earth. Today I walked out and no death. First thing in the morning. Chicks all safe. Now to tackle the flea issue. Maybe animals are the dumbest thing to do. But the eggs are good. And the dog is good company. But we could have gone to Europe on the time I've spent problem solving out here. But we live here. So I made living here as fully invested in the land as I could. Earth is solid. Living things are lively. Flea bombs now. Europe later. Send me a postcard and a Xanax, cause that's the future of air travel for me.

The Walk

In Santa Monica, growing up, I walked to school. Roosevelt, it was only about 3 long blocks from my house, but it felt like a very long way. I walked by myself, although I'm guessing my brothers were there sometimes. I just don't remember them. Because when I walked, I looked down at all the cracks in the sidewalk, and certain bushes we passed along backyard fences. I didn't think at all about the history of people's houses, or who lived where, my mind wasn't clogged with all the adult busy-ness and loud strutting it likes to do now. It was quiet in there. When I was 8 and I walked I was pretending I was leading my horse behind me. It was too hard to pretend to be riding a horse (required a silly walk) so I was always holding a lead rope, and my horse was just right behind me following along. This year I am 50. I was walking Lilly up to school, on the path she will remember as the long walk to her school. I was thinking about how in the mornings after I drop Lilly, I go home, and if I'm not working, I get Dewey, and walk back up to the park. Up the same path. Same little girl. Walking up to school, about a half hour from where I grew up, not near the beach now, but out near the mountains. In a valley. I'm walking up to school and this time I really do have a horse following behind me. Just like I wanted.

Holy Sheep's Balls

Holy Sheep’s Balls So when we got Travis, he had been banded, which means he was a ram lamb, but we didn’t need him to be a virile breeding sheep, we just needed him to be a mellow buddy sheep. So the farming custom (encouraged and performed by the vet) is to band the baby sheep (or goat) if you want a sheep that is sterile by putting a metal band around the tiny buds of nuts. The blood gets diminished going to that part of the body and eventually, as the vet told me while yawning, it just dries up and falls off. So I’ve been keeping an eye on Travis’s nuts, and they were getting smaller and tougher, but they weren’t falling off. He wasn’t in any pain, he didn’t mind at all when I would check them out and it certainly didn’t stop him from chasing the dog around like an insane dude or eating a ton of hay with Dewey the horse. But it had been 3 months, and she said it should only take about a month. So yesterday I went out and while he was eating hay I just bent down and looked at his little nut sack. It looks like a little cottony furball, so I bent it back and that’s when I saw that it wasn’t attached at all. It was just hanging there like a dried up little purse. It must’ve fallen off a long time ago, but since he’s made of wool, the wool was like Velcro and kept the nuts just stuck there in all the fluff. Like a ballsack matted hair clump. All his manhood erased and just stuck to the top of his leg there. So I pulled the little wooly bag off and then ahhk! I’m holding sheep’s balls. Dried, for your pleasure. Dried fluffy balls. In convenient soft wool covering. I have to say this is the first time this has happened to me. Travis was grateful to be rid of them, I think. He didn’t stop eating to let me know, but his horn buds aren’t growing because he has no testosterone, which will make him happier later, when his horns don’t get stuck in the fence or in the dog or in small children running by. Less balls means Travis will continue to be the silly and affectionate little guy that he already is, with no chance of him ramming us when we bend over like in Shirley Temple movies. Travis is very fond of a nice head scratch, all over body brush, or an old banana peel if you’re feeling generous. Travis runs over yelling HEYYYYYYY in his language when you open the gate and weaves in and out of the horse’s legs because he adores the horse. And he plays tag with the dog. He’s maybe the world’s greatest sheep, and he’s two balls lighter. I told Bess about Travis’s balls that night. I told her maybe I should send the balls to Chris for her birthday. I thought nobody probably thinks to send balls to anyone. Once you’ve held shed sheep parts in your hands, your life becomes radically silly.