The Blob

My day - from Kris

Saturdays are always busy. My job is in demand most often when folks are not at their own jobs.

Today was no exception. I had floor duty at my real estate office for half a day, first thing in the morning, and an appointment in the afternoon. John had promised to transport home a thoroughbred mare we'd just finished breeding to Teme, and then he had hypnosis clients for the rest of the day. Alex was in limbo, not sure which one of us he was going to be forced to accompany, but made it clear if it was up to him he would just stay home and play video games all day.

We were up early. John got the horses fed and drove off with the truck to get the tank filled with gas and the tires filled with air. Alex helped by feeding Teme and his mini-mare, Ripley. I was in charge of breakfast, which these days consists of "green slime" and protein powder. (Don't ask...)

While the boys were busy outside, I picked out my most professional clothes, polished my shoes, ironed my blouse, and then jumped in the shower. The blow-dryer whined as I carefully styled my hair, fluffing it just-so, adding just the right touch of hairspray so it would hold the delicate lift over my bangs. I noticed I needed a hair cut, but with a flip of the brush and a spritz of spray, I got it to look just right. A little touch of makeup and I was ready to go.

I trotted down the stairs and as I passed the open window in the kitchen, I heard a commotion outside. John was not happy. For such a gentle, quiet guy, he has a real knack for turning the air blue. It doesn't happen often, but when he lets loose it can be pretty impressive. I suppose it comes from a long career in the Army, and then another long career as a cop. Four letter words are part of the common vernacular in both of those professions. I have no idea why.

Anyway, I didn't have to spend much time analyzing to figure out what was going on. John's schedule was even tighter than mine, and a balky horse was not on the agenda. She was NOT going to get into the trailer, and in true thoroughbred fashion, she was galloping tight circles around a very frustrated and angry man.

I grinned. This was my specialty. I've yet to find a horse I could not eventually coax into a trailer. Some take longer than others, but a lifetime of practice and a dozen or so clinics had earned me some confidence in this area.

I was needed. My heart swelled two sizes.

I was dressed for success, not for loading an upset horse. To save my nice clothes, I simply donned my horsehair-covered barn jacket and buttoned it tight. I was pulling on my leather gloves as I marched out to the trailer.

"Take a deep breath, John..." I admonished, trying not to sound as condescending as I felt. "She's obviously frightened. Here, give her to me." John hung his head and gave me a sheepish grin.

"I think she scared me a little," he admitted.

It takes a secure man to admit such a thing. Both of us are pretty level headed people, but both of us tend to demonstrate anger when we are actually afraid. It is a very valuable thing to be aware of. I suspect it is something all cops learn to do...after all, you NEVER show fear on the job. It's just not done. Not to your co-workers and certainly not to the citizenry. Frankly, you don't even show it to yourself. You can't afford to. One of the advantages of marrying someone who has also been on the job is that you understand little things like that.

I took deep breath and let it out in a loud blow. In horse language, that means, "hey..it's okay. You can relax now." She heard me loud and clear. True to her predicable species, she stopped jigging, dropped her head and let me scratch her neck.

We stood there a couple seconds simply breathing together. When I thought she was ready, I asked her to take a step toward the trailer. She complied. Then I turned her and lead her a few steps away, both of our backs to the trailer door. In horse language I just said, "hey... just move toward our goal a little bit, and I will reward you with a release of stress about the whole idea." She immediately relaxed and put her attention on the new spring grass. I continued to blow with my breath, forcing the air out as loud as I could, watching as her upset visibly dissolved. At this point I was feeling quite smug.

Alex was holding the trailer door steady, watching. He looked at John and said, "She really likes grain. How about we get some grain and lead her in with it?"

As the adult, all-knowing parents, we smiled tolerantly at our only offspring and both said, almost simultaneously, "No Alex. That won't work." We'd both witnesses people try for hours to get horses in trailers using the carrot or apple on a stick idea. While it might get them closer, I'd not met a horse yet who's stomach could override their fear of that dark, confined space.

I took my time and inched the mare closer to the trailer. Every willing movement forward was rewarded with a step or two away, as a release. It was taking forever, but we had calm, cooperative progress.

Time was running out. I was getting nervous about being late. I hate being late. I mean, I really hate it. Comes from being publicly humiliated by my high school drama teacher when I was late for a rehearsal. From that day forward, at least up until motherhood changed everything, I was chronically early everywhere I went.

I was not going to be early today.

The mare was happy to munch the new grass, and was pretty calm by this time. I knew we would succeed, but I had no idea how long it was going to take. Alex looked a bit bored and tired of the whole thing. He looked at John and said, "Dad, would you hold the door?"

John took door duty, and Alex marched off toward the barn. The mare, startled at the movement, lifted her dark, lovely head. I quickly stepped forward to pet her neck, cooing reassurance to her.

At that moment, she turned her head and met mine with her fuzzy mouth. Her big horse lips gently brushed my forehead. As she pulled away, a huge blob of green horse spit stayed with me, oozing down my face and my freshly blown and styled doo. Globs of saliva quickly smeared my glasses from the inside. I was completely blinded by freshly masticated grass and mouth slime.

"ACK!" I shouted, startling the mare. One huge thoroughbred leap sideways, and we were both a dozen feet from the trailer. My hands stung through my leather gloves, but I didn't let go.

Alex came back with a bucket full of grain. I was too distracted to pay much attention as I tried desperately to clear my glasses of the frightening sticky-green slug that was trying to eat my eyeballs. Alex climbed into the front of the trailer and began to shake the bucket.

This poor, frightened mare, who, seconds earlier was too scared to get within five feet of the trailer door, marched up to the ramp like she'd done it every day of her life, put a foot on the wood planks, hesitated for about a millisecond, then stepped right in and walked all the way to Alex's outstretched offering. Her head immediately disappeared into the bucket.

John quietly closed the door behind us. I petted her for a bit, but her attention was happily elsewhere. Alex gave me that look... the one that teenagers give their parents when they first suspect that their parents may actually be idiots. I certainly felt the part.

I eased out of the trailer, John still standing guard at the door. I slipped out and he locked it closed behind me. I turned to him to talk about what Alex had just done. He looked at my face, and suddenly started turning red. He was trying SO hard not to laugh! But seeing a huge blob of green horse slime slowly oozing down your wife's forehead is apparently pretty funny. It was not so funny from where I was standing. Good for him that he was more than an arm's length away.

I was late to the office. Four minutes late to be exact. But it takes a little time to wash lime colored toxic goo from a hairdo. My hair was flat and wet as I drove 80 miles an hour down E470. A rolled down window took care of the wet, but I went from dressed for success, to dressed as a mess.

We won't talk about what I found on my freshly polished shoes when I sat down at my office desk.

I sure am glad my boss has a sense of humor....

-Kris

www.GrandPrixAndalusians.com

Goats, Flies, and Baby Horses

Flies love fresh milk. They don't care if it is spilt on a straw bale or in a meticulously washed bucket. They simply love fresh, sweet milk. Come to think of it, they like old, sour milk too. Our local flies invited all their friends and neighbors to share in the feast. Every fly within a three mile radius is dining at our house this morning.

I hate flies. I mean I really hate them. I keep wondering what impact it would have on the ecosystem if God would only grant me my one wish and make all the flies on the planet disappear. I'm talking genocide here. I should be ashamed at the thought, but I'm not.

Foals like goat milk. Neblina (Spanish for Mist or Fog as she was born in the rain), my two-week old orphan filly, likes her milk fresh and warm. She will stand next to me and my son, watching us with huge brown eyes glowing with anticipation as we milk Annie the big Nubian goat. She is very polite, and will patiently wait for us to pour it directly into her pail. She will suck it down as fast as we can squeeze it out of the goat. She will drink the powdered Foal-Lac milk too, but not with nearly as much gusto as the goat milk. Oh.. and she knows if it has been previously frozen. The frozen stuff we bought from the goat rancher is not nearly as tasty, she says. She'll drink it, but hesitantly. No, she likes it fresh and warm from the goat. She has class...

Dogs like goat milk too. Our miniature pincher lapped up a spilt puddle of milk (yes, I now know where the phrase "no use crying over spilt milk" came from) and now she, too, waits by the milking stand. You can see it on her face, hoping Annie will kick at the pail and provide her with a fresh liquid breakfast. Annie is happy to oblige, the brat! You'll hear me turning the air blue when that happens. And yes, I've even cried about it, though there is no use in doing so. At least, that's what they say. Makes me feel a little better though....

Goats like people. At least Annie the goat does. She misses her herd, and I guess I'm the closest thing to a buddy she has at the moment. She seems to love me. A lot. She cries "MAAAMAAA" really loud when I leave her. I'm sure our neighbors are just thrilled at the noise. But her cries break my heart. Makes me think of my filly's mama every time, like Annie is verbally channeling Neblina's lonely feelings... I get that heart twinge every time I think of my lost golden girl, but I'm not crying so much anymore. I hope Argo is watching me from the ethers and is approving of how Annie and I are handling her mom duties. I miss her. A lot.

Milk goats want to be milked. It must be uncomfortable when that udder gets full. We have to do it, rain or shine. There is no putting it off. Having to milk something without fail twice a day pulls the family together. Picture a young boy child, a milk goat, a little buckskin filly, and a small dog, all watching and waiting for the liquid gold as it slowly fills the pail from those amazingly large, squishy squirt guns. The milk is warm, frothy and white, full of butter fat and live enzymes. Nothing at all like the cow milk from the store. And yes, I've tasted it. I've been putting it in my coffee. I run it through a filter in a funnel and store it in an old orange Gatorade bottle. I've got a supply in my 'fridge. After a couple of days I stopped worrying about whether a fly had bathed in it first or not.

I like milk, even if it's goat milk. For five days now I've been tempted to go to the store and buy a box of surgery kid's cereal. It's been a long time since I've had the pleasure of a good bowl of sweet cereal. Cereal is no good when you can't put milk on it. I've got several boxes of stale year-old cereal taking up space in the pantry. Can't bear to throw them away, for some strange reason. We stopped drinking milk last year after finding out how bad commercial cow milk is for your body (full of hormones and pasteurized to the point it is absolutely dead....). But I can drink fresh goat milk without guilt, so maybe I can eat some cereal now. This milk is alive, and Annie is certainly not getting any outside hormones. I'd better hurry... I'm not going to do this milking thing forever.

My hands don't like milking. They are sore, both the skin and the squeezie muscles. I have to wash them over and over. They are dry, chapped, and icky looking. But, I gotta keep the milk as clean as possible, and my hands are part of that process. I would imagine Anne's teats are sore too. I feel like I'm too rough with her, but she doesn't seem to mind. Unless that is why she is kicking the pail over any chance she gets.

Milking is hard work. But the hardest part is the responsibility. I must get up early to milk the darned goat before anything else. Then do it again in the evening when I go out to feed the horses. Annie gives nearly a gallon a day, one squirt at a time. I am getting faster at it.. but it is still a lot of work. Once the baby is on adult food, it is going to seem really easy to take care of the horses. Maybe that is the gift in this. That, and a live, healthy baby filly.

I keep reminding myself that people have done this for centuries. No wonder they use to die in their late forties...

I need a nap. But I'd better go milk the goat first.

-Kris