Musical Mucking

As of May 1st, on top of being full time trainers and riders, Jonathan and I have become caretakers to eight horses. I had been looking forward to every aspect of running a barn, except for having to muck the stalls. That job has always been hard on our backs, time consuming and just a drag in general. I'm happy to report that the stalls have been fairly easy to keep up, but it's a direct result of the music choices in my Ipod.
We don't have a music system in the barn, yet. So the only choice for tunes have been individual, via the Ipod. Jonathan likes his own tune choices, ie. The Who, Dylan, etc. Old time rock. I've been reaching out to find what makes me muck the fastest and happiest. After several days of experiments, I have a few thoughts on this matter.

I tried using hard rock at first thinking this would make me muck fast and furious. Serious shit pitching and hard tunes would go hand in hand. Nirvana was my first choice. I love Kurt Cobain. He was amazing. On day three, I had the ear buds firmly planted and I was jamming away, clad in my p.j.'s and pink striped rubber boots, flinging shit with the best of them. As I sang the angry lyrics, I was one with the grunge movement, until I looked up and saw that I had visitors...in my barn. Oops. "Hi Guys!", I said sheepishly, yanking the ear buds from my ears. Wow, was my first thought, I look and sound like a complete ass. The visitors turned out to be two guys who work for our landlord and they were here to see if we needed any repairs done. "I think we're good, guys!" I replied with a giggle. They gave me a curious look and headed back to their truck. Good one, I thought to myself and I continued mucking in silence for the rest of the morning.
The next day, I chose to listen to rap, Ice Cube, Bootlegs and Besides to be specific. Old school rap. I know all the lyrics! Fun! I was flinging shit like a bitch that day. When a horse moved toward the doorway, I was all up in their grill like, "Step off bitch! Who you think you are? Fuck that shit!" The horses were edgy, I was feeling a little too, umm, well, hostile. Rap was not a good mucking choice. I'm glad I recognized this before I popped a cap in their asses.
Next day, I opted for my old standby...musicals. As I plugged into "Anything Goes", I had a good feeling. Clutching my pitchfork, I began to sift through the shavings and the intro grabbed my ear. Before I knew it, I was on my second stall! Cole Porter, you are a miracle worker! Two stalls, three stalls and onto the fourth. Wow, it was bliss. I was singing, flinging and twirling my pitchfork. The horses were munching happily on their morning hay, I was performing little skits and getting the stalls cleaned efficiently. Happy, happy stall mucking! Whoo hoo! This was the way to get the barn cleaned!
Today, Gypsy and I did the barn up right. I've been to see Gypsy on Broadway in NYC. So amazing. I sang out loud while throwing the poop. One of our clients appeared unexpectedly, busting me doing an enthusiastic Little June impression in my Long Island housewife black velour leisure pants and pink striped boots. Who cares, I thought, as I plucked out my ear buds and chatted with her. This is good music! She left rather quickly, maybe it was my outfit, or my off key voice? I don't know, but I put Gypsy right back on when she left and before I knew it, Ethel Merman and I were done with the stalls. Show tunes seem to be a splendid way to get through stall mucking, without a tremendous amount of concentration, or effort. Who knew these scores were so mesmerizing?

Tomorrow, it's all about Oklahoma, where the wind goes sweeping down the plains...and the corn is as high as an elephant's eye. Oh boy, I can't wait!

Uncle Blue Jean

This is a painting which has been in our possession for a few years now. It was painted by Jonathan's great uncle, Eugene Hall, or Blue Jean as his relatives called him. No one quite knew what to say while looking at Eugene's artwork while in his presence. It's quite linear, simplistic and cleanly drawn to the point of appearing cartoonish. In fact, one wine filled evening a very good friend of mine and I decided that Eugene was some kind of early visionary for the Farmville phenomenon of FaceBook fame. I don't think that concept would amuse him, but we laughed ourselves blue that night.



Anyway, Eugene passed away in 2006 and Jonathan's parents gave us four of his paintings to remember him by. We had run out of wall space in our current home at the time, so they were propped up against the wall in my office for a couple of years. During that time, my dreadful cat LB (I say this fondly) decided to add his own special medium to them, a little spritz of urine. Bad kitty. So these paintings have been betwixt and between for some time now. Upon moving to our new stable last week, I decided that Blue Jean's painting of the "farm" had a place in the stable loo. It looks PERFECT there! I love it, the customer's love it, and I hope Blue Jean would love the fact that it's being appreciated. Well, maybe he wouldn't be thrilled that his artwork was being hung in the bathroom of a stable, but at least it's being looked at and admired, right? LB's special trademark is clearly visible on the lower right corner. He was tenacious cat with his marking skills. He's no longer of this earth and I only hope that he's met up with Uncle Eugene and made some peace with him for adding his unique urine flair to this work of art. Regardless, we thank you Blue Jean. I'm sorry that it took a few years to find the correct spot for your painting, but it is, indeed, now home.

New Beginnings

What a long strange trip it has been over this last week. Last month, Jonathan and I decided that we needed to lease a farm and get our freelancing horse business a home base. First step was to find a suitable spot. We did it. Second step was to ask our customers if it was an acceptable environment for them. They accepted. Third step, and this was a big one...was to move our entire household and set up a stable on the farm property. Last week, we did it. At least, I think we did, or else I'm living in bizarro world and it's all a crazy dream. Just kidding, though I was numb through much of the last week I do remember moving every single piece of furniture from our old house, arranging it in the new house, moving our precious pets to an adorable two bedroom cottage on the farm property and setting up an entire stable. The kitty picture is of my most adorable Miss Girl, who settled into her new casa with the aplomb of a mature lady. Miss Girl is not only gorgeous, but she is delightfully adaptable, especially for a cat. As long as there is food and a comfy spot to rest, she is at home. She was photographed waiting for the main course on the dining room table. Some people might find this disgusting, I, on the other hand, run to grab my camera and capture this most endearing moment. Don't worry future dinner guests, I always change the tablecloth before serving you a meal (or at least that is my story and I'm sticking to it). The third picture is of a little bunny friend that Mia, my teensy black and white kitty invited over to "play" on her first morning out in her new yard. I was in my office signing our lives away on an insurance policy to protect our business, when Jonathan called to me, "Michele, Mia brought you a housewarming present and I trapped it in the shower. I'm going back outside now. Have fun!" My shoulders slumped. I walked to the bathroom with a feeling of dread. Was it another mouse? A snake? Yikes. No, it was super cute little tiny bunny rabbit! "Oh Mr. Bunny," I said in a gentle voice. "Don't worry special friend. I will snare you painlessly and release you back into the wild." Poor Mr. Bunny was very nervous, but I gently encouraged him to hop his unmaimed cotton-tailed self into a large wicker basket. He accomodated my request and was rewarded with a short trip out to the backyard where I gave him a chance to hop away and hopefully, find a safe haven from Mia's bloodthirsty fangs. I breathed a sigh of relief and prayed that Mia wasn't spying on us from a nearby window. One more animal placed into my special version of the "Edel Wildlife Relocation Protection Program". Hop, bunny, hop!

The first picture is of the first horse to arrive at our new farm on Saturday morning. The lovely Lalique, a gentile chestnut Oldenburg mare owned by one of our wonderful clients. Ahh, finally the stable was taking shape and just seeing her happy expression made the entire week of lifting, groaning, worrying, rabbit relocation and random cursing seem totally worth the effort. Here's to JEM Stables, LLC and it's new home base folks. Who knew I'd ever volunteer to get back on the business end of a wheelbarrow and even more impressive, like it! Off to take more Advil now and then do barn check. Whoo hoo!

Up my Alley

Last week I had the pleasure of going to listen to David Sedaris read from some of his latest short stories. It was an impromptu arrangement, over dinner with friends his book tour came up.
"Do you have any interest in seeing David Sedaris?" our dinner guest said.

I nearly dropped the large bowl of potato salad I was carrying when I heard this question being posed to my husband. Flying around the corner of the living room, I stifled a squeal and instead replied in a calm, erudite manner, "Of course we'll go. That would be fabulous." As fate would have it, my husband fell ill with a dreadful flu on the day of the big event. All day I kept asking him if he thought he'd feel well enough to come with us. Through clenched teeth he finally told me that he felt so sick that his eyeballs hurt. I took that as a no and our friends made arrangements to give his ticket to someone, who had fully operative, pain-free eyeballs.

The theater was packed with an ecclectic mix of people, older, younger, goth-y, preppy, grungy. You name it. It really showed me that David Sedaris has an extremely broad audience who admire his quirky wit and wisdom. He's a lucky son of a bitch. When he took the stage, I noted that he has the physical appeal of a brown paper bag. Truly. He's small, slight, with pale skin. light brown hair and a somewhat shy speaking voice that stuttered just enough at the beginning to make me a little nervous for him. However, soon enough his sentences blended together into whacky tales, with just the right amount of curses which caused you to think of this modest, delicate man as a demi-god of comic intelligence. The dry delivery is his calling card. He will say the most offensive thing, but in such a calm, unaffected tone so even your grandma would be comfortable hearing it. She might even giggle.

When I returned home that evening, my husband was in much better spirits. His plague had released it's grip over his body and eyeballs. Of course, he wanted me to recap the evening's entertainment. I tried to recant some of the funnier stories, but somehow in my excitable, jumbled voice the humor was nearly untraceable. David Sedaris is blessed with a gift. A disturbing imagination + bland appearing, yet subtly eloquent style = Major Success. Only people with an oddball aspect to their character appreciate this particular style. I feel lucky to fall into that category, because if you can't laugh about a female Irish Setter, who is 1/8th Spaniel and has a penchant for salty language, what can you laugh about?

An Experiment Gone Wrong

Last week while browsing the crunchy cat food section at Tractor Supply (or Tractor Town, as I like to call it), I found an interesting new type of cat food. It's based on a natural approach to feeding cats, as if they wanted the same diet as large cats ie: cougars, pumas, etc. My interest was piqued so I did my first pre-purchase criteria check, price. It was affordable. Second check, read the ingredients. Contains venison, smoked salmon, sweet potato (big cats want sweet potato?), greens, and the big clincher-NO GRAINS. It sounded so good that Jonathan and I might want to set a bowl of kibble out at a party for snacking, like a healthy version of Chex Mix. Anyone who has put effort into buying a "healthy" food for their pet knows that the pet food pro's all poo poo foods with grains. They deem it filler, no nutritional value, blah, blah, blah. I admit that I've been brainwashed by these food gurus, so like a zombie I am always scouting out a better food for the animals that won't force me to go into debt. This food seemed like the best of both worlds, so I dashed off to the cash register and gleefully purchased it.

Jonathan's reaction to my excited description of this food was a classic Jonathan speech. Let me try to convey it: "You're feeding the cat's deer meat? These are house cat's, Michele. They eat Fancy Feast and an occasional mouse. Marble's isn't watching the local deer herd go by, dreaming of sinking her fangs into their flesh. The cats aren't pumas, Michele. I could understand putting rabbit into a cat food, but venison? For real? What is so bad about feeding them grains? We feed the horse's grain, right? What is this company thinking? The whole pet food industry is a scam. I should make a new cat food. Lion's Pride. Get it? Lions PRIDE, double entendre there. It will have gazelle and antelope marrow. And it will cost $150 dollars a bag. We'll be rich! Do what you want, but this sounds crazy to me."

Upon hearing this speech, I did reflect that it might be a tad odd to feed house cat's deer meat fortified food, but I had bought it, so stubbornly I would feed it.

The first night I put a small portion in the three bowls, along with a teaspoon of Fancy Feast and sat back to watch my cat's health bloom before my eyes. They aren't known to be terribly picky eaters, but I did notice a slight hesitation before each bite of the new stuff. Probably, just trying to figure out the great new flavor, I told myself. The next morning's feeding went similarly. Marble's leapt away from her bowl, leaving almost half of the kibble. Mia picked at her portion half heartedly. Only Big Zekie kept chugging away until his bowl was empty (he isn't called Big Zekie for no reason). Maybe the food is so good for them that they don't need to eat much of it before they feel full, I reasoned as I washed their bowls out.
That evening (feeding #3 of new fantasy food), the two girl cats gave me a look of disgust as I set their bowls down before them. They did pick at the food, but they weren't happy, this was clear. They left more than half of the kibble before stalking off, tails slashing irritably through the air. Big Z visibly took a deep breath and like a fat kid at a hotdog eating contest he dug into the bowl of natural goodness like a trooper. Fifteen minutes after Z finished his dinner, Jonathan yelled to me, "Michele, get some paper towel. Big Zekie just threw up his deer meat in the living room!" I have had Zekie since he was born and I have never seen him throw up. I cleaned up the barf, consoled Big Z, who seemed no worse for the wear and thought no more of it. Well, the next morning was an instant replay of the previous night. The girl cats picked at their food, like anorexic super models. Big Zekie gallantly ate his portion and then fifteen minutes later, he waltzed into the living room and barfed it up. Now I was a little nervous. "Maybe he has stomach cancer?" I said to Jonathan.
"The cat pukes twice and he's suddenly dying? Maybe it's that crappy food. Cat's shouldn't eat deer meat, Michele. It's not right!"

That afternoon, I acquiesced and bought a bag of grain-filled, McDonald's version cat food. The cats purred in a collective chorus at dinnertime, it was a proverbial cats "Happy Meal", sans toys. The girl cats got rid of their murderous glares, finished their food and Big Zekie didn't throw up. Lesson learned. House cats shouldn't eat deer meat. I had to admit that I had been cleverly duped by the company's fancy packaging and claims. And Jonathan got to be right. It was a good night.

Pre-primavera

Winter is starting to lose it's icey grip on our little chunk of real estate in Dutchess County. There are some distinct signs of spring's impending arrival that are stereotypical and then there are some "locale specific" signs that only a shrewd resident, such as myself, notices. The most obvious sign is the arrival of mud. Our driveway is dirt, which turns to mud and mucky puddles once the temperatures start warming up the earth. Dog paw prints become the latest rage for kitchen flooring in our home. I try to pretend that its a new trend and only the cool people are bold enough to sport this pattern. With the addition of Becks in our house, the pawprints are scattered in a dizzying array, he's like a Pollock of paw printing. I tend to look at the mop and sigh a lot during mud season.
Another big sign of spring is the return of the songbirds. I have a new friend, who serenades me with melodious bird songs each morning if I happen to be sitting at my desk. He's a dashing red finch and if I didn't know better I would say that he's flirting with me. Our front yard is filled with ancient oak trees, and yet, this bird chooses to perch on a limb directly outside my office window so I can admire him while he gives his concert. You know how those male birds are, all flashy colors and big voices. Meanwhile, their drab, demure housewives are building nests and getting ready for the egg laying process. Makes me damn glad that I'm not a bird.
So, there are two preliminary spring signs of the natural variety. I'm here to report that I have just had the first official sighting of "The Idiots who Ride Loud Motorcycles at Reckless Speeds on Country Roads". There is a whole posse of jackasses around here who feel compelled to get on their brightly colored crotch rockets and blaze across our gentile back roads, careening around blind corners, and reaching speeds of mach 1 on the straightaways. So far, in the span of one hour I have counted 9 of these fools that most likely have been staring at their beloved bikes all winter, drooling over the prospect of rippin' it full throttle ala Evel Knieval through the hills of Millbrook. I imagine them stopping at a bar for a beer and high fiving each other with comments like, "Dude, I'm so glad you missed that jumbo farm tractor!" and "whatever man, that lady didn't look like she should be riding a horse anyway. I'm sure she got back on and was fine." To say I dislike them is putting it mildly. They are dangerous and annoying. Period.
Last but not least, a sure sign that spring is a'coming to Millbrook is the return of the slurry truck, making it's seemingly endless runs by our house. We live a few miles from a lovely dairy farm, stocked with beautiful Guernsey cows. The farmers own a substantial amount of acreage behind where we live and they plant it with tightly packed rows of cow corn and alfalfa. Unfortunately for us, they use their liquified cow poo to fertilize these fields in the spring and let me tell you, the aroma can be pretty rank. The slurry truck is old, smelly and I can hear her coming from a mile away. I saw her yesterday for the first time this year and that means soon I won't be able to open my back door without triggering my gag reflex. To be honest, after the horrors of cold, snow and ice that we had this year I say bring on the mud, bird gigolos, motorcycle races and shit storm of cow dung. I am relishing each sign of the changing seasons, no matter how noisy, messy, or malodorous. Bring it on.

A Marley & Me moment

I confess that I watched the movie Marley & Me when it came out on cable. I knew it was sappy, I knew it would make me cry, but I watched it anyway. You know what? I kinda liked it. Then I caught Jonathan watching a snippet of it a few days later on HBO. We are both big time pet people and if you can get past Jennifer Aniston's lousy acting the movie/story line are okay. Marley is a super horrible yellow Lab, with no manners and no regard for anything except whatever random thought pops into his raisin sized brain. Basically, he's an out of control pain in the ass for his entire life, then he gets old and dies. The End. I met a dead ringer for Marley this past week. This nightmare dog is owned by a woman that I know from the barn where I keep my horse. Sue is a lovely person, very kind and gentle, but she should have a maltese, or a yorkie. An exuberant, strong Lab is a bad choice for someone unwilling to enforce the laws of good doggie behavior.
Case in point:

I decided to walk my two dogs on Thurs. at noontime, so I get in the car and drive up the street to the Land Conservancy where we generally walk. To my surprise, Sue is pulling into the driveway at the same time. We both stop our cars and I roll down my window and ask if I can join she and her dog on their walk, figuring it will be fun for the dogs to play together. She reply's and enthusiastic, "yes!" and then hops out of her car to let her dog out so it can run the rest of the way to the parking spot. I find this to be a strange idea, but I go with the flow. The idiot dog is no sooner out of the car when she spies my car and my dogs in the back seat, runs over and proceeds to maul the back door and window with her rapier-esque claws. I am horrified, but I sit still and try to maintain a calm exterior while Sue struggles to grab the dog's collar and pull her away from my poor vehicle. Sue gets the dog away and then she does something very strange. She let's it go again. Of course, this Tasmanian monster gallops back to my car and goes right back to attacking the door with even more vigor than the first attack. Now my dogs are getting a little freaked out at this point. Becks is only five months old and he's finding this behavior quite bizarre. I begin to yell at my dogs to relax and try to keep from screaming the F word at Sue's dog. Sue is no match for this crazed animal and it runs away from her as she approaches and attacks the other side of the car. I am staring straight ahead trying to not to picture what the doors are going to look like after this dog is done engraving them with her nails. After one more mauling session, Sue finally gets the dog, at which point I roll my window down and in a strained voice I say, "I think I'll just go home now." I leave out the part where I want to go punch a wall and scream for five minutes straight. Sue looks at me helplessly. I resist the urge to ram my car into her flailing dog and go home. Needless to say, my car doors are quite scratched. I don't have a super fancy car, but it's black so the scratches really stand out. I know Sue feels badly about the incident. In fact, she left me a message full of apologies and offered to pay for fixing the scratches. I have two words for her...Cesar Milan. She needs the Dog Whisperer in a big way. I'd be happy to assist with some training tips, but I don't think she would agree with my, ahem, tactics, which would namely involve a size 8 to its backside. I have no tolerance for stupid, ill behaved animals, or people. Marley & Me was amusing to watch on TV, but meeting a real life Marley was not enjoyable at all. Maybe if it had been Owen Wilson trying to get the dog off my car I might have felt differently. Maybe, but I doubt it.