Meant to be

   The other day I had to drive out to Clinton Corners, NY to the Agway to buy a special type of horse grain that's only available at a couple of places near our farm. Jonathan was away so I had a limited amount of time to get the grain and drive home to do more horsey day care activities. I had brought the dogs with me, because they LOVE going on rides in the car. Doesn't matter if it's hours in the car, or just a quick run to get coffee. They want to be with us all the time. Australian Shepherds are loyal to a fault and by and large, great dogs.
 
 I was finishing paying for the bag of grain when a paunchy, disheveled balding man sauntered in and said, "Hello!!" in a booming sing song voice. The cashier looked up and gave him a nod and a wan smile. He proceeded to ask her where the cat food was located and he bounced off through the store to find a big bag of Meow Mix.

"Are those your lovely dogs in the black car out there?" he asked me in a lilting accent, which I took to be British as he stood next to me at the check out.
"Yup," I replied. "They're my steady companions."
"What breed are they?"
"Australian Shepherds," I said. "A black tri and a blue merle"
"Ohhhh," he said. "I love Aussies! I have to get my phone and show you a picture of my Aussie, Dozer. He was a beauty!"

He shambled off to his car, and I looked at the cashier, with my eyebrows raised. She told me he's a talker and bid me good luck as I left the store to give the grain guy my ticket for the bag of grain. Great. I was in a hurry and I really needed to get back to the farm. And I had a talker waiting for me. Sweet, I thought, only me.

I went out to my car and waited as the man came over from his car, while excitedly thumbing through photos on his phone.

"Hold on," he said. "I can't find the picture."

I waited patiently and studied him quietly as we stood side by side. Clad in baggy, navy athletic shorts, he was an middle aged man, thick in the middle, with two day razor stubble, and he seemed like the type of a man who had let himself go a bit.  He asked if he could pat my dogs, who were straining at the open windows. My one dog, Becks is over the top friendly. He was more than happy to have a stranger reach through the window and give him pats and love. Within seconds, Becks was licking the man's face and giving him all of the love that a dog can give. I sighed, because I know Becks and his immense need for love from all people, but this guy was in heaven. I could tell. Remy, our blue merle, in his gentle way was looking into the man's eyes and reciprocating love while the man scratched his ears. As he patted my dogs, the man proceeded to tell me all about his divorce, the fact that he had to give his dogs away, he'd had recent trip to South Africa to get his head straight (he's South African, not British turns out) and tells me that his wife had just left him for another man. It was a heart wrenching story. Suddenly, my impending need to move on went away and I let his guy pat Becks and Remy to his hearts content. I didn't care that I needed to get home.  This man was hurting in ways that I couldn't relate to personally, but it was palpable. The man needed to touch the dogs and they were giving him therapy that no human therapist could provide. This went on for quite a while and eventually, the man found the picture he was looking for on his phone and I saw his Aussie dog, Dozer. He was a beautiful dog. Gorgeous blue merle Aussie and I saw tears in the man's eyes as he showed me the photo.

"I hated to give him up," he said. "Hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I'm not in a place to have dogs now."

"He's lovely," I said. "I'm so sorry that you've had a rough patch, but I think you've done the right thing. I bet he's happy where he is right now. "

What more could I say? I don't know. He gave my dogs parting kisses and told me that visiting with them was the best thing that's happened to him in a long time.  We parted company and I got into my car and drove away, wondering if I was meant to show up at this particular feed store just to see this lovely man, who was in a bad way and needed to love some Aussies to help him through a tough day and share his story with a perfect stranger. Funny enough, we never exchanged names. It was an anonymous meeting of two people at a feed store in Clinton Corners, NY. Yet, it felt like it was meant to be.

A Birthday Tale

   Last Thursday was my birthday and my aunt suggested that I write a blog about a birthday from the past that I hated.  My childhood birthday's were all very lovely, with parties, cake, presents, friends and family. None of them qualified as a hated birthday.  During my 20's and early 30's, my mother-in-law took it upon herself to give me a birthday party every year when they lived in Connecticut.  I would feel like a boob teetering over a fancy cake lit with candles, while the drunken party goers cheered. I loathed opening the presents in front of everyone. It felt like a gross display of greed on my part, though I hadn't asked for any of it.  I never could get my MIL to throw the party sans gifts. She felt like it was important for people to bring gifts.  Eventually, I learned to make sure I was half crocked at gift opening time so I could get through it all without somehow feeling like a petulant brat, screaming "mine, all MINE!" as I stood in front a pile of brightly colored boxes with extravagant bows and ribbons.

  I don't know why it took me so long to figure out the birthday that I hated the most. It's quite obvious to me as I look back. Turning 40 was by far the most traumatic, crappy, bum me out birthday ever. Bar none.  My dog Izzy had become very ill early on in the summer before my 40th. I was depressed about her steady decline, despite the numerous medications she'd been put on. I stopped coloring my hair that summer. Soon my natural roots appeared and the silver ribbon along my scalp began to creep down my skull. Faded brunette ends became overtaken by the silver (I prefer calling it silver to grey, it just sounds more exotic and less...old).   I had to say goodbye to Izzy on August 1st, 2009. It was a horrible, emotional drain and still "the birthday" loomed in the upcoming weeks.  I cried over Izzy on a daily/nightly basis, which didn't help my state of mind. When I looked in the mirror I saw The Bride of Frankenstein hairdo and deepening wrinkles on my face. It made me cringe. And I was still on the cusp of turning 40.

"No party!", I shrieked at Jonathan every day. "No gifts, either! I just want this damn birthday to pass with no acknowledgement."

   He would nod and give me a wan smile. And he respected my wishes to a T.  My 40th birthday was a non-event, as birthdays go. I can't remember what I did that day, other than most likely cry at some point about Izzy.  Jonathan made me a fine dinner, which he does almost every night of my life. He got me a cupcake for dessert, but no candles to blow out, no smartly wrapped gifts, no clever cards.  Later that evening, I began to feel even more sorry for myself that I'd turned 40 without an ounce fanfare. It was a milestone that I was sure didn't need to be marked with joyous celebration, but it turned out that no recognition was even worse.  And it was all my doing.  I'd been so stubborn in my approach to turning 40 that I cheated myself out of the one day of the year when you're entitled to be celebrated for being born. Isn't that funny? We don't make the choice to be born. Our parents do that for us. We should celebrate our lives and our parents for bringing us into the world on our birthday's.  Well, it was too late for celebration on that hot August night so I climbed the stairs on leaden legs and went to bed a very sad, newly 40 year old woman.

  Total bummer of a story, right? Ha. Turns out that turning 40 was a great thing for me. A week went by after my non-birthday and I decided to call my hairdresser and make an appointment for cut and color.  I emerged from the salon with shiny, sleek brunette locks. I felt like me again, not some two tone, silver haired sea hag.  I faced the reality that I wasn't going to get carded again, but I didn't really care. In fact, turning 40 took away a lot of stresses in life.  I learned that stressing over money is a completely stupid waste of time. I'd spent a lot of my 30's worrying about making ends meet and where had it gotten me? Guess what? The ends always meet, because we make it work, not because I'm up nights wringing my hands.  I stopped caring about what other people think of me. I bought a pair of bright purple corduroys that make me laugh when I put them on. I have a Hello Kitty bathrobe. My iPhone case is Barbie pink. It turns out that turning 40 was a liberating moment for me.

  This last birthday wasn't filled with exorbitant fanfare. My Mom had come for a visit so we'd gone out to dinner the night before to celebrate, which was really fun.  Jonathan and I went to Lowes to purchase a new wheelbarrow, which I jokingly referred to as my "present"and in actuality, I'm totally cool with that. It's a kick ass wheelbarrow.  And as a total random act of kindness, a FB friend whom I haven't seen since 8th grade graduation gave me a $5 Starbucks gift card. How bloody cool is that??  I'm so skeptical about getting sent things on FB that I originally thought it was a scam, but it turned out to be real. I redeemed it today and am currently jacked up on a tall latte. Thanks FB friend!!!

 So, there's the story of the hated birthday, Aunt Judy. I hope you liked it. Thank you for the writing prompt!  Happy Labor Day everyone! (and if one more person tells me it's the end of the summer I'll cut them!!)

Wake Up Call

    Yesterday started in a most unusual fashion. I emerged from the fog of deep slumber to have my ears met with a noise that I initially couldn't make sense of for a minute. It was deranged, confusing, deep and primal. What the dickens? Then I remembered that the woman from the Millbrook Hunt had called me the day before to alert us that they'd be coming through our area first thing in the morning.

"What...is...that...noise?" Jonathan mumbled from under the covers.
"Hounds," I answered. "Lots of hounds."
"At 6 in the morning?" he said. "What is wrong with those hunt people! Idiots!"

  The noise was deafening, like the hounds were in our very living room. I decided to get up to have a look at what was going on. Grabbing my robe off the door, I made my way to the front porch, where Remy, our big Aussie was standing at full attention.  I hustled him into the house and peered into the dawn light. The hounds were swarming in our front paddock, bellowing and braying, circling and sniffing.  The huntsmen were all yelling and whistling different calls, none of which seemed to be having any effect on controlling the wayward pack. Then hoofbeats could be heard and a deep agitated voice called out, "What's going on here?"  I recognized it as the voice of our landlord, who is a Master of the hunt.  Muddled conversation ensued, as the hound pack zig zagged to and fro, with random resonating bays.

  Fox hunting is an age old tradition and people who do it find it to be fabulous fun. I've hunted a few times and Jonathan grew up hunting quite a bit in his hometown of Fairfield, CT. It's not a sport that requires any particular skills, other than the ability to run pell mell over all manner of terrain and stay on the horse. Also, natty dressing skills are mandatory. I don't remember all of the details, but there are different outfits for roading, cubbing and formal hunting. The latter is the most fancy of them all. The Masters wear scarlet coats, called Pinques, which lends one to think they might be color blind, but the coat is actually named after an English fellow who made them.  Many of the over 21 crowd in the hunt like to indulge in a "stirrup cup", or a shot of John Courage, to be taken from a silver flask, when the hunt is stopped at a check.  Depending on how many checks, or stops the hunt makes on a given day will determine the level of inebriation at the end of the hunt.


  I headed back to the bedroom followed by two nervous dogs. Jonathan was propped up on his pillows, looking annoyed as he checked the news on his iPad.

"The hounds are out of control," I said, staring out the window.
"Hounds are always out of control," Jonathan said dryly. "They're the dumbest dogs in the world."

  Through the foliage on the edge of the property I could see a collection of riders lined up on the dirt road, not thirty feet from where I stood in my bedroom. Clip clopping hooves on the hard packed street and the excited whinnies of nervous horses rang through the air.  One horse kept prancing and turning in a circle, loaded with anxiety to get the day going. At last the call came from the hunting horn. Toot toot toot toot!  And they were off. The hounds were going full bore down the hill and the riders followed at a brisk trot. I couldn't believe how many horses and riders were passing by, the line seemed endless. When the last straggler trickled by, I looked out at our own barn. Four heads were sticking out of their doors, frozen in place like statues as if the passing of the hunt had rendered them into marble. Horses that don't hunt, or have never hunted tend to be a bit overcome by the chaos of hounds, hollering, horns and masses of riders converging in one large unit.  It was going to take our horses a while to calm down enough to have their breakfast. I slipped back under the covers for another half hour of rest, pondering the marvels of living in the country and how many times that very scene I'd just witnessed had occurred right outside my door over the years.

My prompt for the flash fiction challenge was this: The story starts when your protagonist swears to remain single. Another character is an unscrupulous sort who was forced to commit a crime. 

    A shard of sunlight bore through a crack in the dusty, crooked blinds and pierced my sleep encrusted eyes.  I fumbled out from under the covers and swung my feet onto the floor. Was the razor sharp sunbeam a sign from God to get my miserable, hung over ass out of this putrid room, filled with dirty clothes and crushed beer cans? Glancing over my shoulder, I checked out the sleeping mound next to me. Tangled brown hair, high forehead, cheeks slackened by slumber and lips parted slightly blowing out small pockets of rancid breath at regular intervals.  Good old, Tony. I kept trying to stay out of this guy’s bed, but somehow after a few Bud Light’s I followed him home like a stray dog every time. It’s not that he was a bad guy, or anything like that. I just hated the idea of being stuck with one person. It made me shudder and yet, here I was again. What a hot mess I could be when I really put my mind to it. 

  Trying to ignore the brain numbing banging going on in my head, I reached around on the floor for my jeans and tank top, both of which were inside out in a heap. Inside out. Super classy, Rose. My mother would never speak to me again if she could see this scene of her little girl heaving herself up from the brawny construction worker’s bed that had sheets on it that hadn’t been changed in so long they had a crusty feel.  I tip toed on the balls of my feet to the bathroom, dodging the land mine sized piles of clothing. I could feel the grit from the floor ingraining itself into my flesh, causing me to wince when I stepped just right. Flicking the switch on in the bathroom, I sighed. Why are men so damn nasty when they live alone? Tony’s sink was full of grime and hair and big blobs of old toothpaste. A lone sour smelling towel hung on a hook next to the mirror. Vowing not to look in the shower, I snatched at the towel and flipped open the clothes hamper and then...froze.  Laying at the bottom of the hamper were rows and rows of stacks of money. I knew I was what I was looking at, but all I could feel was confusion, maybe due to all the beer I’d consumed the night before, or the bowls we’d smoked when we came home, or the hours of, well you know, hot, sweaty sex. This can’t be real money. Where would Tony get this kind of cash? Why would Tony have this kind of money laying at the bottom of his dingy clothes hamper. On impulse, I grabbed a stack of the money and marched on with loud, angry footsteps back to the bedroom.

“Tony,” I said in a soft voice next to his ear. “You need to wake up.”  

  He mumbled and rolled over allowing his bare backside to be exposed from under the covers. I saw my opportunity and slapped his beautiful, round butt cheeks with a crisp open handed smack. 

“Whaddtha faahhh...” he yelled as he jumped a clear foot off the bed, landing with a fine mist of dust particles shrouding him as they settled. 

I held up the cash and glared at him. “You really need to change these sheets, Tony. They’re disgusting, and where did you get all of this money?” I yelled.

“That isn’t really mine, technically, but...well, I’m holding it for a friend,” he stammered.  

“Who do you know who has access to that kind of cash? Certainly not Norman, the foreman. Or Gary, the dump truck driver. Could it be Keith, the crane operator?  Maybe Susie, the secretary with the bad teeth and peroxide hair? I know, it’s Walt, the alcoholic welder!” I was on a roll. 

Narrowing his eyes, he got a pinched look on his face and decided to play the tough guy act. 

“Just put it back, okay. It doesn’t concern you and why were you snooping in my shit anyway?” he spat. 

“I was attempting to de-funk your revolting bathroom by sequestering that board stiff, stinky towel to a smaller space, known as the hamper that in theory has dirty clothes in it that are meant to be WASHED!”  My voice had escalated in volume as I went so the end came out kind of crazy, but he got the point. 

“Okay, okay, baby. I get it,” he said softening his tone and rubbed his face. “Just put it back, okay? I’m not doing anything shady, I swear.”

 He said that last part with his eyes cast down, therefore convincing me that he was lying. Well, what did I care anyway. We weren’t any serious item, just casual friends that slept together now and then. He could do whatever he wanted, shady, or otherwise. Chewing my lower lip to keep my mouth shut, I returned the money to the hamper, splashed some water on my face and fluffed up my hair with both hands. I looked like a fright, with puffy, bloodshot eyes accented by dark circles. Sunglasses would help a little, but I still had “girl who made a lot of bad decisions last night” written all over me.  

“Alright, Tony I’m leaving now. Good luck with that pile of money and don’t spend it all in one place,” I called over my shoulder as I headed toward the front door.  The door opened, seemingly all by itself, but then a large figure holding a gun appeared in the doorway.  The man was one of those freakishly giant people. He looked at me with beady eyes that were so cold, I froze in my tracks, my mouth open in an O.  

“Where is that slimy, little dirtbag,” the beast bellowed at me.

I made a vague sweeping motion toward the bedroom with my arm and the beast stomped past me. 

“Tony!!!!!!” I yelled. 

Summer Fun

  Ahh, sweet summer. It's here! And last week we had the beastly hot temperatures that the northeast is famous for, which brings out the whiner in all of us. We whine when it's too cold and snowy and we whine when it's too hot and steamy. It's a rite of passage for all who live in New England. Last week was brutal. Prime whining weather. HOT! HUMID! UNCOMFORTABLE! Don't get me wrong, I'll take it over cold and snow any day, but it was tough to bear, especially since we don't have any a/c in our house. Friday the 19th was hotter than Hades. There was no escape from the heat, even when one was placed in front of a fan turned on turbo. I was reading on my guest bed, barely breathing shallow breaths, and I had sweat dripping off of my body. Dear friends of ours had invited us to go "tubing"in the early evening on the Housatonic River, which is right below their home. Let me start by telling you that I'm a nervous nelly when it comes to water. Especially, oceans, ponds, lakes, or rivers. I'm fine in a clean pool, but the other aforementioned bodies of water freak me out. I'm just not an aquatic person. Never have been.  I don't like the thought of unknown squishy things being below me in the water. Fish? Muck? Algae? Eww!! I almost died on our honeymoon when we rented a boat and Jonathan coaxed me into snorkeling. I barely got into the water when I saw a big, icky fish and scrambled up the ladder of the boat so fast that I nearly broke my collarbone. After a hyperventilating anxiety attack on the floor of the boat, Jonathan saw my true colors and didn't try to get me to snorkel again on that trip. He's smart that way. It was embarrassing. I can jump horses over five foot jumps, but swimming makes me truly weak in the knees. I've gotten better in the water since our honeymoon, though I'm still not exactly comfortable.  Truth be told, I'm not even close to being comfortable. I knew that Jonathan really wanted to go tubing on the river, so I was grappling with whole prospect of putting myself in a potentially spazzy situation. The practical me thought it would be fun. The freak show me was having an anxiety attack at the idea of getting on a tube to float down the river. I was torn. Anxious. Addled by days of extreme heat. But I wanted to be a big girl and do this!! Not to mention that it was Africa hot and the water would no doubt feel great. Conquer those demons, I told myself!  So, with shaking hands I donned my bathing suit and off we went to our friend's home.

"Hello," I called out in a high, breathy voice when we arrived. I knew there was no backing out now. I had to be brave. I had to face the river and my fears.  Our friend's were happy to see us.
"You'll be fine," Emma consoled me as she patted my back (she knew I had trepidation about this adventure).  The guys were laughing and beers were opened for the trip.  We threw the big tubes into the back of their truck and headed out. When we arrived at the shallow spot for us to take off, I shuddered a little, but not enough for anyone else to see. I took a last pull of the beer and gamely, I dragged my tube into the river, hoisted myself upon it and began to...float. I was floating! It was actually pretty easy and fun, even for a water chicken, like me. The Housatonic is very kind at this time of year. It rolls slowly, the views are breathtaking, birds are on the water, you float in a dreamlike state. It was almost fun! I was stiff and nervous when we got the first fast flowing section. We had to navigate through some rocks and I proved to be successful and didn't kill myself. Phew. First hurdle, conquered.  We floated and floated and passed through some more faster, rocky areas, with no issues. Hah! I was DOING this! I was being brave and though secretly I wanted it to be over I couldn't argue that the water felt lovely. I was finally cool on this hottest of all hot days.

 The end of the ride was signaled by the appearance of the gorgeous covered bridge in Cornwall, CT.  It's a storybook sight, that bridge. So historic, a sign of days gone by and also, a faster current.

"Go to the right," Nick called out over his shoulder. I made sure to paddle my tube over to the right side of the bridge just before we got to more fast moving water, which spilled us under the bridge, dodging more rocks and all of sudden I was in the lead. OH MY GOD, I WAS IN FRONT OF EVERYONE ELSE. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the others were laughing and relaxed, so I didn't panic. Ha ha. Fun, fun. I'm in the lead. We're in the river, hurtling along, passing big rocks, the current was strong. I looked back a final time and Emma called to me, " This is where we get off!"

"HOLY HELL," said a voice in my brain. "THIS IS WHERE YOU GET OFF!"  Without another thought, I threw myself from the tube, like I was on a sinking ship in the middle of the Atlantic and landed in the water. It gushed over me. I went under for a minute, trying to right myself, but only managed to vainly grasp at slippery rocks. My tube sailed by me, leaving me to die all by myself. I watched it as it headed downstream, like an uncaring bastard and barely heard Emma say, "Oh Michele, your sunglasses!"  Blast! As I stood up on shaking legs in the two feet of water, I realized that I'd lost my dang sunglasses. My expensive Dolce and Gabanna sunglasses that I'd had on my head were now victims of the river. Oh, the rocks, the slippery, mossy covered rocks. I could barely walk. The shore was in my sights, only four feet away. "Screw the sunglasses," I said. As I scrambled to the shore, scratching and bruising my legs, I watched Jonathan head downstream, like an agile fish, to fetch my wretched tube. Emma searched for my sunglasses, though it was in vain. I gasped for air and thanked the gods that I hadn't bashed out my front teeth on the rocks when I "fell" in the river.

"They're just sunglasses," I called out, my voice shaking. "How about we head back and get a cocktail?"

So, I did it. I tubed down the river. I survived (barely) and it was fun until the end, when I almost killed myself, through sheer panic. The dunk in the river actually cooled me off, and I feel badly that I lost my fancy sunglasses, but I'm glad that I didn't wimp out.  Cold comfort. In the end, I blew it. However, in the long run, I don't really care.  We ended the evening by having a spectacular meal by candlelight at Nick and Emma's house. Today I went to CVS and bought two pairs of cheapo sunglasses to replace my fancy pair. I'm pretty sure that if I were to tube again on the Housatonic (fat chance)  those cheap sunglasses would cling to my head, with tenacity and I'd emerge like a watery freaked out mermaid, ten dollar glasses, intact. Lesson learned. NEVER GO TUBING AGAIN.

Here comes the judge...

     A couple Sundays ago, I was the judge for a small horse show in Clinton Corners, NY.  I awoke early that morning so I could adequately provide myself with a bucket of coffee before I had to set sail for the show.  I wanted to be super sharp and on my game and since I'm not a natural morning person I needed mucho caffeine. I've been judging a bit more over the last few years. It's not a job for everyone, but if you like watching endless rounds of horses and ponies jumping courses and can sit on your ass for several hours at a time then it's be right up your alley. I've always been able to watch endless rounds at horse shows and sitting still for hours comes very naturally to me. Long story short, I enjoy judging.
  The morning air smelled clean and fresh, with a subtle hint of warmth that promised a bright summer day was coming up. Perfect weather for a June horse show. I smoothed my skirt and checked my make up in the mirror before I fired up the Audi. The drive was about thirty minutes through shady country roads that wound up and down hills through the Hudson Valley.  While driving, I found myself reflecting on June horse show mornings of my youth.  Before I got my own horse, one of my summer highlights was the Hampton Falls Volunteer Fire Department Horse Show.  When I was really young it was held in a large flat field just down the road from my house.  The night before the show the volunteer firemen would configure long sections of snow fencing to provide a ring. There were more rows of snow fence to mark off the parking areas. A small wooden booth was towed in on a flatbed to serve as the judge's stand.  I would spend the day of the show walking around the show grounds in a glorious daze as I watched horses and riders being put through their paces. It was thrilling to be around so many horses and riders at once. Something about it just felt "right" to me.  If I was lucky I was allowed to pat a horse, or hold my friend Kim's pony for a few minutes.  The night of the show I'd come home dusty and exhausted, but full of excited stories to tell my parent's about what a grand day I'd had. Poor things, they had no idea what I was setting them up for a year, or two later.
   Still lost in my reverie of those charming local shows of my youth, I came upon the farm where I was judging.  When I got to the end of the long bumpy driveway  I stopped a woman walking by and asked where I should park my car. She pointed to where the trailers were all going, but I smiled and said to her, "Well, (I could've inserted "you insipid peasant" here, but I chose not to) I'm the judge."  It's a heady feeling to say those words. Suddenly, I was the most important person on the show grounds. The earth nearly buckled under my power. Well, not really, but I did get a totally V.I.P. parking spot right next to the barn.  Hoisting my bag, which was loaded with seltzer water and snacks, I  went in search of the ring to get my instructions and a prize list. The staff for the show were exceedingly organized and had put me in a comfy chair by the side of the ring in the shade of a large tree, complete with a folder of judges cards. I settled in and prepared myself for the first task of the day, which was judging lead line.  Lead line is always a cute class. Little tots dressed as miniature equestrians in tiny jodphurs and hard hats that are bigger than their actual heads are ridiculously adorable.  I was treated to two little cuties being marched around the ring by smiling handlers.  Both received blue ribbons, despite the fact that my husband texted me during the class and told me it was never too early for a child to learn the agony of defeat. He grew up under the rule of a very tough trainer a.k.a. his mother.  She instilled a killer competitive instinct in her kids that drove them to run other children over in flat classes and ride like they owned the course.  Jonathan still goes into a scary "win or go home" mode when he's showing.  I usually don't make direct eye contact with him right before a class. It can be deadly.

  The next division was a group of very intense Walk-Trot riders.  One little girl was as white as a sheet, frozen in place on her chestnut pony.
 "It's her first show," said the woman who was in the ring with me to do the announcing.  I nodded, sagely and gave the little girl a big smile when she walked by me.  Again, I reflected on my early childhood and though I don't really remember my first show I'm sure I was as spooked as the little girl in my ring.

"Relax and have fun while you ride!" I said in a cheerful voice. Okay, maybe I'd had a little too much coffee, but I didn't want to have zombie children riding around the ring, too scared to steer, or stop. No one fell off, or died of fright during the class and I pinned it as I saw it. The scared little girl actually smiled when she got her yellow third placed ribbon. I even choked up a little. I'm sappy that way.  Hey, being a judge doesn't make you inhuman! Then we moved on to the jumping divisions. I spent the next few hours watching kid's jumping courses, some smooth rounds, some more bumpy, but all were well turned out and doing their very best.  The last classes were composed of a group of good riders and nice horses, which made my judging job earn the money. All were good, some missed some distances and lead changes, but it was a delight to watch these young girls learn how to navigate a course of 3 foot jumps with as much precision and accuracy as they could muster. And I learned a few judging tips from the owner of the farm, who is a rated judge. It was a lovely day in June. A beautiful day to judge a horse show, and I felt privileged to be chosen for the job. If I'd had an inkling 30+ years ago that I'd be asked to be the JUDGE of a horse show I probably wouldn't have slept for a week. Being involved with horses for as many years as I have is a total thrill. Sometimes I can't believe that I make my living as a professional rider. It's a weird job to explain at cocktail parties of non horse folks, but totally fulfilling to a diehard horse lover. I'm hoping to judge more shows as I get older. I may even strive to get my judges card from our head organization, the United States Equestrian Federation.

  As I drove back to our farm when the show was over, good sized check in my pocket, I couldn't wait to get there,  tack up my horse and go for a ride. I don't know why horses are in my blood, since I come from a very non-horsey family, but they are and I wouldn't change a thing. At the end of the day, I'm still that excited kid who loves everything about horses, the smell, the tack, the discipline, the thrill of a good course and the bond that we have with these beautiful four legged creatures who allow us to ride them. Okay, sap fest is over. Next blog will be full of crazy cat stories and four letter words.

Cat Dynamics, illustrated by some guest blogging...

       Wow, I'm such a  lame ass. I haven't bothered to follow up on the last blog and we're in the latter weeks of June.  To be fair, we have been very busy with horse shows, lessons, barn chores, tennis, getting a kitten, etc. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT, WE GOT A KITTEN!!!!!  Any of my friends on Facebook know this since he's been featured on my page, daily, since he arrived at our house a week ago. We named him Miles, and he's tiny, fuzzy, insanely adorable, precocious and brave as can be. There's nothing more ridiculous looking than a tiny ball of fuzzy kitten-ness arching its back all Halloween cat style, advancing toward a target in a sideways fashion on its tiptoes.  I mean come on! It just makes you laugh.  Miles does this move on a regular basis at us, the other cats and occasionally the dogs. He is a bad ass mo'fo kitten. We love him so much that it's nausea inducing.  I love that when I pick him up to kiss his head he claps his fuzzy kitten arms around my neck and bites me.  I love that he attacks our feet while we're brushing our teeth.  I love that he runs in front of us while we're walking through the house and stops dead directly in front of us to rear up and grab us around the ankles. He has a sweet, cuddly side that he exhibits when he's asleep on a lap.  When he's asleep we can pet him all we like without any claws or teeth or ninja fight moves. For now his tiny teeth and nails don't hurt a bit. I fear as he gets older these fun little habits of his will have us hemorrhaging vast quantities of blood, requiring transfusions several times a week.  We'll have long, road maps of scars decorating our bodies. People will start rumors that the Edel couple must have a self cutting problem due to all of the deep scarlet ribbons of scratches making road maps across our arms and legs. I'll get anonymous self help pamphlets in the mail from "Cutter's Hotline". My guess is that we should address Miles' kitten obsession with killing and conquering anyone, or thing who crosses his 1 lb. path. It seems like a logical move since I predict lots of bloodshed in the future. But he's so damn cute! And irresistible! And soft! And fuzzy! Okay, I'll stop there. If you want to see pics of the devil's spawn just check my FB page.

Marbles, our calico girl cat has checked in for a guest blog feature:

   My caretakers have lost their ever loving minds. They brought home an animal that was plucked from the bowels of hell. I hate him with ever fiber of my tri colored being. I fantasize daily about killing him, plucking every piece of fuzzy kitten hair off his body until he's a bald, bleeding mass. The extent of my loathing of this beast is hard to put into words, but just know that I'm pissed off beyond belief. I watch him cavorting around the house, while I'm high atop a piece of furniture and I try to use my death glare to freeze him in his kitten tracks. It's no use. He's impervious to my death gaze. The other day he got on my bed (where my caretaker's sleep) and I couldn't believe his audacity. Nothing is sacred anymore. Nothing. My life is over as I knew it.

Mia, our black and white cat decided she would weigh in, too:

  I've always been the youngest, smallest and cutest cat in the house. I still am in my mind, but my caretaker's have brought home a stupid, crappy kitten that they fawn over for hours while he terrorizes the rest of us. I've never hissed so much in my life. My hisser is actually sore. This kitten thinks he's going to be my friend. WRONG! He chased me tonight. Twice. My hatred for him is deepening, which I didn't think possible.  I refuse to be in the house for more than an hour while IT is here.  I may go on another water strike, but I know the woman caretaker will just force a syringe of water in my mouth if I do. She's cruel, in so many ways. I am the cutest cat, dammit. I eat ITS food every chance I get in hopes of starving it. Then I watch the woman caretaker refill his dish and tell ME to stop it. I tried suffocating IT the other day while IT was sleeping in the woman's lap. The caretaker's just laughed and thought it was adorable that I was sleeping on her lap alongside the thing.  They're too dumb to catch onto my ploy. I've thought of enlisting Marbles in my plan to off IT, but she's such a bitch and claims to be above me. My boyfriend, Zeke is pissing me off, too. He actually seems amused by the stupid kitten. What a dumbass. My wrath will be recognized. They'll all be sorry.

Zeke, our big 17 year old Tiger, had this to add:

   I'm still mourning the loss of my beautiful mother, Miss Girl. She was a great mom, always loving, nurturing me, giving me great advice. No cat could ask for a more caring momma. But, alas the passage of time strikes us all down at some point and my mom is gone now. The caretaker's brought home a small, fuzzy baby cat last week. I am now an uncle to this creature.  I've never questioned their choice in new animals, but I'll admit that this one is a tad lively for our geriatric home. He thunders around the house like a miniature elephant. And he mock attacks me on a regular basis. I gave him a smack down on day two, albeit a gentle one, given the difference in our sizes, which established a modicum of respect that I wasn't sure was possible when I first met him. However, the baby cat isn't stupid and he now shows me respect, but I allow him to bat at my tail and engage in some gentle play time. Mia is ready to break up with me, but she's just being overly hostile. I think she'll get over it in time.  She's never been the sharpest tack in the box. Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she's a bit of an idiot. I think it will all be fine. Adjustments are always difficult.

Miles, the small bundle of baby fuzz has the last word:

  It's my house now, BITCHES!!!!