I'm Smarter than a Geriatric Horse. Slightly.

There are a few advantages to living with a menagerie. With three horses, three dogs, a cat and a bunch of birds I’m never alone.  And although my alarm clock has been broken for months, I’m always awakened precisely the same time by a large Great Dane schnoz jabbing me in the ribs. It’s a good thing they make me laugh.

But it’s not all pokes and giggles.  Sometimes they get sick. Or slightly hurt.  

Dezi, my old show horse, spent most of his 25 years as a highly competitive show jumper, doing Grand Prix in Europe. By the time he came to me his prime years were long behind him, but he was still  showing in the lower divisions. He was a slave; when the bell rang he lit up. Pulling made him go faster. He was also extremely head shy. Someone had smacked him around hard.  

The first time I took him out to eat grass, he didn’t know what to do—he’d never been allowed to graze on a lead before. He learned quickly.  He also figured out that he always got a peppermint when he left the arena. He’d slam on the brakes and swing his neck into my lap waiting for a treat and refusing to move until he got it.

Dezi’s been retired for almost three years now. The hardest thing he has to do is figure out whether to nap in his stall or the paddock.  During that time something else has happened: he’s turned feral.  Not completely, mind you. He still comes waddling up to me three times a day for his meals and stands quietly to have fly spray applied. Pull out a halter though, and he’s off.

Recently Dezi developed a small cut just above his coronary band, where his foot meets his hoof. He probably whacked it when he was lying down, which he does a lot.  The first time I spotted him splayed out flat in the pasture, I was sure he was dead.  I went out to check and yelled his name. Nothing.  After a minute I went into the paddock and poked him. He lifted his head and gave me a dirty look for waking him up.

I didn’t think much of the injury; I knew that a quick squirt of silver spray would cover the wound and keep the flies away.  So I went up to him and started to put it on. Faster than I thought was possible, the old coot was gone.  I finally cornered him and tried again, this time picking up a foot so he (theoretically) couldn’t get away. You’d be surprised how fast a three-legged geriatric horse can move. I was.

Eventually I realized that I needed to put a halter on him and tie him up.  Maybe that would remind him of 22 years of good manners.  A friend also suggested that the noise was scaring him; that I should spray some cotton and rub the cotton on his foot.  That made sense.  Not to Dezi. 

First it took a good 20 minutes to corner him to put on a halter.  Then I tied him to the barn and walked away.  Far away, where he couldn’t hear the sprayer. It didn’t matter. When I came near him, he sat down on his hind end and splintered his very fancy leather halter with the brass nameplate on it.  Fat luck catching him after that.

It was like the O.J. slow-speed chase. Rarely going faster than a trot, Dezi circled the other horses, making sure they were always between him and me.  If somehow I did get near him, he’d trot away. I think he broke into a canter once.  After an hour of this in the 93 degree heat I gave up. I was afraid he’d have a heart attack. Or I would.

I couldn’t quit for long, because I could see that the flies were turning the little cut into a nasty summer sore.  After an expensive (is there any other kind?) trip to the tack and feed store I came home armed to the rafters. There was a powerful antibiotic that I could tap soundlessly onto the cut, as well as fly boots that covered his front legs from hoof to knee, and fly masks that enshrouded his whole face from ears to nose with mesh.  

I realized that he might be a better target while he was eating dinner, and though it took a while, eventually his greediness overpowered his obstinacy. Finally I treated the foot and got the booties on.   It’s embarrassing to admit how proud I was of tricking an aged, creaky, old equine.  But I admit I did a little happy dance.

Also, dressed up in their fly gear, my geezers look like war horses.  Which makes me snicker. 

Binging is Ruining My Life

Netflix is destroying my life. The problem is that I am kind of cheap. Actually,  I’m REALLY cheap. So while I do pay for Direct TV and the sports channels (it’s the only way to get TVG, the horse racing network and that’s non-negotiable), I don’t subscribe to any pay stations such as Showtime, HBO or STARZ.

This has consequences when I get together with friends.  They are all babbling on about “Game of Thrones,”  “The Leftovers” and “Ray Donovan,” and  I’m stuck looking at my feet or downing a drink. If I turn into an alcoholic this will be the reason.

But recently I did decide to fork over the fee for Netflix streaming. I figured it would be worth it if I watched a few movies a month to catch up with things I missed in the theater. I did not realize I was going to become obsessed with “House of Cards,” “Orange is the New Black” and “Arrested Development.” 

Now normally when I like a show I either catch it when it airs (if I remember), or throw it on my Tivo list and watch it whenever. That system works for me. I don’t usually spend a lot of time watching television anyway.  

I’m pretty busy working or taking care of the herd of animals that call my place home.  But I usually have an hour or so a day that I can waste on the couch watching a screen.

“Orange is the New Black” changed that for me. Because I just recently became a member of the Netflix generation, I had not one, but two seasons to catch up on. 26 episodes.  That’s a lot of time parked in front of the TV.  The thing is once I started, I couldn’t help myself.

At first I watched one episode every other day.  But then I realized at that rate I’d never get to “House of Cards.” So I stopped reading the “New Yorker” for a couple of weeks and instead dedicated that time to “Orange.”  It was still taking too long. I realized I was in big trouble when I started eating dinner on the couch and upped my viewing to three episodes a day. 

I don’t have the most active social life in the world, but occasionally even I meet friends for dinner.  But I confess I almost told a friend I couldn’t see her in a play because I had to find out what happened to Piper on furlough. I didn’t do it, but I considered  it. I need help.

I know that there are people who are in worse shape than I am; folks who regularly binge watch an entire series in a weekend. That makes me think. Don’t they have lives? Don’t they ever go outside the house?  Or sleep?

This doesn’t happen with network television. For one thing, it generally stinks. I can’t really remember the last time I watched network programming other than the news. Even the occasional show I Tivo usually just sits there until I delete it.

But there’s something about Netflix that haunts me. It’s not only the new shows. They have “Freaks and Geeks” a series I loved that died too soon.  I watched that too. But only after I finished with “House of Cards” and “Arrested Development.”

I also have to admit I never watched “Breaking Bad” when it first aired. I just couldn’t commit to watching anything every week.  But now that it’s on Netflix, Walter White and I have spent more time together than I did with my last boyfriend.

That probably says a little too much about my relationships. But it also states a lot about my penchant for addiction – at least as it relates to television.

I honestly can’t help myself.  Even though I know how “Breaking Bad” ends, I have this compulsion to see the next episode. I’ve had to force myself to cut back on my viewing. It’s not that I’m not dying to see the next episode in the queue, it’s just that I have other actual real-life responsibilities.

This whole television dependence does make me feel a little dirty and manipulated. Which of course is the whole point of television.  To make you keep watching. And while I’d like to think I’m above that, apparently that isn’t the case.

The real problem is that there is simply too much to watch.  Seriously. When and if I ever make it through all of the series I want to see, there are about a million films that I missed. And that’s just on Netflix. If you factor in Hulu Plus and Amazon Prime, I could easily remain in the house forever, my butt digging a bigger and bigger space on the couch.

Since I am a mostly responsible adult, I know this is wrong. So I go about my daily life. But as I clean the barn, or do actual work for clients, there is a part of me that can’t wait to get back to Walter. Or Piper. And even Michael Bluth. Yo.

Playing God Sucks

I think I just broke one of my cardinal rules about my animals. I’ve always believed that we can do for them what we can’t do for ourselves: decide when enough is enough. That is, euthanasia.

But I didn’t put Tilly the cat down. Instead, she has a feeding tube in, and four times a day I squirt high protein slurry into her esophageal tube as well as a bunch of different medications. It’s a horrible job, and she hates it. Not because it’s painful; it isn’t. But Tilly is not terribly domesticated for a domestic shorthaired cat.  The only person in the world she likes is me, and right now I’m not on the list either.

I first met Tilly about six years ago when someone dropped her off at the barn when she was about seven months old. If I feel like being generous, I’ll allow that the people who dumped her thought she was a feral cat, and we were a barn with mice. To them it was a perfect match.

Except we were in the hills where coyotes thrive, owls hunt and we had our own personal bobcat. All of which would love to snack on a small, tortoiseshell-colored cat. As soon as I spotted her, I knew I had to do something. Fast.

Initially that involved bringing her food a couple of times a day. She’d smell the stinky can of Friskies I brought and slowly she’d inch out of the underbrush and snag a bite or two. After about a week, she’d let me sit next to her while she ate. If I moved, or reached out to her, she was gone in a flash.

Eventually I realized she was spending the night in the feed room, chowing down on the mice that flourished there. I rented a Have-a-Heart trap, set it up and went home for the night.

I was at the racetrack the next dawn watching the morning works when my phone rang. It was my trainer telling me to pick up my cat. It was howling in the cage and needed to leave asap before someone throttled her.

I took the cage with a brooding petulant cat directly to my vet. With no care for his own well-being - she hissed and growled in the waiting room - he stuck his hand in and grabbed her. She immediately went limp. And then she started to purr.

I brought the now purring cat home, gave her a flea bath, which temporarily halted the purring, and released her into my spare room. She ran under the couch where she stayed for most of the night, coming out only when I came in with fresh food. Bless her heart, she took to the litter box instantly.

A few nights later I decided to give her a little space, and locked all the dogs in my bedroom, closed the dog door and let her roam freely. The next morning she was missing. Gone.

I didn’t know how the newly dubbed Tilly got out of the house, and I had no idea where she had gone. But she was AWOL.

I checked all the nearby backyards and papered the neighborhood with fliers. That night the phone rang; she’d been spotted at an abandoned home a few houses down.  I dragged out the Hav-a-Heart and set it up.

A few hours later I returned to check it. I had a cat! The problem was that it was a huge orange tabby belonging to a neighbor. It was so fat I don’t know how it even fit in the trap. And it was pissed.  When I released it, it stopped to turn and hiss at me before wandering home.

I set the trap again, and in the morning found Tilly cowering inside. I brought her home and again locked her in the room. That night, because I’m a slow learner, I again let her roam the house . Soon after, I heard a clink, and then meowing.  From outside. On the roof. I swear when I spotted her she gave me cat equivalent the finger.

I set the trap. Again. But by morning, Tilly had returned and was waiting impatiently in her bedroom for breakfast. She was covered with sticky soot.

Now I was the one who was pissed. She’d been climbing up the chimney and using it as her personal subway system.

Needless to say, I put a gate in front of the fireplace and closed the flue.

A few years later I had a friend build a fenced outdoor patio for her that she could enter and exit through the window in her room. She loved it and spent hours sunning and lording over the feral cats that came by.

When the dogs came in her room she’d dive under the couch and remain there until I kicked them out. When they left, she’d show up for a pat or to play with a ball. It was always on her terms. She never liked being picked up and hated being held, though she adored having her ears scratched.

When we moved, her catio came with us. It faced the horse pasture and she loved checking them out.

Her past was firmly behind her. Once Poppy caught a mouse that had been living in Tilly’s room.  Tilly had been ignoring it. Why chase mice when you have Fancy Feast?

She’d always been a healthy cat. In fact my vet, who could probably name a new hospital wing after me, barely knew I had a cat.

Until last month. She started vomiting. Not hairballs – she’s never been one of those.  It didn’t stop. My vet sent me to a specialist. They did an ultrasound and decided that she either had irritable bowel syndrome, or lymphoma. Apparently in cats the symptoms present similarly. They sent me home with a prescription diet and told me to see if that helped.

Initially it did. The puking stopped. But so did her eating. She hated the food, and in an impressive fit of stubbornness, she stopped eating entirely. 

After a few days I tried tempting her with all the foods she liked best: Fancy Feast, baby food, chicken. But by that time she was over eating completely. I didn’t know that if cats don’t eat for a few days, their livers go to hell. I do now.

You’d never know Tilly was ill. Other than being anorexic she was the same; still hanging out, sunning herself in the catio and purring a lot. But she was starving herself to death.

The specialist vets were aghast. Before I knew it they were suggesting a feeding tube. Thinking that it was a really temporary thing – that I’d check her in, they’d force food down her throat and then release her - I was all for it.

I

t was when they wanted to scope and biopsy her for cancer while she was under anesthetic for the tube insertion that I realized this was a big deal. 

Normally I would never have agreed. I don’t believe in going to crazy lengths to just keep an animal alive. Quality of life far outweighs quantity.

But I also didn’t want her to starve to death.

If she had cancer, the prognosis was good – up to five years before it spread.  The drugs were simple oral meds with few side effects. But first she needed the feeding tube to straighten out her liver and get eating again.

I decided to go ahead with it. The cost was staggering and dealing with the reality is not easy.

Four times a day I go into her room with a battalion on syringes. Some are filled with food, others have medications and one is water. 

When the door opens, she dives under the couch. So I move the furniture, grab her, I wrap her in a towel to keep her still and clean where the tube comes out of her neck. Then slowly I put the food and meds in her tube.

The vets assure me that she will come around in a few days.  I hope so, because right now, although Tilly’s not in pain, she is suffering.  And that’s just wrong.

She hasn’t purred since she’s been home.

A Luddite's Guide to Dating: Books and Music Required

When I got my second Great Dane a good (male) friend told me I’d never have a boyfriend again. It seems to be turning out that he’s correct, but I think there’s more to it than just my giant sleeping companions.

I blame my lack of male human companionship squarely on technology.  I don’t want to go into the myriad of reasons that online dating hasn’t worked for me except to state that I am really picky.

I goes without saying that whoever I’m with must love dogs (and horses, and cats and birds), but they must have great music and reading tastes as well. For one thing, they need to read.  Newspapers AND books. Graphic novels get half points.

Reading is a biggie for me. As far as dating goes- and life for that matter - you can tell an awful lot about someone by what books they read. For instance, I’m not really a fan of or going to be hanging out with anyone whose go-to guide to living is Mein Kampf. Or the Left Behind series.

I’m more of a Donna Tartt, Doris Kerns Goodwin kind of gal. With a little weirdness from Steve Erickson on the side. You know, good stuff.

It used to be that when you went to someone’s house, it was pretty easy to check out what they were into. You just looked at the bookshelves in their home  and bam! there it was.

Obviously there had to be bookshelves. If there weren’t any, that was the end of that, no further discussion needed.

But Kindle and Nook have ruined all that. While perusing someone’s bookshelves is kind of darling, opening and checking out their E-book is snooping, plain and simple. It’s like looking through their emails or riffling through someone’s wallet. It just isn’t good manners, no matter how nosy you are. 

Another huge issue for me is musical taste. I have broken up with men who had awful taste in music. Life is simply too short.

I mean, really, what kind of person can stand listening to Coldplay?  And who listens to Phish? What the heck is wrong with someone that they’d listen to Phillip Phillips? Just thinking about it gives me the chills. And not in a good way.

Back in the day, people proudly displayed their CDs in towers all over their house—though usually close to the stereo.  I could tell right away if this person understood the genius that is Steve Earle or Bruce Springsteen. If they liked the Old 97’s, My Morning Jacket or Wilco they’d get a total free pass on other things.

Not so much anymore. Oh, there are the occasional folks who, God bless ‘em, have gotten into vinyl, so it’s out there for the world to see. But a lot of those people are hipsters who have way too much other baggage going against them.

But again, going through someone’s IPod, or far worse, their phone, is an invasion. If you explain that you’re just interested in their music, they’re going to get suspicious.  First they’re not going to believe you and if they do, they’ll judge you for being snoopy.  And I don’t mean the dog.

One of my many bosses/clients  is a talented and terrific guy.  He’s a renaissance man with a great deal going for him. But whenever he talks about music, I find my respect for him dwindles. A lot. I want to put my hand over his mouth and tell him to shush.

For God sake, the man takes his music cues from pop radio. Ugh. I just want to sit him down and give him a playlist worth hearing.  Something worthy of his time and brain power.

There are some people that think I should just get over these seemingly irrational biases. That I should be more tolerant.   That, they say, is how I should go about meeting new people.

To that I say ‘Pshaw!'  Music and reading are part of the fiber of my being. For heaven’s sake, I was a music journalist for a million years. People used to pay me a great deal - okay a small pittance, but enough of them did so that I could support myself- for my persnickety musical taste.  

I’m not completely unreasonable. I don’t even mind people that don’t get how important music is. I understand if someone’s driving force is not music. I get it. Sort of.

But if they’re going to hold tight to their love of Rascal Flats, they really, truly, can’t subject me to it. That’s a deal breaker.  It also doesn’t work if they actually try to convince me that Taylor Swift is a country artist. Trust me; she isn’t.

But if someone has a Miley Cyrus fetish AND adores The War on Drugs, we might be able to work something out. Maybe. As long as they’re not reading Dan Brown as well.

If They're Celebrities Why Don't I Know Who They Are?

I love to read, which is good, because as a writer it’s pretty much one of the requirements. I also like to think that I have somewhat highbrow tastes. Given the choice between Danielle Steel and Toni Morrison, I’m going with Ms. Morrison every time.

But I have a dirty little secret: I used to love looking as the glossy tabloids. You know the ones: People, US Weekly, Star Magazine, the publications that run photos of Jennifer Anniston almost weekly, and made Kim Kardashian a celebrity. 

I do have some standards; I never actually buy these magazines. I don’t steal  them either. They’re a guilty pleasure, not a misdemeanor.

Nope, I read these bastions of lower learning at doctor’s offices, insurance waiting rooms and occasionally at the emergency room. Mostly, though I check them out while waiting at the hair salon. That was the case last week. I was waiting for my roots to be done, so I picked up a copy of US Weekly.

Now if you haven’t seen US in a while this is the ultimate celebrity tabloid. It sports features like, “Who  Wore It Best” and “Celebrities: They are just like Us.” The latter shows paparazzi photos of stars shopping for food, hanging with their kids and dining out. And, if you were wondering,  no, they aren’t just like us, unless you are dressed by a stylist and put on full make-up just to go to Ralphs, where your publicist has alerted the media you’ll be shopping. 

I enjoy these little trips into fluff.  Usually.  Last week not so much. First I read US, then Star and for good measure, I perused People. I didn’t recognize the names of half of the ‘celebrities’ in the stories.

It didn’t stop me.  I may not know who Kym Baclash is, but I am now aware that she’s “ready to walk down the aisle.” As for somebody named Janelle Evans, apparently her “first day with baby Kaiser was totally ruined” for some reason.  Which does sound like a bummer.

There were a few names I recognized. There was at least one story about Jennifer Anniston, who had either gotten her heart broken (again), or was sporting a baby bump (again) , or is getting back together with Brad (again).  

There were also articles on Jessica Simpson  

- sadly, I do know who she is-  and Monica Lewinsky, but those women were not the main focus of these publications. The laser-like focus of the magazines was on people named Kimberly Walsh, Lydia Bright and Amy Childs.

Which leads me to my central question: if these people are celebrities, shouldn’t I know who they are? Shouldn’t they have done something? I think I’m pretty current on pop culture. I see a million movies, watch TV - although mostly stuff available on Netflix -  and even occasionally catch TMZ.

Which brings us to that staple of all things tabloid: the Kardashian family. Now because I haven’t lived under a rock for the last nine years, I am unfortunately well informed about Ms. Kim Kardashian West. She has at least done something. She has transformed her notorious ass and sex tape into an industry. Kim stars in endless reality shows which somebody watches, though I can’t find anyone who will admit to it.  She also apparently has a clothing line that is carried by Sears, (which may explain some of Sears’ recent financial difficulties), that someone must wear.

I really don’t understand all the other zillions of ‘K’-named siblings. Nor can I tell them apart. Who is Kortney? Khloe? Now there seems to be a Kendall and a Kylie as well. I know one of them was on an awards show recently and admitted that she can’t read, but has also just released a novel which was presumably ghost-written by some poor desperate hack who can. But I don’t know which one. They all seem to be interchangeable.

I realize that I sound a little like I’m telling kids to get off my lawn, and perhaps I am. But really I want to know: who or what is Michelle Keekan, Nicole Peltz or Colleen Rooney?  Where did they come from? Do they do anything? What am I missing?

I presume the people who matter - - like their parents and friends – know who these ‘celebrities’ are.  But doesn’t the very term ‘celebrity’ imply that the person in question is well-known? Doesn’t being classified as a celebrity mean that who you are is not a closely kept secret?

While this is not the stuff that keeps me up at night – I tend to be a more big scale worrier – you know,  Syria, poverty and the current Supreme Court – but I am a little troubled. Does my ignorance of these people mean I’m out of touch and old? Or does it just mean my priorities are a different?

I like to think it’s the latter. The trouble is, I’ll be going to get my hair cut in a few weeks, and will be faced with a whole new group of unknown ‘celebrities.’