Welcome to the World Faith!

A friend I hadn’t seen in quite a while came to visit the other day.  She  greeted me perfunctorily and zipped out the back door to the horse pasture, stopping dead in her tracks when my old horses, Murphy and Dezi came up to beg.

              

“Well?  Where is she?” 

               

“Who? They’re both there.” 

               

 “Where’s the baby?”  

                

“Um. In Moorpark. Where she lives.”

My friend’s disappointment was palpable. For a minute I thought she was going to leave. She had come all the way from the Westside and she wanted to see a a baby horse, damn it!

I sort of understand.  Lucy’s foal Faith, (registered name:Way Out West) is five months old, cute as can be, and just naughty enough to be charming.  

Together with her BFF, a colt who is three weeks younger, they are the dynamic duo. Or the terrible twins.  It doesn’t matter; they are always entertaining. And the word is out.

Since Faith hit the ground, people from hip zip codes all over California have been making their way to Lucy’s field to oooh and ahhh.  Even folks who usually argue that they can’t possible travel all the way to the Valley because they haven’t had their shots,  or their passport has expired, have been happily meeting me in Ventura County.

I get it. Faith is that adorable. There simply isn’t a better way to waste time than by playing with foals or watching them run around.  If Faith and Lucy were home I’d get nothing done.

As it is, I barely accomplish anything.  When Faith was tiny I trekked out to see her daily. Now, I’ve cut back to three times a week. Okay, four days a week. The thing is, foals change really quickly. Every day something about her is different.

In the beginning Faith was all legs.  She was also incredibly shy.  As one of my friends noted, she was a wild animal. She hated being touched and was skittish. She kept hiding behind Lucy.

I was in a dither about getting her halter broke. I had visions of working with a full-grown horse with no ground manners and a nasty attitude.

I shouldn’t have worried. By four weeks she’d come up to me to get her throat rubbed if I sat on the ground.  At two and a half months the farm owner/foal whisperer Annaliese had Faith marching along in a halter like the show horse she is destined to be.

Now Faith and her BFF are such pests I never get to spend quality time with Lucy. That will come. Much too soon in fact. To Lucy’s relief, in about a month, Faith will be weaned.

She’s been eating hay, carrots and of course , peppermints for a while, but still tops that off with a slug from Lucy’s milk bar. I already miss the days when Faith was covered with milk from head to toe because she couldn’t quite figure out how those confusing teats worked.

Astonishingly, Lucy put up with it all.  Some of you remember Lucy from her show horse days. To say that she had strong opinions was to put it mildly. Lucy was the mare-iest mare I’ve had, and I’ve had a lot of mares.  She bit me more than once, and wouldn’t hesitate before kicking a horse in the arena.

But she took to motherhood.  After the initial shock wore off.  At first Lucy stared at Faith in shock as if thinking, “What the hell is that? And what am I supposed to do about it?’

Lucy figured it out soon enough and from then on it was smooth sailing. She became such a helicopter mom, and snarled at so many stable mates, that she and Faith were moved from the barn to pasture within a week just to keep the peace.

Originally Lucy wasn’t happy about having anyone near Faith. She tolerated me primarily because I came carrying carrots and peppermints.  Bribes if you will.

Now Lucy is grateful to anyone who distracts Faith for a minute. The babies are constantly all over their mothers – nipping and biting them and trying to get them to play. Playing is something that does not interest the mares. At all.

These days when I visit, if the babies aren’t passed out sleeping,

they're huddled together somewhere away from their moms.  Plotting. I actually had time to give Lucy an entire carrot before they swooped down from parts unknown to demand their carrot chunks and grab a gulp of milk from their tired moms.

I’m told that when the foals are yearlings they’ll go through a ugly, gawky stage. It is true that a lot of the resident yearlings and two-year-olds don’t have model good looks, but it’s hard to believe that my perfect little Faith will ever be ugly. 

Just in case, you might want to call me to get your visit in now, while they are still picture perfect.  Don’t worry. I know who you’re really coming to see.

The Circle of Life Blows

I never saw “The Lion King, ” but I’m all-too familiar with  its ‘circle of life’ theme.  It’s playing out in front of me, and only parts of it are any fun. Like Faith.

This spring my retired show horse Lucy gave birth to her eagerly anticipated and long awaited,(seriously – a horse’s gestation period is 11 months), foal.  From the moment I met her, a half-hour after her birth, I was smitten with Faith.

What’s not to love? From the tips of her four tiny hooves to the tops of her fluffy ears , so far she’s perfect.  Of course she is only four and a half months old.

It’s all been so easy!  Getting Lucy pregnant was a snap, and she was in labor for less than 30 minutes. Even the delivery was simple. Apparently this is truly beginner’s luck.

Immediately after her arrival, Lucy stared at Faith like she was an alien from another planet.  It also irritated Lucy that it took Faith few hours to figure out which end was the milk bar.  But after a few initial squeals of rage, Lucy took to motherhood.

Initially Lucy was a horrible helicopter mom and would only let a chosen few of us near Faith.  But after a more experienced mare came into the pasture with her foal, Lucy chilled out.

By now, almost five months in, Lucy is kind of over the whole thing.  Not me. Faith is about the most fun I’ve ever had.  

The foals are like big nosey puppies. Not only are they adorable but if something is within their reach they wedge their noses inside.  If they aren’t eating or passed out on the ground like dead things, they are busy chasing each other around the field.

Faith already appears to be a nice mover, and she and her playmate jump over all the logs in the field in surprisingly good form.  Maybe there is something to all this breeding stuff after all. Which would be nice since we picked her daddy for his ability.

Murray, my beloved Great Dane is closing in on far end of the circle of life. He’s my heart dog and we’ve been together, since he was just six weeks old.  Now at more than 11, Mur is considered ancient for a dog his size. He is winding down, and damn, I’m having trouble with it.

Like a lot of the elderly, Murray is set in his ways. He has rules and he’s serious about them.

Ever since he was young, Mur has been very particular about his toys.  The only stuffed animals he plays with are what I call his ‘Jew Bears:’ teddies outfitted with Yarmulkes and a Star of David on their chests. Really.  He has bunches of other stuffed toys but carries only his Jew Bear (or its exact replacement; I buy them in bulk during Hanukah) around with him where ever he goes. 

He also felt that way about a tennis ball -sized rubber toy with pointy tips all over. It was his favorite and just the right size to get jammed in a Great Dane’s throat.  Which it did. He started gasping and was turning blue as we pulled into the vet’s office. I’m not sure how he did it, but Dr. Steve somehow performed the Heimlich maneuver on him and the ball popped out.

That wasn’t Murray’s only dabble with the Grim Reaper.  He also developed bloat, an acute condition where the dog’s stomach torques and flips. It’s deadly if not treated almost immediately.

Luckily I was home and lived close to an emergency vet, because it happened as all expensive emergencies do—after hours on Saturday night.  Three weeks and one very expensive operation and Murray was back to running agility.

That’s right. Agility. Murray was a star in the agility ring. All 140 pounds of him. I started running agility with him because I wanted to sharpen his obedience behaviors and was sick of regular classes. Much to everyone’s surprise he loved it.

Great Danes are unusual in agility, and lots of people would make snarky comments when we entered the ring. They weren’t laughing as we left..

He’s always been a light eater and skips eating for a day or so, but now it happens more often. Twice a day I hand feed him pain pills in a spoonful of peanut butter. His hips are shot and some mornings he can’t climb the two steps to my front door. More and more his back legs slip and splay and I have to lift him up.

Murray isn’t perfect; he doesn’t like strange dogs and most men. He snorts, farts and kicks in his sleep  But none of that matters. He’s been my best friend and companion for over a decade and I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to cope without him.

I guess I’m going to find out soon.

Broken and Depressed. Literally.

I have a confession: I am a terrible patient.  For one thing, I am not patient at all. I bitch and complain about colds, sore throats and the flu. I tend to stomp like a brat while whining about how unfair it all is. I realize this behavior is a bore, so I tend to keep to myself when I’m sick.

Right now I’m injured. Naturally, I am pissed. Livid. Even worse, it’s going to take all summer before I'm back to normal.

Last week I was on my way to Santa Barbara for a horse show, so I stopped to see Lucy and her baby, Faith. I only do this, oh, about four times a week.

As usual, armed with a five pound bag of carrots, I ducked under the electric fence and hollered for Lucy and Faith. Faith and her BFF immediately ran towards me with their moms ambling behind them.

I poured a bunch of carrots on the ground in two piles so Lucy and her gal pal wouldn’t bicker, and was breaking up bits to give to the foals, when a mare from the adjoining field came over to beg for a treat. Oops.

Until motherhood’s hormones kicked in, Lucy had a legendary temper. She ruled fields, arenas and wash racks with just a nasty look. That mare might have been in completely other field, but according to Lucy, she was too damn close. Not to Faith, Lucy is kind of sick of her, but to Lucy’s carrots.

In a flash, Lucy wheeled her butt around to snarl at the mare and smacked me into the electric fence.  As I hit the dirt, she stomped on my foot, squishing it as she whirled away.  Double oops.

Next thing I knew, I was on the ground getting shocked by the fence and looking up into the absolutely thrilled faces of the babies. They were so sure I was laying there in order to play with them, they could barely contain themselves. My screams of pain did confuse them a little.

With some effort, I shooed them away, grabbed Lucy’s front leg and used it to shimmy myself upright.  If she thought it was odd, she didn’t react. In her mind it was probably no weirder than some of the other stuff I’d asked her to do over the last 11 years.  

Standing wasn’t one of my better ideas.  My foot burned and the pasture swirled in circles, so I hobbled to the car to think.

This is what I came up with:  I better hit the road. I was late for my riding lesson at the show.  On to Santa Barbara.

Once at the show I took off my sneaker and looked at my foot. It looked normal-ish so I shoved it in a riding boot and rode.  It ached but not too badly.  As long as I could get my boot on in the morning, I was going to compete.

That night I stayed home and kept my foot iced and elevated. It was starting to turn a fascinating shade of purple and black.

I sussed out a nearby urgent care clinic for the next day. After I competed.

Wes looked gorgeous the next morning and I was dying to show. So I sucked it up and shoved my boot on. After a few minutes I could hardly feel my foot at all.

When my classes were over (I was pretty terrible, but I made it around), I headed for the urgent care.

I don’t recommend needing urgent care anywhere, but if you do, go to Santa Barbara.  In well under an hour, a pleasant doctor was examining my X-rays.

Even I could spot the break in my foot..  The doctor sent me away with a prescription, an ace bandage and instructions to see my doctor when I got home. He didn’t specifically tell me I couldn’t ride.

So the next morning I squeezed back into my boot (it was a lot more swollen and had a distinct resemblance Fred Flintstone’s foot) and hopped back on Wes to try and improve on the previous day’s horrible performance.

After an hour I conceded that it wasn’t meant to be.
I grudgingly dismounted.

I saw my new orthopedic doctor the other day. She outfitted me in a nightmare version of an orthopedic Birkenstock with orders to wear it for the next four to six weeks.

She did say I could ride. As long as I don’t use stirrups.

I’m still furious, but can’t even stomp around in a snit.  It hurts too much. Which hasn't stopped me from fuming to anyone who will listen.

Who Is That Blob in the Mirror? Oh No! It's Me!

A while ago I noticed that my clothes were getting smaller.  Things that had fit me only months before, were tight. While the magical thinker in me wanted to blame my new washing machine, (it must be shrinking all my clothing as part of its water saving feature!), my right brain couldn’t fight the reality: I was getting fat.

Now I’ve never exactly been a twig, but I never had a roll of flab around my middle. Until now.

It isn’t all my fault. I’ve reached that wonderful age where even though I’m neither eating more or exercising less, pounds glob on to my once -fit frame.

Also, and this is a biggie, I went back to school last fall, so instead of walking the dogs three miles a day every day, it has been more like three days a week.  You’d think when I noticed the dogs were getting a bit tubby and put them on a diet, I might have done the same for myself. But if you believe that you don’t understand denial. I, on the other hand,  am the Queen of Denial.

Breaking  through denial isn’t easy. It takes something big. We believers need a shove, not a nudge.

Mine came from in the form of an invitation. My perfectly nice nephew and his lovely girlfriend selfishly decided to get married.  In August.  In New England.

Perhaps they foolishly thought this was about them, but all I could think of was me. Not only would there be herds of people attending who I hadn’t laid eyes on in years, but there would be photographic evidence.  And sleeveless dresses. The horror!

After I stopped screaming, I started planning. I got a Fitbit – I have a few friends who had become quite svelte after adhering to the 10,000 step a day plan.  It fit easily into my schedule and like a Pavlovian dog, I enjoyed the little buzz it made when I hit the goal. 

Naturally there was a problem. Most days I was already walking more than 10,000 steps and I kept breaking the darn things. After three replacements failed, the company and I agreed to part.

By this time it was June.  School was ending and I had a little more spare time.  Unfortunately for the dogs, summer in the San Fernando Valley is hot. Steaming hot. By the time I get home from riding in the mornings, it’s too hellish to walk on the streets. Unless I want to burn their paws. Which I don’t.

I already started going back to flow yoga a couple of times a week, and that was making me feel better, but I wasn’t losing any noticeable weight.  The clock was ticking and I needed to get serious. So I reached out to a young, fit, friend who had recently finished the certification and classes to become a fitness trainer.

She invited me over to her place for the first session. Like heroin, the first time was free.  Also like drugs, it also made me feel pretty good.

During that assessment she kept telling me I was in better shape than I look.  Apparently under my rolls of fat lurk abs of steel. Or at least aluminum.

I figured I’d give it a chance for a few months. I had nothing to lose but fat.

Today was my fourth session. The exercises aren’t so easy anymore.  Apparently, the whole point of training is to keep pushing yourself, not to get good at it. If it gets comfortable, you add weight and start all over.

This completely goes against my need for near-instant gratification. My ideal plan is to get better at things and eventually win. It’s the destination, not the journey. Naturally, I’m a pretty bad yogi.

Anyway, today I managed to get through all of the exercises, even with some weights.  ‘Course by the time we were done, my arms were so tired I wasn’t sure I’d be able to shift my car out of park and drive home. Note to self:  next time don’t take the vehicle with manual transmission.

By the time I did get home it became obvious that if I wanted to get anything done I had to rest my arms on the table or they shook too much to type. Aspirin is my new best friend.

After only two weeks, I haven’t seen a change yet, but everyone assures me I will. Eventually.

I don’t expect to have a bangin’ bikini bod, but I would like to be able to wear a sleeveless dress to the wedding and not gross myself out. Or at least fit into my old clothes again.