The Happy Update: Chock Full of iPhone Photos!

The last surgery for our beloved family member was on Monday.  It could not have gone better!

Now if life will simply revert back to Plan A, we’ll be back on our horsey track soon!  Thanks for hanging in with us.

We stuffed the week before the surgery with all kinds of goodies, especially visual ones. (Eye surgery: you’d wake up seeing…or not.) The need to view gorgeousness called for a trip to the ocean on Coleman Valley Road.  If you are ever in Northern California, and are not intimidated by drives that some describe as harrowing, write me, and I’ll tell you how to find the road.  Usually only travelled by locals and Lance Armstrong-type bicyclists.

We saw:

and:

Then we got back in the car for more:

We ended up here, at Coleman Beach:

We did not walk down to the “beach” (Air quotes: reflect lack of sand, level of wave danger, and absurd amount of jagged rocks) because the path fell off. Literally.

Sadly, our govenor cut the parks budget, so there is no “You Are About to Fall to An Untimely Death” sign.

From there, we drove to The Dog House for the best hotdogs EVer (and all you can eat fries!). Then back to Bodega Head, where we climbed the cliff below.

Pictured is the only section not bristling with binoculors, sunhats, chairs, zoom lenses and folding tables holding whale bones. (It’s whale watching season.) One of the kids innocently (uh-huh) pointed at a far rock submerged in the ocean and said “Look! A whale!!!”, giving about 50 people instant whiplash.

Looking down:

FYI, those are house sized rocks, not whale sized rocks.

Looking to the right:

A wonderful day, a wonderful outcome, a good life!

Murphy Monday: Cinco de Murphy!

Happy Birthday baby boy! Murphy is officially a yearling.

There were awesome cupcakes:

Including glitter horseshoes:

Wait let’s see those cupcakes again?  First, Murphy:

Now, cupcakes…

Yup, they actually made Murphy heads. I love Sift.

You know, he’s pretty tasty…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MURPHY!

A Circling We Will Go…

The Round Pen, to be exact.  I’m sick. Given Hudson’s state of mind and my NyQuil induced stupor, I decided riding would be foolhardy.

But that doesn’t mean one of us can’t work!

He’s doing some decent trot work in the Vienna reins, and beginning to give up and relax into the stupid fracken circles he so enjoys.

I’m happy to see his fitness plan is so clearly working through the neck and shoulders.  I can see it behind as well, but we have a lot farther to go to get the back, abs and rump well muscled.

He’s a funny guy.  What made him happy? He was working in the rain.  Hudson’s opinion: real horses work in weather!

Into the Equine Heart of Darkness…

Dear Equines and Bipeds,

Hudson here. I am in existential angst.

My life is…boring. It’s a dreary endless round of circles and grooming.

I’m a little cranky.

Jane is furious with me.  Bella is furious with me. Woodrow is…not amused.

I ask you, when you are in existential angst, at whom do you lash out? The people closest to you, naturally.

Well.  Woodrow just happened to be the closest to me at the moment I became overwhelmed with ennui. But this was forever ago.

(Jane said to tell you it was the day before yesterday, whatever that means.)

True. He – ah – might be limping a little on the leg all the antiseptic-smelling people were trying to fix.

And – ah – I might have thoroughly alienated his massage therapist, a delightful woman, who happened to have just finished working on Woodrow’s problem areas.

And – ah – I might have fallen slightly into a habit of lashing out at Woodrow during dinner, which,  if I’m honest, could be a contributing factor into why he’s not getting better according to the vet’s projected schedule. Who knew a little regular slipping and falling could hurt him?

Fine. If I put myself in his horseshoes I wouldn’t be very happy with me either.

I’ve been banished. I’ve also been told in no uncertain terms by Jane that I am not allowed to feel sorry for myself, and you are not allowed to feel sorry for me either.

(No “poor Hudson” comments, please.)

I formally apologize: Woodrow, I am sincerely sorry, from the bottom of my stomach, that I have been a big, mean, bully and caused you both psychic and physical pain.

I do not trust that I would not do it again.  Sorry. I hope you will take this as a sign of my personal failings, not as a sign of any dislike of you.

Jane is taking me to something she calls “counseling”.  I do not quite understand the concept, but she says it involves a long succession of wet saddle blankets, that I will become quite tired on a regular basis, and I will be doing something new.  When pressed to know what this “new” thing is, Jane merely says “I don’t know yet, Hudson.  Please shut up before I hurt you.”

(Hurt me? Why?)

Humans.  So confusing.

I just hope it won’t be as it’s been: circles at the trot on the buckle. Circles at the trot on the bit.  Circles at the walk on the buckle. Circles at the walk on the bit.  Circles of the canter on the buckle. Circles of the canter on the bit. Tiny circles. Medium circles.  Large circles. Giant, arena-sized circles.  Circling the barns on the access road. Circles carrying yourself like this.  Circles of carrying yourself like that. I am not a merry-go-round horse.

I miss all the decision-making I got to do running steers.

I want to know what the new thing is.

Do you know?

Nudge,

Hudson

The Waiting Room

Our beloved family member had surgery on Monday, and it went very well.  So well, in fact, we had to sit on her to keep her from, oh I don’t know, GOING SHOPPING.

If I had to condense my part of the experience it would go something like this:

worry worry worry

anxiety worry worry fear worry

is that food? no? I should eat anyway worry worry munch munch worry

worry I know! I need a slab of cake worry worry anxiety munch munch worry

Oh no! my pants don’t fit sob rend worry worry anxiety I bet what I really need to do is eat more to ease the tension worry worry worry munch munch munch

stuff patient in car worry FEAR worry worry worry

drive worry worry “oh for heaven’s sake, don’t drive past the hospital!” disgust

worry worry worry

This is my brain on “Oh No, A Surgery!”

I thought once we arrived, it might get easier.  I’ve noticed stuff gets easier once you pass the point of being capable of action. (It’s difficult to snatch the patient back once they’ve been whisked away to pre-op.)

I stare around the waiting room.  At first, nothing registers, except it’s pleasant.

Then I panic. Oh God.  The waiting room is pleasant to the point of soothing. There’s the sound of a fountain trickling, the lighting is fresh feeling.  Plants flourish. The walls are a muted make-everyone’s-skin-look-good pink, more suited to a spa or dermatology office. There’s a sculpture.  A book of patient poetry.

The chairs are clean.  Soft.  Pastel printed. I clamp my hand over my mouth.

SHE’S GOING TO DIE!

No one puts this much effort into a hospital waiting room unless soothing relatives is an absolute requirement.

Last year, when the doctor expected an ‘outpatient procedure’ to be in and out, she did almost die. The 15 min procedure went on for 2 hours, then 3, then 4…I had to stop looking at the clock.

I had waited perched on an ancient coffee-stained sofa, wedged in a dark hallway corner. Daisy and Lily both came after I called them in a panic, when the 2 hour mark passed.  We alternated standing and sitting. A large nurses station, populated with harrassed, annoyed nurses, was positioned between me and the operating room doors.

No fountain. No plants. No mood lighting. No magazines at that hospital: they did not expect any problems.

I look up from this memory in horror.

A nurse smiles at me soothingly from the beige-pink counter.  ”She’s going to be fine”, the nurse says, with true compassion.

I have to get her out.

The nurse sees my escalating panic and misreads me, saying “She’s already in surgery, don’t worry, she’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

Thought 1: NO! Not FIFTEEN MINUTES?

Thought 2: Where the heck is the cafeteria?!?

Post-Op: she’s fine. It only took 13 minutes. In at 7 am, out at 10:30 am and driving home.  Crossing my fingers for the next surgery.

I really have to find a better way to deal with stress.

For those of you who are not hard-wired to eat in times of stress, what helps you cope?

In Which New Boots Have Unexpected Consequences

New Mountain Horse tall boots!

Yay!  And OW!

For the non-horsey: tall boots are cut at least an inch too high, because the leather will soften and drop around your ankles a bit.  This means they cut into the tender area behind your knee, while awaiting maximum drop, and rub the crap out of your heel tendons.  Blister city.

These weren’t too bad.  I walked a whole twenty feet before developing my first blisters. (Trust me, boots exist that are capable of blistering most of your leg in under five feet, flat.)

I invested in super padded self-stick gauze bandages.  They’re keeping my blisters from getting blisters.  Win-win. (It takes iron will-power to break in new boots.  New boots do everything they can to break you right back.)

Yesterday, I forgot to pack an extra pair of footwear for the barn, in case I had to walk farther than 50 feet. (The gauze pads give me 30 feet of extra walking range!)

I rode Hudson, and we had a terrific workout. I think we actually made an entire circuit of the arena in a semi-correct position.  Hudson worked up a sweat.  I worked up a sweat.

The boots were incredibly comfortable up here:

Hudson and I usually go pick up Woodrow to pony before we start, or after we’ve finished.  It gives Woodrow an extra 20-30 minutes of walking (he’s in PT) and Hudson gets company for the booooring part.

20 minutes into our cool-out ponying walk, Hudson is still steaming.  Ordinarily, this is the point where I’d get off, untack, and just hand walk the boys.

I look down at my boots.  So not going to happen.

I drop the reins on Hudson’s neck, tuck Woodrow’s lead rope under my leg, and text Bella:

Jane: Hmm…ponying.  H isn’t cooling out.  Ok to switch seats, pony H off W?

I wasn’t sure if weight-bearing had been added to Woodrow’s physical therapy. I stare at the screen in my hands, while using my seat to direct Hudson around the arena. God I love this horse.  A horse you can pony from and text on at the same time? Goldmine. I wait for the return text bing. Resist the temptation to play Bejeweled.

Even I can’t justify playing a game on my cell while riding.

Bing.

Bella: Sure!  Go for it.

I’ve only been on Woodrow once, months ago.  I don’t usually do first rides bareback in a halter, but it felt fine…?  He had been mildly surprised, but it went well. I’ll do the same thing today.

I untack Hudson, still steaming, and halter him. When I do not take the expected course up to their paddock, they glance at each other, ears swiveling in a horse code (similar to Morse code) of chatter. I try to ignore them talking behind my back. It makes me feel like a school marm.

Woodrow: Dude. What’s she doing?

Hudson: No idea.  Bizarre. You hungry?

Woodrow: Always.

Hudson: Stupid. We could be eating.

Woodrow: Hey, there’s still some lunch left.  Try leaning.

Hudson: Leaning?

Woodrow: Lean toward the food?  Like…you know…hint.

Hudson: I do not lean. Leaning is beneath me. I yank.

Woodrow: Whatever. Too late. Look where we are.

Hudson: Damn.

I’m standing on the mounting block, calculating distances, trajectories, and potential Jane-velocity.  Woodrow is only slightly shorter than Hudson.  Not entirely sure I can “leap” instead of “lower” myself on his bare back.  I try to factor in that I’ll be leaping while holding another horse.

Hmm. I change the angles in my head.

One of the trainers takes pity on me and offers me a leg up.  After my last fiasco getting a leg up, I turn her down flat, but thank her profusely for holding Hudson, so the only thing I have to work out is how to get ON Woodrow.

Turn  mounting block on its side, pretend I’m ten….

I’m on in 2 seconds, with no embarrassing misses. Age denial: it’s a good thing.

Woodrow is bulked up like an Offensive Lineman. He’s a tank! How great is that? Tank horses are comfortable. I can hear Hudson sniff: leaner horses are more graceful.

(Not true, but I’m not going to hurt his feelings.)

The trainer smiles and hands me Hudson’s lead rope. Woodrow’s head is high in the air, very still, one questioning ear turned toward me. I laugh. It’s adorable:

Woodrow: Hi….?

I pat him on the neck.

Jane: Hi! We’re going for a walk, cutie pie.

I expect this to answer his question. I am so wrong. The conversation has just started.

Woodrow: Yeah. Um…I think you made a mistake.  This is how it goes? You ride that horse, and I keep you company. Not in my owner’s manual that you have clearance?

Woodrow (to Hudson): Cutie pie?

Hudson shrugs.

Jane: No, it’s fine, I called your mom. We’re just going to walk. You and Hudson are just trading jobs.

I squeeze with my legs, and lay the lead rope against his neck: let’s go that away.

Both ears swivel back at me. Not a hoof moves.

Woodrow: Nooo…I think this is wrong…? That horse lugs you around.  I stroll and rubberneck.

Huh.  Meanwhile, Hudson has begun tossing his head, uncharacteristically surging forward and back, antsy to get going.  I stare at Hudson.  One of Woodrow’s ears swivels, pointing at Hudson.

Woodrow: Hey.  She’s smart after all! Who knew? (Sotto voice: Hudson, she looked at you when I pointed!)

Woodrow: (back to me) That’s right. You ride him.  See? He wasn’t lost.  You didn’t look hard enough.

Pause.

Woodrow: You can get off any time.

Hudson is eyeballing the soft dirt of the arena. Uh-Oh.  I see horsey dust angels in the bubble over his head.

Hudson: I’m naked!  Naked naked NAKED!  OOOooooooo….I love being naked. Mom? Look the other way for just a sec, K?

Woodrow: Dude. I’m naked too. And she’s on me.  Think you can focus, and help out with that?

Hudson: Uh. No.  Hey. THAT looks like a good spot to roll.

Woodrow: No one is rolling. Not if I can’t.

Although he hasn’t responded to my squeeze, clucking noises, or neck rein, Woodrow and I are on the same side. No. Rolling.  I pull his lead to the side and tattoo his ribs lightly with my calves.

Woodrow: What? No!  You still think you should be up there?  MISTAKE.

Hudson: Haha! Neener neener.  It’s not a mistake. C’mon, let’s GO. We used to do this all the time with Dinero. Look guy, NBD, okay?

Woodrow: Who the heck is Dinero? And dude, don’t yank me.

Jane: He’s right W, let’s go. You have to cart me around for a while.

Hudson: Told you.

Jane: Hudson, shush. You’re not helping!

Woodrow: This is so wrong. Fine.  I’m walking.

Pause.

Woodrow: Hey. Cute mare, twelve o’clock. Check out the wash rack!

Hudson: Dude. Awesome.  She’s hot.

Suddenly, we’re walking briskly toward the wash rack. Um. Gelding I’ve don’t know very well (from up here) touching noses with mare I don’t know? So not going to let that happen.

I rein him away, rather abruptly.

Woodrow to Hudson: Told you this was wrong.

Hudson: Damn.

We walk.  Every now and then Woodrow slows a bit and swivels an ear back to me.  Couldn’t be clearer.

Woodrow: NOW are we done…?

I cue him to keep moving out.

Jane: No. And you just made the time longer.

Woodrow: Shoot.

Hudson: Now you know what I have to put up with. And stop asking. I’m hungry.

Jane: Hudson, SHUT UP.

Hudson: (innocently) Geeze, just talking.

Woodrow: Dude. How do you stand it?

Jane: Guys? Helllllo.  I’m right here.  I can hear you.

Woodrow and Hudson, simultaneously: SO?

New boots. The source of blisters on many levels.

But SO worth it.

(I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time!)

Give us This Day Our Daily Irony

San Quentin: the Scenic Prison.

It was a gorgeous day.

I had to run an errand that was near the Richmond Bridge. Specifically, I had to take the exit for San Quentin. (You know, home to our friends Charles Manson, Sirhan Sirhan, Charles Ng, Scott Peterson, and other horrific  murderers.)

It’s been awhile since I’ve taken that exit. I have to admit, San Quentin is stunning. It glows a beautiful pale yellow in the light off San Francisco Bay. The razor wire is all glittery and sparkly.

Exit is straightforward. Prison Men’s Correctional Facility to your right: you can see one of the first guard towers from the exit.

The signs cracked me up.

Turn right to go to the prison or…

…left for a more Scenic view.

Given the choice, I’ll take the scenic view every time….

(click “more” to see Wikipedia photos of prison)

Murphy Monday: Almost a Year Old!

Murphy will be a year old on May 5th.  Can you believe it?

I am date challenged.  When he was born on Cinco de Mayo (Mexican Independence Day) I was relieved. I’d never forget his birthday.

Ha. I am completely capable of forgetting the most memorable date. Late one night, I saw a status update from Daisy on Facebook, noting Murphy was 11 months old. I immediately panicked, and tried to wish Daisy and Murphy a happy birthday on Cinco de April. When he was eleven months old. (That’s less than a year, FYI, if we have any other date-challenged people here.)

Daisy moved Barbie to the same facility once Murphy was weaned.  Princess Barbie has never been happier. Acres and acres of land to roam.  The barn owner found her rolling in the pond.  This is the horse that hated to get her feet wet. Clearly she’s modeling her new royal behavior after Princess Fiona from Shrek.

Princess Fiona (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Barbie is relaxed and happy. Yeah, I have to say that twice: Barbie is relaxed.

It was almost too much of a shock for me.  I recovered quickly. Daisy strapped a feed bag of grain over Barbie’s head,  immediately annoying her. (There’s my niece!)  Very un-royal looking.  But it does keep her grain hers, and lessens her ability to fling it all over the pasture.

Once Barbie is munching away, we turn to the baby pasture.

Murphy is positive we made a mistake, and went into the wrong pasture:

It is instantly obvious someone has broken the rules about hand feeding the babies. We were mobbed.

We had no food.  Undeterred, they tried to root through our clothing, certain treats were hidden somewhere.

Even with two of us, a baby escaped, and Auntie Jane had to use The Mane Grab and Cheek Lock to drag the baby back in, so Murphy and Daisy could escape. Daisy was busily multi-tasking, keeping the rest of the pack herd in, while attempting a Navy SEAL level extraction.

Look, Auntie Jane! I’m old enough to shave!!!!

He should be shed out a little more by his birthday.  Hopefully we will have less shaggy baby photos…we might even get to see what color he will be.

He was very wiggly and antsy – unusual for him.  No good full body photos, I’m afraid.

But he’s still our gorgeous boy!

In Which Hudson Calls the FBI on Jane

Dear Excellent Equines and Bemusing Bipeds,

I told Jane if she did not stop calling anti-septic smelling humans to look at me, I would have her investigated. Per usual, she did not believe me.  Please note my casual “what?” glance back at Jane.  Me? I have hooves. How would I dial?

Works every time.

The first anti-septic smelling human that came used me as a pincushion. Then, he embarrassingly studied my…digestively-processed feed…under a microscope, reporting back loudly that HUDSON DOES NOT HAVE WORMS.

Humans.  Have you no decency?  There were cute mares around.  How would you like it if  I informed your potential dates that you did not have worms?

Exactly.

The day after being used as a testing ground for sharp metal points, I didn’t feel so good.  My neck swelled up, and I admit, I wanted Jane to stay and read me Black Beauty.  I felt that sick: I wanted Black Beauty. And cookies.  I must have regressed emotionally.  I’ve read things like this happen.

(I hate Chick Lit.)

Do you know what Jane did? I did not lay restfully with my head in her lap while she gently stroked my forelock, and read to me about Merry Legs. She pressed a large, flat, freeze brand on the swelling, and held it there. OW.

I. Am. A. Saint.

She shoved a syringe in my mouth, and squirted that nasty paste in my cheek. Yes, it made the hot swollen thing feel better, but…BLECH.

At least I made her do this twice.  She knows I will spit it out, so she holds my chin up in the air until I swallow. I pretended to swallow. She let go of my chin, I opened my mouth, and out plops a nice line of paste. HA! (Second time, I was not so lucky.)

Next, finally, I have my chiropractor.  I love this human. LOVE. I knew my atlas was out, but he said my whole right side was a mess.  Something about more work would be good.  And massage. And tons of carrots and cookies. Jane, I’m thinking a massage twice a day would help?

Days later, I see something else good: the trailer is hooked up! Jane is going to reward me for my good behavior!

I jump in fully expecting to see STEERS when I jump out.

Drat.

It was my dentist. He tells the worst jokes.  They’re all human jokes, and most are baffling. I ask you, if a joke started out “A horse walked into a bar…” wouldn’t you all immediately wince, knowing the horse hit himself on the bar? His punch lines never match the preceding tale.

Strangely, I like him.  Not crazy about the head harness/pulley system, but by then I’m feeling oddly relaxed and don’t much care.

After that was the Week it Hurt To Eat and then my stomach felt uncomfortable, which was torture. But at least it got me tons of hand walking and riding in the halter.

I’d be the most awesome dressage horse on the planet if Jane lost the bridle. A fact I never cease to remind her about.  No saddle + no bridle = perfect shoulder-in and canter pirouette.

She says No WAY.  She claims I will trot down the centerline, halt at X, and yawn as widely as possible, so the judge would know my opinion of dressage.  (She’s right.)

Drat.

At least I’m getting a lot of the good stuff: pellets top-dressed with all kinds of exotic food.  She must have given in to my personal chef request.  Nice.

This was not enough to stop my FBI phone call, however. Someone must quench the parade of humans that smell like anti-septic.

Jane says “Hudson, a real FBI vehicle would be a car.”

Wrong.  The FBI isn’t stupid.  They’d use a golf cart to blend in: common item around barns. Obviously, I watch more CSI and crime drama than Jane.  (I can see the TV from my paddock.)

If the FBI doesn’t make all this poking and prodding stop, I’m going to try something called the “IRS”? I don’t know what IRS stands for, but lately I’ve heard a lot of humans speaking about it with a great deal of anxiety.

IRS must be Special Ops.

Jane, consider yourself on probation.

Nudge,

Hudson

When Knitters Protest

The upside to numerous medical appointment driving: I’ve been in four different towns in  three days. One of them was the infamous dog park town. Definitely breaks up the monotony, to drive all these places.

Knitters there have “tagged” a light post and a bicycle rack, by literally knitting around it.  I look at the yellow bicycle rack cozy, and the red striped lamp-post warmer.

I resist the urge to shove my fist in the air and shout “Solidarity!”

There is an underground guerilla knitting cell here.  I was a member.

We met secretly in each other’s homes, knitting our hearts out, without patterns. 

Now THIS was knitting on the edge. We were tough, reveling in the gritty front line of no-holds-barred, full-bore, all out knitting. I knit my first pair of gloves here, starting at the wrist, and knitting up the hand, trying on as I went, deciding to *offset the thumbs.

*Translation: making a right and a left glove, because, if you look at your hands, they aren’t interchangeable, and the thumbs sit down and more toward the palm.

Nice to remember my glory rebel days, when knitting wasn’t a granny occupation, but an act of defiance, refusing to be owned by the corporate pattern companies.

Hey, everyone has to have their own comfort level at defying the status quo.  Mine just happened to involve pointy sticks and string.

Odd. Yesterday, a different town had a public trash can “tagged” by a guerilla knitter. S/he presumably knitted around the can in the dark of night.  Huh. It was right outside my favorite bookstore.

Today, more waiting in yet another town.  I walked down to Starbucks to kill time, past the library, and was startled to see  more knitted “tagging”.

Well.  Who can argue with that sentiment?  Not me!

I’m not sure if this is a local movement, or there is a bigger, more focused grass-roots movement, to protest or call for support, via Rebel Knitters. As far as I can tell, it’s been focused around…books…?

I wonder how dangerous it would be to contact my former cell…

Update: thanks to our wonderful commentors, we learn knitting is being used all over the world as a powerful protest tool.  Some examples (click on photo for original site):

Tank Cozy:

Knitted House and Landscape:

Street signs:

A bus in the UK:

It’s called guerilla knitting or “yarn bombing”, as crochet is often an easier tool to wrap things in. In fact, here’s a great blog on the subject:

Yarn Bombing

Now pardon me, I have a knitted bus to catch before I miss the movement!