Still, Lives

I interrupt my regularly scheduled program of over-analyzing and hamster wheeling to acknowledge the presence of things that require nothing more of me than to get out of my head and notice them.

I'm an existentialist. I don't perceive that a godlike entity or higher consciousness created all living things and cast them as players in a divine plan. I guess, instead, that here is here, that it is now, and all the rest, no matter how compelling, is daydreams. But... I admit to imagining that some kind of natural blessing exists in animals. I take it as a positive thing to have the endorsement of their proximity.

My festival summer is about to begin, so I'm preparing to move my life out of the city and into another time. H.G. and I surveyed our shops lately and were happy to see several guest tenants making use of them.

I confess that I take things like these as signs, recognitions, even, of my place in a world where I'm not so different from anything or anyone.

My Craziness

It's all wrapped up in animals. I flinch outside and cry inside whenever I see a dead animal in the road. We have 11 cats, and all but three of them are rescues, dumped at the festival or brought to us in a box. If I'd known such a thing existed when I was young, I might have wound up running an equine rescue. I've always had the impulse of kindness and care toward animals, sometimes to the point of, well, craziness.

So I've been caring for a feral cat for five years. She lives on the festival grounds. Three of her kids live in our house, and I've adopted out the rest of four litters over the years. In the summer of 2009, a friend and I decided to stop the madness of endless kittens. We trapped her and had her spayed and ear tipped.

I found out then that Harlot, as I called her, was about 10 years old. After her spaying, she eased right into a life free of one-night stands and became semi-attached to her gravy train -- namely, me. Harlot will never cross over to the dark side, where we humans live, though. She will always be wild.

I spend the winter months telecommuting to work, which is a nice thing, but I've never been able to relax into it because of Harlot. Even though I had an automatic feeder and a heated water bowl for her, I worried too much. I had bad dreams about her during the worst nights of winter and often ended up driving to the site to give her a warm meal and check her supplies.

This year, as the festival ran its course, I began to fret about Harlot. Arthritis has slowed her, and she's become insistently dependent on me to feed her. I worried about her ability to survive another winter of bitter cold, not to mention the coyotes and huge raccoons trolling for snacks. I stayed at my place on the site until the last possible day mostly so I could look after her. Then, during a trail ride a couple of weeks ago, my madness spurred me and I blurted out to E, "If I can catch her, could Harlot come here to the farm?" And she said yes. My heart just soared.

On Friday, I set the live trap for Harlot, but she's wise to it. The last time she got in it, she came back missing part of an ear and all of a uterus. She chose not to eat. The belly always wins, I reminded myself as I slowly drove away, leaving her without food for the weekend. The belly always does win. I got her today, not five minutes after baiting the trap. Tonight she's snug in the hayloft, her feeder and water set up in a dark corner. It always feels good, the will to care, especially when you can do something about it. Welcome home, Harlotta.

Their Own Lives

The other day I was driving to the barn, listening to Madonna's latest concert CD. It's a country drive, the route to the barn, past farms and McMansion developments. I know all the places where I'll see horses, and I always look for them, whether I know I'm doing it or not. The way you did when you were in high school, dating a boy who drove a blue Camaro. Suddenly, it seemed those cars were everywhere.

When I happened upon these guys, my heart paused for just a second. Right?

This recently-turned-out threesome hangs out in a pasture so remote, all I can see in the distance is the lane back to whatever barn they belong to. I pulled a U-turn on the two-lane and stopped on the shoulder. Through the lens of my camera, and with a silly sense of relief, I caught the flicking ear of the chestnut in the foreground.

The complete abandonment with which they slept, the nearness they kept to one another. The simplicity of their own lives, apart from us.

4 of 4, A Language All Their Own - Scout Comes Home

We've all kept close to Scout this week, those of us who love her, those who provide care to her, even some who have never met her. But are any of us as close to Scout as these two are? No. We can't be, because we don't speak the same language. At best, we are middle men. Between what they are and what we want them to be, between what they do and what we want them to do. As a human being, I was on the outside of this reunion, exactly where I should have been. But it was a privileged place to be.

Wait! I know this place! She was full of excitement. Scout had been at another barn for one month, but this small farm had been her home for two years. Half a second was all she needed to recognize where she was.













They knew her, too. The air was electric with chill and the first light winter snow.













Someone told me once, years ago, "Oh, your mare is a killer. She should never be turned out with other mares." Tell it to Keely, who missed Scout terribly. What happened? Where were you? Why are you in there? Come outside. (But those are just my words; they have nothing to do with what was going on between them.)















They crowded around Scout's window. But poor little Gambler couldn't see her.














Scout soon realized something had changed. Everybody was out in the paddocks. There was someone new out there, too. I think she started to feel it in her gut. It was one thing to be on stall rest at a strange barn and then at the clinic. It might be too hard at home.













Keely agreed. Together, they began to work at the window.














When Keely finally drifted back to her hay, Gam got his chance. Scout wasn't terribly interested in visitors by then. The reality of her dilemma was becoming clear to her.















Bringing her home was the fourth of the hurdles I worried how we'd cross. Now I see, though, that every day that Scout must stay in her stall will be another hurdle. She can't change her nature, I only hope that she can change how she relates to it.