There's a sucker born every minute

Saturday morning began much like any other weekend morning in DarcC-land. I awoke, unleashed the hounds, fed and turned out the horses, and even managed to feed myself, all in short order. I then dashed directly off to the local feed store to procure a roll of fence wire, in order to install a new and improved dog yard. However, the universe had other plans, which initially manifested themselves as an inability to get the 5ft high, 100ft long roll of fencing in to the back of the effing car. No amount of rear-seat 60/40 split-bench folding, trunk slamming, and front power seat reclining could make that bad boy fit. Fine. I informed the nice boys who regularly stuff hay, shavings, grain, etc. into my erstwhile vehicle that I would have to return later, when my swedish-pickup (aka volvo wagon) driving friend would be coming to visit; I was certain he wouldn't mind a scenic trip to the feed store. He arrived and didn't mind at all, so off we set.

Only this time, the universe saw fit to have a little kitten start across the road in front of us. Eagle-eyes that I am, I detected scrawny from 150 feet away. As we got closer, instead of scampering, the kitten merely crouched down in the other lane. As we slowly crept by, I got a good look at him and saw that his entire face - eyes, nose, mouth, everything - was completely obscured by a crust of dried pus. Friend kept driving as my freakout began. I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that we didn't drive much farther, and luckily I keep my neighbor/vet's number on speed dial. I called her now, informed her that I was about to "do a stupid" and pick up a sick feral kitten, and would she help me, seeing as her office was already closed for the weekend. She said she would, and we returned, sans fence, to the dairy farm where the kitten sighting took place. I saw the kitten, thankfully out of the road, disappear into a hole in the door of a big old barn.

I knocked on the door of the farmhouse and when a man answered the door, pretended (while inwardly seething) to really want a kitten, and ask if I could catch one I had seen go into the barn. "Take them all" I was told. "If you can catch them, people dump them here all the time". Which is undoubtedly true, but 1) when I see its mother and several other probable generations too, you can trap/fix/release for short or no money, call the animal rescue league's spay waggin; and 2) this is a dairy farm, do you really want diseased cats running around your milk cows and veal calves? Bogus. He did find me a cardboard box to carry it home, and told me which barn door to use, and off I went.

I had visions of clambering around the big old place searching for this kitten, but he was in even worse shape than I thought and hadn't gone far, crouching just inside the door, sparing me the need to search and chase. His eyes were so obscured by crust that he didn't even see me reaching for him, and when I picked him up gave only one weak swipe with a front paw, no match for my heavy winter work gloves. Then into the box he went, without so much as a hiss or a yowl, and he was quiet and still the rest of the ride home. Here is a picture taken AFTER we had cleaned up his face! None of the pics capture what a rack of bones he is, held together by nothing but skin.

I put him into a dog crate with a bolster cushion and waited for Neighbor Vet, who didn't take long at all to arrive with supplies. She expertly cleaned his face with dampened gauze pads (I regret not getting "before" pictures in time), listened to him struggle to breathe, declared he had both an upper respiratory infection and a secondary herpes infection in his eyes, injected subcutaneous fluids, syringed human baby food into him, and pronounced him a male of the species. She then generously offered to open up the clinic to get the antibiotics, eye ointments, and de-wormer he required, so we followed her there and got the pills and potions, and returned home to further dose the little guy while she continued on her way to a family function. After the initial dosing, friend and I went to actually get the fence, litter box, teeny food and water bowls, kitten kibble, and dinner, and when I returned little Crusty was sleeping like the proverbial dead, covered in the blanket I'd put in earlier, head propped up on the bolster of the cushion. He woke up long enough for me to rearrange his crate and add the litter pan, and had perked up enough to purr as I cradled and petted him. Wild kitten tamed, at least temporarily.

Here's the reaction from the inmates who run the asylum:

"Holy Crap! It's a kitten! When did we get a kitten? I didn't ask for a kitten! Why was I not consulted?"




















Luna, Willow, and Wylie don't look too happy. Midgie is distinctly displeased.











Mooney wonders if he is somehow not cute enough anymore, now that he is a big seven month old boy?






Oblivious to the uproar his presence has caused, Crusty slumbers on... He perked up one more time around nine, just long enough to meow a couple times, and otherwise gasped, gurgled, snorted and sneezed his way through the night. It was so bad whenever I couldn't hear him breathing I thought I'd lost him. But he was still there in the morning, so I guess he decided to live. Neighbor Vet came by to check on him right after I'd dosed him again, and was going to come back to give him more fluids, but wound up coming back to take him home with her to be able to pump fluid into him all day. I only know how to give intramuscular shots to horses, I guess I should learn cats and dogs, and intravenous of all types. He spent last night with her and went to work with her today, to be tested for FIV and FELV. If he had tested positive he would have been put down, happily he is negative for both. He is spending tonight next door as well for a final dose of fluid in the morning and a steam bath all night to help his breathing. I'm working at home tomorrow so he'll come back in the morning, I'll post an update tomorrow.

Procrastination

Pouring down raining sideways day. Need raincoat to do horse chores (horses are finally home, post forthcoming, I keep forgetting to take pictures for illustrative purposes). Leave dry warm mudroom apartment for main house, where aforementioned raincoat has been left due to lack of motivation to hang proper coatrack in mudroom. Notice basement lights left on. Go down to basement to turn lights off. Notice water dripping onto basement floor, from ceiling. Quickly put two and two together, arrive at four. Return to first floor to assess damage. Laugh out loud due to irony of drip from second to first floor impacting dead-center on a book titled "Dry" (awesome book, btw, by Augusten Burroughs - highly recommend anything and everything he's written. His brother's not bad either). Rescue piles (plural) of books from deluge, hope they freeze tomorrow until I can dry them out proper, like maybe in the spring. Continue past second floor, also soaked but bereft of belongings, to attic. Laugh out loud due to irony of line of empty buckets under recently repaired and therefore no longer leaking roof at back of house while water pours unabated through leak in roof at front of house. Spew forth vile invective at self's procrastinating tendencies okay long-term behaviour pattern. Move buckets.

Proceed back downstairs. Dial headquarters to inform answering parental unit of new leak newsflash. Sperm donor answers. Inform sperm donor his roof is leaking. Download less succinct, more profane version of prior paragraph. Best he can come up with is "okay, well, we'll clean it up", to which I retort "actually, I was thinking more along the lines of FIXING IT". "okay, I'll tell your mother". Perfect. Thanks for that.

Hang up. Curse day surfed equinesite real-estate ads. Don raincoat, head out into storm to do horse chores. Question sanity. Briefly consider selling farm, re-homing animal collection, quitting day job and assuming new identity. Decide not tonight, maybe tomorrow.

Desiderata

I love this prose poem by Max Ehrman. Written in 1927, it is every bit as pertinent today. Desiderata - from the Latin for "desired things". Happy Thanksgiving!

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Finally posting about you, so now you can be happily enraged, Ms. gajillion stat hits a day.

To my regular readers, I apologize in advance for this diversion. Regularly scheduled blog programming will resume shortly. In the meantime, perhaps this will clarify why I haven't updated lately, just when actual progress is being made around the farm.

Dear girlfriend of the man I am not fucking (although at this point I might as well start - if I'm dealing with the bullshit I might as well have some fun),

You are everything I have spent my entire life deliberately not becoming. You have nothing to offer the world other than your vagina. Why are you so surprised to learn that a vagina is not enough to keep a man to keep you? Furthermore, no matter how hard you try to make it, 2+2 will never equal 5, yet 5 is the answer you keep arriving at about he and I. Some fine day, you will come to the realization that you single-handedly destroyed your relationship. Over absolutely nothing.

Oh, and big liberal props (NOT!) for the fact that you publicly declare yourself a "straight ally" of national coming out day, yet insult you direct at me is "frankendike". Now I'm all kinds of confused. Am I gay, or am I fucking your man? Because the two are mutually exclusive. And it should, but obviously doesn't, go without saying that if you are in fact a straight ally, you should not be using homosexual slurs as insults. Gay Rights 101.

Here are a few handy hints for a better probability of success (marriage, as defined by you), in your next relationship:

1) Avoid calling him nasty names, cursing him out, and other repeated put-downs in front of people. That way, when he initially confides his unhappiness in the relationship, the next wrongly accused other woman ('cause god knows it could never be your fault), will be less sympathetic and far more surprised. In fact, avoid name-calling in general, it's juvenile.

2) Have a job, or better yet, a career. Leeching off men is not sexy.

3) Men love their mothers. If you can't genuinely like the woman, at least suck up your senseless venom and be polite.

4) Men love their children from their prior marriages. Don't piss them off either.

5) Fachrissake, having a(nother) kid is not going to net you a trip to the altar. If it didn't work the 1st time, and it didn't work the 2nd time, I guaran-goddamn-tee it won't work a 3rd time.

6) If you do make a(nother) kid, show a genuine interest in the little (s)pawn. Spend time with it. Interact with it. Kids like that.

7) Porn is not sexy. Feminism 101.

8) Jealousy is not attractive. Nor is envy, nor is need. Confidence is (case in point=me!). Relationship 101.

9) Drugs are not sexy. If you can't deal with your current reality, either change it or get a proper prescription, there's no shame in that. And if you do get a prescription, don't abuse it (I'd like to give a big shout-out here to my ex-fiance). If you're not happy with yourself, you'll never be able to make anybody else happy.

10) If you really hate men, do everyone a favor and avoid them. You can't change them. If you genuinely liked them, you wouldn't want to try.

Hope this helps you in your future relationship endeavors!!!!

Powerful Mean Streak

I just came to the realization that I truly love my PMS week. I'm sorry beyond words that I missed out on years of PMS by being on the pill for the vast majority of my adult life to date. Figuring one week per calendar month since I turned 18, that's approximately 192 solid weeks of lost butt-kicking, name-taking opportunities. 192 unopened cans of whoop-ass. At least 192 people who pissed me off and did not have to answer for it. I regret it extremely.

I think I'm fairly fortunate overall in the period department, but I really hit the gold mine with my PMS. I don't break out and I don't bloat, I just get mean. Not threat-to-the-general-populace mean, just the very best sort of "you don't really think I'm going to let you get away with that, do you?" kind of mean. Note to any frenemies out there - avoid me the week of the full moon. If you don't, you will lose. The other three weeks a month I might let your shit slide on by, depending on how busy I am with other aspects of my life, but this particular week, not just no, but Hell No, you are not going to get away with that, whatever "that" may be.

So the way I see it, the pill is just another patriarchal ploy, designed to eliminate not women's fertile times, but rather women's PMS times. And we all fell for it. Boy did we get taken, again. Every time someone says "I must be premenstrual" as though it's a bad thing, men win. Every time a woman chemically neuters herself, a misogynist gets his wings.

I Might be a Redneck

Since April I've been living in a 29ft camper, parked behind my ginormous but completely gutted house. With five (yep, count 'em, 5, fem, cinco, cinq) dogs. But they're all little fluffy yappy things, so all together they don't even add up to one, say, german shepherd. Two of them are puppies and I have the half-eaten slippers to prove it. They're on my feet still, but could now accurately be described as "open-toe". I used to get a new pair every year from my ex's parents for xmas. LL Beaners, no less. Super-comfy. Anyhoo.

If you can rotate the tires on your house you might be a redneck. And while it's been fun to describe myself as trailer trash, and a great experiment in minimalist living, enough is enough already. Here's the visual:











Note that these pictures were taken when I looked at it, well before I moved in. Setting it up at the house involved things, such as cinder blocks and that cheap green wire dog fencing, that make it tres white trash. It's pretty awesome really. As an extra-special touch, I sometimes hang rugs to air on the cheap green wire dog fencing. My neighbors must hate me, because the view from their stately, columned front porch is my campsite extraodinaire. The only thing missing is a firepit, and if I had the time I probably would have one.

There will be no after pictures, so don't ask unless you're interested in buying it. Didn't think so.


























So what's a girl to do with not enough money and too much house and winter looming? Why, you make the mudroom into a studio apartment, of course! Pics and details to come soon, and I move in 10 days from now, but who's counting?

Dead Blog Walking

I'll post a real update this weekend, I swear. Lots and lots of updates. Do check back for all the latest on the house project, horses, etc.

Systematic Torture

I joined a gym near my office over a year ago. I've gone there to work out precisely three times. You don't want to know what that works out to in $ spent per visit. I've been keeping the membership current so that I have a place to shower when I move to the new house this spring, knowing I will not have the luxury of indoor plumbing for some time. But I'm well and truly tired of being a fat ass. So I decided to spend still more money to hire a personal trainer at said gym. I like her basically, but not at 6 o'fucking clock in the morning. I don't like anybody at 6AM, especially myself. I like me even less at 4AM, when sheer willpower is almost not enough to get me out of my cozy warm bed and out the door to pay for the privilege of being systematically tortured. Military school was easier than this. I want to be 17 again, and effortlessly svelte.

Reasons to quit; not getting up at o'dark thirty, procrastination is immediate gratification, really not a masochist, save the money, avoid seeing myself in gym's full-length wall-to-wall mirrors, to say nothing of the locker room.

Reasons to keep going; justification to buy new (smaller) summer clothes, of all the things I've lost I miss my waist the most, make it easier for my aged gelding to tote me around, get strong enough to start my blind mare under saddle without flopping to the ground the first time she scoots or spins, need muscles to build my new fencing, no longer walk miles in the course of a workday so must increase caloric output elsewhere, stop avoiding cameras, I miss my cheekbones and jawline, etc.

So I went. So I shall go again. And because she'll never read this: Patty, personal trainer extraordinaire; you're mean.

What Price Progress?

Baby steps at the homestead these days. I don't know what to throw money at first.

Do I buy a camper or try to make the mudroom live-able? Mudroom is cheaper, camper can accommodate additional people thereby increasing the pool of available labor.

Do I build a barn or buy portable stall panels to put up in the garage for now? Garage option is cheaper, and likely best, so long as I am not living in the adjacent mudroom. Barn would add resale value in the event I decide to throw in the towel, or the bank says we cannot borrow sufficient money to do this.

Do I rent a tractor or hire someone to run a machine to make corral space? Hiring a tractor is cheaper and I would have the machine for longer, but to hire a pro is likely more cost-efficient and would result in a neater job.

Do I splurge on RAMM Fencing? I think it would be the safest for Tag, but I don't expect these first corrals to be permanent. This is definitely what I want in the future, however.

Re-commissioning the well is the one item not in dispute, I need it to live there and to burn the brush I hope to get cleared next week. Well guy is coming out to evaluate on Wednesday, hopefully he can get the work done shortly thereafter.

Construction bids are coming in fast and furious, and all over the map. Eeney, meeney, miney, moe... Methinks a call to the building inspector is in order, to level the playing field somewhat.

Took a walk out to the back forty and found the old well that is marked on the plans. Shallow, hand dug, stone-lined and pretty. I think I will put a bench nearby and call it a reflecting pool.

Right now, in the Underground Lair...

I have a fairly big sofa. I also have three small dogs. Somehow, three pomeranians (collectively known as the muppets), with a combined weight of no more than 35 pounds, have me neatly confined to one corner of it. And I soon as I get up they try to take that too. I am typing with my left wing clipped by the arm of the sofa, and my right elbow resting on the back of Willow. Her muppet name is Miss Piggy. Wylie, muppet name Gonzo, is making himself as large as his fluff can on the other end. Midgie, muppet name Animal (or sometimes Beaker, but usually Animal), is actually behind me, sprawled across the back of the couch while resting his cute little chin on my shoulder. I think he's spying on my web-surfing habits. He'll be pissed if he sees me on Petfinder looking at Poms that are waiting to be adopted. He likes being the baby and has no desire for a new sibling.

Speaking of babies, Pepper is growing up quite nicely!

Sucks to have to sell her. Maybe I won't. I paid the stupid tax and bought a Mega-Millions ticket tonight. You can't lose if you don't play! If I don't lose I'll be sure to post it here first. Ha.

That's right, I'm talking to you

To the guy in the black ford ranger with the cap over the bed on Rt 27 in Stoughton at 7:30 this morning: Fuck.You. You pathetic Scott Brown wannabe. Keep on rollin' that glorified el camino. Next time you honk at me and flip me off for stopping while the light is still yellow you will find your high beams firmly embedded in my trunk. I roll company wheels pal, I don't give a fuck who hits me. In fact, I could really use the money and should have braked harder. My neck hurts just thinking about it.

FYI - This is a truck.












and you'd best hope I'm not driving it the next time I see you. 'Cause I'll put all 365 horses riding 660 lb-ft of torque directly into this matchbox.


It'll make a most gratifying splat.

No No No No No No No

I knew my inability to say "No" was going to catch up with me eventually. So I find myself in the damnable situation of having one too many horses. Reason is my old man Monte, who has been leased out as a lesson horse for many moons now, has to come back to me. Not enough lessons to go around, apparently. So I am searching for someone else to lease him, at least half, preferably full. My horse priorities (man, this is like having to pick your favorite kid), are as follows: Tag above all others, Monte 2nd (he's old and has earned the right to a happy semi-retirement), then Pepper ('cause I'm god as far as Pepper is concerned, she is on this earth because I made her), then the pony girls. But really it's whoever I can sell first, Pepper or the ponies. Or lease someone, at least until I can get moved into the new house. Taking care of them myself costs half as much as boarding.

In the meantime, if anyone is looking for a super-safe, been there and done that lesson horse, let me know. Showed Morgan class A until two years ago, former Reserve World Champion, rides, drives, loves trails, honest as the day is long. All the kids have to do is sit there and smile and they leave the ring with a ribbon. Available for free lease, and I visit often. Here's my old man:



I just love him so much. He's the best boy ever. Adding him to the feedroll means I have to stop contributing to my 401(k). And I really don't want to do that. But of course I will. 'Cause the only stock I buy has four legs!

Here are the pony girls:





Matched pair of buckskin shetland ponies, registered, ride, drive, proven broodmares. Make me an offer. Someone. Anyone. Please????

Rock Star

I'm pleased to report that Tag's surgery went well. To quote the clinic vet "she's a rock star" :)

She handled everything as serenely as always, and her extended stay at the clinic while I was out of town did not bother her at all. I love that she is such a great blind horse ambassador. Also happily (for me), the eyeball was removed without rupturing and it is now in a jar, on my desk. It's bigger than I expected, but otherwise pretty much like you'd expect an eyeball to look like. I can't wait to freak out my nieces and nephews with it. And anyone else squeamish . I'd post a picture but I don't think a photograph conveys the full effect. If I get any requests for it I will post one, how's that.

I felt validated in my decision to remove the eye, and a smidge guilty for not doing it sooner, when the surgeon told me that Tag's resting heart rate pre-surgery was an elevated 40, and post-surgery has dropped back to a normal 30. So that is my best gauge so far of how much pain and stress she was having, poor baby. I can already tell she is feeling better. She'll be hand-walked for a few more days, mostly to keep her from rubbing the eye on anything outside that might pop the stitches out, and after that her life resumes as normal.

On a non-horsey note, when talking on the phone to a guy for the first time, having met online and been emailing, and he mentions having a hard time getting a pistol permit due to a prior arrest for assaulting a police officer, don't walk, run. Run and be glad you preserved your anonymity. I was rendered speechless, truly. I suppose it could have been a joke, but who would joke about that with someone during their first-ever conversation? Yikes. I'm going to be single forever.

Evolution

This blog is evolving, as is everything else on this planet. So rather than having it be exclusively about someday farm, I am hereby throwing open the gates to the rest of my life. Which my non-existent audience will undoubtedly find just as boring as I do. So. Here goes nothing.

My sweet, blind mare Tag will be having her right eye removed Tuesday. After five and a half looong years of trying and failing to slow the progression of vision loss due to Equine Recurrent Uveitis (ERU for short, aka moonblindness, aka Periodic Opthalmia) , glaucoma has set in, secondary to the ERU. While glaucoma was not unanticipated, I did not expect it to sneak in the way it did. Looking back , I have known for several months that Tag was really not quite herself, but with everything else that was going on in my life last year I did not worry as much about it as I should have. So when Tag started a bad flare-up last week, I began treating it as usual, although it did prompt me to have the talk about enucleation with my vet that I kept forgetting to have. Vet encouraged me to have a consultation with a vet from a nearby equine urgent care clinic, as they have a specialty piece of equipment that vet does not have; i.e. a tono-pen. Tono-pens measure intra-ocular pressure, that is, the pressure inside the eyeball. Normal is below twenty, over twenty is glaucoma, over thirty is bad. Tag's left eye (also blind but thankfully flare-up free, for now, at least) was an excellent 16. Tag's right eye was a very alarming 87. 87!!!! What a migraine that must be causing. So do to the danger of the eyeball rupturing on it's own, I scheduled surgery post-haste, for this Tuesday.

The hard part is that I will be out of town for work when my baby goes under the knife. I will be able to bring her to the clinic on Monday morning, to help her make that transition, but I cannot be there for any of her post-op care. So Tag will stay at the clinic until I return, she will come back to the barn a week from Monday. I expect by that time she will be quite her old self, pain-free and spunkier. Lookout world.

On the "DarcC is a freak" front, the surgical vet, while surprised my request, has promised me that yes, I can have Tag's eyeball in a jar, assuming it comes out in one piece as planned. Apparently sometimes, well, they don't. For all the squeamish people who don't read this, I won't elaborate. That eyeball has cost me a lot of money, damnit; it's mine and I want it back. Someday in the hopefully distant future I want to be able to bury it with her so she's whole again. Or maybe I'll just keep it to freak out small children - it can become a neighborhood legend, Boo Radley-esque. I'll be the crazy eyeball lady. "did you know she keeps an eyeball in a jar? No-one really knows whose it is, but some say it was a little kid who gave her a dirty look one day..." Or something to that effect.