Skinny Dipping

I went skinny dipping yesterday! Well in a sense I did. There was nothing "skinny" about the dipping that I did. I guess you could call it "chubby dipping", but then the connotation of that would imply something of an entirely different nature. Do you ever feel overwhelmed with the need to do something crazy? To just let yourself go? I do. As Goose and Maverick (Top Gun) would say, "I feel the need, the need for speed!" Perhaps it has something to do with the walk I took down memory lane this past week. Something about the contrast of who I was vs who I am, barbed me. Am I getting old and settled before my time? Rebellion has become a long lost feeling that I hadn't even realized I missed it. So I let go. And I went skinny dipping in broad daylight.

It was 33 degrees Celsius yesterday, muggy as all hell and I am not a heat person. I had just spent three hours at the barn with the farrier and had that heavy legged and light headed feeling that precursors heat stroke. I had planned on riding but gave up on that idea in the first half hour so I simply did my chores and headed home. I walked in the door to discover that my house had become a sauna. Opening every door and window and turning on every fan failed to make a dent in such stagnant heat. My big Cattle dog, Hawk (Hawkeydog) was sprawled on the kitchen floor panting. He gave me "the look" like I had better get him the hell out of the house or else. I didn't even bother to change my cloths, I just grabbed a bottle of water, my dog and a magazine and jumped in the truck. We went for a ride with the windows down and the music turned up loud. With my long dark hair whipping madly around my face, I played with the curves of a windy road and pushed the speed limit. I felt ridiculously wild and reckless. I was headed for the river.

My home town lies at the foot of an ocean sound and is surrounded in snow topped granite mountains. An abundance of creeks and streams lace the valley, each a tributary to a large river that flows in to the salty waters of the Pacific. To me, any flowing body of water with high mountain walls, feels like home. The river is, and has always been, a piece of my soul. In troubled times, when I seek to find peace within myself, the sound of rushing water centres me.

For the past few years, I stopped going to the river. I don't hike alone anymore and no longer walk my neighborhood at night. Some would argue, and I would have to agree, that I finally came to my senses and developed a respect and concern for my personal safety. I use to spend a lot of time alone in the woods, on foot or horseback, which was a going concern for my friends and family. I understood the risks but felt that living was more important that dying. I also had two dogs that were protection trained and provided all the security I needed to feel safe, at least against threats of the human variety. Looking back, I realize that I stopped going into the bush soon after I lost them. A few close calls had put the fear of God into me so that a feeling of vulnerability slowly overwhelmed the enjoyment and peace of mind I use to draw from my time alone in the woods. There was never a definitive moment where I decided to end my little excursions or "walk abouts", as Mick Dundee would say. Actually, I am guilty of letting things go unexamined in more than one area of my life. There are a few pairs of jeans in my closet that have not fit me in years, yet I haven't thrown them away and I cant remember ever admitting at a specific time that they had become to small. I simply stopped wearing them. Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." Hmm....

So.... Yesterday I took a long walk in the woods, alone. Hawky and I found the river a quarter of it usual size, its rocky bottom lay barren and exposed. A little stream of water weaved its way back and forth, from bank to bank, rippling over the rocks and setting alight a million sparkles in the late afternoon sun. I followed the river bed up a valley of tall Cedar trees and deep into the woods. I couldn't place what exactly it was that I was looking for but something compelled me to continue onward. With ever passing step, I found myself more alone and more connected to vast forest around me. At a narrow and high banked cut of the river I found a large boulder sitting in a deep pool of water. As I stopped to admire this beautiful and idyllic spot, I realized that I had found what it was that I had been looking for. Peace.

The water was so clear that I could see every stone and pebble under its surface. I sat down on a large hot stone and let my legs dangle in the cool current. The bed of river rocks radiated heat and the air hung heavily around me. The water looked so crisp, cool and inviting. I slipped off my light cotton leggings and stepped in to the pool. As I kneeled on the sandy bottom, the cold water touched my waist, my breath came short, and ripple of goose flesh ran up my arms. All my inhibitions were laid aside as I was seduced by the welcome relief of cool water on hot bare flesh. I pulled off my remaining clothes, one by one, and lay myself length wise into the current. With the pull of the water on my hair and my body floating weightlessly in the sun, I felt like a nymph or wild fairy, something inhuman and feral. I inhaled my surroundings, the brimstone sent of wet rocks, the hum of insects in the wood and the perpetual rustle of a soft wind flowing through the Cedars. After a time, I became cold and crawled out to lay myself on a hot, flat boulder. The late summer sun warmed and dried my body as I daydreamed. I walked back to the truck in a stupor, leaving the river behind me.

I drove home slowly, with the windows down and the wind in my hair, at peace.


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****Pictured at top is a photo of myself at seventeen hiking in the backcountry. The lower picture is of Hawky at the river I went to yesterday.****

Color Genetics

Other than reining, cutting and cowhorse bloodlines, one of my favorite horse topics to study is color genetics. I am astounded at how often people mistake the color of their own horses. Some have even paid a premium for what they thought was a blue roan (that is actually a gray) or bought a "palomino" that is actually a sorrel with flaxen mane and tail. I will admit to being stumped a time or two myself. It doesn't help that the definition of a color can vary from one breed association to the next or that at times you need to use genetic testing to determine the true color. When I began my quest to better understand color genetic I found that some websites provided to much scientific information or made things overly complicated while others got their facts wrong. I would like to explore color genetics in today's entry to see if I can get the basics across in a simple and easy to understand format. I wont delve to far into the science of color or the rare genes and combinations but instead will try to change the way you see a horses color by understanding the basics of how they come to be.

To start:

1: It is important to understand that all horses are essentially either black or red underneath whatever color they appear! Bay, buckskin, palomino and grulla, are all black or red horses with extra genes that change how they appear. Even gray horses are black or red underneath. I like to think of a horses color as a layers of paint that always start with a primer of red or black. Some do not get any additional colors genes (layers of paint) added. Red horses are simply that. Red.

Red- these include all shades or chestnut, sorrel, liver, cherry, sooty, etc. These horses do not have any black on their bodies (some dark chestnuts can appear to have black manes and tails but they are really a deep dark chestnut).

Other horses are simply Black: A true black horse has no brown on his body unless his usually black coat has been damaged by the sun. He always has a black muzzle and flank. Many dark bay horses are mistaken as being black.

2:- For the sake of simplicity, we need to consider Bay as a base color even though technically, Bay is dilution gene effecting a black horse. It is easier to understand the other color genes that change a base color if you consider Bay a base.

Bay- It causes the body of the horse to lighten to varies shades of brown while leaving the points (feet, mane and tail) black. From horses with only brown muzzles or flanks all the way to a light russet or blood bay, as long as there is brown somewhere on the body and the points remain black, a horse is considered bay.

Now that we understand the three base colors we can explore the other genes that create the beautiful array of colors we find in horses today.

3: One of the most common genes that effect the color of horses is the Creme gene. It is a dilution gene which means that it lightens the coat color. When you apply the Creme gene to base coat of:

Red- you get a Palomino. This causes the mane and tail to become white and generally for the body to lighten to a deep to light honey color. If the base color of red was a deep chestnut, sometime this will result in a chocolate palomino (mane and tail white while the body is a milk chocolate color).

Bay- you get a Buckskin. This causes the body to lighten from sooty brown to a light or dark honey color but the points (mane, tail and legs) remain black. Distinguishing a Bay from a Buckskin can be so difficult as to require genetic testing. While some are obvious with a honey colored body and black points, other can be a deeper brown color to appear almost bay.

Black- you get a Smokey Black. This can cause the black coat to lighten while the points generally remain black. Smokey Blacks are generally hard to recognize and again are often mistaken for bays without genetic testing.

The Creme gene is unique in that when it appears in its homozygous form (a horse that received a creme gene from both parents and therefor carries two) it physically presents itself as a different color than in it heterozygous form (single gene.) When two creme genes are present on a:

Red- it creates a Cremello. These horses are a soft creme color and have two blue eyes, no dark patches and pink skin.

Bay- it creates a Perlino. Perlinos also have creme colored coat, two blue eyes, no dark patches and pink skin. Generally they have slightly less creamy coat color and almost have a bluish sheen. Genetic testing is generally required to distinguish between a perlino and cremello.

Black- it also creates a Perlino but has no Bay gene.

What is unique about cremellos and Perlinos is that they must pass on one creme gene to any foal they produce. A cremello/perlino will therefor always produce a buckskin, palomino or smokey black when bred to a Red, Bay, or Black horse. If a cremello/perlino is bred to a horse that already carries a creme gene (buckskin, palomino or smokey black) there is a good chance that both parents may pass on their creme gene, resulting in a cremello/perlino foal. If two cremello/perlinos are bred together the resulting foal will always be a cremello/perlino. For this reason cremello/perlinos are often desired breeding stock because they will always produce the more desired buckskin/palomino or smokey black colors. It is possible for a cremello/perlino to also carry the dun, roan or paint genes but they always appear creme in color.

It is always important to remember that a horse can have more than one color gene on top of his base color of Red, Black or Bay.

4: Another common dilution gene is the Dun gene. Dun also lightens the body color but also ads what is called Dun Factor.

Dun Factor are markings such as a dorsal stripe (dark stripe that runs down the back from wither the tail), Shoulder Barring (a dark shading that runs over the wither), Zebra Striping (darker lines or stripes that appear on the upper legs), Face Mask (darker shading on face that may have a cobweb pattern), Guard Hairs (silvery hairs on the top of the mane and tail) and Dark Tips to the ears. A Dun will have one, some or all of the above markings.

When you apply the Dun gene to:

Red- you get a Red Dun. Red duns do not have any black points on their body and any of the Dun Factor they present appears in a deep red color. Their bodies can be any shade of red but generally appears as a lighter honey red body with dark red mane, tail and legs.

Bay- you get a Dun. Dun can range from a light honey, to a rich chocolate but the points always remaining black and the Dun Factor always presents as black.

The horse pictured at right shows an unusual amount and prominence of Dun Factor but this example functions well in demonstrating where each is located. Usually duns have a thinner dorsal stripe and much lighter barring at the shoulder.

Black- you get a Grulla (sometimes written as Grullo or Grullya) This color is another that is commonly misunderstood. The black body turns anywhere from a light silver to a mousy gray, or dark blue. It is a striking color and often sought after by breeders. The points must remain black. A dark face and little white is considered desirable. The body can appear a browny color in which case genetic testing is required to determine if the horse has a bay gene (and is therefor dun) or if the horse is genetically black (and therefor a grulla).

The dun gene may also appear in a homozygous form (a horse with two genes of the same kind) but in Duns, there is no physical different between a homozygous or heterozygous (caring one gene) duns.

5: It is possible and not uncommon for a horse to have both a Creme gene and the Dun gene. When you apply both to:

Red- you get a Dunalino. The body is lightened to a striking yellow honey, almost pink color and the mane and tail become white. The horse presents Dun factor in a darker shade of honey. Personally, this is my favorite color.

Bay- you get a Dunskin. Generally a horse with both the creme and dun gene will present as what is called a buttermilk dun. The body is lightened to the color of buttermilk while the points and Dun Factor always remain black. It is possible for a horse to be a darker dun color and also carry the creme gene.

Black- I cant find a name for the Dun + Creme gene on a black horse but it does generally present as a softer smokey colored grulla or silver grullo.

Six: Gray- generally horses that are gray become progressively "white" over age. Some go "white" earlier than others. Gray horses can range from a soft rose color gray (horses with a red base) to a dark charcoal color (black). They often are born with a fairy solid Red, Bay or Black coat with white hairs flecked throughout. As they age the gray flecking becomes progressively more dominant. Gray is an extremely dominant gene and so most gray horses will produce gray foals. A gray horse can have any variety of other color dilutions but Gray is always the most dominant and will eventually turn the horse gray.

7: Roans- roans are most commonly confused as grays or vise versa. The distinguishing difference between a Gray and a Roan is that Roan horses do not have white flecking on their their points (mane, tail, and legs) and the face is always solid in color (white markings are allowed such as blaze, strip etc. but solid is preferred.) The white flecking can range in density to create a coat that is almost silver in color to one that is fairly dark with a moderate amout of white hairs (so long as they are distributed evenly.) Where the skin in scared, the white hairs do not grow back in and so Roan horses often show dark marks over their body in the color of their base coat. When you apply a Roan gene to:

Red- you get a Red Roan. The faces, legs and tails remain a solid red color while a consistent degree of white hair fleck the entire body of the horse (as shown at right).

Bay- you get a Bay Roan. Most people do not recognize the difference between a true Blue Roan and a Bay Roan. A Bay roan has dark legs and black mane and tail but usually have a brownish hue to their coat and their solid faces show brown. (shown at left)

Black- you get a Blue Roan. Blue Roans are striking horses with a bluish tone to their coat. Their faces and points are always solid black. The bodies appear a silver blue.

There are many different genes that will effect the appearance of a horses color. Some include champagne, silver, pearl, robicano, flaxen, and all the various blanket patters of Appaloosas'). And many, many more! The rule of a base of Red, Black or bay still always applies.


I will only go into Paint Horses briefly. Paint horses(horses with patches of white on them) can be very difficult to classify but the general rules still apply. The horse always has a base coat color that is Red, Black or Bay with any number of Dun, Creme, Roan, etc. coats on top PLUS a gene that causes white patches that cover varying amounts of the body. I will pull this info from the governing body of Paint horses, the American Paint Horse Association.

Tobiano- the dark color (or non-white) usually covers one or both flanks. Generally all four legs are white, below the hocks or knees. Generally the dark color appears as ovals or round patters on the chest. The head is always solid with a normal face marking (stripe, blaze, star). A tobiano can appear as predominant dark or white. The tail is generally two colors.

Overo- the white will not usually cross over the back of the horse between the withers and tail. Generally one or all four of the legs are dark. Generally the white is irregular and is rather scattered or splashy. Head markings are distinctive with either bald face (large white blaze), apron faced (white extends around muzzle) or bonnet faced.

Tovero- Dark around ears, may extend down forehead and over eyes. One or both eyes blue. Dark around mouth that may extend upward. Dark on chest, may extend up neck. Dark patch on flank. Dark patch at base of tail. The rest of the body is white or may have small spots of dark.

I hope that this brief (I guess that is a matter of opinion) outline of horse color genetics will help you approuch the subject with a better understanding in the future. What is your favorite color?

Addictions

Some of you may have noticed that I have not been writing about horses, which was, originally, suppose to be the topic of this blog. I don't have any shortage of horse stories and I tend to collect a new one just about every day yet I don't know if I want to, or if I should be, focusing on horse related stories. I love horses, obviously, and I spend the better part of my day with them or thinking of them. I am pretty obsessed about them in general. My Poppie use to warn friends of the family, "Don't ask my granddaughter about horses or any other form of animal unless you have an hour or two." He was only half joking...

I would never want to live without a horse and need my time at the barn but I worry that perhaps I am filling my time and day with them as a way of avoiding other aspects of my life. It is easy to fall into a pattern and not question your motives, when you truly love what is that you fill your days, months and years with. But I do have other interests and passions that I do not explore because of the amount of time I dedicate to horses. I love read, write and draw. But I find myself reading about, writing about, and drawing, horses! I want to travel the world. I want to get an education and build a career that will allow me the freedom to live the lifestyle that I dream of (horses, a farm, fancy truck and trailer...horses and more horses.) It seems like I constantly find myself saying, there is always tomorrow. I am starting to figure out that tomorrow, is today. I never imagined that I would be one of those people that talk about all the things that they are planning on doing, but never actually do any of them.

I own a reining horse that I have in training full time. She is my dreamhorse but my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so to speak, when I made the plans that I did when I bought her. My horse is living the life that I dream of, so, does that make her my dreamhorse? She is going places....without me. I cant afford another horse but I keep a gelding that I love, because I love him, not because he gives me what I need. I can barely keep him sound enough to ride the amount that I do, which is about a third of the amount and at a quarter of the intensity that I would ride a younger horse. I am working for my horses, they are not working for me and I have no one to blame but myself for it. I do get a tremendous amount of enjoyment in working with both of them but I still want another younger horse (with reining training) so that I can fart around and practise at home while waiting to ride my real horse. I think I found him too! (my friends and family are just shaking their heads right now because I always have a horse in mind.)But how can I justify getting another horse? If I were not emotionally attached to the gelding I purchased 9 months ago, I would have sold him the after the first 3.

So, I have not been writing about horses because they occupy just about every other moment of my day and so I used writing this blog as a means to clean the cobwebs from the nonhorsey part of my brain. Perhaps I should change the title of my blog and focus my attention on telling stories of my past and/or exploring the prospects of my future. But then, even if the the adventures I write about are horse related, or not, they inevitable stem from a horse crazed mind.

Like, right now, I am thinking about how in the hell I can swing that gelding I have my eye on...Seriously, I am. I plan on going for a hike today but I know that I will be thinking about that stupid horse for a large part of the time. For me, horses are a sick addiction. I don't always say that with the humor that it implies. What if I really am? Addicted to horses. The definition of addiction is: "the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something..." Am I enslaved by my passion to horses? I really don't know if I can answer that question, which is, in a sense, and answer in itself.

"I kissed a girl, and I liked it!"

For those of you that don't keep up with the times, don't panic at my title. I am referring to Katy Perry's new song, "I kissed a girl", that Billboard listed as the #1 single of the week. It is the song of the summer of 2008. In today's day and age, a catchy beat and a hot chick panting lyrics like, "I kissed a girl and I like it, the taste of her cherry chap stick."... is pretty much a fail-safe hit. I like the song, it is really cute and I like singing along with it. It also happens to be just one of the many things in the media today that has me wondering just where it is that woman's lib and the sexual movement has brought us over the past 4o or so years. I want to clearly state that I have absolutely no prejudice towards gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transgender, or what. ever. ....on the contrary, I don't care in the slightest what your sexual preference is or is not, so long as it does not exploit anyone. I also love most genres of music and listen to anything from Stevie Nicks and U2 to Steve Earl and Garth Brooks. New country, old country or top 40, so long as it has a good beat and doesn't say the word "umbrella" more than a dozen times, I'll listen to anything. Btw, a month ago I had the chance to watch Jewel sing live and a capella. She was out of this world. I secretly have a girl-crush on her, but that is another story. Anyways, on to The Woman's Lib. thing....

Dr. Laura calls me a "shack up honey" or an "unpaid whore" due to my bad ass "out-of-wedlock" behavior so I am hardly going to go and get all preachy on you. A few months ago I was talking to a fifteen year old girl at my barn and was shocked to hear at what is really going on in high school today and how things have progressed in the decade (or nearly) since I was there myself. I wonder whether shows like "Girls Gone Wild" have played a part in this trend and what long term effects this loose lifestyle will have on the youth of today. While I certainly appreciate that I owe my freedom and liberty to the Woman's Lib., I think that at some point the pendulum swung to far to the other side and we are now objectifying ourselves.

I'll admit that I've played the field enough to get pretty good at the game but I never lost my self respect in the process. How many of these "wild girls" will grow up to be emotionally and physically healthy, respectable young women. I am sure that we have all had a 'slutty' friend or two and some of us are guilty of living vicariously through them but most of us have also recognized that most of those women are unhappy, lacking in self confidence and no longer feel worthy of a healthy relationship. Cougars are rarely happy people. Yesterday's walk down memory lane had me thinking about all of the above. Whatever happened to dating? As in, going to the movies, holding hands and maybe neckin' a little. Each generation worries about the moral integraty of the next. Do you remember the scandal over Madonna's "Like a Virgin"? There was even a time when Elvis' swinging hips were considered vulgar. *sigh* Elvis....Times change. I get it.

"She's Gone Country"

I have a confession- Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen I was a full blown, hard core, tire biting red neck. It was a passing phase. While a few remnants of this former life remain, these days, with the exception of my horse life, there is little redneck left in me. I am still confident that duct tape can fix just about anything and I swear like a sailor but I spend more time sipping green tea lattes at Starbucks than drinking beer on tailgates to qualify. Is has been a long time since that I went for a ride in a jacked up truck, hit my head on a gun rack, or headed out in to God forsaken nowhere to "shoot shit". I'll admit to missing some aspects of a country life. Like sitting by a bomb fire (Oh, alright, a tire fire!... my carbon footprint is forever f#$ked) or going "fourbyin" (ripping through pristine wetlands (I am going to hell), mud flying, engine roaring and my body flying around the cab like a rag doll) I have no regrets about leaving that life behind me. I love my man, my life and the home I have built with him but cant help but miss, on occasion, that wild and reckless feeling of being young, footloose and fancy free. Thankfully, I collected enough wild teenage memories during that time to fulfill my reckless streak through a lifetime of sensible living. And if I ever need a boost, my boy is more than willing to take me for a wild ride at breakneck speeds through the back 40, with only a passing comment about damage to the suspension or paint job. I cant tell you when I stopped being a "redneck girl", or even if I have but I can tell you when I started. Ten years ago, this August 1st weekend. Like most teenage girls, I was desperate to fit in and find a label or a group to belong too. In the summer of my sixteenth year, I found one, at Logger Sports.


Yes, there is such a thing as logger sports. It is a a fun, festival style competition, usually found in small logging towns that depend on the foresty industry for the majority of their economy. The sport draws professional exhibitors from around Canada and other countries such as Germany and Australia. Local loggers also compete, but mostly at a non-professional level. Obstacle courses, climbing trees, and a small square pond sit in the centre of a large, immaculately groomed grass field, surrounded in wooden bleachers gone gray with age. This energy packed competition includes tree climbing, axe throwing, birling, tree topping or falling and various log chopping and sawing events, all requiring enormous strength, balance and coordination.

I should mention that this sport is actually quite fun to watch. Most are timed events involving a high level of danger, deafening power equipment, and plenty of fast action. My personal favorite is the tree climb, where a professional can scale up and down an eighty foot tree in 30 seconds! Birling (or log rolling) is also a lot of fun to watch. Two men stand at either end of a log, 15 inches inches in diameter, floating in square pond of water. Each tries to unbalance the other by spinning the log back and forth in a blur of lightening fast feet. The spinning log churns up white water and the birlers use their hands and spiked shoes to kick at the water and splash their competitors in an attempt to distract one and other. It is all very dramatic. Inevitability one or both are sent flying off and into the pond, to emerge with their t-shirts and pants plastered to their muscly chest, arms, and backsides..... I digress.

At the time, I hadn't much interested in sport itself. To a teenage girl with nothing but boys on her mind, Loggers Sports was nothing but a smorgasbord of testosterone laden men. Being a smarter than average bear, I volunteered to work on the grounds and as such, was able to go behind the scenes, and get up close and personal with the stars of the show....



I had volunteered at a booth, located on the grounds, that raises money for charity by selling beef on a bun. Every year massive chunks of beef would be roasted over a huge open spit, sliced, and doused in gravy. The resulting sandwich is a time honored and favorite tradition of the logger sports weekend. I had been working the booth for a few years previously and had always loved arriving early in the morning to start the spit fire, serve the loggers breakfast and watch the grounds come to life. In the years previous, I had been an awkward, pudgy, pimple faced teen that was considered more of a pet than an object of interest to any of the younger staff or competitors. This year was different. I had lost the 50 or so pounds that I had found during puberty and my baby faced had melted away to that of a young womans. I hadn't quite come to terms with my new found form or the resulting interest it had inspired from the boys at my high school. I doubt any of the returning crew recognized me as the pudgy girl from the year before and I hadn't quite accepted it myself yet, either.

One night, long after the show had ended, my boss asked me to do one last thing on my way home. I was to deliver two huge roasts of beef to the grounds crew and exhibitors for their dinner. I was instructed to carry the meat from our booth, across the exhibition field, and to the infamous "Loggers Barn" where the men would congregate to drink and share stories after the days activities. My boss could hardly have known how terror stricken I was at the prospect of such a simple assignment. He didn't know what it was to be an insecure sixteen year old girl who would scarcely consider going to the bathroom without a entourage, let alone walk into a room full of unknown adult men, alone. The thought alone was enough to make my knees weak and send my heart pounding.

I know now, looking back, that I was pretty, young and full of verve, with long dark brown hair, big blue eyes and and a curvy body that exuded the unique countenance of a woman freshly bloomed. All I knew at the time was that I had woken up that morning with a pimple on my forehead the size of Vesuvius, and equally as volatile looking. I desperately racked my brain for any tangible excuse to not go. Before I could muster a reply, the roasts where thrust into my arms and I was being told who, and only who, I was suppose to give the meat too. Somehow I managed to balance the two huge barons of beef, that were braced on the length of my forearm, across the grounds to the Loggers Barn without taking a single breath.


I can still distinctly remember the few brief and horrifying moments I spent in that barn. A flood of sounds and smells hit me as I walked through the door . I stopped dead in my tracks. The rooms smelled of sweat, beer, and sawdust and it was terribly loud, as 30 or so men seemed to shout and talk over one and other. I was the only female in sight. While I did remember that I was only suppose to hand over the roasts to a specific person, at that moment I couldn't remember my own name, let alone who it was that I was suppose to give them to. I just stood there, stock still in the middle of the doorway with a huge roast beef in either arm and deer in the headlights look in my eye. My breath caught in my throat and felt my cheeks blaze with a deep blush. A group of men, closest to the door, stopped talking too stare at me. Within a moment, every eye in the barn was pointed in my direction and all had stopped talking. "I have meat for....." was all that got out of my mouth before the first comment was shouted out.


It does not take much imagination to figure out how half a simple sentence like that would be perceived in a room full of heavily inebriated chauvinists. One man shouted a comment, then another and the room erupted with laughter, cat calls and shouts. "I mean, I have beef for...." I tried again and failed. I could have died right then and there, on the spot. I gave up, tuned on my heel and walked out of the room. One man stood up and followed me outside. My face was beet red. My ears, ringing. "I think that meat's for me?" he said, with only a half an grin, his implication, clear. I didn't care who he was, I thrust the roasts into his hands and fled, vowing to never show my face at Loggers Sports again.



I didn't want to go back the grounds but my sense of obligation to the charity overcame my reserve. Of course, the next day, most of the men from the night before came by to get a burger, poke fun and a few even came by to ask me out. The man that I had handed the beef too caught me eye and before the weekend was through I had taken my first ride in a big jacked up truck. In passing, I also discovered a genre that would come to define the next few years of my life. By the end of that summer I had developed a taste for country music, the throaty sound of Flowmasters, and the hum of Super-Swampers on pavement. I traded in my English saddle for a Western model and gave up jumping for cattle penning. My vocabulary was peppered with redneck lingo like "git" and "y'all" and Alan Jackson's "She's Gone Country" was my theme song. For the next few years I embraced the redneck culture of the small town where I was born. I rode the back country, wore a belt buckle and dreamed of running barrels. It was a lifestyle that embraced a freedom of spirit, youth and rebellion that spoke to me at the time, and still does, in part. I ride beautiful, well bred reining horses in a saddle that cost more than my first horse but I wont give up the nasty, beaten up ol'Ropers that I've had since high school. I have fed the horses in an evening dress and high heels and gone to a gala with duck tape holding my earring on....so I can hardly claim to be cured. I still love to ride a dirt road in an old pick up but lately my thoughts stray towards the lack of airbags and crumple zones. But then, the roar of powerful engine can still bring the color to my cheeks. Perhaps there really is something to be said for that old expression, "you can take the girl out of the honky tonk, but you cant take the honky tonk out of the girl."

Obituaries

Some may consider it morbid, but I like to read the obituaries. Not every day but once or twice a week I will spend a half hour or so reading through the life stories and accomplishments of those the world have recently lost. I am intrigued, not with how people have died, but with how they have lived. I don't know of another occasion wherein ones whole life is summed up in a short paragraph, from the perspective of your loved ones. Their sentiments and perspective is unique and how they choose to portray a life is perhaps the greatest reflection of how it was lived. I notice how some are filled with grief while others celebrate a life well lived with humor and an acknowledgment of the gift that their loved one was. Some read as a resume, making one pause to wonder at the character of a lost life, so summed up by career accomplishments. Then there are the young, whose stories where just beginning or in the middle of being told. Their families most often speak of tragedy and their words are a reflection of anguish and the loss of a promised life. Though they make my heart hurt, I force myself to read their obits as well. When I become caught up in myself and my problems, these young ones in particular make me pause to consider how lucky I am to be alive and healthy and how insignificant and frivolous my issues are when considered against the fragility of life.

There are so many reasons to read the obituaries, to reflect on ones own life and those we have lost, to acknowledge the contributions that others have made in this world, and to recognize those lost to our community. I also find that they make me wonder at how my own obituary will read one day. So often they begin with "Wife, Mother, Grandmother and friend." How will mine read when I do not plan to marry or have children. Perhaps I shall request that mine states, "This ol' spinster lived life large!" Seriously, I want to have contributed to a great good, as cliche as that may sound. I am a "girlfriend", sister, daughter and friend. Is that enough?

What I find most fascinating in the obits is reading the stories of the seniors who were the last pioneers. The people born before cars, computers, and cell phones. Those who bravely fought and survived depression, world war, and who blazed the first trails to settle the land where I live. It is a rare thing, to have seen the world change so much in the span of one lifetime, as they have. They are a rare generation, these unique and remarkable people. And we are loosing them, one by one to time. So I read their life stories while I wonder at my own.

I knew a man named Arnie that was born of such a generation. He was a cowboy. The real kind. I met him when I was about 19, one evening at a horse sale. We had both had come alone and found ourselves in front of the same stall, admiring a sleek bay Quarter Horse gelding. I had noticed him walking around before. He was hard to miss. Shorter than than my 5'5", in a wiry, half bent frame, he wore a old school dove gray 10 gallon cowboy hat perched atop a face that had fallen away with age. A bright red bandanna wrapped around his neck lent some color to his cheeks while a heavy leather vest, dark blue Wranglers and a big silver belt buckle completed the cowboy ensemble. I found myself, by chance, standing next to him at the stall that night. He made some comment about the horse at hand and we started up a conversation that carried us away through the rest of the evening as we walked around looking at horses, comparing notes and telling stories.

Arnie never failed to delight me with his sharp and witty sense of humor or his easy, friendly manner. As young as he was at heart, his body had whittled away over the years and left him with a constant shake that would cause his arthritic hands to make circles in the air when he would point or gesture. While telling me the fascinating stories of his youth, the fading gray of Arnie's once blue eyes would be set alight while his raspy voice would skip and fail to find a force to match the enthusiasm of his spirit. When sale time came we sat in the stands together, talking. Arnie claimed to have been a ladies man in his day. I believed him. He never failed to slip an around around my waist or lean in close to make a point, a half smile on his face. I couldn't speculate on his age, but however old, he was still a man, happily keeping company with a pretty young woman at his side.

When I left the sale that night I wondered if I would ever see him again. Thankfully, I did. Many times in the coming years, at various horse events around town, a big gray cowboy hat would catch my eye and I would find this little old man underneath it. We would welcome each other with a smile and a hug before settling in to walk the grounds together, picking up where we left off, with him spinning a yarn or two. I cant say when it was that I last saw Arnie. It would be years ago now. I hope he is still alive and well, as I hope to see him again some day. Either way, I will carry that man and his stories with me for the rest of my life. The first thing he ever told me, standing in front of the stall the night we met, was that the best riding horses are bay geldings with little to no white. I followed his advice and so far, it has served me well. My old bay gelding reminds a bit of Arnie, wise and knowing and set in his ways. The both bear the battle scars of a hard and long life but wear them with the diginity of a survivor.

I hope to meet many more people like Arnie, that can tell me their stories and impart some of their hard won wisdom before they pass. I read obituaries to learn how other people have lived and to know them, just a little, in passing.

My many cats.

Besi, my cat, is still missing. I cant focus on much else so I figured I would tell you the story of my many cats. I have a few. Four, as a matter of fact. Right now it is looking like I may have three *muttering a very bad word* I never intended to own four cats, I just happened. Really. Until I moved away from home I had never lived a day without cat. After a year of living catless with my boyfriend (we'll call him MB that for the sake of convenience) I decided it was time to start a campaign to get one. MB was not entirely adverse to the idea but had never owned cat before and had very little experience with them. We had two Rhodesian Ridgebacks that were adult dogs when I came into the family and as they had no previous exposure to cats we didn't know what to expect from them.



I have no idea how many of you, my readers, subscribe to the idea of haunted houses but I would have challenged any a skeptic to spend a night in our home before settling drawing a conclusion. Our house was full of bad energy and something I could only describe as a presence. Over the first year there were many mysterious occurrences of lights flickering, TVs going on or off suddenly and phones ringing without reason. I have watched enough episodes of the X-Files to be skeptical of any one "occurrence" but as whole, our home ranked pretty high on the creepy factor scale. Our Ridgebacks were protection trained and true to their breed, proud, strong, and fearless. But something in our house, unseen and unheard by us, would scare them enough to send them running from their "bedroom" and down the hall with their tails tucked between their legs. That alone was enough to scare me. We considered having the house "blessed" and I tried "smudging" a few times. I would never have guessed that a pint sized black kitten named Halle would be our absolution.




I found her at the SPCA. I had been looking at the dogs for a friend of mine when I decided to stop by the cat section to take a boo and spread a little love. I was about to walk out of the "cat room" when I thought I saw something. In the deep dark recess of a cage I had assumed was empty, I had seen a glint of light. Leaning down, I peered into the cage and found myself staring into they eyes of a very small and very black little kitten. I opened the cage and reached in to pick her up. Hot, limp and heavy in weight, like that of a sleeping baby, she barely stirred as I placed her in the crook of my arm. When she looked up at me, I found myself drawn in to the eyes of an old soul, deep and knowing. I simply knew this was my cat.




Bubs had left for a meeting in the city earlier that day and I had accidentally left my purse in his truck. I had no money and no bank card by which to pay for this kitten. Suddenly, I remembered that I had received a cheque in the mail from Boost (the nutrition drink) as a refund for a spoiled batch I had purchased. This cheque was nearly exactly the amount of the adoption fee. I raced home to pick it up and then to the bank to cash it (where, thank God they knew me enough to do so without i.d.) As I rushed back over to the SPCA, I was terrified that someone might have adopted this kitten while I was gone but was relieved to find her waiting for me when I returned.


After going through the adoption process and getting her packed away in a cardboard box, I started for home. It was right about then that it occurred to me that I had not asked, nor discussed my little purchase with MB. Whoops! I figured that a bit of Scarlet O'Hara "I wont think about that now..." attitude would suffice (as to not spoil my excitement) right up until I pulled in the drive to discover that MB had found his way home early! Cursing Ms. O'Hara, I gingerly picked up the box and walked in to the house. I had hoped that the kitted would be quiet long enough to give me chance to explain but, Murphy's Law, she started howling the moment I walked in the door. MB walked around the corner looking startled and alarmed. His eyes bounced between the crying box and my blank expressionless face. He finally settled on staring at me with a highly skeptical look. I gave him the cutest, coyest smile I could muster, topped it off with some big blue puppy dog eyes and told him, "Honey, we got a kitten!" Bat, bat, bat went my eyelashes.


MB had the sense to look dubious but gamely walked over to look into the box. The wee black kitten let out a soft and desperate meow as she looked back at him. Bubs never stood a chance. Picking her up, he gave me a look like, "Yah, alright, you won this time but don't try that again!" and proceeded to fall in love. We called her Halle.


By the time Halle was six months old we started to notice a significant change in the "creepy factor" of our home. Halle appeared to be able to see things in the house that we couldn't. Her eyes would track these thing as they moved about the room. Occasionally she would growl deep in her throat as they passed. Halle would also spend a lot of time in all of the closets of the house. While it is fairly common for cats to do so, what I found odd was that she never slept in them. She would sleep on the bed or on the top of a bookshelf but never in the closet. What she would do is sit in the deepest corner and "talk", letting out deep to high pitch meows, growls or a deep throaty sound that I find particularly haunting. Within a year, our house had lost all of its creepiness and we have had no more odd 'occurrences.'

Halle is now five and half years old and she still "talks" occasionally. She also bites- most of the time when you least expect it. I love her death but she is a grumpy, mean and lovable old bitch. Never affectionate as a young cat, she has softened with age but still barely tolerates more than a few minutes of love at a time. As I have been typing this, she has jumped up and settled into my lap. I am scared to move. If I do, she will growl and dig her claws into my leg. I have to pee....Did I mention that I really do love her. *Ouch!*



Our second cat, I went looking for. I wanted MB to know how sweet, loving and affectionate a cat can actually be. Once again I found her at the SPCA. I hate to admit it, but originally I wanted her because of her unique and beautiful markings. With beautiful light blue eyes, a creme and chocolate tabby body and silver tabby points on her feet, face and tail, she is remarkable looking. She does not bite. We call her LuLu. She is all stocked up in the beauty department but when it comes to brains, we'll just say that she is not the sharpest tool in the shed. She a brick short of a load. There is a bit too much yardage between the goal posts on this one. I cant say it is a fault, her simplicity makes her all the more adorable. I don't know who first noticed it but she actually has the word "toy" written in the tabby markings along her side. On the other side you can vaguely make out the word "cow". Unfortunately, they are both descriptive markings. LuLu is totally unique in body and personality and she has plenty of both.


The third cat I brought home was not planned. It was Besi, the girl whom we are currently missing. I try to provide my cats with the best food, health and loving care as possible and am a strong believer in spaying and neutering your pets. Over years of horse boarding, I have become hardened to the lifestyle of farm cats but when I saw Besi at a barn one day I just snapped. At only three months old, the resident tom cat was already trying to get her bred and I just couldn't stand the thought of this scrawny, skinny little kitten producing more neglected little kittens. I asked the farm owner if I could have this little kitten and they were all too happy to give her to me. I know that taking one kitten out of millions born every year on farms around the world would not make any difference in the grand scheme of thing but it didn't matter at the time.

Besi grew into a lean, athletic and long legged cat with a short sleek tabby coat and slinky way of moving. Large eyes and ears and sharp features give her a big cat look. She is an exceptional hunter. She is probably responsible for wiping out the resident mole, mouse and shrew population within 5 square miles of my home. As much as we tried, there was no stopping her. She is so instant about being outside that she will jump off the second story balcony or window if her locked in. Even though she is not in house as much as she is out, she is a very sweet and affectionate cat that will follow you around in the garden or for walks on the lawn. For the most part, she will only come into the house to sleep. We call her "Slow Moe" partially as a satire on her incredible athletic ability and partially because when she finally does come in, she is so tired that she appears to walk in slow motion.

My heart is sick with the thought that Besi is lost to us. Right now, I just PRAY that she comes home. I hope that she is safe and sound. I hate not knowing.

The last and final (I promise) cat I brought home is my Bitty. Her original name was Little Bit because she was so tiny when I bought her. The first week we had her, when she was just 6 weeks old, she had an impaction in her small intestine and had to have a surgery that cost a fair dime. Thus her name became Lotta Bit. She was an expensive little kitten but worth every penny. A steel blue color with a long and silky coat, my Bitty is a true beauty. I call her my "fetch" as she never leaves my side and refuses to let anyone else touch her. MB calls her "Little Freak" or "Monkey Face" because despite his efforts to always be gentle and loving towards her she still runs from him when he so much as sneezes. I cant explain "Monkey Face", he has this horrible notion that she has a funny shaped face. I don't see it all...but then I am blinded by love.


Each of our dear little kitties has a personality that is as unique and beautiful as their various color and shapes. I love them each to bits. Oh, please please please come home Besi girl! You are truly irreplaceable.

Besi

One of my more adventurous cats has not returned home in three days. I am worried sick. She had done this once or twice before and each time I freak out but in the end she always comes home. I cant help but we worried. She refuses to stay in the house and will jump out a second story window if we try to lock her in. I believe it is partly because her parents were feral. She is an excellent hunter and one of the smartest and most athletic cats I have every known. Just thought I would send out a little prayer that I wake up in the morning to find her sleeping at the foot of my bed.

My Not to Shabby Abby- Part Three

Within the first few weeks of owning AbbyI developed quite the habit of mulling over her progress. Once a week I would make the hour and half hour drive across the border to watch her go under saddle and was always happy with what I saw. Over the passing weeks I noticed how little interest my trainer had in Abby and how much concern and affection her assistant Kari seemed to have for her. I had felt an affinity with Kari from the moment that we met. A blond haired, light skinned woman of about the same age as myself with a pretty face, easy smile and friendly manner that made me feel welcome when I arrived at the barn each week. She would call my mare, "Miss Abby" and often stroked her neck or give her a gentle rub as we spoke. I stopped thinking of the trainer as my trainer and started looking to Kari for updates on Abby's progress.

And Abby did just that, she progressed. Little by little, step by step, she softened. Kari stayed off her face and never once gave her something to worry about. She tried to make each new thing positive, gave her every opportunity to relax and kept the pressure level at a simmer. Not once did Abby take a step backwards in her training. Her feet still hit the ground hard enough that one could hear her loping from a mile away but she was showing less and less anxiety. Never one to hide her feelings, Abby would flap her mouth (or talk as I call it) or she'd bite down on the bit hard enough that her mouth would appear to be set in a grin. If pushed past her comfort level she would develop a very huffy style of breathing and would grunt with each stride. Using body language, she'd keep up a running commentary on her current state of mind.

About a week into her training Kari had given Abby a full body clip to remove the thick winter jacket she had arrived in. The deep russet of her chestnut coat peeled way to a soft apricot fuzz and the true shape of her body was revealed. Her sleek new look showed off the fineness of her throat latch, the cute shape of her face and eye and showed off the fattest arse you have ever seen on a horse! We also discovered that there was not a square inch of her flank and girth area that was not pockmarked with a rowel scars. I wondered at the forgiving nature of these animals. Abby was soft, sweet and willing but it certainly appeared that she had every reason not to be.


Over the next two months Abby developed body control and started to turn around a little. Her head set came down a notch at a time and leveled out around her wither. The trainer felt that Abby's weakest maneuver would be her lead changes because she lacked coordination. She also felt that Abby would be unable to turn around well due to the fact that she was too wide in her chest to get around herself. Three months later Abby could change leads at any point in a circle and while her turn arounds were slow to improve, her roll backs were the tightest and snappiest in the barn. She clearly could get around herself, just fine. Abby's movement had improved by leaps and bounds but was still way to tight jointed and hard footed to be called pretty. Kari started asking her to push up into the bridle and Abby stepped up willingly.

All was going well except for one thing. When Kari would sit down and say "the word" (that would be "whoa" to all you non-reiners) Abby would, in mid stride, straighten all four feet at once and then nearly fold in half before hitting the ground in what can only be described as a splat! "I damn near burst my ovaries on that one!", Kari would exclaim with a smile. Eventually Kari managed to get Abby to actually bend her hocks in her stop, which may have proved a relief to Kari's back but did little to make Abby's stops any less painful to watch.

After only four months of training Abby finally started to look like a reiner. She had slow, basic and correct turn arounds; Pretty and low headed small slow circles; Auto lead changes; and some wickedly tight roll backs. Her large fast circles were still slow and her stops were still inconsistent, deep and stiff up front but she could run a pattern and do all the parts.


I couldn't have been happier with Kari. She seemed so tuned in to my little mare and personally invested in helping her past every hurdle. To this point Kari's ability to read Abby had been our greatest asset. One week I came down and for the first time noticed that Abby appeared to be loosing interest. She no longer seemed to be as engaged as she once was and I wondered if maybe she had finally become so relaxed and comfortable, that she was actually a little bored! I decided to talk to Kari about it.

The last thing in the world I wanted was for Kari to think I didn't appreciate how caring and dedicated she had been in getting Abby over the mental blocks she had started with. We had both focused for so hard and so long on giving Abby the confidence she needed that we maybe didnt catch the exact moment that it had finally happened. Kari had done her job well- Abby was confident and ready to kick it up a notch. The next week, after watching her go around a few times, I brought my thoughts to Kari and asked her if she would try picking up the pressure level and start getting into her a little more. Kari was all for it. She loped Abby off and put her through her paces with gusto....and....

Abby stepped up. Big time. She ate up everything Kari threw at her and then some. She stunned us both with her speed and agility. Kari didn't step a hair out of line, she simply asked Abby to go harder and faster in one step than she ever had before. When Kari rode back to where I was standing I was tried not to smile as I said, "Jesus Kari, I told you get into her not to kill her!" Kari's face fell as the color instantly rose into her cheeks. I had been joking, of course, but she had missed the sarcasm in my voice and thought I was being serious. I felt horrible and apologized profusely. I really can be such an ass! She laughed it off but I could see she was worried that there was a little truth in my tease. I left that day and wondered how thing would be between us next week. I shouldnt have worried. Despite what anyone else said, Kari never once doubted the potential of the horse she was sitting on.

Meanwhile, I mulled over the sneak peak I had gotten of Abby. There was a hell of a lot of horse in there yet to be unleashed. Kari had given Abby the confidence in herself and in her rider to finally let go of her inhibitions and begin to blossom in earnest. We were nearly five months into what was suppose to be a three month commitment and I had yet to so much as sit on my brand new horse! I was worried and started to wonder if I had lost focus. While I was taking lessons on a schooling horse, it seemed that in my eagerness to see the promise of Abby's breeding come to fruition I had stopped looking at her as my future mount. Was she ever going to be something that I could use? And so, I continued to mull over Abby.

To be continued.