Notes from Maine - 2022/06/12

We had a tough week here. 

COVID isn’t a big deal anymore. The only reminder I have of that is a dry cough. And the cough only comes in a few predictable situations—when I lie down, stand up, talk, breathe too deeply, move around, or slouch. So, pretty manageable. 

The tough part of last week was coping with the absence of Sweet Baby Angel (she’s the little filly that my horses conspired to create). My Angel moved to her new home last Tuesday and the event was traumatic for everyone except her. I take that back—the dogs haven’t seemed to miss her much. Frankly, her father hasn’t shown any deep emotion regarding his filly. I guess Maybelle and I are the only ones who’ve really felt out of sorts. 

So, really, the event was traumatic for Maybelle and I felt the loss as well. The barn was filled with Maybelle’s tortured shouts—calling for a baby who was already miles away. Earl comforted her, scratching her back with his lips, the way that horses do. The worst of the grief passed within a couple of days. She’s still a bit melancholy, but I think she’s doing okay.

Sweet Baby Angel, on the other hand, was doing great the last time I saw her. In the new barn, she has horses all around. With wide eyes and pricked ears, she takes everything in, standing on her toes so she can poke her head into the aisle. She has been in the arena so everyone could see how she moves. She went out on a short ride, on a lead behind another horse. People were talking about how pretty she is, and how tall she’s going to be. They nicknamed her Feathers because of the long hair around her ankles. 

It was a tough, necessary transition. Every moment that she was here was a gift. I hope she has a wonderfully long life filled with adventures, and if she doesn’t, I hope to never know. Selfish? Maybe. I’ll keep checking on her. For the moment, Maybelle and Earl are back together since Maybelle is not currently in the mood to conceive again. By my count, she’ll be receptive again next week so I’ll separate them for a period of time. I’m going to play that calendar game for a bit and hope for the best. This is known as horse roulette, and the horse always wins. We’ll see.

With the indoor/outdoor animals, we have a very different challenge. A few times each day, we go out to the deck and play frisbee. Albert (German Shepherd) does the majority of the chasing and retrieving. Finn (English Mastiff) prefers to wander around and pee on different things and then come back to the deck to be patted while Albert runs. 

I taught Albert frisbee last year. This year, he has come up with a new game that he believes is superior. In Albert’s game, we play frisbee normally for about twenty minutes. Using two discs, he’ll chase one while I wipe down the other and get ready to throw. When he returns, we swap. After twenty minutes, he waits for one of the throws to go over the fence. No big deal—he has become an expert at finding discs in bushes, trees, grass, etc. But, under the rules of the new game, as soon as he’s out of sight he can take the disc down to the creek and use his paws to push it deep under the water. I believe this serves multiple purposes. First, he washes the disc. Second, he cools off a little and maybe gets a collateral drink. Third, sometimes the disc gets stuck under water and then he has to find it. Apparently, it’s much more interesting to try to locate an underwater disc. The problem is that he’s better at losing them than finding them. 

After ten minutes, Finn and I will start to suspect that Albert has started his new game. I’ll go off and do chores and Finn will plod across the pasture to go pee on things near to where Albert is playing in the water. Both dogs will come back eventually. Sometimes, Albert comes back without his disc. 

We’ve had a lot of that this week. There are two black, one purple, and one yellow disc out there in the creek. A month ago, I went down in shorts, removed my socks and shoes, and walked through the creek, finding three discs. Now, the ferns and cattails overhang the water. I’m not sure I’d find one if I tried. Next time we go outside, he’ll look expectantly at the one remaining disc we have, waiting for me to throw it. 

I’ll say, “No! You go find the ones you lost!” and point towards the creek. With his tail swirling like a windmill, he’ll run off on a hunt. Ten minutes later, he’ll come back soaked with nothing to show for it except mud up to his midline. I guess I haven’t figured out all the rules to this new game, but he seems to enjoy it.