Meet Celeste and Max

Friday

On Wednesday I set out to adopt a cat - Max, a white male about seven months old with Tabby markings. I drove down to Gulfport, about an hour away, and met Max's parents at a Dairy Queen. After chatting with the couple for a while, I set out for home, deciding to try a different route than the one the Garmin had led me on to get there.

I thought the Garmin would take me to I10, but instead it directed me to keep driving toward Route 53, so I decided I would go ahead and follow the county route over the interstate, and turned when 53 showed up.

About 1o minutes into the 32 mile drive on 53 I saw a small black dog by the side of the road, its hip bones protruding an inch above its wasted skin and its ribs clearly visible. I drove past but only made it a mile or so down the road before I turned back. I couldn't leave this dog to get hit by a car or starve to death.

I pulled into the street next door to where I had seen the dog and noticed there was another one loose, which appeared well fed, and another in a cage, also well fed. I pulled into the driveway and got out and grabbed a slice of toast I had in my truck. The little dog readily gulped the toast down.

About then this old lady came out of the house and I pointed at the little black dog and asked her if it was her dog. She said it lived there, but that it ran the neighborhood. I mentioned to her that the dog was starving to death and I had stopped to see if it was a stray. She said she knew it was thin, but that when she fed the other two dogs, the little black dog, who by the way she later told me, had never been named, would run away, so it never got to eat.

I then asked her couldn't she feed the little pup by itself. She murmured that maybe she could, but she just wished it would go away or someone would take it.

So I did.

I scooped up this bag of bones and put her in my truck and drove home.

This is a picture of Miss Celeste, named after my Grandmother.

She is coming around now after a full day of both Jim and I talking to her, petting her, reassuring her she is okay, and feeding her.

I will post more on Celeste's recovery as it goes along, so be sure to check back to see how she does.

The Quirks of Barbed Wire

Tuesday

Barbed wire. A thin string of metal with small twists of sharper wire, some with two-prongs, some three, and others four. It is unforgiving to clothing, skin, and hair. But it keeps a curious horse wherever you want them kept. For over a century, this "Devil's Rope" has divided livestock, land, and people.

Barbed wire was first devised in 1867 when two different men, at different places, tried to construct a fencing other than smooth wire to contain their livestock. Neither were successful as one method was not practical and the other did not have the financial means.

A year later an Illinois man, Joseph Glidden found a more practical and less expensive way to manufacture a wire with barbs on it and the fencing of the West began.

But, by 1883 free range ranchers, trail drivers, and settlers became concerned this new fencing would stifle their way of livelihood, impeding passage of livestock and people. So opposed were the sides - those who wanted the fencing and those who did not - violence broke out and a war, the Fence Cutter War ensued. So fierce was the opposition to the "Devil's Rope", that legislation was eventually enacted to make cutting a fence line a felony.

Soon, though, the land ranchers won out, most notably those in Texas, and the fencing in of the West move forward with force.

Today there are over 570 patents of various barbed wire. Here in Carriere, I am using a two-prong heavy gauge barbed wire. To string the fencing, we set a six foot 4 by 4 in the ground after digging the hole with a post hole digger. Getting past the first eight inches of sand is the most difficult part of digging the hole, but once we reach the smooth red clay, tufts of soil are quickly pulled from the hole.

Then we position the Jeep with its winch about 15 feet from the post and walk the barbed wire, which is on a roll, from one post to the other where we hook a fence tightener onto the winch and thread the wire through it. Now, with its barbs, this wire tends to cling, viciously I must add, to everything - dog fur, skin, grass - so it takes a certain finesse, and leather gloves to handle the stuff.

Once everything is fastened, we carefully draw the winch in, one click at a time. We are careful on how tight we pull the wire - not enough tension and the wire will sag, even once fastened to T-posts; too much tension snaps the wire sending it in a free-throw frenzy - and then nail it with a wire nail, a horseshoe shaped metal nail, to the wooden post. Once that is done, the wire is cut to go back and start the next strand.

Since moving here, I have learned how to pass through strands of barbed wire, carefully tightening my body, and slipping through the strands, while also knowing how to stop in mid-slide and move back slightly to release snagged clothing, before slipping through. I have learned how to hold it, how to untangle it, how to roll up loose strands.

But, it still will get me once in a while leaving fingers sore, bloody legs, torn shirts. But, there is nothing like to stop a curious horse from getting out.

It's All In The Rye

11th November, 2008
Tuesday
Carriere, Mississippi

Here in the South, when winter sets in, many of us who own pasture land find that we must plant a winter grass - rye - so that our horses, cows, and other grazing livestock, have a supply of roughage. It is either that or buy hay. And since I am trying to no longer buy hay, today I will be seeding with rye part of the pasture so that the horse and donkey will have something to eat other than their feed.

From what I figure it will cost $65 an acre between the seed and the fertilizer, and for the winter I am only going to do a couple of acres. Next year, when we have the tractor, I will do more, but for now that should do it.

The weather has been a bit on the chilly side the last couple of days, but it is much better than Upstate New York at this time of year. The shorter days are still bothersome, especially now that overtime for Jimmy has kicked into gear - he leaves home when it is dark and it is dark by the time he pulls in the driveway. That makes for a long day for me.

As I was explaining to him last night, before, when he was out of town, out of state, out of the country, I knew what to do by myself. Read a book, watch a movie, email friends. I would spend some time at the barn, plant some flowers, toss the Frisbee. I knew I was going to bed alone and I was comfortable with my own company.

I am still comfortable with my own company, but now, with his departure and arrival as part of the day's rhythm, I am out of sync, in a suspended state waiting for either to happen. I know this is temporary until I adjust to our new roles, our new Paradise Lost, our new time zone.

But it's presence is an enigma to me. I can stay busy - there is much to do, but I also am not busy, sometimes just in a dream all by myself. I am sometimes confused by this lack of focus and clear direction, but at the same time it is as if I need that now in my life given all the chaos of the last few years.

Today, I will not only sow the rye seed, but I will load sand onto my truck and from there, into the barn to level the floor and keep E & E dry.

Earl is Feeling His Oats

10th November, 2008
Monday

Carriere, Mississippi

What do they mean by the saying "Feeling his oats"? What the saying means is to feel frisky or animated, to display self-importance.

Well, that was Earl yesterday. This is what happened.

I decided to finally put the hackamore on Elliot and get on his back again as he is now 19 months old. It was my second time on his back. Jim held onto his bridle while also giving me a leg up. But once I was on Elliot's back he didn't want to go anywhere. Jim went inside and got a carrot, hoping to entice Elliot into walking forward, but all El kept doing was turning his head back around and nosing my leg.

Deciding that I had been on him long enough and not wanting to push my luck, I dismounted, without Jim holding him, and decided we'd walk the perimeter of the pasture and have an easy training session.

Earl the donkey, watched as I walked out of the yard and into the pasture with Elliot. I figured he might follow, but usually that is the extent of his antics.

So off I go with Elliot and we practice walking, whoaing, and reining. Gus decides to join us and I think nothing of it as Gus does not bother the horse.

As I turn up along the fence line, I am enjoying my quiet time with Elliot, when my calm was interrupting with the barking of excited dogs. I glance up to see two of my neighbors dogs rushing toward the fence. They had gone under the barbed wire in the past, so I was nervous they would again and I would have some issues, if only minor ones, with Elliot.

They became the least of my worries when simultaneously, on the opposite side, I hear a deafening noise, like an mad elephant charging through the underbrush, and look up just in time to see Donkey crashing through the backyard brush in a full gallop, heading directly for the fence. Now remember, this is the same donkey the vet suggested I euthanize just a couple of months ago because his coffin bones had rotated and he was so lame and in so much pain until this farrier down here trimmed his hooves.

Gus, who had been just sniffing along the brush line, started to get frantic and so do I because Earl's new-found non-lameness has him doing more and one of those things is to try and chase down Blondie and Gus. Donkeys are known to be coyote killers, so being a dog killer is not a far toss.

At the same time, Elliot starts to whip around and snort and act a bit ditzy with all the craziness going on, all the while I am hanging onto him while also shouting to Gus to come, to trust in me, so I can protect him from Earl.

In the meantime, Donkey, spotting the neighbor's dogs on their side of the fence, still yapping in full steam, starts galloping up and down the fence line, head down, ears back, front hooves stomping, while also bellowing. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall watching all this action.

Jim, who had been sitting in the rocking chair on the back porch saw the comotion unfolding, and commanding Blondie and Abel to stay at the house, came out to retrieve Gus, who had gone against all instincts, staying by my side in spite of Elliot twisting and turning and Earl bellowing and galloping, and hooving.

Jim hollered to me that I should start walking Elliot back towards the house once he had Gus protected and the neighbors dogs were on their own.

But even putting Elliot back in their pasture section was not enough to bring Earl back, so I hiked back into the pasture with a lead, but had to head toward the front of the pasture along the roadway, where Donkey had run. That damn donkey watched me as I approached him, making my way through the tall pasture grass, his head alert, ears up, nostrils flaring.

But, when I got within ten feet of him, he started to trot back toward the house. In the meantime, Jim had gone to stand by the pasture where Elliot was as he was running full speed, back and forth, barely stopping before coming into contact with the barbed wire fence.

Once in the yard, Earl let me approach him and walk him back to the pasture with Elliot.

After that chaotic workout, Jim and I sat down and had a drink.