Dreams Do Come True

Two days ago I rode Elliot for the very first time. I have been on his back before, even sat there for about 20 minutes, except he didn't understand my cues to walk forward, so he just stood there, turning his head to nudge at my legs.

But Sunday I was ready, had made plans to ride him. I brushed him, cleaned his hooves, and saddled him up. Then I put on the hackamore I have had for 20 years. I had purchased it for a little Arabian I had way back in 1988 - Sasha.

I lunged him first to take any piss and vinegar out of him and then Hubby took the dogs for Jeep ride around the property while I walked Elliot to my pick up. I led him to the back where the tail gate was down and used that to sit in the saddle. He wanted to stop by the bushes to munch, so I had to use some coaxing to get him to keep walking, but he did.

We did two ventures around the pasture.

Looking at the pictures Hubby took, I plan to do a couple of things differently.

One is is bridle. I knew it was small and had looked at others, but hadn't found anything here I really liked. I will order one today. It is much too small for him. Plus, I didn't have reins. I do now.

Two, I don't like the look of the Austrailan saddle on him. Hubby has been encouraging me to buy a Western saddle. I will do that real soon as well.

And, three, the martingale has to go. I realized that Sunday when I was riding him - you see, because he is still green, he does not understand reining and the martingale restricts the radius of pulling the reins from one side or the other. He is not a head thrower or anything like that, and all I was using them for was to keep the saddle from slipping back. We'll just leave them off next time.

It felt so wonderful to be up on his back. Now for me to get back to the weight I was when I brought him home and for him to grow a little taller.

Dawn is Slow To Rise

Tuesday

Yesterday my young neighbor, Eric, a teen of perhaps 16, stopped by to ask me how he could fatten this young horse he had brought home. The horse had been starving when he was able to talk the woman into letting him bring it home. It is a small paint of mostly deep brown. Eric had been told the little colt was a year old, but I pointed out his gangly legs and said I felt pretty confident he was not more than eight or nine months old.

I then motioned to Elliot and explained that he would be two in April and that he was more what a two year old colt should look like.

Eric's heart is in the right place though.

So, as I sit here, with dawn slow to rise, I think about all the horses, the dogs, the animals here in Mississippi who are struggling to survive at the hands of their owners. Take Cho's fight for life, and now Eric's horse, whom he has named Popeye.

Nights must be long for these animals, the darkness and cold of the midnight hour lingering for what must be endless. Hunger a constant companion, so much so that they must think it is a normal state of being.

It makes the days difficult for those of us who must stumble through this journey helpless to save them all.

Life and Death on a Small Farm

It is a difficult balance when you begin to take in other animals making up the eclectic mix that soon becomes a small farm. We began with E & E when we made the decision to keep them on our property, then when we purchased these 11 acres.

Our next step was bringing home Charlie Boy, Sandra, and Shirley. Around the first of the month, Sandra disappeared in the middle of the day. We are pretty sure a hawk or Eagle made off with her as there were no signs of a struggle such as lost feathers, nor did the chickens make any noise like they do when one of the dogs get too close.

That is when I went out and brought home Fred and Ethel, two young Silkies. They were gorgeous birds and were flourishing quite nicely. We had built a chicken coop about 30' long, five foot high and five foot wide. It wasn't quite what we wanted b/c the bottom did not fasten to anything, but it did the trick in case an overhead predator or a four-legged one tried to get to them.

It worked until Saturday.

That is when Cho, the puppy, aka known as Miss Celeste, discovered she could get in by going under the wire.

I knew something was wrong when I went to check on my birds and didn't see either one. Ethel soon came out of hiding, but I could see too many feathers lying about, a sign of a struggle. I also noticed two vultures circling. I started out toward the pasture to hunt for what I knew was probably a dead bird, but I never expected to find Cho with it.

I buried Fred, and I felt partially to blame. And I felt terrible for the way he died.

Now, I am a reasonable woman, but I am so sad my chicken died, especially such a violent death. I immediately realized as well that I had to find a partner for Ethel. Biddies were all that were available, but they require too much care. I stopped at my neighbors and he happened to have some Silkies that were a little older than biddies, but younger than Ethel. He gave me one.

So, now I have a new member of our little wanna-be farm.

The Three Chickens

A few days ago a friend brought over three Bantam's - two hens and a rooster - which I named after my Aunt Sandra and Uncle Charlie, with the third bird named after my Mom, Shirley. Charlie Boy, Sandra, and Shirley quickly settled right in, temporarily making the horse trailer their roost.

On the first morning, the trio ventured out, doing what chickens do, pecking, scratching, and clucking. Hubby decided to go check on the birds as they foraged on the edge of the woods. Three of the dogs joined him for the walk.

I missed the action, but from what I heard, Blondie was tenacious in her quest of the feathered fowl, sending the trio flapping for any tree limb, branch, or perch out of her reach. Charlie Boy took roost on a pencil-thin branch of a scraggly pine tree, Sandra found a sturdier roost on a fallen Oak branch, about two feet above the ground but nestled in the thick underbrush, and Shirley, well Shirley flew the coop so to speak.

The remaining two birds eventually settled down and went back to their chicken ways and the search for Shirley was on. Dozens of forages through the thick Southern brush on the back edge of our property was conducted through out the day. At times, I would stand there quietly hoping to hear the cluck cluck cluck of Shirley, but alas, Shirley was not to be seen or heard. Just like my mother, she was out doing her own thing.

On the second day, more searches for Shirley were done, but hope was getting dim of finding more than scattered feathers of her foray into the wild, wild jungle of southern Mississippi. Meanwhile, the other two feathered foul went on as if Shirley's disappearance was matter of course. Sandra, while scratching for food, absentmindedly wandered into the paddock area where Elliot had taken up post since their arrival, his head hung over the back door of the horse trailer, amusing himself watching the chickens.

So, here struts Sandra, her head down pecking at strands of hay, out between Elliot's front legs, not a clue of what she was getting into. That's when Elliot decided it was time to tap dance around Sandra, his head shaking, his front hooves raising up into the air before coming down around Sandra, who by this time was squawking and flapping, and trying to get away from the dance.

In the meantime, Charlie Boy, sensing the need to rescue his damsel in distress, gets sidetracked by Blondie and Ocho, who have decided chicken for lunch just might do the trick. Charlie Boy makes it to the roof of the trailer, as I scurry to round up Sandra, who is just plain mad now.

I toss the two fowl back into the trailer, shoo off the dogs, and take one more look for Shirley.

On Day Three of Shirley's departure, I hook E & E out front so I clean the barn and paddock area in light of a weather report to expect foul weather. (Yes, I used that word on purpose). As I pushed the wheelbarrow into the stall, lo and behold, in the rafters there perched Shirley, looking a little ragged with one, crooked tail feather left and a flopping crest.

Not to let her AWOL episode go without a climax, I find a long branch to poke her out from her roost, which is abut ten feet off the ground. After a brief chase around the paddock, with Blondie and Ocho back out to help in case I needed it, I manage to catch Shirley.

I carried her back to the horse trailer turned chicken coop, and toss her back in with Charlie Boy and Sandra. Charlie Boy, upon seeing the disheveled Shirley, decides to do the strut, (now I understand where the phrase cocky comes from), and begins pecking at her while doing this one wing dance around her. Not to be outdone or be brought back into submission, Shirley responds by pecking Sandra, and Sandra runs around like, well shall we say, a chicken without its head. Soon, though, the trio settle down and go back to all the pecking, scratching, and clucking chickens do.

I wonder how long it will be before Shirley goes out on the town again?

What a Difference a Week Makes

Often times I have used the phrase "What a difference a week makes," for many of life's little turns. But never has it had so much meaning as it does when it comes to Miss Celeste (who I call Ocho.)

When she came to live with me, she did not leave the doggie pillow I had placed on the closet floor for two days. If I tried to move her out into a room with me, even dragging along her pillow, she would scurry back to the safety of the walk-in closet. From her timid fetal position, she would look up at me with sad brown eyes, her tail barely moving.

Hubby says she has Lab in her, pointing out to me her color, her fur, but most notably, her tail.

She has begun to put on weight so that her hip bones no longer protrude an inch above her body, and her ribs have begun to fade behind a slim covering of fat. She is still lean, but no longer does she have that starving appearance.

By the fourth day she was entering the house without me having to pick her up and carry her in, and by the fifth, she was making attempts to play with Abel, our Border Collie. But even that was slow progress. Hubby was tossing a ball for Abel to fetch and when it would hit the ground, Ocho would bound toward it in a frenzy. Jim pointed out to me that she thought it was food hitting the ground, which makes sense since the majority of what she did get to eat in the past was more than likely scraps or hand outs tossed in her direction.

She now sees the ball as a game and eagerly follows Abel, at times beating him to it. She has yet to figure out how to catch the Frisbee though.

In one of the images, you will see Ocho bounding towards Abel, and in another, she is following behind Grinning Gus. The third image is one I took today. I promised myself I would photograph one thing a day in and around my property.

I will also write everyday. And in a week, I will see what other differences are happening in my life.

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.