What are the chances of nearly dying in a barn fire and coming back to be a contender? Not just a contender, but on the short list for Horse of the Year, and the Olympics? If horses could talk, you could ask Neville Bardos, a Thoroughbred who has done just that, what it's like to be a hero. Whether Neville wins Horse of the Year will be announced tonight at the United States Equestrian Federation (USEF) convention. Click here to read the New York Times story on Neville's near-death experience and recovery. Click here for the Horse Junkies United story on Neville's fiery and crafty personality. Above, the Neville Bardos Syndicate's video update, includinging one of Neville's dressage workouts (about 3:30 into the clip). Below, Neville performing at the 2010 Rolex.
01/13/2012
01/09/2012
01/05/2012
All I need to know I learned from my tractor
- If at first you don’t make the grade, try, try, again -- faster and faster.
- For drop-dead control, drop the bucket. (Gates and fences can be rebuilt.)
- Regular oil feedings are as important as knowing the oil hole from the hydraulic-fluid or say, the fuel hole.
- Gravity is a powerful force -- especially going downhill backwards on ice, in the dark.
- Make more than one copy of the tractor key.
- Red farm diesel spilled on fresh snow gives the place that festive touch.
- Black smoke and spewing, yellow liquid are bad.
- A plugged-in tractor is a happy tractor.
- Plow Job #1: The rescue truck.
- Based on my 950's long life and ability to multi-task, John Deere was probably a woman. OK, not.
Check out: New life for old axes, mauls! or Manure happens, and it's good stuff! Also, do-it-yourself tractor and other farm vehicles maintenance checklist.
01/03/2012
01/02/2012
Workshops: Ag (and horse stable) energy-saving strategies
Attend one of five regional workshops to learn about agricultural energy audits, efficiency, and renewable energy.
Farmers, ranchers and stable owners looking for ways to save on energy costs may want to follow this workshop series. The Colorado State University Extension Energy website is also full of resources to help us horsey types save energy and money. Thank you to our stable client, Dr. Ragan Adams, CSU Veterinary Extension Coordinator, for this heads up!
01/01/2012
12/24/2011
Finger lickin' good
(The final part, Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
Bodie and Rosalyn walked hand in hand to the front pasture. She had not seen Excalibur since the night of her near death, four days ago. Rosalyn was sure the doctor Bodie insisted on calling had been bribed to prescribe bed rest, just in case she had a heart attack or something.
But now she was free, and believe it or not, on a date. Before they left, Rosalyn insisted on checking Excalibur first. She picked her way across the lane in black patent high heels, topped by a fitted black Givenchy skirt, white silk blouse, cashmere coat gold chain necklace, and gold button earrings. The fashion statement was a gift from Bodie.
She munched the last of the fortune cookies from that FAT-company-idiot. The last cookie had predicted “a heartbreaking life unless you call Fiduciary Answers Today”.
If her penny proved worthless, Rosalyn supposed she would have to get used to these gifts of Bodie’s. He couldn’t help himself. Fortunately, the more time she spent with this man, the better he got.
Excalibur waited at the end of the pasture, still as a statue. Rosalyn stepped through the gate, and whistled. She held a new treat in her hand, something from her childhood. Excalibur's head shot up at her call. The golden gelding nickered, and ran toward the woman. She held out her hand with the Chick-O-Stick.
The horse slid to a stop in front of Rosalyn, and extended its muzzle. Whiskers twitched. Nostrils flared. Excalibur lipped the candy, took it in his mouth, and began chewing. A sigh escaped the horse. He lowered his head and let Rosalyn run her hands over sculpted golden ears. The horse rubbed its mouth along Rosalyn's sleeve, leaving a wet, green swath of saliva.
Bodie snickered. "Give a horse 10 minutes with a white shirt, and you’ll find boogers and slime that you never knew existed anywhere on earth."
Excalibur lowered his head for more scratching.
Rosalyn turned to Bodie with tear-filled eyes. “I think he’s learned to trust again.”
“Or maybe he just likes Chick-O-Sticks,” said Bodie.
His cell phone interrupted them. He listened, nodding. “I see. Thank you.” Bodie disconnected. He looked at Rosalyn. "Dry those tears, Roz. Your penny passed. You've got a deal. The $200,000 will be in your account tomorrow. It's amazing what you find in pond slime these days."
***
Rosalyn and Bodie sat at what would become their favorite table at the little Italian place, which as it turned out, Bodie also owned. They shared white chocolate cheesecake topped in raspberries and hot, dark chocolate sauce. The two had stopped at the local boutique to replace the horse-slimed blouse with an ivory version. In front of the boutique, the man in dreadlocks walked past them, brushing slightly against Rosalyn. “Winds of fortune, winds of fortune,” he muttered. He wore clean clothes, nodded, and flashed a big, green-eyed grin.
“At least he seems happy.”
“Who?”
“That hobo guy with the dreadlocks.”
Bodie turned to look. “I don’t see anybody.” The hobo had disappeared.
***
In the restaurant, candles sent golden shafts of light dancing around the room. The violinist softly drew out the melody to “White Christmas.” A very large diamond ring glittered on Rosalyn’s left hand, not the tainted, cast-off circle of metal belonging to Money Mona, Bodie’s ex-wife, but an embedded diamond designed for a horsewoman.
Bodie had presented it to her two days ago while she was under house arrest. Now, clad in a black tuxedo sculpted to his lean frame, Bodie gave Rosalyn a fresh understanding of how Scarlett O’Hara must have felt when Rhett Butler walked into the room.
The chocolate sauce from their dessert dribbled off her fork on to the index finger of her ring hand. Rosalyn shook her head and fumbled for her napkin. “You sure you know what you’re getting into, Bodie? In case you haven’t guessed, I’m a slob.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Let me check.”
Bodie took Rosalyn’s chocolate-covered finger in his mouth. He delicately, meticulously, licked off the sauce. Rosalyn shivered.
“Oh yeah, that’s what I’m getting into,” said Bodie, “finger-lickin’ good for the rest of our lives."
“Stop being nice,” she said. “You’re making me cry.”
Rosalyn reached into her handbag for a tissue. She pulled out something crackly and hard. “Where did that come from?” She held it out for Bodie to see.
Sealed in shiny wrap, a Woo’s Fine Fortune Cookie lay on Rosalyn Mallory’s open palm.
(MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! MAY YOUR CHRISTMAS BE FULL OF WONDERFUL SURPRISES. -- Karin Livingston)
12/23/2011
Only five exist, each worth $200,000
(This is Part 19 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale, ending on Christmas Eve.)
Bodie lowered his mouth to the limp form of Rosalyn, pinched her nose shut, and began mouth-to-mouth breathing. One of her gloves had come off and Buck licked Rosalyn’s hand. Seconds passed. Rosalyn twitched, and Bodie rolled her over just in time to miss the coughed-up stream of water.
“You’re alive!”
Rosalyn coughed again, rolled over on to an elbow, and groaned. “I’m sick … beat up … why do I feel kissed to death?” She rolled onto her back and stared at Bodie.
“It’s you,” she observed. “I’m cold.”
***
Sitting up on her couch, wrapped in blankets, Rosalyn watched Bodie stoke an already-blazing fire. Buck lay on the floor, his head on her feet. The television droned in the background, one of those soothing public-broadcast features. Rosalyn’s naked body under the blankets bothered her the most, but she supposed stripping off a hypothermic person’s wet clothes was normal in a situation like this. Rosalyn pulled the blanket tighter around her. She unclenched her dirt-encrusted hand, and let a clump of drying mud drop on the lamp table next to her. The dirt broke. A penny rolled out.
“Huh, look at that. I found a penny while dying.”
Bodie glanced up from the fire. “You ought to have it framed as a memento of this lucky day.”
“Trust me to get bad luck from good luck,” said Rosalyn.
A parcel lay on the table, addressed to her. “What’s this?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It was on the porch when I went to get fire wood.”
Rosalyn took a fingernail to the tape on the box. She opened it to find a selection of Woo’s Fine Fortune Cookies. A gold-embossed card on the top read, “Don't leave your safety to fortune. Have you considered your retirement investments? We’re here to help. Happy Investing from Fiduciary Answers Today”
“Somebody give me a gun. I can’t believe this,” said Rosalyn. “That FAT guy dares to send me this. Thanks to him, my only future is old age and poverty. However, I am hungry.”
Rosalyn broke a cookie, and unrolled the fortune. It read, "You will be unlucky in love, and too dense to know it when you see it."
"Right. The only fortune I make is my own," said Rosalyn. “Who writes these fortunes, anyway?” She wadded up the black prediction and threw the paper ball over Bodie’s shoulder into the fire.
"You know, I got one once that said I would hit upon a thing of great value." Bodie eased away from the fire, sat down next to her, and wrapped muscular arms around Rosalyn. She squirmed. However, her nakedness and the likelihood of blankets falling off, prevented further protest.
Before Rosalyn could say anything, Bodie kissed her hard. She couldn’t help it. Fire poured through her veins. She kissed him back.
Bodie stopped himself. This was, after all a nearly-drowned woman. He ran the blanket edge against Rosalyn’s neck through his thumb and forefinger. "OK, if you don't want my money fine, but at least let me help you with yours … What do you think I do for a living?"
“I don’t know. What do you do?”
“Let’s just say Warren Buffet gets help,” he said.
“Oh.” Rosalyn looked away, out the window. It killed her to accept help. A breeze pushed its way through silent snowfall, and what had moments ago been a pleasant holiday greeting card turned into a winter storm. The television droned the end of a feature, something on coin collecting. The final sound bite caught Rosalyn’s attention: "Well folks, that’s it. Only five of the pennies known to exist, and worth $200,000 apiece, imagine that." Jazz music played while the credits rolled, backed by an image of the rare coin.
Rosalyn picked up her penny and scraped it. Her gut clenched.
“Bodie. “
“What?”
“Tell me I’m not crazy. It looks just like the one that was on TV.” Hands trembling, Rosalyn used her remote control to freeze the screen and zoom in on the photo of the prize penny.
Bodie picked up her coin and looked at the television. “I’ll make some calls. Don’t get your hopes up.”
(Next: Finger lickin' good)
12/21/2011
Darkness closed around her mind
(This is Part 18 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale, ending December 24.)
Silently, eerily, white flakes of snow floated down through the night, and settled one after the other on the ground, on the pond. Rosalyn began to cough as water lapped at her lips. She closed her eyes, and images of Bodie the day he effortlessly lifted the Gator one-handed, muscles rippling, his lips hovering, oh so close to hers, floated before her.
The cold closing around her became soothing numbness. Rosalyn grappled behind her, trying to stop her slide under the water. Her hands hit mud, roots and something disc-shaped, smooth.
She grabbed the handful, and dug deep. The world moved slowly now, nothing really mattered in this numbness, except that she felt like she had forgotten to do the most important thing in her life, but couldn’t think what it was. Something her grandmother once said came to mind: "If you have to die, you should be with the one you love."
As darkness closed around her mind, it came to her, something Bodie had said: “Choose now, Rosalyn. Quit hiding.”
“Sorry, Grams, blew that one,” she mumbled.
***
Rosalyn did not hear the crashing sounds of Bodie bolting down the embankment through snow and tree branches, or Buck’s frenzied barking. Bodie lashed a rope to a tree, and threw the loop over his shoulder and torso. He edged farther down the bank. "Hang on, I've got you. Just hang on!" His fingers plunged through the water, and curled around the collar of Rosalyn's coat, just as the top of her head slipped under the ice.
Bodie hauled on Rosalyn’s limp form. He slipped on the wet bank, and slid toward the icy water. His boot heel caught a tree root. Bodie pulled against the rope, and it held. He half-threw Rosalyn past his shoulders to drier ground. She hit the ground, a heap of arms and legs.
Bodie knelt, and flipped Rosalyn over on her back. He lowered his head and listened for her breath. Buck nudged his owner’s face with his wet nose. Nothing. Bodie felt her neck for a pulse. So faint.
“Shit,” he muttered.
(Next: Only five exist, each worth $200,000)
12/19/2011
The still form in the frigid water
(This is Part 17 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale, ending December 24.)
Ponds could be deadly, especially when you were drowning.
Buck barked again and again, and edged as close as he could get without falling in. The cold water sank through Rosalyn’s heavy coat, past her sweatshirt and T-shirt, into her skin. Icy numbness froze her arms. Without the strength to pull out of the frigid water, Rosalyn began to sink.
The pond water rose higher and higher up her neck.
***
As he peered under the hood of his dead truck, Bodie idly wondered what Rosalyn would look like in a dress, something black, something in satin, cut just right around those curves …
Nothing appeared wrong, with her or the truck, for that matter. Then he saw it. One of the clamps on the battery had come off. Crashing into stone signs could have that effect on batteries, he supposed. Bodie slammed the clamp back in place. Loose, but he would have to tighten it later.
***
Rosalyn chanted to herself through chattering teeth. ""Got to get out, got to get out. Got to, got to, got to!" She heard an engine and saw movement on the driveway. Bodie’s truck, thank God.
Bodie opened the door. The flurry of activity at the pond caught his eye. Then he heard Buck’s mad barking.
"Fool woman, now what?"
He watched the horse. Excalibur trotted back and forth. The horse tossed his head, stopped, stamped his front feet, and resumed the frenzied trotting along the bank. Bodie followed the hoofprints in the snow. His breath caught in his throat. The prints stopped at the crazed dog. The dog stared at the still form in the frigid water.
(Next: Darkness closed around her mind)
12/17/2011
Shooting stars danced
(Part 16 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
Battling beaver clogs was not for the meek.
Rosalyn paused, breathing heavily. "Putrid rodents," she muttered. She turned to Excalibur, who stood nearby, watching. “You know, rodents and men, they are a lot alike: Into everything, and always causing problems. Why can’t they just leave me alone? Or better yet, quit throwing their weight around?” Rosalyn remembered the kiss on the church steps, and bit her lip so hard it made her eyes water.
Next to her, Buck began digging, too.
***
Headed her way with the solution to all of Rosalyn’s problems in tow behind his truck, Bodie whacked the steering wheel again. His truck lurched to the right. Bodie swerved back to the middle of the lane. He caught a glance of himself in his rear view mirror. The face staring back was masked by days of frustration, probably frustration over this idiot woman who wouldn’t take his help.
Was it just a lie? Bodie put their imaginary future on the imaginary line, and repeated what he said to Rosalyn earlier: "Choose now, Rosalyn. Quit hiding."
The engine died. "Perfect," he said, “just perfect.
***
Excalibur stamped a foot and snorted. His nostrils flared. He pawed, but the woman scrambling at the beaver dam ignored him. He wanted her to stop.
***
Looking over his shoulder inside of the Woo’s Fine Fortune Cookies factory where he had just been hired, the man with dreadlocks saw that he was not being watched. He logged in to his workstation and opened the fortune file. A few sentences later, his mission was accomplished. The man threw his locks back and laughed. He stood up, and walked out of the factory into the parking lot.
The modern art anchoring the lot’s decor was a metal tree with fortune cookies for leaves. It was also an experiment in the art of sound. A breeze hit the cookies, and they began to moan. The hobo looked up.
***
A shooting star cascaded across the horizon.
“Nope, I’m not even going to bother with a wish. Whatever I want, the opposite will happen, anyway.”
Tears welled up in Rosalyn's eyes. She wiped them with the rough sleeve of her work coat, and chewed her lower lip. As a child, she had growled when angry, until her mother told her to quit acting like an animal. It was either growl or cry. Rosalyn growled.
The horse paced, watching her. Buck looked up from his own digging, and whined.
Then it hit Rosalyn. Not the horse or the dog, an idea.
She reached into her pocket and held out a treat. “Come here, Excalibur. I have a job for you.” The horse stretched out his nose, and refused the treat, but let her slip on the halter.
“Now that’s more like it. Trust the human. Good horse.” Rosalyn held his lead line in one hand and bent over to pick up the rope. The palomino snorted softly. “We’re just going to use a little horse power here,” she said, and wrapped the rope around the base of Excalibur’s neck. “See I just need you to give a little tug here, get the stupid dam loosened. Just one stick loosened, just a little leg up, so to speak.” She smoothly tied a bowline, the one knot that wouldn’t slip.
“OK, Excalibur, I need you to walk. All you have to do is walk. Can you do that?” The horse flicked an ear at her. “Walk, Excalibur, walk.” The horse walked as if on explosive egg shells, but he walked, nonetheless. The powerful gelding appeared to agree, just this once, to do her the favor of a truce. The rope tightened.
The clog unclogged with a huge whoosh of debris. The blob of a load shifted and slipped out of the rope. Frightened, Excalibur lunged away, and his momentum upended Rosalyn, pulling her feet out from under her.
Rosalyn hit her head on a rock, back-sledded down the iced-over bank, and plunged into icy water up to her neck. Shooting stars danced in front of her eyes.
(Next: The still form in the frigid water)
12/16/2011
Talk about rider's block
(This is part 15 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
Bodie remained gone.
Stepping away from the pond, Rosalyn peered down the road. I’m just checking the traffic. I have no interest in whether his red truck happens to show up. No interest at all. And, it’s not here, so there. Rosalyn set down the rope and shovel. She kept the pry rod in her hand, and squared her shoulders. Pond water from the beaver clog oozed higher. Soon her land bridge would disappear.
Nearby, where she had turned him loose, Excalibur nosed through the snow looking for tender bits of grass. He watched Rosalyn out of the corner of his eye. A muscle in her jaw clenched. She watched the horse watch her. I should be riding you, not fighting beavers. Talk about rider’s block. Then again, you’d probably just dump me, so what’s the point? Rosalyn swore. Excalibur winked. Or at least she thought he did.
Rosalyn jammed the pry rod up the clog and wiggled it. A twig, some ice chips, and half a cup of sandy dirt flowed away. She tried again, this time on the other side. More sand, ice, a handful of what looked like shredded tree bark. Beaver food, of course. The beavers, her money situation, Bodie’s arrival on the church steps, his kiss, they haunted her.
The sky darkened, and sleet spat down. Half-frozen water drops struck dead leaves, and rustled. At the edge of the pond, Buck whined.
Everything was against her. "Stupid men! Stupid money! Stupid clog!" Rosalyn whacked the root- and-dirt-infested mass with her shovel. "You pig!"
Buck barked.
She hit the clog again, and leaned against the pry rod, mouth against her glove. Its soft leather reminded her of Bodie’s lips. That darn kiss would not go away. She rubbed her mouth. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" She hit the plug again, and then stopped. There was another sound, a shout.
"This is it! The time is now!" The derelict man walked down the road and gestured. He stopped at the bus stop sign just outside her driveway. Again the man cried, "This is it! The time is now!" The No. 9 bus pulled over. Clutching a page of the classifieds where an item had been circled in red, the man, dreadlocks flapping against his shoulders, boarded No. 9. The bus pulled away, headed for the light industrial section of town.
At least he’s going somewhere, unlike me. Rosalyn pummeled the clog. Nothing.
The rustling leaves faded into silence, as sleet turned to snow. Rosalyn pulled a knit cap out of her pocket, and shoved it over her dark mane of hair. She muttered, “So much for a clear and mild week."
***
Bodie stepped on the accelerator, and the truck sped forward. The rattling of the equipment on the trailer behind reminded him to slow down. He sighed and slowed. Why all the hiding who he was? Why couldn’t she just take the help and be done with it? He smacked the steering wheel. "What’s the deal, lady? Over and over again, I try to tell you, I won't hurt you, for real."
***
Rosalyn pounded the pry rod through the center of the icy clog. A double handful of sticks and mud fell away. Water flowed through the break. She inhaled, stepped back, and stared at the darkened sky.
(Next: Shooting stars danced)
Dam beavers at it again
(This is Part 14 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
Glancing behind, afraid she was being followed, Rosalyn ran straight into Bodie at the bottom of the church steps.
“So, now you’re stalking me.”
Bodie, with Buck the Prodigal Dog discovered by somebody who cared, explained: "You looked like you needed time, and I followed, yes. Plus, you shouldn’t be out walking alone. And I needed to tell you … you've got a problem. The beavers expanded the dam. The place is going under water."
“You’re kidding!” Rosalyn closed her eyes and groaned. “I can’t take this any …!”
The protest died as Bodie lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was fierce. His lips covered hers, almost devouring her. With his hand behind her head, there was no quick escape. Rosalyn opened her eyes, and glared.
He backed off and shrugged. "I know, I know. Don’t know what came over me. Get in. I’ll take you home."
Words escaped Rosalyn. She followed Bodie and Buck to the truck, and absently handed her hound the succulent bun, wrapping and all.
***
Inside the church, the derelict again knelt at the pew. The prayer candles hissed and popped. Without warning, the sanctuary spotlight above the Virgin Mary bas relief flickered, burned brightly, and then popped. Its bulb was finished. Deeper gloom descended.
***
As Bodie drove back down the driveway, Rosalyn could see pond water glinting. It had spilled over the banks. It threatened her bridge, and farther out, horse sheds and pens.
“Oh, great,” she said. “Just great. The boarders will love this.”
Bodie stopped the truck next to Rosalyn’s red barn, but kept the engine running. He reached out a hand and softly caressed her cheek. She stiffened. “Hey, we have a crisis here, Bodie.”
“You’re telling me,” he snapped, then caught himself. Bodie bit his lower lip. “No, what I mean was you’re telling me what I already know, and I think I have just the solution, I mean, I know somebody who does. Wait here. I’ll pick you up when I get back.”
Rosalyn jumped out of the truck followed by Buck, who licked his chops. The succulent bun wrapping wafted unnoticed to the ground. Rosalyn waved as Bodie backed out. As soon as his truck’s tail lights disappeared at the end of the driveway, Rosalyn bent over Buck and ruffled the dog’s ears.
"I can handle this," she said. Buck wagged his tail. "I’m getting my shovel. This is the last time any beaver is going to bother me." Buck whined.
***
Bodie pulled into the parking lot of the construction company, one of his many acquisitions. He scowled. The lie to Rosalyn about his “friend’s” construction company irked him. But the way that woman reacted to money and favors, especially his money and his favors, truth was not an option. Bodie unlocked the front door and went into the office. A few minutes later he emerged, drove to the equipment yard, and hitched up to what he hoped was the solution to the beaver problem.
***
Rosalyn kept a collection of farm tools in a shed off the side of the horse barn. She grabbed the heavy pry rod, a narrow shovel used for trenching, and a coil of rope. You never know what you’ll need around a barn. Or beavers. At her side, Buck wagged his tail. This looked like fun.
The winter sun had almost set, and horses stood at their mangers, eating. Just for one teeny, tiny moment of reprieve, she stopped in the barn doorway, and soaked up the best part about having a horse boarding stable: the smell of sweet grass hay, and the sound of horses munching in counterpart rhythm.
Past the door, she saw Excalibur in his pen, rolling, and in one adrenaline-stab of fear, Rosalyn thought her horse had colic, the number one killer of horses. Rolling was after all, the classic sign. Seconds later though, he hoisted himself back to his feet and continued eating. Rosalyn had never known a colicky horse to eat. Then again, a little walk to the pond might do the beast good. With my luck, you’d kill me if I tried to ride. She could let him graze while she worked.
As she haltered the gelding, Excalibur flicked an ear at the radio, which played “The River”, soft and low. “Never knowin’ what’s in store makes each day a constant battle.”
Rope over her shoulder, pry rod and shovel in one hand, haltered horse in the other, Rosalyn squared her shoulders and set out. Buck trotted along behind.
“Constant battle,” she muttered. “True, so true.”
(Next: Talk about rider's block)
12/15/2011
'Succulent buns, they're the best'
(This is Part 13 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
The money didn't work, the man didn't work. Rosalyn sat at the table and stared into her coffee cup as if it were a crystal ball. Maybe the horse would work.
Bundled up against the chill, Rosalyn crunched through a thin layer of snow on her way to the horse pens. Excalibur stood at the far end of the turnout, watching something on the bike trail. Rosalyn unhooked his halter from the gate and walked toward him.
“Excalibur,” she said. “Come on, let’s see what you can do, huh?”
The horse flicked an ear toward her.
Rosalyn moved closer and the golden gelding trotted off a few steps. She held out a piece of the large, pelleted horse candy she often kept in her pockets.
“Come on, big guy.” She stepped closer, and Excalibur took off. The horse galloped around his pen, dodging the other horses, which looked at him with disinterest, even pity for the idiot animal.
Rosalyn slung the halter over her shoulder and turned away. “You know, beast, there may have been a good reason you were in the auction yard.” She returned the horse’s halter to its spot on the turnout gate. Excalibur had stopped about 20 feet away along the fence line. His hindquarters faced her full on, an eloquent reply to the auction yard comment.
Rosalyn half expected to see Bodie materialize at yet another moment of failure. She looked around, but nobody was there. She shivered. It was as if she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck. “I know,” she said. “Let’s go kill the vacuum.”
***
Rosayn’s house-cleaning plan worked until the vacuum, in fact, breathed its last, for the time being anyway. Apparently vacuums resented tangles of dog and human hair in their little spinny carpet-sucking thingies. Rosalyn kicked the plastic tank and hurt her toe.
From his perch on the couch, Buck the Dog wagged his tail, and whined.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” she said. At the W-word, the dog went into spasms of joy. He leaped off the couch, and raced to the mudroom where his leash lived.
***
In tow behind at least one kind-and-loving companion, Rosalyn wandered the streets of the downtown neighborhood to the south of her property. Rosalyn squinted her eyes, and used all her brain power to try and forget everything. It didn’t work. She walked faster. All she could think of was Bodie’s hand gripping her forearm, the electricity between them that set off the radio, the check she had stupidly torn up, the worthless horse. Because Excalibur clearly was an emotionally-damaged, worthless bronc.
She kicked a rock on the sidewalk. It bounced against a hand-hewn stone wall to her right, and boomeranged back against Rosalyn’s tennis shoe. “Ouch!” As luck would have it, this was the same foot hurt kicking the vacuum. Rosalyn hopped around one-legged, and held the injured foot in her hand. The pain eased, she stopped hopping, and looked up.
A church spire soared to the sky. Rosalyn studied the Gothic building, its stained-glass windows perennially lit from within. She vaguely remembered going to this church with her mother when she was young, dressed up in a green velvet jumper and patent-leather, Mary-Jane shoes. She had hated those shoes. They always pinched. Rosalyn wiggled her toes, and lowered her rock-bruised foot.
Something pulled at her, here at this church. Something behind those colorful windows. Then it hit her. Today was the day her mother had died, twenty five years ago. Rosalyn tied Buck’s leash to the nearby bike rack. He whined. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back,” she said, stroking his ears. “I just have to see something.”
***
You never know who you’ll see in church. Hunched into a worn army coat, Rosalyn’s very own derelict, the man who shouted strange things on the streets, finished lighting a candle. He walked up the center aisle, nodded to Jesus hanging on the cross, and settled into a pew.
Rosalyn hesitantly followed. She picked a spot a few pews forward of him, genuflected, and pulled down the padded kneeler. Rosalyn knelt, not sure where to begin. Echoes of those gone before traveled back and forth in the light cast by the silent, stained glass windows. Candles flickered across poinsettias filling altar spots, and threw shadows behind pillars decorated with red-ribboned, evergreen wreathes. The bas relief wall scenes of Jesus in his various states of imminent disaster almost seemed to move on their own.
Rosalyn shivered and stood up to leave. As she turned, she ran into the derelict, who must have snuck up behind her.
"No excuses!" His blurted comment bit into her. The homeless man’s dark eyes fixed on hers, from under a hood pulled well over his head. He pushed something into her hand. “Choice City Bakery,” he said. “Succulent buns, they’re the best, outside of fortune cookies.”
Rosalyn looked at the tissue-wrapped package in her gloved hands, ducked left around the smelly creature, and fled.
(Next: Dam beavers at it again)
12/13/2011
‘Never get involved with a man to whom you owe money’
(This is Part 12 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
Excalibur raced around the pen with his prize. On the third loop, as he sped past Rosalyn and Bodie, the horse dropped the hammer. He stopped, head down, blowing, ears twitching back and forth.
“Oh, lookie, we have a trick horse. Just what I want and need.” Rosalyn tossed the hammer closer to the fence post, and turned her back on him. “Won’t let me ride worth a darn, but he loves his tricks.”
“Just give it time,” said Bodie. “Any horse that smart deserves a chance.”
Rosalyn looked at Bodie out of the corner of her eye as if he had just sprouted gills. “Mr.-Criticize-She-Who-Even-Tries-to-Work-With-the-Horse speaks.”
“Hey, I’m getting in touch with my sensitive side.” Bodie jammed a pry bar against the chunk of concrete. “You know, there’s a price for this.”
“Oh, here we go.” Rosalyn rolled her eyes and stopped digging. She waited.
“I think a home-cooked dinner is in order. You get started. I’ll finish this.”
“I’m no shirker.”
“I didn’t say you were a shirker. I’m hungry.” Bodie’s eyes trailed over her face, flushed from the digging.
Rosalyn blushed even more. “All right, but just don’t get any ideas,” she said. “This is payback. Not romance. I’m done with that.”
“OK. Fine. Go cook, woman.” Bodie sent the pry bar into the concrete blob with a particularly vicious whack. As he worked, a chill wind stirred, and lifted dead, gray leaves into a whirling dervish.
***
Rosalyn opened and banged shut cupboard doors as she searched the kitchen, wondering what would qualify as food. Buck the Dog, looked up from his old saddle blanket on the floor, and wagged his tail. Rosalyn sniffed the air. A smell wafted around the room, sort of a dead smell. “I know I emptied the trash,” she told Buck. Rosalyn lifted the lid off a pot in the sink, and a fetid wave washed over her. "Aha! It's amazing what a handful of broccoli left to rot for two weeks can smell like." She dumped the mess down the disposal, and opened a window.
“So, the man wants home cooking. Little does he know.” Rosalyn pulled spaghetti and a jar of sauce out of the cupboard, garlic bread and green beans out of the freezer. Eggnog waited in the refrigerator and brandy in the liquor cabinet for dessert. “This will have to do,” she said.
Bodie stomped into the mudroom about an hour later. “Mission accomplished,” he said. “If a horse tries going through that fence again, it’s gonna break its body in 12 places.”
“That’s all right,” said Rosalyn as she pulled the hot garlic bread out of the oven. “Who needs horse clients, anyway? Sit down. Dinner is served.”
Rosalyn and Bodie munched as Eric Clapton crooned “Wonderful Tonight” on the radio. Bodie half-smiled at the song. Rosalyn was wonderful. She was getting to him, but he knew better than to say anything of the kind. Instead, he said, “So, tell me about the father that might as well be dead.”
“God, you have the memory of an elephant. Remind me never to tell you anything again.” Rosalyn swallowed a gulp of Gabbiano Chianti, her favorite, especially because of the knight and horse on the label. “My father disappeared. I don’t remember him, but my mother always said I have his eyes. They found his car over the edge of a cliff when I was three. This was before my mother died. The car exploded on impact. They had money troubles. He may have killed himself. Who knows? Maybe he got incinerated. They never found a body, and she got stuck with all his bills.”
“I’m sorry.” Bodie reached out and touched Rosalyn's arm. The electricity between them turned the song’s “wonder of it all” into a fit of static. “And speaking of money,” said Bodie, “let me help.”
Rosalyn’s stomach lurched, and the Chianti-laced spaghetti dinner nearly spewed back up. “I told you, just leave it be.”
“No, look. Just call me a shadow shareholder. Here.” Bodie pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and extracted a check.
Rosalyn glanced at the writing and her jaw clenched. "You will not loan me $10,000.” She paused for breath. “If there's one thing I've learned, it is never, never get involved with a man to whom you owe money."
Bodie shoved the wallet back in his pocket. "This is nothing, and you know, I have a friend in construction that could help with some of this stuff that needs fixing around here."
Rosalyn just glared at him. Bodie grabbed her forearm in an iron grip.
“Look lady, speaking from experience, if you never let anybody in, you're gonna be one lonely little flower that dries up and blows away. I'm not going to hurt you.” Words that Bodie never expected welled up from within. “Choose now, Rosalyn. Quit hiding."
Buck the Dog looked up from his spot under Rosalyn’s feet and growled.
“Fine, be that way.” Bodie dropped the check on the table, stood up, and walked out. Rosalyn picked the check up and tore it into shreds.
(Next: 'Succulent buns, they're the best")
12/11/2011
'Shoot, that ain't nothin' but a little speed bump'
(This is Part 11 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
Rosalyn sniffled. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually such an idiot. Just go. I’ll be fine.”
“Come here.”
Bodie pulled Rosalyn into his arms. His touch sent a warming sensation up Rosalyn's arm. He smelled like sage, the wild kind in the mountains, not the spice rack version. “It’s just work, and we can do it.”
Rosalyn nodded into his shoulder. A moment later, she pulled away, and took a deep breath. “OK, I’ll take you up on the offer. I don’t see how I’ll ever get this fixed.”
"Shoot, that ain't nothing but a little speed bump, and I got four-wheel-drive,” he said. “No, no. Don’t say it. You’re welcome.”
The corners of Rosalyn’s mouth curved upward in the slightest smile.
On the way to the shattered fence, Rosalyn opened the gate and turned Excalibur loose with his horse friends. The hot wire had survived the ordeal and would hold everybody in place for the moment. The concrete-embedded post was a problem though. It would take hours to dig out. There was no way to get to it with machinery, unless all the horses were sent back to their stalls.
Rosalyn kicked the pile of broken boards. “Idiot horses! Idiot people that own horses! Idiot person that put this post in cement!”
A blue jay screeched and launched itself into the air. Bodie knelt down. He filled his arms with the smaller broken pieces and handed them to Rosalyn. “Here, take a little time for yourself and put these in your dumpster.” Rosalyn took the wood. Her eyes remained carefully averted in case, well, she got distracted by him again.
By the time she returned, Bodie had half her tool collection pulled out and scattered around the offending post. New boards lay nearby. They each took up a posthole digger and dug in silence.
Excalibur watched the humans, ears pointed. The horse walked a few steps. He eased behind Rosalyn, placing each foot carefully, almost silently. The horse lowered his muzzle, and ran his lips over the handle of the hammer lying on the ground. Excalibur closed his mouth around the hammer handle. He whirled away and broke into a run, the hammer still in his mouth.
“Excalibur, get back here!” Rosalyn straightened, and hand on her hip, pointed to the spot where the hammer had lain, as if the gelding were some sort of dog that would come on command. “Whoa!”
Excalibur flagged his tail high above his back and shook his head.
(Next: 'Never get involved with a man to whom you owe money')
12/10/2011
Not a woman to waste her rage
(This is Part 10 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas Tale)
The light of a nearly full moon found Rosalyn’s still house, inside of which she lay, sleeping off the dog parlor disaster.
Nearby, the homeless man pulled his old sleeping bag tighter around himself, and watched construction of a different kind. Beavers plodded in and out of Rosalyn’s pond, carrying sticks and muck. He smoked his pipe, patiently waiting for daybreak. When it was near, he stretched, picked up his pack, and headed toward the river humming, “while shepherds watched their flocks by night ...
Excalibur watched from his pen. The man waved.
By the time the sun rose over the tops of the trees, Rosalyn had a new job: ace telemarketer. Cup of coffee in hand, she picked up the phone and made her first blind call. Before the second ring ended, she disconnected and slammed the phone down. I can’t do this.
Not a woman to waste her rage, Rosalyn flung open the closet door and grabbed the Sears vacuum. She yanked the plug out of its spring-loaded keeper and jammed it into the wall. Soon, the only sounds in the house were the roar of the vacuum and the crashing sounds it made as Rosalyn rammed it over and over again into walls.
Two rooms later, it occurred to Rosalyn that horseback riding, or any other activity for that matter, would be more fun. She went out to the horse pens.
Excalibur looked at Rosalyn out of the corner of one eye as she haltered him, and refused her offer of a treat. “Fine, be that way,” she muttered. The horse tossed his head. “You’re getting worked anyway.”
Rosalyn clipped the gelding into the grooming stall ties and began currying. The horse twitched and swatted his tail. “OK, not so hard, I’ll be nice,” she said.
It had been a dry fall, and the trees were brittle. A breeze stirred, and something, probably a branch from one of the poplar trees, hit the barn roof and skittered off. Faster than she would have believed possible, Excalibur lashed out with a hind leg and slammed Rosalyn in the knee. She fell backward and hit her shoulder against the wall.
"I hate you too!" she shouted. Rosalyn jumped up and slugged Excalibur in the neck. The blow wrenched her wrist. "Oh, Excalibur,” she sobbed. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's not you. It's me!"
A shadow fell across the doorway. “Everybody all right in here?” Once again he managed to be in all the wrong places at all the wrong times.
“Fine. I’m fine.” Rosalyn rubbed her wrist behind her back. “Something you want?”
Bodie strode in. "You told me this place was stable, and I don't mean a stable. Yet, I find this." Bodie thrust the notice in her hands. "I could help you."
“I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. Leave it be.”
Rosalyn looked at Bodie. His eyes blazed. His hair fell in a fiery gold lock over his forehead. He pushed it out of his way, and blasted a huge gust of air through his nostrils. Bodie looked at the ceiling and uttered one word: “Women.”
Rosalyn caught herself salivating. She wanted to touch those angry lips, and feel that breath of air against her own mouth. Instead, she blurted, “Anything else you want?”
Another of the cleansing breaths.
“I suppose I could help you with that fence out there. Oh, wait. You don’t need help from anybody. Never mind.”
“What fence?”
Rosalyn looked past him, through the entrance of the barn. Two sections of new fence between turnout pens Number 3 and Number 4 lay in shatters. The horses had gone through that fence just last month. Rosalyn remembered the hours it took to saw boards and hammer them together in biting wind, not to mention the smashed thumb of the day.
"That just makes me want to spit," she said.
Instead, Rosalyn wept.
(Next: "Shoot, that ain't nothing but a little speed bump")
12/08/2011
'Snag-infested little beast'
(Part 9 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
The pet store manager glanced at the application, shook Rosalyn's hand and said, "Congratulations, you're hired."
Words failed Rosalyn. She tried to beam at the woman as if someone had just given her a million dollars. A row of holding cages with panting dogs inside waiting to be groomed, excited eyes watching her, told Rosalyn otherwise. Not a million dollars. She had just won a lot of smelly, hairy work.
The one good thing about the dog grooming job was that Rosalyn had earned money as a teenager doing this. Getting back in the groove took little effort. By 3 p.m., everybody was bathed, be-ribboned in red or green Christmas bows, and spritzed with doggy cologne. There were no more on the list. The manager let her go.
Once home, Rosalyn stepped out of her car, and headed to the barn for comfort. The sun hung low in the western sky at her back. Why did they bother to change time, anyway? Standard Time had killed yet another perfectly good day. Rosalyn distracted herself with neglected chores: Sweeping out the feed room, picking up dropped hay bale strings, hanging blankets on racks. Bodie's crooked grin and challenging gaze haunted her.
She stopped to watch the horses in their turnouts. A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves on the lane, paused, and as the air began to settle, the wind refueled and gusted the leaves into a crackling funnel. The funnel traveled down the lane, blew into Excalibur’s pen, and dropped. Typical for Colorado: What started suddenly, ended suddenly.
Rosalyn’s right hand curled around a treat in her jacket pocket. Perhaps the beast will talk to me now. It was almost dinner time. Hadn’t someone said the best way to get to a horse was through its stomach? Oh wait, that was men. She walked to the fence and held out the treat.
Excalibur edged closer, placing each hoof in the snow as if avoiding land mines. Slowly Rosalyn held out her hand. The horse snorted. Her skin tingled … she held her breath. The gelding reached out with wiggling lips, hesitated, and took off at a dead run.
***
At the house, Bodie walked in the back door without knocking. Buck trotted up, wagging his tail.
“Some guard dog you are.” Bodie scratched the dog behind an ear. “Where’s your human? I need to talk her now.”
He had to have it out with Rosalyn. Why had she pushed him away? What was wrong? His eye caught a paper on the table. He looked closer, and read the header in red letters: FORECLOSURE. A brick wall of disgust and disappointment welled up in Bodie's heart. He crumpled the notice, and threw it on the floor. Bodie turned and slammed his fist against the kitchen wall. Buck whined and slunk under the table. Petals tumbled from the bouquet of roses he had sent Rosalyn. A fortune cookie, left over from earlier Chinese takeout, rolled off the table and on to the floor.
Bodie picked up the cookie, opened it and broke it. It read: "You will enjoy sweet things."
“Damn it, I never met a fortune cookie worth a darn," said Bodie.
He tossed the cookie pieces to Buck, who snapped them out of the air. Bodie slammed the back door, and strode to his truck, perfect again, now that it sported a new fender.
Out in the horse pens, Rosalyn thought she heard the roar of a truck engine, but when she looked, the only thing visible was a thick cloud of dust in the driveway.
“Oh, great. Now boarders think this is a speedway.”
***
The next day at work was a heavy one, with everybody suddenly remembering they needed to get their dogs groomed before Christmas. Rosalyn stood at a waist-high table, fluffing a dog’s hair with a blow-dryer. She found Burl Ives singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” accompanied by dogs whining, sprayers hissing, and blowers drying, more annoying than anything else.
Rosalyn’s comb hit a knot in the brown miniature poodle’s coat. If people bothered to brush their dogs more than once a year it would be nice. Rosalyn tugged harder.
The little dog yelped, and sank its teeth into her hand.
“Ouch!”
Rosalyn yanked back. The poodle held on. But at the last minute, at the peak of the pullback, the dog let go. The dog launched into the air. It hit the far wall with a thud and slid to the floor, screaming.
“Snag-infested little beast.”
Rosalyn picked up her purse and walked out.
(Next: Not a woman to waste her rage)
12/07/2011
The duo cast a long shadow on the leaf-strewn ground
(Part 8 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
Rosalyn faced a choice, to tell Bodie that she was a screw-up, or to let the lie of “normalcy” continue. She could feel Bodie out there somewhere, wondering just exactly what she was all about.
He’s not here now, so we can just keep on, well, letting sleeping dogs lie.
Cup of coffee in hand, Rosalyn sat down at her computer, and sipping, clicked her way to the miracle job site someone had told her about, Indeed.com. At the very top of the list of jobs, one in her neighborhood was listed. Flexible hours at Handy Houndy Hairstyles. Sighing, Rosalyn began filling out the online application. She had to do something to keep this place going. Twenty minutes later, Rosalyn hit “Submit” and sent the application flying to the Cloud. She scowled. Maybe it’ll get lost there.
***
Trudging downstairs to the mudroom, Rosalyn shrugged on her beat up, horse-dirt-infused barn jacket, and sought out therapy. Equine therapy, that is. She walked to the turnouts, feet crunching on leaves and half-frozen bits of snow.
Excalibur stood apart from the other horses in his pen. His hazel eyes followed her approach. He ignored her outstretched hand with the ritual treat. Excalibur was sticking to his turf. Rosalyn rolled her eyes.
“Oh, of course, it would be too much to ask for you to come here.”
She walked up to the horse and held out her palm. As if it might contain poisonous gases, Excalibur tested the air around the treat. He snorted. The horse turned his head away.
“OK, fine. Skip the junk food. I don’t care.”
Rosalyn laid the lead line over the gelding’s crest, slipped the halter over Excalibur’s muzzle, and buckled the throat piece.
“See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Holding the lead line, Rosalyn pulled Excalibur’s head down to touch his muzzle to her cheek. Most of the horses put up with this, but the gelding refused to give his head. As the line tightened, he flinched back. His rolled eyes exposed blood-shot whites. The line between horse and woman pulled tight.
“OK. So we’re going to have one of those days, are we? Fine,” she said.
He snorted.
Rosalyn gritted her teeth, and gave Excalibur some slack. She muttered her don't-give-up-now mantra: "Five years from now, none of this will matter. Five years from now, none of this will matter."
"What won't matter?"
Rosalyn whirled. There Bodie sat, mounted on Ace at the turnout gate. Low-hanging autumn sun glinted on the black’s coat. The duo cast a long shadow on the leaf-strewn ground. Talk about a natural in the saddle. He sat tall, sympathetic fingers curled around the reins, well-muscled legs flexed around the horse’s barrel, a strong, yet relaxed rider.
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all,” said Rosalyn. “We were just finishing.”
She reached up to stroke Excalibur’s neck, and as if he knew they were done, the horse relaxed and stepped forward willingly. Rosalyn unbuckled the halter. Excalibur trotted away, watching her out of the corner of his eye, and shook himself. It was like he had just woken up from a bad dream. She sighed, and eyed the gate. There was no way to get through it and sidle past Bodie.
“Do you always sneak up on people like this?”
“Oh, no. Only on people who need sneaking,” he said. Bodie stepped down out of the saddle, and opened the gate for her. “Allow me.”
“Thanks,” she said. Her eyes flashed. “But really, I can open gates myself.”
Bodie smiled.
Rosalyn's moist lips beckoned, even as her words slapped him away.
“Not so fast,” he said. Bodie took her wrist, and spun Rosalyn toward him. He lowered his head. “It’s OK,” he murmured, and gently, he brushed his lips against hers.
Rosalyn’s pulse raced. Sage. He tasted like sage. And this? This felt like the time she fell off of the high dive at the city park pool the summer after first grade. She wafted through the air, defying gravity. That is, until she slapped the water; in this case, when their lips met. Rosalyn pulled back. "No. This is all wrong." She choked out the words. "You don't know, we can't do this."
Rosalyn wrenched away and Bodie watched, awestruck, as she ran down the lane toward her house, dark hair flying behind her.
The sky darkened to a flat lead color, a storm color. A lone snowflake landed in Bodie’s eye, and he wiped it away.
A sob, and the back door of the house slammed shut.
(Next: 'Snag-infested little beast')
12/04/2011
The ground loomed up at the woman
(Part 6 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
In the tradition of the nasty, bloody heart of the previous afternoon, and yet another tortured night, it had been a rough morning.
Rosalyn brewed her first cup of coffee without the coffee, which she hated about as much as putting on her underwear inside out. Then she saw a mouse run across the stove top, and had to sterilize the counter with spray cleaner, and set out a trap before doing anything else. Of course the trap snapped her finger when she first tried to put in the cheese.
What felt like hours later, Rosalyn sipped the first real cup of coffee at her butcher-block table. She smirked.
It was not like Bodie had tried anything, more like her mind had raced ahead to the possibilities, and she terrified herself with herself. Really, it was the heart-shaped blood ... a bad sign. Just like the one that dripped off her mother on to Rosalyn’s pink quilt in the car wreck. Rosalyn would never forget that day. The toddler had distracted her mother while driving, pointing to a field of horses, and the next thing she knew, they were behind a 20-car pileup.
Rosalyn took a deep breath. Forget the blood. Forget the man. Time to try again with Excalibur. Now, when nobody is around to see you.
Rosalyn gulped a Little Debbie Christmas Tree cake - one of her favorite things about Christmas - and tossed down the rest of the coffee. Twenty minutes later, she had Excalibur brushed, and tacked up in the stable’s round pen. The gelding's coat shimmered in the light of the late afternoon sun.
This horse was no stranger to saddles. Rosalyn looked at him. He looked innocent enough. She put her hand in a stirrup and leaned on it. Excalibur stood still. With one hand on the reins and a handful of the horse’s mane, Rosalyn reached up with her left foot and slid it into the stirrup. She pushed off from the ground, and stepped up into the saddle. The gelding remained still, ears twitching. With her calf muscles, Rosalyn squeezed him into a walk.
Wind sent leaves tumbling. A plastic grocery bag rocketed skyward, then shimmied sideways, slapping Excalibur in the face. The horse bolted.
Rosalyn lost her right stirrup and slipped over Excalibur’s side. The ground loomed up at the woman. She reached for the mane and caught a handful, just in time to save herself.
***
Sitting in the cab of his truck in the parking lot up above the round pen, Bodie watched the flailing horse and woman. Sweat broke out between his fingers, and his heart raced. Fool woman, she should know better than to work a renegade horse alone.
He watched her dismount, and lead the Palomino toward the barn – and him. Bodie got out of the truck and blocked her way through the gate to the stable yard. “What do you think you were doing?” he demanded. “You should know better than to ride a horse like this alone.”
Rosalyn avoided his eyes, but caught the aggressive jut of his chin. She spit back, “Yes, well, life would be so much easier if we all had a good map. Sadly, we don’t. I can ride when I want, and I will. Get out of my way.”
Bodie backed off. “Shoot, I wouldn't give a plugged nickel for a stupid person’s opinion.” He pushed past Rosalyn, through the gate. “I assume you don’t mind if your clients walk on the property?”
“Suit yourself.”
Bodie stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode off. He reached the end of the pond a few moments later and stopped, staring into its bleak grayness. His fingers unconsciously found the penny from the gas station, curled around it, and lifted it out. Bodie stared at the coin. “Damn her!” He threw the penny into pond, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed a number.
***
Rosalyn sank into a kitchen chair, a fresh cup of coffee in her hand.
“Good job, Rosalyn,” she said to herself. “That went really well. Not.” She sipped her bitter brew. The doorbell rang.
A delivery man stood on the step, holding a bouquet of roses in an ornate, gold-on-black-enamel Chinese vase. In the place of a greeting card, a fortune cookie hung from a set of chop sticks.
"Ms. Mallory?"
Rosalyn nodded.
"These are for you."
(Next: Something fuzzy and wiggly tickled her neck)
12/03/2011
Blood dripped onto the tablecloth
(Part 5 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
Rosalyn closed her eyes, but the action did not stop the vision of her newest horse-client lying maimed, blood oozing onto the road, a hindquarter half ripped off, remaining good legs churning in a futile attempt to escape sudden death.
But the ear-shattering neigh of Excalibur interrupted. Bodie’s black horse sat back on its haunches, sparks flying from the hind shoes. Excalibur called again. Ace turned and jogged back through the carelessly-left-open gate. The handler avoided everybody’s eyes, and held the gate open for the returning horse. Ace trotted to Excalibur’s pen. The two horses touched noses. They flared their nostrils, and Ace dropped his head to graze on dry shoots of grass in the lane.
"Well … that was fun," said Bodie.
"Oooh, let's do it again," moaned Rosalyn.
The lanky Texan realized just in time that her moan was not sarcastic. Rosalyn stood, a ghost before his eyes, a forward-wobbling ghost. Bodie caught Rosalyn's arm. Her knees buckled, and she sat down on the ground. "Hey," he said. "You look like a woman who needs to eat. I'll even throw in a little chocolate."
"I'm fine. I just thought he was about to get killed. I swear, that’s the second time that guy’s left the gate ..."
The electric charge shooting up Rosalyn's arm at Bodie's touch melted her. Fortunately for the stablehand about to get fired, Rosalyn couldn’t remember what she’d been talking about. She shivered at the combined effects of trauma and this melting, unnamed something. “Whoa. Maybe I do need something.”
“I know just the place,” said Bodie, “... a little Italian place.” He lifted Rosalyn to her feet with a slight flex. Rosalyn wondered how hard it would be for him to just pick her up and carry her over his shoulder. Instead, she let him guide her to his truck by the elbow.
Bodie opened the door for Rosalyn. She noticed that while her sign probably still lay destroyed, his truck bore no marks. Well, OK. There was a little dent on the bumper.
“Hold on, it’s a mess in here,” said Bodie, “let me just clear the deck.” He picked a road map up off the floor, and flicked the engagement ring off the passenger seat, on to the rear floor.
***
The little Italian place turned out to be one of the most sought-out venues in town, a renovated hotel with a mezzanine converted into eateries overlooking a courtyard. The place came complete with ghosts, people said, but Rosalyn had never seen any, much to her chagrin. Today at lunch they were auditioning musicians. Rosalyn unwound her napkin-wrapped package of heavy silver utensils, and dropped her fork. They both reached for it. Rosalyn’s head hit Bodie’s nose. Bodie’s eyes watered. Three waiters converged.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry,” she said.
This enigma of a woman breathed over him, and Bodie felt his pulse surge to embrace her loveliness. Bodie rubbed the bridge of his nose, and waved the wait-staff away. Pain would not exactly describe his current situation.
"Probably an improvement on this beak," he said in a husky voice. “No worries.”
Violin music played softly in the restaurant, candle-lit even at lunch. The violinist, strong brows drawn over an olive complexion, walked slowly between tables, spinning melancholy melodies. Rosalyn wondered, as a tear rolled down the musician’s cheek during "A Time for Us", whether somebody he knew had recently died. There had nearly been a horse death. Now, she couldn’t get her heart to stop.
Rosalyn and Bodie talked about things like the day’s news, the weather, a few good movies. When it was over, neither could remember anything said. They did remember the penetrating looks.
The waiter eased into their nook with the check, and they both reached for it. Bodie won by a finger. As he snatched at the receipt, the paper edge caught his forefinger, slicing in the malevolent way paper cuts do. Blood dripped onto the tablecloth in the shape of heart.
The color drained from Rosalyn's face. "Take me home," she whispered.
(Next: The ground loomed up at the woman)
12/02/2011
'Heads up! Loose horse!'
(Part 4 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
Rosalyn had made it back into her house the night before. Not finding the nearly-dying man, she collapsed into a dark sleep. Disjointed dreams involving running Palomino horses, lightning, and snow of all things - so thick it pushed against her like it was alive - filled Rosalyn’s night.
She woke in the morning to blazing light coming through her window, and cringed. Rosalyn could not remember whether she had rescued Excalibur, and her heart pounded.
The sound of pounding on the front door reminded her that yes in fact, Excalibur had tried to kick his shed down once she hazed him into it, waving her arms, and whacking his rump with a rope as freezing rain pounded the building’s metal roof. By the time the horse was safe, it had started to snow.
Oh yeah, near-death experience trying to lead a horse. Now I remember.
The pounding on the door started again. Rosalyn threw on a robe and scowled.
“I’m coming! I’m coming! Just hold your horses!” Rosalyn leaped off the bottom step of the stairs, over the back of the astonished Buck, and swung around the newel post with one hand.
“Figures,” she panted to the walls. “I rescue Excalibur, come back in the house, Mystery Boy is gone, and so is his truck. All I have left is a trashed sign, and weird dreams, not to mention exhaustion. Now some boarder has a problem – don’t they ever sleep?”
Rosalyn yanked open the door.
She nearly swallowed her tongue. Mystery Boy with Big Red Truck was the last person she expected to see.
"Hi, got room for another boarder?" Bodie's opening line choked him the moment the words were out, but he could not stop himself. He needed to say something. He pursued the conversation and the woman. "I like the roses," he said.
“What roses?,” she said. “Who are you?
“You smell of roses.”
"Oh, the lotion.” Rosalyn sniffed her hand. “Roses were my mother's favorite. She died when I was young. My father, he might as well be dead." Rosalyn watched Bodie’s eyes slip from hers, and wander down her neck where it met the plunging collar of her black satin and lace robe. Last month’s splurge in Wal-Mart’s sleepwear did not cut it as meet-the-client stable attire. Could he just keep his eyes on mine, please?
She brought the conversation around. “So, you want to board a horse? And how do I know you?”
“Well actually yes, I am boarding a horse. I mean, I hope he’s here.” Bodie thrust out his hand. “Bodie McClanahan. Sign-killer … and I will pay for it.”
“You are the new client?”
“Don’t sound so pleased. Me and Ace can go somewhere else, you know.”
Rosalyn’s brain overcame her mouth.
“No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. You shust jocked me. I mean, you just shocked me. You could have called. No, I mean, it’s fine. I’ll just change. Don’t move.”
Rosalyn slammed the door in Bodie’s face.
“No, really, I already had coffee,” he said to the door. “Don’t go to any trouble.”
The gingham back-door curtain moved, and a blond dog face peered out. Buck grinned, fangs flashing. The curtain fell back in place.
***
Wood grinding against wood from Rosalyn yanking open her back door caught Bodie, who had been sitting on the porch step, by surprise. He turned, and the Yellow Lab launched himself up and over Bodie’s head, out to the back yard. The dog ran in erratic serpentines, nose to the ground.
“Does he ever stop?”
“Rarely,” said Rosalyn. “I got him at the pound. He was on death row for running too much, away, too often. So, anything in particular you want to see?”
“Nothing major, just everything.” Bodie surveyed the layout, heavily treed, bathed in golden suns. Restrain yourself, son. An offer to buy would be, well, tacky. Bodie hated it when his father’s voice stepped in. “Not to be nosy, but where exactly is my horse at this particular moment?”
“Turnout. Let’s go see. We put them out every day in little horse families, that is, when they’re not grazing in their pasture rotation.”
“Little horse families. How … caring.” Bodie nodded in a way that he hoped displayed intelligence. Frankly, he could care less about the specifics. Those lips of hers were exquisite, sort of a plum color, full, and the way her mouth turned up at the corners. He had to keep this woman talking. He watched as she led the way, her tight Wranglers displaying, well, a very fit person. “You must ride a lot,” he said.
Over her shoulder Rosalyn looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Stable owners are like carpenters. Their families – their horses – are the last on the list.”
She turned forward, and the jeans continued sashaying in front of him. “What a shame,” said Bodie. The sentence came out in a predatory Texas drawl.
Rosalyn smiled for the first time in days. An unfamiliar warmth lit her cheeks. Her breath caught in her throat. Right. Horse. He wants to see the horse. Sadly, Bodie’s horse, Ace, was nowhere in sight.
“He probably just hasn’t been turned out yet,” said Rosalyn. “Just wait.” She gestured to a field below the bluff on which they stood. “That’s the lower pasture.”
The couple watched as a breeze stirred the grass, and leaves trickled from trees. Once-full branches had begun to reveal tree skeletons, and last night’s snow pretty much finished off the late fall color. Even as the sun glowed, winter crept in. They could also see Excalibur, standing, head up, watching them. The horse never took his eyes off Rosalyn.
“Nice horse. Yours?” Bodie cocked an eyebrow at her.
Rosalyn nodded. “He’s sort of messed up … it’s eerie the way he watches a person. He dumped me once already.” The golden gelding stuck his head over the fence, and ground his teeth. She’d never seen a horse do that before. Excalibur followed Rosalyn's movements.
“Just what you need, no time to ride, and a dangerous horse,” said Bodie.
An awkward silence descended. Rosalyn broke it. "His stablemate was standing in a puddle when the RV hooked up its shorted-out cord,” she said. “Excalibur just missed completing the circuit." Rosalyn met Bodie’s eyes, caught up for the moment in her horse’s tragedy, and Bodie found himself drowning in two glistening, emerald pools.
Somebody screamed, "Loose horse!"
Bodie's black horse, Ace, ran by them toward the street on which 8,000-plus cars sped by every day, most of them traveling above the 30-mph speed limit.
(Next: Blood dripped onto the tablecloth)
12/01/2011
Blood covered her hand
(Part 3 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
Rosalyn ran down the long driveway to find a brand new, cherry red, Dodge Ram truck pinioned against her stone sign. The truck’s right front fender was caved in.
The driver's side door slowly opened, and a tall, blond man emerged, clutching a cell phone.
"What the heck were you doing, talking on the cell phone?” Rosalyn’s temper boiled. “Look what you did to my sign!"
Her red rock sign, engraved and imported from Utah, had split and lay on the ground in two giant pieces. The surviving sign posts, almost as big as sawed-off telephone poles, stood like lonely soldiers, with one snuggled into the truck’s fender.
"Sorry, ma'am, I…" The stranger swayed toward Rosalyn. She reached out to catch him. "No, no, I'm fine. Don't touch me, ma’am."
He collapsed in a heap at her feet.
Rosalyn chewed her lip. By the time she ran to her house, dialed 911, ran back out, and waited for an ambulance, she would have a crowd. The stable didn’t need the bad publicity, and besides, he didn’t look too hurt.
But she couldn't leave him here, either. Rosalyn turned and ran to the old red hay barn near her house. She grabbed the handle of the heavy-duty Ursa hand cart they used for feeding bales of hay. Towing the cart, she ran back to the limp form lying near her sign.
Strong in spite of her petite build, Rosalyn wedged the cart against the sign’s remains, slipped her hands under the driver’s muscular arms and dragged, pulled and heaved his six-foot-plus form up until he flopped into the cart.
***
Bodie's vision cleared long enough between fluttering lashes for him to see a green-eyed, raven-haired woman hovering above. The sensation of her arms around him struck him as odd. Fading back into unconsciousness, Bodie caught the scent of horses and roses.
***
Rosalyn surveyed the rugged face, now caught in a grimace, but looking like it might one day bear a heartbreaking grin. His blond eyelashes bordered on obscenely long. Why was it always men that got the long lashes? His chest, a broad, muscular specimen, rose and fell as he breathed. He didn’t appear to be dying soon.
Rosalyn’s pulse pounded. I can’t be in that bad of shape. Her face grew warm. Nah, I’m done with men, remember? Rosalyn shook her head to clear it.
She spoke to the almost-still form. “All right, all right, back to business. We’ve got to get you out of here. It’s going to storm.”
To the southwest, the sun shone brightly, but to the west, dark clouds loomed. The temperature had dropped. Something was coming.
Watching the humans, Excalibur's ears flicked back and forth. The gelding trumpeted.
Rosalyn glanced at the horse.
“You’ll live. This isn’t like that storm,” she said under her breath. The horse hated weather. Excalibur’s stablemate had died because of a freak cloudburst. A shorted power cord had been dangling in a giant puddle. They found Excalibur on dry ground tied to the horse trailer. The stablemate was dead next to him in the puddle.
Excalibur did what any sane horse would do. He went crazy. Rosalyn rescued him just before he became dog food.
Now, blond mane and forelock swirling in the wind, Excalibur trotted back and forth in front of the front pasture gate. The horse carried his head high and watched for movement.
Rosalyn yelled as she hauled on the human-filled Ursa, “Hold on, Excalibur. I’ll be right there.” One of Bodie’s arms flopped out. “Crap!” Rosalyn stopped and tossed his arm back in. "Just what I need,” she said to herself. “A big, possibly dying guy and a horse headed for nutzo-land."
Rosalyn kicked aside portable saddle rack, empty Platinum Plus buckets, and loose pieces of tack littering her back porch. She needed a clear path to the mudroom door. She brushed away spider webs decorating the entry. How the spiders got there so fast, she never knew. Their webs were always popping up at the worst times, between Thanksgiving and Christmas for instance, when people loved to drop in unannounced.
Rosalyn returned to her cart, wedged her foot against the rear wheel, pulled the dump-lock pin, and gradually eased the cart bed up until the man’s still form began sliding to the ground. She held his head to keep it from hitting the cement of her stone walk. Hands under his arm pits, Rosalyn dragged him up the back steps of her house. She held the screen door open with her foot and dragged the inert form into her mudroom. Once inside, she knelt down and propped his head up with a pile of dirty laundry. At least it’s not my underwear. Rosalyn took her hand away from the makeshift dirty laundry pillow and felt warm moisture. Strange, considering this was a cold rain. Rosalyn turned on the light.
Blood covered her hand.
“That’s it, bad reputation or not, we’re calling the police,” she said. Rosalyn dialed 911. The sky darkened, and freezing rain began to fall.
She squatted on her heels next to Bodie. His hand whipped up and grabbed her wrist so hard that Rosalyn dropped the phone. He pulled her toward him, and completely off balance, Rosalyn fell foward.
She was stunned, yes, hardly able to breathe, but Rosalyn had enough of her mental faculties left to know that she would never forget the beckoning beat of the heart beneath her. She pushed herself away as if she had just received an electric shock. Wreathed by a head of hair gone wild in the wind and rain, Rosalyn backed up, fumbled for the kitchen door, turned and ran out.
***
Bodie couldn't remember why his head hurt so much. All he had meant to do was get her to help him sit up.
The kitchen darkened and the drop in temperature sharpened the pain in his head.
A horse somewhere outside issued another frenzied call.
Bodie shook his head and immediately regretted the movement. He rolled his head to the right, and found himself face to face with a dark, wet nose backed by liquid brown eyes and blond fur.
Bodie lifted his head. "Was it something I said?"
Buck wagged his tail. The movement set the rest of the mammoth Yellow Lab’s body quivering.
“Nice doggy. Nice doggy.”
Slowly, Bodie reached out for one of the plastic bins lining the walls; Buck’s dog food as luck would have it, and propped himself to a standing position.
The 90-plus-pound dog jumped up and danced a four-legged jig, expecting a cup of kibble to land in his dish any minute. But this stranger proved a disappointment. The human staggered to the door and walked out. Buck groaned, flopped down on his yellow belly, and covered his eyes with giant paws.
(Next: ‘Heads up! Loose Horse!’)
11/29/2011
The crunch of metal on stone
(Part 2 of Fortune Cookie: A Christmas tale)
It was Rosalyn’s financial expert from Fiduciary Answers Today (FAT), who also happened to be a specialist in mortgage-based derivatives. He skipped the formalities of saying hello.
"You know, Roz, I hate to tell you this …”
Rosalyn drew her lips into a thin line. The man’s nasal tone bordered on whining.
“… but your stable account doesn’t look so good … ”
Rosalyn protested. “But you said these would go up!”
“Guess I was wrong.” His voice cracked. “Oh, well. You know stocks are never guaranteed.”
“But it’s OK, they were insured, right?”
“No … no, these kinds of things are never insured," he said.
Rosalyn slammed the phone down and cursed the dishonest pukes of the world. She picked up the snow globe boyfriend number five had given her last Christmas, and fast-balled it at the wall. Fortunately for the house-cleaning load, the snow globe was made of shatter-proof plastic.
Rosalyn flung herself into the worn office chair and spun around. "The stock market gods hate me! I’ll never get the reserves back.” She put her head in her hands. Silence reigned for several minutes before Rosalyn raised her head. “I need some air,” she told the walls.
Next to her feet, Buck the dog whined.
***
Cocooned in his new red-dually-totally-tricked-out Dodge truck, tall, blond, ruggedly cheek-boned and healthy - not to mention rich - Bodie McClanahan should have been happy. The radio’s blaring revision of “Jingle Bells” into a sound bite for diarrhea relief irritated him. He punched the “off” button. Stroking the steering wheel in relative silence, Bodie realized that once again, happiness eluded him, and betrayal was his only companion.
He remembered the last woman who loved him, until he cut off her allowance. “Oh yeah, Money-Mona,” Bodie muttered. “Loved your red hair, loved your looks, hated you…” The engagement ring from his latest fiasco rolled around in his shirt pocket. He picked the ring out, and tossed it on the passenger seat. The gaudy diamond glittered back at him.
A dashboard warning light interrupted Bodie’s not-so-fond musings. Fuel was running low. Just then, a gas station came into view. Bodie pulled over and stopped at one of the cement islands.
As fuel gushed into his tanks, Bodie looked down. An old penny lay on the ground. His grandmother always said they brought luck. Bodie reached down and pocketed the coin. He switched off the fuel and sauntered inside the convenience store for a drink.
As part of a promotion to win free gas, the cashier handed Bodie one of Woo's Fine Fortune Cookies. Bodie tore open the clear wrapper, broke the cookie in half, and pulled out the fortune.
“You will hit upon a thing of great value," said the little slip of paper.
"And it won't be a woman," he muttered.
Bodie pulled out of the gas station into traffic. His cell phone sounded the musical call of Mona.
Amazed, he flipped open the receiver. “I told you not to call again,” he said. “… No, we’re not having that discussion … The only thing I’m discussing with you is my key. I want it back. Now …”
***
Rosalyn walked outside her rambling farmhouse on the bluff, and surveyed her small slice of paradise. Her breath caught in her chest. It looked like her days in paradise were numbered. She watched Excalibur trot up to the fence, lifting his knees and hocks like a parade horse. It reminded her of when she had first seen him move in the stockyards, way too fancy for a reject.
Always armed with horse treats, Rosalyn walked toward the fence. She reached into the pocket of her Wrangler cowboy-cut jeans, pulled out a treat, and held out her hand.
Rosalyn crooned to the horse almost as if she were singing. "What a corny name you have, my friend. They ever tell you about King Arthur and his sword, Excalibur?”
The horse twitched his ears several times. Rosalyn smiled. Only a horse could pull her from despair. “Maybe it’ll be a woman, not a man, who gets Excalibur to perform this time,” she crooned. The horse tossed his head. Rosalyn swallowed hard. “Besides, we have no princes around here. Just crummy financial experts."
She had reached the white-railed fence.
The palomino horse whirled and galloped away, flagging his tail. Rosalyn looked up, and felt a chill gust of wind. Clouds gathered, and of all things, she remembered Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind. The scene where Scarlett dug her fingers into the dirt in the garden as they all starved. Scarlett would never put up with this crap. Rosalyn swore to the threatening sky: “As God is my witness, I’ll never let …”
The crunch of metal on stone interrupted her.
(Next: Blood covered her hand)
11/28/2011
A pick among hoof picks
In all the years I've had horses, I've run into a lot of hoof pick designs. This design by Epona has worked out really well for me, and I like that it looks like it came from a horse shoe. I bought this pick at Jax Farm and Ranch in Fort Collins, Colorado.
Fortune Cookie: Will it ruin Christmas and a chance at love?
(Fortune cookies have a strange effect on horsewoman Rosalyn Mallory, and if she doesn't get help, it could be a deadly Christmas. Part I of a festive tale that ends December 24th.)
Sealed in shiny wrap, a Woo’s Fine Fortune Cookie lay on Rosalyn Mallory’s open palm.
She knew fate had turned against her when she opened the cookie and read: "In love, the rats are the first to jump a sinking ship." Rosalyn had never met a fortune cookie that could be trusted.
The raven-haired stable owner pursed her lips and shook her head. For her, love was just a bag of bitter lemons. Boyfriend number five had exited stage left two days ago after he hit her new horse, Excalibur, in the face and broke his hand.
"Let us pray that while eating those lemons he doesn't choke, fall down, and break his other hand," she said to the walls.
It was a slow day at the stable. Mondays were like that. The clients did, after all, have to work for a living. Most of them anyway. Perhaps just a week after Thanksgiving, they were all out Christmas shopping. For her, there would be no thoughts of Christmas until the November accounting was done.
Rosalyn’s home office overlooked a small pasture and the road beyond. At the moment, Rosalyn faced desk work, a drooling Yellow Lab named Buck, and an order of General Tsao’s Chicken, heavy on the grease. She pushed the box of food aside. Chinese takeout in Colorado could be a bit of a gamble.
Buck whined and reached out with his paw. Rosalyn pushed it aside. “Hush, I have to think,” she said.
She needed to complete the details on the intake forms for Ace, the new horse, just shipped in from Texas on the Nationwide Horse Transportation van, so she could invoice her new client. Ace’s owner planned to arrive later. Rosalyn crossed her fingers and looked up to the ceiling. For once, could we please have a low-maintenance boarder? Wait, let me guess. There is no such thing. She sighed.
Movement outside on the tree-lined road caught Rosalyn’s eye. A man with dark, slightly graying hair that hung down to his waste in dreadlocks strode along the road in ragged clothes. The hobo -- did they even have those anymore? -- gestured to everyone and nobody, she could not tell for sure.
Excalibur stood in the front pasture watching the man. When the palomino gelding heard Rosalyn’s office window open, the horse turned to look at her. It was as if the animal’s hazel eyes – unusual for a horse – stared right through her.
Rosalyn got up and opened her window just in time to hear the man shout, "The time will come! The time will come!" She chewed her lower lip. This man had been a fixture in the neighborhood for several years. His home remained a mystery, probably a sleeping bag in a cardboard box somewhere along the nearby river.
The man passed directly in front of her pasture. Excalibur snorted and trotted away. Rosalyn shivered and closed the window. So far, the golden horse, rescued from the auction yard, refused to do anything but panic near humans.
Rosalyn sighed again, massaged her temples, and ran her fingers through her mane of hair. She grabbed another fortune cookie, broke it open, and read: "Business and health matters will improve."
The telephone rang.
(Next: The crunch of metal on stone)
11/14/2011
11/01/2011
10/27/2011
Snow storm at the stable: It's a war zone
FORT COLLINS, Colorado -- The one thing we never planned for at our stable was what would happen if you slammed your ankle in the horse trailer door, all the trees fell down, it snowed buckets just a day after shirt-sleeves weather, and the power failed.
OK, all the trees didn't fall down, but I'm limping, it's a winter wonderland, and we'll be cleaning up tree debris until we die. Check out the Snow storm: It's a war zone photo album!
With normal routes blocked, my daughter escaped to work (after several hours of hauling trees), four-wheeling it in her old Jeep through 10 inches of snow down lanes, through two pastures, and out a back gate reserved mostly for city crews working on storm drainage.
Because it wasn't safe to have others out in the still-falling wreckage, guess who gimpily cleaned and fed, then towed branches and plowed for eight hours with the erstwhile Gregg? (And you thought you wanted to own a stable.)
As of this writing, we are still among the thousands of Xcel customers without electrical power to heat the waterers, buckets and tanks. Looks like we'll have to break ice for dinner.
Luckily, the horse in the pen flattened by tree branches was not injured, the sun came out, limbs quit falling, and the tree guy promises to help us with the remains of the willow that ate Fort Collins. Note to self: Never, ever plant a poplar. One day, you will be left with hundreds of downed branches.
The ankle? That was on a trail ride I'll write about later. Stay tuned!
09/25/2011
Equestrian adventure: Molly Lake Trail, Colorado
MOLLY LAKE TRAIL, Colorado -- This ride reminded us that you should always be prepared with a good map, a compass and rain gear. More on that later.
We were headed for the Molly Lake trail, and it has been a few years since I took my horse to Colorado’s Redfeather Lakes area. Things have changed. New staging areas now provide safe access for horseback riders and hikers trying to get to Mount Margaret or Molly Lake, across from each other on 74E.
In years past, drivers had to practically park their rigs on the side of the road near an old gate that you could easily miss if you were not looking. Now, you can safely pull off 74E to find ample car and several horse trailer parking spots on the north and south sides of the road, along with restroom facilities.
Based on traffic, Mount Margaret is still the more popular destination, but we discovered on this ride that the Molly Lake trail is just as beautiful. What looks like a former logging road makes up the “main drag”, and provides plenty of opportunity to ride side by side, and enjoy the scenery. At least one of the gates can be done on horseback, which makes for good training. My 19-year-old, barefoot mount completed the entire ride with no hoof problems, and was able to pick his way around the few rocky sections. The elevation gain was steady and not too difficult, at least until we took the unexpected turn.
In preparation for this ride, I had purchased the National Geographic Topo! Colorado software at Jax Mercantile in Fort Collins (about $80), and spent a lot of time zooming in and printing a ride map on the waterproof paper you can buy as an accessory. What I didn’t realize is that the Topo! software uses U.S. Geological Survey maps from about the 1960’s. Plus, USGS maps are more land-feature oriented, and not so much trail oriented.
About two hours into the ride, the sunny summer weather did the Colorado five-minute-weather-change, and it started to drizzle. The cool air refreshed he horses, and we kept going.
We came to a sign that said “Molly” one way and “Moon” the other. We took “Moon”, which sent us on a grand detour not featured on our map, but up onto a ridge. The horses were very excited, and acted like they thought we were headed back to the trailer, which in retrospect, I suspect we were.
Our stomachs grumbled, and thunder rumbled. It felt like a good time to get off the ridge in case of lightning, so we took the steep switchback trail down the ridge, and ended up in a boulder-strewn meadow. Your horse will need to be good at hindquarter pivots in order to negotiate these switchbacks. The rain died down to a drizzle, and we lunched next to an old barbed-wire gate and a metal “monument marker”. In hindsight, I think we were on a public/private property border.
Before remounting, we donned our rain gear, an old poncho for me, and an Outback slicker for Gregg. We headed back up the switchback, and by now my gelding was feeling his flab and the work. The rain turned into a steady downpour, and about an hour away from the trailer, my poncho quit being waterproof, and I rode the rest of the way soaking wet. Gregg’s Outback Trading Company slicker kept him dry and warm. As it was still summer, the horses kept plenty warm just moving.
We hastily untacked at the trailer, and drove east, back to home base in Fort Collins. On the way, we stopped at the Western Ridge Restaurant, which featured a sympathetic, friendly waitress, and a hot pot of coffee. The Western Ridge is open for dinner, too, and I resolve to return for a romantic meal overlooking their valley.
When I got home the first thing I did after seeing to the horses was ceremoniously toss the poncho into the dumpster. Gregg later put batteries in his GPS unit, and I now keep a spare change of clothes in the truck. I tried to get my own Outback Trading Company slicker at Jax Farm and Ranch, but they were all out, so I found one online. In case Gregg’s GPS unit quits, I resurrected my pocket compass.
This still does not solve the problem of the National Geographic Topo! map’s missing pieces, but I notice the Forest Service is updating their free online maps, which give you a pretty good idea of the Molly Lake trail network. Also, you can get a number of state and federal maps online for free.Google Maps does not name trails, but you can zoom in enough to see trail details. Stick to the Molly Lake main drag, and you’ll be fine.
Map links you may find useful:
USGS Imagery & Publications: http://www.usgs.gov/pubprod/
Forest Service National Maps page: http://www.fs.fed.us/maps/forest-maps.shtml
Arapaho Forest Map North: http://www.fs.fed.us/r2/recreation/map/vis_maps/arnf/ar-nf-north/index.shtml
Colorado forest service map: http://www.fs.fed.us/r2/recreation/map/colorado/html-current/colorado-hi-speed-index.shtml
09/11/2011
Equestrian adventure: Bobcat Ridge
FORT COLLINS, Colorado (Bobcat Ridge Natural Area) – I am permanently traumatized from a forced stop on an uphill street in San Francisco while towing a loaded two-horse trailer with a little Toyota truck. So, as we towed our current rig up the grade to the south end of Horsetooth Reservoir, even though we didn’t have to stop, I was grateful for the large engine in my 10-year-old F250 diesel. We were on our way to Bobcat Ridge, about 45 minutes south of our stable.
Other than the switchbacks up the Horsetooth grade, and discounting the bicycle rider who took the middle of the lane part way up, the drive past Masonville and into the foothills was beautiful and easy. We arrived at the Bobcat Ridge trailhead to find an old ranch turned into attractive access point, pull-through trailer spots, restrooms, a non-potable water spigot for the horses, and a kiosk slightly up the trailhead explaining the area.
Bobcat Ridge reminded me of a scene straight from the old Bonanza TV series. I expected Little Joe to come riding around one of the rock formations any minute, or to find Hoss napping under one of the pine trees. Billy and Hobbes appreciated the mild elevation gains, but because of the rocky trail up in the tree line, I would not recommend this ride for barefoot horses.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up when Billy flicked his ears, lifted his head, rolled his eyes, and stopped. I wondered if he sensed a mountain lion, or in the case of this trail namesake, a bobcat. (I still remember the mountain lion that foiled the SWAT teams near our property earlier this year.) Instead, a deer emerged from the trees, hesitated, leaped down in front of us, and leaped again down into a treed ravine. I scrabbled frantically with my camera, and blindly followed the action, clicking away at the shutter. For me, this was like catching the big fish: Using a simple little Coolpix camera, I “caught” a deer leaping right in front of us. But wait, there is more. Billy continued his neck-craning, tense walk, and I looked up to see another deer watching us. That deer pretended to be part of the scenery, and as we walked by, I pulled off another shot. If you look closely under the shade of the tree, you'll see him. What a day.
On a more practical note, the City of Fort Collins has done a great job of creating separate trails at Bobcat Ridge where people and horses might not like to meet. Teachers, I would strongly recommend Bobcat Ridge for a field trip to the old cabin, and an interpretive nature walk. The picnic pavilion near the trailhead is an added bonus, as is the wheelchair accessible trail to the cabin. People without horses and wanting to rent-a-ride might try the phone number on the "Castle Gait Ranch" sign, 970-297-8827. Let me know if you do, as I am always getting inquiries for rental horse rides.
Even though the city kindly included a tub near the spigot for horses, I would avoid this community watering hole, and use your own bucket, especially afterthis year’s deadly EHV-1 scare. I had a horse catch strangles (distemper) from a community water trough at Yosemite. No lie. It was three weeks of a horse with a high fever, hugely swollen glands, and gobs of green mucous. He was vaccinated, too! However, my gelding fared better than strangles-stricken The Red Pony of John Steinbeck fame.
Sidenote: You know you are a horse person when you see another rig pull in, wave a distant hello from behind sunglasses to the driver on foot, note the new aluminum horse trailer, note as they ride by, that they have a strong lower leg, note the nice quality of the leather English hackamore, note that the horse is barefoot, has strong, flat knees, straight legs, is seal brown, and as the pair gets about a hundred feet away headed up the trail, hear the rider talk, and realize that the horse and the human in the saddle are actually your own clients! We were both so engrossed in our horses that neither of us recognized the other.
Regarding the uphill stop in San Francisco, the little Toyota truck pulled two horses from a dead stop up a 45-degree angle using the super-low gear, and in one fell swoop, put about 10 years’ worth of wear and tear on the clutch. Not recommended, but doable.
We completed the Valley Loop at Bobcat Ridge at a walk, except for a half-mile jog-trot toward the end, in about 2.5 hours.
City of Fort Collins Bobcat Ridge link: http://www.fcgov.com/naturalareas/finder/bobcat
Try also - Equestrian Adventure: West Branch Trailhead
08/26/2011
07/28/2011
Service horse to the rescue: A happy mini-picture
US federal regulations now include miniature horses as service animals, just like guide dogs.
I smile as I think:
- I could take my mini-horse to work. Ongoing fantasy: Bring my regular horse to work. Not so fast: Regular horses do not qualify as service animals.
- The handicapped parking spots around town could hold my mini hitched up to a little cart.
- I could watch a movie at the theater, as my mini stands next to my aisle seat.
- At the grocery store, we could pick out carrots together.
- I could eat at my favorite restaurant, sit in the patio area, and hitch my little horse to the patio fence.
- We could browse good horse books together at the library.
- I could have a new business: A-1 Mini Service-Horses Are Us, LLC.
Sadly, I need a real disability to use my mini-service-horse; emotional need doesn’t cut it. Personally, I’d rather be healthy than disabled. Note to self: When I turn 80-something, forget the cane. I’ll get a miniature horse.
Problem: My mini-service-horse has to consistently, specifically, and obediently help me. If you know my current horses, this presents a challenge. The uneducated often mistake my horses’ behavior for disobedience.
Another challenge: Mini-service-horses have to be housebroken. My best friend in high school housebroke her illegal-resident, full-sized pig. I also once knew a horse that was trained only to go in the corner of its stall. But fully housebroken horses? I suppose anything is possible. If you do have a housebroken horse, show me the video. I want to see it, and know how you did it. We could quit cleaning stalls at our stable, and save tons of money, although for decency’s sake, we would have to add a few equine outhouses.
Kidding aside, I applaud anything that supports the inclusion of horses in human lives. The triumph of horses in riding therapy programs, and the success of movies like Seabiscuit and Secretariat are testimony to the horse’s modern-day worth.
For more about what constitutes a proper miniature service horse, read on,
or go to http://www.ada.gov/regs2010/titleII_2010/titleII_2010_withbold.htm:
- (i) Miniature horses.
- (1) Reasonable modifications. A public entity shall make reasonable modifications in policies, practices, or procedures to permit the use of a miniature horse by an individual with a disability if the miniature horse has been individually trained to do work or perform tasks for the benefit of the individual with a disability.
- (2) Assessment factors. In determining whether reasonable modifications in policies, practices, or procedures can be made to allow a miniature horse into a specific facility, a public entity shall consider—
- (i) The type, size, and weight of the miniature horse and whether the facility can accommodate these features;
- (ii) Whether the handler has sufficient control of the miniature horse;
- (iii) Whether the miniature horse is housebroken; and
- (iv) Whether the miniature horse's presence in a specific facility compromises legitimate safety requirements that are necessary for safe operation.
- (3) Other requirements. Paragraphs 35.136 (c) through (h) of this section, which apply to service animals, shall also apply to miniature horses.
I’ve included paragraphs 35.136 (b-h) so you can see the expectations for your miniature horse service animal.
- (b) Exceptions. A public entity may ask an individual with a disability to remove a service animal from the premises if—
- (1) The animal is out of control and the animal's handler does not take effective action to control it; or
- (2) The animal is not housebroken.
- (c) If an animal is properly excluded. If a public entity properly excludes a service animal under § 35.136(b), it shall give the individual with a disability the opportunity to participate in the service, program, or activity without having the service animal on the premises.
- (d) Animal under handler's control. A service animal shall be under the control of its handler. A service animal shall have a harness, leash, or other tether, unless either the handler is unable because of a disability to use a harness, leash, or other tether, or the use of a harness, leash, or other tether would interfere with the service animal's safe, effective performance of work or tasks, in which case the service animal must be otherwise under the handler's control (e.g., voice control, signals, or other effective means).
- (e) Care or supervision. A public entity is not responsible for the care or supervision of a service animal.
- (f) Inquiries. A public entity shall not ask about the nature or extent of a person's disability, but may make two inquiries to determine whether an animal qualifies as a service animal. A public entity may ask if the animal is required because of a disability and what work or task the animal has been trained to perform. A public entity shall not require documentation, such as proof that the animal has been certified, trained, or licensed as a service animal. Generally, a public entity may not make these inquiries about a service animal when it is readily apparent that an animal is trained to do work or perform tasks for an individual with a disability (e.g., the dog is observed guiding an individual who is blind or has low vision, pulling a person's wheelchair, or providing assistance with stability or balance to an individual with an observable mobility disability).
- (g) Access to areas of a public entity. Individuals with disabilities shall be permitted to be accompanied by their service animals in all areas of a public entity's facilities where members of the public, participants in services, programs or activities, or invitees, as relevant, are allowed to go.
- (h) Surcharges. A public entity shall not ask or require an individual with a disability to pay a surcharge, even if people accompanied by pets are required to pay fees, or to comply with other requirements generally not applicable to people without pets. If a public entity normally charges individuals for the damage they cause, an individual with a disability may be charged for damage caused by his or her service animal.
07/06/2011
06/23/2011
EHV scare: Welcome to the new 'normal'
The good news: Colorado EHV quarantines, which resulted from an outbreak last month of the deadly neurologic form of the equine herpes virus, are nearly all lifted, and our horse industry can breathe easier.
The bad news: Normal now equals “caution”. Why? Horses travel more these days, according to state veterinarian, Dr. Carl Heckendorf. “Colorado alone has more than 1,000 events a month. Some things we have taken for granted leave us with an important new message: Keep congregation to a minimum; don’t share water troughs; don’t share feed troughs,” Heckendorf said in a telephone interview.
Horsemen today routinely cope with illness alerts, more so than a decade ago. Diseases like rabies, West Nile, vesicular stomatitis or strangles (distemper) rarely made it to our mental radar back then. We made sure our horses got a few shots, and assumed everything would be fine.
But while vaccines exist for many horse illnesses, they don’t always work 100-percent. EHV, which usually causes respiratory problems and abortions, has a vaccine, but its manufacturers make no claim to prevent the neurologic form that recently killed so many horses.
What makes this complicated is that much of the horse industry depends on the travel and intermingling associated with competitive events. The more a horse travels, the more its exposure risk climbs.
The best offense? Trite but true: A good defense. Other suggestions for keeping your horse safe from disease include:
-
Don’t tie your horse in a large group. Leave it tied to your trailer
-
Don’t let your horse sniff noses with strangers
-
Horses new to stables should be quarantined for 14 – 21 days
-
When practical, horses that have just traveled should be kept away from others. (Heckendorf acknowledged that this is a tough one for boarding stables like ours, which frequently have clients going to horse shows.)
- Follow a regular equine vaccinations
program
-
Establish a regular relationship with your veterinarian, who will often be privy to the latest horse medical news, and can quickly pass it on to you.
There is no perfect solution for horse owners today, and a lot of decisions will depend on common sense. “Foot baths, hand-washing, traffic control - it all depends on your situation,” said Heckendorf, “If you go to our website, you’ll find a number of good biosecurity suggestions.”
Click here for complete USDA EHV-1 national status report.
06/03/2011
06/01/2011
05/26/2011
05/20/2011
05/18/2011
05/17/2011
05/16/2011
05/10/2011
Hobbes' gun initiation: Officer takes shot at mountain lion
That the officer was shooting west from our arena meant the lion had doubled back. Another client of ours spoke with an officer on her way home, and was told authorities believe the mountain lion was now headed northwest from the intersection of Shields St. and the Poudre River Bridge.
