HOW THE NIGHT MOVES

I love my horses so much that sometimes I do rather foolish things just to spoil them.

Last night, I got home after sunset - in face, quite a while after sunset - so it was dark - real, real dark.

For those of you who have never lived outside of a populated area, it is rather surprising at first when you get away from city lights, streetlamps, traffic and even houses indoor lights.

We even have 'light pollution' laws in our county, restricting streetlights, flood lights (well, except for the border - they can use pretty bright lights there) and even the type of lights that we can use - they must be shaded for limited exposure.

So again - it's dark.

But as I got out of the truck, both horses were emanating their deepest, darkest mind control thoughts straight at me -- "YOU ARE A VERY VERY BAD OWNER WHO HAS FORCED FORCED FORCED HER POOR STARVING UNDERFED HORSES STARE AT THE GREEN GREEN GREEN GRASS OUTSIDE THEIR FENCE ALL DAY LONG AND COMES HOME TOO LATE TO TAKE HER HORSES OUT TO GRAZE AND YOU ARE GONNA PAY PAY PAY."

Yes, I am a weak person, and am extremely susceptible to equine mind control.

So I took both animals, each weighing over 1,000 lbs. apiece, with four feet each (that's eight total for you mathmatically-challenged out there) which are EACH approxmiately five feet across and can easily crush each and every metatarsus bone in your tiny little weak human feet - I took these beasts out IN THE COMPLETE AND TOTAL DARKNESS to graze.

Only one thing saved me... well, sort of.

It turns out that my younger horse (who is responsible for the majority of the mind controlling beams) is a little bit "scawed of the dawk" (that's Elmer Fudd talk there - did you know there is a translation site that has redneck, Swedish chef, Cockney translations?).

So I got slammed by Najale's head (enough that my upper thigh looks just like this today) as he alternated between ripping and gulping grass into his mouth but then spooking at the sound he was creating by of every single blade being crushed between his huge teeth.

So the lesson learned from all of this is 1) wearing a tin-foil helmet does deters my horses' mind-alternating thought rays, and 2) although I am not frightened by coyotes, illegal immigrants and scary things that go bump in the night close to the Mexican border, I now realize that I need to be scared of my horse eating in the dark."I woke last night to the sound of thunder

How far off I sat and wondered

Started humming a song from 1962

Ain't it funny how the night moves

When you just don't seem to have as much to lose..."

And I'm including this last thing just because it made me laugh.

MURPHY'S LAW TRIUMPHS ONCE AGAIN

Today I felt unusually fat and pudgy (which unfortunately is now a regular sensation for me). So I was determined to go that extra mile, do some additional exercise, get my heart-rate up, burn off that extra slice of pizza last night, etc.

[ Sidebar here - does I come across as bragging when I talk about my horses? To me, they are 1,200 lb. pets that live outside and eat a lot. It isn't as if they are housed in fine stalls, coddled by grooms and exercised regularly - they are just my big pets animals - XXL in size... which kinda fits the whole subject here ]

  

On certain calm summers evenings, my husband is willing to walk the quiet old mare while I wrestle the colt over to the nearest vacant land, and both horses to graze for a half hour or so - and I use "graze" in the most open possible meaning of the word - we don't have much grass, let alone GREEN grass, in southern Arizona at this particular time of year.. or any other time of the year, to be truthful.

But tonight with my quest to use up a few extra calories, I went out early to vigorously brush both horses.

Which, in my case anyway, requires much more than simply using grooming tools.

Sally, the mare, is convinced that anytime she is brushed and made in any manner to be socially-presentable and/or clean, she is 1) going to be sold and taken away or. even worse, 2) the colt, her baby in every way possible except for physically, is going to be sold and taken away.

Yes, major separation anxieties here - there is no telling how many of her babies were taken away from her, but I am certain quite a few.

So when I come at her with a brush or a comb, she alternates between racing away from me (and she is a former race-horse, she can certainly move fast for an old girl), or getting in between the colt and me and blocking any attempt to groom him.

Therefore, most of my time was spent either trotting after Sally, forcing myself between Sally and Najale, or racing to head off Najale, as he was got into the sport of escape and would take off for the horizon after Sally.

So when Wilt came and I, with sweat dripping off my face, sore feet, and perhaps more than a casual hope for a shorter walk than usual...

Then, of course, right then, Najale determined that his current ambition was to become a performer. And not just a casual artist, but a dominant and debonair dancer, full of gyrating grace.

Yes, it was as disarming as it sounds, to have a pair of hooves whistling by your ears as your horse tries to prove he is worthy of admission to the Royal Academy of Ballet.

When a horse rears, you have an extremely limited amount of choices. He's obviously stronger, bigger and more determined than you can ever be - the best I can do was to keep hold of his lead rope and try to stay out of the way of his enormous feet as he waved them madly in the air in his manner of a pirouette or an elevé.

Najale obviously felt he was only expressing his inner creative self in the most inventive manner open for an equine.

I could only accept his actions as Najale's innovative eloquence of spirit...

... and the inevitable power of Murphy's law...

... because then I spent an additional thirty minutes having to discipline and counsel the horse about removing his application for dance school, learning to keep all four of his hooves firmly on the ground, and a new position for the retiré position.

Remind me next time not to assume there is a need to an additional workout until after the horses are done for the day.

EQUUS CABALLUS ABUSE

Confession is good for the soul, right?

It was one of the few things I loved about Catholicism when I was growing up. I wasn't raised Catholic, but my best friend in elementary school was, and since my dad taught in parochial schools for years, there was some spiritual influence even with my strong atheist childhood.

And going into a quiet little private closet, acknowledging all of your wrong-doing from the past week to an anonymous unseen father figure, and being cleansed of everything by reciting a couple of Hail Marys and O My Fathers... pretty sweet.

But since I'm Mormon, we don't do priests (well, we do, but ours are the 16-19 year olds who are trying to remain virgins), we don't have small dark cubicles, and we only do confession for like serious mistakes like extra-martial affairs, murdering someone or being addicted to Diet Mt. Dew.

So most of the time when you do something wrong, it's just between God, you, and your conscience.

On to the abuse of my horse.

Najale, although chronologically eight years old, is in his heart always a flashy young stud who loves kicking up his heels, dancing and prancing and showing off at every opportunity. He is a pretty boy, and man, does he know it.

Tonight, on our regular evening stroll (which alternates between rooting for grass among the yucca trees, freaking out at flocks of small butterflies, and trying to bolt across every open space possible), I felt in the mood to pretend, at least, to do some actual training instead of my normal indulgent momma attitude towards the spoiled Italian/Greek heir.

So when Najale went into one of his bucking, rearing and ain't-I-just-the-cutest-damn-thing-you've-ever-seen routines, I got MEAN - snapped his lead rope and made him back up for about half a mile while SCREAMING at him.

He was reduced to a quivering mass of jelly.

Well, not really, but he wasn't showing off at all by the time we got finished.

Unfortunately, the metal on his halter rubbed his poor face OPEN on both sides of his face.

Should I be preparing my defense to the SPCA?

Will any of you on in the Internet be willing to testify on my behalf?

Please?

HORSES, HEAT AND HEWLETT-PACKARD

Several rather obvious points which have popped up in the last few days:

-- My horse, Najale, will do almost ANYthing for either food or to get his stomach scratched. He will submit to flapping plastic bags, ropes whistling around his eyes, and/or food being dangled in front of his nose as long as he is CERTAIN that he WILL be rewarded. And trust me, when you weigh 1,200 lbs. or so, you generally DO get your reward.

-- Temperature is always relative. Today I was wearing a sweatshirt because it was ONLY in the low 90's. And my daughter posted photos of my two grandchildren wearing long-sleeves in San Diego in June - after Hawaii, any place on the mainland is cold.

-- There is a verifiable section on the Y chromosome which specifically blocks any male human from understanding the word "clean." A Facebook friend was posting today about her two sons never comprehending what mom could possibly mean by saying 'clean up!', and although my husband and son did their very best in 'cleaning' the house for my return, I am still, one week later, trying to undo the damage that they inflicted in that process.

-- The Internet is addictive, dangerous, and evil. I spent most of my time at my daughter's OFF the computer (when you are wrestling with someone who 1) owns the computer, 2) runs her profession from the computer, and 3) is a whole more stubborn that you are, you end up doing what THEY want), so I am jumping in with a bit of reckless abandon. So I am forcing myself to keep the computer OFF for at least 5-6 hours each day...

Man, is it tough.

MUSKRAT LOVE

There are fictional examples of cross-species love - Beauty and the Beast - the cat and the fiddle had something going on - King Kong was willing to do a lot for Fay somebody - and Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog, of course

So... hey, who knows.

Well, there is Sally, my mare, is old - old enough that she can't chew hay, and needs to be fed a special senior equine meal. However, she still regularly comes into heat, and believes, in the exact same manner that all of us hold an image of us in our best teenage-or-early-20's years in our heads, that she is a young mare prancing around attracting all the stallions that exist... at least in her fantasies.

And today her stud-radar was up and running about something directly east of her pasture - and enough dancing was going on that I actually walked out to see if there was possible a loose horse out there... or a cloud shaped like a horse... or signs of any possible performance-enhancement drugs that Sally is taking....

And guess what she was fixating on?

A pig. In the corral on the next property. A big, white sow.

Ah, true love, at last.

IT HURTS SO GOOD

Laughter is sometimes automatic, even when extremely inappropriate response and/or to something tragic.

One of my favorite lines from the sci-fi classic "Stranger In A Strange Land" by Robert A. Heinlein is when the main character, Michael, a human raised in the Martian culture, finally comprehends laughter - we laugh because it hurts so much.

I try earnestly not to laugh when someone is made a fool, or makes a major mistake - but sometimes it is simply impossible.

It hurts too much to do anything other than laugh.

But this afternoon, I didn't simply laugh, I ROARED for a couple of minutes.

I have to separate my horses when I feed them - otherwise the mare simply allows the colt to gobble up everything.

And it becomes a bit of a dance to get the mare on one side of the fence, the colt on the other, hay on both sides but senior feed only for the mare.

Tonight, the colt burst into the corral in his usual flamboyant manner, bucking and kicking and showing off for my benefit.

And promptly slipped in the mud, went sliding on his side until he slammed against the fence.

Nothing was damaged other than his pride - but yes, I did laugh. A lot.

GOD AND MR GOMEZ

Memories are what you choose to remember.

Some parts of my childhood are blank. Not blurred, or fuzzy, but like erased. I don't think I had horrible experiences that needed to be expunged - maybe just not enough RAM.

But certain parts are extremely clear.

For one, the relationship between myself, my father, and the Los Angeles Times.

It may be difficult for those of you younger than 50 to comprehend, but the daily newspaper used to be the main source of news. There was no Internet or Twitter or email - CNN didn't exist - for years there weren't any morning news shows.

But the morning paper, traditionally thrown in the bushes in front of your house by a young boy on a bicycle, would turn your fingers inky black while over breakfast you read about what the Russians were saying, what Washington was saying back, and the latest serial murderer being hunted in some metropolitan area.

The comics were only one sheet, but worth fighting with your older brother over who got to read first. "Dear Abby" was for grown-ups - horoscopes also.

And I would daily turn to the classifieds in the consistent (albeit irrational) delusion that someday under "Horses," the following advertisement would appear:

"Free beautiful, healthy 8 year old gelding to be given to 12 year old over 5'9" tall, as well as all tack and grooming supplies in addition to first seven years free boarding and feeding costs at local S.P. stable. Call 213-555-1212 immediately to arrange for transportation."

And something my dad and I also shared was the weekly column by Jack Smith.

It was always succinct, direct and usually droll. My dad just loved it, and since I loved my dad so much, of course I did also.

So why am I rambling on about this, and is this going anywhere?

Our book club is meeting at my house next week, which means I suggested the book for discussion.

It was "God and Mr. Gomez" by Jack Smith.

Reading the book for probably the 57th time, I am continually warmed by Smith's phrasing, descriptions and drollity (is that a word? should it be?).

And you know why?

It reminds me of my dad.

I miss him.

PEEKING OVER THE FENCE

When I stop and look back over my day, I realize my neighbors must think I am clinically insane.
(No comments necessary from you who actually know me)

I walk outside, turn on the water hose, and start yelling my horse's name.

(He normally responds, not because I am such a incredible horse trainer, but because he is an absolute pig, and is continually optimistic that I will have something, anything, for him to eat).

He takes one look at the running water, and immediately heads in the opposite direction.

The mare, however, simply adores being hosed down. I'm certain it's because when she was on the track, it was a regular deal to be rinsed after a race, and it felt GREAT.

And a 95 degree Arizonan day like today, she knows it's also going to feel good.

So she trots over, and immediately and happily moves herself right into position to be drenched.

Now my horse simply can NOT stand for ANYone or anything else to get more attention than him. He will nose or push or trample into any situation where he is not already the main center of attraction.

So, with the water still running, he dashes over, pushes the mare aside and gets under the water stream.

Now here begins the quandary - my horse does not particularly like the sensation of cold water running over his back... or his legs, or his side or any other portion of his body.

But he cannot possible give up the position of POWER.

However, he does not WANT to be in the middle of the stream of water.

So, mentally conflicted, and psychologically confused, he alternates between:

1) Hosed down or 2) Running away.

Perhaps my neighboors don't think I'm nuts - but now they know that one of my horses is.