Summer

 The horses had been out all night under the nearly full moon which is a rare treat for them. I usually keep them in their paddock to give the grass in the pasture a chance to grow a bit after a day of grazing but not tonight. It is summer – and a rainy one at that so everything is growing – and I decided they could come and go as they pleased all night long. It’s a good thing to switch things up.

As Martha and I walked to to the barn Gisela greeted us by trotting up and nickering. She was full of stories about the pasture at night. Then she was gone again, off to to the field where the grass was still dewy and Mercedes grazed. Horses are hard wired to spend the summer months fattening themselves up to stay warm in the cold months ahead. Mercedes, a BLM Mustang, takes this seriously and spends most of her time preparing for winter. Even in the winter she is preparing for winter. “Tomorrow might be colder,” she says. “I’d like more hay, please.” She’s so polite and such a good girl but the answer is no.

It’s just Martha and I in the barn because Merry Christmas the Great Dane doesn’t get out of bed until her breakfast is made and that is done later. Martha is different. She lies in bed until she hears me putting on my shoes and then comes flying down the stairs ready to go. Out in the barn she checks for mice while I make Gisela’s breakfast mash, fill their hay feeders and clean stalls. She runs out to the field to check the horses and comes back again to look for mice. Back and forth she goes. Outside, the sky is on fire with the orange and yellow light of the rising sun and together we walk out to meet it.

I mowed the fields last week. The snowy winter combined with a rainy spring had resulted in a beautiful, knee deep sea of purple, red and yellow wildflowers in the pasture. There were at least twelve shades of green – I lost count – but it had to go. I kept some corners of the fields wild and a bit of the hillside, too, but with the weediness cut back the grass I planted last spring showed up lush and velvety, no longer lost in the flowers. As I look down on it from the hillside I want to brush my hand across the whole field just to feel the softness. Because I’m not a giant and I can’t brush my hand across the whole field all at once, I just stand and imagine it for a moment. Good enough.

Martha and I walk down to the wild rose patch, which I never cut back, and along the way I look for balls to throw. There are always balls in the field that have been abandoned by the dogs and I’m looking for the ones I haven’t shredded with the mower. I find a few, Martha chases them and runs circles around Mercedes who doesn’t care about balls because she’s busy preparing for winter.

Martha comes back to me, drops the ball and I throw it again. The light has shifted to a soft pink and we head back up the hill to water the plants in the greenhouse. I spot a morning glory that has escaped the mower and take a picture of it just as Martha comes running down the hill to see what’s holding me up. Ears forward, her eyes are bright and she is full of pure energy. This is how Martha greets the morning.

Winter

There is value in how we begin the day and, as far as I’m concerned, if it involves taking care of living things all the better. It isn’t always easy and it isn’t always convenient. In fact, it can be downright hard because not every day is sunny and it isn’t always summertime. Sometimes it’s cold and on the way to the barn the north wind can blow snow crystals so hard into my face it hurts. I walk alone on those mornings because it’s too cold for Martha’s paws and the snow drifts can be impossibly high for her to navigate. There is nobody to dig things out but me so I grab a shovel and get to it.

Last winter, after a particularly windy and snowy night I woke up to find massive drifts blocking my way to the barn and main gate. I cleared one path but looked at the drift blocking the gate and thought, “Nope! I’m hiring someone to do that one.” They arrived at dusk, a father and son, just as I was about to bring the horses in. Both Gisela and Mercedes took one look at the snow flying into the sky from the snow blower and ran to the furthest edge of the field. There was no sense in trying to get them in while the snow was being cleared so I let them be for the moment.

After the crackerjack father-son team had cleared the drift and it had been quiet for awhile I went back out with a pan of grain. The horses were still standing on the other side of the gully at the furthest fence. It was dark and I only knew where they were because of the reflective bands on the heavy winter blankets they wore. I shook the pan of grain, called them to come in for dinner and watched as the reflective bands moved behind the one lone pine tree that stands in the field.

This was Gisela’s idea. She learned this trick of hiding in trees from a band of mares she lived with when she was young. Sometimes, if I haven’t brought them in before the farrier arrives, she will take Mercedes to a small stand of pine trees near the house. They will stand there quietly, faces hidden in the branches with their long legs and round bodies clearly standing out. They both really like our farrier and don’t mind being trimmed or shod, they’d just rather not so off to the trees they’ll go.

It was dark and it was cold that night. They weren’t going to come in and I wanted to cry but it was six degrees, the wind was picking up and I thought tears would freeze my eyes shut. There was no way I was going to climb through the drifts in the dark to get them so I did what I had to do. I went back to the barn, grabbed my longest lunge whip, marched out to the top of the gully and cracked that whip three times yelling, “GET BACK TO THE BARN NOW.” In a thunder of hooves and a flurry of snow, they did.

I met them in their stalls, gave them their dinner and closed up the barn while they looked at me with sparkling eyes. Because I’m a firm believer in “if you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all” I looked at them both and said, “I’m not talking to you.” Then I turned off the lights, walked up the path I had shoveled through the drift that morning, up to the house and straight to a bath filled with lavender scented epsom salts. Self care if important when you look after living things. They can be difficult at times.

The next day the storm had cleared and the snow was tinted pink from the color of the sunrise. It would begin melting off later in the day although it would be months before the drifts disappeared. Martha waited in bed until she heard me zip up my jacket and was at my side by the time I had my gloves on. We stepped out into the cold, calm air and walked to the barn. There was hay to feed, mice to find and horses to care for. I opened the stall doors to let the horses out and Martha followed Gisela and Mercedes to their favorite rolling spot. No doubt she would harass Mercedes as she rolled, dancing around the flying hooves and barking as Mercedes worked the kinks out of her back.

The colors in the sky shifted from pinks to bright blue and billowy clouds lazily drifted by. I stepped out into the snow and looked across the white fields. If I was a giant I would pass my hand across the pasture, gently scoop up the top layer of snow and throw it up in the air just to watch the crystals catch the light. Because I’m not a giant I don’t do this but I spent a moment thinking about it.

Martha ran up to me and I reached down, took a handful of snow, pressed it into a ball and threw it far into the field. She was wise to my snowball making ways, knew she’d never find it and wouldn’t chase it. Instead, with her ears forward and eyes bright, she jumped up and nearly knocked me over. She looked up at me while smiling her happy dog smile. I smiled back. Pure energy. This is how Martha greets the morning.