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Dang. Maybe that's a way to raise the money for the saddle? (I kid, I kid. No one around here has a grand an hour to spend on sex....)

Food!

Last night I had three cheese sticks. Along with two Little Debby snack cakes, but the cheese sticks are the important part. I'm not talking those string cheese thingys, I'm talking deep-fried crunchy goodness.

It hurt, but they tasted soooo good.

Today, I mauled my way through six chicken nuggets from Mickey D's, along with half of a medium order of fries (the half that wasn't rock hard.)

It hurt, but once again, it tasted sooo good.

It's bad enough cooking for one normally, but when you're eating small portions it becomes a heck of a lot easier to just buy prepared stuff. And, if I'm in a hurry (which I usually am) and don't have the time to sit down and eat, the best option is usually... you guessed it... junk food. And by junk food I'm referring to things that contain no meat and have a lot of 0's in the nutritional value section. I have a box of blueberry loaf cake from Safeway which is basically slices of blueberry muffin, which is great because I can never eat a whole one of their giganto muffins at a time.

But, progress is being made. I have a little bit of crunch back in my diet, which is a freaking miracle as far as I'm concerned.

Little Do They Know...

So, this hearkens back to my posts at the beginning of last semester. Ya'll remember, where I was complaining about how hard college was.

One of the requirements in the horse-oriented programs is Feed Crew. Ya'll have seen me complain about it. It's a pain in the butt when no one does anything during the day to help out the feed crew, and everyone wants to complain about how much their horse was watered, or fed.

Well, this week I'm a supervisor. I should say the supervisor, because my so-called partner does precisely squat on the supervisory side of things. It isn't helped by the fact that I have the only set of keys for feed crew that wasn't carted off to the rodeo this weekend, because instead of leaving them in the office like she was supposed to one of the last supervisors gave them to one of the crew to give to the other supervisor and he didn't get it done before he went off to the rodeo.

So, I get there fifteen to thirty minutes early, unlock the gates and the office, make sure the sign in sheet is on the right page, sign in myself, set up the coffee maker for the instructors, and start feeding. Usually all before anyone else gets there.

I've got one girl that likes to finish what she's doing and then leave if no one is watching. I suppose I should be glad she bothers to finish what she's doing. So, last night, she told me "I have to sign in and then I have to go feed a rodeo horse."

"No, you can feed the rodeo horse after we're done here."

"But I'll forget!"

"I'll remind you, because you're going to be here when everything is done tonight, right?"

I was checking the pens in back when she finished up watering, drained the hose and left it piled.

"Ok, I'm done!"

"No, you still have to coil the hose."

"But it's fine."

"Um. No, it's not. It doesn't have to be perfect but it does have to be neat."

"But it's not tangled!"

"It's my ass that will get chewed if JJ or Jason comes back and checks up on us and things are a mess."

"But-"

"The longer you argue with me the longer you'll be here."

So that pissed her off. Of course, she (and most of the others) don't treat this like a job, which is what it's supposed to be. Feed crew has a dual purpose... making sure that the horses get fed and watered, obviously, and job training. See, everyone gets to be a supervisor at some point, so they get the responsibility square on their shoulders, and everyone else gets to get experience under different supervisors with different management styles.

I, unlike most, if not all, of the other students, have actually had responsibility for what other people have done in a real life job setting. As a result, I'm a bit anal about everything getting done, and done right, every time.

If that pisses people off, well, welcome to the real world. I'm being a long shot nicer about things than I would be if it were a real job situation. I've been known to give real ass-chewings for the kinds of things that I've seen done on feed crews. But, I'm taking into account that some of these kids have never had to collect a paycheck to keep their car, or or their cell phone, or eat dinner that night. They don't have the experience. So, I'm trying to ease them into it gently.

And it's starting to give me a headache. At least this weekend I have a few people that I can trust to do the job without me having to watch them.

Oh, and I'm likely to be hailed as a bitch after this morning. One of the geldings in the block barn likes to kick the sides out of his stall, and this morning he had managed to get into the stall next door with a little mare, because no one bothered to put the boards back. So, I pulled him out of her stall and put him back in his, and used his halter to tie the grating so that he couldn't push it up and get back through. Then I left a note.

One of my crew asked me if I wanted to use twine to tie it.

"Nope, if we leave the halter in there they'll have to fix it. I don't want to be pulling him out of that stall every morning because they can't find the time to put the boards back, or the brains to move him either to a stall where he doesn't have neighbors or a pen outside."

I left a note in the office about it. We'll see if I get my butt chewed or not.

Pretty Pretty Pony

So, we got the little show over with, Monkey placed third (he was the most immature looking out of all of them, and he behaved well, so I was fine with it) and Farmdad got some pictures for me.

To illustrate the difference in muscle tone, I give you:

Monkey Before:
And Monkey After:
Look at how much muscle he's put on in his shoulders and chest! Now I just gotta build up his hind end, which comes after I make him slow trot for about twenty minutes so that he gets frustrated and when I finally let him stretch out really drives from the hind.

He's come a long way... the main problem we had today was he spooked a little at the people "helping" us trot, and he kept trying to eat my sleeves when we were standing set up. He did square up for me really nicely (as you can see in the photo) and for the amount of people that were wandering around and the distractions he behaved himself remarkably well. I'm proud of him, even though he got bored and tried to shove me over or eat me while we were supposed to be standing. I got lots of horsey kisses giving him my hand to try to get him to stand still.

Meanwhile, we still have riding class this afternoon, and he's covered in show-sheen. If I'm not careful, my saddle is going to slide off him like snot. But he's so pretty!

Tired

But the Monkey is brushed, clean (ha! Like that will last the night) and he will trot in hand.

At the barn from one this afternoon to right at five. I accomplished these things:

Ran the shedder blade (a type of brush that is designed to remove the shedding hair without clogging the brush) over him about a gazillion times.

Ran the bristle brush over him about a thousand times, five hundred cross-growth (to bring out as much dirt as possible) and five hundred with the growth.

Unbraided his mane and tail (which I had spent an hour and a half yesterday braiding before I knew about this) and treated them with detangler/conditioner. Brushed them just enough to make them look good.

Trimmed his full-jaw beard with the manual clippers I have. Trimmed his nose and chin whiskers with C's electric clippers. That was an adventure.

Helped C trim her horse. Helped C clean up her horse's belly because he was getting a lot of crusties around his sheath and he doesn't like it when you touch his no no spot. Helped J trim his horse after class.

Treated Monkey's feet with hoof-heal to moisturize them tonight, tomorrow it's hoof-shine.

And the big one... Taught Monkey to trot on the lead. He was really confused about that part. I did a lot of jogging today, so I think I got my cardio. But, by the end of class he would trot without me having to have the short whip that I was using to teach him what I wanted in my hand, so I call it a victory. Now they won't have to completely freak him out when it's time to trot by running up behind him.

My arms are tired, from all the brushing. My legs are tired, from all the jogging. My back is sore from bending over to do legs.

I still have to run a load of laundry and take a shower, and get my gear together for tomorrow. Horses and handlers have to be ready by eight thirty in the morning.

It'll be really satisfying if we win, but it would make me feel less like it's all just a bit futile if we actually got a prize for winning.

Stingy bastards.

I Got My Work Cut Out For Me....

Marilyn told me today that the big FFA thingy that's going on Wednesday needs an aged gelding halter class.

Guess who's in it?

That's right, the fuzzy Monkey.

Guess what I have to do tomorrow? Here's a list:

Brush the crap out of him. Let him roll. Brush him some more. Take the clippers to him to get rid of his beard and clean up his bridle path and ears (I've never trimmed his ears, I don't know what he'll do. I've never used powered clippers on him either, but I don't want to clip everything with the manual clippers,) take the hose to him. Tie him up so that he can't roll. Brush him some more. Try to teach him to trot at halter (which I don't think he does) during class where we'll have a halter class. Brush him some more.

This is along with helping everyone else that's going to show wash their horses, because C's horse we don't know if he's ever been washed, same with J's, and S has a cast on her arm that she can't get wet. Oh, and I have to break out the nice shirts and wash my good Wranglers, too.

Then Wednesday morning I'll go out to the barn early (like, seven or eight) and brush the fuzzball some more, then put the finishing touches (hoof shine, show sheen) on him. And S's horse, probably. They've got geldings and mares in the two year old classes before us, and they're supposed to start about eight thirty, so I should have time.

I'll take pictures of the pretty pretty pony when I get him all cleaned up and show everyone how much muscle he's putting on. Not to mention if I got him all prettied up and didn't take pictures for Farmmom she'd hurt me.

Because You Love Them.

I was talking last night with a friend from school about the latest litter of Pixelkittens. That's right, Pixel the slut went and got herself knocked up, and gave birth on the haystack two days before Marilyn was going to go ahead and get her fixed.

We weren't sure how far along she was, and seeing as how she usually spends the better part of pregnancy looking like she swallowed a grapefruit, her size was no indication when she finally showed herself at the barn.

She had six kittens. She's down to three. Its tough, but I expected it. It was a big litter for her and two of them were pretty small and weak from the start. The latest tiny body was because of a respiratory bug that all of them have had. For the three strong ones, it's nothing more than a case of the snuffles... but this one just couldn't handle it.

The conversation last night though, got into nursing animals and how much work it is. A dog that's been hit by a car can't tell you where it hurts. An emaciated kitten can't squeak loud enough for you to hear it across the room. A barn owl with a broken wing will take your finger off when all you're trying to do is get it to someone who can help. And let me tell you, those talons aren't just for show. A tip if you ever have to rescue an injured predatory bird... cover it's head first, and then give it something to hang on to with those talons. Even a ball of towel, or a coat sleeve, will give it a sense of security (and it will be so busy hanging on to its "perch" that it won't try to hang on to you) but make sure it's nothing you mind having holes in. A stout stick is best of all, really.

I've bottle raised a lot of critters, and lost even more. When I was a little girl I was constantly bringing home orphans, kittens, sparrows, even a litter of field mice once. I couldn't stand to see a critter in pain. The Farmparents were kind enough to help me do what I could, and to let me learn the hard way that sometimes, it's kinder to just help them along.

After a while, it became clear that I have a certain talent for helping animals. People started bringing me strays that were hurt, more orphans. Even Farmdad brought home a dog that was hit by a car, and caught a duck in a ditch for me.

And small animals aren't the only ones. The first calf I bottle raised was a feedlot calf that the Farmparents brought home. She came out of the finishing pens, which meant that her mother had been pumped full of so many hormones and drugs it was a miracle she was even born, let alone that she survived her first twenty four hours. Her eyes were a milky blue all over, and she was tiny, way too small for what she should be. One eye eventually broke down and became a bumpy white mass, glaring from her head and completely useless. We think she could see shadows from the other eye, in spite of the fact that she had no pupil, she could find things in the yard if they were big and solid enough.

I, and our cocker spaniel, nursed her into a big healthy calf, when the experienced feedlot cowboys had refused to try to save her. She thought she was a dog. Her favorite food was hamburger pizza, which she would steal from the scrap dishes we would set out for the dogs. Her favorite toy was an old traffic cone, which she could find unerringly every time.

The winter of '06 was hard, hard on the cows and hard on us. We couldn't keep calves alive, they'd be up and sucking one day, and lay down on wet ground (there wasn't any dry ground) and snow that night, and freeze to death.

Two of them, we got to before they died. Two. Out of forty born. We lost just under half our calf crop that year.

The first one was born on a bitterly cold day. His mom had cleaned him up, but the ground he was lying on was frozen, and his body temp had dropped to the point that he couldn't even shiver. We loaded him up in the cab of the pickup when we found him, with the heater on full blast and Farmmom and I rubbing his skin vigorously. When he started being more alert, we got him out and on his feet, and tried to put him back on his momma, but she had given up on him. She wouldn't have anything to do with him. So, in to town he came.

Twenty four hours later, after twelve hours of laboriously struggling to get a couple of swallows down his throat at a time every half hour, and twelve hours of feeding him every two hours when he got enough energy to suck, I was pretty happy about his chances. He was a victory.

Farmmom called another day. "Hey Kiddo, we're bringing you another baby. Better go down and get some colostrum and get it started, this one is in bad shape. "

"Worse than the last one?"

"Yeah. She's big but I think she's got some deformity in her mouth, and she's barely staying with us."

When they rolled up I had the old glass 7-up bottle full of colostrum mix and topped with a lamb nipple. When they haven't figured out how to suck yet, it's easier to fit your finger in their mouth to work the nipple if you use the lamb nipple.

I met them at the garage door, Farmdad carrying a big lanky heifer calf, her black coat plastered to her. He laid her down on the old carpet we'd put down for the first calf and I started working. She was cold, and still soaked with the fluids from the womb. The cow hadn't even tried to clean her up. Sometimes they just know. She was still breathing, though, and she made feeble protests when I pinched her, so I had hopes. If they're still with it enough to get pissed off, there's a good chance that they're gonna hang on.

I checked her mouth to make sure there wasn't part of a mucus plug before I started trying to feed her, and I saw that her lower jaw jutted forward, longer than her upper. Her teeth still connected with her palate though, so she wasn't too deformed to graze. Her tongue was stiff, and still had the cone shape that they're born with. Usually the tongue relaxes by the time they get on their feet, but while they're in the womb it's a plug, conforming to the whole mouth.

I hoped that it was the cold keeping the tongue from relaxing. If it wasn't, she'd never be able to suck.

I struggled with her for hours, propping her up to squirt warm milk in her mouth, scrubbing her roughly with an old towel to dry her off, talking to her constantly. I alternate between gentle reassurances and angry smack talk, most of the time. It's just stimulation for them, one way or another. Whenever I wasn't propping her up, though, she was flat out on her side, staring vacantly.

I thought she had a chance, when she started trying to suck. Her tongue still hadn't relaxed, but she was still very cold. I held on to hope with both hands, because without hope, I'd just give up and she wouldn't have any chance. I stared desperately at the other calf, curled up near her and watching me curiously as I rubbed on her and pounded her ribs, pinched her and called her baby. He was a victory. He proved that I wasn't completely incompetent, a feeling that often overtakes me when I'm struggling to help a critter and I reach the point where I just don't know what else to do.

Around eleven that night, I went back out to try to get just a couple more ounces down her. When they're newborns, it's amazing what just a tiny amount of sustenance can do. Just a few drops of condensed milk, with honey for quick energy, can revive a starving kitten enough for it to suck ten minutes later, and get a full belly. An ounce or two at a time for a weak calf can bring it back from the brink.

She wasn't breathing. Her tongue had never flattened out. She lay there, flat on her side, staring. Her jaw was open and her conical tongue lay on the carpet. I was sore from wrestling her and the other calf around for feedings, I was emotionally exhausted from pouring myself into the effort to save her.

I'd fallen in love the first time I tried to feed her. You have to, if you're going to save them. You don't get up every two hours all night to feed something because it's for sale. You don't shove your hand in the same mouth with sharp teeth and a tongue that will give you painful carpet burns because it's your job. Not and save the ones that really need you. The ones that everyone else would give up on, you struggle with, and for, because you love them. You don't look at them and see another pet cat, or dog, sparrow to sing, raccoon to rifle through the trash or future hamburger or cow to make more walking steaks.

You look at them, and you see something that is completely helpless. Something that, in the case of domestic animals, has been bred into putting its trust in man kind, that you have a responsibility, a duty to. It takes only an instant for you to fall in love. It takes only one trusting look, or a feeble suck on your finger, or a weak kick in response to pain. That one instant reaches deep inside you and that animal ceases to be "the calf," or "the kitten," and becomes, simply, "mine."

Mine. My child, my pet, my pain. Pain in the back and the arms, pain in scratches and bites and knees. But Mine.

My responsibility, my duty. And sometimes that duty is more than just doing everything you can to save them. Sometimes that duty is making sure that the end is as easy as possible for them, because there is nothing else you can do. Sometimes it's ending it yourself, rather than letting them suffer.

All the failures, the ones I couldn't save, they haunt me sometimes. But the memories of the ones I did save are there to balance it out. Kittens play fighting and rolling through the kitchen in a fluffy ball, calves in the yard in blatant defiance of city ordinance chasing me back and forth and head butting playfully at me, or just making it to the vet's office and hearing "He's got a chance."

"At least he/she died warm, with a full belly, and comforted." The Farmparents have said that to me dozens of times as I sat crying, holding tiny bodies that were stiff and cold, or still warm and flopping loosely, or with my hand on the side of the motionless body of one that's too big for me to hold. It's a mantra.

Sometimes it's just "At least I tried."