Snow In Winter Chapter 2

Snow In Winter 2


Almost perfect, Annie amended to herself. The primary feathers on the same side as the ugly laceration drooped slightly. Gently she smoothed the wing back to a more natural position , but the wing drooped again when she moved her hand away. Nerve damage ,she made a mental note , realizing at the same time she had forgotten to start a chart, or possibly a muscle tear. Using her little finger she gingerly lifted the horse’s lip and checked the color of the gums. Nice and pink. She turned to rummage in the cabinet behind her. Locating a neonatal stethoscope, one of the most useful “freebies” she’d ever received from a pharmaceutical company in return for a large purchase, she placed the diaphragm against the silken hide and held her breath. The creature’s pulse was strong and regular, the rate about 120 beats per minute - what she’d expect from a dog the same size. Was that normal? Who knew?

She glanced up at the client, who was waiting patiently. “Not shocky,” she said. “In fact, quite stable. I gather there wasn’t much blood loss? And what the heck did this?” She took a breath, making a determined effort to control the several hundred run-on questions she felt welling up in her brain, waiting for release.

“No, I managed to stop the bleeding fairly quickly, “ the man said, but offered no further information.

Annie squinted thoughtfully at him for a moment. “Right. OK, now let’s look at that wound.” She raised the horse’s wing again without objection from its owner and surveyed the laceration. It was quite clean, not at all deep, and looked fresh. “I can probably suture this right away with a local anesthetic,” she said, “since the wound is fresh.”

“He doesn’t need any anesthetic , “ the man said. “Just get it sewed up.”

Annie straightened up and looked the man in the eye, more than a little annoyed that he was presuming to tell her how to do her job. “Ever been sewed up?” she asked. “It HURTS. In MY clinic, we use proper methods of pain control.” She glared, waiting for him to protest but instead was surprised to see an expression of approval cross his features.

“Go ahead, then,” he said , “and tell me what you want me to do.”

He appeared capable enough, Annie decided, watching as his stained, calloused hands expertly lifted the creature out of the box and steadied it on the metal exam table. Its hooves slipped slightly on the polished surface, and Annie cast around for something in the clinic on which they could find better purchase, finally settling on a ribbed, plastic floor mat. The animal immediately appeared more comfortable and stood quietly. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said and slipped out into the back hallway, made her way to the surgical suite and began yanking supplies off shelves and piling them on a wheeled Mayo stand. She fought back the pervading sense of unreality by concentrating on the task at hand. Grabbing a sterile surgery pack , she plopped it unceremoniously on the stand, along with suture material, a jar of gauze sponges soaking in thick blue surgical scrub, a pair of sterile latex gloves, a vial of lidocaine and a small syringe with a tiny needle, then rattled back down the hall with it to the exam room.

“We’ll numb the area with a little lidocaine,” she explained as she filled the syringe, “and then clean the whole thing up and suture it closed. Sometimes the lidocaine stings a bit, “ she added “but if I get it right, only the first injection will sting – then we’re home free.”

At that point the task became rote , automatic. There was a wound at hand that needed to be repaired – one of her favorite challenges. She forgot the lateness of the hour, the strangeness of the owner, the complete unbelievability of the patient and the situation. She knew her job, at any rate.

She washed her hands quickly and turned back to the tiny horse. Placing one hand on the warm, silky hide so that her left thumb and forefinger stabilized the edges of the wound, she chose a spot at one end of the laceration to begin. She glanced up at the man. “OK, we’re about ready here. But if you’re going to be my helper I need to know your name.” She laughed. “I haven’t even made a chart for you.”

The man nodded his head and touched a finger to the brim of the hat he was still wearing in a kind of antiquated salute. “Name’s O’Ryan.”

“Ok, Mr. O’Ryan, “ Annie smiled, picking up the syringe of lidocaine. “Steady now. One little stick-“ she pushed the needle into the flesh and injected a drop of the drug, which made a small but visible bleb under the skin. A minute drop of blood blossomed scarlet at the injection site. The horse shifted and twitched his hide slightly but otherwise remained still. “Good. That was the worst one.” She continued to infiltrate the area with the lidocaine, each successive injection entering a spot that was already numb, and advancing the chemical on down one side of the laceration, then back up the other side. After a few minutes she looked up. “That should do it. Great holding job.” The man O’Ryan nodded once. “What next?”

“Next, we disinfect the area a bit. Now this is a very clean cut, “ Annie said, glancing up at O’Ryan, who remained silent, revealing nothing, “but I’m still going to do a quick surgical prep. No shaving, though.” It would have been a shame to shave a swath through the fine silvery hair, which was thin enough in any case. She smoothed the bubbly blue solution over the gash and gently rinsed it off with a few squirts of saline out of a plastic squeeze-bottle. “That will do. And now…we sew.”

Annie laid out the sterile latex gloves and opened the surgical pack and a foil-wrapped coil of suture. Slipping the gloves on, she then picked a needle holder and the tweezer-like thumb forceps out of the pack and shook out the suture, to which a small curved needle was already attached. The long strand fell away from the wrapper and she caught it up with her little finger, allowing the excess to come to rest on the open pack. She rested her elbows on the table and took a deep breath, conscious of the tension running along her spine like an electric current. A wound was a wound. She loved the rhythm of it: a flick of the wrist to push the needle through the skin, then grab it with the needle holders, pull it on through, now twirl the wrist to wrap the suture around itself in a square knot, and a small, quick tug to tighten. Flick, pull, twirl, tug. She sewed, placing a tidy line of purple x’s down the length of the cut. Within minutes it was done.

She surveyed her work with satisfaction. What had been a ragged gash was now a neat seam. The patient curled up quietly on the blue wool in the carrier where the man had carefully settled him.

“Those sutures should stay in about 10 days to two weeks. Please be sure he doesn’t bother them. If there are any problems—“ she shrugged, “well, you know where to find me.”

“What do I owe you?” he asked, and she laughed a little, stretching. “I really have no idea. “

He closed the top of the carrier and straightening, came to stand close to her. She could smell the outdoorsy scent of him , woodsmoke and damp leaves and something she associated with a particularly fragrant brand of pipe tobacco. His hazel eyes caught hers, then dropped to her neck. He reached out and delicately flicked the necklace she wore. “How did you come by this?” His fingertips left traces of coolness on her skin, like a touch of frost, and she shivered.

She reached up, feeling the small silver pendant in order to remind herself which necklace she had put on that morning. It was a tiny, primitive female figure, its rudimentary arms stretched overhead to encircle an amethyst. “Oh, this one,” she recalled, “I got it in Sulfer Springs.” Sulfer Springs was a small, avant-garde college town some miles north. “It reminded me of a predynastic Egyptian goddess figure, “ she explained, even then wondering why she did. “I found it in the Silver Store.”

“The Healer,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “You don’t find her. She choses you.”

Annie blinked. In a few seconds he was gone and his burden with him. Strangely, though she could recall virtually every minute of her treatment, she could not remember his leaving.

On the exam table , its iridescence reflected dimly on the metal surface, lay a large, perfect pearl.

Chapter one, untitled as yet.....

This is the beginning to a story that's been rattling around in my head for a long time. I'd appreciate comments - if you read this as an opening chapter, would you want to read more? Does anything about it put you off in any way (assuming you like this genre?) THANKS!


Snowflakes swirled in through the clinic door as Annie escorted Mrs. Jackson and her overweight Chihuahua out into the January night, the little dog in her pink carrying bag growling accompaniment to her owner’s litany of health problems with every step to the waiting vehicle. Shivering, she slipped back into the warm foyer, glad that appointments were over for the day and she could head home to a fire in the woodstove and dogs waiting to snuggle on the beat-up couch in the living room. Anticipating nothing more than an evening spent drifting in and out of dozy consciousness as the television droned, she set the locks and turned back to the waiting room.

A tiny movement on a corner bench caught her eye, and suddenly she realized with mild surprise that she had one more patient after all. A man of indeterminate age sat quietly with a battered cardboard carrier at his feet. Annie knew he was a stranger, but when he raised his eyes to meet hers, she felt a faint shock of unexplainable recognition.

“You Dr. Winter?” he asked in a deep, not unpleasant voice. When Annie nodded he continued, “sorry to bother you so late, but could you just take a look at this?” He gestured toward the box. “Shouldn’t take too long but it’s more than I can handle.”

Annie had encountered this before – clients who tried to deal with their pets’ injuries and illnesses by themselves, only to worsen an already bad situation: dirty bandages stuck over wounds that needed vigorous cleanup and suturing, human medications given to animals whose livers weren’t meant to metabolize them , oils and ointments applied where they did more harm than good. She sighed, knowing that in most cases these cleanups required more time and effort to treat than the original wounds would have done. The dogs at home would have to wait a little longer for their fire and couch time.

“No problem, let’s go on into room one, “ Annie gestured at a door across the waiting room. As the man gently scooped up the box, a faint snuffling noise escaped from within, and he bent over the top, making the wordless, crooning noises with which one would soothe a restless foal. He carried the box ahead of her into the exam room, stepping carefully as if not to jar his burden.

With a habit born of 10 years of practice, Annie sized him up as she followed him. He was dressed mostly in shades of brown – a shapeless felt slouch hat that reminded her of one worn by Ian Anderson on an old Jethro Tull album cover, Heavy Horses, she thought; a coat that in better days might have been a fine tweed woolen hacking jacket; worn brown corduroy pants and scuffed leather farm wellingtons. Even his hair and beard were brown, though liberally sprinkled with grey. He might have been any resident in the township, but she was still pretty sure she had never seen him before. When he turned to look at her through slightly askew, thick wire rim glasses, his hazel eyes appeared worried, but gentle and benign.

He set the sagging carrier gently on the examination table and opened the top.

“OK, “ Annie said, “Let’s see what you’ve got in here.” She leaned over to peer into the box and felt her jaw drop.

Inside, wrapped comfortably in the folds of a portion of blue woolen blanket, was a fox-sized, perfect horse. When it shifted and blinked in response to the exam light’s beams, she saw with an increasing sense of wonder that a pair of wings were folded along its body.

She stepped back, took a deep breath, and looked up to meet the eyes of the owner, who was surveying her with a slightly amused expression . She struggled to find the shreds of her bedside – or as she liked to call it, cageside manner.

“Well, Mr. --------------“ she began questioningly but he remained silent, “---sir,” she went on, “what exactly seems to be the problem?” Her mind was already racing beyond the sense of unreality, switching into a mode of professional assessment. The what do I call this thing? She wondered, was quiet but alert, showing no major signs of stress or pain. It gazed up with liquid dark eyes at the humans as the man reverently reached into the box, stroked its satiny white coat, and gently shifted its weight from one side to the other, revealing now what Annie had not been able to see before: a ragged, bloody tear marred the perfection of the gleaming hide.

Still.....Annie’s mind pushed beyond the sense of unreality that insisted on screaming at herpushing on on to do what she always did when confronted with new situations: to hurriedly extrapolate data from similar cases with which she had already dealt. Always, always, the first step was to be certain the patient was stable, perform as complete a physical assessment as possible, and formulate a plan to deal with the problem at hand. The other stuff, she told herself, you can figure out later. Like, are you awake or dreaming?

Tentatively she reached into the box. “May I?”

The patient struggled to its feet , shook itself deliberately and stood steadily on the blue wool. She saw that, unlike the miniature horses of her previous experience, it was perfectly, gracefully proportioned. This was no form of dwarfism. The tiny equine was perfect.

Dog Physics Lesson One Proof

Addendum to Dog Physics Lesson One, "Dogs at rest tend to remain at rest."

As demonstrated here, the Unholy Trinity is STILL at rest."

Concerning Cows

“Reproduction is a luxury function,” declaimed the professor from the podium in the vet school lecture hall. It is one of the few statements from my college days that has stayed with me, verbatim (along with “most cases of spontaneous vomiting in dogs resolve in 24 hours with or without treatment” but that’s a whole other story). Essentially, without access to the proper nutrition, a species has difficulty propagating. Kind of a no-brainer, but it took a close association with a less-than-well-run dairy farm to truly illustrate the point.

Dan Houndshell ran just such a farm on the outskirts of the practice territory where I worked during my first year as a veterinarian. He was a spare, sour man whose thin, windswept fields were overgrazed by too many thin, windswept cows. It came as no surprise that these underfed creatures had more than their share of fertility problems and production issues, so hardly a week went by without our receptionists hearing Dan’s dry, unemotional voice on the other end of the phone asking for assistance for yet another patient. We had advised him numerous times that reducing the number of cattle in his herd and feeding them better would have resulted in the same milk yield, but the suggestions fell on deaf ears, and he persisted in the practices he had known for years, if not generations.

I had been working for Larry Smith for several months when he announced that he was ready to take a few days’ vacation – probably the first he’d had in years, since before my arrival he had been a sole practicioner and in addition had helped run his own family’s cattle farm all this time. Apparently he thought enough of my performance as a neophyte vet thus far that he felt comfortable leaving me in charge, or perhaps he was just desperate for a break. Whatever the case, he and his wife Sharon duly packed up their belongings and disappeared , leaving the entire responsiblilty of keeping our busy practice running smoothly squarely on my – in my opinion – insecure shoulders. Hoooo, boy. I squared said shoulders, hunkered down and hoped for a routine week. I’m sure the staff did the same.

(To tell you the truth, I’d like to be a time-traveling fly on the wall and travel back to those days so I could listen to their conversations about me when I was out of earshot. Knowing what I know now, it’s easy to imagine the exchanges:
“Oh my God, she’s so slow, we’ll never get out of here on time.”
“She’s probably never castrated a horse in her life.”
“I just hope Dan Houndshell doesn’t have some sort of emergency.”)

Needless to say, it wasn’t long before the phone rang, Judy the receptionist took the call and, putting her hand over the receiver, looked at me woefully. “It’s Dan Houndshell,” she explained, “and he wants Larry to come out and infuse some cows. What do we tell him?”

Dairy cattle, particularly unhealthy ones, are susceptible to uterine infections which can render them infertile. In the days when I was working for Larry, treatments ranged from placing large tablets, known as pessaries, into the reproductive tract, to actually flushing out the uterus with antibacterial solutions. They weren’t difficult procedures and, though I hadn’t practiced them since school, I knew I could do the work. I mustered up my best authoritative voice and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Dan,” I said, “this is Dr. Burk. Dr. Smith is out of town but I can come out and treat your cattle, let’s see, tomorrow afternoon around one.”
There was a long silence from the other end of the phone and then Dan drawled, “Well, Cher, I know you need the practice, but I’d like Larry to do it.”

Amazing. That master of sparse dialog had managed to insult me twice in a single sentence. Not only had he – as usual – called me Cher, a reference to my ridiculously impractical long curly hair and my beaky ornamental nose, but he had inferred – the nerve of him! – that I actually needed practice! I was incensed. I informed him shortly that Larry would be back at the end of the week and he’d have to call back then, hung the phone up with rather more force than necessary (this was in the days before cell phones that you could actually throw across a room), and stamped angrily around the clinic.

“I hope one of these days he has a big emergency and I’m the only one available,” I fumed to the staff. “It’d serve him right” (how, I wasn’t sure: to be forced to swallow his pride and actually need ME, or to have the inept bumbler that I was certain I was at the time fooling around with his cows).

Be careful what you wish for.

A quiet half hour went by but as luck or the fates would have it, when the phone rang it was Dan on the line again with, of all things, a dystocia.

The term dystocia means difficult birth – in any species. In cattle it can involve as simple a resolution as straightening a calf’s turned-back head, or unfolding a leg; conversely, it can be as difficult a situation as a young heifer trying to give birth to an oversized calf when she is barely more than a youngster herself. I used to call these last ones “teenage pregnancies,” and they were a nightmare, because either way you were in for possibly hours of sweaty work if the calf was alive or worse, a fetotomy – the messy business of cutting the baby up into manageable pieces while still inside the cow – If it was already dead.

I sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter as I gathered up my equipment and traipsed out the clinic door, clouds of dreary premonition massing into a mental storm and trailing behind me. I assumed the worst. It would be a fetotomy, and I would mess it up. Like many other farmers, Dan would have fooled around so much already in trying to resolve the problem himself that the vaginal tissues would be swollen, even torn, depriving me of much-needed landmarks. There were no two ways about it. With my luck, I was doomed.

What always worried me in these situations was the sure and certain knowledge that the farmer, having worked with cattle for at least several hundred years longer than I had done, would already have tried every trick in the book. What did I, a little horse owner, know that they didn’t?

The ride to Dan’s was pretty grim, and it the situation grew even darker when he had explained that – of course – he had tried to pull the calf himself, using both that interesting tool surely derived from medieval torture instruments known as the “come-along” and, of course, his trusty John Deere tractor, all to no avail.

Glumly he led me to my patient, and I began to feel a little better. This big black and white Holstein was no first-calf heifer; she was a milk cow in her prime, or what passed for prime on Dan’s poor farm. Yes, she had two hind legs protruding from her vulva, but she was a large, full-grown cow – there ought to be enough room to move a couch in there, I thought, much less a calf. Puzzled but not yet terrified, I pulled on a plastic palpation sleeve, liberally basted it with sterile lubricant, and began to sort out the situation by sliding my hand into the cow’s vagina. I forgot Dan standing behind me with his arms crossed in disapproval. I forgot the dirty barn and the cold afternoon wind. I forgot that I was about to look like an inept bumbler in the presence of an experienced farmer who didn’t believe a “girl vet” had a place on his farm anyway. I held my breath and closed my eyes; it seemed that the only part of me that even existed at that moment was my plastic-covered hand, sliding blindly between the two bony legs and into the dark tunnel of the cow’s reproductive tract.

When my elbow had disappeared, I stopped, puzzled. This was clearly a breech birth; the presence of two knobby hocks protruding from the cow told me that, but where I expected to meet the calf’s tail my hand continued to slid deeper into the cow.

And then in the blink of an eye it all became clear and I swear, I heard the Halleluia Chorus being sung by angels in coveralls, probably conducted by a seraph with a pitchfork. My hand was sliding between two different hind legs. There were two calves, and Dan had been pulling on one leg from each calf. No wonder he had been unable to deliver the babies successfully.

I’m pretty sure at that moment a tiny grin of triumph crossed my face, but I managed to maintain my professional demeanor while I pushed one leg back into the depths of the cow, with Dan making sounds of impatience behind me. He was clearly wondering if I’d lost my mind. But I was on a roll now. With one calf pushed out of the way, there was plenty of room in the birth canal for me to fish around, locate the correct pair of hind legs, and deliver the first calf. Being a twin, it was small anyway and it practically fell into my arms when the cow decided that as I had sorted out her problem, she might as well start pushing again. I found the second calf and guided it out as well, then turned to Dan with a satisfied grin. To my surprise, he wasn’t grinning back. Instead, he was grumbling as he worked over the newborns with a filty towel that had seen better days. “Twins never thrive,” he explained. Even then I couldn’t please Dan. But I decided to give it another try.
“Ok, Dan, now that I’m here,” I said and took a deep breath, “how about if I infuse your other cows? Save you paying for another farm call later.”
Now I was talking! He grinned back at last and said, “well, Cher, I’m sure you could use the practice, so go ahead!”

Well, it was a small victory, but it was pretty sweet at that.

Tangling With Toby

So, she's a vet, you're thinking. How come she doesn't write stories about animals? Ah, but she does. Here's one for you.

One Saturday in late summer, I took a break from office hours at the clinic to go up the road to the local food mart for some truck fuel and a deli sandwich. I was pumping diesel into Old Faithful when I heard that fateful sound: “Yow! YOW!” coming at me from across the busy state route. This was no genteel “meow.” It was a yell of desperation.

“Holy crap, “ I thought to my self, “another damn stray cat.” I looked around and sure enough, there he sat, right beside the road, a tiny yellow tabby with white markings and a BIG mouth. Obviously waiting for some civic-minded soul such as myself to rescue him.

“Why do you do this to me?” I shot upward to God as I crossed the asphalt, not really expecting an answer, unless NOT being run over by a semi is an answer. By the time I got across to the far side, my quarry had disappeared into the bushes, but kept “yowing” at me every time I called – clearly wanting help but scared to death. I wasted a good half hour trying to catch him. He would come sooooo close, and then squirt away again.

I finally gave up and headed back to the clinic to resume office hours, planning to return later but fully expecting to find nothing left of him but a banana – colored smear on the road. However, when I returned, he was howling as vigorously as ever from the underbrush. A fruitless hour passed, and I had to be elsewhere, so I left reluctantly but promised him I’d be back. I was troubled but determined.

Next day, Sunday, after a morning horse show I returned to the scene. Same result. At this point I was becoming rather desperate. He was destined to become a yellow-cat pancake if I didn’t succeed, and soon. However, he seemed to know his way through the veritable thicket of scrub trees, weeds and underbrush ( with which by this time I was becoming rather familiar, myself). Finally I realized some change of strategy was in order, and I went home defeated and stewing.

Monday night after office hours, back to the scene: same afforts, same result. By now I was losing sleep and the entire episode was becoming an obsession of epic proportions. A Plan disrupted my fitful sleep around 2 a.m. “Wait a minute, you idiot,” I scolded myself, sitting up in bed and dislodging several small dogs in the process, “you are a VET. You have DRUGS. You can drug him into a stupor!!”. Mulling over the idea to the accompaniment of Pete the lab’s snores, I thought it had a good chance of succeeding.

I sweated each successive hour of the next day until I could leave the clinic late Tuesday afternoon. Armed with some canned cat food, cat sedative and a pillowcase hanging like a ridiculous flag from the waistband of my pants, I sought my quarry. He was there, yowing away at me in answer to my calls of “keeeeety! KEEETTTYY!” I wandered once more into the thicket and the fray.

He was hungry, and wolfed down his allotted portion of drugged cat food with abandon. I waited a few minutes, smacking at some pesky mosquitos who had joined the party. He soon became a little less coordinated, but no slower. I whipped out my cell phone and called the clinic, placing an order for more sedation. An entire bottle, and another can of food. The supplies arrived and I mixed them up into an interesting-looking soup with enough tranquilizer to slow down a whole herd of obese and angry Chihuahuas. No luck. He ate more, but slept not.

Rats. At this point I couldn’t quit, because if he decided to stagger out onto the road, his demise would be entirely my fault. I persevered.

Approximately two hot, humid hours later, when I was about at the end of my rope and he was feeling as mellow as a teenager at a midnight laser Pink Floyd show, I decided on a new tactic: I would hunt the little bastard down like a starving coonhound.

I pushed deeper into the brush, enthusiastically escorted by a growing flock of interested mosquitos. I herded the little mister away from the road. He was obviously a tad less with it than before, and I figured he would eventually make a mistake and I could corner him or run him to ground or something…but the “something” turns out to be scaling a lightening-blasted tree trunk, about 15’ high and riddled with termite damage.

Now picture this: the tree looked like something off a Lord of the Rings movie set. The lightening had split it into three parts – two “horns” of trunk still pointed upright while the majority of the tree – minus its top – had broken off and slid down at a 45 degree angle. My little buddy, or should I say nemesis, was perched at the very top of the trunk, and worried.

The tension rapidly became as thick as the mosquito cloud: I knew it was my last shot and it had to be a good one. I stood precariously with one foot on the rotting stump, some 3’ off the ground, and leaned tentatively along the length of the trunk, hoping it would hold. My quarry was just out of reach. I tried shaking the trunk – a little – and rattling the nearby branches – no luck. He eased close enough to sniff my finger but still wouldn’t let me touch him. He was getting a little bit more comfortable with me – or possibly yet more stoned – but I knew that would go to hell in a handbasket if I had to grab him. However, he was young – how much damage could he do? I’d had worse. I pushed on. I had to risk it, for the sake of my mental health at this point, as well as his life.

I wheedled, pleaded, cajoled, chatted with God, rested, swore, fed the mosquitos and waited. Finally, patience not being my strongest point and definitely worn by then, I broke off a 1/2” thick, 6’ long branch and managed to reach around and rustle it above him. Right behind his butt, in fact. He looked panicky. I rustled harder. Finally I started tapping him with it. He sized up the situation: could he or could he not get over my head? He inched closer and gathered himself….

…What happened after that? I’m not really certain. There was a mad scramble and a drop of several feet. Somewhere in that few seconds I managed to nab him and wrestle him to the ground, he screaming bloody murder the entire time, maybe me, too. I distinctly remember panting to him as he dangled by the scruff of his neck from my hand, “scream all you want, but I’m NOT letting you go!” I whipped the flannel pillowcase out of the waistband of my pants, where it had hung waving merrily all this time, and swaddled him in it. Well, more appropriately, I BAGGED the little devil.

I emerged from the thicket at last, a dirty, bloody mess, pulling twigs out of my hair, wiping the sweat from my eyes, and triumphantly clutching the wriggling, fussing, furious pillowcase. I staggered into the clinic – disheveled but victorious.

As of this writing, my kitten- inflicted scratches and bites have been reduced to mere scars and the little snot is…where is he?...surveying me from the dining room table. He is a handsome 12-pounder named Toby, who has gotten over his shyness so far as to nibble on my knuckles when he wants attention.

You didn’t honestly think I’d give him away after all that work, did you?

Dog Physics Lesson 2

The acceleration produced by a particular force acting on a body is directly proportional to the magnitude of the force and inversely proportional to the mass of the body. (Newton's second law of motion).

Given that, what will happen if/when these two bodies collide (as of course they will...)

A Fable

Once upon a time there was a fair maiden held prisoner by a wicked wizard, for such nefarious purposes as even the Evilist of Evil Overlords among you can only speculate. The wizard's lair was located just a stone's throw from the Town of Deeping (or in the vernacular, Ye Olde Towne of Deeping), and was surrounded by a swamp, creatively known as The Swamp of Deeping (or in the old vernacular, Ye Olde...well, you get it).

Upon this swamp the wizard had placed a number of enchantments, not only to deter ardent suitors who attempted to rescue the maiden (how come you never hear of unfair maidens being rescued? "She cheated at volleyball in gym!!" "Oh, well, she's out, then...") ) and incidentally to protect his collection of Star Wars Action Figures all in the original packages (but that is neither here nor there). Where was I? Oh yes, of all the fearsome enchantments one could possibly encounter should one (or more) attempt to traverse the Swamp, the worst by far was that placed upon the fallen timbers that lay half submerged within the foul, murky waters (what did you expect, a crystal-clear spring??). To an observer these logs appeared to be in terrible pain, for they groaned and sighed (and sometimes sang old Captain and Tenille songs) at all hours of the day and night, and should any erstwhile hero attempt to rescue the maiden by stepping on this collection of waterlogged limbs, they would rear up, entwine him in their branches, beat him to a pulp and drag him into the inky depths, never to be seen again.

Now as it happened, one day there came a young man whose purer heart (and Cheerios Secret Decoder Ring)had allowed him to bypass the majority of the canny old wizard's spells. Past the choking grapevines, past the flesh-eating fish, past the flying monkeys (oops, wrong story) he went, until all that stood (or lay) between him and the fair maiden was a seemingly harmless causway of wood. However - he had heard of this enchantment, and so rather than step across the groaning, wheezing logs, he tiptoed carefully in between them - the water was, conveniently, not so deep after all - rescued the fair maiden and lived, as you may expect, happily ever after.

Years later, whenever his children and grandchildren plied him for the story of how he rescued the fair maiden, he would puff on his pipe, stretch out his feet to the fireplace and say, "Why, it's very simple. I just let Deeping's logs sigh."

**************************************************************************

Now, did you see that coming, or not?

This fable comes to mind in response to a recent comment posted about the essay, recently posted on this blog, about Barn Coats. Persons who apparently have entirely too much spare time on their hands have been wondering, at what moment does a seemingly innocuous coat metamorphose into such a garb as can then be elevated to Barn Coat status, and just exactly what does it take, they ask, to make it so? The final proposition was that the wearer had something to do with it as well.

And of course I couldn't let it go. In stewing over this conundrum - and I HAVE been stewing, through horse feeding, trash-can retrieving, outdoor Christmas UNdecorating, and laundry - put succinctly, how much crap must be put into, and rubbed onto, a Barn Coat, and how long must it be worn so, the actually become a, or rather THE Barn Coat? And does this crap put INTO the Barn Coat include the wearer?

I submit that the whole thing is probably a chance combination of all the right elements at the right time (not unlike the Big Bang, but fortunately on a much smaller scale, or it would blow the closet apart...) and indeed the wearer probably provides the final catalyst...

...you didn't think I would just let that post go, did you??
(Heeheeheeheeheeeeeeee!!!)

The Barn Coat

I have discovered that while we horse owners converse or write at length about our favorite ponies, our trailers, our tack, our show clothes, even our long-suffering spouses, we have blatently ignored that most important item each and every one of us owns...the item completely taken for granted that nonetheless completes every equine enthusiast's wardrobe: The Barn Coat.

It comes in a variety of weights and colors (depending upon local weather conditions, owner preferences, and whatever was cheapest, free or inherited from someone else), and it may or may not be the coat we actually ride in, but it is de rigeur apparel for stall cleaning, grooming, feeding and visits by the vet or farrier.

My theory that Barn Coats are - like dogs - genetically identical despite variations in their outward appearance evolved several years ago while I was visiting a friend after work. For whatever reason (or perhaps none at all) we decided to mosey out to her barn, so she loaned me HER Barn Coat. I put it on, automatically shoved my hands in the pockets (which were right where they needed to be, of course), and discovered that The Coat felt and smelled (!) exactly like mine. While I didn't take inventory, I'd bet a sizeable portion of my income that her Barn Coat Pockets contained, as we say in southwest Ohio, the "exact same" items as mine. In short, her coat felt just like home.

My current Barn Coat (see photo, taken somewhere in the last century, approximately 1995), belonged to my father, whose passing in 1990 elevated it to the status of holy relic. Mom gave it to him for Christmas around 1972, so by my reckoning it is at least 35 years old . It's a three-quarter length, fleece - lined Levi's denim model, still held together by its original stitching and whatever nameless goo has been ground into it over the years.

I wash it once a year whether it needs it or not (it usually does), but at its advanced age I view its annual bath with some trepidation; I'm never sure whether it's going to come out of the washer in one piece or dozens. In deference to its geriatric state I use the gentle cycle; this of course is no match for smears of hoof dressing, spots of betadyne, molecules of manure, horse hair, dog hair and particles of hay dust...a biochemical mixture which probably turns into a sort of glue when agitated in warm water. In fact, I suspect this is actually what preserves the aging cloth, and have considered peddling this formula - once I nail it down - to art conservators who deal with antique tapestries.

Whatever the reason, The Coat seems to be made of iron, and I think there is every likelihood it will outlast several washers. Not washes. Washers.

I have to wash it at home, of course. Any self-respecting laundromat manager seeing and smelling the thing would meet The Coat and me at the door and send us both packing.

The laundry soap commercials would impress me a lot more if, instead of demonstrating their soaps' effectiveness on mud-and-fruit-punch stained kids, they attempted to tackle Barn Coat stains.

However, as any horse owner knows, the Barn Coat is much more than a garment designed for warmth and protection from the elements. Because...it has pockets.

About ten years ago, before I got into the habit of giving it a yearly bath, I decided to take a formal inventory of my Barn Coat pockets (Ok, so it was one of those icy January days in which I had entirely too much free time on my hands). The items I discovered and listed filled an entire notebook page - both sides. I was amazed at how much easier my walk to the barn became after I had divested my Coat of apporximately 20 pounds of "stuff" though in subsequent weeks about 15 pounds of "really necessary stuff" found its way back into the pockets.

As I viewed the list and the pile, I began to truly appreciate the many functions of the miraculous Barn Coat:

It is a portable tool box (wire cutters, two screwdrivers, and a pocket knife; a pantry (if you crave last year's candy canes, six month old chewing gum, or a worn-around-the-edges Milk Bone); a linen closet (assorted rags); a first aid kit (two Band-Aids, one used and a wrinkled tube of eye ointment), a bank, and an occasional cat bed. And oh yes, a repository for Lost Items (my best suture scissors). If the truth be told, the Holy Grail is probably in somebody's Barn Coat (Barn Cloak?), somewhere.

I found surgical instruments that had disappeared years previously. Rolls of Vet Wrap mashed to the density of granite (and speaking of granite, several "neat rocks" picked up on the path to the barn). Fencing material sufficient to repair a five acre pasture. A "chestnut" (for you non-equestrians, this is a part of horse anatomy of callous-like consistency located on a horse's legs) peeled off my gelding's leg and stashed away to keep the dog from eating it now and upchucking it later in the living room in front of New Years' Eve party guests. Enough Kleenex (only slightly dirty) to mop up a classroom of first graders during cold and flu season (and hey, is that lint -covered thing a cough drop?). Gently cushioning it all, having worked its way past $18.73 in loose change - presumably to pay for a parking space at the barn? - to the very bottom of each pocket, was approximately half a bale of prime mixed alfalfa-orchard grass hay. And - wait for it - a hoof pick.

On any given day, my personal Barn Coat will also contain a broken dog leash and a half-full tube of horse wormer. My friend Yolonda added that hers was not complete without a "gross, slimy" tube of Chapstick, and also noted that matching buttons - or even a complete set of buttons - were NOT a a requirement for a good Barn Coat. After all, you can always hold the thing together with baling twine - which of course is in one of these pockets, somewhere...

Despite its frayed sleeves and a permanent crust of what I fervently hope is just dirt, but from which several useful vaccines and a cure for the common cold just might be developed, my Barn Coat looks to be around a while longer. Amazingly, the coat has not yet exhibited even that first symptom of Terminal Barn Coat Disease: ever-widening holes in the pockets that allow their contents to hemorrhage into that hinterland between the lining and the outer shell, never to see the light of day again.

I had occasion several years ago to treat a young relative of our pastor's to a midwinter horseback ride. Of course, in my concern that everything was safe and comfortable, I forgot to change from my Barn Coat to my Official Riding Coat (which might one day become a Barn Coat in its turn, although right now it is still much too clean). The pastor took one look at my Coat and offered to perform an exorcism on the spot (I declined, cackling evilly with my head spinning on its axis...).

Remember that scene in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, where Bugs spots a Scottish Elmer Fudd playing the bagpipes? Mistaking the bagpipes for an attacking monster, Bugs tries to wrestle the instrument to the ground. If my Barn Coat should ever make a noise, I think that will be all the excuse my dogs need to do the same thing in my defense. And it won't be pretty.

Regardless of the shock value of its appearance, I think I'll keep my old friend going a while longer. However, as time goes by I can't help but give some thought to what actions would be appropriate when my Barn Coat has outlived its usefulness. I am wavering between cremation and a decent burial, but I'm not kidding myself; there's every possibility, at this rate, that my Barn Coat will outlive me.


I recently settled onto the living room couch to watch (for the umpteeth time) the finale of the Lord of the Rings movies. I sincerely believe that if Frodo had concealed the One Ring in the pocket of a Barn Coat, the story could have been told in three chapters, instead of three volumes. Of course, the Fellowship would probably have been trailed anyway by the horses of the Dark Riders, irresistably drawn to the scent of hay, peppermints and old cookies also residing in the pockets!

I'm thinking I should notify the Levi Strauss company. I'm available for endoresments, and so is the Coat, but it insists on signing its own contract.