Snuffling, Slobbering, Shedding

My Saturday list of things-to-do was long. I made coffee while mentally preparing for the hard work of getting my husband to help me spading through and weeding out the old garden. It would be challenging since we're expanding the garden area this year.

I sat down with my coffee and opened my email to see a notice from a friend of a friend on Facebook Marketplace:  "FOR SALE:  Handsome 6 month old bulldog. We're a missionary family of 6 traveling in a travel trailer and he just needs more space." It had been posted the day before.

I looked at the pictures and tears sprang into my eyes while my heart went thumpity-thump. "I could buy him today," I thought. I had been saving money to take Jack, our 1 1/2 year old Paint, to the vet to be gelded. "Springfield, Missouri, is what, three hours away?" I wondered. "We could drive there and back today and still be home by early afternoon."

My husband emerged from the bedroom and I didn't even say good morning. "Pancho, come here. You have to see this!" He looked at the pictures and suggested I call the owners to see if they'd already sold him.

They hadn't. So ended the Saturday To-Do list.

So here's the new baby.

He looks a lot like Buster Brown, our faithful friend of 9 years who died last year.

For two years now, an adopted Boston Terrier has lived with us.  His name was Buster, also, when we adopted him, so until Buster Brown died, we had two dogs named Buster. People used to ask me, "Do they both come running when you call them?" But no, once they figured out they had the same name, when I called, "Buster!" they thought, "She probably meant the other one." And neither of them came.

The missionary family who raised him from an infant named him "Big Boss," and affectionately called him Bosster.

Bosster. Buster. We tried to call him Boss or Bosster on our drive home from Springfield, but kept accidentally calling him Buster. Pancho said, "His dad's name is "Brightbull's Blaze of Glory," and he has that blaze of white across his back, so we should just call him Buster Blaze."

So it is.

An affectionate dog, Buster Blaze has taken to all of us very well, even Jack. Jack says, "Hey Bud, thanks for saving me from The Operation of Doom."

"Yeah, pal," says Buster Blaze. "You owe me."

Forgiving and Being Forgiven

My sister and I play an ongoing game which began about fifteen years ago. I have come to think of it as The Worst Sister game. Each round ends when one of us calls the other in confession and exclaims, “Ha! I win!” The prize is the Most Horrible Person award. It’s kind of a sick game, really, I know, and we probably need professional help. (That much is certain, my husband is thinking.)

The one rule is that we can’t win intentionally, or by being our worst selves:  losing our tempers, saying ugly things, acting out in anger or frustration. No, the Most Horrible Person prize can be awarded only when failure has sneaked up and surprised us with mistakes, misunderstandings or memory lapses at which we are shocked and suddenly panicked. “What? Oh no! How did that happen!?”

Through the years, the “Ha! I win!” moments have come after missed appointments that were significant, gifts, actions, or motives that were misunderstood by others, advice given that went wrong, and forgotten special events.

I am the current holder of the award, the most recent winner. My round of play was so terrifying, so horrendous, that my sister’s response on the phone after my painful retelling was a quiet, “Oooh. I would never do that.”

Well, no, she didn’t really say that. Those are the words I heard in my head as I confessed to her the situation, my shame so great. She would never do what I did; I would never do what I did; no one would intentionally do what I did!

So, ha, my dear and only sister. I win.

My misdeed was a forgotten appointment, an important one. It could have had tragic and long-lasting consequences. Thankfully, it didn’t. But my unintentional failure troubled and offended someone important to me.

Of course I begged forgiveness. She would forgive me, but said she needed a little time. No doubt. Perfectly understandable. I felt humiliated and incredulous at my forgetfulness. I fell into a tailspin of uncertainty about remembering anything. I purchased and devoured a book titled, Why We Make Mistakes, searching for explanations and insight and help for the future. I furiously updated all calendars, computer alarms, phone alarms, and alarm clocks for even the most insignificant events and appointments.

I realized, then, after I fixed anything I could fix, that what I wanted and needed most was something entirely out of my control:  her forgiveness. And more:  her forgiveness and our reconciliation.

It took me some time to forgive myself. I relived the event of That Day again and again, but the reality would not be undone no matter how many alternate scenarios my mind constructed. That event, though, could not control my life or summarize who I was. My options were to see myself as a failure, or to see the event as a failure.

In only a few days, she came to me with forgiveness in her eyes, healing the wound of my shortcomings with an ointment of affirmation, affection, and confidence in me. She asked gently, “Would you be willing to try this again next Monday?” And I welcomed the bright grace of her restoration.

Thomas Merton said, “We do not really know how to forgive until we know what it is to be forgiven. Therefore we should be glad that we can be forgiven by others. It is our forgiveness of one another that makes the love of Jesus manifest in our lives, for in forgiving one another we act as He has acted towards us.”

Though I am the consistent winner of the Most Horrible Person award in The Worst Sister game, I have repeatedly been the recipient of a different and altogether valuable prize:  forgiveness. Whether I receive it for my unintentional failures or for my worst behaviors, being forgiven replaces stagnant regret with a wellspring of charity and gratitude that bubbles up, clean, glad, bright, alive, spilling out and washing onto the souls of those involved in their own dark Worst Person games, wounded and defeated by their own set of failures. Experiencing forgiveness, both given and received, is experiencing the Divine.

A Great Deal for Gardeners

Lately, what I know is horse poop.

I heard you snicker, but I’m being serious here. Now that we own two horses, if I don’t regularly remove the fertilizer from the field, the aesthetic of the pasture suffers. So I muck not only the horse barn, but the entire pasture, as well. It looks tidier, and I have learned that there are other benefits of manure management.

I have no recollection of ever considering this subject previous to horse ownership. It would have fallen into my neural file folder titled “To Avoid.”  But I have discovered it has elemental and organic characteristics that I appreciate.

I remove at least eight large muck buckets full of manure per week. That’s upwards of 300 lbs. every seven days. It isn’t malodorous. It doesn’t stick to your shoes or boots. It crumbles underfoot. Mixed with summer’s grass clippings, fall’s dry leaves, and hay, it quickly decomposes into a nutrient rich material that improves soil structure, texture, aeration, and water retention. In the past, I paid good money to gardening centers for large bags of this same material to enrich my flower and vegetable gardens.

On eBay today, one can purchase field aged, shredded horse manure from Colorado as a “superior substrate” for growing mushrooms. A 10 lb. bag costs $25.00 and ships for $16.94.

So have I got a deal for you:  I will sell you 10 lbs. of Oklahoma specially composted organic horse manure for only $20.00 (shipping $16.94). If you’re local to the Northeastern Oklahoma area, you can just come by and pick it up to save the shipping fees. I’ll reduce the price if you buy larger quantities, and I might help you shovel it into bags.

So come on by. You won’t find me growing mushrooms, though. I’m too busy managing the manure.

“Motivated Seller - price is negotiable. Make me an offer!”

Unexpected Company

It was close to midnight, with no moon. The temperature gauge read 21 degrees and winds were steady at 20 mph, making it seem much colder. My husband and I were sleeping.

RAP-rap-rap RAP RAP! Someone insistently knocked at the door. I startled out of bed, threw on my robe, and raced to the front door.

“Yes? Hello?” I was puzzled to see the deputy sheriff standing on the porch with a large flashlight.

“Sorry to bother you,” he began, “but there are five horses running loose a way down the street. Are you missing any horses?”

I asked him to shine his flashlight toward the round hay bale in the pasture, and there were Tango and Jack, seemingly oblivious to the wind-chill factor and time of night, munching contentedly.

I wondered if they belonged to the neighbors down the street who also own horses, and the deputy left in his Suburban to ask them the same question.

After he left, I got my flashlight and saw the loose horses walk across the street and into the field next to our pasture. Tango and Jack, friendly beasts, sauntered to the fence and apparently invited the guest horses for a chat, so all seven stood near the pasture gate, sizing each other up in the starlight. I put my jacket on over my robe, having decided to secure the horses in our pasture for the night, and headed out into the cold.

As I walked toward the gate, the deputy returned and helped me begin herding the horses through the gate. Along came the neighbors, who didn’t know who owned the horses, but brought a bucket of grain to help catch them. We got all five into our pasture where they safely passed the night.

At dawn I awoke to the sound of galloping. All seven horses raced around the pasture with massive Tango in the lead, Jack at his flank, and the five rescues close behind. Perhaps Tango and Jack were running away from the new pasture pals, for the Alpha-Mare of this small herd has turned out to be a demanding guest. She has hogged the feed, kicked at her friends, and nagged her hosts until nimble Jack jumped the fence to flee her pestering; Tango simply retreated and stood with his back to her.

They’re not exactly the kind of guests you can politely ask to “Move along, now.” Nor can we reason with the Alpha-Mare that she should try to get along with her hosts. So for now, we have separated Jack and Tango to our fenced back yard and have contacted local veterinarians about the runaways. The Sheriff’s Department suggested I call the Humane Society, and a local Internet “Lost and Found” announcement garnered several offers of help.  

Some have suggested that their owner may have turned them out intentionally, but I hope that is not true.  Until we are sure of what to do if no owner appears, our unexpected guests get to enjoy plenty of water, good food, and a safe place to rest.

A Gentle Giant

Meet Tango.

He is the new horse in our pasture.

Tango is a Shire, and colossal.

Our paint yearling, Jack, is “clacking” -- a behavior in which a baby horse sidles up to an older horse and clacks his teeth or tongue. In essence, Jack is saying to Tango, “Please. Give me a break. I’m just a baby. Don’t hurt me even though I am probably annoying you.”

(“Give me a break, even if I’m annoying.” I think I recall clacking this to my parents when I was a teenager.)

Tango accepted Jack and has shown him mercy.

Tango, bless his big heart, has done the same for us.

 

He’s calm when we bridle him.

(GAACKK! Not so tight!)

He’s tolerant when we saddle him up.

He’s gracious when the neighbors ride him.

 

He’s sweet when the kids ride him.

 

He’s a dream when the grandsons ride him.

 

He’s gentle when the granddaughters ride him.

He’s accommodating when Jack butts in.

He’s a good natured,

photogenic,

 

loveable,

 

big boy.

A Bad Case of EVB

My husband and I just returned from a cruise around the Western Caribbean. It was his first cruise, and he is hooked. But now we’ve got EVB; we’ve got it bad. EVB:  that’s “End of Vacation Blues.” It began incubating toward the very end of our trip and blew into a full-blown textbook case the day after we arrived home.

Our cruise was supposed to include stops at Jamaica, Grand Cayman, and Cozumel. But we sailed into a cycle of tropical storms that created 10’ Gulf swells, rain, and 50-knot winds.

But we were not discouraged.  

We had a great room.

With a balcony.

When it wasn’t raining, we spent a lot of time out there.

 We enjoyed delicious food. Lots of it.

We entertained ourselves quite nicely during four days without internet, cell phones, or obligations.

Somewhere, out in the distance, is Jamaica. We didn’t get to stop there and do the zip line over the tree canopy outside of Montego Bay. So long, Jamaica.

We saw flying fish, though, from the balcony during a break in the weather.

And that island over there? That’s Grand Cayman. That’s as close as we got; strong winds prohibited us from tendering, so the port was closed. We didn’t get to snorkel, swim, or take the Atlantis submarine to see life under the sea.

So long, Georgetown. Maybe next time.

The fifth day of our cruise, though, the seas calmed, the sun shone, and we were able to stop at the La Isla de Cozumel.

 We saw Mayan ruins at Tulum.

 We had some beach time.

 Not nearly enough beach time.

So long, Cozumel. Until next time.

So now we’re home. With EVB. Where’s our cabin steward? I have to make my own bed now, and vacuum. And there is no turn-down service. And where’s our chef, and our entertainment director?

And how about the nice young man who brought the tray of Fun Drinks even when we just thought about it? Sigh.

My husband thinks the only cure for our EVB is to move to Playa del Carmen, a beautiful seaside village in Yucatan that captured our fancies.

We still wouldn’t have a chef, a cabin steward, or a Fun Drink Man. But I’m willing to race for that cure.

Moments in Marriage: Thirty-Six Years

It was love for the grandchildren that made us return from our 5-day anniversary getaway.  Pure, sacrificial love. If we hadn’t come home, I can just imagine all our young granddaughters asking, “Why didn’t Mimi and Papi come home? Don’t they miss us?” And yes, we would have missed them, and the grandsons, too.

But our 36^th wedding anniversary celebration was indeed a celebration. A private celebration of us.  And we didn’t want it to end.

We had taken our hiking gear because Arkansas has some great trails.

But the cabin we had chosen for our getaway was so secluded we felt the entire world was our own. Think Adam and Eve.

So once we got settled in, we didn’t leave it until check-out time.

The weather was so pleasant we kept the doors open to hear the sounds of the woods and enjoy the soft breezes that blew through the valley.

We enjoyed sunrises.

And moonrises.

And views from the hot tub.

In a long-term marriage, you have to nurture the magic that brought you together in the first place. You have to put some personal work into being fascinated with your partner and being fascinating to your partner. Emotionally. Physically. Intellectually. Spiritually.

But the pay-off is a rare depth that many have not or will not experience. A long-term marriage gives you the opportunity to appreciate how far your partner has come, the entire person he is, and who he is becoming. Developing an openness together to dynamic change and growth is both inspiring and comforting.

In thirty-six years, our shoulders together have borne burdens, and I expect that labor is not done. But our lives are still open to small, calm pleasures that are not rare, and our hearts continue to dance in the joy of being together.

We continue to enjoy a celebration of us.