"2011 Top 10!"

I was listening to NPR the other morning on my way to work, and they were discussing the modern tradition of the end of year "Top 10" list. This is where everyone in television, magazine and blog lists their "Top 10  _____!"  Fill in with "movies", "new television series" "albums" "celebrity divorces" etc.
So, I'm listening and thinking "I have a blog. Perhaps I should create my own "Top 10!".
But then, the only good movie I can remember watching this year was "Finding Nemo".
I'm about as hopeless with television shows. Albums? Yikes. Does Chet Baker have anything new on the scene?
Maybe I'm not cut out for "Top 10!".
Then again, my blog isn't about movies or television, celebrity divorces or music albums.

So, I thought, perhaps "Top 10 Cowfeathers Sunsets!" .

Which left me skeptical that anyone would bother looking past number 8.
"Top 10 favorite things that happened in 2011!"
This was a  mistake, because then your choices get fraught with meaning, or terribly bland..." being with my family".

 If I choose #1 as something to do with a child, that would be playing favorites. If I choose it to be something like, well, "adopting Julia" ( the black dog)

 then, I am choosing my animals over my kids. And, really if I'm going to do that, then I should probably choose the big black horse who carried me through my first few horse trials in 25 years, and not the dog that still occasionally poops on the hearth, and dumps over the trash cans.

So, I rejected that idea for my "Top 10!".
And, maybe, I'm not well suited to a list of anything from 2011, because I am not so good at looking back. I get nostalgic and then all macabre. I'm an optimist (okay, the Cowfeathers Farm blog faithful will also know that I'm a horriblilizer), mostly an optimist, so looking forward is much more healthy.
If this blog thing was easier, and readers could more readily respond in the comments section, I could ask for help in choosing my resolution, making a "Top 10 Choices of Resolution for 2012!" But, I can't  even figure out how to comment on my own blog, and I hear it isn't just me that seems to be deficient in this ability. So, I guess I'll decide the choice of Resolution on my own. Which leaves me decidedly without a "Top 10!" in my blog. So much for being NPR caliber.

And, then, I hit on the idea of letting the intrepid readers of this blog choose the "Top 10!. So, (as they say), without further adieu, I present the .....

"Top 10 most popular blogposts on Cowfeathers Farm!"

Posts

Every girl's dream; a Velociraptor of my own. Jan 20, 2011 1,283 Pageviews

Amateurs in The Big Leagues. Jul 30, 2011, 2 comments 145 Pageviews

Love in the Darkroom. Feb 14, 2011 97 Pageviews

The Circle of Life? Yikes. Apr 18, 2011, 1 comment 96 Pageviews

Having a Ball. Apr 6, 2011 78 Pageviews

Shhhh...another horse. Welcome Mikey! May 2, 2011, 1 comment 72 Pageviews

Middlest is thirteen! Jun 14, 2011, 1 comment 68 Pageviews

PuMPkin Show Oct 24, 2010, 1 comment 62 Pageviews

First Day of School! Aug 15, 2011, 2 comments 59 Pageviews

State Fair Accomplished. Aug 2, 2011, 2 comments 59 Pageviews

RamRam vs. Post

 The other day, Cesar, the ram decided that a certain post in the front field where he was spending the day was not to be borne. Let me preface that by writing that the choice is not unusual. Cesar has not prevailed in Ram vs. Post yet, but has won many a battle in Ram vs. Fence Board. Also, victories in  Ram vs. Gate Chain and several minor skirmishes against buckets, salt blocks and feed bins. So, I think his previous failures in bringing down a post had left him with courage right on the sticking spot. Although surely more ragged for it, the post won again. But, this time, Cesar came away with a skinned rambone.

This is the top of his head. He doesn't hold still, ever. So, this is the best shot I got of the skinned place on his rambone. That is my technical term for the ridge of bone between his eyes that he uses for great destruction.

Now, the question is...will it ever heal? This particular part of Cesar gets quite a regular workout. For several days, I have squirted it with healing spray, only to watch him then bash his head into the nearest wall, or, a favorite, the hog panel that separates him from the ewes. I think this is beloved not just because he would like to be close to me- he doesn't bash the panel unless I'm in the ewes pen, but because he can make it move at great velocity, which sometimes make contact with my poor body.

Here he is giving his Himalayan Salt Block a toss. I hung it right at ram height, which sometimes distracts him enough that he can choose to whack at that instead of  drive the hog panel towards my behind as I work with the ewes. The blue ball is his soccer ball. He paws it and then rams at it, It is made of indestructible voodoo materials and has lasted for months now.

The big, woolly blob in the bottom left corner is Dancer. Her head is in the sodium bicarbonate(dish of white stuff). She really is a block of wool with a head and 4 legs. Cesar is getting ready to make a steal of the bicarb.

He has successfully pawed the bicarb into his pen, and is now mashing at it with his head. This will in effect cover his broken skin with bicarb. Very basic.

And this is Dolores, not participating in any of the silliness. As you can see, she is getting the Griffin look from the crutching. I've got her back legs done, and now need to flip her over and get her belly freed of wool. Personally, I would like to think she looks very hopeful that I will do it directly in this photo. Practically, it is more likely she is hoping I will forget that the grain has been given and put more in her bin.

Industry at Cowfeathers. The press has begun!

Well youngest is in industrial mode. He has loaded the dishwasher (his chore this week) and then begun the cookie baking- which is a huge undertaking. There are 11 kinds of cookies, 4 kinds of truffles and bear claws to be created. He's gotten the sugar cookie dough in the fridge and the korova cookie dough as well (korova's are a rich dark chocolate and fleur de sel flaky- cookie...heaven. Dorie Greenspan recipe from Paris Sweets). I sidetracked him to dinner, and while I created a oyster mushroom and shrimp with creamy spinach polenta provencale, he is mixing up a fresh fruit salad of grapefruit, oranges, pineapple and pink lady apples. I like having a cooking partner! Now, if I could just keep him home from school, think of what we could accomplish!

The Marching Band fruit sale delivered their orders this weekend. We are well set for orange and grapefruit everything...juice, salad, peel and eat!

Perhaps my favorite thing about this photo is the strands of time. For instance, the spatula. It is my favorite. Acquired at a yard sale in 1988 or so for my first "household". Everything I had was hand me down, or tag sale. And some were keepers! The Caphalon pan was a wedding gift from Huz friends, Kathleen R. and Dr. Gary. The Revereware pan in the background was a Christmas gift from my grandparents at the end of the eighties, part of a whole set. It is now subbing in for my beloved tea kettle that malfunctioned this week, and forgot to whistle. I, naturally forgot the kettle was on (thus why it had been beloved for its whistle) and it got a bit melty. Threads that tie together all the bits of our lives are all around me. And the dinner was tasty. 

Nesting tree.

My Nesting Tree.

It stands in the corner of my sun-drenched, happy, white room. On it are dozens of nests I've gathered from around the farm, and eggs found on springtime trudges from barn to pastures.  The nests are special in ways other than their provenance. Many of them feature parts of my beloved critters!

One of my most "favoritest" nests. The outside of the nest is from our sheep's wool. the nest structure is of tail hairs from the horse Samantha. The egg inside is an anomaly of smallness laid by one of our chickens.

Moving Day

Am I moving? Yes. It is my main job. I am a professional mover. When Huz calls on the phone and asks what I am up to, my thought is always "I'm moving." Sometimes this even slips out, and he says "What?" and I must explain, lest he thinks me and all my "stuff" will be gone before he gets home. (Which, I think secretly might strike glee into his heart, hopefully not if I was gone, but if some of my "stuff" disappeared..) But, I don't mean "moving" as in trucks and cardboard boxes. I mean moving as in it is what actually occurs all day long.
I move dishes from the dishwasher to the shelves, dirty dishes back to the sink, then move to dishwasher. I move laundry from one room, to the washer, to the dryer and back. I move dirty dog footprints from the kitchen floor, to the sink, the dirt in the sink down the drain. I move backpacks, and reusable shopping bags, bags of horse feed have to move from car to barn, then to feed bins, to be made into manure, which...yep....then gets moved to the manure pile where it composts then gets moved to the gardens. What grows in the gardens must be moved to the kitchen, where it gets made into food, creating dirty dishes that need moving, leftovers that get moved into the refrigerator, and then, if uneaten, move to the chicken house for a treat.
I move books from the library to the house and back again, food from the grocery to the refrigerator, or the pantry. I move newspaper from the kitchen table, the dining room table, the living room, the sunroom and the floor to the recycle bin. Then, I move the recycling from the mudroom to the car and from the car to the Abitibi recycler at the school. I move the shop vac from the mudroom to each room in the house (yes, a 5 HP, 12 gallon shopvac is my vacuum cleaner of choice- did I mention farms are dirty?)  Moving the dog hair, the dried mud, the assorted bits that fit through the hose- the rule if it fits through the hose, and you left it lying around...byebye- it's moved.
I move horses from the paddock to the pasture and back. I move mud from their coats to the floor and then from the floor back out the door- to be applied back on the horses with their next roll. I move hay from the wagon to the loft, from the loft to the ground floor of the barn, from the bale to the stall. I move straw the same way, and then out to that growing pile of nitrogen rich compost. I move electric wire back into place after the sheep make their way through. I move the dog kennel to get to the shelf that holds the extention cords so I can plug in the lights that I moved from the basement (hey, not really. This year my kids did the moving from the basement to the upstairs!) to hang on the Christmas trees that the family moved from Saum's Tree Farm to our house. I move water from the sink to the trees and my neglected indoor plants, including the 4 Christmas cactuses that bloom most of the year, thriving on neglect. And now, I move presents from the pile in the corner of the bedroom to the living room to be wrapped and placed under the tree. Today is Moving Day. Just like any other.

We wish you a merry Crutchmas!

This picture is totally sideways. I can't seem to make it go up and down. But, I timed out on trying, since you probably can't tell what it is anyway.

Well, what time is it?
"CHRISTMASTIME!" You say?
True. But in this case it is also Crutching Time. This is the time of year when I spend a few hours sitting on an upturned bucket patiently clipping the wool off the back end and belly of the ewes. This makes them look like mythical creatures, you know, front end of a sheep, hind legs of a chicken (will post a post-crutching shot when I finish). But it is in preparation for the babies! I don't know when the babies will come. The first possible due date is in January, (January 2) but I suspect they won't lamb until after that. I do think they're pregnant. Well, Dolores, at least is looking a bit wider, especially when she lies down.Dancer is always broad, so harder to assess.  And, yes, we are special with the not knowing thing. Most folks who are sheep centric keep a marking harness on the ram. It attaches like a front baby carrier. When he mounts a particular sheep, she'll get a big orange, or blue, or red, whatnot, streak on the top of her rump. Then, you mark in your records the day(s) she was bred. Then, you count 143 days from then, ( the short side of the gestation period) and you can pretty much know when she will have her lambs. We, on the other hand, feel bad for Cesar, and don't want him to be lonely. So, not only do we not use a marker on the sheep - do I really want blue striped ewes? We also leave him in their company for a long time. So... the last lambing dates will be May 28. But, with the first possible date looming...it's crutching time!
Luckily, as the lambies won't be hanging out with their dad, I don't have to try to crutch the ram. The ewes are more patient.
The crutching process has two parts:

• Get all the wool and twisted bits of oil and poop off the back end of the sheep and around the udders. This is so the lambs don't starve themselves nursing on useless poop teats.
• Don't cut the sheep

That last one is tricky. Wool, by it's nature on these Border Leicesters is thick. This is good for spinning, but bad for blind hacking away with scissors. And, in great contrast, their skin is quite thin. Just a step above bunny rabbit. Thus, if you pull at the wool with one hand and slice with the other, you can quite easily take off elliptical chunks of sheep. Now, I'm not arrogant enough to think this won't happen to me. I am careful, and I work with animal skin for a living, so am attuned to it. Still, I have to pay close attention, and I keep suture on hand. I am pretty handy with sutures- another perk of the job.
If I had clippers this would be a few minute job. and much neater, too. But, an investment in shearing clippers when we have such a small flock has not been a priority. So, instead, the beautiful ewes will look like they were attacked by a rogue lawnmower with a penchant for rear-ends.
And I, instead of baking cookies and making merry, will be systematically chopping off poopwool.
G-L-A-M-O-R-ous...Glamorous, the Glamorous, Glamorous- that's me!

The questionable popularity of velociraptors

• So, I checked the statistics on this blog. I have had over 16,000 views (whatever that means...I guess you can't tell if anyone actually read an entry). The most curious thing is an entry I wrote quite a while back (January 20, 2011 ) to be exact, has the most hits by FAR of any entry in the blog. It seems to have its own cult following if you will. People from Russia, and France and Brazil check this particular blog entry. In all, to date it has had 1,023 views. That means that the one entry has had 6% of all the views total. The entry in question is one called "Every girl's dream; a velociraptor of my own".
• I'm not sure what to make of this. Huz mentioned it might be creepy, like a whole bunch of creepers googling "girl's dream" and then checking my blog to see if perhaps they can acquire a velociraptor in order to be the stuff of girl's dreams. Ew, and although acquiring a gander is certainly a possiblity, I don't necessarily recommend it for many, let alone creepers. If you don't know why, check the blog entry. And, I think it won't attract many girls atall, atall.
• So, I googled "velociraptor" and guessed what popped up? Not my blog. At least not on the first page. But if you add the word "my" or "own", that puts my page right at the tip top. So, this begs the question; how many people google "velociraptor of my own"?  Apparently enough that that one entry has had 156 views this week alone.
• That goose is a hot commodity!
• And, no, I don't know why there are bullet points on all my paragraphs. I suspect there is a voodoo computer reason that is rapidly figure-out-able by any of my children. In the meantime, it is bound to confound readers across the globe, and send derision my way over my lack of voodoo knowledge.

The Horse Shuffle

The horse shuffle. It is a game whereby I try to fit 4 horses into a three horse barn without anyone hurting anyone else or breaking anything. It is a game you can only lose.
So, adding another square on the board, Peaches shuffled to Kendra's house (1/2 mile or so down the road) and Samantha moved back in to Cowfeathers after a year + in Dayton.
Then, I get a call from a gal interested in Peaches. So, I rode her back to the farm last greyness (dawn- night is all about the same uniform grey, spitting rain) knowing she would be a bit dirty, and knowing it was going to get dark quickly, with no warning of a sun actually setting. I walked to Kendras, jauntily swinging my stick,  my helmet perched on my head, and rode Peaches home bareback. She is such fun to ride! Smooth and enthusiastic without being spooky. Why am I selling her? I ask for the thousandth time.
 Because 4 is too many. Because my kids have moved on. Because I, despite all sense in the matter, insist on a challenge.
 She groomed up to her pretty self, really Kendra had done a grand job in keeping her clean despite the persistent foot of muck everywhere, and said "goodbye", swiftly this morning.  I'm terrible at goodbyes, and sent her off for a 30 day trial at a new barn where they teach beginner lessons, trail ride and teach special needs, at risk kids the value of friendship with a horse. Peaches' black and white fuzzy bod has decorated this farm for several years now. I will miss her! But, I do hope she will be loved and ridden and enjoyed.

20 Chickens not a-layin!

The girls are slowin' down. The girls, meaning the hens. At the peak of the laying year, we were getting about 15 eggs a day. Well beyond our consumption capacity, those eggs find their way to the homes of friends and coworkers. Usually, if a shell cracks a bit during collection, I keep it aside, and we use it the next morning for breakfast, but when we are getting so many eggs, I do tend to discard the cracked ones. If you get too many peppers in the garden, you can dry them, freeze them, make pepper jelly. If you get a huge crop of grapes, you can make juice, grape syrup, or, if ambitious enough, wine. You can make extra milk into yogurt or keep it even longer by making cheese.  But, what do you do with excess eggs? Egg jelly, frozen eggs, dried eggs.... yuck. The ancient Chinese apparently preserved their eggs for years, even, by doing things like soaking them in salt and clay. Or, ashes, tea and salt. But, again, yuck. A few centuries back, folks would parboil an egg, coat it in oil and put it in the root cellar. It would "keep" for months, with maybe just a bit of mold. Of course, mold is important for cheese, and I like cheese. But moldy eggs seems like a tough idea to swallow. So, eggs, really seem to best eaten fresh. And, it seems like the season of plenty has past for my little hens. Last year, they were on an egg roll...and laid pretty heavily right through winter. But, as the days have shortened and the temperature has dropped we've started getting a LOT fewer eggs. I look for three or four an evening now.

Now, maybe the fewer daylight hours of nature are not the only thing to blame for our lack of eggs. We started this flock of chickens in the early spring of 2004. That means our eldest hens are a rather mature 7 years of age. This is pretty much past the age when they lay eggs. They might live to be 12, even 15 years old if kept safe and healthy until they're ancient, but the egg laying ship has left the harbor. In fact, commercial laying operations keep hens for 2 years, then off they go to the knackers to feed your dog, or make your McNugget. This is because after the age of 2 it costs more to feed the hen than you can make selling her eggs. We did not raise chicks in 2011. This means the last chick crop here at Cowfeathers was 2010. These are the birds that are still making eggs, with an occasional one here and there from our 3 and 4 year olds. The other 20 birds or so, are just here because we love them. Our eldest ladies, Poppy, Junior, Ebony, Sapphire, Imelda, Pumpkin, Lace...look hale and hearty, no longer pull their weight and are still my favorites. Ebony, a Black Autralorp, is my best singer, and gives me a serenade upon request.

The old ladies stick together. All but the Lakenvelder(second from right) are from the original flock. Ebony is the one giving me the tail end view in this shot. All black and vocal. My mother has an elderly Australorp that sings so well, her name is Aretha.

All our eggs are currently brown. This helps me tell who is laying and who is no longer doing so. We have quite a few Ameraucaunas, and since their eggs are green and blue, not laying. Ditto with our white egg layers. My Cuckoo Marans lay deep chocolate colored eggs...none of those, and no speckled ones either. But, I love the variety of eggs usually in my basket and thus in my carton. So, this spring will need to be a chick spring. Clear out the mudroom and prepare for dust, chick poop and the adorable little peeps and chirps of the fuzzy things. In the meantime, our eggs are precious again. To be savored, not preserved.

Cowfeathers chicks.

You can see the thermometer hanging in top left. 95 degrees for their first week of life, then 5 degrees less each week until they are old enough to go out to the barn.

Here they are as 'tweens. On a field trip to the garden to scratch in the warm spring dirt. Evidently they think the grass would be greener...

Why the Doctor's office is dangerous.

The Christmas Season is upon us. Inescapable, really. For the past year or two, I have felt I have done a somewhat inadequate job of celebrating holidays for the kids. Not really inadequate, that's not the right word. But, I guess not to the level I had previously been able to achieve.  I have started selecting the elements I think make it a special "enough" holiday. Actually, particularly for Eldest, every previous thing ever done for the holiday is a terribly important element. I know I have blogged about this before, but for her, if I made a Buche de Noel rolled chocolate sponge cake with dark chocolate ganache carved into a bark pattern, adorned with meringue mushrooms sprinkled with cocoa dust before....for the Christmas Musicale party, with spiced mulled cider and nineteen different types of cookies...then that should be done again annually. It all becomes ritual in her mind. The parties, movies, theater trips, food treats, tree adornments, decorations.....I wonder if there is a crazed part of me that wants to out-ritual that one. At some point will she say "Gosh, Mom, we shouldn't do that every year...it's too much!"
Well, let's face it. She won.
I can't keep up.
So, this year, brilliant me decided to add another special entity destined to make it to the annals of  Cowfeathers "tradition". It all comes of going to the Doctor. Rarely do I ever sit and peruse a magazine, but at the Doctor's office...I spent some quality time with a Martha Stewart Living magazine in the waiting room, this, friends, is dangerous. MSL is not about time saving. I think the tag line is something like "Living Graciously( through Herculean effort of a large staff of creative, impeccably dressed, impossibly talented people who don't sleep)." But they make it seem so, doable.
So, you can blame it on the Doctor. I decided it was brilliant to give each child an advent gift and bible verse each day in the build up to Christmas Day.
Easy. All I need is 72 tiny, lightweight perfect gifts, 72 gift bags, 72 advent bible verses...and a place to put them all. It took about an hour. Yep. That's all. You should do it too. Really. Easy.
 Aren't I all Martha. Stupid Doctor. That is three weeks I'll not see again. I hope the children remember it always.

They are hung in a window, because I have no wall space large enough, and I don't want the dogs to eat the bags, and all these bags conceal the fact that I haven't cleaned the windows since the corn was harvested.
But, although a picture is worth a thousand words, it also hides a whole lotta secrets.
So, here is the rest of the story. The daybed and window look great, huh?
If I take a picture from farther back...

That's right. Nowhere to sit. The green chair is the designated holding space for the shoe boxes going to the troops for Christmas. The ratty floral chair (I believe in the past year the kids have managed to pull a quarter of the stuffing through holes in the arms) is the holding space for the bags of socks, bottles of Chantilly and packets of hankies going to church for the Christmas Party at the old folk's home. And, turn around.....

The Sofa is the staging area for the bags of clothes and toys going to the family of 6 our 4-H club adopted for our Christmas Giving Party.
I guess, who has time to sit?
There is decorating, baking, shopping and wrapping to do. Trees to pick out, cut down and bring inside, a six foot wreath to create to hang on the barn and can gingerbread be made with rice flour?
But, if nothing else, at least the advent of Christmas is ready.
Now, to go find a late lunch, hook up the trailer, dry off the big black horse and start getting prepared for our jumping lesson- in an indoor arena, the only thing not 4" deep in water and mud. I bet Martha has a indoor arena and a staff that makes it happen. Wonder what she does in the waiting room at the Doctor. Oh, that's right, she probably has a Doctor on staff.

Hunting for Fleas. Your Holiday Gift.

Now that Thanksgiving is over, my kids are ready for Christmas. This is because Christmas means gifts. Gifts are meant to be given, so, here, my blog reading buddies, is a Christmas gift.
It may not be as useful to those of you who live in the great white north, for this is a gift about fleas.
In Ohio, flea season is now. It gets really bad around September, when I begin to notice about half my patients are coming in for maladies such as "chewing on hind end" and "very itchy".
Autumn seems to be the season folks start realizing the cold is coming, and give up on things like flea and heartworm prevention medications. But just because by January we will be in deep freeze doesn't mean the fleas go south for the winter. They LOVE the fall. So, remember that fleas will be around until at least that really deep freeze. The kind when the ground splits into prehistoric looking fissures. And that is OUTSIDE. If you already have a flea infestation in the house, they'll be happy to curl up by the fire (on your cat), grab the Sunday Crossword, and enjoy the winter as well.
The flea 411: The bulk of the fleas out there are the species Ctenocephalides felis. This is the "cat flea". This means that they will preferentially feed on the cat, but aren't adverse to meals from the dog, and if the population gets big enough to make them desperate, you.  Cat= chocolate cheesecake, dog= pecan encrusted tilapia with a side of green beans, you= boiled brussel sprouts.
So, if you have a cat in the house, and a dog in the house, and the dog is itchy and the cat is not, don't fool yourself into thinking the cat doesn't have fleas. The cat is just not reacting to the fleas as strongly as the dog.
There is a protein, called a hapten, in the saliva of the flea that sets off the allergic reaction and causes all the itching. This protein can cause itching for 2 weeks post flea bite. So, if you did have a drive by flea biting and the flea just dropped off and went somewhere else, if your pet is allergic, they could still be terribly itchy for 2 weeks. (over simplifying things, but, yeah, pretty much.)
Does your pet have fleas? Well, if you actually spot one of the suckers, yes. They are small and black, and you cannot squash them between your fingers. You can, however squash them between your thumbnails and they will pop. Gross.
But, if you can't find adults fleas it doesn't mean you don't have fleas. Fleas leave behind poop. This is important, because it is what the larvae will eat to survive. The adult flea sucks blood, and then poops out this little blood pellet. If you find flea poop, you have fleas.
This is how to find flea poop. And, yes, to a Veterinarian, tips on finding flea poop is a gift.
If you have a small pet, try cleaning off the top of your clothes dryer. It is a smooth surface, and it isn't in your kitchen. Now, put Fluffy up there and start rubbing them, scratching them moving their hair all around, back and forth. This will loosen up stuff and make it fall on the dryer. After a bit of this, put Fluffy back on the floor. On the dryer surface will be hair, skin cells and dirt specks, and perhaps, flea poop. Next, take a damp paper towel, and wipe the surface of the dryer clean, then open the paper towel out, lay it flat, and make a cup of tea. In a minute or two, look back at your towel. Hair will still look like hair. Skin cells you can move around with your finger, they won't leave any residue behind. Dirt will look like dirt smudges, but flea poop- that will leave a rust red halo, and if you smear it, will leave a streak of blood on your paper towel. That is flea poop. If you have really good eyes and a nice sample of poops, you will note some of them have a nice healthy "c" shape.
If you have a big pet, dampen the paper towels, lay them out on the floor, do the fur rub thing, and let all the detritus fall to the damp paper towels on the floor below Fido. Make a cup of tea, follow steps as above.
If you find flea poops, bummer.
Merry Christmas! Love, Cowfeathers Farm.

OSU Football. Down the rabbit hole.

I have lived in Ohio, or for this particular blog, "O-H"..."I-O", for more than a decade. And, in this area of central Ohio, at least, there is a deep seated enthusiasm for Ohio State University football. All year 'round, in fact, you can expect that at least a third of the folks you encounter in any given day will be sporting some piece of Ohio State enthusiasm. The expected ball cap, or the "Block O" sweatshirt. But in the fall, this business of dressing up for football gets a bit, well, Seussian. Grown women in sweaters, knit with cartoon renderings of "Brutus Buckeye", the football mascot. Business men in bright red ties with the marijuana doppelganger, the Buckeye leaf, in repeat patterns. Ohio State Crocs- a travesty on so many levels? Large brown nuts interspersed with gray and red plastic beads as necklace wear- not for 5 year old girls, but layers of them on the long term faithful.
Although I do not understand the compulsion to dress thus, I have grown accustomed to the principle. You are outwardly showing your enthusiasm for your school? or at least favorite sports team, by outfitting yourself in a scarlet and gray..... sweatsuit/jacket/hat/sweater/tee/shoe/tie/glove/necklace/manicure/croc/pant/bikini/pajama. As the majority of society can turn up like this on any fall Saturday at work, the mall, the dog park etc. I should have been prepared for the game! I was not.
I should think this small piece of Lewis Carroll's narrative would help;
"Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a very good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) `--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.)
Presently she began again. `I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--' (she was rather glad there was no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) `--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy curtseying as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) `And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.' "
So, we left our little Cowfeathers farm, Huz and I, and headed for the rabbit hole. For me, this began just after leaving the somewhat familiar road of 315N. Then, down, down, I fell, four thousand miles down, I think. Landing amongst the Antipathies, I decided to not inquire as to where I'd landed, as it was written up everywhere. Buckeyes, as the Antipathies are really called. Buckeyes were everywhere. It is very unusual to wear an old green waxed Barbour rain coat and stand out. It is serious blending wear. But here, I felt like Alice after she'd swallowed the cake that made her grow huge. People don't go to these things without the outward declaration of affinity; I was not in scarlet, gray, or even the navy of the Nittany Lions.  At the same time, I felt like Alice after she'd drank the bottle of liquid and shrank to only inches tall. We were surrounded by a crush of Buckeyes. A sea of scarlet red. I clung tightly to Huz's hand, for he was the rabbit. He was not lost, he was not overwhelmed by the mass o'Bucks.....he was in red. Block "O" hat, scarlet red OSU sweatshirt. He was with his peeps, these Antipathies, and had brought me along.
A few notes on Tail Gating.
Note 1. When I was a youngster, we would pack the family up in the Country Squire station wagon, and drive to West Point, N.Y. to watch Army play football. We would tail gate. This meant putting the tail gate down on the station wagon and having a warm chili supper in the frosty fall sunshine.
Tail Gating, Note 2
At University, I went to University of Richmond, followed by North Carolina State University, I went tail gating, mostly at UR. This was driving to the Spider's "Stadium" (akin to an average Ohio high school amenity) and standing around in the parking lot, dressed in pearls and Ray Bans, Benetton sweaters and low heels, boys in khakis and ties, drinking cheap beer out of plastic cups.
Tail Gating Note 3.
 That is not Tail Gating at OSU. This is a whole new ballgame. I realize this after passing through parking lot after parking lot jammed with scarlet and gray painted school buses, massive motor palaces and acres of tents, all with huge flat screen TV's outside showing football games, tables with huge buffet spreads of high cholesterol foods and liquor bottles ripe for the mixmaster to fix up your poison. Nary a Country Squire nor a Benetton sweater in sight.
As we neared the stadium, as the crowd thickened, we heard TBDBITL. Actually, pronounced as "tibidill", this is the moniker given to the Ohio State Marching Band. It stands for "The Best Damn Band In The Land". And, in my opinion, is a well deserved, if strange, name. They were marching into the stadium, playing as they went. Absolute precision in everything they do. We got as close as we could to the band, me jumping up and down to try and see, just like a little kid at a parade. We spotted Sarah, a euphonium player,  one band member friend, but couldn't find Ben, who plays trombone. Then, my rabbit Huz grabbed my hand tightly and off we raced (okay, careened off the mass of red humanity)  around the stadium to our gate so we could be in our seats for pregame. This is one of the showcases for the band.
Well, let me tell you, 106,000 people dressed in red(minus me and the hand full of sad, but faithful Penn Staters) is very red. Really. This is not a cheap way to spend your afternoon. Each of our tickets was $70.00. I bought a $4.00 bottle of water, and if Huz hadn't been one of the Antipathies, and had a parking permit, we would've paid $15.00 to park.  Dinner afterwards, and without even being one of the people with a school bus painted with "Woody Mobile" and a likeness of the long dead coach on it, we had spent several hundred dollars on our date.  Where do all these people come from????

The band was amazing. They did the traditional "Script Ohio", which is so fun to watch, and for the first time ever, they did it twice, as during half time, they performed in honor of the retiring band director, Dr. John Woods who has just finished his 28th year as band director of TBDBITL. The big honor in script Ohio is the person who gets to "dot the 'i'". This is a sousaphone player, led by the drum major. But for the special performance of script Ohio at half time, Dr. Woods dotted the "i". They played Carmen Ohio, which is the alma mater, Hang on Sloopy (I'm not sure I can adequately explain this one. It just is.) and the Star Spangled Banner.... all wonderful. They also had a whole show and drill at half time of some old rock standards. They do this thing every time they turn a corner, where they pop their head, neck and instrument backwards as they turn. I watched fascinated. Whip lash. How do they not get whip lash? I'll have to ask Sarah or Ben next time I see them.
The football was pretty good football. Both OSU and Penn State have had a difficult season, OSU all along, and Penn State recently, and they seemed to acknowledge this at the start of the game when the teams sort of spontaneously met in the center of the field, and gave each other back slaps and hand shakes. I take it from the crowd reaction, which was surprise at first, then applause, that that was not the usual start to a game. Still, the teams played it pretty tight, and OSU had a chance to win. They did not. But, it seemed to daunt only a few of the spectators. They were there for the last whistle.
After the game, the band came out again to thrill the stragglers as we wended our way out of the stands.
Now, I have been to an OSU game.

This is during pregame, after the famed "ramp entrance" of the OSU Marching Band

The start of "Script Ohio" begins with the band marching in a spiral, in the shape of a block, then you can see the band peeling off the spiral to the right of the block....

They continue to peel off, then all march through the shape of the script "O", then the "h", "i" and lastly the "o". This is the "O" and the bulk of the "h".... looking at it from above the word.

The fully assembled "Script Ohio".

The team comes out, led by the gymnastic male cheerleaders carrying the OHIO flags. By the time the kick off happens, not an empty seat in the house.

Back in the saddle: WCPC HT

Oslo and I after the first fence Cross Country..

Okay. Ridiculous to say, but back pain is crippling. And, I did not cause my back problem whilst riding over hill and dale in southwest Ohio. I did it while cleaning the trailer out the next day. But, now, a week + later, I am getting caught up in some things, and functioning normally, in some things and looking forward to getting with the rest. My back thing goes way back, I think to a rainy evening in 1980 when I fell out of my hay loft. So, more than 30 years later I am periodically reminded of that history.
But on this day, a sunny gorgeous day in early November, that began in the wee hours with loading up my big pony and trailering to the bend in the Ohio River where Indiana, Ohio and Kentucky come together, no injuries, but plenty of reminders of my history. Here I am, once again, 25 years later, Eventing.

The following is Cate's primer on Eventing, skip if you already are looking for a pencil to put in your eye.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the sport, or perhaps who read my blog about the Horse Trials Oslo and I completed in September, the whole name of the sport is a bit confusing." Eventing" is the sport where horse and rider compete in three different phases of competition. "Horse Trials" is also eventing, you complete all three phases. "Hunter Trials" seemed to be the same thing when I was a kid, but I think they are mostly just a British thing now. And "Combined Training"  is also Eventing, with the three phases and not to be confused with "Combined Test", which is eventing, without the cross country phase, which means it's not really Combined Training atall. When I was a kid, and competing in eventing, I had to be a member of the USCTA which was the United States Combined Training Association. Somewhere in the past 25 years, I didn't get the memo, but the USCTA is now the USEA or the United States Eventing Association. Capisci? Good. Me neither. This is why I asked the ground jury judge what the USCTA rule was for dressage numbers and got a very funny look.  
In any case to recap:
The Dressage Phase is riding on the flat coordinating certain actions (walk, trot, halt, canter- to more complicated things like lateral movement and lead changes yadayadayada) to letters placed around a rectangular ring. This is designed to show riding skills that combine thought, coordination and energetic, free gaits all with submission to the rider. It is the least dangerous of the tree phases, but, the most difficult in many ways and arguably, the most important. It is the only phase on which you are given an score for every moment in the ring, and the scores  are averaged to a score you carry into the next two phases.
The Cross Country Phase is traditionally the second phase, and so help me, I am a traditionalist. In most of the smaller events, especially the "recognized" (read; expensive, sanctioned) ones it run last, because as the most dangerous of the three, they want you to prove you really can jump your horse before setting you off on a course of solid (read; solid) fences placed around the countryside at high speed (read; that would be the premise, but Oslo and I don't really "do" high speed). This is maybe the most fun phase, considering you have a good ride. It is undoubtedly the most exhilarating.
The Stadium Jumping Phase is the third phase, or as above, now confusing for me, run second. This is colorful, complicated fences placed inside a sand or grass arena. The fences are close together and present unique challenges.
When scoring  the two jumping phases, in eventing, the object is to clear all the obstacles without refusing (horse stops, runs out to the side or misses a fence), knocking a rail (this is only possible in the Stadium phase as in the cross country phase, you knock it, it doesn't move), or falling off your horse- which eliminates you from competition. This is why the dressage phase becomes so important when it comes to scoring. If you can go clear on the jumping phases, you finish the entire she-bang with your dressage score... and the people in front of you can too! Or, not.
So,

Here ends Cate's primer on Eventing, hopefully eyes and pencils are all intact.

back to the Walnut Creek Pony Club Invitational Horse Trials! (No clue what made them "invitational" , except my friend Kara invited me to join her and Indy, Rachel and Bo and make a day of it. I invited Middlest and conscripted Oslo, so perhaps they should be "Invitational, Conscripted Horse Trials").

As the sun came up we headed southwest with Middlest and Kara's baby Ava in the back seat, and my copilot, Rachel's mom, Gail, riding shotgun. And lucky thing too, I tried to make all sorts of wrong turns.

The sun was bright, and we expected an unseasonably warm day, but were greeted by the nemesis of the midwest: Wind. Lots of it. Now, for horse people, you are all saying "oooooh" for the rest of you you're thinking "and? enough of the weather report!" But, the horse people know that wind means things flapping. And things that flap spell "GET THE HECK OUTTA HERE PRONTO TONTO!" to a horse. Only, I think Tonto was the guy. So, Tonto's horse. Horses are wired for flight.  Get in the herd and  be faster than the last guy. It is how they survive, and how they win races. It is not how they slow down, concentrate and do the crazy things we ask them to do.

I have here a completely scientific diagram of a horse's brain with the understood thought centers:

As you can see, much of the brain is used in dealing with wind, boys jumping out of trees, tigers, that sort of thing.

This makes doing something new in a strange place extra special when you add a LOT of wind.

Needless to say, our dressage test had a few movements that were not included in the prescribed program. They had nicely decorated around the arena with baskets of fall mums, pumpkins and the raffia-type scarecrows from the hobby store. Wonderfully flappy things.

Considering this, we still landed a very respectable 39.4 in dressage ( in Eventing, the lower the score the better as it is negative points).

Next up: Stadium. Sigh. I liked traditional. I have to say, this phase made me the most nervous. First of all, the fences were beautiful. Totally high end stuff, which is to say, high and colorful. Then, there was a huge burgundy colored tent sitting on the rise above the stands. Tents flap- the little scalloped edges snapping in the wind. Not only that, but the judges stand on another side of the arena had metal siding that was being a bit stressed by the wind. And the stands. Stands have spectators. There are a whole bunch of people watching you in your triumph or humiliation. Not only these things, but the Stadium course was a real bugger. The corner between fence four and the off-set row of fences five and six had something very scary for horses, and many were having either refusal faults, elimination, or riders parting ways with horse.

Fortunately, unlike in the dressage phase, in the jumping phases there is no taboo about speaking to (even vigorously) your horse. I have found riding Oslo to be 3/4 riding, 1/4 cheerleader. If I clam up, he loses his confidence. If I talk him through, we do okay. We did okay. Although, the scary corner claimed us too, and I had to really ride to get him over fence five...kinda sideways to the collective gasp and spontaneous applause of the watchers in the stands. But we did it! Clean, and I was thrilled with my little eventing pony!

Now, to don the body armor and try my hand at a solid cross country course. Now, Eventing horses need to be brave, trusting and a bit, well, crazy. I am not pushing Oslo to those levels, but still, cross country is cross country. And so, imagine my thrill when not only were we set to go out on the historically accurate and still traditional "10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 Have a Good Ride!" out of the starting box, but, we also got to experience a small plane landing on the driveway adjacent to the starting box. Admonished to get out of the way, Oslo and I retreated a small way down the hill- free of the wings, and he stood steadily watching interested as the plane touched down, landed and taxied back around just prior to the start of our ride. I guess he is rather brave. Or else, in his brain there is no color for "landing planes". Personally, I thought it might go under the heading " Run away from scary things".

And we were off, over fence one- a nice solid tree on it's side, and then a turn to a steep down hill. At this juncture I encouraged him to take it slow. Fall of horse or rider is elimination, and hills are still new to the big guy. But that meant fence # 2 at the bottom of the hill- a nice little cemented stone wall with a wooden roof- that had caused many problems for the previous riders, would have to be ridden strongly. I heard a cheer as we cleared it with no problems and up hill to fences 3 and four- more trees and walls-and down hill to five and up hill to six  and seven (are you seeing a theme here?) under large, scary power lines to a straight forward fence 8, nine and down the hill to 10, 11, 12, and up hill to 13- now back to the main grounds with scary flapping burgundy tent, five and dime scarecrows and lots of people. Across the road and through the fence line to fence 14- a stack of  concrete parking curbs, past a scoreboard with a large flapping yellow tablecloth stapled on it- and through the finish flags! Clear, and done. Unbelievably pleased with Oslo. And not just a little bit with myself. My goals for the day had been to:

1. Not die.
2. Have a whole lotta fun if  successful with #1.

And I achieved these goals. The pair that had been second after dressage had been eliminated in the scary corner of Stadium, so to top it off, we finished second. I was, and am, chuffed.

Oslo and I salute the judge at the start of our dressage test. He had a nice straight center line, but we goofed a bit by not being square in the halt....

Fence 8, the first of a combination with the other very purple fence 9...

Fence 9 heads back into the scary corner. You can see his head is a bit tucked in.

This is fence 5, the one right after scary corner. It looks a LOT better in the photo that it felt in person!

Okay. This is cross country. Photographing cross country can be very challenging. Middlest gave it a shot. But fences are spread out, and go into woods and out of sight. This was her best bet, fence three. And she got the shot! Only, right before "click", another horse went by, and the camera focused on his gleaming white hiney.  So it goes!