January 4, 2021

 

 

Turner was a funny kind of cat.

We originally adopted Turner and his mom, Sassy, to be barn “cats”, destined to live outside and catch mice in the stable. The woman in charge at the shelter told us neither were adoptable due to being feral, yet, a career of stalking nuisances would be suitable, and so they came home with us.

Their barn cat careers didn’t last long. Adopted in late summer, they came to feel at home with the horses and seemed happy roaming the stable, hay barn, back field, and the garden for edible creatures, but it was not meant to be. When winter came and the nights got colder, we became concerned that it was too cold for them to be left out.

So, one night, we brought them inside the house. It was. Just. For. One Night.

And they ever left.

And I mean NEVER.

Within a week of that cold night, we were buying kitty litter and mouse traps.

By the next morning, these unadoptable, feral cats, became the closest thing to domestic cats as any could be. It was a miraculous transformation of sorts. Sassy, within those few night time hours, discarded her mousing instincts and transformed herself into an affectionate lap cat. Turner stayed true to being Turner, but adapted to house life by hiding from the world. He became the cat no one knew we had.

Turner was never meant to be a lap cat. He wasn’t mean, but was shy, at times un - trusting, and if there ever were a feline psychologist to consult, I am sure that that professional would diagnose him as “schizoid”. We had named him Turner for these reasons in the first place – at one moment he could be friendly enough, but then and without warning, he would “turn” on us, becoming defensive and skittish. He most likely had a real, kitty type, personality disorder.

Turner stayed to himself, but especially when he sensed new activity or people other than us in the house. He would retreat to one of his secret hiding places and not come out until things got quiet again. Some of his hiding places, such as under our bed, we knew about, yet there were places that he would disappear to that we never found. He hid so much and so well that people did not even know we had him. Our housekeeper, who came weekly, for years, was not even aware that he existed. When he was found out, our housekeeper tried to tempt him out of hiding with treats, but without much success.

With us, though, he did come out, but on schedule. He had his predictable patterns and habits, or routine, that he went by.

It always started with him hopping up on our bed every morning when we woke up, looking for scratches and pets. He always asked by nipping at my arm, or lightly patting me with one of his little paws. When I would get up to go downstairs, he would jump out in front of me and walk ahead of me down the stairs and then to his food bowl, where he would rub against my leg. He never ate until I scratched his back, so I would, and then he would.

For the rest of the day, he would follow patches of sun that came through the windows and lie in them. He would begin in the dining room in the morning, move through the kitchen in the afternoon, and finish the day in the family room. Every so often he would change it up, and spend part of the afternoon on our bed.  I can say, he truly lived his life following the sun!

Every so often, he would get up and wander over to the side door, and scratch his claws on the side trim! Over time he shredded it to the point that there was no trim left in that spot, and I had to replace it. His other favorite place to scratch was the garage door trim. We resigned to the fact that we could never stop him from doing this, and since trim was easy to replace – cheaper and easier than furniture! -  we quietly sighed and let it go.

In the evening, again he would find me and lead me to his food bowl and ask for a scratch. We would also play a little game at this time – I would grasp his tail and gently hold it while he paddled his little feet on the traction less linoleum floor. Our horse vet, who gives Pat his chiro, told me to hold Pats tail as he moved forward, and the light pressure it caused would stretch his spine and help keep it aligned. And so, I did the same with Turner (hold, not pull), and he liked it.  When I let go, he would give me the looks and back up to me wanting another go of it.

Finally, when Kath and I went to bed, Turner would show up on the bed for some “good night scratches”. After that, he would retreat to some place known only to him, and settle in.

I really miss old “Turn-Turn” (the nickname Stephanie had given him).  I miss our daily rituals, mostly the morning nips and pats he gave me when I got up. Since I retired, he got used to me being around and would curl up on the couch next to me as I worked on my computer or read – not on my lap, but close enough for Turner.

I always think back to the day when the woman at the shelter told us he would never be friendly. And I think about what Turner taught me – that we all can change given the chance.

 

laying in a sun spot

 (2006-2020)

 

December 9, 2020

 

 

Twice now in the past week I have found a sharp shined hawk trapped inside the chicken coop!

This small, quick, and agile hawk has been chasing house sparrows that slip through the side screens of the coop to feed on spent chicken food and scratch grains. Although the hawk cannot fit through the screening, it can slip through tears in the old, time worn netting that is stretched across the top. At times I have seen the hawk perched on a corner post looking down into the coop, so I think it simply power dives through one of the tears, talons spread, to catch its prey.

Once inside, though, it has not been able able to find its way out.  Both times that I found this hawk in the coop, it was patiently perched on top of the chicken nesting box or on the ground, thinking over its predicament. Nearby were the remains of an unlucky sparrow.

And each time, after I have opened the door to give it an easy way out, I have seen one of our white rock chickens challenge it. Neither time was I expecting this. This same chicken, after each time I had entered the coop to encourage the hawk towards the open door – maybe because it feels more confident when I am there as its protector - has come out from its hiding place in the shed to confront it face to face. Both times the hawk has momentarily stood its ground, then spun away and flown to freedom.

In the twenty-plus years that we have had chickens, I have never seen a hen confront a hawk, so this behavior surprises me. A rooster most certainly would be expected to go on the line to defend its flock, but a hen would not be. I remember reading a while ago that without a rooster, a hen will sometimes assume the alpha position in the flock, yet I have never really seen this until now. It is a bit fascinating, especially because a chicken hen has no spurs to defend itself or to attack with. It can only fluff its feathers and flap its wings in an attempt to intimidate a threat. If the hawk had countered, the hen would not have stood much of a chance, and most likely would have suffered injuries from the hawk’s long, razor sharp talons.

What else surprises me is that the hawk, after being unable to find its way out of the coop the first time, would do it again only a few days later. Maybe hunger overrides its instinct of consequence even though it has so many other easy prey opportunities in the nearby open sided “hay shed” where sparrows roost during the day, and at our two backyard birdfeeders where countless songbirds congregate. It seems that it would not have to take its chances in the coop.

So far, neither the hawk or any chickens have gotten hurt, which is a blessing. The poor little house sparrows though, haven’t been so lucky.

 

 

October 10, 2020

 

 

It’s never easy…Zips was a good guy, even if he was a bit moody.

Zip had a reputation as a “hard to handle” horse, bordering on being dangerous. Most everyone who handled him had a story of being bitten or receiving his legendary cow kick. I remember bites, but my most vivid memory is a cow kick he gave me a few years ago. I was in the stall with him and not paying attention, and I walked behind him around to his side. His reaction was a well-directed cow kick into my thigh that sent me tumbling out of the stall and into the paddock. I think I did at least three somersaults before I came to rest, lying on my back and looking up at a blurry blue sky. I laugh about it now, but I could have been hurt had the door to the paddock not been open and I had slammed into a wall.

We were told by vets who treated him and persons who owned and rode him prior to him coming to us, that he had spent most of his time stalled and blanketed as a show horse. I had always thought of this as being imprisoned, and not being allowed to be a horse. Horses need to run and play and be with other horses, not caged and alone. I have since believed that this trauma was the root cause of his reactive nervousness.  I am not a horse psychologist, but I think that he mirrored his former treatment as a defense, and displayed symptoms of equine ptsd.

His reactions complicated things. One always had to be aware when handling him. Kath and I were good at gaining the limited amount of trust he was able to give, and our farrier Gina never had too much trouble. Vets, though, never caught a break, especially if they had a needle. He hated needles, and would have to be restrained by more than one person when he needed a shot, such as a vaccine. Even after being given sedatives that would put any horse in la-la land, Zip would still have some awareness and try a defensive move. There was a vet who refused to work on him unless it was an emergency because of his temperament. Unfortunately, too, because of his defensiveness, we could never give him treatments such as massage, chiro, or acupuncture, which we had always thought would benefit him.

Although I mainly attributed his temperament to equine ptsd, Zip also had physical problems that may have played a part. Like us when we don’t feel well, have pain or discomfort, we can be moody and defensive too.

Zip had had digestive problems since he came here. We tried supplement after supplement – probiotics, ulcer treatments, etc., and nothing worked consistently. He was also more prone to colic than our other horses. Luckily, none of these episodes got serious enough for surgery, but at times he needed veterinary treatment. Usually though, we got him through by walking him. There was a period when he coliced mildly almost monthly and I began to track these episodes and associate them with full moons. Then as suddenly as they came on, they stopped.  We never fully understood the reason.

 A few years ago, he was diagnosed with EOTRH, a painful dental disease, and had to have his front teeth surgically removed. We had noticed that he was increasingly scraping his teeth along the stall bars, and that he shook his head in discomfort when he bit into his food. Our veterinarian who specializes in equine dentistry made the diagnosis and soon after, we took him to the Garden State Equine Hospital which specializes in horse dentistry. The surgery was successful, and after recovering, he never presented these symptoms again. The only drawback was that without his front teeth, his tongue would hang out the front of his mouth! The poor guy looked funny when he did this! A benefit for us was that if Zip bit us, it was only gumming, and not very effective.

He also suffered from bouts of asthma, which we treated in ways that we could preventively, such as washing all his hay to rid it of the chaff and dust that triggered some of these episodes. When he did get an attack, we put him on medications until the episode passed. As he got older, his asthma worsened, and it became a contributing factor that led to his retirement.

Cushings disease was another malady that he suffered.  We were able to treat and suppress it somewhat with medication. And lastly, as with all older beings, he developed some arthritis in his joints that slowed him down.

The poor guy had a lot going on inside his head and inside his body for all his life. He couldn’t catch a break.

Yet, despite a few bites and well-coordinated cow kicks, Zippy gave back more than he took.

In the ring, where he had been initially trained, he excelled. Kath rode him for years taking lessons on him and never did he do anything but try to please her, even when she made mistakes. He answered every cue and did what she asked, and always took care of her. I rode him at the farm and never had a problem. He did get antsy and nervous if he was ridden outside the ring, but for us anyhow, he kept his head.  Zip honored Kath as a rider and leader without exception throughout the years. Under saddle, he was predictable and a trusted companion.

 Despite his “flaws”, he could be very affectionate. He called to me every time I came into the stable, and he would wait at the stall door for me. When I would get ready to turn him out, he would affectionately lean his head against my side and wait for me to slip on his halter. I always let these moments last, feeling our bond, and they are some of my best memories. In his later years he took on Lou’s old job – to come into the stable and supervise me either cleaning the stalls, or to check on breakfast or dinner. I would tell him that things were not ready yet and he would look at me with disappointed eyes and wander back to the field, but before too long, would be back again to re-check my progress.

The thing that always struck me most were his eyes. They had an almost mystical depth, like an ocean. In his eyes, I could see his spirit calm and free, floating in some dream. His eyes seemed to be in another place, seeing and knowing things I could not know, and I always wished that I could be a part of that other world.

In all, he had two sides – the unpredictable and the gentle. He was both a challenge and a gift. To love him, one needed to just accept that he could have a bad day just as well as a good day, he could be the light or he could be the dark, he could be the storm or he could be the clear blue sky. I think that was what Zippy was always meant to be. It’s how we accepted and loved him.

No, it’s never easy…Zips will always be with us and in our hearts. He touched us in so many ways and made our lives that much fuller. If I could change anything, it would be that he was still here. It’s not easy looking into his empty stall. I do think though, that he is in a place now where he is free from all his pain, and maybe chasing Lou around again and giving out cow kicks to any unknowing soul who tries to catch him. That would be so Zippy, and thinking about this makes me smile.

(Zips     June 12, 1993 – September 28, 2020)