I Attract Crazy

I swear, despite the fact that I haven't actively sold a horse in a year (happy anniversary to me this week, by the way), the crazies still manage to find me.  It's amazing, really.  I don't know if I have some sort of aura that draws them in like parasitic leeches just searching for ways to drain off the remaining brain cells I have through forcing me to listen to their babbling over the phone...I really don't know.

Last weekend, Pat, myself and two of our friends spent the day out at the rescue working on lean-to roofs, cleaning stalls, tinkering with foster and adoptive horses and trying to help catch up on the endless list of odds and ends that any working horse rescue always seems to have.  Volunteering is cool, right?  Right.  Even when it's 90-degrees with 93% humidity.  Everyone needs a good sweat every now and then, no big deal.

On the hour-plus ride home, my phone rang.  Now, considering I've got two vehicles for sale right now, and also have a really cute little two-horse trailer that I'm selling for a friend, I can't exactly dodge unrecognized-number phone calls.  I like money.  A lot.  So I answered.

"Is this Jackie?"
"Yes..."
"I saw your website, so I thought I'd call."

Now here's the thing...I don't HAVE a website.  I have this blog, which I know does not have my phone number on it, and I have a general assortment of one year old sold ads on several different horse-classifieds sites.  Despite this, my mind instantly went into damage-control mode:

Oh God...there's a porn site with my name and number on it somewhere.  Wait, I have a porn site and I'm not even getting PAID for it?!  Goddamnit!!  Wait...why is a woman calling me?  Maybe she's looking out for me.

I kid you not, that's where my mind went.  Twelve hours in the heat will do that to you.

I tell her I don't have a website.  She says she's looking at it right now, and it says I have a lot of sold horses.  Oh.  Right.  Damnit.  No porn site for me, I guess.  I tell her those are all really old ads and I don't have any horses for sale.  Just my own three personal horses.

So this lady goes on to ask if I have any Haflingers for sale.  Um...what?  I politely inform her AGAIN that I haven't had any horses for sale in over a year, so I really can't help her.  She tells me she's looking at my site and I have a REALLY cute Haflinger gelding that's marked as sold, and is he really sold?

I look at my friend sitting next to me in the back seat and roll my eyes.  Yes, he's sold, well over a year ago, like I just said.  His owner is sitting right next to me.  Let the party begin...

"Oh...well do you have any more?"
"No, I haven't sold a horse in over a year."

...Really?

Now, Pat and I have been together long enough that he knows when I repeat myself on the phone, and the subject is about horses, I've got a royal moron on the line and I won't simply hang up on them.  This is due to two factors: 1) I eventually plan to sell horses again, and really don't want a reputation as a heartless bitch (although it's probably too late for that at this point) and 2) Some of the psychos that call me really deserve to be listened to, if only to give me material to write these stories about.  I cannot make this shit up.  These people are certifiably insane.  My inability to hang up on these folks infuriates Pat, and generally results in him yelling "HANG UP THE PHONE!!!" in the background, turning up the radio, or trying to distract me with another conversation.  Fortunately, Pat allowed me to have seven of the best minutes on the phone I've had in a very long time before he managed to do all three at once.

Her: "Oh, well my name is (I didn't bother to remember) and I'm looking for a Haflinger for my thirty year old daughter with MS.  I also have another daughter that's emotionally impaired, but I have five other children who will probably ride.  Well, actually, I have four that are adopted special needs, and three out of those four will probably ride, one definitely won't though.  So six of my seven would.  Do you know where I can get one?  I need a really gentle Haflinger and I heard Haflingers are really gentle."

Are you kidding me right now?  Please tell me you're joking.  Oh God, this conversation is going to hurt.  

Me: "No, I don't have anything.  I haven't sold a horse in a year.  You might want to try (I give her the name of a riding stable that usually has moron-proof trail horses for sale)."

Her: "Oh...okay.  Because I found a really nice one in Bloomfield.  Her name is Molly.  She's thirteen-point-two-hands and twelve years old.  I just don't know if twelve is too old though.  I have seven kids and I don't want their horse to die right away.  Plus the owner is REALLY hard to get ahold of!  Do you know her?  Is twelve a good age?"

Me: "Do I know who?"

Her: "Molly, or her owner...I just can't get ahold of her!  She responds to my emails and send me pictures and videos, but she won't call me or answer my calls.  But Molly is just beautiful with a long flowing mane and she looks so sweet.  And her owner sent me videos of her jumping and she's just adorable."

Me: "No, I don't know them.  Why don't you try (I repeat the name of the riding stable)?"

Her: "Well, then I called a place by me, it's called (Insert name of well-known riding barn in White Lake).  But he told me to call back tomorrow because he might have one then.  Do you know them?"

Me: "Yes."

Her: "Oh, do you know the Haflinger they might get?"

Me: "No, I don't.  Do your daughters ride now?"

Her: "Well my daughter with MS rides on trails, but I even called that therapy place on Ortonville Road, they're supposed to be REALLY good, so I thought I'd see if they had a Haflinger for sale, but they won't sell their horses!  Can you believe that?!  But anyway, my friend told me I should have a vet check done on anything I buy, but I don't know if I really need that.  Do I?  I mean, I've never bought a horse and I don't really know how much I should spend, but I don't know if a vet check is expensive."

Me: "Well that last Haflinger I had a vet check done on sold to a woman in New York and she spent over seven hundred on that vet check."

I look in the rearview mirror.  Pat is glaring at me and reaching for the radio volume knob.  At this point, I have realized that this woman is completely insane, has absolutely no business buying a horse whatsoever, and her "emotionally impaired" daughter is probably perfectly normal, but is very much aware of what a complete whackadoodle her mother is.  I've also realized that not only is this woman taking up my time, she has no intention of giving me so much as a dollar, but wants my advice and is treating me like her trainer.  I am not her trainer, and I do not work for free (unless I want to).  And I don't want to.  Time to end this call...

Her: "Well my budget for everything is $750..."

HA! YEAH RIGHT!  In your dreams, lady.  

Her: "...But I'm really wondering if the lady that has Molly will take less.  I breed Collies, that's my thing.  I used to show too, but with the kids and whatnot....Now I just breed.  And rescue, I have three here as rescues now, and a little terrier mix that we rescued too. We also have three cats, a bird and two goldfish..."

HOW THE HELL IS THIS RELEVANT TO ANY CONVERSATION WHATSOEVER?!?!  I decide to interrupt her...

Me: "Well I'm sorry I can't help you.  Like I said, try (insert name if trail riding stable)."

Her: "Okay, I'll give them a call.  What's the name again?  Do you have their phone number?"

HOW many times did I say the name in this conversation thus far?!

Me: "No, I don't.  You'll have to Google them."

Her: "Oh okay, because I really just wish the lady that owns Molly would call me back!  I just don't know why she won't talk to me."

Lady, I've got a really good guess right now.  Pat turns up the radio.  I hear my call waiting beep and I look at my screen.  It's my friend sitting in front of me.  

Me: "Look, I'm on the road right now so I really can't talk."

Her: "Okay. Bye."  Click.

THE BITCH HANGS UP ON ME!



...And to think, I actually missed selling horses.

Miss Manners

I've never been accused of being the most charming individual, and being "politically correct" is about as easy for me as writing my name in fresh snow with my own bodily fluids.  When I have something on my mind, it usually comes out of my mouth before I can channel it through the proper filters, and I almost always end up offending someone.  As Daddy says "Your mouth is in drive and your brain is stuck in neutral".  Now, don't get me wrong, my parents TRIED to make me into a nice, polite, charming, upper middle class citizen.  I went to private Lutheran school for elementary, middle, and junior high school.  I had more than ten years of professional piano lessons and competed regularly.  I owned more than one dress at a time AND a pair of shoes that didn't have horse shit on them.  Hell, even these days, it has gotten to the point that my dad offered to buy me a brand new car if I could graduate from Charm School.  The agreement was that if I flunked out, however, I had to pay the cost of the class.  

I know a losing bet when I see one.  I'm not going to Charm School.  

I also have a rather dark sense of humor, and as most of you know, I find that yanking someone's chain solely to get a rise out of them is a great way to pass the time and keep myself entertained.  Perhaps that makes me an asshole, but I'm okay with that.  I think I'm funny, and so do my other sick, twisted friends.  We like each other.

Since I've become more and more involved in the "official rescue" world, I'm realizing that I miss my own "privatized rescue" corner of the horse world.  You have to be nice to people in "official rescue" land, even if they prove to you how profoundly stupid and worthy of being punched in the face they really are.  They'll say things to you that make you want to wrap your hands around their neck, and you have to smile and swallow how you truly feel in the name of being politically-correct.  Where I'm from, it's totally acceptable to tell them to bend over and fuck themselves.

This has been a very difficult transition for me to try to make.  I am a fish out of water in "official rescue" land.

God bless the team at the rescue I work with now.  Let me be clear, I am not on the Board of Directors, nor am I nearby enough to attend the vast majority of their functions, but I've been told I have a talent when it comes to writing, so I use that when I can to help with fundraising and campaigns.  Unfortunately, my past has followed me and my previous transgressions have reared their ugly heads and forced the team at the rescue to do a fairly decent amount of Damage Control.  These folks should work for the President.  When it comes to damage control, they put his staff to shame.

The problem is this....at one point, many many months ago, I visited another "official rescue" on unofficial business to see a friend of mine who was working there and to check out the setup.  Always one to take a look at other facilities, feed programs (especially rehabilitation feed programs), and business operations, I constantly file away little tips and tricks that might make my own life easier once I have my own facility and can pick up where I left off.  The problem was that, once again, my less-than-sensitive sense of humor flew straight over the head of the owner of that rescue, and while we were discussing the financial woes of her rescue, I pointed out her abnormally-high euthanasia rates (we won't even address THAT issue) and said that perhaps she should consider selling the carcasses of the draft horses to an exotic cat sanctuary.  It would have provided a humane end for the horses (although they would have to be shot instead of injected), a dual-purpose for their remains in that they'd serve to feed endangered cats, she'd save money on cremation and/or burial costs, and would generate some financial income for the rescue to offset the enormous feed bills.

Sometimes I say things just for shock value, everyone goes "Ohmygod Jac, what the hell is wrong with you?!", we all have a laugh, and that's the end of it.  This apparently-offended rescue owner didn't say anything at the time, and my friend, knowing I was completely and wholeheartedly full of shit, laughed right along with me.  It was a joke, and it was over.  For the love of God, that was the end of it.  But apparently that's where I went wrong...

Some people just can't take a joke.  They take every word out of your mouth and twist and turn it into some sort of three-headed horse-eating monster, then spread it to every corner of the world that'll listen to them.  Those people are no fun, and really, they should come with a warning label so people like me can stay far, far away from them.

Let me be clear on this: I WOULD NEVER EVER EVER EVER FEED A HORSE TO A CAT.  EVER!  

I would, however, happily feed a lawyer to one!  I know I'm not alone in that thinking.

I bet this guy is a lawyer.  I hear they're delicious.  Nothing like the taste of overpaid, Armani-dressed asshole first thing in the morning, eh Mufasa?

Anyway, the rescue owner that I clearly offended and apparently traumatized in the process waited the better part of eight or nine months to contact the other rescue that I work with to inform them that I am a horse-abusing, big-cat feeding, psychopath and that they really should look into whether or not they want me associated with them.  Because truly-concerned people really wait eight months to share information like that....riiiiiight....

Needless to say, because I am clearly incapable of having one of those "politically correct" conversations that you have to be able to have if you want to be allowed to speak on behalf of the rescue, I wasn't allowed to share my TRUE feelings about this woman in a reply message, but the PR department did just fine, the message said something along these lines: I'm NOT an official representative of that rescue, although they very much DO appreciate me for my writing and fundraising talents, and I DON'T feed horses to exotic cats.  

But, the beauty of this blog is that it's MY blog.  So I can say whatever I want!  You, ma'am, need to go buy yourself a sense of humor...and please pick up a nice Armani suit for yourself while you're at it, they tell me Simba's getting hungry.  He likes plaid.  

Horse Porn

I like to think I'm a fairly open-minded person.  I don't vote (mainly because I have an adversity to waiting in long lines and telephone calls from strangers telling me what I should and shouldn't care about), but I DO know the guy that's in office now just isn't getting the job done.  I have friends of just about every ethnicity and religious group, and yes, I mock them for their differences.  I don't care who you love, as long as you're happy, I think everyone should be entitled to marry whomever the hell they choose.  I also don't think it should cost more to adopt a baby than it does to abort one, but if you want to abort, you should be able to.  I think that's a pretty good argument for my open-mindedness, don't you?

The thing that I just absolutely, positively CANNOT deal with, however, once again comes back to Facebook.  Now, prior to starting this blog, I had a nice little cozy group of Facebook friends that I knew personally in the real world.  Facebook was simply a place for me to post ten thousand pictures of my stupid horse, and send those obnoxious little drawings of Victorian-era people with the funny captions to friends.  If I didn't know you, it didn't matter, because you didn't know me and why would you want to be friends with me anyway?  I'm just that asshole broad with the sorrel gelding.  Just one of a million.

Post-blog, things changed.  I started getting friend-requests from people I'd never even heard of with whom I had absolutely no friends in common.  Now apparently, in Facebook-land, there is some sort of unspoken rule that if I have a profile picture of a horse, and YOU have a profile picture of a horse, then we should automatically be friends because, well, horses are cool and, like, stuff....right?  I suppose somewhere along this time, after fighting a hell of a good battle, I surrendered my "No, I'm not confirming you as a friend, I have no idea who in the hell you ARE" rule of thumb and gave in.  Now, I have three times as many Facebook friends (which validates me as a human being), and I know less than a third of them personally.  Whatever.  I'm still cooler than you are because my friend count is higher than yours.  So there.

The problem is this: the majority of these random friends are horse people, and many of them have mares in foal or are self-proclaimed breeders.  And we aaaaaall know how I feel about those types.  Rather than publicly bash them for their ignorance and stupidity in contributing to the unwanted horse population by breeding shit to shit to get baby-shit, I do my best to ignore their blatant disregard for producing quality horseflesh, and try to find the humor in their status updates of the trials and tribulations of waiting for their mares to foal.  Nothing makes me smile during my morning coffee quite like reading about how so-and-so was up ALL night waiting for her cow-hocked, sway-backed, ewe-necked grade mare to pop that baby out!  Haha, suckers, I slept for ten hours straight!

The statuses are amusing to me, but I just can't deal with the pictures.  The sight of that same conformational-clusterfuck mare heavy in foal make me sad deep down in that tiny little space that people call my heart.  But the worst part is that I just can't understand why anyone would think that the Facebook community would want to see thirty-seven pictures of their mare's udder, teats, or her freakin' hoo-hah!  Listen up, people, I KNOW what that stuff looks like, as does the rest of the horsey-inclinded Facebook world.  I do not need a day-by-day progression of how droopy and sloppy it's getting because she's "almost there"!  Do you take pictures of your wife/sister/daughter's crotch and chest days before she's about to give birth?  No, because that would get you murdered.  Just because your mare doesn't kick your skull in doesn't mean your actions are appreciated.

Have you people noticed that REPUTABLE, responsible breeders don't post those same pictures?  They don't ask the world "How close do you think she is judging by her gargantuan, gaping vagina and the wax on these nipples?".  They don't report the color and consistency of the discharge on a daily basis, and they don't end up being questioned by non-horsey friends who are considering turning them in for bestiality.  Responsible breeders show pics of the mare, who is almost ALWAYS aesthetically pleasing, pictures of the stallion, who is a handsome representation of his breed or discipline, and then they put up the disgustingly-cute pictures once that gorgeous baby is brought into this world.  And then they post the price tag and we all keep on dreaming.

Those are the pictures I want to have plastered all over my news feed.  So please, keep your vaginas tucked away where they should be.  The indecent exposure of your mare's privates isn't something anyone wants to be scarred with.  Thank you for understanding.

Dear Ariat

Dear Ariat,

I feel like our time has come to call this what it is and find the real inner Horsechick that I think I've lost.  We've been together a long, long time, and I'll be honest, you've given me just about everything I've ever needed in my professional life when it comes to hardworking footwear.  You've stuck with me since high school and my first pair of Fat Baby's, they were great!  Yeah, I know everyone made fun of them for being such a hideous shade of turquoise, but I knew your motive; no one steals ugly boots.  Thank you for that built-in hidden security measure.  Even when I got bucked clean out of them, and looked up from the ground to see them still in the stirrups on my horse, I knew we had a relationship that would last.  You had my back and rode that bitch of a mare out to win in the end, and I appreciate that.

But you see, the thing of it is, you're just not holding up to my standards the way that you used to.  I know you've done so much for our relationship in the past, but these days, I can't help but notice that as I've lowered my expectations more and more, in hopes that you'll take notice and step up, but that's just not happening.  I just don't know what else to do...couple's counseling?  Would you consider it if I found us a good therapist?

The last pair of boots I bought from you were the freshly-vomited-mustard shade of yellow Cobalt Crepe XRs.  They were so goddamn ugly even fresh out of the box (at least you were consistent on that end), and I immediately felt like I'd channeled my inner Big Bird with the ostrich print, but after a month of walking around in two pairs of socks with my feet covered in blisters in the July heat, I finally had them broken in exactly the way I needed them.

The Cobalts survived nearly two years with me.  But after those two glorious years of wearing them almost daily for barn chores and riding, (but not to work at Bass Pro, that awful shade of yellow clashed so badly with the green uniform shirt, even I couldn't make it work), time has taken it's toll.  The yellow is now more of a baby-shit-banana, and the corners on both the inside AND the outside of the balls of feet have cracked and split.  Now don't get me wrong, I don't expect you to hold up to my daily wear and tear (and probably a little of what could be considered abuse) without any love and TLC, I took care of these babies.  They were cleaned, conditioned, oiled, you name it.  But time is a bitch on ugly leather (just ask Joan Rivers), and there's only so much I can do.  The soles have worn so unevenly (not your fault, I know), that I physically can't stand up straight in them.  I loved the full crepe sole, they lasted a lot longer than some of my other boots, so props to you for that.  But here's some of what I'm talking about...

You see that GIGANTIC hole in the side?  That's not a sexy peep-hole, Ariat.  People can clearly see my sock through that, and to me, that's crossing the line of acceptability.  And believe it or not, patching it with a rubber tire patch from the outside OR the inside just doesn't work, just like our relationship can't be patched up any more.  Yes, I tried.  I tried like hell to save what I could of these boots, just like I've tried like hell to save our relationship, Ariat.  Maybe I really DO have a problem letting go, just like my friends say.  They tell me I should have dumped you a long time ago, that they never really liked you anyway.  The truth is, I feel like I'm beating a dead horse here, so I went out and I met someone...well...two guys, actually.

Tony Lama and his buddy Justin are really nice guys.  Yeah, they don't have all the glitz and glamor of a marketing program like you did, Ariat, but it seems like I might be a little more compatible with the two of them combined than I was with just one of you.  Call me a dirty whore, make all the gangbang and threesome jokes that you want, but ya know, if it takes two guys to satisfy me the way that you just can't anymore, than you shouldn't feel like any less of a company as a whole.  I just have needs, and you weren't getting them met.  I'm sorry.

I hope we can still be friends.  Maybe get together for coffee or something next time you're in town?  Tell your parents I send my best.  I'll always have a special place in my heart for you, please know that.

Sincerely,
Horsechick

I May Have Lost The Battle....

When I first met Patrick, one of the first things to catch my attention was when a mutual friend said "Yeah, he's got an F-350."

That sentence is music to any horse chick's ears.  At that point, I decided he might be worth looking into.  Does that make me shallow?  Possibly...  The basis of our first real one-on-one conversation went something like this:

Me: "Oh yeah?  Can you drive a trailer?"

Pat: "Yeah, that's my car hauler we're using today."

Me: Silently sizing up the length of the car hauler and realizing it's very close to the size of my stock trailer.  "....Cool...."

As fate would have it, the first real date Pat and I went on was a Saturday night trip the the horse auction.  I was running late (as usual) and Pat beat me to the house.  When I pulled in with my bright blue, yes-this-is-a-girl's-car, 5-speed Cobalt, Pat had already backed his truck up to my stock trailer and was hooking up.

Good man....

Now I learned fairly early in life that if a man has never hauled livestock, and isn't willing to shut up and listen when you explain to him that stops, starts, and turns have to be taken a whole lot more carefully than they do when hauling stuff, just get rid of him.  It's not worth the fight, and the last thing I want to do is deal with a chauvinistic meathead who refuses to take notes from a girl about hauling, hurts my horse, and leaves me stuck with a vet bill.  Pat had never hauled ponies before, but never worried me once during that trip.  Plus that truck was a DAMN comfortable ride.

He was clearly a keeper.  And does that make me shallow?  Possibly....

Anyway, Pat and I spent the next year or so hauling several times a week with that old, loyal Ford, nicknamed The Blue Buffalo by his friends.  I grew a new appreciation for the 7.3-liter Powerstroke turbo diesel engine, and decided that even if it was eighteen years old, it did the job I needed it to do, and I didn't have to pay to maintain it.  All I had to do was sleep with Pat on a regular basis.  Really, it was win-win for me.  Pretty sure that makes me shallow.  ....Possibly....

Fast forward many, many moons.  The past few months have seen Pat and I growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of progress we've made in buying a place of our own (which is an entirely different can of worms in itself).  With the pile of down-payment cash growing steadily in the bank, the Blue Buffalo decided it was a great time to develop a few slightly-annoying quirks.  A mystery vibration in the front end that came at 50 miles per hour and went away at 55 miles per hour, a consistent indicator of a bad injector (which would have taken a pretty penny to pinpoint), a brake pedal switch that developed a part-time work ethic and occasionally drained the batteries without warning, leaving the truck stranded wherever it sat... the "little things" started piling up.

Pat started getting restless.  He started talking about selling The Blue Buffalo.

In the beginning, I fought it.  Hard.  Getting rid of that truck was like getting rid of a useful child that I never had to pay attention to or spend money on!  That's the best kind of child to have!  I liked that child!  We knew The Blue Buffalo, knew her quirks, and knew her history.  Pat owned her free and clear, and the prospect of taking on a car payment terrified me when buying a house was still at the top of the priority list.  I tried approaching it from a rational angle: "You really don't NEED another truck, we can figure out what's wrong with this one a whole lot cheaper than a new truck with a new set of problems!"

Then I tried it from the emotional angle: "You've had her for so long though....what if her new owner doesn't take care of her like you do?  What if she gets abused?  What if she gets....rusty?!"

Then I tried it from the female angle: "But we never even had sex in her!  You can't sell her yet!"

Pat won.  The Blue Buffalo went on Craigslist.

I never expected that truck to sell for what he wanted out of it.  I thought it was going to be safe forever in my driveway.  And then one Saturday afternoon, while I was down in Roseville meeting a friend to pick up some paperwork, it happened.

I came home, and The Blue Buffalo was gone.  I never even got to say goodbye.  All that remained was a license plate, a set of jumper cables, and the aftermarket center console storage system that held so many of my McDonald's cups during our road trips to pick up and deliver ponies.  Now, there it sat, alone and cold on the seat of the quad that was sitting in the middle of my garage doing nothing but taking up space along with the rest of Pat's random motorized toys.  It's a good thing I've got a big garage.

I went inside, and found Pat sitting at the kitchen counter on his laptop with Craigslist open to the Cars & Trucks section.

Oh hell....

Now any woman that's ever had a man with money burning a hole in his pocket and no vehicle to drive knows exactly how the next several hours of my life went.  I made myself comfortable and settled in for the long haul of basically ignoring Pat and hearing the constant background noise of him muttering to himself.  "Powerstroke or Cummins?  ...I really want a Duramax though.... Extended cab or four full doors?  ....It HAS to have four wheel drive...  I'd really like a manual this time...  Oh that's a REALLY nice single cab though..."

I imagine that this is exactly what I do to him when I shop for horses....

This went on for the better part of two agonizingly long weeks, during which I somehow managed to lose possession of my Mountaineer and got demoted to driving the shop truck to get me from Point A to Point B while Pat took my truck back and forth to work.  Only in my world does my man sell his truck for more than it's worth, get to buy a NEWER, NICER truck, and  STILL get to drive my creature-comfort-loaded truck in the meantime.  I'm still trying to figure out how in the hell that happened.

Anyway, Pat had mentioned somewhere along the line that a friend of his had a 2003 GMC Sierra 2500 with a Duramax diesel in it for sale that he was quite interested in.  Duramax diesel motors really do not interest me.  All of our shop's tow trucks and flatbed wreckers are Fords, and I'd like to think of myself as a "Ford Girl", although I know deep down that I really don't give a shit what it is, as long as it can haul my trailer full of horses and not leave me broke down and stranded on the side of the road.  I let him do his thing, but reminded him that since I just paid cash for this semester's tuition, my contribution to the house-downpayment fund was somewhat diminished at the moment and to keep that in mind when he finally bought something.

I've learned that some things just aren't worth fighting about as a couple.  The television remote, the radio station in the car, top or bottom in bed...if you wait long enough, you eventually get your way.  To speed up the process, simply pout.  But we're not married, and it's not like he asked me to give him money for this new purchase, so who am I to tell him what to buy when it comes to his new daily driver?  He's a responsible adult, and I knew he wasn't going to bring home some sort of Corvette or otherwise useless vehicle, so I kept my mouth shut...for the most part.  My only request was that whatever he buy be able to tow my trailer without a problem.  And I'd REALLY prefer an automatic transmission, since my knees are getting progressively worse and the idea of shifting a manual while hauling horses isn't the least bit appealing to me.  And heated leather captain's chairs would be REALLY nice since I know after driving my truck for two weeks, he got quite accustomed to that wonderful little option, and I'm not really sure how I'll survive in the new truck without it.  Oh, and power windows and locks too, please, if he wouldn't mind.  And please no green trucks, I really hate green trucks.  And could he maybe consider the King Ranch edition F-250 I found on Craigslist?  It was REALLY pretty....

That was all that I asked for...

Last weekend, Pat finally got his new truck, the '03 Duramax 4x4 from his buddy.  Which also happens to be a stripped-down, 6-speed MANUAL transmission, with rubber flooring, cloth seats, manual windows and locks, and bench seats in front and back.  I think I lost that battle.  But he loves it, and I love that he cleared all of the toys out my garage so he could park in it alongside my Mountaineer.  I also love that the joke's on him.  I have no desire to cripple myself trying to haul horses and shift that truck, and if I burn up his clutch, he'll be furious, so every time I need to haul (just about every other weekend), he's going to have to go with me and drive while I nap like I did back in the days of The Blue Buffalo.  I may have lost the battle, but I definitely won the war!

When I found out what he paid, I nearly shit myself.  But it's apparently his dream truck and thankfully, there's no truck payment, so I can't bitch too much.  And although our house-downpayment fund took a good beating, house hunting isn't going very well anyway, so we've got time to rebuild the stash.  The important thing is that he's happy...and that when he reads this, he realizes that the next thing he spends that kind of money on had better have hooves and a big red bow around it's neck for me!

Now does that make me shallow?  Possibly...

Love you, honey!

Ode To The Elderly

I should have known today was just going to be one of those days.  Now, as I sit here at the island in my kitchen, with a glass of Moscato and Pat watching some random movie in the background behind me, I'm realizing that no good deed goes unpunished, my horse is a bastard, and Absorbine Liniment Gel is God's gift to my knees.

It's been miserably wet here the last few days, we went from a numb-your-lungs deep freeze and a fresh  4" of snow this weekend to 50+ degrees and monsoon rains yesterday and today.  Everything is a sloppy, flooded disaster, and with board coming due on Friday, I decided I needed to go check on Cleveland and take him a fresh turnout blanket to swap out the one he's been wearing since the cold hit and was probably soaked through with the recent downpours.  They're calling for temperatures to plummet down into the twenties again tonight for the foreseeable future, so dry clothes on the ponies are a must.

I bailed out of work two hours early, partially because I couldn't stand having nothing to do, and partially to beat traffic up to the barn.  After packing my truck with Cleveland's new (old) blankets, I ran inside to see if my crippled boyfriend (who has been recovering from emergency surgery last weekend) would like to go visit HIS horse.  Please keep in mind, Cleveland is HIS horse because it conveniently worked out that a friend had a big, "manly-looking" older horse that needed a full-time turnout situation due to his arthritis, and I needed something that I could call "Pat's horse" to guilt him into not bitching about my horse habit.  Cleve fit the bill.

Anyway, Pat wasn't feeling up to sitting in my truck for that long of a ride to see HIS horse, so I ventured off on my own up to Goodrich with a quick pit stop at Tractor Supply to pick up another bag of SafeChoice to top off Cleveland's grain bin.  In and out in ten minutes, a personal record for me, I was back in the truck and over at the barn within 15 minutes.  Everything was right on schedule for me to get home before traffic picked up.

Now Cleve is one of those been-there-done-that horses, having been bred and foaled at the Two Square ranch in Santa Rosa, New Mexico by the great Hollis Fusch (read Mr. Fusch's story here).  He spent most of his traceable life out west on various ranches in New Mexico, Wyoming and Texas as a ranch & rope horse.  Admittedly, he's seen much more than I have, and I respect him for that.  He's flawless on the roads and trails, and I know I can trust him with the newest of riders, from the smallest kids, to my greenhorn boyfriend.  He's truly one of those horses that's worth his weight in gold to me, and at 16.1 and easily 1,300 pounds, that's a lot of weight.  When I sold everything and left White Lake, Cleveland was one of the last three I kept.  He's a kind, quiet, gentle soul and will do anything he can for a cookie, and since his body is starting to slow down on him, we take it easy and the extent of his daily work load consists of walking from one end of the pasture to the gate for grain, cookies, or scratchings or the monthly intoxicated trail ride with my friends when our schedules permit.  I don't worry about Cleveland.

After gathering up "dinner" for Cleveland and his roommate, Leonard (the homeowner's horse), I pulled Cleve out and fed Leonard, then I practically drug my old, lazy-ass horse back around the house to my truck where my groom kit and blankets were waiting.  I had this planned out perfectly in my head.  No joke, I'd worked on the logistics of this plan since lunchtime: Feed the moose by the truck, pull wet blanket, brush down thoroughly, pick feet, apply dry blankets, return the moose to pasture, get home before rush hour, make dinner, feed crippled boyfriend, do homework, get to bed early and hope for 10 uninterrupted hours of sleep.  In my head, this was a brilliant plan...I really should know better.

The first few parts of my brilliant plan worked out as I'd hoped, and as I was returning Cleveland back to a screaming, pacing Leonard (who was thoroughly convinced he was never going to see another horse ever ever ever again), I stopped by the grain room off the house and told Cleve to "stand".  To Cleveland, being told to "Stand" normally means "Hey, asshole, don't move ok?  Eat grass for a minute, I'll be right back".  I remembered this, and since it hadn't been that long since I messed with him, I assumed we were still on the same page as far as single-word commands go.  We weren't.

Unbeknownst to me, someone, at some point in the last 2 weeks, taught my super-reliable, golden-child of a horse that "Stand" really means "Channel your inner three year old Arabian!", because before I could even utter a "whoa", the old, semi-crippled bastard had transformed into a hybrid cross between a llama, an Arabian, and a runaway Lear jet with four-wheel-drive capabilities and was galloping across the back yard like a raped ape.

...Seriously?

Now no one has EVER asked Cleveland to gallop in the time I've owned him, and I'm pretty sure I've never seen him offer anything more than a laxidasical lope when turned out in the field, so the fact that my old fart of a trail mutt suddenly took off like his ass was on fire shocked me for a minute.  Then the good old thought of Oh, he's just a little fresh with the wind and the weather, one of the chickens must have startled him, he'll run out of steam in the next 20' or so, took over and I watched for a minute, entertained with the idea that the dinosaur has the ability to move that quickly.  And then he kept going....and going...around the corner of the house and towards my truck in the driveway.

Oh shit....

Now the first train of thought when a horse heads for the driveway is "Get in front of him & wave something big and scary to make them turn back!", which is an absolutely absurd idea, but you know we all think it.  When the Reality-Train comes chugging back down the tracks to your brain and you realize there's no way in hell you're going to outrun a damn HORSE, the next thought is usually "Get grain! Or...something that sounds like grain!  Yeah!  That'll work!  Hell, even a goddamn BUCKET will work at this point, right?  My horse likes grain and he knows his bucket!"  Fortunately for me, I still had the grain buckets in my hands and as I rounded the corner of the house shaking the buckets frantically and calling out "Whooooaaaa Cleve..." in my best I'm-not-panicking voice, he slowed to that laxidasical lope up the hill of the driveway, and finally came to a stop at the road.  Ears flicked back at me.

Okay, we're good.  He's done now, he wouldn't leave the property.

Cleveland looked left.  Then Cleveland looked right.  Then Cleveland looked back at me as I hiked my painfully out-of-shape ass up the hill of the driveway in my winter tall boots (which are most definitely NOT meant for hiking), huffing and puffing like I'd just run a 5k and really wishing I'd stuck with my New Years resolution to get back into shape.

Jeez, he could at least turn around and start walking back this way.  That asshole is going to make me walk all the way up this hill?!  That's the last time he gets an extra quarter scoop of grain!

Cleveland looked back at me one more time, turned left out of the driveway and picked up that nice, slow laxidasical lope and headed up the road.

Are you KIDDING me?!

Now, I've seen my share of panicked horses, this was not a panicked horse.  This was a horse on a sight-seeing adventure, and enjoying every minute of it.  His tail was straight up in the air, along with his head, and he bounded along the dirt road like a cracked-out carousel horse.  And as I made it to the top of the driveway, and watched his bright blue blanket and safety-reflective halter bounce up the road in no big hurry to get anywhere, I had that fleeting moment of clarity and some very entertaining thoughts, in hindsight, thanks to the little voice of reason in my head:

Do I go all the way back down that long-ass driveway and get my truck and chase him down in that?  I've got lead ropes in my truck, I could lead him back out the window of the truck, he's quiet enough, he'd probably be okay with that.  If not, I think Dad can put a new side mirror on fairly cheaply if he rips it off.  Might be worth it, but it's probably more expensive to buy a mirror for a Mountaineer than an Explorer.  I knew I should have bought an Explorer instead, its such bullshit, its the same truck!  But if I go back, I could lose sight of him in the meantime if he goes into a yard or behind a house...shit.  Someone'll be pissed if I have to drive through their yard to find my horse, plus its so damn muddy, and the all-wheel drive isn't working on the truck, Dad'll be PISSED if he has to come tow me out of someone's yard because of a horse.  Do I tough it out and chase him on foot?  Good LORD my sides hurt, what the hell happened to me running five miles a day for fun?!  WHY did he have to turn left and go uphill?  Right and downhill would have been soooo much easier!  Damn these boots I HAD to have....they're so warm though!  ...Seriously, how far is this bastard going to run!?  Why couldn't he have been herd-bound?!  Herd bound would be REAL nice right about now!  Is that a school bus?  Are you kidding me?!  Ugh, at least there's no other traffic.  Aw, that bus driver is awesome for stopping, she must have horses.  I wonder what kind of horses she's got.  Hopefully they're herd-bound...

These are the thoughts I have in crisis-type situations.  And to think, I took an Adderall this morning to help me focus.

Cleveland kept this game up for a solid five-eighths of a mile, and finally came to a stop in front of a local veterinarian's farm/office.  Head up, tail raised, he blew one big snort at nothing, then dropped his head, turned around, and strolled back at a walk to meet me on my path up the hill like he was coming in for a forehead-scratching.  Cussing him up and down, I grabbed his halter, and we started our hike back down the hill to the driveway.  I waved my silent thank you to the bus driver as best as I could considering I had a horse in one hand and empty buckets in the other, so if she's reading this: I'm sorry, I really wasn't showing you what color buckets I had, thank you for stopping, and I hope your load of kids enjoyed the show.

Cleveland and I walked all the way back to his pasture and a now-frantic Leonard like nothing had ever happened.  I turned him back out, removed his halter, and pat him on the neck to let him know I wasn't holding a grudge and that I understood his old-man-shenanigans and his victory lap of freedom was simply him expressing that he wasn't quite ready for full-blown retirement yet.  In reply, he blew a snot wad on my jacket, and wandered over to the round bale feeder with a now-content Leonard.

I hiked back up to my waiting truck, pulled out of the driveway towards home, decided my new plan for this evening was going to involve wine, Aleve, and some liniment for my now-throbbing knees, and called Pat to tell him what a goddamn ungrateful, sonofabitch, renegade asshole HIS horse was.

I should have known today was just going to be one of those days

A Horse Owner's Guide To Facebook

I've had a Facebook account since 2006, and I like to think that I managed to evade the drama and gossip of the internet for a peaceful 5 years.  I kept my "friends" limited to my close personal friends and a few select business contacts, and life was good.  But partially through this blog, and partially of my own stupid quest for adventure, I've discovered an entirely new world in the last six months...the Facebook Horse Owners.  Now these people are a special breed, I'm learning, and my GOD do they all have an opinion!  Not only are they nearly incapable of intelligent conversation, they're all thoroughly convinced that their way is the only way, and God help anyone who wants to try and tell them otherwise. 

Now I thought for a long time that this particular group of gems was located only in my home state of Michigan, but through extensive research, I've realized that this particular breed of Facebook user stretches as far and wide as the Equus ferus caballus itself (that's the scientific name for a horse).  Regardless of your locations throughout this world, chances are you can look at your local Facebook Horse Group and pick out each of these characters:

The Administrator - These folks should be nominated for sainthood.  They spend more of their time refereeing fights and banning spammers trying to sell shoes & purses than they probably do enjoying their own horses.  Often, you wonder why they even bother to moderate the group at all, since it seems to be a lost cause.  There's generally a high turnover rate for this position as the title-holders get fed up and worn out quickly, and then pass the torch to the next unsuspecting victim. 

The Breeder - This person constantly promotes their unproven and unqualified stallion with shitty pictures and minimal information to supplement their $150 stud fee, usually in inappropriate conversation threads regarding responsible breeding. 

The Rescuer - The person that has to voice their opinion about slaughter and plug their own rescue in every thread on the group.  Often, they solicit donations and mention their website in comments that have nothing to do with rescue, seemingly in hopes that people will donate just to make them go away.  You can also usually find them in "Horses For Sale" groups commenting on listings while undercutting the owner's horse by promoting one of their available horses for half the price. 

The Asshole - Typically a man, this person is usually not heard from unless the topic is highly controversial.  It is then that this person will fire off an ignorant comment to counter everything the rest of the conversation's participants are saying, stirring the pot just to get a rise out of people.  He also generally has a pro-slaughter opinion and blames the rest of the group for the horse overpopulation problem, causing an even bigger outrage.

The Professional - Often found by their constant spewing of their credentials, you can pick this person out simply by looking for the phrase "as a professional in the industry" in every one of their comments.  They generally solicit useless information that no one asked for, and tend to bring an annoying undertone to every conversation as they constantly try to one-up every other participant in the conversation with stories of how they did it better, faster, or cheaper because they've been "in the industry for x-amount of years".  They firmly believe their way is the right way, and will happily tell you how wrong you are at every opportunity. 

The Adolescent - This is generally a minor child with a computer and minimal parental supervision. They constantly flood the group page with seventeen pictures at a time of "The most wonderful horsey in the world, MINE!" all of which have been photo-shopped with annoying hearts and caption bubbles for no reason other than to annoy the rest of the group members.  They bring no intelligent thoughts to the conversation, yet feel the need to voice their input in every thread about how much they love their pony.

The Sheep - This person generally has good intentions, and comes to the group looking for help and advice regarding a specific training issue or medical problem.  Unfortunately, instead of seeking out a qualified professional (like a trainer or vet), they tend to blindly take the advice of whomever answers their question, whether they've given sound advice or not.

The Shady Dealer - Often seen stalking multiple "Horse For Sale" groups, this person attempts to make a living off of the misfortune of others and promising a good forever home.  They will take as many free horses as they can, keep them for several weeks, then appear on a different sale group advertising that same horse for several hundred dollars and claiming they "didn't click". 

The "I NEED HAY" Owner - This person will beg and plead for information regarding any available hay for sale.  Other owners will flood their posting with options and contact information, and rather than call the listed phone number, the "I NEED HAY" Owner will ask a hundred questions of the group members. They will also want the hay delivered, stacked, and paid for by someone else at a great price. 

The Horse Shopper - This person will post that they are shopping for a very vague description of a horse, with no listed budget, and after asking for pictures and videos of every response for weeks, will finally post that they will be ready to buy in six months. 


I hope that this guide has been helpful at pinpointing the type of people you come across on a daily basis.  It is my hope that in the end, we can all band together and eliminate these people from Facebook and make the online world a better place for all of us. 

And then I'll have to find something else to bitch about.