A cold Wet Nose and Sweet Potatoes - Ordinary Things

 

Life isn't always an adventure. Nor should it be. I have found that often, it is the ordinary day to day moments that have a surprising impact on our emotions. Or maybe I'm simply getting old and sentimental. Regardless – I have those profound, yet seemingly, “ordinary” moments more often as the years progress.

I've been back home in Arizona for awhile now. I can't tell you exactly how long – as time means little to me since retirement. I seldom know what day of the week it is and can often be found in the wrong month entirely. The only real concern with time I have is there isn't enough of it and we waste a hell of a lot of it.

(August 28^th – Sept: 2^nd.) Much the same as when I left Arizona to go north for the summer – I took my time coming back. I backtracked to central Oregon and picked up my two year old colt, Drifter, from the trainer. I'd left him with Kitty Lauman (Lauman Training) for two months to be started. Kitty would prefer for colts to be at minimum two and a half before starting them. I gave her my very saddest, pleading face with the explanation that I was heading south and wouldn't be back for at least a year. I don't trust anyone else. I'm too old to be starting colts. She had done an amazing job with my already messed up gelding and I knew she would do a great job on a colt with a clean slate. I've drug him with me everywhere since I got him at 8 months but purposely did not try to “train” on him myself for fear of screwing him up. Whether I was convincing or I just wore her down, Kitty agreed. She'd take him and put 60 days basic start on him.

I arrived at the Lauman ranch the end of August and camped in my usual spot by the Lone Pine Rangers arena. Kitty spent two days showing me how to continue with Drifter once I got him home. I took videos of everything I could think of so I would not forget. I might put more miles than most on my horses– but I do not claim to be a trainer by any right. I grew up climbing on any horse that would get close enough to the fence for me to mount and rode from sun up to sun down. None of this “collection, balance and softness” you hear so much about. Most every horse I've owned had a neck stiff as a 2x4 and two speeds: Slow as molasses leaving the barn and 9-0 headed back to it. I want better for Drifter.

I left Kitty's on an early afternoon. I tossed the lead rope over Drifters back and asked him to load up. He hopped into the trailer with little hesitation. I may not be the next Monte Roberts...but my horses load and unload with the best of them. Joy surged through my being with that one simple act of stepping into the trailer; our journey as partners had begun. A simple toss of the lead...a single step up...an ordinary moment.

With my critter pack once again complete, Jack, Drifter, Hank and I headed for Idaho. We would stay at Dan and Teri's in Emmett for a few days before following them to the Heber Utah two day shoot September 7^th and 8^th.

The Utah folks put on a wonderful shoot. They do everything in their power to throw money at you. If you don't bring home a check, it's your own damn fault. Jack and I didn't impress them much...however, we didn't get skunked either. We managed to win money in the 4D, a clean shooter check and placed 4^th overall in the 4D. With our 60 bucks and a bag full of Farnam swag, we bade farewell to our Idaho friends and pointed the rig toward Moab Utah.

My intent was to break up the 1666+ mile route. I had stayed at the Old Spanish trail arena in Moab on my way north last year. Moab to Aguila's 8 hour drive would be the longest leg of the trip; doable for driver and critters.

The Old Spanish Trail Arena sets aside a bank of stalls and a few RV hookups especially for horse folk traveling through. The host assured me I was welcome to stay as long as I would like. My original thought was to stay in Moab until the Arizona nights cooled down some. As tired as I was, I contemplated staying for a week. The contemplation quickly passed. Anxious to get home, I woke fresh and ready to pull out of Moab by 6:00 AM the following morning, September 10^th. I know this time frame only by researching photos, emails and calendar entries. Again...time eludes me. Unless your waiting in line next to the smelly guy that hasn't yet had his annual bath or grasped the concept of personal space...time goes way too fast.

Upon arriving home, I went about the business of unpacking my LQ into the RV and setting up my property. It takes longer than you might expect. There is hay to unload and suppliers to contact for the year to come. Wells, pumps and water lines that require constant maintenance. Generators, batteries, propane and air conditioners to keep running so we don't evaporate in the hot Arizona sun. What little downtime I manage to squeeze out of the day is spent swapping rides between two horses. It was one such span of free time that I found myself at the horses turnout with a halter in each hand. There was nothing broke that needed fixing...nothing pressing that needed built, maintained or remodeled. No hay to stack, ditches to dig or fence to repair. The biggest decision facing me in that moment was “which horse should I ride today?” The grin spreading across my face matched the giddiness in my heart. “Which horse should I ride today?” An ordinary moment.

We were as settled in as we could get. I looked forward to attending church Sunday mornings. I've never been the church going type. I believe in God and in Jesus. I believe in Heaven and I know how to get there. I've simply never been comfortable in church. Apparently God figured it was damn time that changed when He tossed me through the doors of the Bible Church of Aguila; one ordinary event after another.

Last year about this time, my favorite little cafe here in Aguila fell on hard times. The death of the husband/father left the family to run the business and fight the county to keep the doors open. The roof needed repair and the property maintained or the county was going to impose exuberant daily fines on the family business. The locals would not hear of it. One thing led to another and I found myself setting up a Go fund me Page to help raise money to save the Coyote Den. I've never been involved with crowd-funding before but I am comfortable enough with computers to figure it out. What I'm not comfortable with is handling other peoples money. I would not do it unless the money filtered through a trustworthy church: Enter: The Bible Church of Aguila and Pastor Dan.

I made first contact with Pastor Dan through email. He agreed to meet with me and help set up the Go Fund Me page. Through those email correspondence, I would have sworn I was dealing with a 30 to 40 year old computer savvy nerd with a heart for God. Pastor Dan agreed to meet me “after church” one Sunday...but I was “sure welcome to come for service as well.” A simple...ordinary suggestion.

I stood before ornately engraved doors of a picturesque south west style iglesia. It doesn't get more quaint than this little church building. I've not walked in to many churches...let alone one whose Pastor or people I knew nothing about. I took a deep breath, confirmed it was a cloudless day with zero percent likelihood of being struck by lightening and stepped over the threshold.

I was immediately made to feel welcome by Pastor Dan and the congregation. After the service, Pastor Dan dismissed the congregation and escorted me to the fellowship room to begin work on the Go Fund Me. Pastor Dan: A 93 year old man with bright, intelligent eyes and a booming voice. He speaks three languages, has written numerous books including those on theology and prophesies. He's lived all over the world, almost died at least nine times and always sports a MAGA baseball cap as he stands behind the pulpit leading his congregation in worship. At 120 pounds soaking wet, this unassuming man is anything but ordinary.

I could write a lengthy blog on the little Bible Church of Aguila and it's tiny congregation of outwardly “ordinary” people. I will save that for another time. I will focus on one particular member. His name is Otto.

From what I gather, nobody really knows the complete story of Otto. You see him around town peddling a bike between Aguila and Wickenburg. I met him during my first attendance at the churches fellowship meal following services. He filled his plate and sat at the end of one of the tables alone. I brought my plate over and asked if he minded if I sat down across from him. I don't remember him telling me I could – but he didn't object, either. I sat down across from him. I'm OK with silence. He didn't have to strike up a conversation if he didn't want to. It's kind of like horses and dogs. Some people feel they need to run up and start petting every horse and dog they come up to regardless how the horse or dog may feel about being mauled at the time. If Otto didn't want to talk – so be it.

I didn't yet know his name. I decided to break the silence and ask. At first, he didn't answer. He looked up at me for an uncomfortable length of time through brilliant blue eyes behind bushy brows and a mass of wild, unruly gray hair. OK. I get it. You don't have to tell me your name. I went back to eating my lunch of fried chicken, green beans and sweat potatoes.

Five minutes later, one word: “Otto.” His voice caught me by surprise. “What?” “Otto...my name is Otto.” “Nice to meet you. I'm Laurie.” We sat again in silence awhile longer. Without any particular prompting..Otto began to talk. “Do you know what the most consumed food was during the war?” (I don't remember what war he was referring too, but I think it was WW2) “I do not” I said. “Sweet Potatoes.” He said. I said I liked sweet potatoes. He said he liked them too. From there – Otto was a fountain of information regarding Germany, their culture...the war, their history and the like. He didn't stop talking until the meal was over. I was mesmerized by the plethora of information coming from this man sitting across from me in ordinary, tattered clothing. Here was this person who has likely been over-looked as a local staple of the town...riding his bike from wherever to who-knows-where...now sitting across the table; a virtual encyclopedia of interesting facts; and I got the privilege of listening to him and learning at least a small part of his story. All because of one plain, simple and quite ordinary sweet potato.

Zipping forward again to the present. It was September 14^th. Hank and I had been home for several days and needed groceries and other necessities. We had spent the day in Wickenburg shopping and running errands. I'm not a great shopper. Tired and hungry, I was looking forward to heating up the leftovers from lunch I carried in a to-go box from The Cowboy Cooking: Hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and brown gravy; just about my favorite food.

I started to step out of the truck when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It's the middle of September...there won't be another soul within The Rancho Vaquero subdivision until at least November. I don't mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy the solitude...however, I can be a tad “alert.” If I were a horse, they would say I was “watchy.” I slid back in my seat to be on the safe side.

The movement came from under my RV in the form of a large, emaciated white dog. He had found Hanks water bucket. I kept the door between him and me as he cautiously came into view before slipping under the fence outside my property. I am not afraid of dogs, but I have a healthy respect for a stray that's starving and I know nothing about. I approached the fence with the to-go box of leftover lunch. The dog never took his eyes off me. I talked to him: “Hey pup...I bet you are hungry. How about some Cowboy Cooking? Please don't rip my throat out.” I slipped the food under the fence. For a dog that had to be about as hungry as one can get – he waited until I backed away from the fence before helping himself to the food.

I decided to leave him alone and see what happens. I went about unloading the groceries and told Hank to leave him be. After some time, he crawled back through the fence and laid down under the RV. I got him a dish of Hanks food and set it out for him. He politely ate while I finished chores. I sat down on the steps and watched as he finished the first real meal he'd likely had in weeks. He then walked up to where I sat...got as close as he could get and put his broad head in my lap and closed his eyes. I wasn't sure if I should pet him. To be honest, I wasn't sure I wanted to pet him. He wasn't exactly the easiest thing to look at. Emaciated with a loose, wrinkly white skin and open sores from top to bottom. He looked like the love child of Gollum from Lord of the Rings and a hairless cat.

I figured if he was still here by morning and hadn't ripped my throat out, I'd attend to his wounds and see if anyone was missing a dog. I snapped a picture of him and posted it on Aguila's News and Information Facebook page. A few posters said they had seen him around town the last couple of weeks...but nobody claimed him. I cleaned up his wounds, helped him up the stairs he couldn't yet navigate on his own and let him sleep inside. I would give it two weeks. If he was still here after two weeks, I'd take him to the vet for shots and have him altered. I named him Groot.

The neutering was a bit of an ordeal. The incision site got severely infected partly due to not having an e-collar...of which I had no idea what the hell that was...and partly, I believe – to him being in poor health. He had dropped what little weight I'd manage to put on him after the surgery. We'd have to start from square one.

Slowly but surely, the passing days showed improvement. His backbone less pronounced...his hips and eye sockets less sunken. His coat was starting to take on a softer feel and crisper white. He seldom leaves my side, sleeps on the couch and insists on keeping at least one paw touching me at all times.

One day during our morning walk in the desert, I was sitting on a mesquite stump daydreaming. A cold, wet nose nudged me back to reality. Groot's cold...wet nose.

An ordinary thing...a dogs cold, wet nose. However, it was not ordinary to me. Here was a dog I wasn't sure would live to the end of a week or stick around if he did. Yet – here he sat...as close as he could possibly get to me, broad head pushed against my chest, one paw on my leg and a cold, wet nose signifying health and vitality. Such an ordinary thing to bring such extraordinary joy.

I've been home now going on three months. Folks have commented that I haven't been blogging much. The first thing that comes to mind when confronted with this statement is shock that anyone reads them. Blogging is a form of journaling for me. I am not good with dates and sequences of events. Blogging allows me the ability to recollect events, adventures and life in general as it pertains to my world. It's not that my life has ceased to travel along the wavelength of time...but rather in respect to the life and times here on El Rancho Gitana del Desierto ...things are fairly stagnant. I have been on hold waiting for the county to approve permits before construction can be made on my house. A real house. A house with constant power, hot and cold running water and flushing toilets and everything! Simply put, I've felt said life has not been “blog worthy.”

As I ponder this self proclaimed utterance of life not being “blog worthy,” I come to the realization this statement is harsh and unfair to the seemingly ordinary events that happen in the world. After all – these ordinary moments far exceed the extraordinary...I would surmise to say by the zillions 10 fold. The uniqueness of an individual desert blossom. The contrasting swirls of color in a sandy wash after a summer monsoon. A delicate birds nest perfectly secured within the fortress of a cholla. The musky remnants of odor left behind by nocturnal creatures roaming the desert floor. Good people gathered together in prayer. Blue cornflower Corning Ware containing fellowship meals prepared by ordinary people with extraordinary hearts. An abandoned stray, who from here forward, will know nothing but love and acceptance. A cold-wet nose...and sweet potatoes.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

 

They call me: Roja Verde. The Red Green of the Southwest. I swear – if it weren't for my astounding ability to break things, I'd never learn to fix anything.

Crandall's are due to show up any day. I'm pretty excited about that. I've been here for the last month and a half kicking around without the neighborhood gang. While I am perfectly content living the life of a desert hermit – I do appreciate the folks that come in for the winter season.

I know how hard it is to travel over a thousand miles with horses, dogs and all the crap it takes to survive as a snowbird. You manage to pull into your destination after hundreds of miles of mishaps and trials only to realize your journey has just begun. Where do I put the horses while I ready the stalls?Where did I put those water buckets? Lord – I pray that damn cantankerous well is still pumping!

Not my neighbors. Not on my watch. I could make their arrival much smoother. My intentions were good. What is it they say about the best intentions?

I hopped on Miss Kitty and tractored on over to the Crandall's with a whole barrel full of those good intentions. All the while humming my version of “I think my tractors sexy...”

I believe they have six horses...I can prepare 5 of the 6 stalls. The 6^th stall contains a tractor I won't be able to move without a key. One of the stalls is used as storage for a plethora of outdoor items...water buckets, water troughs – 55 gallon arena barrels and yard art. No problem. I know where most of these items go.

I neatly arranged the garbage cans in their proper place. This big trough goes to the steer pen and these other two big ones I'll place in the turnouts. They will be short one pen for the 6^th horse, so I filled a water trough in the arena so they'd have a place to keep a horse until the tractor is moved.

My biggest concern was the big ceramic flower pots Cindy has meticulously collected. I gently placed them in the bucket of Miss Kitty for transport to the yard. I put her in low gear and crept along as the fragile pots teetered precariously. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I considered taking them out and transporting them one by one. It wasn't too far of a trip and if I did break one ...or two...or all of them...a quick trip to the pottery place and I could have them replaced and no-one the wiser.

My heart swelled with a bit of pride, and relief, as I gently placed the last vibrantly painted pot securely inside the yard. I was quite please with myself as I leapt back into the tractor seat for the remaining items in the pen. Three 55 gallon plastic drums we use as barrels for shooting practice.

I placed the first barrel in the bucket and transported it to the arena. That was easy enough. I might as well take the last two in one trip. I placed both barrels vertically in the bucket and climbed aboard. I raised the bucket high enough for proper balancing of the barrels. They are plastic – it won't hurt them if they do fall out.

With the barrels upright in the bucket and the bucket raised – I could only see under the bucket on each side. No biggie. A mule can't see directly in front of their nose either and they manage just fine. I crept along slowly, balancing the barrels as I went. Suddenly, one barrel upended onto the ground. I stepped off the tractor to put it back in the bucket and out of nowhere it started to rain. A lot. That's odd. There isn't a cloud in the sky. We do have some strange weather here in Arizona.

Before my foot hit the ground it became evident the water wasn't falling from the sky – it was shooting up from the ground beneath Miss Kitty's bucket. I wonder if Crandall's know they've been sitting on a geyser all these years!? It was then my Roja Verde brain kicked in to gear. This weren't no artesian! I'd plumb run over the Crandall's RV hookup.

I could not have aimed better if I'd been trying...I lined that puppy dead center of the two 55 gallon barrels...precisely where I could not see. If I could apply that aim to my mounted shooting skills I'd be a level six by the end of the year.

A geyser to put Old Faithful to shame shot straight up as I backed Miss Kitty off the broken stand pipe. I ran to the well and shut off the water and the power. It was embarrassing enough...it simply wouldn't do to have Crandall's find my dead, electrocuted body laying in the way of their living quarters parking area.

I dug up the muddy mess to examine the damage. The galvanized stand pipe was sheered off flush with the fitting. I can fix this. All I need to do is get that thread out of the fitting – put in a new stand pipe, screw on the valve and the Crandall's will never know what hit them...or rather hit their stand pipe thingy.

They make a tool to back out broken pipe thread. I've seen them. I'm pretty sure I have one. I did not. My other choice was to cut out the entire section of fittings and put everything in new. I stared into the hole formerly known as Crandall's stand pipe. My heart might have stopped for a second. Weird configurations of PVC and galvanized fittings, splicers, couplings and reducers went every which direction. Well...this isn't good. If I delve into this, I'm going to make matters worse before they get better. Don't fix what ain't broke. Crandall's are likely to be home in the morning. I considered leaving a note and making a run for the border. “Dear Dave and Cindy – No need to thank me. I've cleaned out the stalls and filled the troughs so the horses all have water. You, on the other hand....don't have any water. Welcome back!”

That thread was coming out come hell or high water...no pun intended. I threw Groot (literally) into the truck. That dog can climb on the bed, on the couch and even manage to climb on my kitchen table...but he cannot figure out how to jump in the truck. Hank refused to consider going along. He had that look...”This ain't my first rodeo with this goofy damn woman. I'm staying home and taking a nap. Wake me when you get yourself out of whatever mess you got yourself into. Groot and I headed for Adolfo's. Adolfo's will have the tool! Adolfo has everything! Everything except a damn pipe back-er-outer-er thing-a-ma-jig.

We were off to Do it Best in Wickenburg. I know this tool exists. But what if it doesn't? I cannot have these people drive a thousand miles to find they have no water and a big ass muddy mess to boot. Failure was not an option.

The nice man at Do it Best found the tool I needed but he didn't think it was big enough. I was pretty sure it was. He tried to talk me out of it. I asked for a small piece of ¾ inch pipe...he acted like I was nuts and mumbled something about what good was another section of pipe going to do me if I couldn't get the thread out. I grabbed the pipe – ripped open the package and verified the tool would work. We were both thrilled. Well, I was thrilled. He was more dumbfounded I'd just ripped open a package I'd not yet paid for.

I'd need a new stand pipe...he asked how tall. I placed my hand at my hip and said...about this tall! He handed me a three feet section of pipe, asked if I had pipe thread and bade me good luck. I threw some cash at the clerk and ran out the door. It would be dark soon. I was running out of time.

Back at the hole formerly known as Crandall's stand pipe – I held my breath and went to work. The de-threading tool (I still have no idea what this thing is called) did it's magic and easily backed out the broken piece of threaded pipe. A little pipe thread on the new stand pipe threads and valve from the old pipe and Voila! . Good as new. We've done it Groot! Groot? Apparently Groot is taking notes from Hank and left me to my own demise. Faithless canines.

Crandall's would never know. Or would they? Sure – I could take off the stickers from the new pipe and rough it up a bit. Make it look old....I couldn't do it. What if the hole damn thing springs a leak and by morning instead of the RV hook-up there's a Lake Prickly Paw! I'd have to call Dave and fess up.

I really didn't want to call Dave. I'm pretty sure they are regretting the day I showed up on their doorstep and never left. “Um..Hi Dave! Oh...you guys are on your way? You'll be here by morning? So...about that. It's like this....” I explained how I was trying to help...blah blah blah...”and all of a sudden the stand pipe jumps in front of Miss Kitty. I swear, it's like that thing was trying to commit suicide or something!”

Dave let me finish my nervous rambling account of the situation. “Well, young lady – sounds like you've been busy. You didn't have to do that.” I'm fairly certain he meant I didn't have to try and help...and not: No really...you don't have to do that...in fact, please stop trying to do that...or trying to do anything at all! Just stay away from anything and everything you might break or otherwise screw up!”

After much to-do, we agreed to leave the hole now formally known as Crandall's new and improved stand pipe...uncovered. Just in case. I'll check it in the morning for leaks and pray earnestly that we don't wake to Lake Prickly Paw.

As I type this – I am reminded of a line from Franco Zeffirelli's adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. “The best intentions pave the way to Hell.” Sure feels like that sometimes, Franco.

El Rancho Gitano del Desierto

 The Snow Goose 

Rode over to Cindy's

I have successfully transitioned from snow bird to snow goose. One day, I hope to be of the non-migratory species. That should occur once my house in Aguila is built; hopefully by this time next year. In the meantime – I am slowly migrating north. By slowly, I mean kicking, screaming and dragging my feet. Every inch of the way.

Yikes...under my generator!

I was not ready to leave my desert home and head north. Not even the presence of... killing of....or skinning of, my first Arizona rattler was motive enough to pack it up and leave. That just leaves the heat. I am not tough enough to spend an Arizona summer in an RV without air conditioning. Until my house is in – I've resigned to wearing the title of snow goose.

My plans to leave in late May changed when my friend, Janine, invited me on their annual all-girls horseback riding trip. This years trip was planned for Moab, Utah...an area that has been on my bucket list to ride for some time. Bucket list or not, I hesitated. I was not ready to leave the sunny, arid desert that is now home.

I mulled over the pros and cons of leaving early. Pro's: 

    1. The snakes are coming out in full force and I only have two saddles to adorn with snakeskin 

    2. Days in excess of 110° are just around the corner. 

    3. It's a great opportunity to ride in new country with a few old friends. 

    4. It would split up my trip north. 

    5. I'd have people to caravan part of the way if I choose.

Con's: I'll have to get back to you on that. :(

Leaving a little early and meeting up with the girls somehow won. I contemplated hauling to Moab, riding with the gals and driving back home until the end of May. $5.00 + per gallon for diesel curtailed that idea. I simply could not afford the extra miles. Suck it up buttercup. The desert will still be here when you come back in the fall. Except for my yard-art. It will still be gone after some low life scum-bucket crack head stole it last year. You might notice I haven't gotten over it yet, either. Bastards.

It's pretty quiet in the hood since all my neighbors packed up and flew north. Just me, my critters and the coyotes remained. I spent three days readying what I'd leave, packing what I'd take north and summer-izing the RV.

And looking for excuses to stay just a little bit longer.

My friends, Fred and Cindy, weren't making it any easier to leave. Fred was planning a surprise birthday party for Cindy at the Palomino in Wickenburg the night before I was to leave for Moab. In the meantime, Cindy and I would saddle up and ride to each others property...pick the other one up and head out into the desert. That is one of the things I love about where I live. You never have to hook up your trailer. Simply saddle up and ride out the back gate to your friends or State Land.

I drove to Fred and Cindy's the evening of the birthday party and piled in their car bound for the Palomino. Couples danced to a live band. I've been out with Fred and Cindy before. Fred is a dancing machine. He will be dragging your non-rythmic butt onto the dance floor. One day, I will learn to dance. That day has not yet come. Until then, it takes at least 3 shots before anything resembling dancing occurs. I started downing the Jeep'in Juice (aka Fireball and Crandberry) as fast as the waitress could bring them. It doesn't help with my dancing skills any...but it does wonders for erasing my give a shit.

I have said it before...if I'd have know getting old was this much fun, I would have done it a long time ago. Old folks know how to have a good time. As I watch them laughing, drinking and dancing...I try to imagine my grandma among them. It is an image my brain cannot wrap itself around on many levels. The drinking, maybe...but laughing and dancing? Not my grandma.

By the end of the night, I somehow became the designated driver. Well, not necessarily designated...or at least not PRE designated. Had I known I was going to be dubbed the most reliable to get us home without ending up in the clink – I wouldn't have had those last two shots! Fortunately – whiskey does not effect me much...which is proof that, contrary to popular opinion – I do not have a drop of Native American blood; as proved not only by my high tolerance to whiskey – but also by the 23 and Me DNA results. To those bullies of my childhood; I am neither black, Hispanic nor Native American. I am, in order of concentration: Irish\British – Levantine/Egyptian – French/German and <2% neanderthal. I was kind of hoping for a larger percentage of the neanderthal gene. You can pick your nose, you can pick your friends...but you cannot pick your DNA.

I would say I did pretty well considering driving a strange vehicle, slightly under the influence and not being able to see worth shit at night. Leaving my driving glasses in the truck didn't help with that little tidbit. However, I managed to drop Fred and Cindy safely at their RV, fire up the old Dodge and make it the final mile to my place. I crawled into bed knowing I'd be up at 5:30AM to finish battening down the hatches for the trip north. I was out of excuses.

Happy Birthday, Cindy G! 

NO HOOF - NO HORSE

 

JACK

2-17-2022: Before this weekend, I would have said there were two things that will cause me to break down and shed tears. Two things only: One: concern for my family – of which I consider my critters very much a part of...and Two: Practically every stinking episode of Little House on the Prairie. When Pa breaks down...it's all over for me. There will be tears.

I can't remember a birthday when I haven't saddled Jack for a ride. I feel like it starts the year off on the right hoof. Since my birthday is in February – I treat it more like a New Year thing. Especially since I basically sleep through the actual New Year proper. My theory is to sneak up on it unsuspecting like. That way, if my number is up, the powers that be won't notice and pass me on by for another year. So far it's working.

I fed the horses in the morning as usual and spent most of the day nursing the effects of a bad belly and looking out the window at the relentless wind. The belly ache I could handle and would, in fact, improve once in the saddle. The wind, however, wasn't going anywhere. I don't like the wind one bit. I resigned to forfeit the annual birthday ride and tune in to a Gunsmoke marathon. Nothing a good dose of Matt, Kitty, Doc and Festus couldn't cure.

Cindy had planned a birthday celebration at the restaurant of my choice. I chose roasting hot-dogs around the fire-pit and calling it good. Cindy and Dave always go out of their way to make such occasions special for me. Whether it be my birthday, Christmas or what have you. I was not up for driving in to town and eating restaurant food. A bad belly had left me wanting nothing more than to curl up on the couch and pray for morning.

The wind put the kibosh on building a bon-fire. Plan B was cake and fireball at Crandall's by 5:30PM. I drug my frumpy butt off the couch to feed before heading to the neighbor's for the festivities. I didn't get off the first porch step before I knew something wasn't right. Drifter was at the feed barrels pacing back and forth. Jack was not in sight. I whistled and he responded with a whinny that caused my heart to sink. He continued to whinny as I narrowed the distance between me and the turn out. I scanned the pasture several times before catching site of his head and neck. He was laying in the big wash, struggling to stand. His legs where curled underneath him and dust covered him from end to end. How long has he been out here like this? Your mind races...struggling to make sense of the situation. Is it colic, or worse...has he twisted a gut? Is he impacted? Broken a leg running around out here? Snake bit? It's not unheard of for snakes to be out this early. Dear God...don't take my horse. I don't want to be here without him.

“Get up Jack.” It didn't act like colic. He wasn't trashing – he just didn't seem to want to get up. His eyes were glazed and held the hollows of a horse in distress. He was hurting somewhere. “Get up Jack – you've got to move.” I prayed and held my breath as I watched him make it to his feet. I expected to see an oddly angled leg or other sign of a broken bone. I let out a breath of relief as he stood on four, big boned and perfectly shaped legs. I checked him top to bottom for bites, cuts, wounds...anything. He was a little distended so I figured we were back to colic or twisted gut.

He followed me out of the wash toward the gate where his halter hung. He refused to eat or drink. I remembered Nadine, the horse woman I bought him from as a baby, tell me: “If he's eating...he's going to be fine.” He wasn't eating..not even his favorite cookies out of my hand. My heart dropped farther in my chest. Dear God – let him live. Keep him alive. I don't want to be here without him. I don't want to do this alone.

As soon as I put him in his covered pen he immediately laid back down. Shit. I ran to gather my vet box. I gave him a small dose of Banamine and took his temp. 99.3°. I didn't bother with listening to his heart. I could hear gut sounds but not much. I called Cindy for the number to the vet in Wickenburg.

I don't know how I got my truck backed to the trailer. The sun was starting to set and I couldn't see squat. Thankfully I hit it on the second try. By the time I got Jack to his feet and loaded – Cindy and Dave were at my place with their trailer. Jack peed as soon as he stepped in the trailer; a good sign. If a horse is collicking – a good method of promoting gut movement is to load them in a trailer and haul them. More times than not, they will poop in the trailer if they haven't twisted a gut. A twisted gut usually requires complicated surgery with odds not in their favor.

I didn't waste any time getting to the Hassyampa Vet Clinic in Wickenburg. The vet office called for an ETA about the time I hit the outskirts of town. “According to my GPS, I'm 9 minutes out.” Wow...you made good time.” “Yes Ma'am.”

Jack was still upright when I pulled into the clinic. I scanned the trailer for a pile of poop that would give my horse a fighting chance. Nothing. He'd peed again. That was good...I guess?

It was now dark as I opened the back of the trailer to unload. I asked him to “back...back...back...back....step. Good boy”. If nothing else – we impressed the vet tech: “Wow – that was kind of cool.” She said.

I couldn't remember where I put my lead rope. Maybe I'd left it. I didn't need one. Jack followed me as I followed the vet tech into the clinic.

The vet went to work checking his temp, vitals and listening for gut sounds. His temp was 99.6 (at least I know my thermometer is accurate.) She listened to his heart for what seemed like forever. “Has anyone ever told you he has a heart murmur?” A what? No...he doesn't have a heart murmur. He has a big heart. He has no quit. He is the toughest horse on the planet lady...he does not have a heart murmur. “No...never.”

“Ok...well, is he insured?” Insured? What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Are you saying he's not worth your time if he's not insured? Are you saying my horse is going to die and you want to know if I'm going to profit from his death? “No...he's not insured. But I can assure you ma'am...I would mortgage my house to save him if it came to that.” I didn't tell her I don't have a house but whatever. My meaning was clear enough. She gave a half smile and went to work.

“He's a big boy” she said - “But I'm not going to give him anymore meds than is needed to drop his head and no pain meds...we want him to be able to get stuff moving if he can.” Watching them cram four feet of hose up his nose into his gut made my own eyes water. Not being more sedated than he was – I was proud of him. He took it like a champ.

She pumped oil and electrolytes down him and gave him another type of medication I can't remember. Drew blood to test for lactiads – those were good. He was not dehydrated. She said ideally, they would keep him, put him on IV's and watch him through the night but they weren't set up for that kind of thing yet as they were still moving into this new building. Great.

I appreciate people that are blunt and to the point – but good hell lady: “Well...IF he makes it through the night with no change...bring him back in. And you probably want to get that heart murmur addressed. I mean...I'm the last person you want diagnosing cardiac disease in a horse...but IF he makes it through this – there's EKG's and things they can do in Phoenix...” She went on to say: “Of course, the murmur could be the result of whatever he has going on here. IF he makes it through the night, I suppose you can address the heart thing later.” I swear if that lady uses the word “IF” again she'll be needing a cardiologist herself.

Loaded back in the trailer, Jack and I headed for home. I did what I always do in these situations: I prayed. I prayed and questioned my faith. While I believe in the power of prayer, I've also accepted the truth that God does not always answer our prayers the way we might want or expect. Jack could die regardless of earnest prayer. What would happen to my faith then? I thought of the story of Job and how he remained faithful even after God tested his faith with so much suffering and heartache. I am no Job. My critters are my greatest strength and my greatest weakness. I changed my prayer: “God – I pray with all my heart that you heal my horse – but if that is not your will – then I pray for the faith and the strength to endure whatever comes.”

Jack backed gingerly out of the trailer. I scanned the floor..still no horse-poop. The vet said to keep him off food until he poops. I put him in his covered stall, placed my ear against his belly and willed there be gut sounds. It's times like this when I wish I had a real barn. I would pull up a cot and spend the night with my critters. As it is –I don't relish the thought of waking up as a bed warmer for a cold blooded rattler.

I didn't need to set my alarm but did anyway. I checked on Jack every hour for poop watch. Midnight – no poop. 1:00 AM – No poop. 2:00 AM – nothing. 3:00 AM rolled in like a heavy, dark cloud filled with promise of despair. Bleary eyed and with heavy heart, I shuffled out to Jack's pen in slippers and penguin PJ's. There in the corner of his pen lay the most glorious, steaming pile of horse-poop I'd ever lay eyes on. Jack was proud of himself. He was also hungry. I threw my arms around his neck and thanked God for that pile of poop. He was hungry and a bit annoyed that I wouldn't yet feed him. I thought it best to make sure things were moving along. A horse that's impacted can still poop if the impact is farther up in the intestines. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but the fact that he wanted to eat did wonders for my hopes.

The next day, Jack continued to return to normal. He was eating, pooping and peeing with gusto. Kindness and selfless adoration had filled in the hallows of pain and fear from his eyes. I hugged him, thanked God and slept for 12 hours.

When a person thinks they came close to losing something, it can cause ponderings of fresh perspective. For me, those revelations came in six little words: “Shit or get off the pot.” No pun intended, Jack. I was referring to mounted shooting. I was done making excuses, playing it safe and making Jack look like a plug. No more slowing down and holding him back.

The next couple of days, I practiced in my arena and Crandall's – focusing on speed. It's hard to tell, for me anyway, if your actually going as fast as you feel. You think you're out there flying through the course, hair blowing in the wind like a dark haired and less attractive Kenda Lensiegne – popping balloons and breaking sound barriers – until someone shows you the video. Reality hits. You're barely out of a lope and the only barriers you're breaking are those of a delusional nature.

We must have been picking up speed ….a couple of friends commented we had. I was still able to hit my balloons and Jack remained calm. It felt good. Excited to continue pushing our limits, I entered Jack and I in every local shoot for the next two months. Shoots I would soon have to draw out of.

Jack was seven weeks into his last shoeing. Finding a good farrier is hard enough – finding one who will show up is near impossible. The farrier I was using had gone back to Idaho or wasn't interested - he didn't answer my text. I had the contact for another that friends had used and were happy with. He answered my text within minutes. He could be there by 2:00PM. “You mean 2:00PM as in today 2:00 PM?”

Devin pulled into my driveway at 2:00PM. He introduced himself and apologized for needing to bring two of is little girls with him. His wife was out of town with their other two. No apology needed. I miss my grand-kids fiercely. I could get in my grandma fix on these two little fireballs.

The wind was howling. I should have stopped him when he hard-tied Jack to his tailgate. Jack rarely pulls back anymore but between the wind, Drifter racing around his pen behind him and two little girls running circles around him brandishing mesquite limbs...things were bound to get western. I was a split second too late stopping the girls when Jack reached his boiling point...jerked back and took the guys tailgate with him. I was actually impressed. The old Jack would have drug the entire rear end of the truck back to Idaho. As it was – he dropped his head and let me untie the lead while Devin replaced his tailgate.

I was able to convince the girls to gather “firewood” and popped balloon fragments out of my arena to keep them occupied while their dad worked. Jack ground ties well, allowing me to periodically check on the girls and leave Devin to it. He had finished the front two feet when the girls came looking for a bathroom. I dropped the lead rope and escorted the girls to the RV.

The scene had changed significantly in the time I left Jack with Devin and returned with the girls. Devin stood holding Jack's lead – both nervous and equally wide-eyed. Devin said that he had clipped him – that he was bleeding a little and had to take out a hot nail. “But don't worry – it almost always never causes a problem.” OK.

When I first saw Jack's right hind hoof – I thought it must be buried part way in the dirt. It was shocking to discover it was not...that was all that was left of my horses big, beautiful hoof. “Um...that looks awful short.” I said. Devin answered: “Oh no...it could be a lot shorter. He's been left too long. He's going to travel so much better!” I was far from convinced: “Um...he's a pretty big horse for that small of a hoof!” He answered: “You shoe the hoof...not the horse.” “OK....but that HOOF HAS TO SUPPORT THAT HORSE!” He had nailed 00's on a hoof that should take a 1 or an 0...if the shoe was shaped properly. There was no shaping of shoes here. Just hammer on a two sizes too small hunk of iron and whack off whatever is hanging over.

I lead Jack gimping to his stall while Devin seemed determined to convince me how much better he was going to travel...but he'd be sore for a few days because, you know...he clipped him a little. Surely this guy knows something I don't?

I can pick up all of Drifter's feet without any problems but he is sketchy when it comes to most other people. I have to give credit where credit is due. Devin took his time and did a great job handling Drifter. I on the other hand was going to err on the side of caution: “You know, he really doesn't need trimmed...I drag him all over the desert. Just pick up his feet and mess with him a bit so he gets use to having someone else do it.” Devin agreed – rounded the edges and called it good.

I owed him $175.00 – paid him $200.00 for taking the time with Drifter and bade farewell to two little girls...one of which misunderstood my name as Dory. “I love you, Dory! Good bye!” Well...I'm...rather fond of you, too sweetheart. Come back someday.” Perhaps when your dad has a little more experience under his belt.

Jack was now laying down. I got him up and led him and Drifter to their turnout pen. Drifter, usually full of piss and vinegar, seemed to sense Jack's pain and walked calmly beside us. The more I looked at Jack's feet – the more concerned I became.

The next day, Jack continued to lay down unless I asked him to get up. Seeing his excruciating walk brings to mind the barbaric practice of Chinese foot binding. He walks like a tortured, foot bound Chinese woman.

I was trying not to overreact. I can do that when it comes to my horse. I must have looked as depressed as I felt when I told Dave and Cindy what had happened. They would be right over to take a look.

I started leading Jack to Crandall's – Dave met us before we got 50 yards down the drive. “OMG ...don't make him walk. Those shoes have to come off. I'll bring my trailer.”

Dave went to work pulling the back shoes. Jack was too sore to stand on his right hind. The fact that he let us pick up his feet at all was amazing in itself. Dave talked to him, apologized to him and lay on his belly so Jack didn't have to put any more weight on them than absolutely necessarily. From the few years that I've known Dave, he appears to me to be a fairly stoic, slow to rile type of guy. However, I was surprised to hear a few F-bombs and other choice words as Dave quickly removed both back shoes.

I am certainly no expert – but a blind man could see there was nothing right about either of those hooves. The hoof wall...gone. The toes...gone. Heels....gone. Three of the five nails in one hoof alone were hot. Blood surfaced in several areas. The one thing harder than looking at my horses butchered feet was knowing I had led him to the slaughter. He trusted me and I stood there and let this happen.

I'm crying...Cindy's teared up and I'm pretty sure Dave shed one as well as he tried his best to console us: “It's going to be OK. We will fix him up. It will take time, but we can fix this.”

Dave made boots out of duct-tape to hold gauze soaked in iodine solution (Su-Per Sole Formula) against his soles. The iodine would harden his soles and hopefully prevent abscessing.

The silver duct-tape boots somehow amplified the deformed and undersized shape of my horses feet. I couldn't look at them without feeling somebody had punched me in the gut. “Oh, he's going to travel so much better now.” I got madder by the minute. Devin needed to know what he had done. Cindy suggested I wait a couple of days to calm down before confronting him. She was right, of course....but what I really wanted to do was have someone who loved and trusted him hold him down while I took a grinder to his toes and worked back to mid arch. “There...a little tender? Don't worry, your going to travel so much better!”

In between doctoring Jack and fretting over what the hell to do, Dave, Cindy and I took a break and headed to the Coyote for dinner. My friends Fred and Cindy (who I call “my other Cindy”) were also at the Coyote. They offered to lend us a pair of soaker boots and suggested adding a layer of sugar with the iodine solution. I'd never heard of using sugar. I stopped by the next day and picked up the boots.

Dave was concerned about the breath-ability (or lack) of the boots. They were made to be used temporarily to soak the foot. Jack was going to have to wear them for an extended period of time and they might sweat and make his feet soft. I remembered I had a pair of Cashel trail boots that fit over shoes. They would be big, and they were technically for the front – but they had vents in them to allow water to run out at creek crossing.

We cut up an old, thin wool pad to place in each boot. Dave poured in a layer of sugar and added iodine and secured the boots as best he could. Jack high stepped around like a an American Saddlebred.

We changed the pads in his boots ever 24 hours. The Su-Per sole formula and sugar seemed to be doing the trick. His soles were hardening faster than I'd hoped. Each day his gate become more extended.

Whether or not to contact Devon weighed on me. I know he had no idea what he'd done. If he had, he would not have asked if I would let him use Drifter as a demo horse at some sort of clinic put on by the farrier school. Fortunately, the decision to confront him was taken out of my hands.

Devin pulled into my driveway just as I was pulling out. I could tell from the look on his face he was not there for idle chit-chat. He had gotten word. He apologized and wanted to know what he could do to make it right. Of course, there is no “making it right.” The damage was done. He offered to give my money back. I said “I don't want your money...I want you to learn from this so you never do it to another horse. You can't ever do this to another horse. My horses mean everything to me. Especially this one, he is my life.” He offered to bring in a hoof expert to see what they could do. I replied: “I appreciate that...but no. Dave is working on him and thinks he can make him sound again. If I didn't trust in that – this would be an entirely different conversation.” He hung his head – he was truly sorry. I knew it took a lot for Devin to show up and own up to what he had unintentionally done. I told him as much. He offered again to have his mentors look at Jack. I again turned down the offer: “I appreciate that you came out here – it means a lot – but the last thing I'm going to do is lead my horse up to another stranger neither of us trust. Right now, all I want from you is to learn from this and get off my property. I think what I meant to say was “learn from this and move on” - but I was about to start crying again and “get off my property” just sort of came out.

What do regular people do when they don't have a horse to ride? I would go out of my ever loving mind. I decided to fill my time by upping my morning walks, getting back in shape and spending more time with Drifter. The first day I ended up walking 6 miles. Hank now hesitates or flat refuses to go with me. He waits by the gate for me to return.

As for Drifter, vacation is over for you, bud. I saddled him and put him in Crandall's round pen and lunged him for the first time. Within no time he was walking, trotting and loping on command. I can only run around in circles so many times before I get sea-sick. I can't think of anything more boring for Drifter, either. Maybe I'll start taking him on walks with me. I broke to ride my first colt that way. I'd take him for a walk all over the valley. One day, I got tired of walking and jumped on. I was 16 at the time...I'm not 16 anymore. Probably won't be happening. But damn, it's tempting.

Dave and Cindy know me better than I thought. They offered to let me use their semi-retired roping horse, Shorty. You don't want to use the word “retire” around Shorty though. He has no idea he is 21 years old. He doesn't seem to care if you call him Shorty...he knows he can out-walk anything twice his size. Wouldn't surprise me if there was a Pasofino in the woodpile somewhere in Shorty's lineage.

It's been Shorty and me for about a week now. He could not be more polar opposite from Jack; from his physical stature to his mincey gate. No matter what he does, he's all business and you are expected to simply hang on and enjoy the ride...and even though I sort of feel like I'm cheating on Jack, I do enjoy the ride.

Cindy and I have been wanting to find the “Wickenburg Stagecoach Massacre site” since last years failed attempt. We met Jamie and Celia at the Coyote and hauled to the state land parking area. I had created a way-point from the google maps coordinates on my GPS. We were finding that damn site come hell or high water.

Shorty is a true, “cowboy's horse.” His proud, mincy walk eats up the miles. He might not be the mountain goat that Jack is – but he makes up for it with head-bobbing enthusiasm. He doesn't know what we are doing out here in the desert – but he's doing it with purpose!

If you want to look important – carry a clipboard. If you want people to think you know where your leading them – carry a GPS. All I could deduce from the hand-held Garmin was that we needed to go North by North East. Over rocky strewn hills dotted with barrel cactus, across open country and through washes, I led the girls on a direct path...no veering. The GPS doesn't allow for veering. Veering can get you lost, I know...I am an expert in getting lost.

The GPS led us straight to the Massacre Site. We milled around reading the numerous information plaques and snapped pictures. A jeep pulled in shortly after we arrived. The group introduced themselves. They said they were from California - “The good part” of course. I find that happens a lot with Californians. They all claim to be from the “good part.” I think if I had to validate that I was from the “good part” of a state...I would move to another state. Come to think of it – most of them are! They were nice folks regardless of which part they came from and offered to take our picture. We took them up on it before heading back to the trailers.

Cindy is quite the tailgate bartender. She had brought a cooler full of the fixings to make what we now dub: “Aguila Swamp Water.” I'm not going to say what's in it in the event she decides to patent it....which I think would be an excellent idea.

Aguila Swamp Water is a refreshing drink...thirst quenching even. Being as this was the warmest day in a long while, we were pretty thirsty! We suspect Cindy mixed our drinks light on the water and heavy on the swamp.

Is everybody OK to drive. “Sure!” said Cindy, “It's a straight shot almost all the way home....and I'm not driving!” It's unlikely I would pass a sobriety test, but I could maintain and get us there. I hoped.

“Cindy – how's my driving...am I doing OK?”

“Laurie May...you are driving FABULOUS!”

When someone tells you really loud that you're driving “FABULOUS” followed by adorable, contagious giggles...there's probably sirens and a breathalyzer test not far behind.

~

Now is as good a time as any to learn to rope; something I've been wanting to do since coming to “The Team Roping Capital of the World.” I'm paranoid about dallying, though. I've picked up enough fingers out of the roping arena to realize I'm rather fond of my digits. All 10 of them. For now, I am roping the dummy on the ground and only chasing steers on Shorty. The first trip down the arena felt like we broke the sound barrier. The chute opens, the steer leaves and Shorty explodes after the thing. I don't have a rope so all I have to do is hang on and try to keep Shorty from stomping on the steer....which I think he would like to do. He is a cow eating machine. It feels like we are going a lot faster than we are. I've seen the real ropers chase those same steers and they don't look nearly as fast as it feels on Shorty!

Dave says once I get comfortable roping on the ground I can go to swinging the rope on Shorty and maybe eventually...throwing the loop at an actual steer. I don't know about that. I may have to wait until Jack heals up. Shorty isn't big enough to head off and Jack has issues with being in the roping box with a steer in the chute. Then again, I never thought he would make a shooting horse and he fooled me. I remembered something Kitty Lauman told me one time: “If you expect him to fail, he will not disappoint you.” Wow – those words were a game changer for me. OK then... I expect Jack will make an awesome head horse one day!

It's been one week and two days since Jack's ordeal. He's been plodding around in his “tennis shoes” with an almost normal gate. We pulled off the tennis shoes and Dave examined his hooves. He winced: “Ugh...I sort of forgot just how short they are.” He brought out special slim shoeing nails and properly sized shoes for his back feet and went to work. The hardest part seemed leveling them up without taking off what little wall he had left. The right hoof is the worst. It is a good inch shorter than the left. It makes me cringe.

I'm so proud of Jack for standing patiently while Dave quickly worked magic. He is not the most forgiving horse. He seemed to know Dave was trying to help him.

Dave finished nailing on the shoes and then applied bond-o to fill in the gaps between the shoe and hoof. He said it would help keep the dirt and gravel out. I had to laugh. I told Jack that's what shyster used car salesmen do to pass off a piece of junk.

His feet are all different sizes and shaped unnatural, yet they looked 100 times better once Dave was through. I'm scared to get my hopes up too much – but watching Jack walk more normal than I've seen him in the last 10 days made my spirit a little bit lighter.

I look forward to the day when Jack and I are again racing through the desert – his big, healthy hooves pounding through sandy washes to the base of the Harquahala mountains. In the meantime, I am blessed with friends and neighbors who don't give a second thought to spending their time, talent and resources to help. I am especially thankful for the loan of a head-bobbing powerhouse patiently teaching me to one day be a real roper. I call him: Sir Shorty.

El Rancho Gitano Del Desierto

Wow – it's been three months since I've took the time to blog. A lot has happened in three short months. To catch up would require a medium more towards the novel end of writing as opposed to a quick blog. Thus – I shall attempt to summarize the previous three months according to the short notes I jotted down in a diary of sorts.

The following notes were those I felt blog worthy at a future time. It's a lot like trying to explain something that was really funny at the time but loses most of it's appeal as you recount it later to your friends. Kind of had to be there...but here goes:

Sometime in October: Quick trip to Home Depot for cones to use as target stands. Trying to find help at the Home Depot in Surprise is like trying to capture a clear picture of Bigfoot. It ain't happening. Shopping wears me out. Home Depot does not sell Fireball. It should.

October 24^th was an eclectic day. I spent the morning plumbing the shed for the washer. Plenty of swearing and three trips to Adolfo's for various parts needed. Later that morning, a nice ride up the Harquahala trail towards the observatory. Afterwards, I spent the afternoon digging a drain for the washer until dark. That project only took 1 trip to Adolfo's and less swearing. Adolfo's doesn't sell Fireball either. They should.

The next day I installed the pipe for the washer machine drain and ran into Adolfo's for clothing line and eye hooks. Back at the ranch, I washed my first load of clothes! Watching the rinse water flow successfully down the drain pipe was like reaching a state of Nirvana - if I was Buddhist...which I'm not. I would have celebrated but Adolfo's still does not sell fireball. I doubt Buddhist drink Fireball. Maybe they should. 

It appears I did nothing for the months of November and December as my notes ended on October 31st with finding several cans of Beanee Weenee's on a shelf at the Dollar Store. They don't, however, sell Fireball. They should.

Me, Dave, Cindy, Teri

I spent Thanksgiving week in Tombstone for the Tombstone Ghost Riders shoot. The club puts on an outstanding shoot and serves up Thanksgiving dinner for the shooters. Jack and I took second on the first day and won first place on the second day. They do sell Fireball just about anywhere in Tombstone but I'm there for the Prickly Pear Margarita's. As I should be.

December: I don't like to travel for the Holiday's so opted to stay put and watch Dan and Teri's critters so they could spend time with family. Before they left, Cindy and Dave threw together a neighborhood Christmas party. We ate, played corn-hole, drank various adult beverages and howled at the moon. Literally. I've said it before – if I'd have known being old was this much fun, I would have done it a long time ago.

Throw in some balloon killing, riding, hiking...fixing stuff and becoming an official, card carrying Arizonian and that's it in a nutshell. It's been a mental, physical and emotional roller-coaster for sure. Nights often find me wondering: “What the hell have I done?” It's dark and oh-so quiet. Eerily quiet. The only sound breaking that silence is the yipping, howling call of the coyote pack trying to lure my dog astray. Hank hates coyotes. My usually mild, passive dogs turns immediately into 30 pounds of snarling, black and white hackles. His sole purpose at this moment is to protect his pack from the demonic desert jackal. Where there is one...there are many. A dog is no match for a pack. I keep him close.

It is an adjustment....this life I am leading. Living off the grid – a thousand miles from family. No house to speak of, yet oddly, I somehow feel more at home in this 30 foot RV than I ever felt in a 2600 square foot log house. I am supposed to be here. I have no idea why.