October 1 is the day many riders in this area eagerly anticipate: it is the day that Crane Beach, just northeast of Boston, opens to horses. But, as usual, and though I swore otherwise, we Windflower folk didn't make it there until yesterday. We left early because I knew I'd need to fill out the requisite form at the gatehouse and pay the usual fee of four dollars per horse in order to get my trailer sticker. I handed the gray-haired man twelve dollars and said I had two horses and a mule.
"A mule? Really? Can I see?"
He reached up and stroked her nose. "Awww, why the long face?" (Sigh--another ear joke!) "Where did you get her?"
"She's a rescue."
Brit shoved her muzzle into his hand. "Awww," again.
We went back to the booth and I handed him twelve dollars. He returned four.
"But I have three."
He held the ticket up for me to read. "See," he said, "'horses, four dollars.'" He smiled. "I wouldn't know what to charge you for a mule."
"A mule is half horse-half donkey. I could give you two dollars for the horse half," I offered.
"Sorry, regulations are complicated enough. Anytime I'm at this booth your little mule is free."
What a glorious day it was! There was a mild onshore breeze, the deep blue sky shot through with bolts of sun gold. One of Mother Nature's unique Massachusetts playgrounds looked her best. Kites snapped in the wind, children in bright jackets gamboled in scattered little flocks, joggers jogged, lovers walked, dogs leapt waves to retrieve balls and sticks, and horses galloped through the tide pools.
That was the scene Anne, her daughter Dana, and I saw as we crested the path between the dunes leading out to the ocean. It was a total celebration--maybe too much celebration for my novice group. This was but Ice's second trip to the beach and Brit's first! We pressed on. Firefly, always forward, was more so, and Anne had her hands full convincing Ice that a nice walk would be, well, nice. Little Brit walked resolutely forward, big brown eyes agog with amazement, her long ears rotating like radar dishes.
Crossing through the tide pools--like the one you see in the photo above--was more of a challenge. Wind-blown water slid sideways, creating the unsettling illusion of a powerful, quick current. But after some strategic cajoling they all crossed, enjoying the splashes of water their legs and hooves created.
A number of parents and children asked if they could pet our ponies and we were happy to oblige. As a little girl I remember the magical feeling of touching a horse's muzzle for the first time. He was in a pasture in Old Brookfield--Long Island's horsey, old money area. When I squealed at the sight of him my father obligingly pulled over. I had to stand on the middle rung of a split rail fence to reach the velvety nose.
We rode out to where the beach ends and Ipswich Harbor begins. It's a lovely view: fishing boats were already returning with the day's catch, the charming New England town of Ipswich on the opposite shore, a very different scene from our ride almost exactly eight years ago when it was cold, rainy, and very windy. Then the sky was grey, the water grey, even the sand had a grey caste. When it rained we didn't know whether is was salt water blown by the onshore gale or fresh water falling from the grey stratus clouds above.
No one was on the beach that day but us, that is, Hadrien and Juliane, another two of Anne's children. At least, that's what we thought until we reached Ipswich Harbor, the turn-around point of our ride. There in the sand, twenty or so feet up from the water, was a seal pup staring curiously back at us with dark, liquid brown eyes. We wondered if he was okay. From time to time a sick pup would be found onshore, but more often than not Mom has placed them there in order to do some serious fishing. That's why the occasional signs posted about say, "If you care, leave it there."
I looked past him into the waves. There, swimming in the breaking waves, was an adult seal. We got within fifteen feet of the little critter on the sand, but that was too close for him. He awkwardly humped his way down to the water and his mother. We were cold and wet by the time we got back to our trailer, but we didn't mind. The beach, so inhospitable to humans that day some years ago, had as consolation granted this wonderful seal encounter.
Now (back in the present) at the end of our ride, we dismounted, took the saddles off, and let the horses have a good roll in the deep white sand. They were sweaty, wet, and itchy, so this had to feel incredibly good to them. Some riders have told me they would never teach their horses that it's okay to roll while on the beach. But we teach them it's okay only when the ride is over, we've dismounted, and their saddles have been stripped. They do love it and it seems only fair after their having given us such fabulous rides. I'm sorry I don't have a picture of those who rolled this go-round, but here's one of Quilly on a different day:
Brit Anne Dykiel copyright 2011
Just last night Anne sent me a short clip of Brit rolling.
You'll also learn that Brit is getting a bi-lingual education: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=2617563687256
After several rolls each, the saddles got put back on and we walked the remaining quarter mile back over the dunes to the parking lot. This allows the horses to stretch out their back muscles without the burden of us.
Now at the trailer, one and all get a long drink of water laced with a handful of sweet feed as inducement:
Then it's a stop for some hot chocolate before heading back home to consult the tide charts and plan our next trip to Crane!
You glimpsed him last blog and here he is again--meet Clem!
Clem is an eighteen-week Lab mix we found at Forever Home Rescue New England http://www.foreverhomerescue.org. He's a southern boy hailing from the great state of Mississippi. It seems his very pregnant yellow lab mother wandered up some kind soul's driveway. She was taken in and soon after delivered seven yellow lab mix puppies, every one a boy. So Clem (he was then called Lamar) has never known an unkindness, save perhaps his two-day truck ride to a Massachusetts foster home, where he stayed five days prior to our adopting him. He is as happy-go-lucky as they come:
And bold:
And a retriever through and through:
We are incredibly lucky to have this little fellow enter our lives. He is Life Force itself, reminding us at every moment to eat, play, love, and even sleep with gusto. But one member of the household doesn't share our joy. Bella is our son Alec's ten-year-old Springer Spaniel mix. I took Alec to the Lowell Humane Society just a week or so after Alec's first dog Toby (whom he had for over eleven years) died. Alec said he wanted to get another dog--no waiting. I told Jim that Alec said he didn't want to sleep alone, and Jim was right on board. When your seventeen year-old son says he doesn't want to sleep alone and that the state of aloneness he is referring to is aloneness without a dog, You Get That Boy A Dog!
When Bo died, Bella seemed thrilled to be the only dog. She was the only recipient of our attention and of the tasty morsels she usually had to share. Enter a four-month-old bundle of in-your-face competitive energy! Bella initially expressed only depression, sadness, and irritation. It's been two weeks now and she is finally coming around. Yesterday she actually ran a couple of happy loops with Clem in the front yard. Still, I think she's hoping he's just one more of my friends' dogs that occasionally overnight here and that someone will relieve her of this intrusive ball of happy fire.
Bella about to fall asleep and dream that Clem is leaving:
Clem, of course, is one of the fortunate ones. He never was in a high-kill shelter--the most common source of these southern dogs. The southern states do not have a monopoly on producing these castaways but they certainly are up there. My friends run a rescue in southwest Virginia and were quite frank about what they see. Shelters automatically put to sleep the many pit bull litters that come through their doors. There are two reasons; the breed itself as well as the sort of people who often are interested in adopting them. And they have so many other litters to place.
After hunting season, hounds are sometimes discarded on the side of the highways and picked up by the police--if they have survived--and turned in to a shelter. Abuse cases are legion. A few months ago another friend took in a young, emaciated, collar-less German Shepherd who was hanging out at a bridge crossing in South Carolina. A search led to no owner, or at least the owner wasn't looking or caring. To this day, whenever the dog sees a dark pickup truck, he begins to wag his tail joyfully and bark with happy anticipation. Let's hope the low-life who dumped this poor guy will eventually transform into--as the bumper sticker says--"the person my dog thinks I am."
A couple of years ago I was in Kentucky--a gorgeous state--with my husband. We saw a good number of stray dogs along the road or crossing pastures. There--at a conference-- I met a gentleman from Tennessee active in his state's politics and a farmer as well. I asked him why there isn't more action taken to end this problem. Many rescued dogs come from the state that entreats tourists with the slogan: "America At Its Best!" This was his reply:
"Are you kidding? We don't even have the money to treat the meth-amphetamine addicts." He then said he periodically has to shoot packs of dogs, mostly shepherds and lab mixes, that come onto his property threatening the livestock.
But, of course, the problem isn't simply lack of money. True, south of the border that is partially the case. In Mexico wages are low and it costs approximately one week's salary to neuter your dog. The humane societies there struggle valiantly. Please check out the wonderful Cozumel Humane Society at http://www.humanecozumel.org Also click here to read about an amazing YouTube, "Friendship Among the Garbage." The YouTube is also there at the bottom of the page: http://s1.zetaboards.com/
Closer to home, one of my husband's colleagues at work brought to our attention a wonderful dog much in need of adopting. He was brought to a shelter at the age of one and at five is still there. His cage is way too small. The staff just doesn't understand why no one has adopted him. In fact, they think he is so exceptional that they will not euthanize him. Rufo is very gentle, loving, and so patiently waiting for someone to love him back. Please, please, I know many of you are friends who already suffer from "heart-overload," but if you or anyone you know could just bear a little more "love-weight" and could provide a home for this terrier-shepherd mix, click here for info and a photo: http://www.petfinder.com/
Next week Dr. Liz Maloney will be here to evaluate Dolly. On her last visit six weeks ago, Liz, who is also a chiropractor, confirmed what I had already thought, that Dolly's pelvis--due to her traumatic breeding and foaling--was way out of alignment. So we haven't really done any work under saddle. But I have been ponying her behind Tica on trails to build up her back muscles, as well as doing the usual natural horsemanship groundwork. I'm hoping to get the green light from Liz so that Juliane and I can begin our mounted work. I will keep you posted.
Our dog Bo is gone but still very much here. I pass her grave at least once a day as I go out on the trail with Clem or the horses. Clem does pull us away from our grief, but the grief is still there. When the same colleague who is trying to save Rufo heard we were getting a puppy, she e-mailed this quotation from the American poet Galway Kinnell:
the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
That's it for this week's edition of The Windflower Weekly. See you next week and
Clem's First Evening At Home Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011
good night,
Ainslie
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