"A Few Horse Tales and a Pack for a Cat"

Driving home on a beautiful June evening last week (the kind of evening that is neither too hot nor too cold - all you need is a light jacket), Dave and I noticed a couple of cars pulled over to the side of the road, the drivers standing outside between their car and the fencing. With several horses starting to come closer, we decided to also pull over and check out whatever was happening to make both horse and man gather 'round.

Much to my delight, we beheld a mare nonchalantly munching on some green grass; when she turned away from us it was quite evident she was foaling. I've watched so many nature documentaries of all sorts of animals giving birth; but never in real life have Dave or I witnessed the birth of a foal. We had no clue the average time-line of the labor/delivery process, but I quietly let Dave know that even if this event went into the wee hours of the night, I wasn't moving from where I stood until this mother and baby met for the first time.

The small group of us that had pulled over to witness the event stood with our phone cameras on record. No one of us said much of anything; giving the laboring mother her space as she alternated between munching on grass to then heaving herself onto her side and panting. Another mare stood near her the entire time; not too close but also near enough to defend the mother's space from both the human and equine onlookers.

At last her foal arrived, and just the same as when I've witnessed other births...my tears flow. Such an indescribable moment of relief, beauty and sacredness. The mare, along with a bit of help from her "midwife" began washing the foal; then as the other horses began to gather around, her midwife stepped forward to block too much intrusion on the mother/child duo.

Mama spent a good amount of time washing and breathing the scent of her newborn.

At last, baby found it's footing! We "oooohhhhed and ahhhhhhed" and quietly cheered! Almost more astonishing than observing the birth was observing the celebration of all the horses. The sounds of neighing from the distant pasture and then the thunder of hooves as so many came running to meet the newest addition.

A couple of ranch hands hoisted the foal onto their truck-bed and mama accompanied her baby back to the stall where I'm sure they'd keep the crowd of horses from intruding on their first bit of time together. (At least these are the assumptions made while watching this all unfold before us).

A horse parade for the mother and child.

I have next to no experience with this type of event. My knowledge of horses goes only so far as one ride on a saddle-less horse while only holding onto it's mane. I was a newlywed eighteen-year-old and only smart enough to know that the horse didn't want me on it's back and the quicker I got off the happier both of us would be.

Then there was the toy rocking horse my little brother and I got for Christmas one year. He and I put major miles and that thing. Back and forth....back and forth....stretching the springs till the nose and tail nearly touched the ground. I can still feel the swaying low in my belly and the laughter that rose up. We played cowboy and cowgirl together on that horse until one day we either had gotten too heavy to fit together on it or maybe the springs had worn out. Or perhaps I was growing too old to play those kinds of pretend games.

My very first horse I owned though, was made of pine. I was three years old, and every Saturday when I'd go with Mama into town to get groceries, I'd relentlessly beg her for one of the toy stick horses that stood in a barrel near the check-out counter. Week after week she put me off, likely thinking that I was in some sort of phase and it'd pass and the toy horse would be put out to pasture within days.

My begging at the check-out counter having no affect on her, I moved to more drastic measures. As Mama would hang wet laundry out on the clothes line, I'd take her cotton mop and pretend it was a pretend stick-pony (so much pretending going on here). Desperate times call for desperate measures. Galloping past her I'd whinny and "yee-haw" and do my best to convince her that I'd be a most excellent stick-horse owner.

One day my dad told me to take his hand and follow him to the side of the house where he'd been sawing some wood with a jig-saw. "What color would you like me to paint this Preshie?" He held up the flat piece of pine he'd cut into the shape of a profile of a horse head. I think this was one of my first experiences with having such an influx of mixed emotions. Such disappointment that I knew I would not be getting that coveted grocery store stick pony. And yet, also at once, flooded with such love for my Daddy that he would take the time to hand-make a stick-pony for me and let me choose the color it would be. After he painted it my requested bright red, mounted it on a broom stick and presented it to me, he told me I should now give it a name. I told him "Becky". "I'm naming her Becky."

I'm so happy my mother never bought me that stick-pony out of the barrel at the grocery store. I'm so sad I didn't keep the wooden horse in my baby box of treasures. I don't even think I have a picture of it. But I carry that memory as though it happened yesterday.

Father's Day recently came and went. Per usual, I do pretty well until a certain song at church or certain memory comes to mind and I weep like the three year old I once was.

How fascinating it is that just like the mare in the pasture inhaling the scent of her newborn, I would often, as a child, (truthfully, even as an adult going through something particularly difficult) lie down on my parent's bed to rest or nap. I loved the scent of their pillows. Later on as a mother myself, I would often choose to take a short mid-day rest on one of my children's beds. I think it must be a primal instinct and I know that I'm not alone in this because I've shared this with other mothers who have told me they've had similar experiences.

And just to compound all my little girl feelings I figured "Why not get bangs again?!" So I did. And for now I love them. Until I don't. And getting my hair-cut reminds me of another memory of the day my daddy took my three-year-old self to the barber with him to get my hair cut. But that's another story for another day.

The little pine tree in the blue pot here may or may not have come home with me from Yellowstone. But only because I rescued it from growing in a crack in the tar of a parking lot. Don't arrest me!

Freya.....she's learning to love her harness and leash aka what Dave calls her space suit and what we tell her is her ticket to being outside to watch birds and chase the occasional squirrel to the edge of the deck. We recently ordered a kitty back-pack and I'm so excited to take her hiking in it I can hardly stand it!

All I had to do was google "cat back-packs for hiking". Click "purchase". And it'll arrive next day. So satisfying. And yet, oddly....not.

Building an addition to a cabin however, that is certainly not a "next-day" experience.