Cat Tales

 

How does a responsible cat owner go from one cat to 20? Without one stray? It is a long tale.  It took a few generations to finally get the majority of the offspring sterilized, and now we are one happy family.

               MeiLi was born at a neighbor’s farm.  There was no attempt made there to limit the propagation of those cats, but attrition occurs naturally.  They seem to drift away, be killed, or adopted.  One had lost a leg in a conflict with a coyote.  Taking away one kitten would have no impact, one way or the other.  She was old enough to feed herself, so she came home with me and started her new life, the first kitten on my new farm.

               I already had one dog, Chula, curly-locked Maltese cross with bangs down to her snout.  Chula was already living in the proximity when I arrived, but she seemed abandoned.  She shared her flea infested yard with a black and white cat, which would prove fecund.  The bordering neighbor actually lived in town, and only came to the countryside to cultivate on the family land.  This friendly little dog had a great bald spot on her neck and shoulder.  I went online to find out what it could be, and learned that it was the effect of a flea infestation.  I bathed her and disinfected her, after which she drifted away from the neighbor’s yard towards my front door.  After some weeks, when the neighbor noticed her missing he was somewhat annoyed.  But after a couple of months of feeding and grooming her, when we showed up in our little village, he was embarrassed to hear folks’ reactions at her transformation. 

“Oh what a cute dog, where did you get him?”  This followed by raised eyebrows when I told them who she was. 

I took her to the veterinarian for spaying.

In time the one cat at the neighbor’s farm grew to four.  I would take kibble to mama and kittens, but this required me to cross over the fence to my neighbor’s yard.  He was not the friendliest of fellows, and not used to outsiders.  He thought I did not speak Spanish, in spite of the fact that all communication between us was indeed in Spanish.  Figure that one out.

I started putting kibble out, at a neutral spot on my land.  It didn’t take long before I was feeding about six strays.  They were of all colors, but mostly combinations of black, white and ginger.  One of these ginger males was particularly well-tempered and friendly.  Another was large and menacing, and hung back until I was out of sight.

I kept this up for the better part of a year.  In March I took a trip north to a cousin’s funeral, leaving the place in the hands of friends from town.   When I came back the cats were no longer coming around.

MeiLi and Chula got along just fine.  But one day I lost Chula when she rode with me to the big city.  It was Valentine’s Day, and someone couldn’t resist taking home this perfect gift, just sitting in the WalMart parking lot while I was inside shopping. As an aside, this is a perfect example of the Mexican culture I’ve discovered here, which I think of as socialist.  The taker would not think that he stole anything.  The concept of theft is a vague one, not likely to awaken conscience much less guilt.

I thought about sterilizing MeiLi, but she had gone through many cycles in heat and never conceived, so I thought she was sterile.  Once I closed her in a room for a few hours with a lovely ginger stray cat, in hopes they would hit it off and do the Thing.  Instead, they both were really bored and just waiting for the moment when I opened the door and let them out.

I kept advertising Chula, and learned a lot of the private rescue network in Durango, in the form of several Facebook groups.  I did not think I was ready for another dog.  However, after a few months someone brought me a new pup, whom I named Peanut.  She was a short-haired short-legged nondescript white dog. 

               When Peanut went into heat for the first time, and a few dogs started coming around wanting to have at her, I decided to limit her access.  I chose a nice black dog with longer legs, who belonged to my good neighbor Julian.  I drove them down the dirt road a couple miles away where they could have privacy.  They mated, and she started incubating the pups.  During the couple months of her gestation, the sire was killed while fighting some wild boars.  Julian then said he would like one of Peanut’s offspring, to remember his beloved dog.  That was Peanut’s one and only litter, three little pups, before she was sterilized.  Unfortunately, she was hit by a vehicle on our country road, and had to be put down.  Some months later the same thing happened to her son.  He was hit in the head and died instantly, in my arms.  This left only the one I gave Julian, and his identical twin sister adopted by Julian’s friend.

               As Peanut’s belly grew, I began noticing a growing bulge in MeiLi’s abdomen as well.  Two weeks after the pups were born, MeiLi dropped five beautiful kittens.  When they were old enough I started finding homes for them.  The oldest was about three months when I finally allowed him to go.  Soon I discovered that MeiLi was pregnant again, and she made it perfectly clear that our home was not a safe environment for her offspring. 

               One morning when she was sitting on the kitchen counter, and I noticed her abdomen was hard. While I was cleaning the house she slipped out, found a safe place and delivered her babies far from my grasp.  Search as I may, I could not find her nest.  She would come back for food, I would see the swollen mammaries, but never got a glimpse of the litter until after about two months.  Then one day I saw her walking past the back door with four kittens trailing behind.  This was the fist litter born in the wild, and I never was able to domesticate them.

               She had one more litter that year, before I managed to get her to the vet.  Those kittens were born in the house, MeiLi and I having restored our previous trust.  Those five were a joy to have in the house, and grew up feeling very comfortable in the house before I turned them out to live as outside cats on our three acres.  I put kibble out for them twice a day, when they would wind in and out of my legs, arch their backs to be petted, and in general show affection.   We live in the country, after all, with  woods, farms and stream nearby, providing plenty of prey for them to hunt.  But then these daughters began having litters. 

               In MeiLi’s second litter she bore one cat that had Siamese markings.  I was drawn to this cat, and wished for more offspring like this.  But she was a wild cat, not willing to come into the house.  She got pregnant.  I watched her grow, and she came to feed each day.  One day she looked ready to deliver, so that evening I placed a cage out back at the far edge of the farm, under shelter, where she could keep her litter safe.  Sure enough, the next morning when I went to fill the kibble bowls, there she was in the cage with her litter!  This was great for her, but not so for the other cats.  She chased them all away from the kibble bowls.  Therefore, and to strop molesting the other cats, I carried the cage into the house so she would have ready access to food and clean bedding, but after a week she decided she needed to leave.  She never could get comfortable.  Starting with MeiLi, the three-drawer dresser in the bedroom had become a favorite place for mother and kittens.  This little girl, however, went to extremes and moved her kittens to behind the drawers.  The slide on these drawers was tricky, and I could not simply pull out the drawer and release the kittens.  Man alive, had she found a safe hiding place!  I eventually, with help, freed the kittens and put them back in the cage and outside. That litter grew successfully, and produced one cat that had even more clearly Siamese markings.  It looked promising for developing a strain of mixed Siamese cats.

               Her second litter did not fare as well.  She insisted on hiding them in the woods.  One day the neighbor dogs came to have sport with the cats.  She saw them coming and must have made herself a decoy, to keep the kittens safely hidden.  They attacked her, tossed her around like a toy.  They broke her spine, and left her for dead.  I found her, but not the kittens which were a week or two old.  I took her into the house to clean her and assess the extent of the damage.  I saw she was beyond saving, so I made her comfortable and calm, so she could pass peacefully, which she did that night.  Those shared hours of agony are unforgettable. Apparently one, perhaps two, of the kittens survived, because months later I started seeing another Siamese-like cat.  It was quite like the one of the earlier litter, for which I mistook it until I saw a large black spot on its side that the other does not have.  A lot of my cats are ginger coloring.  A little after that siting I started noticing another odd ginger cat who stood with the other cats at feeding time, mewing for my attention while also running from me.  His face had unfamiliar white markings, and so I speculate that he and the Siamese are brothers.  Amazing to me, that after losing their mother so young they were able to survive.

               Two of MeiLi’s third litter got pregnant at the same time.  One of that litter was almost identical to MeiLi, a calico of black, orange, gray and white markings.  I called her Chloe.  Her sister was, for this group of cats, of unusual markings.  She tried to be a light grey tiger stripe, but also had a lot of white and a little ginger.  I called her Willy.  Having been born in the house, they were content when I welcomed them to give birth inside.  Chloe’s litter did not do so well.  One was still-born, and two others died in the first week.  Willy had just two kittens, who thrived.  I decided to collect some data, and so I weighed all of them regularly and kept close records on how they grew.  As I mentioned, two of those died but the four lived.    Of course they did not know who belonged to whom, and two cousins, both black, became fast friends.  Willy’s son has white markings like a tuxedo, a white chest and four white paws, so I call him Tuxedo shortened to Tuk.  They are inseparable, except that Tuk decided he wanted to be my inside cat.  He and I have forged that precious bond; he follows me everywhere.  But he also has to spend time daily with his brother, so he goes out daily.  Sometimes I don’t notice which cat comes home at night.  Sometimes in the day they both slip in and sleep, curled up together on the bord or sofa.  If I leave the front door open and fail to lock the screen door, my house is totally vulnerable to invasion because they all have learned how to dig their nails into the screen and pull trh3 door open.

               At the same time, maybe two weeks after Tuk was born, one of the pregnant wild ginger cats  (MeiLi’s second litter) gave birth.  It took me quite some time to find out where.  Eventually I followed her, and saw her climb the outside ladder to the roof.  There, in the small space under the brick base of the water tank, so deep in the shadows they were hard to see, were three little kittens.  One of them was a female who would acquire the name Dolly.

               Then began the program of sterilization.

               Trapping the animals and carrying them into town was the goal.  I went to the vet and asked if he had any traps to lend.  He did, but none were cat-sized.  He had no nets, nor anything else to contribute.  I went online, and for about a hundred bucks I was able to get a trap. 

               The more domesticated cats were the easiest to catch, though even they were wary of being picked up and held.  By twos and threes, each Tuesday I delivered cats to the vet for sterilizing.  This is still rural Mexico, where veterinary work tends towards large animals.  One of the first female was delivered back to me so dosed up with anesthesia that she was drugged until the next dawn.  After that I reminded the vet to cut back on the drugs.  The vet, the only one in town and having a reputation for being expensive, got on board with the program.  He gave me amazing deals on the price of the operations.  Whereas one spay would cost 800 pesos and a neutering 400 pesos, he would do three of mixed gender for 1000 pesos, for example.

               Some of the wilder cats were more difficult to catch.  If I set and baited the trap, there was no way I could single out a wild one to spring the trap.  One of the rooftop cats, Dolly, was unapproachable.  Yet we built up a bond of some sort, because when she got pregnant and was ready to deliver, she came to me.  Not with the first litter, however. 

There is an unfinished house in the back of the property, with one window blown out.  For the first litter she chose this location.  After some weeks I thought I should bring some food and water to her for them, so I approached the window to see if she was visible.  Instead, I found a kitten outside, a few feet from the window, gasping its last breath.  I found another at the foot of a nopal tree.  He was so frozen with terror that I was able to pick him up.  Then I noticed, at eye height, another kitten clinging to the fork of another nopal tree.  I was able to gather him up, and these two came to my house for care.  They didn’t stay many days, but the experience was enough for the mother, Dolly, to understand.  I was not her worst danger.

I made an appointment with the vet to bring Tuk for neutering the following day.  I brought him in the morning, and picked him up around 5 pm. He was heavily sedated.  Usually the males need only mild sedation and a local at the hinder parts.  They rebound quickly by the end of day.  I was concerned when Tuk was still limp and deeply asleep when I picked him up.  He stayed that way through the night.  I looked at the wounds, and discovered that he had a sliced abdomen, as well as stitches near the anus.  An idiot apprentice technician had at first thought he was operating on a female.

A few months later, Dolly gave birth to her second litter I know not where.  A day or two later I found her and her litter curled up on the dirt of a fallow clay bowl, in a sheltered corner of my patio.  I lifted the kittens and brought them inside, and she followed uncomplainingly.  I installed them in that favorite cage, covered by a sheet for privacy.  Over the next month I was amused by the game we played. She would carry them outside by the cat door, which is in one of the bedroom windows.  I would fetch them and bring them back in.  She never took them far.  She was fast as lightening.  One time I was in the house, and heard the noise of the swinging metal cat door.  I came running, and by then she had the third kitten in her mouth and slipped through my fingers.  I kept the fourth kitten with me for another few days, and then she brought them all back inside.  Eventually, however, they went outside to stay. By this time they were eating kibble, and ready to start learning how to live outside and fend for themselves.  Still, it can be brutal out there, and I remained concerned.  I set up a feeding station in the empty house, and put their favorite bed there.  I swept up enough dust to make a litter pile for them.  While they were with me, I gave them names.  I don’t usually do that with the undomesticated ones, but these were just so cute and willing to be held.  They became Joe, Moe and Curly, and Patches.  The three were ginger cats, and the female was a mostly black calico.  Joe and Moe are undistinguishable, being purely ginger with no white markings.  I carried them to their new shelter, and mom came on her own steam.

Once Dolly had come into the house at postpartum, I carried her to the vet.  I was a little concerned at leaving the two-day old kittens without milk and warmth for twelve hours, but it had to be done.  It turned out fine.  Mother did not hate me, and that will be her last litter.  It remains to be seen if I will be able to capture the four babes a couple of months from now for their trip to the vet.

At the height of the season of these tales, I counted 20 cats eating at the trough.  The number gradually diminished, as the older cats drifted away.  I never forgot MeiLi, the Matriarch, and wondered how and where she was.  One time, about a year later, I thought I had double vision.  I was at the feeding spot, having just filled the bowls.  I was leaning down, and as I lifted my head I saw Chloe twice. I was actually seeing mother and daughter.  It was MeiLi, making a visit.  Maybe she wondered how I was doing, too.  It was joyful to see her again, alive and well.  The visit was brief, momentary, and then she was gone.  I have not seen her since.

Four Feet for Christmas

 I hope to add photos soon, but for now, here is a mini novella.  Sit back with a cup of tea, relax, and read about life in the countryside.

Four feet for Christmas

Little Feet is lonely.  Horses are herd animals, and this poor boy is living herdless.  Unless you count myself and my stable hand, Manny.  Or the two small dogs and ten cats, who casually stroll through his stable and mingle their manure with his.  I think it is time to find him a more suitable companion. 

Horses, like golf, is a rich man’s hobby.  Or so I have always thought.  Little Feet came to me through a friend, who then abandoned us.  In discussing the subject of the price of horseflesh here in an impoverished part of Durango, Mexico, I came to decide that buying a horse was actually affordable.  A luxury, yes, but taking a very small bite out of my savings, my ‘emergency medical fund’. 

I am a senior citizen retired on a small social security pension in a tiny village six thousand feet up in the Sierra Madres.  My hectare sits in a small valley, with hills to the east and hills to the west.  What I am learning is that the price of a young colt is about the same price as a new saddle, a few hundred dollars.  That’s from Manny’s dad, a retired horseman himself.  We decided to go on a search, and see for ourselves what is out there.   Manny’s dad noted a few horses for sale in their village, worth checking out.  But first I wanted to go back to the place where Little Feet was born.  I was hoping for a birthdate for him, although we know he is about three years old.

The village as recorded in the title certificate for my horse as his birthplace is about 12 miles north of us.  Yesterday we drove up the two-lane highway to see if we could actually locate the ranch in this tiny village, with the little information that we had.  We reached the sign that identified the village, Arnulfo R. Gomez.  This follows the custom of naming villages after Mexican historical heroes.  We saw a handful of stores, long stretches of adobe wall, and a church steeple.  Fortunately, we saw a man on horseback heading towards us on a dirt side road.  We pulled alongside and rolled down the window.  The brand on my horse’s flank is an M inside a circle.  This is the mark of Martin Ortiz.  With the help of this local cowpoke we located him, finding ourselves in a cluster of men dressed in plaid shirts, dusty jeans, boots and cowboy hats.  We mentioned that we were from Pozole, and one man smiles broadly and identifies me as the person who has Little Feet, Isabel’s horse.  And so it is in the countryside, the grapevine phone network.

We chatted for a bit.  I praised the quality of Little Feet, his calm and easy temperament, for which I presumed to credit good blood lines.  He regretted having to tell me that he sold the sire.  I assured him that was no problem.  I wasn’t looking for a race horse or anything, just a simple companion to make my boy comfortable.  In my mind, I thought that asking for a yearling or two-year old would bring me into an affordable negotiation.  We arranged to meet the next day, and he would show me what was available.

At the dawn of a new day, during Christmas week, I arose to a very chilly morning.  I hadn’t bothered to set a fire in the cast-iron stove, since we would be leaving out early and why waste the wood.

We stopped in Canatlan at the Oxxo convenient store for a cappuccino fix, turned the car heater up to Blast, and we were on our way. 

We arrived at the designated spot a little past ten, driving slowly on the dusty road.  We stopped and got out, and then noticed a parked pickup about 50 meters back.  It fired up and came towards us.   Actually, we weren’t sure at all that we had found the agreed upon meeting place.  This typical village was a unmarked maze of adobe and stucco, the color of the road merging with the color of the walls.  Whirls of dust marked our slow progress.  We had exchanged phone numbers the day before, so we did connect.  The guy who had been sitting in the parked pickup was indeed our contact Rudolfo.  We parked beneath a dusty tall juniper tree, and waited.  First one, then another of yesterdays gang showed up. 

I tuned out while Manny fulfilled the social pleasantries and learned what the next step would be.  We got back into my car, and followed the pickup truck with its two guys and one 8-year-old grandson.

We went back to the two-lane highway and drove another five minutes north.  We pulled off and waited while the guys opened the barbed wired fence that led us into a large pasture.  Ahead of us to the west the vast sweep of valley ended in hills.  As we followed the pickup meandering through the fields, down a narrow ravine and up again, we saw a stream of cows moving from our right to the left, towards the hills.  We looked right towards the highway and realized there was a tunnel under the road, a black hole through which the herd was streaming.  We drove on, passing through one field after another, until from our vantage on a hillock we saw a large lake.  We parked at an iron orange pen with gates and walkways, whose paint had faded and was overgrown with dried weeds.  We waited.  The view was enthralling. Time ticked by.  The old guys started telling us stories.  These distant hills contain a vibrant ecosystem, with wild cats, coyotes, wild boar and deer.  The hundreds of cows, plus whatever horses as needed for work, roamed freely here.  The barbed wire fencing hardly held out the many predators.  The dogs kept guard.  Every being in this wild place served a purpose.

Manny was just as taken as I.  He was filling up gigabytes of his phone camera with videotaping of the herds, the lake and the wilderness.  I saw a few riders off in the distance, on the far bank of the lake. 

When I glanced closer at the far bank, I realized there were a cluster of objects, indistinguishable in the distance.  I saw a pickup truck, a small flatbed behind it, and a cluster of men. Their saddled horses waited quietly nearby.  On the ground just beyond the flatbed there was an odd-shaped lump.  Nothing much seemed to be happening, and my gaze drifted.  When I looked back they all had gone.  The lump, which I never saw moving, was gone as well.

Suddenly a pack of white horse came thundering up the hill from lakeside, followed by two or three mounted herders.  These were the wild horses rounded up for my purview.

They were herded into the pen, and into a narrow walkway where they stood single file.  One of the three whites was albino with pink eyes.  There was the brown two-year old whose picture I had seen the day before, an unremarkable horse.  Then I saw the palomino.  She was still nursing at her mother, who was a white mare with blue eyes.  The tiny colt might have been six months old, the smallest in the pack.  She has gorgeous upturned eyes, with a soft and tender look about her.  She has a long winter coat.  She is not completely golden, but is dappled with color.  Unfortunately, the owner of this one was not in our little group.  My heart was quickly grabbed by this tender babe.  The brown horse, my intended, spooked while in this narrow walkway.  She panicked and tried to back out, pushing the other two horses behind her.  I thought this was not an auspicious sign.  

And then it was over.  The cowboys left with the herd, back down towards the lake.  We got back in my car and followed the blue pickup through the fields.  At the raven Manny was driving too slowly, and we were smelling burning rubber.  The guys got out of the pickup thinking we needed help.  Manny backed up far enough to get a running start, and made it up the steep bank.

We got back to Arnulfo R. Gomez.  We shook hands and gave our hearty thanks, and left our friendly hosts. It was noon by now.  Manny called his dad and we arranged to meet at his village to look at more horses.  We drove south again, passing through Canatlan where we stopped to use the WalMart toilet and grab a bite to eat to-go. 

During the drive I asked Manny if he had noticed the pickup and activity on the far bank of the lake.  He had not. I described the scene to him.  Slowly it dawned on us that this may well have been prey killed by the wild animals; a calf, or a colt.

We drove east and then north again, until we reached Nogales.  We parked under another dusty cedar, and waited.  Throw away your watches when you are moving in these circles.  Eventually Manny’s dad and a friend arrived, and drove us to another large warren of fields.  We waited until the two horses for sale could be rounded up and driven towards us.  We couldn’t get too close; they stopped at the corner fencing in the middle of the fields.  If we pressed them, they would bolt over the fence. 

We saw three horses moving towards us.  One was a small white pony, which was just along for the ride.  The two I was looking at were a brown and a gray.  The brown has a narrow white streak down his face, but is other wise unremarkable. She seemed bored. After checking us out she was not at all interested in us, showing us her back.  The gray, however, was curious.   She would walk in a circle and then look back at us.  She has a broad white face, outlined in gray.  Her coat is a mottled gray, not solid.  Her ears seemed smaller and rounder than the others.  As we got bolder and tried to approach, they ran away.  But the gray stopped at a distance, turned, and continued to watch us with ears forward.

We trudged back along the fields to the car.  Manny’s dad talked about other horses he could round up for the following day, but I felt that I had seen enough for now.  My mind was still on the baby palomino.  I needed to know if she was for sale, and for how much.

We passed through Canatlan on our way home, but it was still Siesta time. I had hoped to buy alfalfa seeds, and to pick up an Amazon package that was waiting for me.  Everything was closed, and I had no patience to wait twenty more minutes.  The clock was ticking again, and I wanted to get back to the comfort of my home. 

On the following day I went into town to buy alfalfa seed.  The first shop I tried had none.  I went to a larger seed warehouse, where I was already known by the owner.  No, he did not have any alfalfa seed.  We stood and chatted for a while, when he told me that normally they would have received the seasonal supply of alfalfa seed.  The agent usually delivered twice a year.  This year the agent had ghosted Canatlan.  He encouraged me to go to Nueva Ideal, I would find seed there for sure.

I left Canatlan heading north, passed El Pozole.  I stopped at Luz de Compasion long enough to pick up Manny, and we continued on together to Nuevo Ideal.  As we were passing through Arnulfo R Gomez again, I asked Manny to call our friend Martin and ask if he had spoken to the owner of the palomino colt.  He had, and the colt was for sale.  The quoted price was just a tad above the conservative amount I had offered.  I said I was definitely interested, and would get back to them. 

One question Manny and I had been discussing was the right age to wean a colt.  I was remembering the years I spent in East Tibet around yak herds.  The yak calves were about the relative size as the palomino when they were forcibly weaned.  Their method was a device that was like a wooden crown of thorns attached to the yak calf’s muzzle, to prevent access to the teat.  Manny called his uncle, who was well-versed in horse rearing.  Manny thought that as soon as the colt was eating on his own, alfalfa and grass, he would be weaned.  But his uncle told him that it was best to let the colt stay with his mother until he was a full year old, to ensure good growth.

We asked Martin when the Palomino would be ready to be sold off.  He said right away, no, he did not need to stay with his mom. 

I want a third opinion. 

Anyway, I thought I would pay half the price now, assuring my ownership of the colt, but leave him with his mother for another couple of months at which time I would pay the remainder and take possession.  Or perhaps pay the whole amount, but take the mother with us until the colt was old enough to be separated from  her.  And then, how would we get the horse?  Surely it was too young and wild to enter a trailer.  So many questions!  I am entering a new world, with much to learn.

We arrived at Nuevo Ideal, turned left at the main intersection towards the commercial district, and looked around for a seed store.  After a few enquiries, we were sent back down the highway a short stretch to the John Deere dealership.  Yes they have alfalfa seed, we could buy a bag of 20  kg for 3,000 pesos.  Uh, was there an option B?

We went back up that stretch of highway and took a right towards the Mennonite settlements.  We found another seed store, and they were willing to open the 20 kg bag and sell us just a few kilos.  We are one step closer to finally growing our own horse feed.  My neighbor Julian had already done a beautiful job on our little field, plowing it smooth with his tractor.  We have begun our collecting of natural fertilizing, packing four bags with it, free for the taking, at the cattle auction pens.  We dumped these onto the alfalfa plot, though it looked like a paltry amount.  Many more bags would need to be collected, if we were to fertilize the feel evenly.

Our main mission accomplished, we went back to the commercial district of NI and I showed Manny the great grocery store that is there.  We bought the fixings for the Christmas turkey dinner, and finally made it back home. 

The following day would be December 23, and I had bravely offered to fix a ‘traditional’ turkey dinner for as many of my English-speaking Mexican friends as wanted to come.

I awoke early, with a list of tasks focused on receiving and dining guests.  As I worked my way through the monotonise chores of cleaning and cooking, I mulled over what had transpired the day before.  Since the young age of the paolomino was a stumbling block, I focused on the gray in Nogales.  I had invited Manny’s father to come and spend the night of Christmas Eve with us.  These two are very close, the son being like a physical clone of the father. 

The dinner went well.  Only two friends showed up, and with Manny, there were four of us at the dinner table.  The meal was simple, basic, and all from scratch.  I baked a turkey without stuffing, mashed potatoes with carmelized onions, giblet gravy and cole slaw.  It feels good to occasionally verify to myself that I am a competent cook.  Joel brought a lovely bottle of Merlot.  He and Lupita discussed the possibility of her locating her planned luxury hair styling salon and spa at his second floor hall, in the center of Canatlan.  He is planning to move to El Paso, Texas in January.  Once again he asked if I would manage the place for him while he was gone.  This time, with my friend Lupita involved, I said yes.

The next day, Saturday, Manny and I went to San Jose de Gracias to pick up Manny Senior.  I had hopes of duplicating the previous night’s meal, with the abundant leftovers.  However, the power went out in the afternoon, and we were all left in the dark.  We did not have nearly enough candles.  They stayed the night in the guest cottage, and I took a long nap in my place with the dog and a handful of cats.  I had fond hopes that I had hear Father correctly at the previous Sunday’s Mass, saying that there would be Mass on Christmas Eve.  I awoke from my nap, got in the car and drove to Canatlan at midnight. Sadly, all was dark and nearly deserted.  I turned around and came home.

Morning dawned without electricity.  I invited the two Manny’s over for breakfast.  I added some flour and eggs to the mashed potatoes and made my version of potato pancakes, served with bacon.  Senior and I had a long discussion during that morning.  In the end, I made up my mind to collect the gray horse on Tuesday, the 27^th. 

We were in a cold spell, nighttime temperatures hovering around 32 degrees F.  The sun came up on time, however, and it wasn’t long before the thermometer had climbed into the 60s, and landing eventually in the 70s.  We drove out to Nogales again, and met with Senior and his cronies.  Junior had asked them to round the horse up for us, to save time.  However, nothing happened before our ten o’clock arrival.  We drove out to the fields, and parked the car.  We walked through a herd of cows and bulls who were waiting to be fed.  There was lots of milling and mooing.  Among them was a gorgeous black gelding, about seven years old.  Apparently he hung with the cattle, and when they needed rounding up a saddle was put on him and he worked.  That’s how retirement looks when you’re a horse.

We waited among the curious bulls for a long time.  Then we saw the same three horses being herded towards us.  I stayed well away as the cluster of men herded the three of them into a roofless adobe room. To me it looked like an old abandoned home.  There was the pretty brown babe with the white streak on her nose, the tiny companion white pony, and the gray that I wanted.  The pony was a sad sight.  She is the beloved pet of the owner’s once-young son, kept around for sentimental reasons.  It lives out in the fields with the wild ones.  Its mane and tail were loaded thick with burs.  I just wanted to spend hours with the thing taking all these thorny things off.  The two horses, being slightly taller, had less of tangled messes, mostly just on the tails.

Now the gray was up close, and we waited once more.  Now we were waiting for the trailer that would take our lovely girl home.  Manny went off to get it.  His dad was owed favors, and so a neighbor had agreed to let us use his horse trailer.  After what felt like a half hour, he returned without a trailer.  The neighbor had responded to Manny by saying, in effect, who the hell are you I promised the trailer to the father not the son.  So then the two Manny’s went back into town and got the trailer, as we waited again. 

Meanwhile, the men clustered outside the adobe walls chatting.  I hung at the edge of the doorway, looking over someone’s shoulder.  Slowly I drew closer.  I had no intention of approaching the colt, but I did want to calm and reassure her.  I stood just inside the wall, and spoke softly to her.  She and the brown had retreated to a corner when they were first driven into the space.  As I talked to her she did indeed begin to calm down, to the point where she left the corner and took a more relaxed stance away from the walls.  I stayed with her, while the guys were freaking out at my taking the risk of being in there with the wild ones.  Soon the soft sounds washed over her, and she was licking and chewing in contentment, or at least relaxed.

The trailer arrived at last, and I cleared out.  I left the six or seven men plenty of space while they maneuvered the trailer into the doorway.  It pained me to see the terror and panic that resulted, first from the owner trying and failing many times to lasso her.  When he finally succeeded the crew cheered.  Then forcing her into the trailer.  Its capacity was four horses; the front half had a roof, the back half open.  She was rearing up, trying to jump out, before they finally got her into the covered area.  They closed that gate and, keeping the rope tied to her, she was secured for the ride. 

That is when the owner and I discussed the price of the horse.  I thought I had been told one price, he was expecting one hundred dollars more.  We compromised, and money changed hands.  As we drove away I was filled with eagerness to get this little lady home, where I could finally get a good look at her.  Instead of heading out of that village, Manny drove us off to a little corner of it where a lady was sitting at a table under a canvas roof.  This was where they would create the document that recorded me as the owner, and Rudolfo as the breeder.  The latter is misleading.  The horses lived in the wild, there was little control over what sire covered what mare.

This step was time consuming as well.  There was discussion back and forth about the breeder’s documentation.  It seemed as if the lady at the desk was consulting an older gentleman who passed back and forth from the covered area to the attached house.  There was also a teenage boy hanging around; I had no idea his identity or function.  Manny

 

 

 

 

Went off in my car, to coordinate with the guys in the trailer presumably.  He came back with a tamale; we were both starving, as it was now mid afternoon and there was no meal in sight.  Lupita had invited me to her house for dinner, another complication that had to be sorted out.  Deliver the horse to Patas Blancas and then return to Canatlan for Lupita’s dinner? Have Manny drop me off, then, and pick me up after dark? 

I was eagerly anticipating watching the first meeting between the little filly and our young stallion. 

Leaving Nogales we had tried to keep the trailer in front of us.  Once in Canatlan, it made a premature right turn.  We had finally decided that I would forego witnessing Patas Blancas receiving his new companion, in order to fulfill my promise to Lupita.  She was expecting another guest around 4:30; it was now around 4:00.  Manny drove me to Lupita’s house and left me there, figuring he could catch up to the slow-moving trailer.  His father was in the trailer, and we presumed he would be able to navigate the way to Luz de Compasion.  Wrong.  Manny got a frantic call from his dad in the trailer.

“Where are you?  Hurry up, we need you.  A cop has stopped us and is asking for the papers for the horse.”

Which goes to show you that this is indeed horse country; the police are vigilant for horse thieves.

They had missed the turn off the highway and gone the seven miles further down the road to the more familiar hamlet called Rancho Seco.

Manny got there in short order and produced the newly inked ownership documents.

I had a nice dinner with Lupita.  As she had previously clarified for me, Mexican meal times were 2 pm and 7 pm.  Apparently the timing of this meal, which she called ‘meat cake’, was driven by Benjamin’s schedule.  Benjamin is a young man who is very fond of Lupita.  He recently opened an electronics store in Canatlan, and has a busy schedule.  I had met him through Lupita, and we had made an arrangement for lessons in English.  These lessons were often canceled because of his busy schedule.  I was looking forward to seeing him.  I had called him earlier to see if he could drive me home, so that Manny would not have to drive in the dark.  I won’t go into Manny’s driving history here. 

The meat cake turned out to be a variation on meat loaf, wrapped in bacon.  She made mashed potatoes and gravy, too, as I had shown her how a few days earlier.  The meal was righteous, and hit the spot.  Manny is the elephant in the room.  He is an employee, not a partner.  I did not bother to clarify with Lupita whether or not the invitation included Manny.  He was the driver, no more.  He wound up picking me up anyway, in the end.  Benjamin received a phone call during the meal, and arranged to meet someone right away at the Oxxo store.  I called Manny, letting Benjamin off the hook.  Lupita offered the plastic containers I had sent her home with, earlier filled with turkey and fixings for her partner Luis.  She now filled them with a good meal for Manny, who showed up straight away.

Although the sun had slid behind the western hills, it was not yet dark when I got home.  There was ample time for me to stand and gaze at our new addition, and watch the interplay between the two horses.  It was lovely to behold.  Manny joined me to watch television before bed time, and we talked about a name for her.  The name Lucy popped into my head; I had heard it spoken that day in relation to Manny’s family members.  A shot of tequila for him, the last glass of Merlot for me, and we seaparately retired for the night.

At dawn, on a freezing morning, before the sun poked up above the eastern hills, I had my winter coat on and was outside.  There they were, side by side, Cinderella and her prince charming, Patas Blancas.  Now I see that she is a little smaller than he.  I was worried that she would be taller, she looked big next to the miniature pony in Nogales.  Now I am hoping that she does not grow any more, but it is still possible.  Saying a horse is two-years old is an inexact statement, when it is born in the wild.  I have heard that all horses increase their age on January 1, even a horse born in December suddenly becomes a year old.  I am enchanted with her.  She looks like she sat down in an ash pot.  She goes with Patas as if joined by the hip.  That is not to say that the usual gender play is not happening.  If he gets too close to her, she kicks him away.

The sun was already above the hills and warming up the air when Manny came walking up to us.  We discussed the day’s chores.  At least he has one less; no need to muck out the stall. The two horses had passed the night in the corral.  When he took Patas to the lunge area for his groundwork, Cinderella was a little dismayed.  She tried to follow him out of the corral.  Then, as he began his work trotting online in a circle, she ran first one way then, as he rounded the circle, the reverse, along the barbed wire fence that separated them.  Her eyes never left him.

For the past week I’ve started a training regimen for him, walking him on a lead inside the corral.  It is a brief exercise, developing focus and communication between us.  I wondered if Cinderella would be nervous with me in the corral, too.  One day she will let me touch her, but not yet.  As I walked Patas and put him through his paces, she was right beside him all the way.  She was not paying any attention to me, even when I was within inches of her face, but only on him.

Though this tale is coming to a close, it is only just the beginning of my life with Cinderella.  My plan is to spend time in and around the corral each day, getting her used to my presence.  She is learning from Patas, as well, to accept these humans.  I will not chase after her; one day she will come to me, and then her training will begin in earnest.

I look to the future, when Luz de Compasion will offer a western experience to AirBnB customers who enjoy trail riding in the Old West, where John Wayne cranked out classic western movies during the sixties.  Until that day, I live the joy of sharing my life with two of God’s beautiful creatures.

Ahem.  Not to be overlooked, sharing the joy with us are the two dogs and the myriads of cats.

Patas Blancas new routine

               Patas Blancas would be so much easier to deal with if he were gelded.  While I prefer dogs and cats who are sterilized, because they behave better indoors, I feel differently about the horse.  In my fantasies my beloved horse is a stallion, not a gelding.  It is my way, complicating my life by eschewing the easy way out. 

               When Martin was here in January, he helped me out taming the wildness of my three acres.  He did not discuss with me that he had a horse, much less what he planned to do with it.  That is a pity.  If we had discussed it, he would have had time to build a corral and stable for the animal, making a proper home for the animal.  Instead, he left the horse with a neighbor, the guy he worked for during his short visits, and who supplied him with housing.  That was a poor plan, as it turned out. 

               After passing from hand to hand, Patas finally has a home here with me.  Thanks to Tomas, we finally have the infrastructure set up for him.  Tomas is a young man, mid thirties, who went to high school in the States before he and his family returned to Nogales, another tiny village in the district of Canatlan.  Having a worker with whom I can speak English is so much easier.  He anticipates my needs, he gets the subtleties when we chat, about my expectations.  Within a week he and his cousin built a fence around a quarter of these three acres.  My friend Lupita’s husband built the stable a week earlier.  Now Patas has a routine, and like any child, he is responding well to having his day follow a predictable pattern.

               In the morning, as the sun rises, I bring malted grain to the stable where the horse softly nickers to me.  When the grain is consumed, I clip a lead onto his bridle and walk him the twenty feet to the gate of his corral.  He follows docilely, and spends the day roaming and grazing the lovely green growth.  It is rain season, so there is plenty of that.

               As the sun sets, I walk the horse back to the stable where I have laid fresh sawdust for his bed.  I am currently out of hay, so there is nothing for him on his feed tray.  Coincidentally, that means less poop for me to scoop in the morning.  Last night he was at the far end of the field, near the road.  I called him.  He slowly walked the distance, as I stood patiently waiting at the gate.  He let me clip the lead to him, and he calmly walked to the stable.  Soon I think I can leave off the lead.  No more biting, no more trying to push me down.  He seems much happier now, and less aggressive.

               Tomas’s cousin is well-experienced in horse husbandry.  It was a joy to see the two of them ‘break’ the horse to the saddle.  Tomas held the head firmly in control, while Cousin mounted the horse and held on for dear life as Patas tried to buck him off.  Cousin stayed on the horse, using only a rope across the mouth as ‘brakes’, and rode him up and down the pasture for an hour.  The following day the guys were busy with their work, repairing roof leaks, cutting grass, and did not try to ride the horse.  The following day, however, I asked Cousin to ride him again to further teach the horse.  This time I gave them the unmatched rigging I had, of harnesses and bits.  They put together a rig that fits well and works, and so this time, for the first time, the horse rode with saddle and bit.  It was glorious to see.

               There is an interesting detail of the Mexican saddle that presents a dilemma to me. I don’t know the proper nomenclature for all the parts of the saddle, so I clumsily describe it here.  There is a strap that goes under the horse and secures the saddle.  There is a leather strap coming down to meet it, and allows tightening of the saddle.  The saddles I used in the States have a length of leather with holes punched, to allow the cinching to the buckle on the under strap.  Here that length of leather is very long, and it is wound round and round upon itself until the strap beneath hugs the horse tightly, and the cinch is buckled closed.  I find that it takes more strength than I am capable of, to tighten that strap.  My challenge is to take the saddle to a leather worker, and have it cut down to the size I need to cinch the strap simply, directly.  I suppose that the buckle is not well engineered, so that it might slip out.  Is that the reason for needing to loop the leather so many times around itself?  I do not yet know.

               In Mexico that type of short strap is associated with a ‘Texas’ saddle.  There are other subtle differences, but I have only seen that type on the internet, for sale through Mercado Libre, the online shop for all things Mexican.  Certainly the base of the whole saddle, the seat, is made differently.  The saddles I saw online from Texas have the horn and top edge covered in leather.  Here, it is just a big piece of molded plastic, and the horn is left exposed.  From videos I’ve seen on YouTube, the American  seat base seems to be made of different material and more lightweight.  Whereas a good Mexican saddle can be purchased here in town for about $200 - $250 USD, the Texas saddle sells for $600 and must be ordered.

               I am a master of procrastination, so I need a boot in the butt to get me down to town with the heavy saddle, to find a shop called ‘Miguel y Miguel’, the shoemakers. 

               Just as I was making breakfast today, having just turned on the drip coffeemaker, the power went out.  Here I sit with no power, so I can’t watch my Tuesday favorite TV show, ‘Hollywood Medium’, the Tyler Henry show.  Yesterday I exhausted myself cleaning up the house, the stacked dishes and the muddy floors, and also made a fresh batch of Bran Muffins.  Tomas, the worker, did not show up for work yesterday or today, so I have no one to supervise.  The silence is deafening.  So I head off to town, dragging the heavy saddle with me, and hope that when I come back the power will be on.

               A heaviness has lifted off me, now that Patas Blancas’ life is well moderated, and he is happier. The next challenge in front of me is to actually ride him.  He needs the exercise, and so do I.  Martin tells me he will be here is a few weeks and stay for a month or three.  He anticipates bringing a female horse as a companion for Patas.  Twice the maintenance expense and work, but in time we might have lovely colts to sell.  This justifies keeping him a stallion, too.

               So, without further delay, I am off to town.

PS  I tried adding photos of the saddle.  I will check again later to see if they downloaded correctly, and if not, try again.

Creation and its anthropomorphization

 

I believe in God, the father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.

In the manual laid down for us, tutoring us in relationship to this god, it says “I am the potter, you are the clay”. 

A potter grabs a lump of clay and throws it onto the wheel.  The clay has no idea of what it is meant to become.  The potter has the intention, the concept.

Whatever the Creator is, we its creation are incapable of fully knowing it.  Mercifully, it has spread seeds around in its garden to germinate into philosophies and theologies that create concepts simple enough for our minds to grasp.  The Hindu creator is a flame, with three main functions: creator, sustainer, destroyer.  Their theology recognizes a pantheon of gods who roamed the world in flesh, and that wield specific powers.  The Christian creator is an old man with a white beard sitting on a throne in clouds.  He operates through a unique creation, Jesus the Messiah. Those who successfully follow the ‘handbook’ go on to be recognized as ‘saints’, having realized while in the flesh more of the power of the spirit.  This Christ concept is composed of three functions:  Father, Son and Holy Spirit, or Creator, Destroyer, Sustainer.  Jesus is the destroyer in that He conquered, or destroyed, the power of death.  His teachings tell us to die to self and be reborn to the Spirit, the sustainer.  Those who somehow know not to anthropomorphize the creator call it, simply, the Source.

We live in a creation.  The Hindu word of samsara describes the illusionary nature of it.  It is a world of duality.  Opposites exist, and are the tension that moves us.  Good, bad, success, failure, up, down, angels, devils, alive or dead.  We are spirit in nature, whatever that means.  It is an ethereal concept; spirit has no physical manifestation.  Our fleshly shell obscures the perception of the spirit.  With work, we can thin the veil of obscuration to varying degrees.  At greatest density, we as children are drawn to tales of good, be they fairy tells or Bible stories.  We want to believe in good, unless we are born into a family where all good has died, and total obfuscation dominates.  Our culture leads us to a structured form meant to teach our spirit its true nature; religion.  Some of us are born with a long way to go, at the end leaving the shell behind having never leapt free of the structure.  Others seem to be born with a thinner veil.  It is easier to see the value in the spirit, and so we cultivate it more carefully; greater leaps of faith are possible.  And a rare few can throw the trace of veil off quickly, and live a life of awareness.  We mere mortals cannot conceive of life in that awareness, though we try.  In the presence of holy men, like the Pope or the Dalai Lama, the force of their consciousness can be felt.  A weakening in the knees, a light-headedness, or just a rare warm glow comes over us.  There is something there, and that reaction is probably as close to perceiving the spirit physically as we can come.

Negative stances over particular (or any) religions are a product of samsara. Love/hate duality does not exist in the purely spirit world.  It is interesting to watch Tyler Henry[1], a rare gifted soul, communicate between the two worlds.  Granted, what he is bringing us is a tiny picture of the whole of reality.  Nevertheless, it is clear that we drop this dualistic stance when we leave the flesh behind.  On ‘the other side’, the predominant perception is love.  Negative emotions fall away.

Knowing this, why do we cling so strongly to our love/hate dualistic reactions to what arises in our lives? Why do we allow the dross of this world, the mudslinging, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune[2], to cling to us and toss us into tempests of negative thoughts and deeds? In Shakespeare’s words, it is nobility of mind that permits us to suffer negative blows, rather than react to them.  Is it suffering?  In Buddhism one learns a basic concept.  Suffering is at the root of samsara. They are commonly known as ‘The Four Noble Truths.’ Suffering is a constant to all life on earth.  It is our reaction to suffering that matters.  The causes of suffering are numerous, but boil down to clinging to the ego.  How I am perceived, how much I possess, what will bring me to success and its pursuit.  The third truth is the most difficult to perceive, that there is an end of suffering.  Once that is accepted, one must also accept the path that will lead to the end of suffering, wherever you may find that path.

We study meditation in its various forms to find the way out.  Meditation is not a Buddhist ‘thing’, it permeates all forms of spirituality.  In the Medieval text, The Cloud of Unknowing, Christianity finds deep roots in the monastic tradition of meditation.  Thomas Merton[3] has masterfully shown the East and the West that quieting the mind, dulling the dualistic pull of our nature, is at the core of the quest to know our spiritual nature.  This practice is universal, not confined to any one ‘religion’.  

We would not jump out of an airplane without a parachute strapped to our backs. We would tumble, be batted about by winds, and ultimately smashed by the force of gravity.  With our relatively ignorant human minds we would be equally at danger if we sought to know the creator by flying free.  The spirit world, while at its core is benevolent, nevertheless is fraught with negative forces that, for their own reasons, do not want us to find release into this Sea of Love, this freedom from suffering.  It is necessary to explore the many Paths out there, find the one you are most comfortable with, and stick with it.  None less than the Dalai Lama has said that it is not wise to mix Buddhism and Christianity.  Choose one and stick to it.  You will not be slammed by Buddha or Christ if you do, but rather the difficult path will be made muddier, more difficult, by trying to mix and match.

I have heard that Billy Graham said no religion is perfect, because all religions are manmade.  That is deep.

When I say that I am merely the steward of my life, my possessions, it is an acknowledgment that creation is, at its core, benevolent.  For your clarification, if I must further say ‘God’ gives me everything that I need, and all that I own comes from ‘him’, I am not ceding to the concept of an anthropomorphized source of creation.

I rest in the ‘arms’ of this benevolence.  Bad things happen, there is negative energy roaming this planet.  It is unreasonable that I am privileged to not know helpless poverty and violence, while so many good people know that suffering.  I do what I can to generate positive energy into the universe, express to the creator daily my deep gratitude, and pray that should such suffering befall me I will not be crushed, but will feel the eternal goodness under me like wings bearing me aloft.  I pray the same for you.

 

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[1] Tyler Henry, born 1996, is a clairvoyant who allows his sessions with individuals to be videotaped and viewed on E! Television Network, as the Hollywood Medium.  Some interviews can also be seen on YouTube

[2] Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1

[3] Thomas Merton, b. 1915, was an American Trappist monk and ordained Catholic priest.

His Name is Pata Blanca

 

Junior, or Gordo, has a real name: Panfilo, a heroic name in Mexican history. He was finally able to cross the border, and arrived safely to his hometown in eastern Indiana.  He could become annoying with his constant chatter, but at heart I loved the big lug.  He came south with his big brother, Chavello, a couple years earlier,  and roomed with him in the house belonging to the rancher for whom the latter worked.  When Chavello returned to the border to continue his work there, Junior was at a loss.  Victim of a blow to the head as a preschooler, his brain injury limits him a lot; he’ll never be able to live independently.  He soldiered on nobly, taking his laundry to Canatlan, using Western Union to collect money from his Stateside siblings, but really he was struggling.  Of his many brothers and sisters, Chavello seems to be the only one who attempts to help him.  Once he was gone, the rancher forced Junior out. 

               It is just as well that he got back home.  His mother, battling cancer for many years, was happy to have her baby boy, 38 years old, 6’2” and 370 pounds, home with her for the last year of her life.

               Chavello came back this spring to Durango to work for a few weeks with the old rancher.  It was lonely for him without his baby brother.  While he was here he made himself very available to help me on my little farm.  He tells me Panfilo calls him, demanding that he not forget to help me.  It was overgrown with native wild sunflower plants, which can grow well over six feet and with very strong stalks.  He quickly wrangled those sunflowers out of my walled garden space, and burned them all.  He tilled the plot and hewed out rows, so that by the time he left, my garden was once again ready for spring planting.  In the open fields, he cut down the bushy sapling huizache trees that were always popping up.  I was sad to see him return to the border.

               One day I was out in my field trying to burn off some of the dry brush around my small peach orchard.  I had a hose at ready, and a rake, but there was so much dry brush that I could not contain it.  The adrenalin flowed as I rushed back and forth around the edges, beating down the flames only to have them pop up again.  The smoke filled the air.  A car rushed up the drive and slammed on the brakes.  In a heartbeat, Chavello had seen the smoke and rushed over from the neighbor’s farm to see if I was in trouble.  We got the fire under control, and of course he admonished me for not being smarter in my burning.  He was right.

               I noticed he had brought a horse with him on this trip.  I told him I would like to take care of the horse; I have experience and I have the space.  But he chose to leave the horse in care of his employer. 

               After some weeks I noticed the horse was no longer in the neighbor’s field. Apparently the horse kicked him lightly, and that was enough.  The horse was then passed on to another ranch, in care of a young man barely out of his teens.  Before long, I heard that this young man and Chavello were in conflict; probably about money.  Caring for a horse costs.  Again I said to Chavello that he should let me have the horse for care.  Finally, the young man, Chelo, rode into my yard bareback on the horse, with only string for a bridle and no bit.  He left me and the horse in a haughty huff.

               By phone I asked Chavello if the horse had a saddle.  Apparently Chelo was holding it for ransom.  He told me he wanted 1,000 pesos.  A few days after he brought the bareback horse, the price had gone up to 2,000.  This time I brought a man with me, and offered 1,000 pesos.  He released the saddle, which I tossed into my spare room.

               Here I was, at last realizing a dream I’ve held for almost all of my 80 years.  My very own (and Chavello’s, in absencia) beautiful beast, haunches shining copper in the sunlight, white socks on his hind ankles, a ball of white on his face, between his eyes.  Like a shooting comet,  the fiery tail trailing down his long face splattered on the end of his nose.  I sensed that he was young; eventually I learned he is two years old.  You know, that is in horse years.  Actually I feel he has already passed his third birthday.  He is more than ready to be gelded, but Chavello may want to breed him so we put that off a while.

               This all reminds me of a few years back, when Jimmy offered me his potted strawberries.  He had a lot of them, and he had decided to get rid of them.  Without prior notice, he told me to come and take them away.  There I was, on Easter weekend, frantically trying to prepare my first garden bed to accommodate about 40 strawberry plants, half of them with pot broken and roots exposed.  RIP

               My horse has no place to lie his head.

               On my three acres there is plenty of grass and green stuff for him to graze.  He has also found his way over to my next-door neighbor’s field, which is fallow this year.  At least over there he can find shade from the burning midday sun, whereas my acreage has no shade trees.

               I tried to tie him, on a 20-yard rope, to a spot in the field, wrapping the rope around the base of a sapling huizache tree, many of which were popping up again.  As he wandered in the night he would go around and around these low bushy thorny things, shortening his rope until by the time I got to him at dawn, he was immobile.  Once I drove a six-inch spike down into the ground, leaving only enough exposed for a knot.  In the morning I found him stuck to a dead cedar tree.  In his wake he had knocked down the clothesline pole which had been set in concrete, landscape rocks strewn all about, and the spike trailing in the dust.

               I know I need a corral for him, and a stable.  Finding someone who could undertake such a project proved elusive.  Then one day, my new friend and I were chatting in the car on our way to her doctor’s appointment in Durango, when I asked her what work her husband did.  He’s a construction contractor, she said. Prayers answered, I arranged for him to come out to the ranch and build me a stable out of the old wood boards and poles that were stored here.  In four days it was done.

               Before this could be completed, though, I awoke one morning to find Pata Blanca’s morning cereal untouched.  I searched the grounds and nearby copse for him, to no avail.  My heart fell.  At last I had to tell Chavello.  He had various theories, certain that someone had taken him in the night.  My dog did not rouse me, however, so I was fairly certain no one had entered the grounds. Finally, the next day, he suggested that I should check Rancho Seco.  Well, I’ve heard that name many times, as if it is a landmark or something that I should surely know.  Jose Luis was just starting to build the stable, so I asked him about it.  Turns out, it is the next dusty outcropping of buildings down the dirt road towards the north.  The end of the trail, just a little further than I had ever walked.

               I jumped into the car and rushed over there.  It couldn’t have been more than 8 miles, if that.  I wandered the dusty streets, until at last I found him!  Three men were just dispersing from proximity to a corral, which looked like a stock loading bay. Inside an inner gated enclosure I saw, to my great relief, my very agitated horse.  With their permission I went inside.  His coat was slick with sweat, his inner butt cheeks white with sweaty froth.  It took him a while to slow his frantic pacing and really look at me, and smell me.  I stayed with him a few minutes, until he was calmer.  I rushed back home where I grabbed a bucket and bottles of water, and grain.  I also grabbed the stout 20-yard rope, and a thinner training rope of 10 feet.

               Before going back to Rancho Seco I looked for a neighbor with a horse trailer.  My nearest neighbor, Oscar, who originally had cared for the horse, was not home.  Then I went to the elderly gentleman I had recently come to know.  He has two riding horses, and a trailer.  When I got to his house he and his teenage son were heading for his car, about to go somewhere.  I asked for the use of the trailer, but of course, I could not haul it behind my Toyota Rav4 SUV.  He said I didn’t need a trailer, I could tie the horse to the car and ‘tow’ him that way.  Oof.

               Pata sucked all the water down, and crunched the oats.  Slowly I became conscious of my surroundings; the mares on the other side of the stone wall from this corral.  This is what had drawn him.  When I had first arrived, the horses had been loose and grazing in the field.  By the time I got back the second time, the horses and three colts were tied up to a tree at the stone wall.

               After the horse has drunk and eaten, I put his halter on.  I tied the rope to the back of the car, attaching it to the loop where the door catches when it closes.  I tried to shorten the rope considerably, it slid easily through the metal loop.  I hooked the other end of the rope to his halter, but he was still quite agitated.  I tried to get in the car, but he followed me around the car until his rope, trailing behind him, was under the driver’s side fender.  Then he panicked, feeling stuck, and reared up.  As he rose, so did the rope and the complete front quarter panel of my car, ripping through it like paper.

               One of the workers, a mature ‘chaparro’, Shorty, came to my aid while the young men worked in the field again.  They were dressed in dark blue shirts and jeans, while he looked more like a cowboy with a checkered shirt, worn jeans and cowboy boots.  He took charge, untied the horse, and told me to drive south just a dozen yards or so, until I was well past the mares.  He walked the horse to me, discarding the large rope and attaching the shorter one.  He sat in the tail of the car, the rear door yawning above him, and held the free end of the rope, and we began the long slow journey back to my house.  I kept my eye on the rearview mirror.  We started out at a walk, about two miles an hour.  I am thinking about the hoofs of the horse; three of the four hoofs have no shoes, and we are on an unpaved road strewn with sharp pebbles and rocks.  The horse speeds up a little, trotting.  I checked my speedometer, about 10 MPH.  Is he limping?  Is that his normal gait?  He slows to a walk again.  Then the wrangler yells out “whoa” and I hit the brakes.  He jumps off, as the horse attempts to rear.  We have reached a cattle grate, and the horse will not cross it.  That is its purpose, and there is a gate alongside he has to walk through.  Back in the car, he tells me to continue.  I creep along.  The horse is trotting, and then he slows to a walk.  The man jumps off momentarily, while I tap the brakes and he catches up. This road seems to go on forever.  I am taut with tension, watching behind me, in front of me, the side mirrors, keenly attentive. 

               At last we arrive at Luz de Compasión.  The wrangler, maintaining control of the horse, stays with me a little longer, while I arrange to tie the horse down.  Then I drive him back to his ranch.  The two dogs that ran alongside us all the way to Luz now decide to hang around, and not return home. 

               I fail to get the kind man’s name, nor phone number.  He tells me he knows a farrier, for tending the horse’s hoofs, but I fail to get that number, too.  I give him pesos to thank him for his time, and he returns to the field to regale the other workers with these events.

               After a worrisome day and a half, my horse is back home.  But now he is riled up, maybe it’s the testosterone, and he no longer wants to continue our lessons in the lunge ring.  We go around a time or two, but then he bolts, pulling the rope out of my hands.  Of course, a good lunge ring will have a fixed pole at the center upon which to attach the lunge rope, but our horse ranching infrastructure is still nascent.  Day after day I take him back into the lunge ring, but now his new behavior is set.  I switch to a lightweight but sturdy chain which is long enough to hold on to, I do yank him back each time he bolts, but I can see retraining him will be a monumental task fit for a younger person.

               I’ve gotten him a good snaffle bit, appropriate to introduce to a young horse.  He is more than ready for this step, except for all the stop-and-go in his training.  A couple weeks ago I called this old gent with the two horses, and invited him to come over and give me some tips.  While he was showing me how to put on this second-hand saddle, we discovered that it was missing a couple of little straps.  We fixed that with string.  When he or I put our foot in the stirrup, not so much to mount him as to introduce him to this new weight, he cocked his rear leg ready for the kick.  I managed to quell that reaction for the moment, but training him to the saddle will be another tough adventure.  I only hope that the owner will come down from the border next month and take care of these behavioral issues.  Chavello talks about bringing a filly to live here, and starting our own little fold.  This is a pipe dream, unless he decides to stay on the ranch full time. 

               Now that Pata has his very own house, the new stable, we have some new routines.  I only feed him oats and hay in that place, and at night.  As the sun lowers behind the mountain, he knows to walk into the stable and await his meal.  I lock him in.  In the morning as the sun rises I go out to see him, and I am still swooning at the new sound of his nickering when he sees me.  He struggles against me as I put his halter on, and then I swing wide the gate for the day.  I try to leave him to roam during the day, getting his fill from the pasture.  The halter is in place in case, for some reason, I need to grab him and stake him to his 20-yard rope. 

               Panfilo says he would like to come down to help out with the horse.  I think that is a lovely idea.  Time will tell if it is in the Lord’s plan for us.

               There you have it, an update on the latest changes to my country lifestyle.