Horses and Dogs

Rip and Til playing, "Ring Around the Pony"

Remembering a ride on the Island:  

It's Cliffy's turn to run free and I've saddled Trudy up. We are enjoying a lively trot down the road toward the shore. Til the border collie has taken it upon himself to do some sort of ad-lib herding thing, which consists of blasting ahead at top speed, coming back and circling behind both horses. 

Clifford is lagging behind to eat grass and then periodically galloping to catch up. On one trip back, Til sees him coming and hits the brakes. Most horses would slow down upon seeing a dog directly in their path. Clifford speeds up. He comes flying past Trudy, straight at the little dog. 

My heart is in my throat, but I say nothing because Clifford is clearly trying to scare me again. Til sees him coming, does a quick double back, and runs for his life with Clifford pounding along behind him. Cliffy leaps into the air and flings his back feet high, clearly ecstatic that he has had the desired effect. Til runs off up the road and Clifford stops, looking after him, and lets out a huge snort. "Take that!" Then he looks back at me to make sure I've caught the whole thing.

We go out to the shore and hang out for a bit, so the horses can drink lake water, lick the rocks and eat some of the harsh tufted grass which they clearly love. Clifford has had no interest in dogs since his surrogate mother Reva died in 2001. But I see that Til is not the least bit afraid of either horse and they seem to have some sort of arrangement. On the way back, it is the same, with the dog circling and racing and Cliffy nibbling grass. Then Clifford trots past us with his tail up, and I start yelling. "Git him, Clifford! Get that bad dog!"

More than happy to oblige, Clifford takes off, chasing the white dog madly up the road, shooting out his front legs and arching his neck and shaking his head. He has that same old suspension, floating above ground like he did when he was two years old. It is all a game, and the whole group of us, Trudy, Ms. Rip, Cliffy and Til and me, whoop and holler and run and ride like mad, all the way back to camp.

It's just like old times. It seems we just needed the right influence.

Dozing backstage at the Pet Expo

There is no question that the two species communicate very clearly to one another. 

I remember an incident at the 2011 Horse and Pet Expo in Secaucus New Jersey.  A lady stopped me in the aisle. She had a big boxer dog straining on the leash. She was smiling. "Could he meet your horse?" 

I was frazzled between shows, still had to take the dogs outside, fetch water and about a thousand other things. "Sure," I told her. "I'll have him out here shortly." 

I ran back by a few minutes later and she was still waiting with this big snorting dog. I grinned at her but I was thinking, "Good grief, why is this such a big deal?" 

I went backstage, got Clifford and led him over to his painting table. He was instantly mobbed as usual. He signed a couple of books but then, to my surprise, he singled out this big sloppy dog, walked over to him and went nose-to-nose. The two of them conferred for awhile with bobbing heads; the boxer with his grinning, gaping maw and Clifford with an interested spark. It was one of the sweetest things I've ever seen. Finally, the dog broke off and went back to his lady. She stood there with her eyes welling up. "Thank you." 

As they left, I made a note to myself that I should always remember to be kind.  I still don't know exactly what had happened there. I do know that when I stay out of the way, Clifford can do some wonderful things.

 

Today's Project - the Kingfisher

When I hear the signature chatter of this crested bird, I always stop and scan the trees to search for him.  He might be shooting overhead, preparing to dive-bomb the water (because if I hear him I am inevitably by the water) or sitting on a post or limb, unmistakable with his over-sized, crested head.  If I spot him, I get an rush of sudden and complete happiness.  I am not sure why the sight of Kingfisher accompanies this giddy feeling.

Today I looked him up and found that he is a cousin of the Kookaburra, the Australian laughing bird.  Native Americans believed Kingfisher to be a good omen -- a sign of new warmth, sunshine, prosperity and love.  Who wouldn't welcome all these things?  Supposedly, people with a Kingfisher totem should live as close as possible to water, and as far north as possible. That certainly applies to me.

But I think the reason that the chortle is so infectious is because of where I am when I hear it.  I am hiking, or riding my horse, or out in the canoe, or someplace where the Kingfisher frequents.  It is a call to the primal side, the voice saying, "Look! Over here!" and there he is.  It is an audible signature of being in nature, of living in the moment.

I haven't seen him lately, but I have him on the brain.  Here he is, materializing from my mind's eye, in acrylic, 11x15".  Thinking of him makes me happy, so he is already bringing good things.

International Women's Day - the Woman I Admire Most

“Your new little sister is a Mongoloid,” Dad’s tone was somber and he watched us all carefully for a reaction.  It was September 1970.  Dad had sat us all down, all seven of us, so that we could understand the depth of this new development.  The baby was going to show up with slanted eyes and a large, protruding, pointed tongue.

At nine years old, I took this all very seriously.  From his description she sounded like some sort of freak.  But my heart immediately went out to her.

Then she arrived.  She didn’t look like a freak.  She was a pink and golden infant with perfect skin and tiny, plump clenched fists.  It had been five years since we’d had a baby in the house, and when this one opened her eyes, I saw they were navy blue, so dark that the pupils were indiscernible.  I fell immediately, violently in love.  I had never seen a baby more beautiful.  I even loved her name:  Amanda Christina Bowman Bailey.  Maybe it was my age, or perhaps it was the fact that she was different from other babies, but some sort of tender mothering thing in me kicked in.  This became my baby.  I dressed her.  I fed her.  I changed her.  I held and talked to her for hours.  I sat by the crib and watched her sleep.

Amanda age 2, and already a superstar! Note one shoe off...

 As she grew, she became very much her own person, filled with the typical sweetness that people with Down's are known for.  But she has an added twist of sarcasm and an unexpected wit that will ambush the innocent bystander.  She has remained my good buddy all these years.  Her stoicism grounds me in ways that no one else can.  (Like the time she handed me a five dollar bill and said, "Go get a Coke and calm yourself.")

I've kept a journal of quotes from her over the years, and reviewing them always makes me wish I had started sooner.  Here's hoping for many more quotes, many more movies and pizzas and Girl's Day Out events with Amanda.

Nancy: Amanda, your eye is red. Does it hurt?

Amanda: No.

Nancy: Look that way. Look this way. Look up.

Amanda: It's okay.

Nancy:  How many fingers am I holding up?

Amanda: Two. (Making the shape of an L on her forehead) How many

fingers am *I* holding up?

Posing by Manistique light house!

·         Amanda: I told you about Elizabeth Taylor, right?

·          Me: I heard.

·         Amanda:  She's going to be buried right smack dab next to Michael Jackson. At Neverland Ranch.

·         Me: Michael Jackson is buried at Neverland Ranch?

·         Amanda: Yes. They have a cemetary there.

·         Me: They do?

·         Amanda: Yes.

·         Me: Who else is buried there?

·         Amanda: Elizabeth Taylor!

Amanda frequently helps out with Clifford's events.

Me:  I hate driving when I’m this tired.  My judgment is like the weather: A little cloudy. 

Amanda:  It’s not THAT bad.

Me: Aw, thanks Manda!

Amanda:  I meant the weather.

Dad and Amanda, 2012

Me (attempting to wax philosophical): What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?

     Amanda (without hesitation): You.

"Amanda With Her Coke", illustration from "Clifford of Drummond Island"

Horse Books

In Michigan's Upper Peninsula, sometimes it feels like winter is never going to end.  For a horse owner, it offers cold-weather challenges such as snow drifts, frozen water tanks and temps well below zero.  This season, the brave stewards of Clifford and Trudy, who took them in during dire straits in December have faced a hay shortage as well, due to the drought of prior summer.

I am so grateful to my friends who are caring for them.  I haven't seen much of the horses this past year, being consumed by Dad's health issues, and then work commitments have taken me on the road.  At every pet expo I attend with the dogs, someone inevitably asks, "Where is Clifford?"

The question always feels like a little kick in the gut, but it's good to have the reminder that people still remember and care about him.  He did make an impact.  We traveled to Long Island New York, to Florida and all over Michigan, visiting expos and libraries to promote "Clifford of Drummond Island."  I thought I might be able to sell some books and entertain people a little bit with my funny house-trained horse.  What I didn't expect was the way Clifford was reaching out to certain people.  He always gravitated to the smallest child in any group.  If that child shrank away in fear, he would turn away and move on to someone who was not afraid.  He was most remarkable with people in wheelchairs, nuzzling them softly without using the mouthing so characteristic of him.  He usually would sniff and examine their legs at length.  One quadriplegic boy asked if Clifford could take his baseball cap off.  His mom asked him why.  But I thought I understood.  It was one way he could make contact.  At my request, Clifford gently removed his cap and dropped it in his lap. 

I hate to think of this talented horse's time going to waste as we weather out a long winter and each crisis. The towing vehicle is broken.  The trailer has seen better days.  Financing travel with a horse can seem like a luxury during lean times.  There are many stories of Clifford that I haven't told yet, and they are the most wonderful stories of all.  I hope we will be able to tour again, as we have just barely scratched the proverbial surface of what Clifford is able to do.

I'm sure there is another book in us, as we explore the mostly-uncharted territories of animals helping people with autism and other disabilities.  Kids may not retain a lot of what we talk about, but they will never forget the day a horse came into their school!

Meanwhile, Clifford isn't exactly suffering, as he munches away on some of the country's best timothy hay, harvested right there locally in Pickford Michigan.  The snow blankets him but he hardly bothers to lift his head.  (Can horses burp?)  Trudy in the meantime is checking out the cute little Morgan stud colt right over the fence.

Maybe spring is coming, after all.

"Clifford of Drummond Island" and others in the Clifford Horse series are now available on Kindle!