Today, in an attempt to get the horses out of a flood, we temporarily moved them to the barn across the street, whereupon Beau (aka, Idiot Boy) promptly kicked in the side of the stall and destroyed a feeder. I rest my case.
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My new polo boots fit, and I can bend my knees in them. Yay!
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Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and once again I resisted the urge to loot and pillage. Go team!
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How many handicapped people are there? Judging by the number of license plate stickers on the freeway during my commute, this state is running at about 15%. At some point the differently abled aren’t abled any differently than everyone else. And one more thing: if you are able to climb in order to get into your huge truck, I’m not giving up a parking space to you. Deal with it.
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Anyone want a young English Bulldog? I know of one that is looking for a home. If you are interested, please send an email with the approximate amount you intend to spend on dermatologists and air conditioning bills for this dog in the next year. The person who guesses closest wins (hah!) the dog. (But seriously, if you know someone who likes bulldogs, this guy apparently has a great personality.)
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Wow, this whole plan of drinking margaritas until I came up with a blog entry worked great!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Princess and the Village Idiot
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” -- Shakespeare
“This horse by any other name would still be an idiot.” -- Me
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Well, we have officially moved two horses from Oakdale to the East Bay so that we can ride during the week. As a result, it has rained pretty much every day for the last ten days. The arena has been closed because of this, and the horses are out on pasture so they currently look like two gigantic balls of mud with ears. We go out and try to knock off most of the mud in the evenings, which gives us plenty of time to talk about new names for these horses.
(Pretend that there are pictures here – I forgot to get my camera out until it was completely dark, and I’m not sure what the flash would do…)
From her name Princessa should be a dainty little horse who looks elsewhere for protection. In reality, she is pretty butch, was a professional polo pony, and rules the pasture herd. She’s more like the princess of a biker gang.
Beau, whose registered name is “Dances on Air”, is a four year old gelding who can’t seem to figure out where his feet are going to go when he puts them down. Or maybe he’s actually trying to step on me. That’s possible, too. For a four year old horse he’s pretty good, but he’s still a four year old horse, and thus is somewhat like a teenager. A big, goofy teenager who wants to be next to his protector (Princessa) at all times. His common name is “Idiot Boy” and it fits.
In any case, “Princessa” and “Beau” are the names on the boarding agreement, so we’re probably stuck with them, but I suspect we’ll have lots of time to come up with alternate names while we’re waiting for blue skies…
“This horse by any other name would still be an idiot.” -- Me
--------------
Well, we have officially moved two horses from Oakdale to the East Bay so that we can ride during the week. As a result, it has rained pretty much every day for the last ten days. The arena has been closed because of this, and the horses are out on pasture so they currently look like two gigantic balls of mud with ears. We go out and try to knock off most of the mud in the evenings, which gives us plenty of time to talk about new names for these horses.
(Pretend that there are pictures here – I forgot to get my camera out until it was completely dark, and I’m not sure what the flash would do…)
From her name Princessa should be a dainty little horse who looks elsewhere for protection. In reality, she is pretty butch, was a professional polo pony, and rules the pasture herd. She’s more like the princess of a biker gang.
Beau, whose registered name is “Dances on Air”, is a four year old gelding who can’t seem to figure out where his feet are going to go when he puts them down. Or maybe he’s actually trying to step on me. That’s possible, too. For a four year old horse he’s pretty good, but he’s still a four year old horse, and thus is somewhat like a teenager. A big, goofy teenager who wants to be next to his protector (Princessa) at all times. His common name is “Idiot Boy” and it fits.
In any case, “Princessa” and “Beau” are the names on the boarding agreement, so we’re probably stuck with them, but I suspect we’ll have lots of time to come up with alternate names while we’re waiting for blue skies…
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Sex and The City Ain't Got Nothin' On Me!
It seems like all I do these days is change my shoes.
Just to show you all what a girlie girl I am, I have photographed my shoe collection. Yeah, sure, I've got no Manolo Blahblahs, but my shoes are pretty stylish.
Exhibit A: (The Eccos just for work -- ie, the ones that don't smell like horse poop)
Exhibit B: (The Eccos just for gardening and stable stuff -- yep, they smell like horse poop)
(They used to be work shoes, but in a closed office with iffy air circulation, it starts to smell like a barn.)
Exhibit C: (the deep mud/necropsy floor/chasing cows in a dark pasture boots)
Exhibit D: (the name brand but might as well be generic running shoes which I have never run in, but can be worn in the house if needed)
And finally, exhibit E: (ah, it's the end of the day and I have cold hardwood floors slippers)
Not pictured: the polo boots which finally arrived and fit the width of my freakishly large calves, but were too long and zipped over my knees, making it hard to get on a horse. The cobbler should be done modifying them soon. Again, I blame this genetic deformity on Mom and/or Dad.
Just to show you all what a girlie girl I am, I have photographed my shoe collection. Yeah, sure, I've got no Manolo Blahblahs, but my shoes are pretty stylish.
Exhibit A: (The Eccos just for work -- ie, the ones that don't smell like horse poop)
Exhibit B: (The Eccos just for gardening and stable stuff -- yep, they smell like horse poop)
(They used to be work shoes, but in a closed office with iffy air circulation, it starts to smell like a barn.)Exhibit C: (the deep mud/necropsy floor/chasing cows in a dark pasture boots)
Exhibit D: (the name brand but might as well be generic running shoes which I have never run in, but can be worn in the house if needed)
And finally, exhibit E: (ah, it's the end of the day and I have cold hardwood floors slippers)
Not pictured: the polo boots which finally arrived and fit the width of my freakishly large calves, but were too long and zipped over my knees, making it hard to get on a horse. The cobbler should be done modifying them soon. Again, I blame this genetic deformity on Mom and/or Dad.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
There Really Is No Excuse
Despite (or possibly causing) the current economy, the large corporation that pays my bills has quite a lot of overhead, including a staff of workout coaches. Every morning while I’m sitting in my chair eating chips, I read the email from Head Coach Dork in which he exhorts the workers to eat right and get in shape in the company gym.
These emails serve a few purposes. First, they serve as a daily reminder that my building isn’t important enough to have a gym and its attending coach. But more importantly, they give me something to make fun of every single day.
Coach Dork starts out every email with a subject line that must contain the phrase “NO EXCUSES!!!” Then there are some “inspirational” quotations, followed by an E-Z medical article copied off the internet, and finally a bunch of congratulatory messages to various people around the country that ran marathons and the like.
Today’s email quoted Christopher Reeve. “We can either watch life from the sidelines, or actively participate...Either we let self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy prevent us from realizing our potential, or embrace the fact that when we turn our attention away from ourselves, our potential is limitless.”
Now, lest you think me even more cold-hearted and cruel, I just want to say that I honestly admired Christopher Reeve for his attitude and sheer willpower. By all accounts he was a great guy. But…really? You’re going to encourage people to get more active by quoting someone who’s famous for breaking his neck while being active?
Scrawny Mike then took it over the top by suggesting that the Reeve quotation was used because the one from Hawking was too long…
These emails serve a few purposes. First, they serve as a daily reminder that my building isn’t important enough to have a gym and its attending coach. But more importantly, they give me something to make fun of every single day.
Coach Dork starts out every email with a subject line that must contain the phrase “NO EXCUSES!!!” Then there are some “inspirational” quotations, followed by an E-Z medical article copied off the internet, and finally a bunch of congratulatory messages to various people around the country that ran marathons and the like.
Today’s email quoted Christopher Reeve. “We can either watch life from the sidelines, or actively participate...Either we let self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy prevent us from realizing our potential, or embrace the fact that when we turn our attention away from ourselves, our potential is limitless.”
Now, lest you think me even more cold-hearted and cruel, I just want to say that I honestly admired Christopher Reeve for his attitude and sheer willpower. By all accounts he was a great guy. But…really? You’re going to encourage people to get more active by quoting someone who’s famous for breaking his neck while being active?
Scrawny Mike then took it over the top by suggesting that the Reeve quotation was used because the one from Hawking was too long…
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Ironies of the Weekend
- While parts of the country are mobilizing the national guard to help restore power to people cut off by winter storms, I spent the weekend carefully applying sunscreen so I didn’t sunburn while riding under the bright, sunny skies.
- My recently purchased sunscreen, which is one of the more expensive brands and has an SPF rating that should guarantee protection from a nuclear explosion, is supposed to be hypoallergenic and soothing to the skin, and is the only product I’ve ever used that has caused a reaction. It’s mild, but still…
- I realized this weekend that while I know (or used to know) all the different places horses are likely to twist their intestines, I have no idea how to get rid of bot fly eggs on their hair. (Practical knowledge, what’s that?)
- The dog spends most of her time in the kitchen trying to get into the cat food, while the cats are turning up their noses at the latest brand of dry food and have elected to steal kibble from the dog’s dish instead.
- I get many more comments about my comments on other people’s blogs than I do on my own blog. (Okay, this is not really ironic, more an example of bad advertising.)
- My recently purchased sunscreen, which is one of the more expensive brands and has an SPF rating that should guarantee protection from a nuclear explosion, is supposed to be hypoallergenic and soothing to the skin, and is the only product I’ve ever used that has caused a reaction. It’s mild, but still…
- I realized this weekend that while I know (or used to know) all the different places horses are likely to twist their intestines, I have no idea how to get rid of bot fly eggs on their hair. (Practical knowledge, what’s that?)
- The dog spends most of her time in the kitchen trying to get into the cat food, while the cats are turning up their noses at the latest brand of dry food and have elected to steal kibble from the dog’s dish instead.
- I get many more comments about my comments on other people’s blogs than I do on my own blog. (Okay, this is not really ironic, more an example of bad advertising.)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Getting My Move On
I consider myself an expert on getting myself and my animals from one place to another. After all, when I moved to Louisiana, I had three days between graduation and starting my internship. For the trip back to California I had a little more time, but I was still on the road within 48 hours. Here are some things I learned about moving a household, seven cats, three birds, and a big dog a few thousand miles by myself in the middle of summer…
Don’t expect the moving company to make it easier:
For the first trip I paid a company to move my stuff. It was a disaster. First they told me they didn’t pick up on Sunday and that they would call me 24 hours in advance. Then they called me on Sunday morning to tell me they were twenty minutes away and I wasn't done packing. The stuff finally ended up in a van, only to disappear for almost two months. They wouldn’t return my calls.
Finally they called me back to schedule a delivery time, and after I’d been waiting three hours I called them again at which point I found out the truck had broken down in Texas two days before. A week later my stuff finally showed up at 9pm along with the driver and two local crack addicts to help unload. Everything looked like it had been thrown around and stomped on. Repeatedly. When I unpacked I found that everything that could be broken was broken.
Because of that I had a whole lot less stuff to move back to California, which made it easier. I hired a container and packed it myself. It arrived on the day it was supposed to and everything was in perfect condition.
Minivans hold quite a lot of stuff:
I fit two large dog crates (holding the cats), luggage, the dog, and two small bird cages into a Kia something or other, and still was able to use the rear view mirror. The SUV that the first rental company gave me wouldn’t have held any more than my Honda Civic.
Give the cats someplace to hide:
On the way to Louisiana the only place to hide in the dog crate (which had all the cats) was the covered litterbox. Scooter camped out in the litterbox for three days and refused to budge. By day two I was driving with the windows down. On the way back I zip-tied the small carriers inside the dog crates and it was a much more pleasant experience. Everyone had someplace to hide, and someplace else to go when nature called.
Nice hotels are nice, but…:
All Motel 6 locations allow dogs. Yeah, they’re kind of gross, but it’s only for a couple of nights.
Figure out the rental van early on:
I had to unpack the front seat (where the bird cages were wedged) in 105 degree heat because I couldn’t figure out how to turn on cruise control and the manual was in the glove compartment.
Don’t feed the birds French fries:
It was a simple mistake. Early on I gave the conures (aka, the loudest birds in the universe) a small piece of French fry each when I stopped for lunch. By the second day they were screaming in anticipation every time I exited the freeway. Conures screaming two feet from your ear is not a good thing. This way lies madness.
And finally:
Drive like the wind.
Don’t expect the moving company to make it easier:
For the first trip I paid a company to move my stuff. It was a disaster. First they told me they didn’t pick up on Sunday and that they would call me 24 hours in advance. Then they called me on Sunday morning to tell me they were twenty minutes away and I wasn't done packing. The stuff finally ended up in a van, only to disappear for almost two months. They wouldn’t return my calls.
Finally they called me back to schedule a delivery time, and after I’d been waiting three hours I called them again at which point I found out the truck had broken down in Texas two days before. A week later my stuff finally showed up at 9pm along with the driver and two local crack addicts to help unload. Everything looked like it had been thrown around and stomped on. Repeatedly. When I unpacked I found that everything that could be broken was broken.
Because of that I had a whole lot less stuff to move back to California, which made it easier. I hired a container and packed it myself. It arrived on the day it was supposed to and everything was in perfect condition.
Minivans hold quite a lot of stuff:
I fit two large dog crates (holding the cats), luggage, the dog, and two small bird cages into a Kia something or other, and still was able to use the rear view mirror. The SUV that the first rental company gave me wouldn’t have held any more than my Honda Civic.
Give the cats someplace to hide:
On the way to Louisiana the only place to hide in the dog crate (which had all the cats) was the covered litterbox. Scooter camped out in the litterbox for three days and refused to budge. By day two I was driving with the windows down. On the way back I zip-tied the small carriers inside the dog crates and it was a much more pleasant experience. Everyone had someplace to hide, and someplace else to go when nature called.
Nice hotels are nice, but…:
All Motel 6 locations allow dogs. Yeah, they’re kind of gross, but it’s only for a couple of nights.
Figure out the rental van early on:
I had to unpack the front seat (where the bird cages were wedged) in 105 degree heat because I couldn’t figure out how to turn on cruise control and the manual was in the glove compartment.
Don’t feed the birds French fries:
It was a simple mistake. Early on I gave the conures (aka, the loudest birds in the universe) a small piece of French fry each when I stopped for lunch. By the second day they were screaming in anticipation every time I exited the freeway. Conures screaming two feet from your ear is not a good thing. This way lies madness.
And finally:
Drive like the wind.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Holy Cow
Well, it’s been raining on Oakdale for the past week, and as a result the grooming area is more than a little muddy. My mud boots (aka Wellingtons) are about two sizes too big (men’s 8 being the smallest size the hardware store sold), which adds a whole new level to the klutz factor.
One of the first times I wore those boots was also one of the first times I handled cows. It was the first year of vet school, and the administration realized that not everyone had grown up on a dairy farm. I’m not even sure I had ever touched a cow. Anyhow, the school scheduled practical handling classes for everyone, with about five people per class, so you could avoid looking like a complete idiot in front of owners. We had regular classes during the day, so the handling sessions were at night from 7-10pm.
The cow handling session was held in the food animal barn at the hospital, which was well lighted, although a little cold in winter. They kept about ten Holsteins there for teaching purposes. The cows were supposed to be in the small paddock right next to the barn that evening, but someone forgot to communicate that to the barn guys, so in fact, they were in a large, unlit pasture nearby.
The guy in charge of the session gave each of us something that looked like a plastic canoe paddle with a rattle inside and told us to go round up the cows. Yeah, these were dairy cows, some of the most placid animals on the earth, but they’re really big, and I’d never been close to one.
Anyhow, that’s how I found myself staggering around in the dark, in an uneven pasture filled with cow patties and mud, shaking that rattle for all I was worth, hoping the cows would stay away from me. If one did charge me, my plan was to hurl the paddle at it and run for the fence, which would have involved leaping out of the boots. Luckily, the cows associated the opening of the gate with food, and all came in of their own accord, so I wasn’t out wandering around long enough to hurt myself.
Later that evening we explored the source of all the cow pies in the field, but that’s a story for another day.
One of the first times I wore those boots was also one of the first times I handled cows. It was the first year of vet school, and the administration realized that not everyone had grown up on a dairy farm. I’m not even sure I had ever touched a cow. Anyhow, the school scheduled practical handling classes for everyone, with about five people per class, so you could avoid looking like a complete idiot in front of owners. We had regular classes during the day, so the handling sessions were at night from 7-10pm.
The cow handling session was held in the food animal barn at the hospital, which was well lighted, although a little cold in winter. They kept about ten Holsteins there for teaching purposes. The cows were supposed to be in the small paddock right next to the barn that evening, but someone forgot to communicate that to the barn guys, so in fact, they were in a large, unlit pasture nearby.
The guy in charge of the session gave each of us something that looked like a plastic canoe paddle with a rattle inside and told us to go round up the cows. Yeah, these were dairy cows, some of the most placid animals on the earth, but they’re really big, and I’d never been close to one.
Anyhow, that’s how I found myself staggering around in the dark, in an uneven pasture filled with cow patties and mud, shaking that rattle for all I was worth, hoping the cows would stay away from me. If one did charge me, my plan was to hurl the paddle at it and run for the fence, which would have involved leaping out of the boots. Luckily, the cows associated the opening of the gate with food, and all came in of their own accord, so I wasn’t out wandering around long enough to hurt myself.
Later that evening we explored the source of all the cow pies in the field, but that’s a story for another day.
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