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Bee Chi

5/13/2013

I took Champagne to the vet last week in preparation for the arrival of our new sheep. We recently switched vets; Shively Animal Clinic has great vets but inefficient service. Dr. Chris Albert at Mt. Washington Animal Clinic is our new vet, closer to home and astoundingly good. As always, it took three of us to trim Champagne's nails (and she got the muzzle off twice). She crushes the scale at a whopping 65.2 lbs, 15 lbs too much! This despite her diet - it's impossible to keep a country dog from finding snacks. She has some arthritis due to age and scar tissue, and we have physical therapy exercises to do every day. (Like dog, like owner.) As Dr. Albert was teaching me how to stretch Champagne's hips she commented, "This is a dog whose boundaries need to be respected." That essentially sums up every issue I've ever had with her! People don't respect Champagne's boundaries when they insist on touching her before she's comfortable. She suffered from tremendous anxiety without her kennel, HER solidly defined space. She needs the demands of obedience and other jobs to define her. At the end of the visit I expressed relief: "I was worried I'd have to find another herding dog!" "You do. You should start looking," was the Dr.'s reply. When I expressed dismay at adding a dog to the 2 dog/4 cat household, she said, "I have 6 and 10. If I can do it, so can you!"

Let me live with the idea. I have school coming up. Champagne is only 10. I'll look after her next birthday.

I ran the idea past Nick (respecting his boundaries) and surprisingly, he agreed.

Maybe I'll just see what's out there. Get an idea. So I can focus on a direction come January.

We brought the sheep home on Saturday. They love the large space with apple trees and lots of grazing variety. I took Champagne out on a leash to see how much she remembered. Down. Wait. Walk up. Easy. Stay. Sit. Come bye. Away to me. Find my sheep. Front. Here to me. That'll do. Look back. We worked for two years on the intricate dance that is sheep herding. That was after 3 years of obedience.

A puppy doesn't know anything. In five years Champagne will be 15.....

Sunday I let Champagne in with the sheep without a leash. They take extremely light pressure at this point and I didn't ask her to move them, only to return when called. Sam marched out in front of the flock. He didn't stamp or shake his head, merely stared at the wolf in his pasture....
Champagne was afraid.
She tucked her tail and walked away. When Sam followed, she spun around and snarled. When the rest of the sheep followed, she snapped at them. A sheepdog should NEVER bite a sheep.

We all become fearful as we age. Walking is a series of controlled falls, and the ground is very far away and very hard. The more pain we experience, the more we fear it. The older we get, the more responsibility and privilege is at stake. I recognized that Champagne was afraid to be headbutted because she doesn't trust her own balance. If the sheep sense fear in a working dog they won't respect it. It's time for her to retire. It's time for a new dog.

This feels underhanded. Acknowledging Champagne's limitations, her age, is in some way acknowledging the approach of her end of life. We fight so hard to deny the death of those we love, and yet it rushes upon us all, consuming life after too short life and leaving only memories that slough off our aging brains. And yet.... Acknowledging Champagne's age and limitations affords her continued dignity through her end of life. This is a dog who demands that we respect her boundaries.

This morning I had to take the Red Hive apart, clean excess wax off the edges of every frame, and split the full frames between two brood supers in an effort to get them to use ALL of the hive boxes. The bees had built full sheets of drawn comb free-floating between the frames of foundation I provided. Turns out they were brood combs, not honey combs, and in trying to better the hive I killed both adult and larval bees. Sorry, bees. Many died trying to sting me, which saddens me, but they didn't succeed, which makes me relieved. Not gonna lie, I'm kind of in awe of my 3-0 record. Especially considering how angry the bees were.

They had every right to be angry! I came into their well-built house, ripped every bit of it apart, reassembled it in the wrong order, killed their young, squashed their comrades! I'm Bee Enemy #1! Through the process my dad-given mantra ran through my head: "Bees move slowly. You move slowly too." I worked in large, smooth motions. The suit and number of bees popping my veil made working the hive a lot like walking on the moon (but with gravity). I swung my right leg over, lowered it, checked under my foot before rocking my weight from heel to toe. As I placed my center of gravity over that leg I swung my arms to my left, turned my head, and brushed some bees softly off a chunk of comb. Slow, relaxed movements...hey! I'm doing Bee Chi!

I talk to my bees. I know they don't understand me and don't care to, but it makes me feel better to tell them what I'm doing. So there I was in the pasture, horses staring, moving in Bee Chi patterns while shouting, "Do I have your permission to touch you? Ok ladies, I'm going to place my finger here. This is going to be a little rough...could everyone please leave bee space around the edges? I'm sorry you felt you had to commit suicide to protect your hive! We will miss you!" *siiiiiiiiiiiiigh* I'm so weird. But it worked! No stings!

My point is, all of life is Bee Chi. The world is spinning and we are little tornadoes of activity from our first squawling breath til our last heartbeat. It's a different length for each of us and no one knows how long we have. The trick is to move through life as slowly and smoothly as possible, respecting our own boundaries as well as one another's. You're gonna squash others now and then - it's inevitable, no matter how mindful you are of being gentle. Do the best you can, and know that those who love you are trying to do the best for you.

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To Remember You By

5/5/2013

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Saying goodbye

This has been a busy week. Before the rain set in and the temperatures dropped, I managed to garden with my friend Beverly, exhume the herb bed, do major planting, commit maple sapling genocide, clip both boys, bathe all 3 horses, and ride Bullet once.
I also sold my friend.
Century has been listed for 3 years. In that time he has been leased, trialed, and occasionally ridden, but he's always come home. This time, after his new partner and I shook hands, I knew it would be different. We struck a deal on Wednesday afternoon. Thursday morning Century stood alone in the round pasture for a long time, neither grazing or napping. The sight of him voluntarily distancing himself from Penny brought tears to my eyes. I could feel him turning inward, and my heart, cracked from the pressure of trying to divorce myself from my partner of 10 years, began to hurt. When he lay down for a nap I dropped my gardening tools and went to sit in front of him. I cradled his cheeks in my hands, eyes blurry with tears, and thanked him for everything he's taught me and all the ways he has protected us. As I told him I loved him, my tears gave way to sobs. Ever the expressive ham, he flopped over, rolled his eyes, and stood up. Century is the only horse I've ever had who gives hugs. He will, when emotion strikes him, wrap his head and neck around me in a literal embrace. At that moment, I really needed a hug. I buried my face in his shoulder, wrapped my arms around his neck, and quietly cried snot bubbles into his mane. He waited patiently and with innate dignity for me to release him. Every horse, and every girl, is born knowing there is no safer place to cry than against the solid, forgiving curve of an equine friend.
When I left him, he called to Penny in a soft, insistent tone he hadn't used for many years. She came alone. They touched like the old married couple they are, familiar with one another's bodies as they are with the feel of the ground beneath their hooves. They groomed each other from nose to tail. Then Century returned to his solitary vigil and Penny to graze with Bullet.
I watched from the garden, remembering the days I picked them out, brought them home, broke them. The wintery morning I spent currying half an inch of ice off them. The time he won the barn costume contest. The time he protected his family from starvation. The way he was willing to go for me even when he was sore or scared. Our daily ritual of father ponying son as I trained Traveler. The day Traveler was born. The day he died. The time Century dislocated a hip and I thought he would die. The long talk I had with him before he was gelded. The day he convinced Penny to stand guard while he broke into the barn....
My friend Beverly is moving next month. I spent Tuesday afternoon taking advantage of her generosity with plants. It's a funny thing, women's urge to remember each other with flowers. A good friend of mine grows her mother's Cecil Brunner roses. Another, her mother's rosebush. Pioneer women carted family plants across the vast expanse of this nation, not knowing if their final destination would support the tender shoots they packed and nursed so carefully. My mother has my grandmother's irises, and I have my grandmother's poppies. Flowers become a woman's legacy. Beverly hasn't any idea how much she's taught me or how I treasure her friendship...or perhaps she does. (I took a LOT of plants!) While digging up a clump of stubborn narcissus I commented that I was surprised more people weren't digging up something to remember her by. I'll see her again - her new house will be my between-classes hangout - but every year as the flowers bloom I will see her face around my yard.
Friday morning dawned and Century was once again by himself. I groomed him, kissed him, and haltered him. Then Penny approached and I stepped aside to allow them some last few moments of precious physical connection. After once again grooming each other head to tail, they stood muzzle to muzzle for several minutes, silent and statuesque. Finally I moved to walk Century out of the pasture. He wouldn't go through the gate. Penny suddenly bolted past us, bucking and running amok for a good ten minutes until she could be haltered and returned behind fences. "Running away won't keep him from leaving!" I yelled at her. Hard truth.
My horse isn't my horse anymore. His halter, fly mask, papers are all gone. I have photographs, sure...but despite ten years of adventures I don't have a single shot of me on his back. "I had a horse named Century once...." Is that all? Stories? No. Penny wasn't the only one married to him for ten years. We knew each other well enough fo him to anticipate and correct my mistakes. After being paid to ride rank and green horses on open beach, Century taught me what it was like to trust a horse again. Horses make us honest, with them and with ourselves. He is loyal to a fault. He has a sense of humor. He knew when I needed a hug. Century was the first horse I broke and trained myself, and he taught and refined me every bit as much as I did him. Bullet and I are excited to be starting lessons soon (well, I'm excited). I can't feel my body like I used to and I know I'm not communicating effectively. That's Century's legacy. The gift of mutual respect and honesty, the ability to build a language of trust with every horse I've had or will have. That's what I have to remember him by.
It's my hope that Century and Jennifer will build as strong a partnership as he and I had. I'm almost completely happy; moving on was the right thing to do. The Horse is good. Be good, Century.

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Madeline is a fiber artist, author, shepherd, and music student. Ballyhoo Farm is the culmination of her passion for animals, horticulture, and sustainable farming practices, a dream she's worked to build since childhood.

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