Horsekeeping (31 page)

“How about Venus, Jane?” I intercepted, wanting some coordinating names myself for the pair. “She is the most beautiful goddess of love.”

“Venus, penis,” she rhymed, wrinkling her nose but quickly adding, “how about bagina?”

Elliot and Jane giggled at her wordplay, and after a few more unsavory anatomical references, Jane went back to Butterfly Girl.

The next morning on the way to school I took another tack.

“Jane, did you know that the Roman name for the most beautiful goddess of the hunt is ‘Diana?' Wouldn't that be a nice name for your bunny?” I played Jane's penchant for soft, feminine names like Vanessa, Sara and Olivia.

“I
like
that name. Diana, Diana, Diana!”

I silently congratulated myself; I knew Elliot did not relish the thought of yodeling “Come here, Butterfly Girl” to a bunny.

Diana and Hera were a huge hit. Bobbi, knowing I often felt left out of these first exciting days of official operation, periodically called me in New York to report on general progress.

“I'm performing my favorite task of the day right now,” she sing-songed.

“Oh, and what is that?” I asked, “Making umpteen phone calls to corner Mike into finally finishing our fencing?” Poor Bobbi had attended to the countless details and phone calls throughout the renovation when all she really wanted was to train horses.

“No, I'm holding the bunnies. They are so cute. And soft. One is buried down in my jacket, and the other is hopping around.”

I felt naughty about buying two baby bunnies when my “Bunnies for Dummies” emphasized adopting overly abundant, older rabbits. But my kids really wanted babies and were disappointed when they learned that our dog Velvet “had the shot” so she couldn't have puppies and that we were not going to have baby horses any time soon (they had forgotten my earlier promise of their own foals to raise). I figured bunnies were easy. I read that rabbits need plenty of holding to domesticate them properly, and we were certainly all up for that. The barn would soon bustle with plenty of visitors to oblige in our weekly absences.

Bright and early the following Saturday morning we walked over to the farm and found the designated bunny stall thoughtfully located next to the tack room. Baby bunnies rank high on the cuteness pyramid, and
my kids carefully held and stroked them and clapped with delight as they popped and scampered. Free-roaming their stall all day, we confined them to the hutch with blankets at night against the cold and predators. They nibbled broccoli florets and lettuce from my kids' hands: animal heaven. Hera is the love bug and Diana more curious and athletic. Continually escaping from Jane's arms, I sternly enforced that she sit to avoid dropping the delicate creatures. Poor Jane: it is hard to get anything right when you're five. She'd either lose Diana or squeeze her. Out of concern, Elliot and I reprimanded more than we encouraged, exasperating Jane to tears at least three times each visit.

“But I want to hold Diana and she keeps running away,” she cried.

“I know honey. Sit down, and I'll catch her for you.”

“Why do I have to sit down? Elliot carries Hera around.”

“Well, you're still little and learning how to treat animals.”

I cornered Diana and scooped her up with a swift, firm hold.

“Here you go, Jane.”

Tentative, Jane grasped too gently, and Diana's front half immediately wriggled toward freedom. Jane grabbed tightly at bunny hind quarters.

“Don't squeeze, Jane,” I sharply rebuked as Diana squirmed away.

Empty-handed yet again, Jane's tears brimmed.

“Jane, I think your bunny just wants to motor around a little. Just watch how cute she is.”

“But I want to hold her.”

And on it went: Jane waiting impatiently for her turn to hold, then a little squeeze or grab, a scratch, a cautionary rebuke and tears. Elliot was old enough to instinctively learn barn behavior or at least to remember any corrections, but not Jane. Right after meeting the bunnies, we went in search of the black furball of Weatogue's mouser-in-training, secured in the feed room with food and blankets until he established our barn as his territory. Bobbi's friend, newly designated “Big Jane” to distinguish her from our Jane, found the kitten abandoned in a crate alongside the road. A vet saved his life, neutered and inoculated him, and Big Jane
nurtured him until we were ready. She named him Ninja for the new motorcycle she received that same day.

Ninja befriended us immediately, meowing vociferously and sliding against us for pats and cuddles. Jane petted his sleek back, fascinated by his undulating tail. As she stroked it, I warned her never to pull. Sure enough, not fifteen minutes later, Jane ran to me in tears.

“Don't run, Jane!”

She admitted to pulling the cat's tail and got a sharp claw across the face.

Later, over a glass of wine at The White Hart, I said to Scott: “There are so many tears from Jane at the barn. I
think
she's enjoying it, but I feel I'm always yelling to keep every mammal safe. I hate being the harpy.”

“But you
are
a harpy.” His quick smile showed he caught me fishing for a sympathetic ego boost. I played along with my wounded mutt look. “Only kidding,” he continued. “Look, it's our job to protect our young. Big animals are dangerous, and little ones look like her stuffed toys that she can do whatever she wants with. It's got to be frustrating and emotional for her not to be able to maul them with affection. Five year olds are not great at restraint.”

“I guess it's a steeper learning curve for her than it is even for us,” I sighed. “She'll learn to speak ‘animal' just like we did—well not you, yet. You
are
remedial in the subject.” I got him back.

He could have harangued me about my excessive zeal for animals, chastised me for Jane's cheek slash, and reminded me he didn't bargain for bunnies and cats, let alone horses and dogs, but he didn't. He looked handsome; his short, graying hair accented by his black and grey cashmere sweater atop snug jeans, all of him backlit by firelight emanating from an ancient hearth nestled in the smoke-mellowed pine walls of the tap room. I smiled, appreciating the comfort of our many years together.

“She'll learn,” we both unisoned.

And somehow, despite the doubt, the fighting, the yelling and the crying, it all still spelled fun.

 

 

SO, AS THE HORSES ARRIVED TWO BY TWO in the late afternoon sun of our first official day of operation, I feared they'd pale in comparison to the bunnies and the cat. Bobbi's Angel and Toby settled in, alternately grazing and sprinting across the paddocks, and the out-to-pastures Glimmer, Katie, and the one-eyed old racehorse Theo wandered around like “what else is new?” A peaceful transition, but Bobbi's friend Terri and her daughter Meghan stood guard in case someone decided to go crazy. You never know with horses, and my family would have been useless in an emergency. Bobbi soon returned with the last two, my horse Bandi, and Cleopatra, a pony for the kids we leased from a girl who physically outgrew her but emotionally couldn't sell. Bandi and Cleo unloaded smoothly and immediately dropped their muzzles into the turf, munching away without so much as a casual glance around.

Elliot hung back, giving the horses some space. I held Bandi's lead rope letting him graze while Jane danced close circles around Bobbi and Cleo. I kept a sharp eye on all eight horse hooves. Jane begged for a ride, so Bobbi boosted her up bareback on Cleo and walked around the grass. Laughing hard, Jane sparkled. We persuaded her to dismount and led the two horses into their stalls to settle.

“That went well,” I said, enjoying the feel of horses occupying our farm, at last.

“How could a horse not be happy here?” Bobbi teased.

“I think old Theo is wearing himself out with excitement.” Through the open stall window we watched his running silhouette.

“Maybe it's been twenty years since he's done that,” Bobbi sighed.

“Take it easy there, old man,” I shouted.

As we congratulated ourselves on a smooth transition, Jane repeatedly hugged Bobbi's legs. Eventually she added “I love yous” to the mix. Bobbi and I kept up our patter as she hugged back. Finally Jane squeezed tighter with louder endearments and stuck her arm straight out toward Cleo. We finally got the message: she badly wanted another ride. Jane's manipulative ploy embarrassed me, but at least she didn't scream and
demand; it was more a sweet desperation. We protested that Cleo was tired, that Bobbi had to get the other horses in, and that soon she'd enjoy plenty of rides with a real saddle and stirrups that didn't require looping to hold her feet. But Jane kept up her antics, smiling away until we caved. I could tell that Bobbi was channeling her own child self, the one that wailed at the end of her first ride.

We led Cleo to the indoor ring: her hooves' echoing clip-clop a barn's equivalent to the smell of cookies at a housewarming party. Jane would be the first to ride on the new footing, the youngest being appropriate inauguration. As they circled I saw that Cleo was, as Bobbi suspected, one special pony. In unfamiliar territory she steadily carried my precious cargo, mellow as could be. Elliot couldn't resist a short turn too, and delighted in the novel experience of bareback. Sated, we collectively rejoiced that the horses condoned our six and a half months of preparation and that even though Jane would spill some tears, the highs would more than compensate. Already my son was talking about how the bunny day was the best of his life so far and telling all our visitors how he couldn't wait to work at the barn in the summer.

“You know, Mom, I think I like taking care of the horses more than riding them.”

I felt pretty good about that.

I remembered a conversation Scott had with Elliot during a walk over to the barn one day. It stemmed from Scott's explanation both of conservation easements, our plan for much of our land, now totaling 120 acres, and last wills and testaments, a natural segue.

“I want to be an investment banker and a farmer just like you, Dad.” We turned onto the hayfield, our legs scissoring the tall grass.

“And why is that, El?”

“I want to give all my money to land conservation.” Scott and I exchanged glances.

“That would be a good thing, but there are other ways to work with the land without needing so much money. You could be a forester, for example.”

Elliot chased some crickets, came up empty and rejoined us.

“Why don't we live in Salisbury all the time? The country is so much better than the city. It's quiet and clean and more beautiful.”

“Well, I have a job to do and that pays for all this: ‘Money comes in pretty handy down here, Bub,'” Scott smiled at me as he quoted our favorite Jimmy Stewart line to the wingless angel Clarence in
It's a Wonderful Life
.

“You can give Jane the New York apartment, but I want the country house. That will be perfect because Jane loves the city best–”

I shot Scott a worried glance. “Got that, Mr. Potter?” I quipped, and cringed at the sound of “country house” issuing so glibly from Elliot's lips.

“—but I want to learn everything there is about horses, farming and conservation.”

Later, Scott and I congratulated ourselves on getting some parenting right, despite Elliot's plan for divvying up the spoils upon our demise. These snippets alone were worth the expense and trauma of renovating the farm, even if Elliot evolves into a NYC subway conductor rather than the naturalist I anticipated. He already harbored an innate, genuine compassion for living creatures, a developing work ethic, and a strong taste for the beauty of the land—nature in general, and Salisbury in particular. I loved him for it, and believed Jane would get there too, by degrees, and with a few more bumps, bruises, scratches and tears along the way.

 

 

BOBBI WANTED TO KEEP THE FUN COMING, so Thanksgiving weekend we arrived to meet our new miniature stallion officially named “Miller's Red Blue-eyed Hawk.” He is a ribbon-laden cart-driving phenomenon that sounded too cute to pass up. After a tear-free cuddle with Hera, Diana and Ninja, we walked out to the pasture that held Bandi and Hawk. Originally Bobbi matched Bandi and Cleo together, but they fell too much in love, and their pining when apart indicated an attraction too strong.

“Shouldn't they be together all the more?” I asked, mooning over their thwarted love.

“Well, it's like having more than one dog—you don't want a pack mentality against you, and the lovesick can't focus properly on their work.”

Ah, there is a limit to her indulgence regarding the horses
, I thought.

Bobbi explained the head game that determines who could safely cohabitate out in the paddocks. Horses prefer buddies, but can turn enemies quickly. They are social herd animals, and we walk a fine line between complete domestication and their wild “horseness.” I liked the idea of my gelding Bandi infatuated, but my safety on board over-ruled his love life.

Carrots in hand, we found Bandi and Hawk following one another around the grassy enclosure. Hawk is adorably small: two hundred pounds of squat black and white fuzz, smaller than a Great Dane, with an oversized head, a ground-sweeping shaggy tail and a lofty mane. His luminous blue eyes beguiled us and his portliness rendered Bandi a fashion model in comparison, tall and lean. Hawk looked more like a pot-bellied pig than a horse. This Mutt and Jeff couple trotted right over, gently taking the treats we offered.

“Look Mom, he's sooo small,” Jane squealed in delight.

“Just your size, Jane.” Scott squatted to keep her fingers safe.