How Is Your Year Going?

I’ve been out of touch for a while, cause, this year has been so perfect and dull I have had nothing to say…I’ve never had so much fun as over these past three months. How about you?

Just kidding. I’ve been cowering in the barn grain room wondering if Covid-19 can find me there. It’s pretty dark and dusty.

Still kidding. For me the truth lands mostly in the middle.

Some days my mind spins out of control: Trump! Covid-19! The Stock Market!

Others I just stick my fingers in my ears yelling LA! LA! LA DEE DAA!

Whatever works. That’s my current motto.

Three Danes on a bed and a Brittany on the floor. That’s normal.

That and “STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! Please?”

I was lucky enough to fly to the East to visit my Mom in the Berkshires a week or so before the virus exploded in the US. It was already being mismanaged terribly – no tests, White House denial etc., but for some reason I thought everything was going to be okay. After all, we are the USA and have the CDC on it they managed to keep us safe from Ebola. And a whole Pandemic team and plan.

Oops. That was in 2016.

Anyway, by the time I came back to Los Angeles five days later, it became obvious that nothing was going to be the same for a while. I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

I wasn’t consciously planning to stock up on things, but looking back that’s sort of what I did.

I needed hay, so I ordered a lot – about 50 bales – which should last the two fatsos in the backyard quite a while.

Yet even then, because it had been raining a lot, I was more concerned that the delivery truck would get stuck in my yard, than acquiring the trump virus. I actually considered this: it would be handy to have a giant truck of my very own. Then I could pick up my own damn hay and shavings.

Luckily, the driver/delivery man is a much better truck driver than I am. He was in and out of yard in less than two hours. There were only a few nasty ruts. Winning!

I also did some shopping that week, since as usual I had nothing in the house. That forced me to visit Costco just as the madness and hording was ramping up. I bought a few extra bags of dog food at Costco mostly because I wanted to postpone a return trip as long as possible. People were insane. Even though Los Angeles’ water is just fine. Every cart had cases of water.

And toilet paper. There was a whole separate line, with line monitors for toilet paper. For toilet paper? This is a respiratory virus, so Kleenex maybe. (And what was up with the guy that literally had a huge basket filled with lettuce? I have so many questions…)

Anyway, while I was out I picked up dog food, cat food, canary food and extra grain for the horses. So I’m pretty good.

In fact, since I work at home and don’t go out much anymore (times have changed from the days when I would see three bands a night!) my life is pretty unchanged from the pre- “safety at home” order.

I am lucky and oh, so incredibly grateful to live in California. Here, it is up to each barn to decide if they want to remain open. (For all of you who are allowed to ride, all together say a big “Thank you” to the horse racing industry who made the legitimate argument that horses need to be worked every day. Otherwise NO ONE would be riding.)

Mickey and Faith are at a single trainer, private stable that has remained open. (Thank you Heatherly Davis and Tracy Saunders!) Heatherly staggers riders so there are rarely more than three around at any time. Everyone is extremely respectful about staying at least six feet away. And it’s California, so we ride outside. In a ring that is about an acre in size. Have I mentioned how lucky I am?

Layla is often ridiculously happy to see me. Foals.

Layla lives about ten minutes away. She’s out with one old mare and four other yearlings. There is rarely anyone there when I visit so that’s not a problem either. Actually that’s not quite true, if I’m not careful I can get run over when they mob me, because, foals. Not a bad problem to have. Foals give the best hugs.

Layla (she’s the one with the Troll forelock) and her BFF Haly

I am more than a little thankful to be able to ride and do it in a place that is stunningly gorgeous and so visually distant from the city that I while I’m there, I can pretend that nothing has changed.

Except it has.

I still walk the dogs every day. Usually I’m the only one. Now there are other people walking too. Lots of them.

People are mostly nice. They say hello and keep a safe distance. That might also be because many days I walk with my friend Twinkle and her Great Dane, Blue. Nothing will make dog-fearful people get out of the way faster than two fat Great Danes heading their way.

When people cower in the street, it hurts Jasper and Blue’s feelings, but they survive.

Lately I’ve also spent a ton of time pumping the water out of Lake Liveten, which was formerly known as my horse paddock. It was literally an ocean back there.

A few of my rubber duckies made a break for it and adopted Fiona as their leader.

I was lucky enough to borrow a pump and it works beautifully. It just takes a while and I’m not going to leave it unattended cause, you know, horses, dogs, water and electricity. What could go wrong?

The water is almost gone now. Except we are expecting another huge downpour.

So I repeat, how’s your 2020 going?

Stay safe and happy folks! We will get through this. I’m throwing a huge party to celebrate! See you soon!!!!!!

So How’s Your Year Going?

I’ve been out of touch for a while, cause, this year has been so perfect and dull I have had nothing to say…I’ve never had so much fun as over these past three months. How about you?

Just kidding. I’ve been cowering in the barn grain room wondering if I Covid-19 can find me there.

Still kidding. For me the truth lands mostly in the middle.

Some days my mind spins out of control: Trump! Covid-19! The Stock Market!

Others I just stick my fingers in my ears yelling LA! LA! LA DEE DAA!

Whatever works. That’s my current motto.

That and “STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! Please?”

I was lucky enough to fly to the East to visit my Mom in the Berkshires a week or so before the virus exploded in the US. It was already being mismanaged terribly – no tests, White House denial etc., but for some reason I all thought we were going to be okay. After all, we are the USA and have the CDC on it they managed to keep us safe from Ebola. And a whole Pandemic team and plan.

Oops. That was in 2016.

Anyway, by the time I came back to Los Angeles, five days later, it became obvious that wasn’t going to be case. I wasn’t going anywhere again anytime soon.

I wasn’t consciously planning to stock up on things, but looking back that’s sort of what I did.

I needed hay, so I ordered a lot – about 50 bales – which should last the two fatsos in the backyard quite a while.

Luckily, the driver/delivery man is a much better truck driver than I am. He was in and out of yard in less than two hours. There were only a few nasty ruts. Winning!

And toilet paper. There was a whole separate line, with line monitors for toilet paper. For toilet paper? This is a respiratory virus, so Kleenex maybe. (And what was with the guy that literally had a huge basket filled with lettuce? I have so many questions…)

Anyway, while I was out I picked up dog food, cat food, canary food and extra grain for the horses. So I’m pretty good.

Three Danes on a bed and a Brittany on the floor. Normal.

Layla is often ridiculously glad to see me.

Layla (with the troll hair) and her BFF Haly

Except it has.

I still walk the dogs every day. Usually I’m the only one. Now there are other people walking too. Lots of them.

When people cower in the street, it hurts Jasper and Blue’s feelings, but they survive.

Lately I’ve also spent a ton of time pumping the water out of Lake Liveten, which was formerly known as my horse paddock. It was literally an ocean back there.

Several of my Rubber Duckies made a break for it and were following Fiona

The water is almost gone now. Except we are expecting another huge downpour.

So I repeat, how’s your 2020 going?

Stay safe and happy folks! We will get through this. I’m throwing a huge party to celebrate! See you soon!!!!!!

Sleeping with Giants (and Other Fantasies)

When I first got Murray Great Dane, I was living the dream. We spent our days hanging out with my three hipster best friends in a cool psychedelically painted micro-bus, catching bad guys. Just kidding; that’s Scooby Doo and Friends.

In reality, after doing extensive research on Great Danes and discovering fun facts like they have nothing to do with Denmark and were originally bred to hunt wild boar, I searched extensively for the perfect specimen. Still kidding! I acquired Murray the Dane from my friend whose Dane got it on with a another Dane while my friend wasn’t looking.

I knew nothing about Great Danes other than my Dad had one when he was young and that Murray was adorable, needed a home, and his parents were beautiful. So I plopped him on my lap and we drove home to introduce him to my three Brittanys.

It wasn’t the safest way to drive and definitely not a good precedent to set. From then on, Murray was a Velcro dog. Soon, (like days later) he couldn’t fit under the steering wheel, but he was always as close as physically possible.

Murray may have been my first Dane, but he was far from my first dog. So the first thing we worked on was potty training. If you use a crate, a dog door, and have a pack of well housebroken dogs, training is a snap. Murray was completely trustworthy by the time he was 10 weeks old.

After that he never had an accident. When he was older, though, he did have a lot of ‘on purposes’ when he was literally pissed at me.

As soon as Murray was safe to roam, he was on my bed at night. Of the four dogs, the only one who refused to sleep with us, was Morgan. She was an old Diva when I adopted her, and she had RULES. One was that ladies absolutely did not sleep on the bed.

Her other unbreakable commandment was that she went to bed at nine pm. That would have been fine, but Morgan also believed she could not retire to her chambers alone. Lady or not, she would bark and carry on until I finally got a tiny television for the bedroom and we’d all join her at nine.

When Murray was small he needed help getting on my queen-sized bed so I’d pick him up. By the time he was grown, he’d established his place directly to the right of my head where he’d remain all night. The Brittanys all tended to wiggle while they slept. They’d begin the night at the bottom of the bed before rolling their way to the top, squished next to Murray and me.

All of them except Oliver felt they had to stay in direct contact with me at all times. In the winter this cut down considerably on my heating bills. It was less desireable in the summer. When it was hot, I’d try to get away from them as I slept. They followed.

Occasionally, the inevitable happened. The first time Murray, by then full-grown and 140 pounds, pushed me to the floor he was so thoroughly offended by the thunk I made when I hit the ground that he barked. When he realized that I had disturbed his beauty rest, he shot me a huffy, injured look.

At the time I thought I was miserable. In hindsight those were the good old days.

Presently I live with three Great Danes and Poppy the Brittany. Poppy, bless her, never stays on the bed at night. She hates being touched when she’s sleeping and has been known to bite the offender. She starts off the night in her crate and then wanders the house. She always ends up by my side of the bed, and more than once I’ve stepped on her tail. Oops.

Dalai the Dane prefers to sleep in her giant crate. Except when she is frightened such as during Santa Ana winds, or if there are fireworks, or when she has a nightmare. Then she hovers over my face breathing loudly until I make room for her on the bed.

Jasper has slept with me since the very day I got him, when he absolutely refused to sleep in his crate. He howled. He cried and screeched as he slammed himself repeatedly into the crate door.

I wouldn’t have cared, but I got him in Kentucky, and we spent his first few nights at my Mom’s place. His vocalizing woke the entire house, so I gave in and put him on the bed. Instantly he curled up next to me, sighed happily and fell asleep. In the morning, he quietly played with his toys until I woke up and took him outside. He had arrived impeccably housebroken. At seven weeks.

Jasper at seven weeks, of course he slept anywhere he wanted to.

Obviously, he still sleeps on the bed.

When I broke Fiona out of the shelter, I tried her in a crate but she was miserable. But she was content to sleep on any one of the floofy dogs beds on the floor. It was great.

I don’t remember why – perhaps I was drunk- but one night I invited Fiona on the bed. From that moment forth she shoved Jasper out of the way and fell asleep on my right shoulder. When she was 87 pounds, it wasn’t that big a deal. But as she got healthier (she’s now a sturdy 154 pounds) it became a problem.

Once Fiona is asleep, she is immobile. She becomes a 154 pound sack of furry cement. Cement that must at all times be touching me, preferably with her head on my neck. Snoring loudly.

Jasper gets into bed last and is continually shocked that Fiona has taken the ‘good’ spot. He gets around this by plopping his butt on her side, and sliding down next to her. It looks like they are spooning. It’s sweet.

Except that they, like Murray, push in their sleep. I begin each night carefully situating myself in the middle of the bed. By 2 or 3 am, they have commendeered the covers and I am hanging onto the mattress by my fingernails.

Moving them is almost impossible, since together they weigh more than 300 pounds. Instead I usually get up and go to the other side of the bed, and try to get back to sleep before they notice I’ve moved.

It’s a king-sized bed. So Jasper, Dalai and Fiona fit. Sometimes they let me in too.

If you think this is insane, and you are correct. I don’t think that Shaggy has this problem with Scooby Doo.

But he is a cartoon Dane.

The Dark Months

I don’t know why we turn the clocks back every Fall, and I’m not even sure what it’s called. (The dark time? When everything goes bad? Months of depression?) I know I could just Google the answer to both questions, but that’s a digression I’m not willing to make right now, when I’m just warming up to a good rant.

You may have guessed that I hate it when it’s dark in the morning and pitch black at the crack of 4:30pm.

No one else in my household like it either. Every morning the horses begin milling around, looking for breakfast at what they think is their normal meal time, except instead of 6:30, it’s now 5:30.

At about the same time, Dalai wanders over my side of the bed and stares at me looking for a flickering of my eyelids which might mean I’m awake. If there is none, she leans over and breathes on me until I blink. As you can imagine, that works. My movement causes Fiona and Jasper to wake up and they in turn stir up Poppy and the birds.

If I’m lucky, by now, it’s 6am. Arguing with them does not work. Neither does pleading.

“C’mon,” I beg, burrowing under the covers. “Just ten more minutes.”

That is Dalai’s signal to take her paw and yank my covers off. She’s not kidding anymore. She’s awake, hungry and has a full agenda. She has stuff to do.

So up I stumble and let them all outside. Before I even make it to the bathroom, they are all back and surrounding me. Staring.

Owning Great Danes means never peeing alone.

The thing is, once I’m up in the morning, I don’t even mind being awake. I actually kind of like it. The neighborhood is quiet, and if I don’t turn on the TV or check my phone, I can pretend all is right with the world.

Right.

The worst part of the time change comes later in the day. In what used to be the afternoon. Like say 4ish. When the sun is already setting.

During most of the year I feed and then walk the dogs around 5. It gives my brain a break, and since I walk each dog separately, I get some bonding/training time with each one. It’s somewhat meditative. (Until Fiona spots the dog up the street and tries to fence fight. Then it’s loud and aggravating for everyone.)

Unfortunately, since dogs do not carry time pieces, they start nagging me for dinner about the same time as I feed the horses. Even if I can fend off the pathetic looks of four starving canines for another hour or so, by the time we start walking, it’s dark outside.

I live in an area of Los Angeles that was once more rural than urban. It’s not like that anymore, but sidewalks are still far and few between. This is not good, because even with speed bumps in the road, people drive really fast. I guess they are in a rush to get home before their bedtime.

Additionally, a long time ago, Murray the Dane and I were hit by a car while we crossed the street (in a SCHOOL ZONE, no less). So I’m a little gun shy about walking at night, even though I deck out the dogs in reflectors and carry a flashlight. If someone could smack into a giant black and white dog and me in broad daylight, it could easily happen again at night.

Oh, and my big brave Danes are generally afraid to walk at night. There are scary things out there in the dark. Like coyotes, hawks and squirrels. Or blow-up Santas.

I can’t help it, but once it’s dark outside, it feels like the day is over. Literally, I’m ready to eat dinner and go to bed. Except that it’s 8:30 pm.

The dogs don’t help. Instead they (I mean Dalai and Jasper)often go into the bedroom, and hop on the bed and start whining for me to join them.

I know I’m being difficult but I don’t want to go to bed at 8:30. Or even 9:30. But I’m embarrassed to tell you have many times I’ve given into to them, just to shut them up.

I gave in and Googled it. Apparently this period of the year is called Standard Time. Which makes no sense, because under what lunatic standard does a day end at 4:30?

Changing the clocks was first suggested by Benjamin Franklin to give everyone more time to work in the summer. So we can thank him for that. Moving the time back was apparently the work of someone who owned a candle factory. Why else would they want us in the dark endlessly?

Sigh. I have plenty of time to ponder this

Man Makes Plans, the Universe Laughs

My favorite saying, because it’s true, is ‘man plans and the universe laughs.’ (My second favorite is courtesy of my Papa Harry, “Everyone in the world is crazy except you and me, and I’m not so sure about you.”) But I digress.

The first was made clear this past weekend. Most people have favorite sporting events, the World Series, the FIFA World Cup, or the Olympics. The day after the Super Bowl, the US practically comes to a standstill because so many people call in sick with hangovers.

For me, the event of the year is the Breeder’s Cup. The Breeder’s Cup has been around now for 36 years. I’ve watched and/or been to the last 20 years. It’s two days and 14 races of absolutely spectacular competition. It’s the best of the best from all over the world.

Over the last decade, six of my friends, all women who I’ve ridden with, so they pass the crazy test, have watched or gone with me. We’ve gone to Churchill Downs, where I cried when Zenyatta lost to the aptly named Blame in her second Classic, to Del Mar, and always to Santa Anita. When we couldn’t travel (Kenneland you were too damned expensive) we watched at whoever’s place had the best TV.

When it’s possible, I go watch the horses work in the mornings at least twice. I pretend it’s to watch and size up the visiting horses, but it’s more than that. It’s amazing. Disneyland for horse people.

This year I really needed some fun. Two weeks prior was my screwed up trip home, and on Monday morning as I was driving to the works at 5AM I heard about the Getty Fire. Wednesday, I got up to go, turned on the television and there was helicopter filming a fire surrounding the stable where I board Mickey. Okay, they were zooming in on the Reagan Library. That matters to me not at all, but at the base of the Library’s hill is my heart and soul – Lavender Creek Ranch, and it was literally surrounded by fire. Circled.

I ended up hitching up my trailer and helped evacuate some of the 1000 horses nearby. (My barn didn’t need my help. They make the Army look unorganized.) I’ve been in a lot of active fires, but this was among the worst. Eventually all of the horses, even those that were let loose to flee from active fire, were saved. A few goats and pigs weren’t.

When the Ventura County Sherriff’s’ Department sent us all home, I collapsed and called my mom. Her ancient little dog, Monty, who lives with me often, had gone missing the night before. As we were talking they found his body.

Good times. Not.

So I really needed some fun. Luckily, it was Breeder’s Cup 2019.

I had the weekend planned down to the moment. Friday, is the shorter program, with a handful of decent stakes on the undercard, and home to the Future Stars races: the Juveniles. It was a glorious day at the track, and I even won a little (very little) money.

Everything was set for the next day. The whole card was fantastic, but the race I was looking forward to the most was The Mile. It was set for the 6^th. One of my favorite horses, Omaha Beach, was going out as the odds-on favorite.

On Day Two, because racing starts earlier and lasts later, I decided to bring Jasper to Kathy’s homes to play with her dog, Damali, while we were gone. The dogs have known each other all lives and play together often. I hadn’t left Jasper there in almost a year, but he’d visited there just two weeks ago when we were evacuated. (See my disastrous trip to New England.)

The yard where we left them has a ten-foot wall, and we opened the guest house so they could get away from the sun. There were three or four buckets of water, since Jasper likes to stand in it, and Dalmali follows his lead. It was kind of a spa day for dogs. Or so we thought.

The dogs were the farthest things from my mind as we made our way to the Santa Anita betting windows for the first race at 11. I placed my bets and noticed that Kathy was on the phone, and Lise was quietly calling my name.

“Ah, Sharon,” she said in her best super-calm therapist’s voice. “Kathy’s neighbor just called. Jasper is loose and is running around the neighborhood. They can’t catch him.”

It took me a moment to process, but then we running through the parking lot. As we ran to the car (Kathy, poor thing was dressed for the day in heels and a big beautiful hat. I was in combat boots and a dress).

I heard her say to her phone. “His name is Jasper. He’s’ big but very friendly. Don’t chase him.”

It’s important to note that her street is just off a major cross street – Laurel Canyon Blvd. And Jasper had gone around the block, with several people in tow at least once.

I am very good in crisis. It’s later I fall apart. Instead of blacking out at the thought that Jasper Johns was running into traffic trailing a bunch of well-meaning people, I stepped on the gas. Hard.

We made it back to Kathy’s place in Studio City in less than 20 minutes. It’s usually about 35 minutes and change from Arcadia.

During that time I was calm. Kathy was not, and for some reason kept apologizing. It most obviously was not her fault. We were trying to figure out how he got out. The only thing I could imagine was that he climbed on top of a garbage can and jumped over the gate. It kind of seemed plausible.

Nope.

As we flew down the exit ramp to her house Kathy spoke to her neighbor again. Apparently Jasper ran back to her house, with the Good Samaritans following. Then he slithered under the gate. Like a snake.

The space between the gate and the driveway is less than five inches. Jasper is a full-grown, 135+ pound Great Dane. Okay then.

I started to laugh manically as we shoved them in the guesthouse. Jasper was shaking a bit, but otherwise thrilled we’d come back. We literally locked the door to the guesthouse with the dogs inside, and booked it back to the track to try and see the 6^th.

I predicted that we’d be pulling into the parking lot as the 6^th went off. It was one of the few things I got right that day. But Kathy got the race on her phone, and just as I parked, we watched , Omaha Beach fail to rally and lose.

The whole trip took about an hour. We missed three races. I had a couple of bourbons, maybe more. It helped.

Planning is overrated.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

My Mom’s 89^th birthday was October 11. She was going to be 89 and at that age, the future is uncertain. So for a short moment I turned in my broom and black pointy hat and tried to be a good daughter.

I decided to give her the gift of… me!

I made arrangements to take a red-eye flight Thursday from Los Angeles to New England so I could be at her house to surprise her when she woke up in the morning. To make it even more special, I organized my entire immediate family, which is a little like herding cats, to meet at a restaurant for lunch with her the following day. Since I was only going to be there until Monday morning, I also made arrangements to take her to see her brother, also no spring chicken.

My temporary halo was glowing.

I had, however, forgotten that no good deed goes unpunished.

For a week prior to my trip, the local news media was shrieking that we were going to have dangerously bad Santa Ana winds and high fire danger. Now, I know it has been dry (it last rained in May) and I completely despise Santa Anas; if you’ve ever read Raymond Chandler, you’ll understand.

Our local meteorologists go wild with excitement whenever we have anything remotely resembling weather. If there is a smidgen of rain, they dub it “Storm Watch 2019!” and call it breaking news, and feature live video of reporters holding umbrellas.

So I dismissed the breathless warnings.

On Thursday morning the winds got serious. At the stable all of the jumps blew down, and when I drove out there, the truck was getting heaved around the road by gusting wind. Apparently we were having what they like to call a ‘major wind event.’

Therefore, I did take a few precautions. Fire terrifies me, and with all of my animals, I am usually super-prepared. I didn’t go as far as packing my truck and putting together emergency stashes (now and forever dubbed ‘apocalypse bags’) for me and the animals with all of their meds etc.

I do this for the ANIMALS. As for me, I don’t even pack aspirin, never mind clothing. If I’m out of my house for a while, I will be wearing the same grubby sweatshirt and jeans for weeks. But at least the animals will be okay.

So I made arrangements with Mark, the amazing ranch manager where I keep Mickey (who also happens to my trainer’s husband) to pick up and house the horses if something catastrophic happened while I was gone.

I also dug out a small transport cage for my canaries and left the keys to my SUV with instructions for my house sitter that I’d arrange for a place to go, if needed. Since I had been so cautious, and there was no fire anywhere near me, I was pretty confident that everything was going to be fine.

You know, when you’re ready, nothing happens. Usually.

When I boarded my red eye to Hartford at 9:30 everything was good. By the time I landed bleary-eyed at 5:20 EST, (2:30 PT) all hell had broken out.

At the gate, I blithely turned on my phone and it blew up with messages from neighbors and friends about a fire that had started in nearby Sylmar, jumped the 5 freeway (which just doesn’t happen that often) and was burning out of control in Porter Ranch, which is literally two miles away.

Fire can travel faster than you can imagine, particularly in 70 mile-per-hour winds. Embers fly and ignite easily in super-dry conditions, and fire creates its own weather. It’s literally a toxic stew.

In a panic, I texted my house sitter, since I knew she’d be awake and concerned. She said it was smokey, but not bad yet.

By the time I picked up my rental car, but before I lost cell service in Mom’s rural part of the world, Mark called me and asked me what to do. We agreed to sit tight for a bit. Five minutes he called back to say that the 118 freeway, and the main way from my house to the ranch was about to close. But he had someone who could pick up my horses now if I wanted. I wanted.

At 5:30 PT a trailer arrived in my street and a team of lovely volunteers picked up by now freaking horses and drove them to the peace and tranquility of Lavender Creek Ranch. It’s only about 15 miles away, but far from the fires.

(My neighbors waited a few hours and my little street apparently turned into a horse van convention. There were trailers lining the street, with panicked horses refusing to load clogging everything.)

Lucy, the old pro, settled in right away, but Talen, who I’m sure recognized the ranch as a show barn, was afraid he was going back to work, and worried a bit. Okay a lot. He screamed constantly. Still they were safe.

Meanwhile, back on the East Coast, I drove to the farm and woke Mom up. She was surprised and delighted to see me. Mission accomplished.

It was a stunning New England fall day. The trees were colorful the sky was blue and the temperature crisp. I didn’t notice, because my nose was jammed in my phone checking texts and updates from the LAFD. The fire was so fast and furious that the fire department and LA City websites crashed. Soon the only updates I could get were on the notoriously rumor-free Facebook and Nextdoor sites.

That was just as much fun as it sounds.

I’d been in Mill River for about four hours when simultaneously the phone rang and I got a LAFD text alert: my neighborhood was being evacuated.

Since the horses were gone, my long-suffering house sitter Karen, only had to catch the canaries (not too hard) the cat (that alone took 45 minutes) and stuff the four dogs and some food into my SUV. That’s all.

I texted her the address of my friend Kathy’s place (she had generously offered up her guesthouse) and called a few friends to meet her there with food and alcohol.

Then I kissed Mom who was urging me to leave, and headed back to the airport and got on the next flight to LA. I don’t pay Karen enough to evacuate, much less stay with the monsters in someone else’s space.

As I changed planes in Chicago, I got a text that the evacuation had been lifted.

Karen reloaded the clown car and brought everyone home. Sadly, there is no photographic evidence of this.

I landed at LAX at 1am on Saturday morning. As I drove north on the 405, the smoke filled the car around Sunset. By Mulholland, you could see the strips of flame ripping up the Sylmar hills. The 118 reeked and northbound exits were closed.

Ash was falling like snow as I pulled into my driveway. The dogs were super glad to see me, but they’d obviously enjoyed their adventure. Tilly the cat, not so much. The birds didn’t care.

So for all of my good intentions, planning and 28 hours of travel, and a shitload of money, I spent six hours with my Mom on her 89^th birthday.

No good deed goes unpunished. Ever.

I Need A (Handy) Man

I need a man in my life.

Not that kind of man, though that might be nice. What I need is someone to do some of the heavy lifting at Seven Hills Farm West.

Now you might think that a ‘gentleman friend’ might be useful. You would be wrong.

The last time I was in a serious relationship and needed a little help changing a screen. Seriously, just a screen. My ‘man’ didn’t miss a beat, “You need to hire a man for that.” Coupled with the fact that he was jealous of my dog, he was gone not long after.

This is what I really need: a full-time, mind-reading, incredibly useful handyman. Preferably one who comes with his own tools. Who would go away before he annoyed me. And looks like Idris Elba.

That shouldn’t be hard to find, right?

Obviously there is no one in the world like this, so like a lonely child who creates a non-existent friend, I invented my handyman. (It could be a woman, but since this is my fantasy, I want eye-candy.) I call this person my invisible, but hot, mindreading handy man – IMRHM.

I used to think of myself as pretty self-sufficient. I am. Most of the time. But sometimes, you need a little help.

I realized this the other day when I was on the top of a six foot ladder trying to replace a fan in the horse stall. This sounds like a dumb idea, and it is, but the old fan was broken and it was going top 100 degrees that day. My horses (and everyone else) were melting.

So there I was, the only human around, standing on top of an old, wobbly ladder literally hanging on to the roof beams while tying the fan up with one hand. My loud cursing attracted my two aging equine retirees.

They gathered around the ladder to observe and critique my work, and poke the ladder. Had I fallen, perhaps they would have raced underneath me to have soften the fall. Or they would have stomped on me in fright and disgust. Probably the latter.

I didn’t fall, so there is that.

But while on the ladder, I glanced out at their paddock from above. The pipe fence is listing dangerously. This is their fault. They lean on it while trying to nab an elusive sprig of grass. The hot wire that is supposed to prevent that from happening (and in general does) is loose so they can work around it. I can’t fix it by myself without getting regular shocks. So I haven’t.

This is a perfect job for my IMRHM.

One morning I’d stumble out at 6am in my pajamas to out to feed the beasts and I’d notice POOF! The fence line is straight and secure, with the wire tight and clicking. He’d fixed it overnight. Without me even asking!

Sigh.

The horses themselves are in pretty good shape. At 20+ Lucy has Cushing disease, which has impacted her once trim figure, but she is still glossy and alert. Talen also looks fantastic, as long as he keeps to a walk. Watching him trot is painful. Still, they are happy.

I’d be happier is when I pat them, huge puffs of dirt didn’t rise off them and choke me. I wash their faces every night when I remove their fly masks. But in my dream, IMHM would chase the almost-feral Talen down and bathe and groom him completely. I’d never have to wash Lucy’s butt again, because IMHM would have already done it.

Working with the horses is actually fun, so maybe I’d keep doing that. But IMRHM would definitely have to handle the rest of the property.

The back yard that is not paddock is relatively small and mostly covered with wood chips; a lawn would cost a fortune to water, and the hay/shavings trucks would destroy it. Still, the chips are a little thin, and aren’t keeping the dust down the way they should.

I need to contact someone to bring in another truckload and spread them before winter rains. That sounds like fun during the summer right? When it’s 103 degrees in the shade?

My handy man wouldn’t care. The chips would be delivered and perfectly spread. The bonus is that whole yard would smell like pine trees. Ahhhh.

In the front, the driveway would magically be replaced. Instead of a deathtrap mix of cracked, uneven and missing concrete and blacktop, there would be even, flat DG. The tiny grass area would have more grass than dirt. The track around the yard created by three Great Danes, a Brittany and their various playdates would be erased.

Naturally, this would all be free. That’s the whole point of the IMRHM.

While writing this, I heard a crash. I walked out of my office next the paddock. Lucy was banging on the fence, because apparently it was a few minutes past her dinner hour.

Reality infringes again.

The fence leans, grass grows only where it’s not supposed to and someday I will fall and break a hip on the driveway. Still, I’m pretty lucky to live here.

However, if you find a living breathing candidate for the position of IMHM, please send him my way.

Small But Mighty

In a family of wildebeests with huge personalities, the smallest one occasionally gets overlooked. Recently that’s been Poppy, the Brittany’s story.

It didn’t used to be like that. She was small, but in charge.

Poppy was the latest of a string of seven rescue Brittanys. I was down to an elderly boy Brit and a two-year-old Great Dane. It was a change from the days I had four Brits. It was quieter, not better.

I did something I’d never done before: I went on the American Brittany Rescue page and started looking for dogs.

All of my Brits had sort of shown up. Occasionally with a push from the folks ABR. The call usually went, “I know you don’t really have room, but we have a very elderly, desperate dog that needs a home. She/he is perfect.” I always said yes, and they were always perfect. (I’m talking about you Rocky and Annie.)

This time I had a list of requirements. I wanted someone who could play with Murray, the rambunctious, big Great Dane pup. The new dog needed to tough and feisty. I saw a listing for a young, wild-eyed girl with a long fluffy tail (!) in New Mexico.

Soon I was cashing in my frequent flyer miles for a round trip to Albuquerque.

I got there in the morning and was picked up by the dog’s excellent foster mom. After a lunch that was mostly an interrogation to make sure I was good enough for Poppy, we went to a pet store and I bought a crate. Then we picked up the Poppy (then known as Brighty, Yuck) and headed to the airport to catch a flight home. I was in New Mexico for three hours.

A quick flight later, the newly christened Poppy and I were inside an LAX parking structure. The baggage people, apparently blind or oblivious to the FIVE signs reading LIVE DOG THIS SIDE UP had flipped her crate. Poppy was tangled in her blanket. As I opened the crate to unravel her, she leaped out and took off.

Welcome to Los Angeles.

While I was dodging cars and chasing my new dog around the lot, all the horror stories about foster dogs getting lost forever were looping in my head. Did they ever find that show dog from Westminster that got loose at JFK?

Thankfully, true Brittany that she is, Poppy was fascinated by the crazy person yelling after her waving snacks, and allowed me to catch her.

She and Murray took to each other immediately. She loved that she could hide under him; he loved her boundless energy. When he was tired, he just put a giant paw on her head to hold her still. Mostly though, they zoomed around the yard in an endless game of tag.

Most Brittany’s don’t have tails. They are either born without them like Quatro, or have had them cropped as infants, like all my other Brits. Poppy is an exception, and her tail a luxurious flag. One time I looked out my office window to see her digging a giant hole. The only thing visible was her wildly wagging tail. Of course I didn’t have a camera or phone.

I once had a really angry man dressed in camo scream at me because he was offended that I told him she was a Brittany. Apparently he was a hunter and used to own several hunting Brits.

“Brittanys do NOT have tails!” he hollered. I explained that she was and did, but he was having none of it. Okay then. Poppy and I finally just walked away before things got out of hand. She wasn’t in New Mexico anymore.

I began taking her to agility class with me and Murray. My awesome trainer, Terry Simons, was only slightly less annoyed about taking on a headstrong Brittany pup with ADD than training my lumbering Great Dane, but he’s a good friend and didn’t give me too hard a time. Terry’s always up for a challenge. Poppy certainly was/is challenging.

Initially Poppy didn’t understand the game. At our first show-and-go, she popped out of the ring and ran into the middle of a soccer game the next field over. As I was panicking that I’d lost her forever, she zoomed toward me, ball, in her mouth and followed by a pack of angry players.

So sorry guys! Who do I pay to replace that ball?

Not long after that, agility clicked in Poppy’s mind. She suddenly understood that if she did the dumb things I asked, snacks were distributed. Soon she was zipping through the weave poles, playing up and down the dog walk, and generally, putting me to shame as I trailed behind her, trying to keep up.

Poppy did really well in her first shows, and nearly got her titles. But Murray (and I) hated the heat, so we only competed in the winter. When I show my horses. So we never finished. But we both loved it.

Poppy is staring down her 13^th birthday. She is definitely slowing down. Instead of literally climbing trees to nab the squirrels in the front yard, she’s now content to acknowledge them, but can’t be bothered to chase them. She does still bark at the horses to show them who is boss. They don’t exactly run away, but they do slowly meander in a different direction.

Two weeks ago she developed what I thought was a burst blood vessel in her left eye. I took her to the vet, and he diagnosed a blood clot and the possible early onset of glaucoma.

Days later we saw an eye specialist. Poppy was already blind in that eye –within seven days – and she was in agony. The phrase, “the worst migraine you can imagine,” was thrown out. We tried additional treatment.

For a week Pop was extremely patient about getting 20 different drops in her eyes and four different painkilling pills. It didn’t help.

She went to the vet to have the eye removed, which will solve the pain issue permanently. She looked just like she had gone a few rounds with a heavyweight boxer and took all the blows in her face. But she is recovering remarkably well, and is already barking at the horses.

My biggest concern right now is keep a cone on her head so she can’t screw with her incision. In the past when she has had to wear one, she has managed to get it off immediately. Usually before we leave the Vet parking lot.

But I saw this weird ball cap/visor thingie on a dog at the eye doctor’s office. It might work. So I ordered it. I’m hopeful.

When she’s healed, I’m going on Etsy to buy a bunch of blingy eye patches because my little Poppy girl will rock the hell out of them. I see her as Wonder Dog.

**Poppy is definitely a Wonder Woman Kind of Dog**

Job Seeking While Old(er)

I’ve been trying to find work, for a while now. I don’t think it’s easy for anyone to get a job, but when you’re considered a senior citizen, at least by AARP standards, it’s almost impossible.

It is legal to ask a job applicants age, however it’s illegal to discriminate against because of it. It’s a Catch-22. (Oh, crap you have to be old to even get that reference.)

This reminds me a lot of job seeking while female in the 80s. It’s bad, immoral and stupid for companies to use age or gender against job seekers, but good luck proving it? Especially since there are no longer any real people involved.

I never thought I’d miss actual human resources departments staffed by humans and living, breathing head hunters. But I do.

Job seekers are now sorted through preset algorithms, and older people’s resumes are longer, which used to be a good thing. Now it triggers a hard pass. The virtual trash can.

Except for Uber. Every single day I get pitched to be an Uber driver multiple times. This would be a problem: my cars’ average age is 23, gas costs more than I’d earn and I get lost a lot.

Then there are bait-and-switch jobs. There are entire websites of them. These have multiple interesting posts, and one is encouraged to apply. If you pay them $15 a month, or $69 for three months. Apparently the geniuses behind these things think that in addition to an inability to get a job, unemployed people can’t add.

The algorithm gods are far from perfect. I’ve The AGs can’t tell the difference between a film editor and a word editor. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten letters from ZipRecruiter asking, no begging, me to apply to an amazing opportunity editing film for ESPN or Disney. If only.

Some are gigs I’d love, but am clearly unqualified for. West Coast Producer for NPR’s “All Things Considered,” and Associate Producer for KTLA’s “Morning News” come to mind.

I have gotten a few positive responses to letters I’ve sent out. Several websites have been all excited by my resume and writing samples. Unfortunately they all want me to write for free. That won’t work until I get free water and electricity.

Some days, particularly after getting turned down for what are probably perfect opportunities, (freelance press release writing for an animal advocacy group – not PETA, I may be broke, but I still have a soul – or creating content for an instrument company’s website, etc.), when my depression starts to set in, I’ve taken to responding to jobs that are just wrong for me.

I’ve applied for accountant jobs (I can’t balance my meager checking account), fashion copy writing (my wardrobe consists of barn clothes. Unless you are Ariat, this isn’t good), and food creatives (I set off the smoke detector yesterday heating a frozen pizza.) Shockingly, I haven’t heard back from any of these prospects.

Which leaves me trying to monetize my current skills: driving horse trailers and writing snarky blog posts.

Let me know if you hear of anything. I’m available.

All Those Candles Are Going To Melt The Cake

I had a birthday last week. It did not spark joy.

I know, I should be grateful that I’m still on the correct side of the dirt, and reasonably healthy and very, very lucky. Blah, blah, blah.

Seriously, I am grateful. But…

I’ve always had a fraught relationship with my birthday.

When I was a kid it was fun, balloons, cake and stuff. Except for that one year when I was about ten, and my parents totally forgot it. I kept thinking they were planning a big surprise party or something. Nope. Just slipped their mind until my grandmother called. Oops.

I’ve never felt I was the right age. When I was young, I was too young. I couldn’t drive, drink or go to clubs.

Then boom!

I was old, or at least it felt that way. I was in college but by then Cameron Crowe had been writing for Rolling Stone since he was a tween. I was already behind.

I finally did write for Rolling Stone, and a bunch of other great (yay me!) publications. It was fun when I was actually working, and miserable when I was trying to get work. Think of it as ALWAYS selling yourself. Yup, that much fun.

They say that breaking into acting is hard on ones ego. Try being a writer. That’s real rejection.

Anyway, writing was and is the best gig I’ve ever had. But in an effort to actually earn a living, I did PR for years. It was okay, but lying er, embellishing the truth, isn’t my best attribute. Telling the truth isn’t always positive PR.

I have actually had this conversation: “This artist isn’t exactly my taste, but what the hell do I know? Our A&R people love it. Please give it a listen. Okay?????”

Which I guess is better than saying: “This album blows chunks, but the singer is also blowing the A&R guy. So give it a listen.”

Which sometimes works, unless said A&R person overhears. Oops again.

I digress. When I went back to writing I contacted the places I used to write for, or at least the ones that were still in existence. Not a lot were.

My favorite, or at least most memorable call was to Rolling Stone. My editor, a man older than me, told me point blank that I was too old to write about music.

I was so stunned I forgot to ask him why it was that women aged faster than men.

It’s been a lot like that.

I went to UCLA for a year to learn screenwriting, because it seemed like something I could do. It is. I’ve written a bunch of scripts, some of which might actually be commercial.

Of course I forgot that screenwriters age even faster than pop music writers do. (Riley Weston anybody?)

I applied a couple of times for an apprenticeship at a well-known production company that claimed it was created the specifically to help solve the diversity program in the business. Since old is an under-represented segment of the writing community I figured it was worth a shot.

But I absolutely knew I wouldn’t get another look (and neither would a lot of applicants) when, in addition to a lengthy application that included two scripts, they required a one minute video from everyone explaining why they should get accepted.

I fully accept that my scripts might have been terrible. Yet. Not one of the 80 finalists was over 25. Not. One. Nor were there many women of color.

Just saying.

Since then I’ve done all of the online job applications. I am getting contacted by employers.

As of today I’ve been recruited by Uber. Lyft and about a zillion phony universities purporting to help me reach my career goals by charging me a fortune for a useless degree.

Nope. For one thing, gas is $4 a gallon and I don’t even like taking Uber. And I’m already overeducated and under earning.

I’m still looking for work, but forgive me if I don’t celebrate my birthday with wild excitement.

60 is only the new 30 if you’re selling Botox or wrinkle cream. Wait a minute. Maybe I can be the ‘before’ pictures!