Polopony: the Horse that made me a Horsegirl.

Topps, in a very unattractive, but sensible winter trace clip.

For better or worse, I am a horse girl for life.

It’s all Topps fault. He was a 15.1 bay running Quarter who was originally supposed to be a very fancy polo pony for high goal polo. (For someone else, obviously. I develop terrible hand-eye coordination every time someone hands me a polo mallet.)

******

My brother and I were kids when were lucky enough to start riding. The drive to Windy Hill Farms was the highlight of my week. Everything was possible; we were heading to ride! My stomach would flutter as we ran into the main aisle to see which of the patient school horses we had been assigned to get ready and ride.

I hoped it be Tiny or Tim, the two almost identical chestnut ponies with opposite personalities. I loved them both. I usually got one of them; they were small and so was I.

It was heaven.

Eventually we half-leased horses during the winter. Tim was mine for three months!

Obviously, by then our fate was sealed. Spoiler alert: my brother and I both still have too many horses.

When we discussed actually owning a horse, my father sat me down and told me repeatedly that a horse was not a pet. It was a horse. NOT A PET. I nodded my head like I believed him.

Hell, I’d have agreed with almost anything as long as I could have a horse of my own.

I was 12 when Topps came into my life. For some reason that was his barn name, but his ‘real’ name was Polopony (pronounced, Pa-la-pony like from the “Honeymooners” show. Google it.).

Shortly after Topps joined the family. I was about 12 and had a lot of hair.

We bought Topps from the Giant Valley Farm, a polo barn that also took in a few boarders. I kept him there and it quickly became my second home.

Topps in front of the cow barn for some reason.

The first thing I learned when I went out to try him, was that he had arrived there a few years earlier, shipped from out west loose (!!!!) on a train car with a dozen or so other future polo ponies. He had cost by the polo folks $5000, an astronomical sum in the late ‘60s. He was supposed to be great.

That plan went south during his training when someone, (first referred to as ‘a moron,’ which as we aged became ‘that stupid bastard’) hit a beer can with a polo mallet on the way to the stick and ball field.

The noise either scared Topps or just pissed him off. Both are possible, but the end result was that he wouldn’t tolerate anyone carrying a polo mallet, stick or whip on him. Ever.

Thus ended his polo career.

Typical of most polo ponies, Topps had excellent ground manners. That was ideal for a kid, especially a vertically challenged one like me. I had to fling my saddle up onto his back and straighten it and the saddle pad out after it (hopefully) landed on his back. He would stand like a statue with an exasperated look on his face while I maneuvered his tack.

We didn’t have mounting blocks, so it was also a struggle for me to get into the saddle. Most of the time Topps would stand quietly while I hopped around hoping to get onboard, but occasionally he’d bite my rear to speed the process along. I have to admit, it worked.

For all of that, Topps was a completely inappropriate riding horse for a beginner, which, no matter how many lessons I had taken on school horses, was what I was. He was sensitive, had a soft mouth and was super comfortable. But he was also almost as green as me.

He learned to jump by someone foxhunting him. That meant he thought jumping was his cue to take control and run like hell to every jump. Not ideal for a novice.

After years of lessons, we both figured out a better way to ride. When I had actually learned what to do, he was a hoot to hunt.

We had to trailer to lessons and I needed so much help. My trainers still have that look of exasperation.

He also had strong opinions. Really strong.

We should have figured that out when we heard his origin story.

Topps would have been a spectacular polo pony. He was fast, agile and could stop and turn on a dime. But when the polo mallet connected with a can, his fate changed. A life in polo was not going to happen, and that was that.

The polo folk never completely gave up on him. Every so often someone would pass hand me a mallet just to see what would happen.

What happened – every time – was that Topps would bolt and then spin and rear until I dropped the mallet or fell off, whichever came first.

Topps might have been my dream horse, but he was their White Whale. The one that got away.

Getting what he wanted was Topps’ specialty. The horses at Giant Valley were turned out all day in the winter, and all night in the summer. When I rode after school I’d have to go into the 10 acre field he shared with five or six other horses to catch him.

It sounds simple. It was not.

He would leisurely walk away from me and maneuver himself behind the one horse that would kick. After a half an hour or so he’d usually let me catch him. The grain someone finally told me to bring, helped.

But more than once he didn’t feel like being ridden and would sashay into the pond and swim out to the little island. Where he would just look at me.

I swear he was laughing as I plopped to the ground and cried in frustration.

The smart thing to do would have been to sell him and get something more beginner friendly. However, I loved him beyond reason, and I’m very stubborn. (I know, hard to believe). I also complicated things by getting very sick.

My parents simply didn’t have the bandwidth to keep me alive and get rid of the one thing that kept me going. The first place I’d go after the hospital, was to see Topps. Sometimes before we even went home.

Eventually I did learn to ride him. It was never a perfect partnership, but we were okay and I adored him.

One year I was lucky enough to take him to a fancy riding camp. Two lessons a day with good instructors, horsemanship classes and camp shows every weekend. I was in heaven.

Topps hated it.

He was used to spending 12 hours a day in turn-out. At camp, he was stuck in a stall except when I was riding or the few hours a day he was in a turn-out.

Not surprisingly, he objected and regularly broke out of his stall. Literally. If I walked him by a horse van with a ramp down, he would load himself. He wanted to go home.

Topps and I showing. I should have been mortified by those braids, but I was too ignorant to know better. Thank goodness.

We were asked to leave after only a few weeks. Not surprising.

A few years later we went to Pony Club camp. Topps approved of this. When we weren’t riding, he was turned out with the other campers’ horses in the huge cross country field.

Topps and me at Pony Club camp. He was way readier to do the cross-country than I was.

All of the horses’ grain and hay was stored in a barn in the field. One night Topps figured out how to get into the barn. In the morning we discovered him locked inside, with every grain bag ripped open, and scattered around.

He was very pleased with himself. The Pony Club people running the camp were not.

My current horses would all have died from colic or had some expensive veterinary problem. Topps was fine, if a little fatter.

I was blessed with the luck of the ignorant in my first years as a horse owner. Days into our partnership Topps foundered. Laminitis is a hoof disease that can be disastrous and is often fatal. At the time, the only treatments were anti-inflammatories and keeping the feet cold.

(Laminitis what eventually killed the Champion racehorse Charismatic. Thanks to him and his owners, there are now treatments that can help.)

Topps spent weeks with each front foot in a separate bucket filled with ice water. I left him loose while I sat nearby cleaning tack. Usually he fell asleep. When he could walk a little bit, we hobbled to a nearby stream and he stood patiently in it for hours.

He got better. I doubt this same result would occur today. Obviously at the time I had the luck of the ignorant.

That was proved the first week I owned him when he somehow got tangled in wire and nearly de-gloved both back legs. The polo people suggested cleaning his legs, covering them with Furicin and ridind. So I did.

He healed with barely a scar. My current horses would be have to be retired.

Topps even went to college with me, and my sister-in-law, (then roommate), rode him.

He was in his mid-20s when a pasture mate took him down. An overnight spat and kick landed, and Topps leg was fractured.

The polo guys wouldn’t let me be there when he was put down, they said it would too traumatic. They were right. They also gave Topps the honor of being buried on the property.

When I went out that night, the barn owner, who was by then in his 80s, greeted me with tears in his eyes and told me, “That damn Topps. He cost me $5000. He was the best damn horse.”

He was. And he made me a horse girl.

Featured

My Reality Show Horse Life

I have spent a lot of my life being famous adjacent. Sometimes more adjacent than others.

I’ve worked with a bunch of well-known people. REALLY legendary folks. You know the kind I’m talking about. The people you mention – I try not to- and others go, “OMG! What are they like?”

(Note: they may or may not remember me. Sometimes even while I was standing next to them. I spent a week doing radio/tv and other media with David Crosby who never bothered to remember my name. He called me “publicity girl.”)

These people have done stuff. Created timeless music. Written insanely good songs, books and directed classic movies and television shows.

Those kinds of people.

I have zero experience with reality tv stars. I’ve never watched a full episode of any of those shows, though I admit I’ve seen trailers of “F*Boy Island.”

They make me throw up a little in my mouth.

Basically I try to live by the rule that if I want to waste time with useless creatures, I play with my dogs and horses.

Strike that; the horses and dogs aren’t useless. They make me laugh and bring joy into the world.

But sometimes being an adult means you have to be tolerant, and do cringey things to ensure that everyone eats.

I HATE adulting. Really, really hate it.

About 16 months I had a come to Jesus moment and had to deal with my reality. That is, I was (and still am) barely working. Being a woman of a certain age, with no discernable skill set, I’m not exactly in demand by anyone for anything.

Though I now walk dogs for money, this is and wasn’t nearly enough to pay for anything necessary.

Like food.

But mostly hay and kibble.

Most pressing was what to do with Layla. She was three, and it was no longer sustainable for her to sit around in a field looking pretty. She needed to learn her job and then something that I’d figure out.

A smart person would have sold her immediately, and that would be the end of it. The fact that I have four horses should prove I’m not smart. Or practical.

Layla is Lucy’s biological daughter, but my late Faith, her half-sister, was her surrogate mother.

Faith and me the morning Layla was born.

The idea of losing Layla, and my last connection Faith, was unbearable. It still is.

Enter a celebrity. We will call her Taylor Swift. (It’s not Taylor Swift.)

Janis rides a little. (She is a model and spends her time getting paid huge sums to wear fancy clothing in exotic locations and shill dull products on commercial sets.)

Her former riding teacher convinced her that breeding her older, saintly, mare would be fun and Instagram worthy. Taylor planned to keep the mare and hopefully photographic foal at my friend A’s farm, where Layla lives.

But horses are not reality shows, and even with the best veterinary care and expensive stallion sperm, Taylor’s mare could not stay pregnant. The search was on to find a young, healthy mare to act as a surrogate so Taylor could fulfil her momentary dream of breeding her own foal.

I got a call from A, who was well aware of both Taylor and my situations.

“Have you thought about using Layla as a surrogate? Taylor needs one. She would pay a small fee, and pick up all of Layla’s expenses until the foal is weaned.” Then A added the kicker, “It will save you a lot of money.”

I didn’t have much time to think it over, but I consulted with my horse trainer and my conscience -putting my filly at risk for someone else’s foal was hard to justify – but ultimately, I agreed.

The fee was enough to send Layla to a trainer for three months while she was newly pregnant, and then give her a full year to mature before she went to full-time work.

It also took her off my bill for a year. A had me at “It will save you a lot of money.”

Technically horse surrogacy is the same as for human surrogacy. After hormones sync up the donor mare and the surrogate, a fertilized egg is removed from the donor and implanted in the surrogate. Then everyone holds their breath until the 45 day mark, when an ultrasound shows if the embryo is still viable.

The world learned about the results days after I did when Taylor teased it on the family reality show. (Doesn’t every family have one?)

“There’s an embryo!” Taylor crowed in clips that went viral on the internet and The Post’s Page Six. Of course when it came out that what she was expecting, was a foal, not a new Swift, there was an onslaught of memes and disappointed fans. Someone called Layla an equine version of a handmaid.

I had rented my horse out to a reality show. I hang my head in shame.

My phone started pinging immediately with text notifications to watch “Access Hollywood.” The last time that happened to me, Billy Bush was blabbing with Trump before he grabbed a friend on camera.

A great moment for all of us. This time was slightly less traumatizing, at least for me.

Meanwhile, Layla was living her best life. She was residing at the farm where she was raised, sharing a field with four other pregnant mares. I visited four or five times a week.

My only contact with Taylor was having to harass her people to pay me. I don’t blame her; like most really rich folk, she has money managers who pay her bills I wasn’t high on the list. But there were a few months that it looked like I would own the foal.

If only.

Eventually it was straightened out and I didn’t have any interaction with Jendall or her people for the next 11 months.

You read that right. The gestation period for horses is 11 months.

Layla’s due date was late April. The great thing about artificial insemination is that you know exactly when the foal is due. I cleared my schedule for four weeks around the day, since babies still come when they want. Layla was born four weeks late, hence her registered name, Fashionably Late.

I started to worry about month 10. Layla was huge. Unlike Lucy, she didn’t moan every time she moved, but I was a wreck. In the weeks before Layla was due, three very high profile and valuable racehorse broodmares died giving birth.

I was feeling better and better about this deal. Not.

Layla went to the veterinary clinic a week before she was due, and I visited her every day with carrots.

There were a few glitches at first. Mostly paperwork, but important paperwork. Like if there was a problem and a choice had to be made, it had to be clear that Layla would be saved, not the foal.

I also needed to make sure that when Layla went into labor, I would be called immediately. No matter what time it was.

Horses are prey animals, and tend to give birth at night. Unlike the Swifts, they don’t like an audience. Wild horses can literally stop labor in emergencies and wait until it is safe to deliver.

On April 22 at midnight I got a call from that Layla was in labor. I arrived at the clinic 20 minutes later. She had just given birth to a colt.

He was still wet when I walked into the same stall where four years and three weeks earlier, Layla was born. Layla was relieved to see me and nearly stepped on him to get to me.

That would have been bad.

So I sat in a corner to allow them space. Some mares are viciously protective of their babies and will kick and bite anything that comes between them. Layla has known me since she was mere minutes old; she desperately wanted me to comfort her while she waited for the wet lump to do something.

Anything.

We all waited.

Both my foals were girls, and were on their feet, if shakily within an hour. After the first hour, the colt was still struggling to straighten out his legs while lying down.

Cooper didn’t know how to use his legs for the longest time.

I asked the vet tech who was waiting with me if I should be concerned.

“He’s a boy,” she said, as if that explained it all.
“Colts are slower?” I asked. She burst out laughing. “Oh, yeah!”

She was right.

I spent the next few hours taking tons of adorable video, for Taylor since she was out of town attending the Met Gala. (That’s not a sentence I thought I’d ever write about anyone.)

Her trainer didn’t want me to have Taylor’s number (Really? Okay then.) and acted as an intermediary. Or translator. Or something. So I sent about six of the videos to the trainer and she forwarded some to Taylor.

A few turned up on Taylot’s Insta a few days later.

Almost two hours later, we were all losing patience with the colt. He was barely trying to get up. When Layla went over to him to give him a gentle nudge, he bit her. The tech tried to pick him up, but he kept crossing his front legs seconds after she uncrossed them.

Just as I started to think he was a dummy foal he sort of figured it out. (It’s a real thing. Dummy foals cannot stand up, stay up or figure out to eat on their own. They can and often do, die.) He uncrossed his legs and wobbled his way upright before falling over. This time he kept trying, eventually started hopping around like a bunny.

It took another hour or so before the colt figured out how to eat. At first he would grab Layla’s elbow, which obviously was pointless and just pissed her off. Then, when he did discover where the milk bar was, Layla was super sensitive and kept squealing when he tried to drink.

Around 3 am they both got the hang of it and he had a real drink and I finally took a breath.

I thought the hard part was over. I was wrong.

End Part 1

Featured

Meta, You Hardly Know Me!

I was sitting on the back porch on a recent Friday evening wearing my usual evening attire: ancient jeans, a t-shirt and worn sneakers. I was typically dirty after a day spent caring for the two horses in the backyard, the two house-horses, Jasper and Ruckus, as well as Bella the French Spaniel and Tilly the Cat.

That is to say, I was appropriately dressed for what passes for my life.

It was a lovely night in California. Temps were in the mid- 70s and there was nary a bug to be seen. If not for the ominous billowing black smoke clouds in the not-far enough- distance, it would have been completely delightful.

Black smoke less than two miles away is never good.

As I sat with an eye on the fire, my soundtrack was the reassuring and constant whine of nearby firetrucks and low flying, water-dropping helicopters. As one does in these situations, I scrolled aimlessly through Facebook and Instagram.

They are loud, weird looking and fight fires.

Obviously I was looking for distraction. But instead of news from friends, or photos of Great Danes, horses and memes, I was hit with a barrage of advertisements.

It dawned on me that considering all of the noise about the precise algorithms social media platforms use to snoop on and target consumers, mine don’t know me at all. Which, considering the time I waste on these platforms while avoiding doing anything useful, is remarkable.

Meta, (Instagram and Facebook) in particular has obviously confused me with a really old, very rich woman with exceptionally bad taste.

Definitely worth over $1000. For someone else.

There was post after post of really expensive, yet frighteningly ugly dresses. I cannot remember the last time I wore a dress. It probably was last summer when the temperatures hovered the hundreds. The outfit in question was a cheap little sun dress that I bought a dozen years ago. Possibly at Old Navy.

Meta apparently also believes I need to accessorize the hideous clothing I would never buy. So there were dozens of commercials for pricey, horrendous looking sandals with towering heels and peek-a-boo toes.

I rarely wear heels these days, mostly because they get stuck in the sand when I take care of the horses. More importantly, I have never, ever, ever worn open-toed sandals. I have a weird phobia about my toes.

If Meta paid attention, it would know this.

Moving on.

Meta also offers me a zillion links to exercise apps. I will give them a little leeway here because I do online workouts. But only the free ones. (Shout out to “Yoga with Adrienne!”)

But apparently Meta not only believes I’m ancient, but that I’m virtually incapacitated.

As I scrolled I came across pitch after pitch for chair yoga, and seated aerobics, which I didn’t even know was possible. All were set to a background of what Meta must think is soothing music. It isn’t. It made me grind my teeth.

Which may be why they also send me meditation apps. Wrong again. I hate meditating. I get anxiety from Yoga practices that include it. So fail.

Perhaps that is why I also get the medication ads. Constantly.

I don’t know how to pronounce most of these wonder drugs, nor do I understand what they are for. But apparently Meta thinks I need them.

By now Meta should be aware of the fact that unless I can buy it in bulk at Costco, I rarely purchase medication. If do get non- OTC medication, it is usually a pain reliever prescribed by a doctor after a riding accident.

Meta doesn’t care.

It should. Because if it actually targeted me – rather than an arbitrary person my age – they might sell something.

I promise I would click on equestrian geared ads. Companies like Samshield which sells luscious horse show clothing or Helite which makes air bag safety vests for equestrians are things that make me drool.

Oh baby, baby! If I get three is there a discount?

Images I’d open would include photos of stern but serious veterinarians pushing expensive, trendy and often worthless horse supplements. Dramatic photos of before and after pictures of previously drab, but now glowing horses would totally suck me in.

The drug ads I’m interested in include Adequan and GastroGuard. You know, really expensive medications that I do purchase. For my horses.

If Meta’s fancy algorithms were accurate, I’d receive repeated offers from dog and horse insurance companies. There would be seductive ads showing brand new pickups pulling gorgeous shiny horse trailers.

Sigh.

Since I had time, I tried deleting the ads. Meta gave me a bunch of choices to click on telling them why I was doing so, but none included the option of, “this is a butt-ugly product” or “there is nothing about this that relates to me.”

Moreover, the more ads I deleted, the more they sent me similar ones.

After an hour or so down this rabbit hole, I was getting really annoyed. I looked up. The fire was almost out.

Phew.

What I’d really like from Meta would be a link to the amazing LA County Fire Department to thank them for keeping us all safe. That I’d use.

Featured

Talen: It’s A Good Thing I Love Him

There is a grisly old horseman’s rhyme that goes:

One White Sock, Buy Him,

Two White Socks, Try Him,

Three White Socks, Deny Him,

Four White Socks and a stripe on the nose, cut off his head and feed him to crows.

Anyone that has been to Wellington, Thermal or just watched a super flashy hunter with lots of chrome win everything, knows the above is pure BS. Still, I am starting to believe line three, if not four. (That is just nasty.)

Case in point is my dear sweet, beautiful, pasture ornament, Talen.

I bought Talen in 2017. He was supposed to replace Mickey, who, for a lot of complicated and bullshit reasons, was not working out. (That itself is a long, long, story that I am still too traumatized to discuss. I still own Mickey. Enough said.)

Talen came into my life as a unicorn. He was stepping down from his job as an International Derby horse. Miraculously, he was also a super easy ride who could, in the parlance, take a joke. That means amateur-friendly. A horse that wouldn’t hold dumb mistakes and miscues against me. I need that. Badly.

It’s a bonus that Talen is pretty. He is a 16.2 chestnut warmblood with four white socks and an adorable broken white stripe on his face. See the above rhyme.

Talen should have been the perfect AA hunter for me. And he was. Until he wasn’t.

Because unicorns don’t exist.

Four months after I bought him – the day before we were leaving for our first show together – he came up lame. Really lame.

He stayed that way.

Months of lay-up, vet visits and tests followed. On the advice of my vet, I he shipped up to Alamo Pintado Equine Medical Center for even more high quality and expensive exams. I am, extremely lucky to have access to Alamo. It’s an incredible clinic with amazing vets, surgeons and the latest in diagnostic equipment.

Alamo Pintado is a beautiful place. Just the name gives me PTSD.

Unfortunately, I have never sent a horse to Alamo and had it come home with a positive diagnosis. I realize that’s because Alamo is usually the clinic of the last resort. My horses go there with difficult cases that my regular vets either can’t quite pin down or don’t have the equipment to confirm.

But still whenever I speak to Dr. Carter Judy, I descend into a downward spiral. It’s not his fault; he is kind, thoughtful and a great vet. He just never gives me good news. Never.

That trend continued with Talen. Turns out he has a progressive degenerative disease in his pastern. The disease has a name -because I definitely Googled it – but my PTSD made me forget it. In layman’s terms, his pastern was collapsing.

All sorts of things can go wrong in a pastern. Talen has several.

This is not a good thing. The pastern joins the foot to the leg. If it’s broken, so is the horse.

My vet tried hard to fix him. She even accosted speakers at veterinary conferences looking for cures. That led to a bunch of experimental treatments, but after nine months, there was no improvement in his condition. ( But I believe he is a subject in a peer reviewed veterinary paper. )

At least he didn’t continue to deteriorate. He can walk, but has a significant limp at higher speeds. He seems comfortable which is all I care about now. Besides, moving fast was never his preference.

Luckily I was already living in my little ranchette in Chatsworth. So I loaded him up and trailered him to Seven Hills Farm (West,) to spend the rest of his days with my other pasture ornaments, Lucy and Desi.

The view from my office: Talen and Lucy waiting for lunch. No matter what time it is. They are always ready.

Talen is an easy going horse and quickly found his place with the others. He also has a sense of humor. I can always catch him but he makes the farrier chase him around for a while. Once he decided to be caught, the game is over, and Talen reverts to being the perfect gentleman.

He knows the sound of my cars. Even though he can’t see me, when I pull in the driveway, he whinnies to greet me. I think he is grateful that I didn’t put down, which I could have.

For Talen, every day is a gift. In that way he is kind of inspirational.

But lately, keeping him healthy – and alive- is a challenge. During the pandemic he got so fat – I know that is my fault – he foundered, which can be a death sentence. A strict starvation diet – at least he thought so – and medications were prescribed. I got almost 200 pounds off of him in six months.

He is bitter, but breathing.

Last summer, he colicked for the first time ever. Four times. Colic sounds simple and can be just a gas-caused stomach ache. Or it can be an impaction. Either way, it can kill them if it isn’t resolved quickly.

The first times it happened was at 6:00 PM on a Friday night. Of course it was, because means that vet’s emergency farm call was super pricey.

Repeat my new mantra: it’s a good thing I love Talen.

The vet and I decided that his tummy troubles were relatively mild and caused by wild summer temperature swings. He could be treated with medication. She left me with with potions, pastes and injectables. For the rest of the summer Talen couldn’t take an evening nap without me running out to take his temperature.

All went well until January, when the vet came for some routine health maintenance. Both horses needed their teeth checked and vaccinations. No big deal.

Since Talen was drugged for his teeth, I asked the vet to clean his sheath. I went into the house to get something, and when I returned the vet looked worried.

“Um,” she said. “There is something really wrong here. Come and take a look.”

Those are words you never want to hear from your vet.

Talen had contracted Equine Papilloma Virus. On his penis. EPV almost always develops into cancer in, and he had a number of suspicious spots. The poor guy had to have biopsies taken. On his penis.

Ouch.

The biopsies results were deemed ‘worrisome.”

I was presented with three options:

I could do nothing, and let nature take its course. Um, what are my other choices?

I could amputate his penis and do a resection of his urinary track. It’s a huge, major, painful surgery with no guarantees. Nope. Not doing that to my old man. I didn’t even consider that one.

The last alternative was chemotherapy. It seemed reasonable: slathering cream on the affected areas every two weeks for a total of seven treatments. That one! I pick that one!

Thankfully, horses (and dogs) do not react to chemo like people. They do not get exhausted, nauseated or just plain ill. They have few side effects, and rarely react in a negative way. But, like for people, chemo doesn’t always work.

It was worth a try. You know, because I love him.

The vet did the first two treatments to show me how. It seemed simple. All she did was tranquilize Talen, clean his sheath and wipe it with chemo cream. Easy, peasy.

Not so much.

Talen is a shy pee-er. He doesn’t like to pee in public. When he has to go, he runs into a stall and does his business in private. He is exceedingly suspicious about anyone grabbing his dick. He would have been a terrible breeding stallion.

I was dreading treating him because, yuck, but a horse girl has to do what a horse girl has to do. So every two weeks I pull on my big girl boots, dig out rubber gloves and get to work.

This involves a process: Take a deep breath and give him an oral tranquilizer. Wait ten minutes and follow up with a tranquiliizer shot. But not enough to make him lose his balance.

Then ignore him while he gets sleepy on the crossties. After 40 more minutes, get out a bucket of warm water, set out cotton for cleaning and the chemo cream. Finally pull on the gloves.

I look exceedingly professional.

Looks are deceiving.

Talen gives serious side-eye when he suspects it’s treatment time.

Then it goes like this:

His eyes shut and he starts to snore a little. I give a quick peek at his undercarriage and see the tranquilizers are working. I gently start to wash his sheath. His eyes jerk open and he pulls it up with as much horsey outrage as he can muster.

I walk away and begin grooming Lucy to give him some space . Meanwhile I keep looking over at Talen. For the next 30 minutes we play peekaboo. He relaxes, I drop Lucy’s brushes in the dirt and dash over. Talen tenses up. I walk away and the whole process repeats itself.

It takes about an hour before I manage to get the chemo cream on the required areas. Finally, to the relief of both of us, I put him back in paddock and clean up.

As I head into my office to do real work, I glance over at Talen. He stands in front of the gate where I’d left him, fast asleep. Completely relaxed. Totally dropped. Not a care in the world.

I told you he had a sense of humor.

We only have to go through this four more times. It does seem to be helping. Cross your fingers.

That nasty poem reverberates in my head every time I do this. Truth be told, I probably will never buy a horse with four white socks and a blaze again.

I really do love Talen. Even in a wooly winter coat.

But I really do love him.

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The Best Laid Plans- Part 2

We left the hotel promptly Sunday morning. GPS told us that the farm where Layla was staying was just 15 minutes from our hotel. We celebrated; we were on track to easily make it back to Three Wishes before dark.

Naturally we got lost. It was the GPS’ fault; it kept directing us down closed dirt roads.

When it became obvious that we were going to be 40 minutes late, I checked in with Leah who owns the farm to keep her in the loop. That gave her enough time to lightly sedate Layla before we left. (Layla IS only two and had never traveled alone or in a two-horse trailer before). After a false start, and some encouragement from an elderly Quarter horse that Laurie wanted to keep, Layla stepped in in my trailer and we were on our way.

I’m a neurotically careful driver when horses are onboard. (Kristin Mulhull claims I drive like an old lady when I have horses in back. Since we’ve hauled her horses cross-country four times, I guess she would know.) This time was no different. Whatever GPS said our time would be, I allowed two additional hours to include gas stops and my general pokiness. We were still on track to be home before 5.

Laurie plugged in the audio book of Trevor Noah’s “Born A Crime” which distracted me from my shipping neurosis. I even managed to keep to a fairly consistent 70 mph while listening to my future ex-husband. (Sadly, Trevor doesn’t know this.) If you haven’t heard or read it, do. It’s brilliant: entertaining and educational.

We stopped for gas every few hours and I checked Layla who was quietly munching her hay. I guess she was resigned that this was her new life. She seems to be that kind of horse.

Around 4 o’clock we came to the base Grapevine. It’s really, really, really steep. Most people know of it because whenever it snows, the CHP closes the road because so many cars and trucks get stuck on the climb.

The sign of big fun ahead on the Grapevine.

I moved to the far right lanes to join the slow big rigs chugging up the hill. Slow and steady. We were doing fine.

Until almost the crest of the hill.

Suddenly my coolant light went on. It became more and more insistent as I continued, and began flashing at me. I saw signs for a rest stop in a quarter mile, and pushed on. I was damned if I going to be stuck on the side of the Grapevine with a horse in back.

My Aunt always said god protects children and idiots, and so I guess I agree. Somehow we made it to the rest stop. As we limped into truck area of the rest stop I was peering smoke billowing from the engine.

Even I knew this wasn’t good.

I am pretty calm in an emergency. Denial helps. A lot. To that end, I initially convinced myself that I when the engine cooled off, I could add coolant, and be on our way.

A lovely trucker who was in the same situation, said we could use water instead of coolant. This was good because I didn’t have any coolant and the AAA dispatcher firmly told me that their drivers could not carry liquids of any kind. Huh? But I hadn’t the energy to question her.

I just happened to have a crate of Fiji water in the back that was given to me by a friend. (Sidebar: It’s not that my friend loves Fiji water; though it is tasty. Her home was previously owned by an Influencer sponsored by Fiji. Crates of the stuff have magically appeared at her door for more than a year.)

I will always be grateful to Fiji water.

While we waited, I offered Layla some Fiji water. She wasn’t interested. Simultaneously, Laurie poured a bottle of it into the radiator. The radiator didn’t want it either; it ran right though and created a puddle on the ground.

Definitely not good.

I called AAA and for the first time ever, got a rude dispatcher who informed me that none of this her problem. After I begged, the she did give me the number for a local company that might be able to help.

Wrong. That woman wished me a snarky ‘good luck” before hanging up on me.

Annaliese was going to meet us at the farm, so I called to warn her that we were in trouble. She’s also good in an emergency, and gulped and quickly texted me a list of haulers to call. (Normally she’d have come herself, but she is recovering from a fairly horrific arm injury.)

The first person I called to was super kind and willing to help, but didn’t have a hitch that would work between his truck and my trailer. He turned out to be a neighbor. We are going to meet up for some beers soon.

I sounded better than I was. It was pitch dark and giant big rigs were flying in and out of the rest stop around us. I was verging on a panic attack, but I couldn’t lose control. I still had a two-year-old in the back.

I needed to fix the problem but I was at a complete loss.

So I called Mark. Technically, Mark is our farm manager. He is married to my horse trainer and didn’t get the memo that when I joined Team Edelweiss that he got me as a questionable bonus. In the four years I’ve been there, Mark has rescued me and my horses a lot. A whole lot. Way beyond the call of duty.

When I called, he had just arrived in Thermal, so he couldn’t come get us himself. But being Mark, he took control of the situation. Within 15 minutes, Cassie and Darren of Haulin’ Hooves were one their way to rescue us.

Thankfully, Layla had fallen asleep. At least one of the three of us was completely unfazed by all of this.

Proving that not all superheroes wear capes, Cassie and Darren pulled into the rest area less than 90 minutes later. After they unhitched my trailer. I limped my SUV to auto parking and stuck a note on the windshield pleading with the CHP not to impound it.

By the time I got back, Carrie and Darren had attached a hitch that worked between my trailer and their truck and were ready to go. Laurie and I climbed into the nicest truck I’ve ever seen, and the five of us were on our way.

It was an uneventful drive, though I think Cassie and Darren got tired of me thanking them every thirty seconds.

The only glitch came when it was time to get Layla out. My lead rope was in my truck at the rest stop, so when it was time to unload, I borrowed one. Unfortunately, in the dark Cassie grabbed a dog leash with a quick release, and as Layla was exiting the trailer it did. Loose, she trotted off in the dark before stopping to graze. It took about a minute before Darren caught her.

Honestly, after traveling for more than 11 hours, I think Layla was just glad to be out of the trailer and moving under her own steam.

Layla is prettier than this photo shows, she has serious winter hair.

I’ll say it again: she is an amazing two-year-old.

Annalise tucked her into a stall for the night and generously gave Laurie and I a ride to my place. The next day the ever-kind Laurie drove me back to the rest stop to rescue my car. A wonderful AAA driver picked up the truck and brought me to an amazing mechanic. He told us that the Grapevine was known locally as The Car Killer, which explains the six service stations at an exit in the middle of nowhere. Then the mechanic replaced my radiator on the spot, and we were on our way.

That night I finally lost it. I shook, and shook and shook. And then got some bourbon.

I did learn several lessons from this debacle.

You never save money when you think you are going to.
I have amazing, terrific friends.
All of the truckers we dealt with -including one who saw the trailer and pulled off the freeway to check that we were okay- were incredibly kind.
I owe Layla’s life to Mark, Cassie and Darren. Animal people are the best.
I am never, ever going back to Sacramento again unless it is in an airplane.
I don’t think Laurie will ever travel with me again. I hope she is still my friend.

I was – am—very, very, very lucky. It could have been so much worse.

Gratitude is real.

Layla is fascinated by the foals in the next field.

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The Best Laid Plans (Part One)

It seemed like a good idea in the beginning. The worst plans usually do.

Obviously, I’m not too smart. I have five horses; two are ridable.

Because of all of those horses, I was trying to save money.

Which is why instead of having a commercial shipper bring my two-year-old filly from Sacramento to Los Angeles, I decided to haul her home myself.

A little background is probably necessary.

About four (ish) years ago, my heart horse Lucy’s first foal was coming three. Faith was big and looked like a five-year-old. I was concerned about putting her in a training program that would push before she was physically ready.

In the convoluted way my mind works, I decided to breed Faith. Sort of.

Bear with me. I adore foals! I really loved having Faith as a foal. She was a hoot to play with! She came when she was called and loved attention. She was like a giant dog I didn’t keep in the house. But because Lucy could no longer carry a baby and I knew she was talented and well-bred, I used Faith as a surrogate to carry Lucy’s baby. But with a different stallion. It was a little weird, but it gave Faith an additional year to mature before going to work for a living,

All went mostly well – there were a few hiccups along the way; she was a horse. Faith gave birth to a lovely filly; Layla.

After Layla weaned, Faith went into real training. Just as I was starting to ride her regularly, Faith developed neurological problems (likely from her sire,) and had to be put down.

I have still not recovered.

Thankfully, Layla has been great. A bay with a single white sock and a few white hairs on her face and a troll-doll forelock, she initially remained at Three Wishes Farm where she was born, in nearby Santa Rosa Valley. It’s close enough for me to visit a few times a week.

Bliss. I brought carrots and played with her a few times every week. That constant handling, and some professional training is way Layla is super friendly, and mostly well-behaved.

But last year around this time Layla was asked to leave. It wasn’t because she was a pain in the ass – or maybe it was. She had taken to jumping out of the pasture when the broodmares bugged her. Or she bothered them. I only have her word that it was their fault.

Good news: she can jump. Bad news: neither Annaliese -who owns and runs Three Wishes- or I liked finding Layla on the wrong side of the fence along the road.

Layla needed to find a new place to live.

I moved her to where my show horses live. It’s a gorgeous place, and there were three other babies to share the field. Granted, those were ponies and Layla towered over them. In the beginning they shunned the big girl, but after a while, they became a tight herd. And I got to play with her every single day.

It was too easy. But then the farm’s owner wanted all of the babies out. A nice place was found, with the bonus being that it was a lot cheaper. The downside -for me at least – was that the new ranch was in Sacramento.

That’s a really long way from Los Angeles. Like five to seven hours away.

I wasn’t going to be able to visit her every day, or even weekly. Or monthly,

Five months later, I realized I missed her desperately. Layla needed to come back.

By this tie Annaliese had a new place with bigger, much higher fences. We were invited back.

It was going to be really, really expensive to hire a hauler to go to Sacramento to pick Layla up. But I have a trailer and an SUV to pull it, so I conned my dear, long-suffering friend Laurie MacDonald that spending a weekend driving up and back to Sacramento would be an entertaining jaunt.

Road trips usually involve fun stops at weird roadside attractions like the biggest ball of string. Or the avocado museum or something. The 5 North from Los Angeles to Sacramento – it’s the 5 the whole way- has none.

Zilch.

Some people stop at Harris Ranch, a BEEF restaurant located literally next to the stockyards, but both Laurie and I are vegetarians. As we passed thousands of cattle squashed into pens waiting for their demise, I focused on the road and Laurie closed her eyes.

We did make one one stop that didn’t include gassing up: Pea Soup Anderson’s restaurant. Anderson’s, for those who don’t live in SoCal, is sort of a Danish version of Cracker Barrel. And they have great veggie pea soup.

And a windmill. And an insane gift shop. It’s legendary.

We made it to our hotel near the Sacramento Airport. We wandered around the weird location (six hotels, some very odd townhouses and acres of sprawling big box stores) before returning to the hotel to eat a Jimmy John’s veggie sub Johns and a suck down some white wine while watching the Janet Jackson special. Team Janet!

According to GPS, the Ranch where Layla lived was less than 15 minutes from the hotel. Easey Peasey!

END PART 1

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My Animals Are Not Out To Get Me. I Think.

Several of my friends swear by animal communicators. You know, those people that say they can speak to animals. I have my doubts, but after hearing the reports from some of my friends after these readings, it seems some of these Dr. Doolittle heirs may be on to something.

My question lies more with my friends than the psychics. My pals really want to hear their pet’s opinions.

Not me. What if I found out what my animals really think? What if they hate me?

Animal Psychic: Mickey, why did you blow the left lead at the horse show? Sharon is worried that you are hurt.
Mickey: If you had to schlep that blubberbutt around a course and try to decipher what the hell she is asking me to do, you’d miss the lead change too. Tell her to lose a few and learn to ride. And more snacks might help. Lots more.

AP: Okay…

Mickey: Tell her verbatim. And I need a new halter.

That’s just Mickey. I tremble at what the dogs might have to say. I think the discussion might center primarily on goodies, or lack there of.

However there is one thing I do know. Contrary to what some of my friends and family members believe, I don’t think any of my fur family are actively trying to kill me. It just sometimes appears that way.

There is an old joke about Great Dane owners based on the idea that we will all be found dead on the floor after tripping over our dogs in the dark. That is not as funny as it sounds.

My late beloved Murray probably did more damage to me than all my other dogs combined. It was never, ever, on purpose.

It’s a fact that Murray loved me more than life itself. But stuff happens.

Dog agility is not usually considered a dangerous sport. Yet I have a scar on my face from teaching Murray to run through a tunnel. Someone held him in front of the tunnel entrance while I stood at the exit, calling him. If I had stopped to consider how terrified he was of strangers, I might have calculated the speed he would use to get through the tunnel to me when they let go, and I’d have stepped back a bit. Instead as soon as he was released, he ran as fast as a giant dog doing the army crawl through a tunnel could go, and knocked me down. I walked away with a nasty cut and a bloody nose.

You would have thought that experience would have taught me something. But no.

When we taught him to climb the dog walk, Murray made it to the top before he realized how far off the ground he was. He looked down and saw me alongside him, albeit, five feet below. He made the obvious Murray choice, and jumped down, fully expecting me to catch all 145+ pounds of him.

To say that he flattened me, is putting it mildly. I had a few impressive bruises but his trust in me was shaken for a long time. He only did a dog walk once again, four years later at a trial. I was so shocked I forgot the rest of the course.

My riding accidents are usually my fault as well. If you are sensing a theme, you are correct.

People ask me, since I have been riding horses since childhood, why I still take lessons. The simple reason is that I am an idiot. As shown above, I never seem to learn.

No matter how many times I ask Mickey to do the impossible and leave a stride (or two!) out before a jump, he wisely ignores me and chips instead. Plop, I fall off. D’oh.

As I said, I’m not bright.

The only time I have been hurt by a horse on purpose was as few years back. I was jumping a horse I had leased that morning. The jump was perfect. Then he propped hard on landing. Naturally I flew off and landed really, really hard.

It was not my fault that I broke my pelvis. It was a deliberate move on his part.

That’s not normal. Most my accidents are more like the incident last week.

I was lifting Ruckus, now 50ish pounds, into the SUV. Since I needed leverage as I picked her up, I put the bulk of her weight on the cast covering my wrist. She chose that precise moment to push off and leap in the air to reach up and lick my face.

Instead she clobbered my chin with her surprisingly hard head. The impact split my lip.

Not her fault. Or at least not on purpose.

If I do go missing, please have someone check my house. More than likely, I tripped over a dog, who then sat on me, and I passed out while they were licking me.

I don’t think the pets are intentionally trying to hurt me. But you might want to call an animal psychic just in case.

####

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I’m Getting Dumber. It Must Be the Pandemic. Right?

Jasper spots Talen minding his own business.

I swear I’m not a frivolous asshat whining about having to wear a mask and social distancing during the pandemic. Believe me, with more than a 300,000 Americans dead, masking up and maintaining space is the least I can do to help keep people safe.

But there is one issue that is grating on me. I’ve never exactly been a genius, but I swear, the longer this pandemic lockdown goes on, the dumber I’m becoming. It’s getting embarrassing.

(I’m not as stupid as the man screaming, “Wearing a mask is a muzzle.” Hey dickwad, I can hear you. You are not muzzled. Unfortunately.)

I haven’t descended into complete that jerk’s level of dumb yet, but I can see it coming. For instance, let’s look at a purely fictional situation. Let’s just say Jasper is being particularly annoying by barking at Talen to try and get him to snark back. The barking goes on. The horse’s ears pin and he shakes his head at the dog. This continues for a while. I honestly think this is how they play with each other, since either of them could easily walk away.

It would be cute, but it gets loud and I have neighbors. So I yell at Jasper.

Nothing makes a dog shut up faster than someone yelling at them, said no dog trainer on the earth. But it does make me feel better. And quite obviously, I’m not a dog trainer.

What doesn’t make me happy is that I run through a list of names, many of them belonging to long-dead dogs, before I remember the dog’s name.

Jasper: Bark! Bark! Bark!

Talen: Snort! Stomp!

Sharon: Damn it Murray, Rocky, Fiona, Poppy, Dalai! God Damnit Jasper! Yes, Jasper! Shut Up!

Naturally the dog keeps barking and the horse keeps snorting. However, I’m so mortified that my neighbors may hear this insanity, that I go silent.

It isn’t just names that are disappearing.

I have driven past the freeway exit to my house three times in recent memory. I like to believe that this is because I have BIG, IMPORTANT THOUGHTS happening. That would be a lie.

It’s because I’m trying to recall something really vital, like the last time I saw the Rolling Stones. (The only thing I do know it that it wasn’t at the Geezerfest in the Desert a few years back. So maybe it was Dodger Stadium? Or one of the club dates? Who knows? Damn it. But I do believe the opening act was Lukas Nelson and the Promise of the Real. Or not.)

I admit I do have one huge fear about my memory. I envision that I’m old and stashed in some old people’s home and visited by absolutely no one. It will be my own fault because I won’t be able to place anyone’s name. I’ll recognize (maybe) my nephews, but their names will be gone.

Instead, all of the circuits in my head will be clogged with minutiae about bands, like the line-up for the initial line-up for the Hothouse Flowers. (Liam O Maonlai, Fiachna O Braonain, Peter O’Toole), the lyrics for “Angel From Montgomery,” and every song ever recorded by The Replacements (not including bootlegs- no one except maybe Bill Holdship knows that.). I’ll also remember names of Grand Prix riders of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s and of course their horses (Rodney Jenkins, Anthony D’Ambrosia, Frank Chapot, Idle Dice, Sympatico and Good Twist.) There are also major racehorses and riders from decades past as well (Cigar, Ruffian, Zenyatta, Shoemaker, Jerry Bailey and Julie Krone.) filling the empty gray matter.

As I consider this, it’s not all that surprising that I have to go into the house three times to grab my mask before going out, and that I rarely know my right from my left. There is an almost limitless amount of useless knowledge filling my head.

I may not remember any of my passwords, but the stuff I do know is highly entertaining. At least to me.

And, since in the days of Covid-19, I’m my main audience. So I guess I’m good.

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Wild, Wild Horses

Even before the lockdown, it took a lot to get me to leave my house. Even for a weekend. It isn’t just because I love my place and the quadrupeds. With four dogs, a cat and two canaries there are a lot of moving parts.

Occasionally I’d like to get away. Frankly, sometimes all of those pushy fur people get on my nerves. But if I go, it means someone else has to stay and take care of them.

It isn’t easy to find someone who is not intimidated by all of them and their quirks. Luckily, I have a great house sitter who I trust completely, with good reason. Last Fall she managed to get everyone evacuated in the fires. Understandably though, someone with her abilities (she’s also a vet tech) doesn’t come cheap.

So I try to limit my time away from the house to sporadic trips East to see Mom, and horse shows.

My college friend, Debbie, moved to Tehachapi from Vermont three years ago. Tehachapi is only about two hours and a million light years away from Los Angeles. I really wanted to see her and her lovely husband Kevan, but I was n’t moving fast or going anywhere. Then she mentioned the magic words.

Wild horses.

That got my attention.

The closest I’ve ever been to wild horses was a trip to Chincoteague and Assateague Islands when I younger. (C’mon, you remember Misty of Chincoteague!!!!) Visiting the ponies was a bucket list trip.

There is something about wild horses. I wanted to see more.

So I jumped at the chance.

Finding the right time was a little complicated. When I go away, I have to leave my SUV just in case someone needs to go to the vet, or evacuate. That meant I had to drive my 23 year old BMW Z3.

I love this car beyond words, but it is a two seater convertible. It leaks in the rain and I’ve never driven it in the snow. Tehachapi is in the mountains. Where it snows. It was January.

We picked a weekend when the worst of winter was technically over. Debbie called the lady to make an appointment to see the herd, and I was on my way.

We met in nearby Bakersfield, because the zoo there puts on the most insanely, fantastic holiday light display I’ve ever seen. Or heard about. I’m a sucker for twinkle lights and this lived way up to the hype.

Worth a trip. But the best was yet to come.

On the way to Tehachapi from Bakersfield, Debbie gave me the scoop on the horses. There were about a hundred of them, spread through three or four bands. They are not BLM managed horses, on public land. Instead they live on private property owned by a turbine power company. You’ve probably even seen them in a million or three car commercials. You know, the ones with windmills and horses in the background. I don’t remember the cars.

Technically, the Oak Creek Wild horses are not even ‘wild’ horses. They are more likely feral descendants that escaped or were let loose by different breeders about 100 years ago.

But make no mistake, these are wild horses. They are handled only when absolutely necessary, such as for medical needs, including gelding some of the colts to manage the size of the herd and to capture some of the weanlings for adoption.

Diana Palmer has been the caretaker for the herd since the late ‘80s. With the droughts and wildfires, she also provides supplementary hay for the bands. In fact, that is the price of admission to the wonderful world of the Oak Creek Wild Horses.

The morning we were to going to see the horses we stopped at a feed store and picked up about six bales of hay (the feed store knew what kind they eat) and we were on our way.

We met Diana in front of a chained and super-muddy roadway, surrounded by giant wind turbines. (Those things are HUGE when you are close.) We passed through a few more access ways and followed her to where she figured a group of the horses might be.

Bingo!

At first they were tiny dots in landscape, but those horses know trucks mean easy eating. We stopped the trucks and they appeared out of nowhere, running straight for us. Within moments we were surrounded by about 30 pushy horses. I am comfortable with annoying, careless foals, so I didn’t find them intimidating, but I wasn’t stupid enough to get between them and their snacks.

Adults. Foals. Geezers. All shades of black and bay with definite Morgan characteristics. They were healthy and wild. You can get deceptively close to most of them, but only a few allowed a human touch.

Diana could pick most of the individuals out, including one distinctive filly that had already been chosen for adoption. We hung out with the first group for about 45 minutes and then reluctantly left to search for another band, which we quickly discovered.

I am a sucker for foals, so I began following a few around with big dreams in my head. Morgans are small, compact obviously tough, horses that are so very different from my large, hunky, chunky Warmbloods or svelte Thoroughbreds.

A lot of the adopters ride their babies, but an equal number drive them. While we surrounded by them, I remembered that I have always sworn when I was too old to ride, I’d get a pair of matched Hackneys to drive. In my musing, I switch out the hackney for an Oak Creek Wild Horses.

Never mind that the extent of my driving ability was the day before when Debbie let me drive her mini-horse. I was terrified I’d break it. Still.

How the heck do you hook up all that harness?

The dream lasted exactly as long as it took me to drive home that day and look at my FIVE hay burners. Two of which earn their keep.

Still, there’s always time, right?

****

If you’re interested in learning more about the Oak Creek Wild Horses, or helping or adopting Creek please go to their website: www.OakCreekWildHorses.com

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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