To follow along on the written version, click here: https://annablake.com/things-jolene-and-i-have-outgrown-things-we-never-will/

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabash…

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It’s the small things. One morning, I pulled the shower curtain open and, remarkably, the bathroom rug was right there, in the bathroom. Usually in the backyard, Jolene and I played a sneaky slow-motion fetch game for months. Jolene took it out when I wasn’t looking, and I retrieved it. Remarkable to find it where it belongs, after missing for months, along with pens, scissors, and dog beds small enough to fit through the dog door. The chewed-open pill bottles were all Mister’s.

Jolene was eighteen months old on August 25th. The equivalent of nineteen human years. She’s full-grown and marginally mature. I’ve been thinking about the things Jolene and I have outgrown and the things we never will. As pups grow up, we might miss what isn’t happening, because we focus on the next milestone.

I was capable of correcting her, or schooling her with treats, but I wanted her to connect the dots. So many of the problems dogs have come from us. I wanted a different sort of relationship with Jolene. I decided to trust her intelligence, praise the good things, and shut up about the rest. Call it an experiment.

One by one and on her own, Jolene has puzzled things out. When she was done teething, she stopped chewing. She’s stopped fighting the leash like a fish on a hook. Now she’s the first to sit for it. Jolene no longer creeps up to the truck; now she stands on the running board waiting for a boost. She has stopped playing tug with my pant legs when I’m dressing. Kinda miss that. She stopped barking out Viking operas in scent work class.

Maturing means we learn to regulate our emotions. I only asked Jolene to do things that I thought she could understand. So change came slowly at first. Still better than creating anxiety, says every reactive rescue dog who has ever ended up with me.

What will Jolene never outgrow? She’s a young dog with a mind of her own. I’m guessing here. She is genetically designed to be at my heel, just behind me. Probably a safe bet. I doubt there will be an end to playing ball and tug. It doesn’t look like the sheeps will get boring. She will always be more outgoing than I am.

I think Mister will remain her first friend, though he has grown both sweeter and grouchier at the same time. He may be the fun police, but play makes him nervous. Mister is our voice of reason, our touchstone, even though he wears his heart on his sleeve. All of us know who the smart dog is, but we don’t mention it. Jolene isn’t one to gloat. We cater to Mister because he is ours.

Jolene’s a full-time dog, in my truck if I’m on the road, under the desk if I’m writing. With me relentlessly, always touching me while she sleeps. I think when she is old, she will still bring tug toys and ask me to hold them with her. She will live for me. It isn’t an overstatement. It’s simply what dogs do. In return, my dogs will remain a rare treasure each day, never taken for granted.

What have I outgrown since I was nineteen? Numerous pairs of jeans for sure. Then I gave up jeans totally. I changed how I dressed annually and questioned everything. They told me I could never make a living as an artist, but I supported myself and boarded two horses. They told me I would change my mind about having kids, but I didn’t. When I left the church, they were outraged at my fall from faith because good girls didn’t.

So, I gave up being a good girl, too. No more listening to criticism from people who said I would be a failure. I gave up the hope of college and moved to Colorado. I knew more about what I didn’t want than what I did. I had poor boundaries and was too quick to trust, but at least I was a lousy judge of character. For a while, it looked like the railbirds were right.

What will never change about me? Horses and dogs forever. Cats on the counter. Pie for breakfast. I like short hair and dirty hands from working outside. Every Sunday morning, I went to the woods and sang. I went religiously. Now I see God everywhere.

I marvel that I’m much the same person today as I was as a teen. I knew my mind. Much of what I wanted came to pass, and much didn’t. I’m normal that way. I broke some rules, went where I wasn’t welcome. And sometimes miracles happened. Like most of us.

My taste in music hasn’t changed. Oh, I’ve seen Springsteen in concert and the Stones live, but my secret music was different. I love torch songs by the likes of Billie Holiday and Patsy Cline. You know Dolly was on that list. I was rockin to Jolene when my friends were definitely not. A young feminist, I didn’t know what to make of Dolly. The lilting quality of her voice got under my skin. I knew men and women who thought she was a joke, but I couldn’t look away. Unapologetic, she said, “It takes money to look this cheap.” She took cheap to the bank and then gave it all away. Putting her money where her heart was.

Dolly has always been my unlikely hero, for her music as much as for the doors she kicked open. I named my pup Jolene because Dolly was a bit on the nose. The tiny runt of the litter would need a big, strong voice to get by. She was named with respect, as an affirmation. And I wanted people to sing to her.

Dolly Parton died on Jolene’s half-birthday. Friends sent us condolences. Jolene got special scratches in class. We spent the day reading tributes and falling in love all over again with this dynamic woman who thought the town tramp was pretty.

She inspired people, not to copy her but to be who they wanted to be. In a world of naysaying railbirds, she was a believer. Who knows how many she inspired to chart an untraveled path, including me in boots because I’d kill myself in her heels. The media is brimming with accolades for this woman who collected diverse people like stray dogs. I won’t repeat more praise, just that the song that doesn’t get mentioned has always been my favorite. I feel a bit naked telling you; it’s a Christmas carol for the rest of us. For those who don’t fit the holiday.

Each December, a mismatched choir of us, each in our homes, will crank up Hard Candy Christmas. The secret is to throw your head back and spread your arms wide. Sing loud, howl out the long notes. Fill your lungs and let the tears fly. Take the cure.

Dolly saw the good in people, a spiritual practice that dogs share.

Most of us humans are a work in progress, with weird hair and mismatched socks. We are odd shapes, wrinkly, pale, and a little frayed at the edges. We absolutely do not have Dolly’s singing voice, but the world needs us a little more now. May her memory bless us all.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers who receive two podcasts a week on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack(opens in new tab) or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com(opens in new tab). #deletefacebook

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School,(opens in new tab) our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.(opens in new tab)” Subscribe to our online group and join the best bunch of like-minded horse people anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously

To follow along on the written version, click here: https://annablake.com/deconstructing-horse-aggression/

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover of sunsets. An…

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To follow along on the written version, click here: https://annablake.com/a-horse-trainer-of-a-certain-age-gets-a-puppy/

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover …

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**I’m a full-time horse trainer who has written about horses since 2010. My dogs think it’s their turn now. Click for HORSES**

Have I wandered out of my lane? I’m not a dog trainer, just a horsewoman. But none of us are just one thing, are we? Because I work with horses doesn’t mean that I am void of feeling about growing older, or incapable of forming an opinion about the state of the world, or unable to recognize a universal language in more than one species. Horses have been the biggest passion in my life. But dogs have stood beside me every one of those days and slept with me those nights. Now it’s time for some payback. But have I finally outgrown horses? Don’t talk crazy.

Check out the horse essay archive on my website. I’ve separated the horse training essays from the dog ones, with buttons to choose. A couple of people said they were surprised I was still giving clinics. I tilted my head like a corgi looking at your cheese. I’ve been studying horses for at least 71 years. And who knows how long before I was born. Horses are still the work of my heart. Also my livelihood. Ask me about online lessons. (see photo above) And yes, recently I’ve been writing about horse training in the guise of a puppy. After 16 years, I needed a break.

I was remembering an interview with Kyra Kirkland, a Finnish dressage rider, back in the 80s. When asked how she trained the piaffe, she said, do whatever you can think of to get a movement remotely like what you want. Then reward the horse generously and ask again. I loved this because there was no failsafe answer, no perfect technique. It was an equalizer for an artist trying to wrangle a couple of ordinary horses into a dream bigger than all of us. Her answer was to be creative, and I could do that. There is no universal map. Just the animal and I feeling our way in a dark room. On a good day, it seemed freeing.

Which brings us to Jolene and the sheeps and me. Boy howdy, are we reaching around in a dark room trying to figure out herding. Some days Jolene is frightened by the sheep. Other days she chases them like a little wolf.

Because I am a horse trainer who applied the work of a dog trainer, Turid Rugaas, to calming signals in horses, I can now double back and apply it to dogs, where it all started. I know that both of Jolene’s responses, fear and bravado, are the same thing. They’re anxiety. Now we are searching around in a dark room to find where the anxiety starts, and also where joy can be found. Because this is a job Jolene was born for, and sometimes it scares her a bit. Because I’ve loved herding dogs forever, and sometimes I wonder why there are sheeps here.

It was near dusk, and we were in the pen with three of the sheeps. Jolene was following when one ewe separated out. Jolene took off too hot. Rather than returning the ewe, all three sheep bolted, and she gave chase. This is why I have a stock stick to tap the ground between the sheeps and the dog, to break that panic energy. But either my arm hesitated, or Jolene sped up, but I whacked her sharply on the head.

It is firmly stated in the rules that a stock stick may not be used either on a sheep or a dog. But I’m not worried about breaking the rules; I’m terrified that I’ve hurt my dog. And by terrified, I mean thinking we’ll need to go to the emergency room. Jolene stops dead, and I can tell it smarts.

Mister would like to remind you he never takes a week off and his adventures are no less exciting. Part of this week's debacle is my fault. I should’ve noticed him marching back-and-forth at the base of the raised planter, stalking the tomatoes. I failed to block his attack with a bucket. The plants are a mess; he sat down while eating. Razor wire soon. Mister would like you to know that this in no way should imply he’s a vegetarian. He says, these tiny warm tomatoes remind me of the worst part of pizza.

Then there are the sheeps, the wildcards. Unpredictable every day. Now they’re settled enough to have an existential dilemma. When I open the gate to a pasture that actually has grass, they stand for long moments trying to decide if they should go out or not. Like cats can wait in the doorway for hours. I could go in the house for Jolene, but I flap my arms and hoot at them. After another five minutes of them loitering while I do calisthenics, I understand why dogs have had this job for a millennium. Humans are lousy at it.

If I know one thing after spending my life studying behavior and communication with animals, it’s that there’s an ocean between what most people think their animal is thinking and what that animal is actually thinking. Horses and dogs are different, but when it comes to how we interact, no difference at all. We listen. Often they tell us things we don’t want to know. Then we learn to listen better.

Back with Jolene, who is a bit stunned. I say the only thing that could possibly help in this situation. I tell her she’s a good girl, wondering how I’ll explain hitting my dog with a stick at the emergency vet clinic. I breathe for a minute and then say good girl again.

Can she come? I ask. I have no idea why I speak to Jolene in third person. Consider it a literary term of endearment. She gives a full-body shake, her go-to calming signal. Then she looks me in the eye and comes to me as I crumble to the ground. There are no marks. Her eyes are clear. Jolene shakes it off, but I’m badly bruised. It scared me more than her. Now what? We should probably be done, but I’d like a positive stopping point. So I carefully click on her leash and think we’ll just follow the sheeps a few steps.

Jolene is doing her saucy little trot. She’s interested in the sheeps and they are always interested in her, so I take Jolene at her word. The leash comes off again. I say, away. The cue to circle left and pick up the sheep. Then the best herding dog in the world quietly takes a sweet arc in that direction and eases the sheep forward. Jolene is better than ever. If I didn’t feel bad enough before, I do now. And for the zillionth time, I think I don’t deserve this dog.

But of course, I do. For all the barking, peeing, and destroying expensive things. For every single day I have shown this puppy grace, why wouldn’t she return it to me now? We live in a culture of affirmative training here. It’s just that I never get over her trust in me.

The next day, Jolene is thrilled and I’m relieved to go to scent work class, where I am not armed with a stick.

Sometimes I make an awkward, blundering, stupid mistake. The sheep don’t notice, and Jolene has more patience than I deserve. To outside eyes, maybe I look like I’m an idiot. Like my ducks are definitely not in a row. It’s a figure of speech that’s lost on us. Because we have actual ducks that are in a row.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers who receive two podcasts a week on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack(opens in new tab) or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com(opens in new tab). #deletefacebook

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School (opens in new tab) , our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.(opens in new tab)” Subscribe to our online group and join the best bunch of like-minded horse people anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously

To follow along on the written version, click here: https://annablake.com/being-the-good-horse-isnt-easy/

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover of sunsets. An …

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To follow along on the written version, click here:

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover of sunsets. An affirmative horse trainer with no YouTube videos of bu…

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We’re recuperating from last week’s clinic in Wyoming. I heard more smoke moved in the next day, so the timing was good. We wouldn’t have worked the horses if the smoke had been worse. The smoke followed me home. Some years it’s been more dense, but with daily air quality warnings, this is bad enough. A constant haze that turned the sun red at dawn and dusk. The rest of the day, the feeling of fingerprints on your glasses. Then the other things you didn’t notice right away. My eyelids got itchy. I had a congested nose and a horse throat, which means I’m calling that nasty hacking noise a nicker.

Mister is lying flat by the backdoor, looking like a deflated Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade balloon. He ignores any chatter from me. I have to step over him, and he doesn’t follow me into the backyard. It’s just too hot. Jolene says she is an all-weather harbinger of joy. Mister is too cranky to roll his eyes.

While cooking dinner, something I hate twice as much in the summer, I pulled the meat thermometer out of the drawer and opened it. It immediately read 89.5 degrees. If I were a chicken, I’d be half-cooked.

Houses of this generation didn’t have air conditioners, but when I moved here, a fan did the trick. Now it’s a summer tradition that the sky fills with smoke from horizon to horizon. Stalled weather patterns trap pollution. I always look forward to the fall, but with a little more desperation each year. Hoping for moisture of any kind as I watch the pond turn into a mud puddle. When did summer get so scary?

But there is good news! Edgar Rice Burro, who is conservative about such things, has finally finished shedding out from last winter. It’s a sure sign that fall is on the way. The dog days of summer (early July through mid-August) are almost over. I hear that school started this week, and it’s made me nostalgic for the August that used to be. The long days of riding in cutoffs. It was potato salad season, and we nurtured baby-oil tans. Even with a summer job, you had so much time that you eventually missed school. So many changes within the span of a lifetime, but I remember August. And wonder again if life didn’t take a downward turn once we stopped having summers off.

At home, the ducks continue to be distant. I worry I've lost their hearts and minds. Oh, they’ll eat peas from my hand, but if I come in to change the water, they quack up a storm and run into their house, which doesn't have air conditioning either. They have a pool now but are too shy to swim in front of me. One of the blue ducks, who is Mona Lisa beautiful, wouldn't even come out of the duck house. Nothing happened while we were gone. They are eight weeks old now, fully feathered, and ducks of the world. No longer innocent quackers. Seen in this way, fear is a sign of maturity. I'll keep trying to wear them down. The blue beauty will have a pea now, if I toss it just right.

The ducks got me thinking. Maybe the miracle is our initial, temporary innocence in this complicated world. Don’t we all develop more elaborate survival instincts as we grow up? Survival frenzy begins early for prey animals like ducks and sheep. A bit more complex and confusing for young horses. Jolene says she can’t stay a puppy forever. Right now, she is at a semi-unreliable adolescent stage. She’s full grown but not mature. In some ways, she needs more affirmation from me than ever. Sometimes filled with courage and sometimes shy. And sometimes she surprises me.

Jolene went to the vet this week. The last couple of visits were harder for her. Nothing happened. Her spay healed well. She goes to a groomer every month for her toenails. It’s more of a luxury for me than for her, but she doesn’t mind. Maybe the vet’s office has a smell she doesn’t like. The why doesn’t matter as much as our response.

This visit, Jolene was dead set against being handled. The vet, who has been with me for my last ten dogs, didn’t call a tech to hold Jolene. Instead, she sat on the floor and fed her an entire jar of baby food, one bite at a time. Then, a single serving of peanut butter, slowly, and intermingled with a handful of treats. More than what Jolene had for breakfast. The vet called her very smart a few times. Such a better description of the situation. It took thirty minutes to give Jolene a rabies shot, but my vet won’t fight with dogs in the same way I refuse to fight with horses. Somewhere in the middle of the half-hour, Jolene got the shot. She doesn’t know when.

What a relief to take the time. Wonderful that my vet cares as much about her future as I do. It’s still a fragile learning time for Jolene, and on this day, we got it right. It’s almost enough to make up for the heat. At home, Mister hadn’t moved. And I wonder if he’s at his peak of good behavior. He seems older and more things worry him now. Or is that me? Sometimes it’s hard to tell us apart.

As for herding, it seems getting sheep was just the start. It took me weeks to get the fences where they needed to be and the gates secure. I had to learn how to separate the herd into two groups of three. Not as easy as it sounds. Even now, I know just enough to know that I don’t know what I don’t know.

Then there’s the language. We all learned “that’ll do” from the movie Babe. But herding has different words for right and left. It’s not the first time in my life I’ve thought about getting right-left tattoos. For all of my astute perceptive qualities, I still don’t know my right from my left. My go by from my away. We have a couple of trials coming up, and I asked the instructor what level we should be in. With the bluntness of a saint, she said Jolene was ready for the next level, but I wasn’t. Great to have a dollop of clarity. It’s the least confused I’ve been since Eddie and the ladies arrived.

So, Jolene and I go out in the afternoon and bring the sheep in. Sometimes Jolene barks at the sheep with bravado and makes them trot on ahead. Some days the ewes are scary and Jolene wants to leave the pen. If the group separates, she speeds to return the stray. Jolene knew to do that from the start. Other days she is shy and stays closer than my shadow. But if you see Jolene sitting with a big smile on her face surrounded by sheep poop, know she is working. She doesn’t snack on the job. Jolene puffs her chest out because sheep take her seriously. Mister says it’s obviously a character flaw in the sheep. Jolene ignores railbirds. She has a job.

We are building a habit. It’s a better word than training. We aren’t perfect, but we know herding is a confidence game. We’ll figure it out, breathing and going slow. I know these are the good old days happening right now. So why hurry? The retired horses look on, giving an occasional lick and chew. They’ve seen it before.

Finally, have you noticed what’s happening? Hallelujah, can you feel it? The days are already shorter. Of course, there will still be hot days ahead, but the relentless dog days of summer have broken. The worst is past. The earth has exhaled, and evening breezes will spread the word. And here on the high prairie, leaves are starting to turn. Autumn is waking. It’s one change we’re ready for.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers who receive two podcasts a week on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com. #deletefacebook

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School, our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online group and join the best bunch of like-minded horse people anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously

To follow along on the written version, click here: https://annablake.com/calming-signals-and-what-you-cant-unsee/

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover of sunsets. An affirmative horse trainer with no YouTube videos of bucking broncs. I write humorous, heartfelt parables about animals, life, and the Fine Art of Aging Cantankerously.

I refer to women of a certain age as Gray Mares. They have a decent amount of self-confidence, along with a practical knowledge of how things should run. Blind obedience isn’t even on a mare’s list of possibles. She takes herself seriously, a concept frequently lost on geldings. And has a great sense of humor, also lost on geldings.

Every Friday since 2010, I have posted an essay on the Relaxed and Forward Blog. The blog got its name because I consider it a proper state of being for horses and humans. My books include two memoirs, two poetry books, and three creative nonfiction books. Check out my books at all online booksellers or signed copies on my website.

Find me at annablake.com, relaxedandforward.com, or right here on Substack. Beware the gray mare.

To follow along on the written version, click here:

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover of sunsets. An affirmative horse trainer with no YouTube videos of bu…

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We were at a clinic in Wyoming this week. I’m not saying it was hot, but Mister wouldn’t move from the front of the air-conditioning vent. I watch the breeze waft hair off his body in a near-mystical golden cloud. The air conditioner is doing its best on a hundred-degree day. I compare it to my 1964 Volkswagen bug’s heater, which blew on my ankles like the dying gasp of an ant.

As always, the hardest part of giving a clinic is getting past my mailbox. You know this part. It practically takes as long to get ready to go as you will be gone. This time, I’m a little worried about the Herdables. My barn helper is used to the horses and Edgar Rice Burro, but now sheep and ducks, too. I updated her two hundred pages of notes and gave her a raise.

This Wyoming barn is my all-time favorite place for a clinic. It’s not just because they have the best RV spot ever, down by the barn. It’s because we truly put the horses first, and that means calming signals are the focus. Horses set our schedule. We surrender control before we start. Remarkably, we always finish by 5 PM.

This is also where Bailey, the Labrador who taught Jolene to like big black dogs, lives. Mister impolitely differs. He is comfortably bigoted toward dogs taller than him. Mister says, you would be too if they kept attacking you like off-leash commandos. Not even in hellish dog parks, but anywhere you’d least expect it. He says, no socializing for him. He prefers the air conditioner.

This year, there is a new rescue named Dudley. The last six months have been heaven, and he doesn’t know how he got so lucky. But he has been returned before, he can’t quite trust it. They would never take him back, but he doesn’t know that, so he tries too hard. I’m besotted.

We take Jolene, Bailey, and Dudley to the indoor arena. Humans sip our cocktails and watch the calming signal conversation as we stroll, because just like horses, forward momentum is a release. Big dogs greet a bit louder than Jolene would like, so she claimed the space between my feet as a free zone. She tells them she’s nervous, they are gentle. We’ve made it to the mounting block at the far end. Yay, says Jolene. A height equalizer. She climbs up, but minutes later, they are all on the mounting block. Not her original plan.

I took dozens of photos of the three dogs over the next days. In each one, Dudley is smiling at the camera like a weird uncle, when everybody else is squinty and backward. He just wants to be okay, and for the quadrillionth time, I think we don’t deserve dogs.

Then Bailey drops and does a play bow, but Dudley gets in the way. It’s what he is good at. Again, Bailey drops, and finally Jolene darts out and right back to my feet. A couple of false starts, and Jolene remembers she can outrun anybody. Now Bailey and Jolene are zooming, kicking up sand, and fishtailing on corners. Dudley flounders along behind them. Both of the girls’ ages don’t add up to his. Eventually, the big dogs get tired, and Jolene takes the throne again.

The clinic participants all trickle in, and the clinic starts the next morning. I know everyone this time, and we all agree on Affirmative Training, so we dive right in. We love what we’re doing — sharing horses and working together. The rides are forward and people are deeply interested. I’ve been on a steep learning curve about calming signals since 2012, but going deeper with Jolene in performance work is a master-class for me. Now the sheep and ducks, extreme prey is a fair term, have made my understanding click in a deeper way about horses. The thing about listening to calming signals that we all agree on is that you can’t unsee them.

The first day goes well. The horses were communicative, and we all did some processing. After we finish the day, Jolene and the big dogs meet again. This time they zoom right away. Back to the trailer where Mister is waiting for his dinner. Mister has always excelled at waiting in the trailer.

When we were here last year, Jolene was five months old and still Mister’s dog. When I gave Jolene to Mister, I knew the day would come when she would take the lead and switch allegiance to me. Mister has never aspired to public office and doesn’t take offense. Mister demurs because it was never about dominance. He says, being the object of Jolene’s attention is exhausting.

This year, it’s harder for Jolene to spend time away from me. She has taken up interior decorating. Her style mingles a covers askew, slept-in look with a nose print texture on the windows. Like me, she doesn’t touch a thing in the kitchen. But that’s only because I have portable fortress walls to keep Mister out while I’m gone. No punishment; we are all works in progress.

It’s my first full clinic since my hearing loss. I’d like to say I’ve adjusted well, but nope. My hearing aids only work if I’m plugged into a second device. Even then, I’m disoriented with no directional awareness. I hear nothing behind me. I’m already hyper-focused on horses and riders, but add the stress of trying to hear. Luckily, I’ve trained my eyes to listen.

I have my remote mic on the rider, so I can hear her voice. I also hear her breathing and if she praises her horse. It’s strangely intimate when I hear so little otherwise. The barn owner has a hearing loss as well and also has a remote mic. We trade them, and for the first time, we can have a simple conversation, even if we’re far away from each other. Can you imagine how wonderful that is?

The day begins with Mister and Jolene zooming. Then hours of the horses taking us places we didn’t expect. Then the big dog zooms for Jolene. Perfect days.

Humans are as hard-wired as any other animal to notice what’s wrong in the picture. For prey animals, it’s looking for danger. The human version is to look for what’s not right. We constantly make judgments and draw conclusions, but if we don’t understand horses, they become more confused and untrusting. We are learning another way to train by listening to them.

Each clinic is unique and unpredictable. The human dynamics change, and working with horses always means spontaneity is required. Each day comes apart in wondrous ways, and the only reliable thing is a fabulous lunch. We venture into the unknowable, an inch at a time. Sometimes we make mistakes, but horses don’t care about that. Since control isn’t an option, we work like a herd, supporting each other. I trust this erratic process because in the end, horses always get us to where we need to be. For the quadrillionth time, I don’t think we deserve horses.

The end of each clinic, even after all these years, is always bittersweet. It’s hard to say goodbye. I let myself get attached to the horses and participants. I relive the best moments, sketch out new ideas for the next clinic. Mostly I celebrate the horses.

Then I hurry home to mine. My farm hasn’t burned down. The horizon has been gray with smoke all week. We’ve been lucky, even though it’s hard to feel good when there has been so much wildfire destruction. The horses and sheep look great, but the ducks are in a snit about the pea drought. They ignore me. I try to explain the concept of work and the cost of peas. They think peas fall from the sky. The ducks think I don’t deserve them either.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers who receive two podcasts a week on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com. #deletefacebook

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School, our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online group and join the best bunch of like-minded horse people anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously

To follow along on the written version, click here:

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover of sunsets. An affirmative horse trainer with no YouTube videos of b…

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I’m doing it again. Pretending to be Jane Goodall... you know, if she got a herd of sheep. I was born this way, to the dismay of those who thought daydreaming about animals was an immature waste of time. I guess I showed them, still doing it on the far side of seventy. Jane Goodall gave generations of girls like me validation. I like to think we carry her forward, forever with us. Maybe even watching sheeps with me now.

Some animal math: Dogs were the first animal to be domesticated somewhere between 15,000 and 30,000 years ago. Quite a shared history over eons of time. You could call dogs our greatest success, but I bet it had more to do with the dogs than our miraculous training skills. Dogs adapted to humans because at our hearts, we are both predators. We chase what we want.

Surprisingly, the second animal to be domesticated, some 4,000 years later, was sheep. They were valued sources of meat, milk, and wool. Sheep herds were a sign of wealth. I try to keep that in mind.

The earliest working dogs were livestock guardian dogs, but herding soon followed, 10,000 years ago. Or, if it’s easier to get your head around, that was 8,000 BC. Moving sheep was an important job, as humans moved on foot. Horses were not domesticated until 4,500 years later. Mister rolls his eyes. He is an old soul, so nothing is new to him.

Look at Jolene, my tiny wolf-dog. We are doing what our ancestors have done for millennia. Pretty humbling when you think about it.

The ducks are outside now, with a heated house. They’re at three-quarter feather, with areas of wispy old fuzz that make them look a little hung over all the time. They can spot when I’m carrying peas from halfway across the yard. But if I’m coming to change the water, they cringe into a corner, making themselves tight and small and too quiet. They are flighty with no wings to speak of. When I move away, they stride toward me, loudly ordering more peas. They don’t trust me. They like the peas. We’ll work it out.

The sheep come every time I yodel out, Sheeps! Eddie comes at a trot, and the ewes follow. We move in a tight clump, as if my shadow is their safe place. Yet, I am not allowed to touch them. Not at all. They don’t trust me. They know humans eat them. It’s common sense, inherited down through generations.

Beyond personality, ducks and sheep are prey animals. Survival means stick together. Run for your life, over anything in your way. The method that hasn’t evolved much, but it works for the majority. True of horses, too. Humans find it more convenient to forget this sometimes.

Sheep owners all tell me how smart sheep are, and I agree. And so are the ducks. We don’t always recognize it since prey animals use their intelligence for survival, rather than pleasing us. Putting their needs above our desires doesn’t make them stupid. Ask any cat.

Are we even measuring intelligence correctly? Notice how in every case, we judge animals by how much they accommodate us? Horses drop their heads and exhale.

It’s been sploot weather, Mister would like you to know. Belly flat to the floor, taking in any bit of cool he can find. Mister is doing all-day meditation these dog days of summer. Heat makes him spiritual. Jolene tries to cajole him into playing. Then the bitey face gets real.

It’s a heatwave. At this altitude, it feels like the broil setting. Two of the sheeps have full wool coats. Sometimes hair sheep don’t shed out and need to be sheared. Although I’ve clipped llamas for over twenty years, sheep are very different animals. I remembered shearing time from my childhood farm. From my five-year-old vantage point, a gang of men appeared one day. As if on a conveyor belt, a line of sheep arrived and were stripped in minutes, each shearer doing around two hundred sheep a day. I remember the stressed sheep being flipped, all the bloody nicks covered by blood stop powder. But in a remarkable moment of human intelligence, rather than insisting I could do it better, I decided to hire it done.

The American Sheep Industry Association has a shearer directory. I found a local member, and we set a time. The young couple came, and I immediately liked them. They raise Icelandic sheep and have been shearing for others for three years. They work as equals, taking turns shearing. The longer it takes, the more stress, so they got right to business, keeping their voices low. After quickly shearing the two ewes with full coats, they touched up the rest of the herd for good measure. Efficient and conscientious. They are trying to make a life out-of time, too. I hope they succeed.

The only drama happened before the shearers arrived. They warned me they could not shear if the sheep were wet. Afternoons are explosive here, and as their arrival time drew near, the sky went indigo dark. The sheep were in their pen, but I needed to lock them inside their shelter to stay dry. I grabbed a rake to make my arm longer and entered their pen. I felt some raindrops. When I tried to move them, the sheeps ran in all directions. The more I tried, the more nervous they became. What a mess. If only I had a trained herding dog. The wind was kicking up.

Could Jolene fake it? I walked to the house and brought her on a long leash. A physical connection gives her a bit of extra confidence when Edgar Rice Burro lowers his head and glares at her. She’s starting to be more comfortable coming to the barn, but then an intense thunderclap and the horses bolted. She was on my heel, but still walking forward. When she saw the sheeps, Jolene gave a tiny hello bark. Then all eyes were on her, and the sheeps stood in a line facing her. We went in. I said, go by, and she took an arc to the right. One sheep left the group, and Jolene darted to push the ewe back. It took a couple of tries, but the sheep went into the stall and I closed the gate.

Jolene is building perception. The instinct to keep the herd together comes naturally to her, but she also has an instinct to chase. That’s where I come in, helping to balance her instincts with her loyalty to my voice. It’s a game of Mother, May I? Two steps forward. Now wait. As intelligent as sheeps are, a dog must be quicker, smarter, but not threaten the sheep too much. It’s a tightrope. Jolene beamed, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

Chanting her song, I took her back to the house, but by the time I got back to the barn, the sheeps had broken out again. One more time the leash went on, and this time Jolene pranced to their pen. She had it done in one and stayed with me until the shearers got here.

Sheeps are geniuses on the one subject of survival. Dogs have to match wits. Jolene and I are not perfect. We make mistakes. The sheeps let us know we’re idiots. And they would know. I tell Jolene we are floundering toward greatness. After all, that was a thousand pounds of sheep, obedient to eighteen pounds of dog. Also, animal math.

When the shearers arrived a few minutes later, Jolene greeted them with wiggles, and the woman said, more than once, she’s so cute.

Jolene and I thought, that’s not what the sheeps say.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers who receive two podcasts a week on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com. #deletefacebook

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School, our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online group and join the best bunch of like-minded horse people anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously

I’m doing it again. Pretending to be Jane Goodall... you know, if she got a herd of sheep. I was born this way, to the dismay of those who thought daydreaming about animals was an immature waste of time. I guess I showed them, still doing it on the far side of seventy. Jane Goodall gave generations of girls like me validation. I like to think we carry h…

Read more

To follow along on the written version, click here: https://annablake.com/a-short-list-of-unfair-things-to-ask-a-horse/

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover o…

Read more

To follow along on the written version, click here:

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed lover of sunsets. An affirmative horse trainer with no YouTube videos of bu…

Read more

Mister, who is the voice of conservative reason and common sense, looks me in the eye. What starts as socializing a puppy quietly becomes a habit, and before you know it, you are slipping off to classes and then to dog trials. You wind up driving hours for herding lessons. You end up with ducklings in a tub in the back porch. Mister says, you have created a monster. Jolene says, how do you expect me to practice? Mister concedes the undeniable point.

This week I lost my constant companion. The one that travels with me where horses and dogs cannot go. We were together on the New Zealand beach and the red dirt of Australia. She rested on my lap on trains in Scotland and kept me company when it was time to put my aching feet up in Paris. Always in the bag that I never set down, with me in the truck, not left in the trailer. I have a large-screen desktop for online lessons, but my laptop traveled.

Computers have no loyalty. I wore the paint off the keyboard. It croaked, beyond repair, something more obsolete than me. Dragging my heels and warning the young man at the store to avoid geeksplaining, I picked a workhorse laptop. Not fancy, but so improved over the old one that I fell in love immediately. Set up in less than an hour, no drama. A gentle reminder that loss is the thing that happens so something new has room to show its stuff.

More bittersweet whiplash to think a dog follows the one before. That Preacher Man made room for Jolene. I always hate goodbyes, and mourn each loss forever. But if we can keep plodding forward, something surprising will slip in and bring us joy. If we only let it. Jolene needs no such sermons.

Bittersweet is the word that describes this age when mourning feels like a lifestyle. Making peace with loss becoming a natural state. More relationships, equal more death, equal more mourning. For years I fought loss like a cold, coughing till my eyes watered. Hacking and spitting until my ribs hurt. Now, let mourning become a soft, warm place shared with loved ones. Is there a better way to honor those who have walked on, no matter the species, than to survive? To celebrate the crazy, chaotic world with energy and stay a bit wild? And most decidedly undomesticated.

So, the ducks have a new duck house and a pen with a roof. They are marching about like penguins, all quacked-up about it. Their training is coming along; pet-able after paying the green pea toll. It’s a long-term process to tame them for herding, and it will be awhile before Jolene and I have the finesse required. But my new herding friends tilt their heads when I tell them. Are they thinking what I hope they are? Is my master plan coming together?

The sheeps were available earlier than I expected. Six, most past breeding age, but with enough dog-time that they will almost tolerate the unbalanced ways of a young dog and a novice handler. You should raise a skeptical eyebrow here. Sheeps and ducks are not known for intellectual prowess.

Editor’s note: I was told by a fellow sheep owner that the plural of sheep is sheeps. I think it’s true since the plural of dog is dogs. The AI spellcheck is taking a red pen to me, but they are humorless, micromanaging blowhards. I will not bow to their superior AI dullness and lack of wit.

I didn’t choose the sheeps. My herding instructor has a large herd and with new lambs yearly, some elders move on. I trusted her to give me the right sheeps. I expected all ewes, but there was a wether, a neutered male. He is an “Appaloosa” hair sheep with a colossal head and a little toupee on top that he is not at all embarrassed by. He was introduced as a “steady eddie,” a calm leader who would help us. Which he proved the minute they landed, and he led girls out, following me to their new pen. The unintentional name stuck. The Grandfather Horse would like you to know I’ve always been lucky with Appaloosas. A hero, Eddie is doing his best for all sides. No, I will not send him to Washington, DC. They are not smart enough to listen.

My heart aches that my friend Elaine isn’t here to taunt me about these sheeps. We would have a cackle-fest. Nobody ever teased me better. At the end, she said, make it good. And I promised.

Edgar Rice Burro was the first to touch noses. He thinks they’re goats. The ewes say, close enough. The girls are slowly letting me know who they are. Individuals who present as one herd. Prey before personality. They spent their first week staying close to each other. I turned them out, but they were too nervous to graze, despite the aroused ears-up welcome from the equines.

My instructor had asked if Jolene came to the barn with me. No, my horse training insurance has an opinion on that. And if you happen to have rescue dogs who go totally deaf at the sight of horse manure, you don’t let them in the barn either. Especially when a certain retiree has a limited sense of humor about intruders, as Edgar Rice Burro has proven repeatedly. But it’s a foundational thing for Jolene that had to be fixed. How can she work sheep if she is looking over her shoulder at a cantankerous donkey? So now she shadows me during chores, on a long leash for safety, but she keeps at my heel.

We are bringing the sheeps in at night and sorting at the gate. One through at a time. Just simple stuff, but if a sheep fleeing for its very life has not tackled you, you don’t know. They hit adults in the hip area, and you go down. If you are a kid, as I recall, you only count as a speed bump. So naturally, something spooked all six. I got bumped, barely enough for a butt fall. Rather than fight it, I let my body roll painlessly to the ground, just in time for a splendid view of two ewes leaping over me. Then Jolene came running, low to the ground like an iguana, crawling onto my chest to check for signs of life. Yay. Call it an initiation. We’re officially in.

I spent the week fixing the same fence I had fixed just the week before. The sheep and Jolene can apparently squeeze through fences like an octopus can slip through a pinhole. Edgar, impatient at the separation, shoved past me as I was securing the gate. Greeting newcomers has always been his job.

Oh, I’ve heard the whispers. The light statement followed by a nervous giggle. Jolene is spoiled, you say jokingly, but it’s time to clarify things.

Perhaps you have forgotten how this story started, all those months ago, when I was Nipping at the Heels of Despair. Give it a second read. I was in a funk. This age of letting go, sometimes without consent and sometimes to ease the load. I was reeling from losses in the barn and wondering who would be the next to go. I’m sure most gray mares ponder mortality. I asked Mister if I was being too morose, but he shook his ears no. Still, it’s a pretty sad way to spend the day, so I had to make some changes.

For the record, yes, I started taking Jolene to classes and now I’m taking her to trials, and yes, now we have sheeps and ducks. But don’t think for a moment I’m spoiling Jolene. That’s a ridiculous suggestion, when it’s so blatantly obvious that I’m spoiling me.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers who receive two podcasts a week on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com. #deletefacebook

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School, our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online group and join the best bunch of like-minded horse people anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously

Read more

To follow along on the written version, click here: https://annablake.com/scentwork-trial-jolene-meets-the-grandfather-horse/

The Gray Mare Podcast is created and sent to subscribing members twice a week. Thank you for supporting my writing. I appreciate your comments and ideas. I’m an advocate, author, dog companion, old-school feminist, and unabashed l…

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I wasn’t thinking, really. The car was packed the night before. I got dressed while Jolene walked me, room to room on my heel. She will Not. Be. Left. Mister would like you to know doing anything at the crap of dawn is not civilized. He was taking his nap after breakfast. He barely woke as we closed the door. Not even a long-suffering buh-bye.

We got an early start to the Douglas County Fairgrounds. Back in the day, there was one arena with nasty aluminum bleachers and a wooden horse barn. Bit by bit, the new construction was added, obscuring the old parts. Now it’s a huge multi-building complex that has several events each weekend. Sprawling enough that I needed a map to find my way.

We are forty-five minutes early to sign in for our AKC scentwork trial. Jolene was out first, jumping into my arms to be lowered to the ground. She’s wearing her superhero scentwork cape/harness. I’m still head-down focused on gathering everything I need. We aren’t parked close, and having to run back would be a problem, even if it wasn’t above eighty degrees already. Finally, we made our way, not that I was paying attention, cutting through parked cars to the sign-in area.

A few cars were rolling through the crowd, and all kinds of dogs were milling about with their handlers. The show office was in sight, but my legs stalled. My mind left my body. The old horse barn was right there. We had arrived from an unfamiliar direction, but now that I see it, it feels like I never left. Over thirty years ago, I brought baby-green Spirit, my eventual Grandfather Horse, here. It felt like yesterday. Later, Dodger and I came here for dressage shows. Ernest, my first donkey, won every obstacle driving class we entered right here. It’s more than hallowed ground. This ratty old stall barn was my place of dreams.

Directly across is the warm-up arena. The Grandfather Horse was a very spooky youngster and he had an equally spooky rider. I’d stopped at the edge, hoping to slow our panicked spiral. I could have cracked walnuts with my thighs, poor boy. We were on the brink of exploding when I felt my mentor’s hand on my leg. My shoulders dropped five inches. I don’t remember what she said to me, but I must’ve taken a breath because Spirit relaxed his neck. We found each other in that moment; it’s what mentors do. They assemble the sum of our parts into something bigger. I don’t remember her touching me any other time. I certainly had too much respect to hug her ever. But I think of her every day, hear her in my ear, though she has been gone for so long. I smile at the memory now, give Mona a nod, along with her border collie, Bear, always at her feet.

We turned to go sign in. Our number was missing. By the time that got straightened out, the handler’s meeting had started, fifteen minutes early. No dogs allowed, but no time to get Jolene to the truck. We stood in back and I tried to hear. Everyone left for the walkthrough, but again, no dogs. I don’t let myself think it’s a disadvantage. Jolene knows her job, and I’m only human.

We were entered in four different searches each day. Think of them like rides at an amusement park. If they’re making announcements, I can’t hear them. I do hear so much hustle and barking and ambient noise that it drowns out voices beside me. I look at Jolene. This is certainly the most chaotic place we’ve been, but there she is, parked by my feet with a slack lead.

That’s when I see an old Briard friend. She offered to videotape us, truly a gift. The three of us began with the Interior search. A quick find. Then, to Buried where the scent is under sand. Jolene acted as if there was no scent so we did not Q. Next was Containers, no problem. And then they directed us down an alley toward the Exterior search.

As we were walking, I recognized the alley, hearing the echo of hooves on pavement. This was where Ernest had his runaway. Someone behind us slammed a metal dumpster lid, and he bolted in a dead run. There’s an old teamster joke. What do you do when your team runs away? Enjoy the ride. It’s true, not much to do. I cooed whoa and softly asked and released the lines. He came back eventually. We didn’t flip.

Then we were at the Exterior search, and Jolene rocked it. (See the video here.) We ended up in first place in a class of thirty dogs.

Exiting, I saw what used to be the main show arena. It looked a bit dowdy now, but Dodger and I had the most dynamic ride there, in front of a judge who was in a lousy mood. I learned to blow off railbirds from that horse who always saw himself as invincible. Oh, we had peaks and valleys when he was young, but I always had to fly to keep up with his confidence. I still wonder if the problems in the horse world would be resolved if everyone had a chance to ride a horse who loved their job like he did. Maybe we’d finally stop fighting horses.

(I wrote about Dodger and the others in Stable Relation and in my Relaxed & Forward blog. If you’re new, check there for backstory.)

Somewhere in the middle, my friend and I walked our dogs, both of us still heartbroken at the loss of our Briards years before. Both of us wild about the dogs we have now. Hers was a beautiful Saluki girl, another ancient breed like Jolene. We may be lifelong dog lovers, but these dogs are the ones who have truly traveled far to be here today.

On day two, Jolene and I got there earlier to be better prepared. So, of course, there was a long wait. We could go back to the truck where I had all of my shade gear rigged up. Or find a place to sit inside, which was hot and noisy, but at least we had a chance of hearing when our class was called.

A woman walked up and said, you’re Anna Blake. Then walked away. Getting recognized is unnerving to me. She looked remotely familiar, but at this age, who doesn’t look remotely familiar? Later she came back, and we chatted. She’d been to a clinic years ago but didn’t have a horse now. She said, I’m 80. I have no business riding horses. I told her all of mine were retired. Later I saw her with a small dog, carrying a handful of ribbons. Still riding, if you ask me.

Finally, it was time for the novice level to start. We cruised through the first three searches, one of which was the Buried. Yay! Then we did the Exterior search and Jolene couldn’t find anything. Peaks and valleys, I tell her. But no worries. Jolene smiles either way.

I could tell the environment was wearing on Jolene as hours passed, but she stayed happy and positive. As we were waiting for our final results, a woman came up and asked if she could meet Jolene. Unlike Mister and I, Jolene always says yes. And I am thrown into my job as assistant to the ambassador of the breed. The woman says she’s watched us for a couple of days and she just thinks Jolene is the nicest dog. She wants to know about the breed. Jolene is sitting on my lap, posing while the woman scratches under her chin. Jolene is humble about her nature, her way of being. I want to scream out my feelings about her. But I follow her lead and say, thank you.

That day we did not Q in the Exterior search where we placed first yesterday. The Buried search that she missed yesterday, she found quickly today. At the end, we qualified in six of eight searches and were in the ribbons for five of them. In other words, Jolene was absolutely perfect.

This trip to an amusement park was fun, but it isn’t about ribbons. I know the real win. Jolene is easy company. We get to have each other in this life, and that makes me the winner.

We cranked up the air and headed home. Jolene isn’t a bit tired. She says, let’s do something fun tomorrow. I say, we’ll see.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to subscribers who receive two podcasts a week on Substack.

Find Anna Blake and The Gray Mare Podcast on Substack or BlueSky social media. Contact me directly at annablake.com. #deletefacebook

My books include three creative nonfiction books, two memoirs, and two poetry books. Available at all online booksellers, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me. Please consider leaving a rating or review.

Join us at The Barn School, our social and equine educational site, with member sharing and our infamous Happy Hour. Everyone’s welcome. For specific horse training advice, search 1500 essays archived on my website. Want more? Become a sustaining member, a “Barnie.” Subscribe to our online group and join the best bunch of like-minded horse people anywhere.

Ride for a new brand. Find our Relaxed & Forward and Undomesticated Women swag at Zazzle.

Women Aging Cantankerously