June 19, 2007

  It is hot and sticky in the early afternoon, and I march out with the dogs to check on things. The heat makes me anxious, even obsessive, about water, in the way mothers and fathers are nervous about what their infants might be needing, before they can speak. Animals can never really speak, not in conventional terms, so the responsibility for caring for them is sharp for me.
They can suffer for a long time before you notice it, as they do not ever whine or complain.
 In this hot and humid heat, I check the water tubs, and all are full. I change them and fill them with fresh cool water. I spray Elvis’ face to help him out with flies, but he is the only animal I have who is moving.
  The sheep are all down in the meadow gathered under the shade cover. The donkeys are lying down in the shade of the dairy barn. The chickens have dug out mud holes for themselves, jumped in and have ceased their industrious campaign against ticks and bugs. The border collies  show no inclination to go out, and are unusually still.
  I am struck, as always, by animals acceptance of things, unlike humans, who lament everything. None of the four-legged residents of the farm seem interested in forecasts, or in squawking about their discomfort. They simply settle in, hunker down, and wait for night, and in so doing, teach me much about acceptance. Perhaps we do get too much information in our human culture. The animals, who are actually out in the elements, seem  happy dwelling in the moment.