Step by step, we are working with Simon and Rocky to get them acclimated. There is no simple or quick way to do this. This morning, we let Rocky out and Simon came right up to him. They spent five minutes sniffing and circling one another, and then when Rocky moved towards Lulu and Fanny – he was just trying to get to the pasture – Simon’s ears went back and we separated them again. This is how it is, bit by bit, step by step. The first priority is to protect Rocky
Simon is much easier around him than he was. We are not ready to put them together without us being there yet. Maybe in a week or so. Each day we look for small opportunities for Simon to get used to this new and strange male presence. Today was a big step forward.
If you followed the jazzy interactive weather map on the Ipad, then it seemed that Sandy sailed right over our farm. We were fortunate. The storm brought driving rain and strong, howling winds but did little damage here. We did not lose power. We got the animals into their stalls, coops and barns, filled buckets and tubs, distributed water and hay, picked up potential flying debris, then I made dinner and we unplugged everything and sat down and read and talked. It was nice, although we were both mindful of the suffering we were hearing about, even then. I hate to think of New York underwater. But I wanted to try and do something creative, hemmed in as we were by the weather. So I made a movie of the farm just before, during and after Sandy came sailing over us. Tried to catch the feel of us the place.
Sandy turned out to be a gift for us, a homecoming, an affirmation of the great work Ben has been doing. The barns were dry, the roof didn’t leak, we were able to handle the animals so they could be dry, warm and safe. This, I suppose, is how life is. Had Sandy veered a few miles one way or the other, we could have been those poor stunned people in those videos. Here, instead, is mine. Come and see.
How does a donkey deal with a hurricane? Yesterday, Simon was at the feeding Ben when a huge, window-rattling gust of wind from Sandy – the strongest of the day – came blowing across the pasture. It blew the hay right out of the feeder and sent the sheep running for the pole barn. Simon simply lowered his head right into the wind and kept it there until it died down. He was almost staring it down, daring it to keep coming. It stopped. He got the hay off the ground and ate it.
The acclimation of the donkeys’ into Rocky’s life goes on. In the morning, the donkeys go into the sheep pasture and Rocky grazes. In the evening, Rocky goes into the stall and spends the evening nose-to-nose with the donkeys but with a gate in between. This process is time-consuming but necessary, I think.
Simon and Rocky are aware of one another. They smell each other, hear each other. Rocky is very calm and fixed in his routine. He gets grain the morning, grazes in the outer pasture all day, returns in the late afternoon for more grain. He does not seem to want or need to flock, pays no overt attention to the donkeys or Simon if they are leaving him alone.
I put myself between the two, as if to show Simon how to be. I talk to Simon, give him treats around Rocky. He does not ever go after Rocky if I am there, only if I am not. So the two will not be alone for some time if Maria or me are not around. Simon does seem easier around Rocky, not as charged up. My rule is simple: because he is blind, Rocky has to be protected, as he can not protect himself.
My instincts say we are making progress, but that it will take more time. Tomorrow, I’ll let the two of them out together in the same pasture and sit with Red in between them. He and I sat out there for nearly an hour today, and sitting in the wind still blowing from Sandy, it felt like a meditation. Perhaps it is.
I have come to feel that I am a part of this equation somehow, not quite sure yet how. I always tend to underestimate my role in these animal challenges. When I am out there, it is as I wish it to be. Simon pays attention to me, when Rocky comes near, he looks at me, not at Rocky. If I say “no,” or shake my head, he backs off. Rocky does not seem to care, at least not in any way I can see. I am certain he does not want to be kicked or bitten or butted into a fence.
People who love animals are not distractable or deterrable. Their passion for animals transcends politics, storms, wars. I remember going to Omaha for a reading the night the recession hit and I was astonished to find a full house in the bookstore much more eager to talk about their dogs and cats than hear about the economy. This morning, as much of the nation reeled from Sandy, my inbox was flooded with messages about Mother, our barn cat who disappeared a week ago. Some people just keep their priorities straight, and cat lovers are one of the most intense and dedicated subcultures in the animal world. I appreciate them for it. Such passion is admirable to me, not annoying or intrusive.
Mother has been gone for nearly a week now and many of the messages I get – from all over the world – urge me to not to give up on Mother or forget her. Many also ask me to consider the idea that she will return to Bedlam Farm. That is not a new idea or suggestion for me, I am aware that some cats do that. We return to the farm regularly and we have a caretaker there, so if Mother returns, we will know about it. We live with barn cats up here, as do our neighbors and we know them well.
As always, and with respect for people’s love of Mother – no greater than mine – I want to be honest about how I feel about her leaving. She is almost certainly gone for good. While it is possible she can cross busy roads, fields and rivers and make it 10 to 12 miles to Bedlam, it is not likely, and despite conventional wisdom, it is not all that common. Barn cats disappear all the time, and very few make it back to their former homes. I know it has happened to people, but that does not make it likely or probable.
Secondly, I will never give up on Mother, and it is an odd idea to me. If Mother returns here or to Bedlam Farm or anywhere else I know of, she will always be welcome here. My life is complex, and I am wary of drama, and the perpetual search for a missing barn cat – a hopeless quest if I ever heard one – seems like one of those things that exists apart from the reality of life. The Disney Corporation has made lots of money promoting romantic ideas about animals who cross thousands of miles of terrain to make it home. It is about as likely as a monster Hurricane coming right over my farm and not harming a thing. (Yes, that was yesterday’s small miracle.)
My life is filled with responsibilities, happily. I am heavily engaged in life, as someone told me yesterday. I have a blind pony, three donkeys, three dogs, another barn cat and chickens to feed, water, watch over. I spend an hour a day with Simon and Rocky trying to help them acclimate (more about that later). The chickens constantly get into the barn and eat Minnie’s food (as does Lenore). My dogs need to be trained, walked. Frieda needs to be restrained from chasing trucks and eating sheep. Red needs to work. Minnie needs attention and calming. Sheep need shearing. I need to write my books, take photos, put up my blog and be a good husband to my wife. Plus we are moving still and have two farms to worry about.
People ask me all the time how I manage my life, and this is one way: I don’t engage in perpetual mourning or in perpetual crisis or drama. I resolve them and accept them and move forward. Animals that can’t exist here leave. My farm is not a rescue facility or a veterinary clinic. I love the animals here and care for them but Mother will either return or not, and there is not much I can do about it, any more than I can stop a hurricane from barreling up the Hudson River. I would be thrilled if Mother returns, but my own experience and instincts tell me she is gone, and I will never know what happened to her. That is not the Disney story, but it is the common story of the barn cat. It is real life with real animals. So I am letting her go and if she appears in my life, I will love her just as much. I appreciate your messages and they are meaningful to me. But barring something surprising, I won’t be writing about Mother again, unless it is in a book.
