Reflections of a farm girl

2011-12-01T14:02:00.001-08:00

I have a confession to make. Sometimes I'd rather be with my horses than with people. When my world falls apart [which seems to happen often] and I feel as if I'm drowning in the void of life, first I pray, then I run to my horses, fall upon their necks and pour out my sorrows.

When I'm all alone and need something warm to hold, they're always there for me. They whinny softly when they see me coming, listen silently to my rantings—their brown liquid eyes filled with that lost look of love—then they tell me in their own way that I'll be okay: They nudge me with their velvety muzzles, blow their warm, humid breath upon my palm and my ears, and make me feel like they've been waiting for me all day and night. "I'm so glad you're here!" they say. "I've been waiting and waiting for you, and now you're finally here!"

Maybe their size alone makes me feel like, if I can control them—make them turn and run and walk and spin—surely I can control my own life. They have an uncanny way of putting everything into perspective, showing me in their gentle way that life really is simple, and I'm the one that keeps muddling it all up and making it complicated. They're honest because they don't have the ability to be any other way. Their honesty astounds me, grounds me, and forces me to look directly into the face of God.

"I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children [simple, honest, innocent], you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." My horses help me unfurl the complexities of my life; they help me back out of the maze I've created by my unwise decisions; they turn me around to face life with a renewed sense of just BEING. My horses help me to love life in spite of my own stupidity.

So this morning when I drove out in the frosty fog of dawn to their paddocks and saw their raised heads, their soft pointed ears, their eagerness to spend time with me, I felt incredibly blessed. I felt grateful that each day is a new beginning; a new chance to make wise decisions, to breathe in the simple treasures that we overlook in our busy lives, and to thank my Lord God for giving me these soft, fuzzy reminders of his love.

A Clear Shot

2010-08-11T13:06:00.001-07:00

I want to find my way back

to that clearing in the woods

with its pure shot to the Milky Way.

I don’t have a clue where I lost my way.

I glance back at my twisted path

and wonder how I missed that split in the road
between settling and speaking my heart.

Was it the day I decided to pay everything for love?
Or the day I thought I understood the reason

my father never spoke to me.

Maybe it was at seventeen

when holding my first newborn son

I vowed to love him unconditionally,

realizing it was so easy,

and wondering why my parents found loving me

so hard.

I’m longing for that place

where words don’t get tangled in the past,

where they define the moment for what it is,

not for what has been.

A pure place, unscarred by my tainted beliefs

With a clear view of the Milky Way.

Trinity

2010-06-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

Trinity

At times it’s hard to see the meldedlines

between the three:

horse, rider, heifer,

moving in unison like synchronizedswimmers,

a smooth school of salmon

speeding, sliding, turning back as one

inside a dusty sea, full tilt.

The horse called Cat, shiny andsculpted,

mane and tail splayed like thin fins,

flashes through the gritty mist

like the curve of a jumping trout,

playing for a piece of clueless prey.

The cowboy—the one who dreams

of one day winning the world—

maintains his amazement at the meetingof minds,

the oneness he feels as his leg andhand

transform into exploding equine energy

when the threebecome one.

He feels powerful yet strangely honored

to be a chosen one, to feel those few

magical moments of perfect harmony.

At night he dreams of gliding through silky waters,

a chiseled trinity moving effortlessly,

A drop of the hand, a slight nudge of the leg,

“Breathe deep and relax,” he reminds himself in hissleep,

not wanting to awake to his mortal, aching self.

And as the tide lifts him to higher ground

He drowns in the power of the cut,

slicing across the open seas to the title,

yet already feeling like a winner,

A spiritual one, at least, with horse and cow

in a timeless sea of dust.

What Just Happened?

2010-03-26T16:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I drove 35 miles to spend time with my 96-year-old grandmother, who was not feeling well. The diagnosis earlier that week was a UTI and a possible kidney infection.

When I arrived, she was in excruciating pain. Note this: she lives alone, is stubborn as a tongue stuck to cold metal in the winter, and is highly devoted to her chubby Chihuahua she calls Chi Chi. She is not easily moved from her tiny 15 x 30 trailer in a run-down neighborhood.

Chi Chi is about 8 years old now and weighs twice as much as she should. Grandma feeds her table scraps and sometimes force-feeds her, prying her mouth open and stuffing it with “dog treats,” which she keeps by the bagful beside her little rocker. Chi Chi is forced to swallow the food, and consequently has ballooned to now look like just that – a sausage-shaped balloon with four stick legs. Her legs, for lack of exercise, are hardly strong enough to hold her up.

But enough about Chi Chi. Grandma was in pain. She could not get up from her chair, and she felt awful. She felt cold to the touch and just kept getting colder. Shortly before I arrived, however, she had gotten a phone call from her doctor (so she said). This “doctor” told her that he would like to see her in his office that very day at 3:30. Note: we saw a card near her chair from the doctor that said she had an appointment on March 30. Could there be a mix-up? Not so — she swore that the appointment was for that day.

So, her neighbor and I began the process of getting Grandma up from her chair, down a set of stairs, and into a car to drive her up to the doctor. Once there, we were immediately sent from the big waiting room to a smaller waiting room, where we waited for 30 minutes before a nurse came in, took blood pressure and temperature, and asked why we were there.

“Well,” I said, “I guess your office called and wanted us to come. You should know why we’re here, since it was your idea.”

The nurse looked puzzled, and left the room for another 20 minutes. About the time I was ready to go out and have a word for making us wait so long, a nurse practitioner comes in and takes us through the same process again. “Why are you here?” She asked. Again, I told her that she needed to tell us why we were there. Note: I was already annoyed before we arrived at the doctor’s office because my Grandma had been acting like a baby.

So we talked it out with the nurse – who was very cordial. I told her how much pain Grandma was in, how she had visited a doctor earlier in the week and been diagnosed with a UTI, but that she couldn’t even stand up now.

“Hmm. Something else is going on here,” said the nurse. She poked around at grandma’s back and sides, which made Grandma mad. She claimed it hurt. The nurse decided that this was not a UTI, but something muscular or skeletal and that they would need to take an x-ray. So nurse one whisked her off to the x-ray room, and as she was leaving, turned and quietly told me to stay there because nurse two wanted to talk with me.

Nurse two finally comes into the room after about 10 minutes and told me that they had not called my Grandma, that she had called them. Go figure. The phone DID ring. Nonetheless, we were there and something was being done.

Another 15-minute wait, and the nurse came back and told me they had found a fracture in her vertebrae. They would need to send her to the hospital for a full MRI to tell how bad the fracture was.

Ten minutes later we load Grandma up and drive her to the hospital, where we spend another 20 minutes filling out paperwork. Grandma is freezing by now. We don’t know why. And her back (go figure!) is killing her.

After filling out the admission papers for the MRI, we’re sent to another waiting room to wait for the MRI. Ten minutes later, they take Grandma back to a room, where they load her onto a table that takes a better image of her spine. She cries out in pain when they load her onto the table. She is getting paler.

After the MRI, they wheel her out and tell us to wait in the waiting room for the results. While there, my aunt from Portland calls. I try to explain to her what’s going on. She doesn’t even know who she’s talking to, but seems to understand the situation.

Twenty minutes later, I get a phone call from the nurse’s station. It is nurse #2 from the doctor’s office, who had ordered the MRI. She said that indeed, the fracture in Grandma’s back was acute and that they would need to admit her to the hospital for a “procedure.” The procedure involved an injection of glue, or cement, into the bone. It was fairly non-invasive, but would require a stay in the hospital. We were directed to go to the emergency room and admit her.

Back down the hallway we go to the emergency room. We wait outside the ER for about 10 minutes, and then someone came in who couldn’t breathe. She was rushed inside while we waited another 45 minutes. By this time, Grandma was so cold she was turning blue.

When they finally admitted the woman who couldn’t breathe, we were told to go in and fill out some more paperwork. We sat in a tiny room with a nurse at a computer. We answered a lot of the same questions we had answered the first time we were “admitted”–about two hours earlier. But this time we had to give the nurse Grandma’s drug list, her health history, and all of the schools she had attended (not really – I’m just kidding on that).

After 30 minutes in that room (and by now Grandma is colder and her back really hurts because, after all, it is broken), we are taken to another admission desk, where we fill out more papers and sign our names about 10 times each. They assured me that my signature did not make me financially responsible.

After ten minutes at that desk, we are finally taken into the “Trauma Room,” where Grandma is hoisted onto a tall bed and finally given some warm blankets. She is temporarily in heaven.

Twenty minutes later the first machine was wheeled in. Another set of questions and history. Same questions. Ten minutes later another machine was wheeled in. They needed blood (she had just given blood at the doctor’s office, but that didn’t matter, they needed more). After the blood draw was an EKG. We waited about 10 minutes for that machine to be wheeled in. After the EKG were blood pressure, temperature, and then another x-ray of her chest.

Every nurse that came into the room to run a test received a cell phone call while they were working on Grandma. I had noted the sign earlier that said, “No Cell Phones.” I am not sure what that means now.

I told her that now she’d had enough radiation in a day to give her cancer. To take the chest x-ray, they made her sit up, crushing the broken bone in her back while she screamed in pain. “This will only take a second,” the two nurses said.

I began to pace. My feet hurt.

Next the doctor came in and told us, again, that they would be admitting her and that they would be doing a procedure that cemented the bones together. Grandma can’t hear him, so I repeat what he says to her: “HE JUST TOLD US ABOUT THAT PROCEDURE THEY’LL BE DOING ON YOU – THE ONE WHERE THEY GLUE THE BONE IN YOUR BACK,” I hollered.

“Oh, you already know about that?” he asked.

After all the tests, we were finally left alone. For a long time. About 30 minutes later, I told Grandma I had to go make a phone call. The truth is, I was starving. It was nearly 9:00 p.m. and I had not eaten since breakfast. I bought some M&Ms from the vending machine.

The person who had given us a ride to the hospital had left to go to a meeting. She said she would be back to pick me up later.

I called a few people and vented while I ate my M&Ms, then went back to the ER to find Grandma. By then – about 30 minutes later – they had wheeled her to her room. They said she was really mad that I had left.

I finally found her room. She glared at me. Another nurse came in and started, again, to take admission information.

“We’ve already done this several times,” I said.

“Oh, I know, but our machines aren’t connected,” she replied. “I need to bring that up at our next staff meeting.”

But then she decided to go out and see if – maybe – they had printed out any of the information we had already given them, and lo and behold, they had.

“Okay, this is great!” she said, returning to the room with a smile. “Now all we need is a little family history.”

“She’s 96 years old,” I said. “You don’t need to know her family history. I never even knew my great grandparents. What difference does it make?”

“Heee heee,” the nurse laughed. “I guess not.”

About 10 minutes later we finally finished up the paperwork and were allowed to leave. My ride had returned to the hospital, and it seemed that we were good to go. When I turned to look back, Grandma was already turned on her side and fast asleep.

I had been given instructions to take care of Chi Chi. “Now you make sure she sleeps with you tonight,” Grandma had said with a little whine in her voice. I had thought about driving home, but I needed to go back to Grandma’s anyways and pick up the dog, so I just decided to sleep there and drive home the following morning.

I climbed into Grandma’s tiny bed, and sure enough, Chi Chi was right there whining to join me.

“Okay, get in,” I said. She jumped up and snuggled under the covers. I knew she missed her mama.

Turns out the little chubby Chihuahua took up half the bed. I hardly slept all night.

Today my Grandma is having the procedure to mend her bone. The prognosis is not good. Osteoporosis is taking its toll. There’s no guarantee that she’ll be able to go back to her tiny trailer and her tiny, fat dog.

I know someday I may look back on this day and laugh. But for now, I’m still processing what this all means. Not necessarily what will happen to my Grandma after this – but what the heck happened to her – to us – that day.

“I’m never coming back here again,” Grandma said right before I left. “NEVER again!”

Words

2009-11-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

It’s funny how such simple symbols hold magic powers,

how meaning is made of what we live, see, breathe,

and how for each person a single word can mean something different.

Like the day I heard the word “drowned,”

and the day years ago when I heard “it’s a boy,”

the first dashing me to pieces,

the other lifting me to float on clouds.

And then there was the day I heard “cancer,”

and I think I crumbled at just those two short syllables.

The power of words reminds me of the spider web

in the tale of Charlotte’s Web when Wilbur the pig

hung on those words in the web

as if his life depended on them.

And in a way they did.

For some the word “horse” might conjur up fear,

but for me I feel the downy day I fell in love,

remembering her white mane and tail

and her soft velvety muzzle in my palm.

And when I say to you, “the sky was red last night,”

You might see the sky over the ocean at sunset,

making you feel all warm and dewy and filled with longing,

but I always see the sun over Moscow Mountain

on a warm summer evening,

the sound of frogs in the background,

the warm breeze lifting my hair from my neck and face

making me feel like I can fly.

Writing Memoir

2009-10-23T14:33:00.000-07:00

On paper, maybe I'll live it with a flair

and pink ink (imagine that!)

In fustian fashion, so to speak.

I’ll sit at my escritoire and re-script,

blank out the boring,

elaborate on the extra-ordinary

then white out the in-

comprehensible.

I’ll rip out those days of pseudo-psychology

spent reading definitions of dysfunctions,

fling away the dances with anger

and tango to some new tunes.

I’ll walk down that Road Less Traveled with

rubies on the soles of my shoes--

create one Grandiloquent Canon,

filled with purple patches and euphemisms.

This time the script will be a best seller

a Nobel Prize,

A second chance.

Cheryl Dudley

SillyPants

2009-10-14T12:30:00.000-07:00

Child Development

As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their first conversation,
so three-year-old children enter the phase of name-calling.

Every day a new one arrives and is added to the repertoire.

You Dumb Goopyhead,

You Big Sewerface,
You Poop-on-the-Floor

(a kind of Navaho ring to that one) they yell from knee level, their little mugs flushed with challenge.

Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out in a pub,
but then the toddlers are not trying to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.

They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants.

The mature save their hothead invective for things:
an errant hammer, tire chains, or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,

even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed

for his appalling behavior,

that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,

their wives are Dopey Dopeheads

and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants.

Billy Collins

Alaska

2009-09-18T09:11:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorite scenery photos of my recent trip to Alaska. The glacier in the foreground is Margerie Glacier.

Our Old House

2009-09-17T15:56:00.000-07:00

Our Old House

When I drive by I always think I see me

standing in the large picture window waving,

wishing I’d stop by and have a cup of Russian tea.

But it’s only a wish--

because I didn’t really want to leave,

and when I drive by, smell the row

of lilacs I planted along the road,

see the gray smoke curling from the chimney,

I want to pull in and stop,

pretend I never left, unload the groceries,

stoke the fire, straighten the photos on the wall

and wash the dishes that have stacked

by the sink for ten years.

You’d be there, too, in your blue pajamas

asking for a story. We’d climb the narrow

staircase to your room and turn on the lamp,

listening for a moment to the frogs outside,

that bellowed thousands strong.

I’d read your Sweet Pickles books

and sing that Bumble Bee song you loved.

Then we’d lie quietly and never grow old,

while time went on without us, down

the dusty country road, slipping over the horizon,

leaving a soft orange glow for us to read by.

The Power of Story Telling

2009-09-03T09:48:00.000-07:00

I just received a phone call from a friend who has a story in my new book "Horses That Save Lives." She called to tell me how overwhelmed she was when she received her book. When she read her story, she burst into tears.

In the course of our talk, she shared with me that she and her husband were getting ready to auction their belongs and sell their house. They didn't have any money and she was worried that they would end up on the streets. The bank was threatening to foreclose, so they hoped to sell before that happened. She also hated to leave the grave of her horse--the one who saved her life.

Then she asked me if I would write her life story. She said that some of it was really terrible. Of course, I knew that she suffered from agoraphobia because of severe child abuse. But I only know a tiny portion of her life. I told her I would be honored to tell her story.

I've received many phone calls like this from my storytellers. They all share a commonality: telling their story has empowered them. It has given them hope that they might help someone else--that perhaps their suffering has been worth it all.

I am so grateful for all who contributed their stories to "Horses That Save Lives." This blog isn't intended to try and sell the book--just to share with you what a wonderful journey it's been working with these people.

And for my friend who may soon be homeless--what can I say? As I pushed the red button on my phone and ended our call, I sat for awhile and thought about her and counted my blessings.

God bless you my friend.

A Day on the Farm

2009-09-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

2009-08-26T08:02:00.001-07:00

Some Favorites

2009-08-25T12:49:00.000-07:00

Picking Wawawi Berries

2009-08-18T15:52:00.000-07:00

Picking Wawawi Berries

I move cautiously through thorny walls,

while plump black nobs plop

into my palm, gifts

from the Wawawi swamps

along the shores of the Snake River

in Washington.

Sticky juice drips from my fingertips,

splatters across my footpath—

for some odd reason

reminding me of absence.

The striped scars across my belly,

like those on my thorn-scraped arms,

declare the price I've paid, serve as reminders

of our together time here, my sons and I,

when they were fresh with reverence.

Now I am alone on this mission

and they are grown.

But the stripes are nothing.

These twisted vines tear at my arms

like memories that fail to fog, brambles

that won't let go.

The yellow tub fills

slowly with small sun-warmed bodies

that will burst into jars of jam and later

snuggle into a suitcase for them.

Their tartness

tastes of loss.

The red stains beneath my nails, like longings

to retrieve one fraction of our time here,

will rinse away under the cool spring brook.

And they may smile and thank me, never

understanding the cost.

My best poem

2009-08-12T15:41:00.000-07:00

Love Potion

2009-08-04T15:37:00.000-07:00

“She found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild, and manna dew, and in language strange she said—I love thee true” John Keats

The only time he stayed for dinner

she cooked shashlik of skewered green peppers and lamb,

chapiti, and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

They smiled over long-stemmed crystal filled with

retsina, and shivered as its warmth slithered

into the deep crevices of the night.

For breakfast she baked halvah and honey,

sprinkled with crushed sesame seeds, and peaches

from the farmer’s market. They smiled over

hot chicory spiced with sifted cinnamon and he

laughed as she waved from the porch

in her white ruffled apron.

As he rattled away in his rusty Ford truck,

he tried to understand why she didn't just order out Chinese

or pizza with a cold Corona or Rainier.

***

She didn’t touch the crystal for a week after he left,

the chicory in the cups dried up and drifted away

in the breath of each new day leaving a stain,

but the few drops of wine in the crystal

thickened like glue.

I don’t understand, she thought, when he never called again.

Perhaps he preferred a vintage from Spain

with tapas instead.

Down Time

2009-07-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

In writing an article about one of our retiring professors at the University of Idaho College of Education, I came across this quote by him that struck me. Having just returned from a week of "down time," I felt like sharing this:

"I don't believe that one can survive in this world without down time, and plenty of it, an opening that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside of us that fuels creativity and quality of life. My intuition and years of being part of the earth suggest that what we call "doing nothing" is when human beings actually do their best thinking, and when creativity comes to call."

Yes, yes, yes. I know that, for me, it is only in the quiet moments that I find my creativity and where I can hear God speaking. It is only in the quiet moments when I find my footing and feel grounded. It is only in the quiet moments when I know who I am.

Perhaps it is not too late to grasp the gift of boredom ... where we have the opportunity to explore the inside of our minds, to contemplate, to toil, to think. Turn off the music, the TV, the computer and bask in peace.

What She Carries

2009-07-22T09:27:00.000-07:00

This poem is modeled after an award-winning collection of stories by Tim O'Brien called "The Things They Carried," which is about Vietnam Veterans. My poem is about Mothers.

What She Carries

She always carried binkies, teething rings, rattles,

plastic books, thermometer, bottle of liquid tylenol,

pampers, wet ones, blankets, his blue knitted cap,

and her secret awe of motherhood.

She always had an empty bottle

and one filled with apple juice,

powdered formula, creamed carrots,

pureed pears, biscuits, fold-up stroller,

her worries and hopes, a continual nursery rhyme

replaying in her head,

and stretchmarks in places

she never expected.

In her purse she carried two keys—

one to her car and one to her apartment—

gum and breath mints, black tube of chapstick

two terry bibs, a small metal case of aspirin

and her credit card to Baby’s World.

She carried an empty womb,

the memory of his birth:

the pain bigger than K2.

She carried dreams for him,

and sometimes late at night—when she had the time—

she pulled them out, smoothed the wrinkles

and took a few minutes to linger on their sweetness

before she heard his soft whimpers and rushed

to his bassinette and studied his tiny silhouette,

her tired arms hanging empty at her sides,

aching.

A Prison Visit

2009-07-08T11:04:00.000-07:00

A Prison Visit

An academic examination of a favorite lullaby

“I wondered about you the day you told me,

you tied the white cradle

in the treetop

and left it there to rock in the breeze.

I pictured the baby,

tiny face peering from soft

flannel shawls, bundled

warm against the stiff breeze.

And I almost said—but I didn’t—

‘what the hell are you thinking?’

Instead, I sat and listened to you sing

your stupid song and got all caught up

in its catchy, morbid rhymes

and didn’t say a word.”

Guardian Angels in Action

2009-06-30T08:29:00.000-07:00

It was one of those it-seems-like-eternity-minutes that you replay time and again and imagine all the "what ifs" that could have sent you to the promiseland. I suppose all of us can recall a time when there were split seconds between hello and "this could be it." It shakes you up a bit. And it makes you grateful for guardian angels.

Yesterday I had one of those moments. When it started, I didn't realize the situation I would be placed in, but I knew I had to take action fast. I don't even want to think about the consequences had I not placed myself in grave danger.

It was a beautiful day. A friend and her baby had come out to ride horses with me. I rode Buddy with 17 month old Emma and my friend rode Sophie--my bomb-proof horse. The ride went well and uneventful. I ended up giving my friend some riding lessons in the round pen after we rode around in the pastures for awhile. I dismounted Buddy and tied him, put little Emma in a baby pack on my back, and stood in the middle of the roundpen and gave some riding pointers to her mom. When we were finished, we tied Sophie opposite Buddy in a small pen between two buildings. We went to the house to relax and drink a DP.

After about 20 minutes, my friend said goodbye and I went out to unsaddle the horses and put them away. Now, I thought, I can finally get a little R&R, which I really needed after my long and busy weekend.

Picture this: a small enclosed pen about 30 feet by 20 feet with a barn on one side and a shop on the other. Two horses tied at opposite ends facing away from each other. Four gates that all lead out into different pastures/arena/or driveway. All gates closed. Horses calm. Near one gate a saddle cart on wheels used to easily transfer tack.

I decided to unsaddle Buddy first. Placed the saddle and blanket on the cart along with bridle, halters, brushes, fly spray, spurs, ropes. Walked over to open the gate next to Buddy and roll the cart out to the tackroom and unload it and then back and unsaddle Sophie.

The gate to the tackroom swings out towards Buddy. I couldn't hold onto the gate and pull the cart through at the same time, so I let go of the gate for just a second. BIG mistake. When Buddy saw that gate coming towards him--he became terrified, even though the gate was small and would not have reached him. You'd have thought that small gray gate was a large black bear.

Picture this: horse tied to fence, pulling back with all its strength, rearing and losing all sanity in small enclosed pen with another horse close by. This is a train wreck waiting to happen. I had forgotten about Buddy's tendency to pull back. Buddy is Don's cutting horse, and he had given me permission the day before to ride him. My mind quickly processed the scenario of telling Don I had killed his beloved horse.

Little did I know, the rodeo was just beginning.

The next thing I heard was an enormous "crack" as the section of fence Buddy was tied to came loose and went flying towards him. Already terrified horse was now willing to do nearly anything to get away from the fence, which to him was probably a teeth-baring wolf after him. By now the saddle cart had tipped over backwards and tack was strewn everywhere. Buddy was backing as fast as his legs could move, fence faithfully following--directly towards Sophie.

I was processing the situation ... analyzing in horror what was probably going to happen next.

Sophie panics and begins to pull back. She's twice as big as Buddy ... a huge Thoroughbred/Appaloosa of about 1350 pounds. But I had tied her to a railroad tie post ... thank heavens. Or maybe not. I imagine her thinking in her mind "don't bring that thing over here by me!" But that's exactly what Buddy did.

He circumvented Sophie's big behind and backed himself underneath her head and halter rope, which she was desperately trying to free herself of--pulling back and stomping with all her strength.

My mind quickly processes telling Don that my horse has also been killed. I hated to see how it was going to happen. Blood everywhere, broken bones, horses squealing in agony. My heart, broken.

Now picture this: two horses tangled up together, one securely tied to a railroad tie, the other tied to a traveling fence. Both terrified. Buddy is now backed into a corner. The only way he can move is to pull the fence section underneath Sophie and back around her other side--a narrow slot between Sophie and the shop. He's stopped temporarily to think about his next move, Sophie is puffing in anticipation for the next round.

Of course when he stopped, so did the fence--which now was lying on the ground very close to Sophie's huge size two shod feet. By now 45 seconds have passed since the fence broke loose. Both horses are quivering and breathing fast and heavy--ready to explode at the smallest movement. And I knew that the next series of movements would be disastrous.

"Now or never," I said to myself. I had to save them. Take a deep breath, now walk calmly over. Act like this is all normal, everyday stuff. One stupid movement and I could be trampled in a heartbeat.

I slowly bent down dangerously close to 2300 pounds of terrified horse flesh whose only way out of the situation was over the top of me. But I had to do it. And I knew that. And I think they did, too.

I carefully untied Buddy's rope from the fence. Luckily, I had tied it so it took just a slight tug to loosen. Next was untangling him from Sophie without either of them getting in a panic again. Move carefully and slowly ... breathe deeply ... stay calm. "You're okay ... everything's okay," I said, trying to convince myself as much as the two of them.

I couldn't untie Sophie because Buddy had lodged himself between her and the fence, and it would be too risky, so I had to quietly encourage Buddy to come back out underneath Sophie's head and lead rope and past that terrifying fence on the ground. At any moment Sophie could have decided to pull back again, which would have trapped Buddy, or scared him enough to trample me. But she didn't. I patted her neck softly and said quietly, "it's okay, girl." She breathed a deep sigh and relaxed. Buddy quickly moved underneath Sophie's head, which she was holding up high, and dodged the scary fence on the ground.

During this huge commotion, our hired hand, Kenny, had come running. He knew enough to stand calmly ... to not inject anymore energy into the situation than was already there. "When I heard all that commotion, I had no idea what I'd see when I walked around the corner," he said later.

We inspected both horses carefully and couldn't find a scratch on either one. Buddy was a little jumpy when I put him away, but Sophie was quiet and trustingly nonchalent. I like to think they both trusted me enough to deliver them from danger. This is not the first time I've run to Sophie's aid, so maybe she believes I'm her hero. It's a nice thought amid all the scary ones I have when I think about it.

I also like to think that these events happen to teach us lessons. I learned a lot from this incident ... more than I can write here.

Thinking back, I like to envision guardian angels hovering overhead. It wasn't my day to get kicked in the head literally, but maybe metaphorically. Maybe it was my day to learn to be more grateful for life and for all my many, many blessings. Amen.

So--all of you, my friends and family, be safe this summer and don't forget to count your blessings every single day.

Spermatozoon Race

2009-06-26T15:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm a bit hesitant to post this because of the subject matter. But you have to understand where I'm coming from here. I studied reproductive physiology for a couple years, where this topic was as casual as discussing gardening. The poem is published in a college textbook for pre-veterinary students and is meant to be educational while slightly humorous. Please forgive me ... if you think you need to.

The poem is intended to read fast and without hesitation ... just as the race ... The zona pellucida is the soft covering of the unfertilized egg. And the truth is--the first little spermatozoon to arrive is the only one that gets through the barrier.

I love that term. Zona Pellucida. It sounds kind of exotic ... just like the race.

Spermatozoon Race

"The penetration of the zona pellucida by a spermatozoon is believed to be a rapid process and probably takes no more than a few minutes" Dr. P.L. Senger Pathways to Pregnancy and Parturition

Half-frenzied, thick and slick

and treacherous through vast dark tunnels

as motile and penetratingly

zona-bound as any race ever

none other is so victim-laden

so masked by drunken seizures

or pleasures of full-bodied assaults.

The tadpoles’ mad dash

is like an escaped madman

a drowner driven to oxygen

the journey a seas-width heat

to life or death.

When they jolted over the barrier

she didn’t realize a race was on

yet in her own primordial way

she cheered for them, provided secret

privileged pathways through crypts

too difficult for most—whose dead,

flat-floating bodies cluttered the way.

The lone victor slithered through, sensed

the trophy ahead—the zona seducing him to dip

in her warm waters, melt into her soft globe.

(The courtship was only long enough for him

to work his way through her pellucida).

A quivering union formed

primitive cords that proliferated

time and time and time again,

swelling to fill the primed pear-palmed

womb where the victor celebrated

—and the genesis began.

Forever

2009-06-24T12:42:00.000-07:00

Forever

I want to understand eternity,

to feel its weightlessness

and imagine no ending

as an eternal and colorful improvisation.

But I don’t want to go there.

Right now I imagine forever

as a floating seed that never germinates.

Lost potential,

Wasted time.

I feel more comfortable

in this membrane where living

means doing and not just being.

Because that’s what I think forever is—

Just being.

Here I know what to expect.

I know that to cut

means to bleed. I know pain.

And my sorrows are woven

into my wounds like a tapestry

that I clutch safe to my soul.

I don’t want to let go of sorrow

because I’ve earned it—and when I reach

eternity there will be no more tears.

I don’t want to stop crying.

I’ve schooled myself to push against

the empty pod of my existence

like an unborn kitten clawing

the sheath of its enclosure.

I don’t really want out.

I’d like to stay here and prick

at my right to preserve what I know.

I even feel sorry sometimes

for those who got out.

But then I think that the getting out

has to mean more

than I can comprehend.

I entertain the idea that those who left

stepped into an existence

that transcends my idea

of “mere being.”

While I curse time for drowning me,

I curse forever for leaving me

no boundaries of security.

So for now I just want to imagine forever

but never have to go there.

I want to hang here where sorrow means I’m alive. And I’m good at that.

Cheryl Ann Dudley

August, 2007

Gus: The Horse Who Could Read Minds

2009-06-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

We knew Gus was a good horse the first time we saw him when he was two years old. He could sidepass, step through tangled ropes without a fuss, and back at full speed.

“We’ll take him,” we said to the owner, without a second thought.

We brought the tall bay gelding home and set him out on 15 acres of grass. He never gave us much trouble, and riding him was a joy. Gus could trudge up steep hills, bust through brush and small trees, and cross deep water. He could also read our minds.

The first time we realized our horse had such talent was soon after we purchased a feisty little mare. We led her into the hilly pasture, which had a creek running through it, and decided to see how she liked water. Gus was there to watch—all ears and eyes. I led the mare down to the creek and stood for awhile to see how she’d respond. She sniffed the ground and water, so I stepped in, then across the water to the other side. I let the rope out as I walked, giving her a chance to follow if she wanted.

I was now on the opposite side of the creek as the mare, holding the rope firmly. She dug her feet in the deep mud. Before I knew it, Gus was right there next to the mare. He nudged her with his big head, then crossed the creek, spun around, and stood next to me looking at the mare. When the mare didn’t respond, he crossed back over, nudged the mare again—this time a little harder, and waited for her to move with him across the water and up the bank behind me.

My husband and I looked at each other in amazement.

“Did you just see that?” we both said in unison.

From that point on, Gus and Fancy were inseparable. We’d go out on rides together and he always had to know where she was, and vice versa.

In spite of all his fine qualities, though, Gus had some problems. He wasn’t a natural athlete and always walked heavy on his forehand. He also had a bad habit of pawing at things, like he thought he had hands.

One weekend we left town, and when we returned there was a message on our phone. Gus had been hurt. Apparently there’d been a herd of horses loose, and Gus had pawed at the barbed wire fence. It had tangled around his foot and severed a ligament. When our friend found him, he was down and couldn’t get up—his leg badly mangled.

My husband got Gus to his feet and to the barn. He spent several weeks at the veterinary hospital with a sad prognosis: we may never ride him again.

Right away we moved the horses to a pasture with no barbed wire fences, and Gus was confined to a stall where we could clean and rebandage the wound every day.

A few weeks before the accident, we had decided to breed the mare and try our hand at raising a foal. As Fancy’s belly grew and stretched, Gus became more and more mobile on his front leg. The following spring, we let him out into the pasture and watched him run and buck—only to be so sore the following day he could hardly walk. This went on for weeks until he finally learned to be more careful. By mid-summer and close to foaling time, Gus was walking, but fairly stiff-legged.

We prepped the stall for foaling and watched Fancy carefully.

One morning I decided to go out early and check on Fancy. Her foal was due in three weeks, but she was showing signs already. Just to be safe, I tossed my camera in the car and drove down to the barn. I got out and scoped the pasture for her. There she was—far at the bottom of the pasture, which sloped down to a grove of trees. Then I spotted the foal. And sure enough, there was Gus with his head stretched over the fence nickering to his new buddy.

I raced to the bottom of the pasture and welcomed a tiny bay colt, shaky and skinny and trying to get to his feet. I stayed half the day until the sun started to burn my arms. I brought down buckets of water and grain for Fancy, and sat in awe at this new life. Every time I turned around, there was Gus, ears up, eyes wide, neck stretched taut.

We kept Gus separated until we felt it was okay to put the horses all together.

Fancy and the foal were down in a lower pasture when we let Gus loose. Fancy was a protective mother, but she had always let us do whatever we wanted with the foal with no concerns. I wondered how she would act with Gus.

We stood near the barn and watched the scene unfold. Instead of running to the mare, Gus began to run another direction. When he got fairly far away, he turned towards Fancy and stopped. He was several yards away from her. He stood tall, his neck and tail arched, and at that point I believed he was one of the most beautiful horses I’d ever seen.

Fancy raised her head and looked at Gus. The two looked at each other for a few seconds, then Gus turned and walked away. Fancy followed with Woody taking up the rear. Gus never once approached the foal without Fancy’s permission.

Over the weeks, Gus and the foal developed a relationship. While Fancy would let her son get away with anything—Gus wouldn’t put up with nonsense. But he always disciplined in a gentle way.

The next two years we watched Gus go through ups and downs with his leg. He would get stiff in the winter and limber up when the weather warmed. He tried to keep him comfortable as possible. Then one day we had the dreaded discussion. We knew that someday we would have to put our beloved Gus down.

That day came sooner than we’d hoped. The following spring we noticed that Gus was depressed. He would stand near the barn and look out across the Palouse hills for hours. When he walked, we could tell he was in pain.

I got the call at work one day.

“Today is the day,” my husband said.

“I’m going with you.”

I raced home, and as we drove to the barn together, we couldn’t talk. We drove Gus to the vet hospital and stood with him to the end, his head cradled in our laps.

Fancy and Woody looked for Gus and we’d often see them staring out across the hills, just as Gus had done those last few weeks of his life. Perhaps he was out there, somewhere, running free as the wind.

As for Woody—he’s much like his uncle Gus. Kind and spirited, with that extra human quality we find so amazing. We’ll never forget the horse who planted such a deep root in our hearts. We have a photo of him on our wall—the Palouse hills stretched out before him. He’s looking back at the camera as if to say, “It’s time for me to go now. See where I’m going?”

2009-06-19T10:10:00.000-07:00

My new book "Horses That Save Lives" will be released September 1, 2009. It is now available for pre-sell on Amazon.com or via my website at http://www.legendaryappaloosa.com.

The book contains 24 stories of true life experiences. I have to say that I met some amazing people while writing this. To hear of their struggles and of the important part horses play in their lives left me awestruck at times.

I hope you will enjoy these inspirational stories of heartache, danger and survival. Let me know your thoughts.

Rescuing bunnies

2009-06-19T08:23:00.000-07:00

Call it my maternal instincts. Last night while working in my garden I saw our Australian Shepherd dog go tearing by me with something brown and dangly hanging from her mouth. I called out her name.

"Sadie!"

She stopped and dropped her prey from her mouth and gave me that "I didn't mean to do it" look. I ran over and saw the tiniest bunny ever on the ground--apparently dead. I felt sad. But upon closer inspection I saw that it still had a tiny glint in its eye and a few jerks left in its pencil-thin legs. I picked it up and cuddled it, trying to warm its little body, murmuring to it something like, "you'll be fine now." But it wasn't. After stowing it in a box with a blanket and a few blades of grass, it stretched out flat and died. Again--I felt sad and let Sadie know that baby rabbit mauling was just not right.

Back to the garden to pull weeds and think of how I could install a mesh fence to keep out the rabbits when again I see Sadie run by in a flash with another baby bunny dangling from her mouth. This one was nearly gone when I rescued it and it soon joined its sibling in the deceased bunny box. When she showed up with Bunnies Three and Four, I was a little quicker to respond and a little more savvy as to how to save their fragile lives. This time I put them in a bucket filled with grass and hid them away in the dirt-floor barn where it was quiet and dark. When I went back to check, they were both quite perky.

As I continued my garden work, I recalled a day years before when I rescued a baby mouse. We had just moved back to Idaho and into a mouse-infested house that we were "fixing up." Having grown up on a farm, not much bothered me--but the night a mouse woke me up by running across my face, I was a little freaked. I crawled out of bed and set a mouse trap. A few minutes later it snapped. This was repeated several times that night, and for several weeks after moving in, cleaning up after mice was an everyday occurrence.

But then one day, there it was in a trap--the tiniest mouse on earth. Its big liquid eyes seemed to plead with me to do something--anything to set it free and give it another chance. So I did. I picked it up, cuddled it, and snuggled it into a shoebox with a fluffy blanket and a mason jar lid full of birdseed. It thrived until the day I decided to take it out into the field--far from the house--and set it free. As I nudged it out onto the ground, it curled up into a little ball and refused to move. It broke my heart. I pleaded with it to forgive me and put it back into the warm box and into the house. Later it escaped out of the box and into the house--no doubt to be caught again in a trap. So much for my good intentions.

So what is this deep down instinct that drives me to save the young and the innocent? My reproductive physiologist friend would tell me it's hormones. But I like to think it's more. I like to think that I'm compassionate when I see the hurting. When I held those tiny bunnies in my hands last night, I guess I humanized them because I honestly believed they were terrified and wanted their mother and their siblings. Their world was suddenly turned upside down and their security had vanished. I hurt for them.

Then I think of me and how secure I feel in my own little world. What would I do if it all vanished in an instant? What would I have to hold onto? What would it feel like to live in a war-torn country? And just how often do I think of those who face death and insecurity every day?

How compassionate am I really?