Excuse Me, You Dropped a Testicle

Today my baby boy Axel was gelded.  Can I just say, this little guy is the sweetest, softest, fuzziest, cutest little colt on the planet?  I swear if I could fit him on my lap he'd be in the house, on my sofa all winter.  He's about 7 months old and is a card-carrying member of the Love Bug club.  Yet, I felt no guilt or remorse when the time came to geld him.
My vet came out.  I'm really nervous around my equine vet.  1.)  I practically idolize him.  He is just so awesome with horses and so knowledgeable.  2.)  I feel most of the time that I'm a really lousy horse-keeper and he's looking at me thinking, "what.... the.... hell...?"  When you add 1 and 2, you get:  "Help I'm Talking and I Can't Shut Up" Teresa.  It's what I do when I'm nervous and intimidated.  I just blab my way out of it.  By "out of it" I mean that I confirm to the other party that they want nothing to do with me, ever. 
So Andy came out, we knocked poor Axel out, and I stood there holding one of his ropes and blabbing non-stop while Andy reefed each of Axel's teeny tiny testes out and cut them off. 
Andy and JJ got everything cleaned up and we were walking out of the round pen and a blob of something fell out of Andy's hand.  I should've just picked it up and thrown it away, without saying anything.  Even as the words bubbled to the surface and came out of my lips I knew it was a stupid-assed thing to say.  This has never, ever, not even once, stopped me before.  So I said, "Oops, you dropped a testicle!" and picked it up, shook the snow off it, and handed it to Andy.  It's not that he's squeamish or anything, but do I really know him well enough to be talking testicles with him?  Even if it is, in terms of ownership, MY testicle?
Not.  Ladylike.  AT ALL.

Pony Noses!

There is no blankie with satin bound edges that is as soft and comforting as the muzzle of a horse.

And, though my heroes (Buck Brannaman, Will James, Ray Hunt, and Robbin Wright) might all cringe to see it happen, I do love to kiss that muzzle. Wrigley doesn't object. Wrigley really doesn't object to much.




Or sometimes we just stand, nose to nose, and I gently blow into her paisley-shaped nostrils and she inhales. Then she gently blows out and I inhale. We'll do this for awhile. Her breath smells sweet, warm, grassy. My breath, on the other hand...

It's wrong, dangerous, and disrespectful even, to behave that way -- sticking my nose in her business. Or is it the other way around?





Maybe she likes people noses too. I'll ask her.

Wrigley's Report Card

Wrigley arrived green.  I wanted a project horse. 
In one month her report card looked like this:

• She can lead by her front feet (I put a rope on each foot and lead her around).
• She picks up her feet and stands nice for the farrier.
• I've ridden her about a dozen times 
• She ground ties for everything -- saddling, brushing, getting her feet cleaned, etc.
• She loads in the trailer pretty well.
• You can swing and throw a rope off of her
• She can back up in any direction

It took a lot of work from us both.   

Introduction to this Blog

I've always loved to write, but have wandered in and out of a creative fog for years. Basically, being a "writer" was a dream so distant, hazy, and unattainable that I finally shelved it.
At the same time, "falling in love with the perfect man" was also a far-away dream, so far removed from my life that I even resented those who did fall in love. I thought they were making it up, secretly settling for a good-enough partner but touting their love as "the real thing".
I met and fell in love with my perfect man. Things changed. Dreams became reality, and I remembered some shelved fantasies that might also be attainable just like that amazing love. I trained for and ran a marathon -- a dream that had been conceived and shelved 10 years before. I married my perfect man -- an inconceivable notion just a few years ago. My dream of writing was next up on the list of fantasies to be dusted off and (re)tried.
The book "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron entered my life. Two false-starts later and I'm writing. Please check out her book.
So, how can I call myself a writer? It's not like J.K. Rowling and I dine in London every couple of weeks. I haven't had a single word published (other than blogging) since 1996. But, I write every single day. Hundreds of words. The words don't have to do with work, or home, or anything day to day. They are totally the product of creativity. They come to light as a result of a lot of work, dedication, and practice. Whether or not they are enjoyed by anyone else is not the measure of my success.
Running the marathon was a very small part of my dream to run a marathon. The training was the big commitment. You have to run a lot. You have to run 5 days a week. Sometimes those runs can take hours. You do this for months. Then one day, you just run a long run, just like you practiced, and you check "run a marathon" off your checklist of things to accomplish in life.
Getting published is also a small part of my dream to be a writer. Writing, a lot, is the big commitment.
My next blog entry will be, "How much does a fiction writer make?" If you're like me, you're thinking, "Is she gonna get rich off this?" I'm wondering that, too... I'll share my plan with you in the next entry.