A Donkey and Daffodil

Wrapping up a whirlwind month, I present a donkey and a daffodil. Elenia looked rather serene yesterday evening, working her way up a hill of dirt. In juxtaposition to the beautiful yellow harbinger of Spring, it was an idyll too good to miss.

Everyone is in good stead for the most part, with the horses still shaggy from their miserable winter of wind and wet and the donkeys just a wee bit more furry than usual. Everyone is poking about, looking for the new grass during the day and escaping under trees, boughs, and block shelters come evening to avoid the inevitable dousing. This has been an extremely wet winter here in Ireland, which probably has much to do with this behaviour.

We’ve spent the time hiring out another skip, filling it with the various bits of detritus and junk that the previous owners left through their “management” (implied very loosely) of the farm. In most cases, we’re simply cleaning up buried trash, the remnants of a casual dismissal of custodial responsibility for the land. In others, we’re cleaning the house, getting ready for those moments that come next, out with the old and refusing to backfill with more junk.

Hay and straw were delivered yesterday, and the barn was restocked for the next month. Our new process with the horses involves bringing them in each night to the barnyard, out of the muck and mire of the fields, to help them dry out more. Cleo is looking a bit ribby these days, so she’s back on some dedicated mash to add much-needed calories. She also refused to wear a rug all winter, so she burned through whatever she ingested during the day. It’s always a balance with her.

Maggie and Womble, the child and mother that they are, are still food bullies, so we have to separate Cleo from them during the early feed. Thank God for stall doors, though they’ve posed their own set of problems simply because the openings are too short, and the horses, for all of their ponderous brain power, manage to hook their front legs over them. There is nothing like a 500kg horse bearing down on a wood and steel door to make you question its construction, but, as we’ve determined, the artistry is solid. I’ve got two volunteers if anyone needs a horse to test their doors.

This leads us to the wee one, Mara. Mara is, as always, oblivious to the world around her. As delightful as she may be, she seems to have the mental capacity of a box of rocks. She’s also tricky, having figured out how to open stall doors and generally mosey into places she shouldn’t be. Hurray, I guess. She is still our walking vet bill; this time, she developed a sarcoid on the inside of her rear left leg. Nothing terrifies you more than seeing a testicle-shaped contusion hanging from the skin of your very female horse. The vet expressed no great concern, so, at some point, we’ll have them visit, excise this danging bit of concern, and stitch her up.

Now, I’m back in the airport and winding my way back stateside. Emma and I are experiencing much change in the next month, and the need for patience and groundedness becomes even more critical. The farm provides needed processes and touchpoints for reminding us of our obligations to our animals and to each other.

As we close out March and head into the ides of Spring, may your lives be richly blessed with the new life that emerges from the ground, the people whose paths you cross, and the knowledge that our stories will continue to unwind over time we’re allotted on this whirling sphere of cosmic dust.

May it ever be so.