My Love Affair with Amoura

There is a special bond between us—Amoura and me. I’m not finding words easily to describe the feeling we share. The way she looks at me and watches me, the way she humbly responds after throwing her head violently because an unexpected movement triggered past abuse. She lowers her head and her eyes shamefully for having given into her past. I reassure her and she responds. Her prior owner often slugged her in the head, a memory not easy to overcome.

Lately I have been talking softly to her, “Shhhh, it’s okay, you are safe.” She quiets and looks at me with big dark eyes and seems to melt. We melt together into a new trust that has become a thriving seedling. The inside connection is powerful. An experience of love. Amour. That is who she is and who we are together.

Amoura came to the ranch a few years ago, and the closest she would allow me was about 10 feet if that, any closer she would pin her ears. Seriously. One time she charged me, but I instinctively and instantly threw my arms straight out like wings that looked like a wooden beam to her, and I simultaneously stepped directly toward her, which quickly quelled her aggressive attempt. There was such vulnerability underneath her facade, so much fear.

The evening of her arrival at the ranch, I could hear her tummy from afar making all kinds of gurgling noises, and I knew it was a form of colic from stress. She had been raised alone on one ranch for many years and now in her upper teens had been moved for the first time. I could understand her anxiety. A different location, a new home, other horses, dried grasses instead of year around green, and the unpredictability of a new human.

I hung my body over the old wooden gate and put my hands up with palms softly outward toward her using the reiki my first horse taught me. Amoura and I were both surprised as her gut grew quiet. Right then and there she decided I wasn’t so bad after all and edged over closer to me still on the other side of the gate. Eventually she pushed her rear against the dilapidated fence nearby somehow intuiting that I was a human who loved massaging equine tails and rear ends.

I went to work cautiously and well-armoured with gratitude that there was a fence between us. Those back legs were too fast for my comfort and had a keen and swift edge like a recently sharpened knife that could quickly slice through any obstacle, getting the job done in a moment. This was not a time for me to be reckless.

To be able to touch her from a position of safety was a treat. It was her first step in trusting me. It was definitely not instant calm, but it was a start. I still needed to approach her with caution, with the intention of stopping before she pinned her ears, hoping to ease her out of that reflexive habit.

Her name was Babe when she arrived. There was no way I could call her that. The thought of it hung up in the back of my throat like a fish hook. It must have been a rude cowboy that named her. It was a cheap name for this horse who is flavored with elegance in her sturdy quarter horse body and certainly in spirit. Even though she’s a challenge because of human violations, I sensed a spiritual depth still being uncovered.

Amoura brought me her new name. It was night time again; seems to be when the magic kicks in with the horses and me. Daily chores done, horses all fed, and time to relax under the stars. I was standing near another mare who was in the final stages of her life. A friend I respected had mentioned to me that this mare, Carob, had a deep love for me. The words sounded alien to me. At that time in my life I didn’t expect the horses to love me, nor did it occur to me that they might. I did my job with feeding and caring for them and assumed any affection was related to what I gave to them. That was it. Neat and tidy with no expectations. And of course, no disappointments nor vulnerabilities. And besides, Carob really belonged to my friend who was my partner with the horses. The two of them had a very deep connection. A love relationship for Carob and me was not even a consideration at that time, as if love is rationed.

I learned differently from Carob. She genuinely loved me even in her awkward and often aloof way of letting me know. She was not an overly affectionate horse, preferring not to be touched because of her extreme sensitivity to the carelessness of human energy. She would offer me a quick affirming nudge with her head then just as quickly return to her personal space. She would stand near but not touching while I did an oil painting, hang her head over me while I sat and wrote, and like a housemaid wiping her dishwater hands on her apron, then placing her hands on her hips she marched across the pasture to scold the new and contentious horses to get with it on my behalf. They were all cues I had missed because she was a tough broad. No cuddling with Carob.

With stars blinking their own rhythms above, I stood with Carob near the fence separating us from the adjacent pasture. I was deeply engaged in conversation with her, acknowledging her love and telling her that I received it even though I wasn’t sure how, nor how it might feel. As we stood side by side not touching, I felt something nibble on my outside elbow. I turned to look and there was Amoura with her head stretched well across the fence, just barely able to touch my elbow. There was a definite purpose in her action; no coincidence here. I was intrigued by her gesture and her timing, though slightly confused by the distraction during such an intimate moment with Carob. But Amoura’s message came through immediately. Her name was Amoura and she and Carob were sandwiching me in love. This moment was bursting forth from the heart of the Divine. There was not just one, but now two offering me love in the language of horses.

When Carob died the following week, I understood there had been an important exchange between Amoura and Carob that magical night. Amoura had accepted the torch of love from Carob to carry on with me and the lessons of love.

Over the years I lost the consciousness of that divine encounter; but Amoura had not forgotten. From time to time I would wonder how a horse embodying love was so challenging that I didn’t trust her. But, through the years she has moved in close to me like an unseen angel when I was going through an emotional or spiritual transition or crisis. Even today, she will silently slip in behind me without my knowing. When I’m not aware and think I am alone, there is a very gentle nibbling on my hair out of nowhere. I smile knowingly when I discover it is Amoura. Her quiet touch brushes my soul with tenderness.

Her lameness has come and gone since a trailer incident 5 or 6 years ago, but in the past few months, it has become more obvious and acts like it has burrowed in for good. I cannot find the source of her discomfort, but once I let go of the conventional approach with questions and treatments which I usually pursue unsuccessfully, I am reminded of what I have learned from the horses over the 25 years together. They have taught me that equine issues that they present to me are solved only by approaching it spiritually so it is best to get on with it. That is what the two of us are doing. Her lameness has lured me back into her spiritual world after months of personal distractions.

We are back on the journey into love. Almost a year ago I began wondering about love. I’d always believed I was easy to love (right!), and that I loved easily having been raised in a loving home. But, at that moment a new thought rushed in. I suspect Amoura was whispering a divine message through the trees nearby. What if my perceptions were amiss? What if what I think is love, isn’t? What if the majority of us don’t know but think we do? If we haven’t experienced the truth of love, we have no standard by which to compare what we think is love. We toss the word around so loosely, sometimes so carelessly. What new and expansive sacred world awaits our discovery? These thoughts were more than I could deal with at the time. I set them on the back burner to percolate until the right time. In hobbles Amoura. Her lameness is a love lure. I am curious what she, a damaged and a most unlikely candidate as a carrier for love, will bring and where she will lead. She, the one horse I don’t fully trust, is the chosen one to bring me the most important experience of life, authentic love. When I receive from her, she too will heal. Please join us on this journey into love.

20170522_143703

 

He Sent Me Home to Paint

 

cropped-20160902_123348.jpg

[This post was published briefly months ago so may be familiar to my followers. It has been rewritten and edited]

There was sweetness in the sorrow I felt when my memory took me back to the day my first horse, Apolinaire, died. At the end of his recent visitation through Dollar,l my emotional balloon was stretched to full capacity. Knowing I needed  to release my tears, I was driven to walk the pasture paths that the horses have created through the wooded areas, revisiting the different places where Apolinaire and I had been together during the last four days of his life. Retracing our story together, I lingered at the very spot where many months ago he lay in exhaustion.

He had sent me home that day to paint.

To leave him in such a condition was difficult but I had been through this drill many times before with the other horses who were having acute or chronic physical issues, with miraculous results. Each time I had been guided to write, sketch, paint, to simply stand nearby and tune into nature, or to “please leave and let me work this out myself.” The malady magically disappeared time and time again.

Knowing his directive was not one to ignore, I left.

Once home, I painted with a restless spirit but with spiritual awareness, sensing that Apolinaire and I were most likely walking his death journey as companions. It was premature he told me that night and reminded me of the day years ago when he’d shared the way he was to die.

At that time, he had wandered away from the herd which was unlike him. He stepped over to another pasture and stood alone silently calling to me. I responded and stayed at a distance giving him space and dignity. Since it was late afternoon, the coastal fog had found its way inland and dimmed the light of day, creating an appropriate mood for what he was sharing. When he finished, I had thought his death was imminent, that he would likely disappear during the night. There was no distress. Sadness, yes, but most of all I felt a deeper closeness to him. He had trusted me with something intimate and sacred. But, the time for manifestation had not come.

Now, years later, I understood that it still was not time for Apolinaire to go, but an ominous feeling was pressing in. He was giving me continuous instructions as to my role in the partnership and in the process.

I was to hold space for him while he did his intercessory work which was very serious and challenging would make the difference in whether he was to live or die. For the most part, the magnitude of his cosmic work was not revealed.

I was to hold the belief he would recover as the other horses had done many times before. This time, however, my growth was in the believing. It was important even if there was never a manifestation of that belief. That one was tough for me. It didn’t make sense to me nor can I make sense of it now. All I know is that deep down there was a powerful freedom in it and there still is. I gave up attachment to results, and was free to hold space for his recovery and allow the Divine to flow. There was no more resistance to “believing” because it might not manifest since that was no longer a part of my formula. This is new to me and there is much more for me to discover about that practice.

Back home after putting away my paints and returning to the pasture, I quickly found my way to the spot where I had left him lying on the ground. My breath caught with new hope when I saw he was no longer there. There were indicators that reminded me of the “yellow brick road” that helped me find him tucked in the thicket, well away from where he had been lying. His eyes were brighter, there was new energy in him. I was encouraged.

As time went by, I continued to work on my painting and holding space for Apolinaire. Each time I returned, he showed improvement. My hopes were running high. Things seemed to be progressing.

On day 3, an acquaintance stopped by the pasture. I was not able to tell her that I was in an important process with Apolinaire. In fact I tried to hide it from her not wanting to talk about it. I surrendered to her arrival thinking maybe it was meant to be and might bring the ultimate healing. I completely forgot about my deal with Apolinaire. My only hope was that he would stay hidden.

Forgetting I was on a sacred mission with my horse, I lost my connection with Apolinaire that day as I followed my distraction. It can happen to me so easily. I suspect I am not alone in that tendency.

I had not spoken up which was a disservice to my guest, to Apolinaire in particular, and to myself. I lost the day with him. I lost my sense of confidence and holding space. I didn’t paint. Didn’t even think of it. From that day, he went downhill extremely fast and I forgot everything I’d been learning and went into crisis mode.

The next morning, he waited for me to arrive. When he turned and looked at me, I knew he was dying. My heart sank, and I gave up. In less than an hour, he was gone.

I had known it was a challenging task. I do not feel guilty nor that it was my fault as one might expect. We were on a treacherous journey together. I had known that.

My painting had brought continuous improvement for Apolinaire as it had done for the horses over the years. This time there was a bigger challenge. I became distracted and stopped painting. He went downhill. He died. It is sometimes a tough journey.

When he sent me home to paint, he sent me home to that other worldly place where the soul sighs with relief. There I find my joy and the peaceful pool of healing. There I am out of the way; the Divine is free to flow and the extraordinary follows.

There is a Reason

20160919_143812

There is a reason so many people are drawn to horses even with varying degrees of fear and trembling.  Both the fear and the draw are in part due to their sheer size; but I also think their pure magnificence and spiritual presence is something quite mighty to experience at the soul level and also touches something quite mighty in the unconscious parts of the human being. And that can be a very awesome and a fearful thing.

Even without our knowing, horses may plant a healing that we might not be aware of that will manifest days, weeks, or perhaps years later. I am learning that we can accelerate the process by developing our awareness in their presence.

They are powerful beings wrapped in beauty and grace; gentle enough to walk beside us on a simple lead rope. Their spiritual strength and eternal flow of wisdom can crumble any resistances in our soul by our surrender to it in their presence.

This morning, I am on the cusp of being financially forced to re-home my 5 spiritual healing horses, just as we are coming into our power as a herd after 25 years. As I was pondering my surrender to, and acceptance of that very real possibility, I noticed that my least affectionate horse, and the most mystical, was lingering at the water trough with her head pressed as close as she could get to me near the fence. She was standing quietly, looking softly, but intensely at me with her deep brown eyes. There was a peaceful quality about her.

My memory turned my head back to the day my mom died years ago. She was many miles away when she departed, before I had a chance to go home to be with her. Mariah stepped up to me in the pasture, and presented herself as a physical and spiritual surrogate for my mom. This normally stand off-ish mare allowed me to hug her and caress her for as long as I needed. I knew I was touching my mom while tears of grief intermingled with joy and gratitude for these parting moments through Mariah.

Was it mom visiting a second time today through Mariah? I wonder that as I write.

As I moved to a different location along the fence, there was Mariah again this time with her head lifted high on the fence hovering her peacefulness and flow of wisdom over me like a shower of radiated spiritual light. “I receive,” I whispered to her not yet knowing the full impact of what is coming. “I receive.” Thank you.

No matter the outcome of the next two weeks, I felt a sense of quiet. I sat in an herb garden and watched the honey bees busy with their food gathering from a borage plant, the sweet purple flowers backlit by the sun. Coastal breezes were playing with my hair and keeping me comfortable from the heat of the day. “This is living,”I thought to myself, “It is not for sale.” I’ll always carry that surrender to it deep in my soul. This is the reason so many people are drawn to horses.

I Held His Tear in the Palm of My Hand

 

20160702_115320

There is a magical passageway that lies between the pastures. Dollar was standing sleepy-eyed in the heart of it.  The air there is moist and cool from the shade of a small tree that hangs over the path shrouded by bushes lining the opposite side. There is a feeling of seclusion and secrecy.

I joined him there to do some bodywork along his back where he had suffered an injury years ago. By the time I got to him, he was already in a deep, contented sleep with head lowered. I quietly hovered my hands over his mane in reiki fashion, my own rendition that I discovered with my first horse.

Dollar continued to drop his head lower and lower, his bottom lip sagging, mouth softly quivering, and occasionally licking and chewing. These are all signs of relaxation, release, and good feelings in an equine. My playful goal has always been to get his head as close to the ground as possible in a full surrender to peaceful relaxation. I’m still trying.

When Dollar awakened and lifted his head, I noticed something in the corner of his eye that appeared to be a little bit of mucous. Instinctively I wiped it away with my finger, and when I looked, a droplet of water ran down down the tip of my finger. I watched it trickle all the way down until it came to rest in the palm of my hand. It was a tear. I held it there as tears filled my own eyes. There was a purity in this moment. The tear itself was clean and clear. I looked at Dollar, searched his eyes for clues, and wondered. There was no recognition from him, no connection it seemed with the tear.

I stopped my analytical mind from stirring up tohubohu as I started to take a microscopic view of all the possible reasons for this tear. Instead, Dollar and I stayed in the quiet of the moment. I continued to hold one hand over his mane. It was a relief to let go of my need to analyze and the work of trying to understand.

Dollar and I stood close as he pressed his head into my body. Then he nuzzled his way into my cupped hand where he placed his soft, warm muzzle, and held it there for a long time as he dreamed. All the while I was being taken on a Spirit-guided journey into the depths of my soul. It was a magical time together, both of us in a trance-like state.

When he awakened again, our time of interaction was complete. We both stretched and flexed our muscles merging our spirits with earthly consciousness.

With it came a memory.

I was taken back in time to Apolinaire, my first horse and spiritual guide, who was dying. When he took his last breath and relaxed into a peaceful smile, he opened his beautiful eyes for the last time and gentle tears fell from the corner. [In Life, In Beauty, and In Death]

Six months later I stand beside Dollar immersed in the emotion of the memory. I suddenly understood whose tear had been tucked in the corner of Dollar’s eye, the tear that found its way to my palm. I understood that Apolinaire had come to me this day through Dollar.

The three of us had communed in that world-between-the-worlds while standing in the passageway between the pastures. Dollar dreamed, and I listened to secret mysteries being whispered to my heart. Apolinaire had visited, Dollar had allowed, and I was being tranformed. The tear of grief that I held in the palm of my hand became tears of healing and empowerment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

In Life, In Beauty, and in Death

In Memoriam, Apolinaire
In Memoriam, Apolinaire

My first and forever horse, Apolinaire, long time leader and patriarch of the herd, the wise one, the love of my life and spiritual guide left his body recently. He was not ready to go, but his body gave out. He was 33 years old or somewhere thereabouts. It wasn’t an easy passing. He suffered as I stood near with love and pain in my heart, and squeezed droplets of water into his mouth which soothed him. After bracing against going down to the ground, he fell back on his rear without his permission and the end hovered over him, then moved in quickly. After the determined and departing gallop so common in the dying process, and with my cheering him onward to his new destination, he took his last breath and smiled peacefully. His eyes had closed in a moment of heavenly slumber and then reopened partially as a few tears trickled out of the corner and joined mine in the eternal lament of unfinished business.

We shared our love. We shared our grief of parting. Together. Not alone. I laid my body over his large body and wept, filled up with both the depths of love and sorrow. I loved and wept throughout the day.

I couldn’t get enough of his body, caressing the parts I had so loved…the perfect shape of his beautiful ears, the form from rear to hock, his beefy legs with 2 white socks in the back, his very long black tail, his perfectly formed nostrils, his kind eyes… His spirit lingered with his body for the remainder of the day…and so did I.

I’m heartbroken…lots of tears…not anguish…just deep sadness and missing him terribly yet very connected.

He was (and still is) a powerful guide. At first my life with the rest of herd died with him until he reminded that he had specially chosen each one and drawn them to the herd for the gifts they bring. We will carry on, I told them. We will continue what Apolinaire has started. I said what I was meant to say, but my heart felt lifeless.

He was buried first thing the next morning. The remaining 5 stood in formation in a corner of the pasture, facing where he had just been tucked in to his new bed. I led a memorial service, just the 5 of them and Henii, the dog. There was no singing.

Years ago I use to play the piano and sing at memorial services. I always looked forward to the part when people shared stories about their friend or loved one who had passed on. We use to laugh with tears as we lovingly remembered annoying but endearing idiosyncracies. As I stood in front of the 5 companions Apolinaire left behind, I asked them what they most remembered about Apolinaire. They all looked at me in silence with wide open eyes. Suddenly, Dollar started biting Mariah’s chest and rear end creating all kinds of havoc between the two of them during this sacred meeting. How could he act out this way?! (Said chuckling)

Dollar was speaking to my question about what he most remembered. The horse he was biting, Mariah, was Apolinaire’s lady friend who was lower in the hierarchy than Dollar but nevertheless was allowed to eat with the head guy. Dollar who is the new head guy was always aced out and couldn’t do anything to Mariah when she was being protected by Apolinaire. Mariah got the extra food that Dollar would normally have gotten…and Dollar was amusingly pissed. Their memories are so base! The humor was refreshing.

The service ended on that note. One lone robin stood on the newly formed mound where Apolinaire was laid to rest.

On Death and Dying, the Dance of Bitter and Sweet: Tribute to Winston

"remembering"

 

Making the Decision

There she stood on the other side of my gate, with her face looking peaceful, and her eyes and cheeks glistening with gentle tears. She looked especially lovely, a certain feeling of purity emanating from her that seems to come with the grieving process, and was reflected in a large bouquet of narcissus and daffodils she was holding, the first of the season. My friend and neighbor had come to tell me that she had just laid her dog, Winston, to rest. He had been failing for the past months and the time had been nearing. Last week she and her partner had dug an earth bed for him in the pasture under one of his favorite trees near the thriving beehive.

Struggling to know what was best for Winston, she had been asking him for some clarity. This morning he’d let her know that the time had come. She’d had a dream during the early morning that he was a puppy again bounding across the pasture freely and joyfully. She’d awakened knowing he’d never be able to do that again in this lifetime, and that he was asking her to release him. To help make the final decision, there were other personal and synchronous signs including a timely book by animal communicator, Penelope Smith, Animals in Spirit. I just happened to find it while cleaning that very morning all crumpled up under my bed. I’d felt an urgency to literally run it to my friend’s house, not knowing yet about her dream. Winston’s answers to her searching questions were coming in multiple ways. All the pieces had come together, and she made her decision from a place of sacred knowing. Conflicting emotions tore at her, understandably, but underlying the taunt, she knew he was asking for help. It was the right thing to do.

Memories

Winston was a special dog. A friend had said of him that he was the best dog he’d ever met. He would sometimes appear on my doorstep when his person had gone to work, and would sit on my feet when I came out to pet him. A black lab with beautiful brown eyes, he appeared and disappeared like a shadow of an angel. He’d frequently make a brief visit to the barn, offer a warm greeting for the humans, and then slip away to head back home, never one to roam on his own.

His only vice was barking at bicyclists that rode by in front of his house, and chasing them if he found a way through the gate. I always wondered what he would have done, gentle natured as he was, if he’d actually caught up with one. In the years I was privileged to know him, he captured my heart with his quiet spiritual qualities that I’ll never forget. When one of my horses was down for 7 hours and couldn’t get up, Winston came to the barn and stayed right next to her the whole time. I don’t recall him leaving to eat, drink, or to take care of other bodily functions. It was amazing. At one point his position mimicked hers. (Long Night… Into Light, Part 2)

A Generous Sprinkling of the Sweet

The horses honored his gentle spirit and mystical qualities. The week before, they had gathered ’round when preparations were being made for Winston’s final bed under the apple tree. Today they did the same when it was time for him to go.

They pressed in close to Winston and his people for one final goodbye, and then they turned and walked away led by the most unlikely horse as a leader, but the most appropriate in temperament. It was Tal, the Talisman, the one who comforts those who are grieving. No doubt reflecting his compassionate nature, he wanted to leave the humans and their dog alone for their last moments together, and whispered the suggestion to the rest of the herd. They obliged.

They walked reverently away to an adjacent pasture nearby. Then like human beings filing into their places in church pews, the 6 horses took their places standing in formation lined up side by side to pay their last tribute to Winston and to offer loving support to his people. They stood at quiet attention, and respectfully pointed their heads in Winston’s direction until all was finished and he was lovingly covered with the blanket of earth.

Shortly after, perhaps by divine design, I stepped out of my cabin across the road, during the last few minutes of their final salute. As if cued, the whole herd turned en masse with a gentle burst of energy, and spontaneously choreographed a dance up the gentle slope of the pasture with a playful step and lightness of hooves that made my heart skip along with them. No doubt they were trying to catch up with Winston as he was having a free spirited run on his way to his new world, the playful puppy again, moving freely and painlessly with the renewed exuberance of his youth. He and the horses in their pageantry in the world of the seen and the unseen offered us parting gifts of joy that make sorrowing just a little bit more bearable.

As my friend continued to share her story with me, we noticed that one horse lingered nearby the two of us. It was Tal, the Talisman, the one who always appears when a human is grieving. What a beautiful comfort. He was doing double duty this day, having spent the last few weeks hanging out close to me as I navigated through this and two other deaths in 3 months time.

A Heaping Tablespoon of the Sweet

The horses’ magical gifts continued riding the waves of grief. The next day my friend came to tell me that when she’d gone to visit Winston’s place of rest, she saw that the horses had been there ahead of her. They had left their hoof prints in plain view in the fresh soil near his bed, perhaps their own way of leaving flowers strewn about in remembrance, a comfort for her in knowing they had been there. And then in another blossoming of joy, she discovered one large hoof print carefully placed inside the fenced area around Winston’s memorial bed. (Look for it near the bottom, right of center, in the pic below). Because of the size, we suspect it was Tal’s. She felt in her spirit that the hoof had connected with Winston’s heart. It wasn’t until I downloaded my photos that I noticed that the natural outdoor shadowing, or was it the shadow of the angel, Winston, that made the one lone hoof print appear as a heart. One more taste of sweetness my friend has yet to experience.

"heart to heart"

Out To Pasture

(I just came across this letter to the editor in The Anderson Valley Advertiser (AVA), Mendocino County, California on July 28th, 2010)

To whoever accused me of being “severely neglected”—

My name is Filly and I am the equine equivalent of a 95-97-year-old woman. I know you have this beautiful image in your head of what a horse should look like: smooth muscles rippling under a glossy coat perhaps. Just strike that from your mind! Unfortunately, I am never going to look like that again.

I am a skinny, bony old lady with wrinkles, a sway back, stringy muscles and some gray hairs. But if you had taken the time to look me in the eye you would have seen the light in them that has nothing to do with pain and neglect. Maybe you did look but just couldn’t see.

I am still enjoying myself. I have a roof in winter and 75 acres of freedom and grazing during the dry season. My humans keep an eye on me to make sure I have all four legs under me and am not in pain. I am wormed and have all I can eat. Despite my arthritis, I am still quite mobile. Being skinny helps with that. I can even still manage a short canter on occasion.

I wish the general public was more aware of what a normal appearance is for a truly old horse. There once was a time when people had “horse sense,” and it was synonymous with “common sense.” That seems to be in short supply now. Having this unrealistic expectation of equine beauty for all horses is unfair. I don’t look like the horses on the cover of Horse Illustrated with their young, muscular physiques, glowing coats and lush manes and tails.

If it offends your fine sensibilities to find me in your viewshed, look somewhere else. I don’t go into your human rest homes and complain about your 95-year-old great-grandmother, so don’t come into my pasture and complain about me. I am enjoying what little time I have left to me. My human would like me to live out my days and die a peaceful, natural death if possible. As long as I have a happy expression in my eye, she says she’s not going to bump me off. My fear is that if people make too much of a stink about having to look at me, she may have to put me down.

So, please, I know you probably meant well, but give an old lady a break. You could have asked anyone who works and lives at Ferrington Vineyards about me and they could have told you I’m just ancient. I don’t want to be rushed into my grave. I may be getting senile, but I am not stupid.

Severely Old at Ferrington Vineyard

Filly (via Colleen Kobler)

PS. Oh yes, the Animal Control officer said I look pretty good for my age.