Saturday, November 4, 2017

Piute Log...Tom Equals Trouble 2003

22 Jul (Tue)     Most unusual: woke to rain in the night. Fell right back to sleep but I think it went on for awhile, from the way the ground outside looked this morn. This is something I’ve seen oh maybe…[long pause for consideration]…ten or eleven times since ’88. It doesn’t happen every season. ◦◦◦◦◦ Cat psychology note, before I forget: Shitbird almost literally inhales his kittychow. Lucy, on the other paw, delicately nibbles hers, chewing each crunchy several times instead of swallowing them like pills. She does this curious thing: I dump a handful of those crunchy morsels of preserved meat byproducts in the bowl. If one happens to land on the floor she immediately leaves the bowl to go after it. Having noticed this behavior pattern for awhile, yesterday I decided to investigate further. Waited for her to be fully “at her feed” and dropped one a foot away. She went right for it. Performed the experiment several times with consistent results. This psychological fixation appears to be a harmless feline eating disorder I will henceforth allude to as Pennies-From-Heaven Syndrome. (“My cat has PFHS! What should I do?!!”) Lucy would swear that those runaway tidbits taste better. ◦◦◦◦◦ Leaving the cabin today to get horses shod in town. I put Redtop in the corral and gave him some oats while Piute and Tom watched jealously. While leading the pair over to the hitchrail to be saddled, Tom crashed into Piute and danced around in a panic, his eyes rolled back. Then, tying him to the rail, right when I was under his throat he started leaping around and the ranger dove for cover. I yelled “Jeremy Crispus!!” (loud) to let off the adrenaline but otherwise remained calm. Tom was just telling me in his own special way how he hates to miss his breakfast. But, good lord, he noshes on richest Piute Meadows hay—steak and eggs for horses—every day for hours on end and when he gets locked up to fast it’s for his own good. (He’d no doubt like to debate me on that subject.) ◦◦◦◦◦ Easy trip. Piute with packsaddle only, Tom with trash and laundry and Piute’s empty panniers. We cruised. Few visitors but plenty sign of rain. It’s obvious, watching the trail, that these storms are in distinct cells. Parts of the trail have had flowing water on them; other places, the week-old rain crust, mostly dry, has fresh raindrop “scars” in the new dust layer. Obvious differences in rainfall-sign changed probably 8 or 10 times as I rode out. ◦◦◦◦◦ And then it rained s’more. I saw the grey curtain coming (previously announced by nearby lightning). Got into my full suit. It really poured—steady stream off hat brim, Red soaked and dripping with his head down. It eased up after a half hour….no, more like a long twenty minutes (still a long time) and then settled into a somewhat gentler non-deluge. I’d brought loppers with a plan to lop around the shore of Roosevelt Lake (willows and alders getting real thick by the trail) but rode on past. Got out with only a half hour to spare as it was. An aside: I spotted an old rusty canned ham lid below the 2nd fir forest, sitting out in the open, 75 feet off the trail. I’ve ridden past it probably 200+ times now. Only trash today. Q: If no one sees old trash in the forest, does it exist? ◦◦◦◦◦ This morning, still at the cabin, realized that I’d have a problem on my hands when we reached the pack station. Y’see: Tom doesn’t “go” in the stock truck. The day I came in, the truck and 4-horse trailer were gone (for some reason) so I had to take the stock truck instead. Ah. Tom has been prone to hissy-fit rodeos since we first got him. He’s been in the stock truck but only a couple times that I’m aware of and only after real battles. Today, Bart helped. I backed up into the down-sloping entry drive so that when the gate was lowered it wasn’t nearly as steep a climb. He’d have none of it, though, leaping clear across the gate to avoid even stepping on it. Total equine panic attack, eyes rolled back in fear/terror (again). Dust clouds, churned up driveway, et cet. Who can tell what goes on in their heads? Finally Bart said, flatly, “I don’t have any more time for this. Put him in that pen by the loading dock. And tell the Forest Service they need to train their stock to load before they send ‘em out into the world.” And he just walked off. In years past, on a number of occasions, Bart—in his calm but firm tone—has asked me to inform the Forest Service (as if the agency were some sort of corporeal entity) that they ought to do this or that. Always sage advice that is both practical and soundly reasoned. I’ve never passed on any of these messages. ◦◦◦◦◦ So, left an anxious and distraught Tom behind—Adios, sucka!—and took Red and Piute to the barn. Tried a new time’n’energy saver: put hay in feeders with them still tied in the truck, gate down, them watching. I left the corral gate open and then unclipped their halters. They off-loaded themselves and bee-lined for their hay and I just closed the gate behind them. Would never have tried this with Brenda or Zack. Or Blue. Umm…or Nickel. Those clowns would likely run off, maybe cause a terrible wreck on the highway, just to mess with me.
  


       ©2017 Tim Forsell                                                                                     31 Oct 2017

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