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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