This morning a lone Canadian goose flew over my pond, calling loudly- back and forth, and again. I wondered if she had lost her mate, or worse. Heart-felt goose sympathy…
If you have read my blog, I think it is pretty obvious how I feel about animals, and especially horses. To be clear- any horse, any mustang, any donkey, any pony. And then- any age, any breed, any challenge. Of course- any place, any time. Finally- any equine not already mentioned.
If you are unfamiliar with my blog, I will give you a synopsis. Horses are perfect. Donkeys are great thinkers. People are not a great source of pride, but I am wild about people like me, who are working on being less of a problem for their horses.
I get my philosophy largely from western movies in my formative years. I took the Indian side; not only did they have the best horses, but they didn’t shoot buffalo from moving trains. There was a Great Spirit/respectful circle of life philosophy, where nothing was abused or wasted- that was more interesting to me than what the nuns where selling. If you tilted your head and squinted, there were no giant spiritual contradictions either.
But the devil is in the details.
I like to think that I’m tolerant of rodents. If no mice have flown in my face after lifting the lid off a feed can recently, I can actually think they’re cute. I notice I like to keep a barn cat or two- good hunters, of course.
My moral certitude hits another bump with flies. I don’t like to kill them with chemicals; those same chemicals can be hard on horses. Instead, I buy fly predators and start a race war. That way I don’t dirty my own hands with the killing. I sprinkle predators, while sweet talking the donkey, and leave the murder to nature.
We are having a plague of miller moths currently. This is a photo of sunset from the tack room- obscured by moths and their scat. Another million are flapping away, just out of frame. Can these zombie moths even have hearts?
My recurring nightmare: When I go out my front door and the tree explodes with a dense cloud of moths. If I don’t control my breathing, all of a sudden I have a Patsy Cline hair-do with spit curls. I can hear a 1950’s soundtrack- think Hitchcock. I am screaming, flailing my arms, and running for the town library. The Moths! A dark cloud chases me with a horrible dusty, moaning sound. Their moth excrement is leaving an obvious trail.
I confess- I have Miller Moth Murder Madness. It’s them or me. Sometimes at night, when 300 or so moths are in my studio, I lose it. I grab my swatter and become Martina Navratilova, in her prime. I hit over-head smashes , whacking moths to the ground, furious and thrilled. Lampshades break and papers scatter- dusty little carcasses land on my keyboard. This is the worst part- I feel absolutely no remorse.
I fear some radical, moth-loving arm of PETA is plotting against me and my vigilante justice. Not to mention, every revenge-driven moth in a ten state region. Paranoid? Not a bit. Let the future come. I stand firm, UN-repentant, with swatter in hand!
“It costs me never a stab nor squirm
To tread by chance upon a worm.
“Aha, my little dear,” I say,
“Your clan will pay me back one day.” -by Dorothy Parker
Anna Blake, Infinity Farm.