Sorry, but I have to write about horses once again–specifically, about mares. About two mares who are “bad” in different ways–one in the popular culture way, one in the absolute way.

Zenyatta is my favorite race horse in years–she is a five year old mare who has raced 11 times and never lost. She’s huge and gorgeous, perhaps the biggest horse in training today according to one television commentator. By chance, I saw her first race, and was hypnotized–her style is to come from behind, the most thrilling way to win a race. In her first race, she was lengths behind the field, just galloping along, not even trying to my eye. I watched with little interest, washing dishes with the tv on. But then something astounding happened–the big filly in last place swung to the outside and started passing the others like they were standing still. She ended up winning by about three lengths, and I was hooked. I told all my friends to watch for her–she was something special. Since then, I’ve never missed one of her races–she always lags way behind, swings to the outside, passes the others, and wins by multiple lengths. There is, without fail, always a moment in the stretch when it seems certain that she absolutely cannot win–she pauses, regarding the mortal challengers to her immortal destiny, and then her jockey, Mike Smith, taps her on the shoulder, and she goes to the lead. Because I do not ever want to see her lose, my heart always pounds hard at that moment–but then she goes on to win. She was champion mare last year, and seems sure to be again this year. The really wonderful thing about her now, however, is her behavior in the saddling paddock and the post parade, before the race. Anyone who has ever doubted that horses are sentient beings should watch her before a race–she knows she is a champion, a killer, the best race horse in the world. She prances like a panther, picking her front legs up straight and then setting them down hard; she paws the ground; she shakes her head. She is giving notice to the others that they are in the presence of greatness. She behaves similarly in the post parade, and, before entering the starting gate, she stands stock still and surveys the other horses, the track, the grandstands filled with people, her ears straight up. Once satisfied that all is in readiness and that all eyes are on her, she enters the gate, ready to race. I am madly in love with her. She is the ultimate bad girl on the race track.

Truly bad, in the ill-behaved and dangerous sense, was a mare I have here on my farm–Piroette. Piroette has tried to kick me many times, has bitten me many times, and has threatened my vet when we work on her, even through the massive tranquilizers we always had to give her to do the reproductive work necessary to get her pregnant. She wouldn’t let me catch her for the vet in the paddock, threatening me and running from me–even with my vet and his tech helping, she was hard to catch. At mealtimes, once fed, she would pin her ears at me and bite the fence in warning. She was a total bitch. My patient, good-natured vet once swore at her–the only time I’ve heard him swear, ever.

Piroette was bred to a wonderful young stallion, Mizzen Mast, in 2008, and she had a gorgeous, long-legged filly on May 8 whom I named Tyra, because she is such a super model. And a funny thing happened–the birth of this filly, who is a little angel, seemed to drain all of the badness out of Piroette. Since Tyra’s birth, Pir has been an angel too–easy to handle, never threatening, able to be vetted without any drugs. The first time I told my vet we didn’t need drugs to palpate Pir for breeding soundness, he looked at me like I had gone crazy. Luckily, he trusts me, so he gave it a try–and was stunned. She stood like a champ for palping. When I need to catch her in the paddock, I can now call her and she comes to me. She is back in foal, on one cover, and a happy camper out in the field with her two buddies and their foals. I have never experienced such a thing before, nor have my friends who know horses–a bad girl remains a bad girl for life. I don’t know exactly what has happened to Piroette–I’m just glad it did.

Did anyone watch the old “Monty Python’s Flying Circus” television show? If so, do you remember the “News for Wombats” skit? In it, all the news was centered around wombats–”no wombats were killed in the plane crash yesterday” sort of thing. It was all about our narcissism, and about the obsessive interest in what’s going on in our own little neck of the woods, while the rest of the world hardly matters. I’m that way about animal-related news–I always read the animal stories online, and pay attention when television news covers some animal-related issue. This week, there’s been a lot of “News for Wombats.”

The story about someone killing and mutilating cats in Florida absolutely sickened me. A whole neighborhood outside of Miami was living in fear. I can’t imagine finding one of my outdoor cats dead, its head crushed, some of its skin peeled off or a leg amputated. I can’t imagine children finding their beloved pets in that condition. And I can’t imagine what kind of sick person could do such a thing. And it’s well know that people who torture animals frequently, if not usually, progress to torturing humans–this exists in the profiles of most serial killers and other murderers. When I was a kid, my brother had a friend who tortured cats–he delighted in tying a firecracker to a cat’s tail to see the cat suffer. That kid grew up to be a murderer, and is now doing life without parole. So I was deeply relieved when it was announced that an eighteen year old boy had been apprehended, and was thought to be the cat killer. If it was up to me, he’d do life without parole, too–I don’t believe there is any way to cure such people, nor do I believe he’ll stop this behavior if and when he is released. But at least he’s off the streets for now.

And how about the story of the week old Cocker Spaniel puppy who got flushed down a toilet by a four year old boy trying to give him a bath in said toilet? One can only wonder what a week old puppy was doing separated from his mother and littermates, in the hands of a four year old, and muddy, to boot. The puppy was rescued from a drain pipe, no doubt traumatized, but okay. But the same question that I had in the last news item applies here–what is wrong with people? The parents of this boy need to be required to take some Nash online courses in dog care.

Finally, a good story–the Today show did a piece on horse rescue that was moving and beautiful. A woman who has a horse rescue facility in the Hamptons was interviewed, and the magnificent work she does with unwanted horses was highlighted. She adopts these abandoned, frequently ill or crippled animals, gets local vets to work on them, re-trains them, and tries to find homes for them. The horses looked great, in fabulous flesh, and healthy. A local couple who adopted one of the horses spoke about their love for their adopted horse, and how they stop by each day on their way to work to say good morning to the horse, and to love it. There are numerous such facilities all over the country–a couple here in Kentucky, most notably, Old Friends, which specializes in adopting retired race horses–and they should be acknowledged and applauded. As the economy worsens, many people are simply abandoning their horses on highways or in the woods or out in the country, as if horses can fend for themselves in the wild. They can’t. The horse is as domesticated as the dog or cat, maybe moreso because, as a prey species, they are so cooperative and dependent upon their people for survival. They can’t hunt and kill for food, and, alone, they live in constant fear.

That’s the News for Wombats for this week–I’m hoping for only terrific, uplifting animal stories next week

I thought I’d write a good pet story this week–the story of my youngest cat, Daryushka. I’m not at all prejudiced when I say this may be the world’s best cat.

I have an intense relationship with my equine vet, as all proprietors of breeding operations do–in breeding season, Doc comes out nearly every day, sometimes a couple of times a day, in our efforts to get persnickety Thoroughbred mares pregnant. When I have a foaling emergency in the middle of the night, I call him, and he is at my farm in ten minutes to help me get a baby out. Doc is the greatest–he is patient, thoughtful, smart, a great listener, loves horses–and also loves cats. When his wife found a very ill kitten on the streets of the town I live in, Doc called me and asked me if I would adopt it–he and his wife had recently adopted a stray, and were full up with cats.

The little kitten had a severe ear infection–so bad she couldn’t walk without falling over. She was thin, parasite infested, just in terrible shape. Doc said he would give me the medication to cure her ear infection, spay her, worm her and vaccinate her if I’d give her a home. I agreed–I had four cats in my home, and four outside in the barn–what was one more? I named her Daryushka, Russian for “dear little gift.” When I brought her home, she still couldn’t walk because of the ear infection, and she held her head tilted to one side, as if listening to the pain in her ear.

The issue then became–what to do with her to keep her safe? I have a cat-obsessed Australian Shepherd, and I feared he would kill the sick little kitten, not out of meanness, but because she couldn’t get away, as all the other cats could. She couldn’t jump onto a counter to escape him–she couldn’t even walk.

So I made her a comfy bed, with food and water and a litter box, in my second bathroom, and medicated her around the clock. After a couple of days, she started to improve, and began to cry in the little bathroom for company. I would let her totter around while I was there to monitor the situation, though this only made her cry more when I had to return her to her room at horse feeding time. She held her head sideways, like the RCA dog, for a long time, but once she started getting better, she turned into the world’s best cat rapidly.

Yushka is simply full of life and mischief, always chasing the older cats around. She has re-energized all of my other cats who were turning into feline couch potatoes–now they all play together, thanks to her. She can’t simply walk–she has a jaunty, prancing gait that conveys her pure happiness at being alive. She is into everything–she’s gotten into the clothes dryer when I left it open while folding laundry, climbed into the refrigerator once when I left that door open and turned my back for ten seconds (I had a feeling, and thought to check to see if she was in the fridge–and there she was, on the bottom shelf, all the way in the back, hiding), and is always in cupboards, which she can open at will.

The most endearing habit she has is that, when she awakens from a nap, she misses me, and wants to know where I am, instantly. I’m usually at the computer, working–I live in a tiny house, and it’s not like I’m hiding from Yushka. But as soon as she gets up from a nap and staggers out of the bedroom, she begins to cry, loudly, as if saying, “mama.” When I hear her, I yell out her name, and she comes prancing into the office, thrilled to see me, as if I’ve been on a lengthy vacation, or she has. She jumps in my lap and rubs on me, so happy to see me. This might happen three to six times a day–it doesn’t seem to matter that I’m always in the same place. Yushka always worries about me as soon as she wakes up, and is always overjoyed to see me. Perhaps this is because she remembers her life on the streets, sick and hungry–cats are capable of gratitude.

As a postscript, I want to add that Yushka has a brother. I see him all the time, a feral cat, at the Speedway gas station. The women who work there feed him, but he’s still skinny and suspicious. But he looks exactly like Yushka, appears to be the same age, and, most telling, has that exact walk, jaunty and prancing. I worry about him, and I’m always glad to see him still alive and living at the Speedway. There’s no touching him or catching him or he’d be living with me already. Maybe this is why Yushka is so grateful to me–she knows what might have been.

I haven’t written about Spike before because her memory still hurts my heart. I used to have to haul horses from my home in Northern New Mexico to South Texas to get them bred. This was a long, arduous trip, and we stopped halfway, in the town of Sweetwater, Texas, at the Ranch House Motel, which had its own stables. The horses could rest, we could rest, and make the rest of the trip in relative comfort.

During one such trip, after getting the horses bedded down for the night, we discovered, in the alley near the stables, the ugliest puppy we’d ever seen. She was skin and bones, brindle so that she was almost completely camouflaged, with a huge head and heavy jowls. She was feisty and full of life, even in her very sorry condition, and when she came to me and I picked her up, I discovered about a dozen strange bumps on her skin (on top of the expected fleas and ticks). As I examined these bumps, I realized what they were–bee bees. Someone was using this tiny, sick puppy for target practice in that alley. It was heartrending. For her toughness, I named her Spike, and she made the rest of the trip with us, and came home to New Mexico. We had the bee bees removed by our vet, and treated all the rest of her issues–the flea and tick infestation, and a lifelong, chronic irritable bowel syndrome, created, I’m sure, by having to eat whatever she could find in that alley to survive. God knows what happened to the rest of her littermates.

From these inauspicious beginnings, she grew up to be a beautiful dog. She grew into her head, and was tall and elegant, looking like a little deer, and she was all muscle and sinew. She seemed to be a combination of three breeds–the Rhodesian Ridgeback (she actually had the distinctive dorsal ridge, which would stand up all down her back when she got mad), the Pit Bull, and the Doberman. A gorgeous combination in terms of looks. But in terms of personality? These are three of the most courageous, aggressive dogs in the world. The Ridgeback is used to hunt and fight lions in South Africa, and is the most feared guard dog there–a South African kid who worked for me briefly told me stories of the Ridgeback’s temperament. We all know about Pit Bulls and Dobermans, bred for generations as fighting dogs.

Spike could be an angel–she was devoted to her humans, affectionate, adoring. Unfortunately, I had other dogs, and it was clear from the first that Spike’s greatest longing was to be an only child. From an early age, she attacked, without provocation, the other dogs, leaving them with a battery of torn up ears and cringing fear of the big, strong Spike. Spike particularly hated Ava, the Australian Cattle Dog, and as time went on, would attack Ava with increasing ferocity, getting the smaller dog down and going for her neck with a single-mindedness that was terrifying. Once, when my significant other attempted to get Spike off of Ava, Spike turned on him, sunk her teeth into his arm, and would not let go–it seemed clear that once Spike got mad, she literally saw red, and there was no deterring her. My significant other had to slam her head into a fence, a number of times, until nearly unconscious, she relaxed her jaws, leaving him with bloody gashes in his arm.

But Spike really got mad when I found my little Westy-mix terrier. This adorable little dog really infuriated Spike, and she focused her murderous intent on Pip. Two or three times, I would be awakened, in the middle of the night, by Spike, on top of me, trying to kill little Pip, but I managed to break this up without getting hurt.

Spike got angrier and angrier about what she perceived to be her ever-growing family of siblings. When I would take the dogs out first thing in the morning, I had to carry a large, wooden cooking spoon, which for some reason scared Spike. When Spike would attack Ava or Pip, which she almost invariably did, I would whack her on the head with the spoon, which distracted her from her murderous rage, and then we could go about our business. But Spike was such a large, strong dog that I feared she would turn on me. I’m a very petite person, and Spike weighed nearly as much as I do, and was much stronger. I knew I was no match for her.

One morning, she attacked Pip even more ferociously than usual, and would not be deterred, not even by the spoon. I screamed for my significant other, who came out and pulled Spike off Pip, leaving the little dog with serious wounds. Spike glared at us, then ran into the bedroom, jumped into bed, and urinated on my pillows, glaring the entire time. This was both hilarious, and an ominous warning.

After much discussion, my significant other and I made the terrible choice. Spike’s behavior seemed to have turned a corner–she seemed to have gone over to the dark side completely. She had served warning that she was ready to punish us for our growing family. I knew that she was capable of killing me if she chose, and that there would be little I could do, especially if I was alone at the time of the attack. I loved her very much. We decided to put her down.

As I said, I still miss her, as she was such a life force, such a personality, and so beautiful. But you cannot have an animal whose rages endanger your life, and the lives of others. Just as some people have neurological problems which cannot be fixed, so too do some dogs. To look into Spike’s eyes when she was having one of her fits of rage clearly revealed that she had no idea where she was, who she was, who you were–she was consumed by her desire to hurt and kill–and this was terrifying, like looking into hell. There is no real lesson here–only sadness, at having to do what must be done.

If you haven’t seen “Marley and Me,” you should. First and foremost, if you are an animal lover, and if you have raised any dogs, it will move you and make you laugh. More than this, though, if you’re a salon owner or groomer, and you have clients whom you’re advising on acquiring a new puppy, this movie is a terrific primer on what it means to take a dog into your life. The most moving part of this movie, to me, was the elaboration of the commitment, the social contract, involved in having a dog. It must be unwavering, no matter what, and it will, eventually, be painful. This film doesn’t shy away from documenting the grief inherent in dog ownership–Marley grows old, becomes ill, and eventually his owners must make that terrible decision, and see it through. Anyone who has ever had to make that decision for a beloved pet or companion animal knows how ghastly this is, and I guarantee the end of this film will bring tears to your eyes if you have ever loved an animal.

Before this, however, Marley is indeed the world’s worst dog. If you’ve ever had a bad dog, you will identify completely. Marley eats furniture with gusto, is absolutely untrainable (he is expelled from obedience school on his first day), destroys a garage, is hell on mini-blinds, cannot walk on a leash…his list of inappropriate behavior goes on and on. But his family loves him, and he certainly loves his family.

I had a bad dog, as bad as Marley, once. She was a rescue Australian Shepherd, and I was warned that she had serious issues, so I took her on a temporary basis, to see if she could be socialized. She could not. She ate my furniture, she pulled my carpet up and chewed on it, she ate door jambs…when left outside in my fenced backyard that easily contained my three other dogs, she tunneled under the fence and got loose, and came looking for me on the farm. She could not comprehend the concepts behind housebreaking. It wasn’t her fault–she’d been kept on a chain in a backyard for her entire life, frequently without food or water, and her only companionship had been a child who had been seen torturing her. The poor dog never had a chance. She was as lovable a dog as she could me, much like Marley, affectionate and grateful for a home in which food, water and love were abundant, but she had absolutely no impulse control. I gave her a month, and did my best to teach her how to live in a family, to no avail. I have to admit that I was forced to give up, with my house in tatters and the safety of my other dogs endangered by her destructive behavior–she was teaching them all to be Houdini.

And of course, I currently have bad cats–they crash around the house, playing games full throttle, sending wine glasses flying and shattering, paperwork scattering, with nothing sacred. They catch mice and throw wild parties with the mouse corpses. They invite their friends in for chaos. They sharpen their claws on my coffee table. But no one complains about bad cats–cats are expected to be bad. If any of my bad cats started acting like a little angel, a hasty trip to the vet would be taken, to find out what was wrong.

Did you see the video of the orangutang and the hound on the Today Show yesterday? If you didn’t, it is worth finding on You Tube or wherever these things are stored for eternity. It was truly beautiful, and a wonderful example of interspecies love.

At a game preserve in Florida, a zoologist was riding an elephant through the landscape with this particular orangutang one morning, when they saw a lost puppy, starving and in bad shape. The orangutang took one look at this poor little soul and was hit by the lightening bolt of love at first sight–he jumped from the elephant and ran to the puppy, and began to embrace it and adore it, and the zoologist had no choice but to bring the puppy home.

This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship. The dog, a hound mix, is now grown, and the orangutang continues to adore it, and that adoration is reciprocated. In the video, the primate can’t keep his hands off his buddy–he hugs the dog, puts his arm around the dog, rolls around with the dog…they are clearly soulmates. The dog loves him back. They go everywhere together, and do everything together. The zoologist said that it is unusual for primates and canines to get along so well–they are usually at odds. But some special chemistry was and is clearly at work here.

I have dogs and cats that have been raised together, and they get along famously. The cats will become overwhelmed with love for their canine pals, and rub against them until the dogs tire of all of this adoration, and protest.

I’ve also had foundling kittens that were raised by my pet rabbit. He was a tiny little Polish Rabbit, a very bright, inquisitive and lovable fellow who wanted nothing more than to have a handle surgically implanted in his back so I could carry him around with me all day. When I found two tiny kittens in my barn, in the middle of winter, I didn’t know what I was going to do with them. They couldn’t live in the barn–it was just too cold, and they were already clearly debilitated by their night in the elements. If I took them to the house, I feared my dogs, not out of meanness but just out of curiosity and interest, would harm them. So I decided to give them to the rabbit, who had his own room in my home, which he was constantly redecorating–eating the walls and wood wainscoting in his creative desire to make this an ideal rabbit habitat. I brought the kittens in and put them down in the rabbit’s bed–he was amazed. He sniffed them, and they sniffed him back. And in an instant, it was love. He raised these kittens for me, and did a great job. Occasionally, I would go into his room and find all three of them curled up together, snoozing, in his little bed, and it was probably the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

The point here is, if a prey species (the rabbit) and the ultimate predatory species (the cat) can fall in love, if an orangutang and a dog can fall in love, if dogs and cats can work it out so they don’t fight like cats and dogs, but instead co-exist happily, what is wrong with humans? In the immortal words of repeat felon and philosopher Rodney King, “why can’t we just all get along?”

Have you been watching the second season of Groomer Has It? If you have an interest in dog grooming and in reality shows, you really shouldn’t miss it. Initially, I have to admit, it was not as engaging as last year’s first season. There was no ebullient personality like Artist’s–but, then, there are few personalities like Artist’s in the world. His enthusiasm and sweetness infused last year’s show with joy and energy that was irresistible, and it was easy to root for him.

This year, however, there’s Lisa–and she is clearly a force to be reckoned with. A long-time groomer, her skills seem to be awesome, and her quiet strength makes any team she’s a part of hard to beat. She seems to be the favorite to win it all, to me. And if she doesn’t have Artist’s gregarious charm, her obvious gifts as a dog groomer and her willingness to be a team player make her an extraordinary woman.

Bill, Huber and Cassandra also stand out to me–they seem to be gifted, and they all have congenial personalities. I predict they will be hanging around until the end. Marco seems to be the least experienced and talented, and I also predict that he will be leaving the dog house next.

That said, though, last season’s surprises clearly indicate that anything can happen. Jonathan seemed to be last season’s Lisa–the most experienced, talented groomer, and I believed with all my heart that he would be the winner, never thinking that Artist would come out on top. So it’s not in the bag for Lisa–the game must be played, and one of the other contestants might emerge as inspired, if not most experienced.

So it’s worth tuning in again–and there’s much to be learned from the show, even if it’s only how to create topknots for various breeds. The judges, including Nash’s own Joey Villani, continue to shine, and to teach us about both compassion for dogs, and expertise in grooming. Have a look–this show is unique, and shines a spotlight on the pet care professions that is much needed.

Maybe some of you have faced this horrifying situation–I know I have. You own multiple dogs who get along famously and clearly love each other. But something happens that causes one of your dogs to cry out in a high-pitched whine. Perhaps the dog gets a toenail caught in your carpet, or, while playing, takes a bad step and hurts its foot. Whatever the cause, the dog emits a very high-pitched cry, and instantly, without warning, the other dogs attack it viciously. They are on top of the crying dog, get it down, and are biting it with serious intent, going for the jugular. If you have ever witnessed this, you will never forget it.

The question is, why does this happen? And the corollary question is, what can you and should you do about it?

Clearly, some primitive instinct has kicked in for the attacking dogs–survival of the pack is in question. The high-pitched cry of a hurt animal can be heard by all known predators, as a signal that a weak and vulnerable animal that is ripe for killing exists. The pack cannot allow this to exist. By killing the hurt animal first, the threat will be extinguished. This, at least, is one possible scenario.

A student of mine suggested that, in this case, the attacking dogs are trying to put a seriously injured member of their pack out of its misery–the pack version of euthanasia. This is certainly possible, though I believe that the desire to insure the survival of the pack is a far more deeply ingrained instinct than the desire to be merciful. Nature isn’t merciful–those of us who work with animals on a daily basis understand how profoundly Nature is lacking in the quality of mercy. Mercy is a human characteristic, but it is one which we have learned through the prism of millennia of civilization, and even then, we humans may find it lacking in us. The killer instinct still exists in us, unfortunately–note capital punishment, crime, child molestation, rape. Civilization is a very thin veneer over our wild impulses, and that veneer cracks and falls away all too frequently. So how can we expect our pets, even closer to the wild, to exhibit mercy?

Though I know it may be the wrong thing, every time that I have witnessed this behavior, I get into the middle of it. How can you not? One of your pets is in danger of being killed. I will risk being bitten every time. What I’ve found, in this particular situation, is that the attacking dogs will not turn on me–they are focused on doing away with the whiner, and will not hurt me, or at least not badly. You may only have a moment in such a situation–a single bite to the jugular may kill the dog that is down. I do not hesitate, in such a situation, to kick the attacking animals, to whack them with whatever I can lay my hands on, to pull at their collars with all my strength. Throwing water on the situation will frequently break it up, too. If you can break this up, even for a moment, the bloodlust that has come over your previously loving pets can be derailed, and the attacking dogs will come to their senses. You’ve got to shut down the wild impulses–the attack will stop if you can do this.

We forget that our pets are a tiny step away from their wild cousins. They sleep in our beds, eat our food, lay at our feet, adore us. But if we cannot count on our fellow humans to behave in a civilized fashion at all times, how can we expect this of our pets? Be prepared for such a situation, and do not blame your dogs for behaving as animals. Instinct is a powerful force. I can forgive my pets for nearly any behavior–I am not so forgiving when it comes to my fellow humans.

Jean-Paul Sartre famously said, “hell is other people,” but that isn’t true for me. For me, hell is non-foaling mares. Since April 2, I have been in foaling hell. I have, for a client, a darling eighteen year old mare who was due to foal on April 2. Last year, she had a foal on time, with no difficulty. This year, as of today, she still hasn’t foaled. And because of this, I haven’t slept. Of course, I get naps here and there, whenever I can, but for the most part I am miserable, exhausted, brain damaged and cranky. I’m sure she doesn’t feel much better. She has that look in her eyes that says “help me.” She has edema on her chest from the endless pregnancy. Her hind ankles are swollen, too. She isn’t a large mare, but her belly makes her look like she is going to give birth to a baby elephant. All the signs that foaling is imminent are there–her butt muscles are slack, she has milk in her udder, her belly’s greatest girth has shifted backward, as if the baby is in position to come out. Last night, she paced and pawed and yawned and gritted her teeth, and every so often her whole body would stiffen with a terrible labor pain. But no baby.

In the meantime, I’ve had two other foals, from much younger mares who had easy times of it. I got the foals right out, got them to stand and nurse, and their blood work was perfect–they’re beautiful healthy babies. Poor Gemmy, my older, non-foaling girl, has watched this happen with complete boredom. Frequently, when one mare foals, another, who is overdue, will become inspired and pop her foal right out–this happened last year with Gemmy, when her best friend, Tricky, and another mare, Best, both had their foals on the same night, in the same barn. Gemmy watched this, lay down, and had her beautiful filly. That was a very busy night for me, but very satisfying–three healthy foals in one night.

This year, Tricky had her filly on April 12, five minutes before Easter ended, and Gemmy nickered at her when she heard the filly making her first sounds, but did nothing. Then, the other night, Miss Philpott foaled a filly as well, and still Gemmy did nothing.

This has become a very high-pressure situation for me. An older mare, this late, may have problems. Gemmy also has a $30,000 stud fee in her, so it behooves me to get a healthy foal out of her at all costs. Last night, when I thought she was about to do it, I got out all my tools: my foal pulling straps (this baby is going to be very big), my foal pulling gloves, my injections to jump start the heart of a stillborn foal, my towels, my enemas, my dental floss (every so often, a foal is born before the placenta has completely detached–this is a dangerous situation, as the broken umbilical cord bleeds profusely–the mare could bleed to death, and the dental floss can be used to tie off the cord to keep that from happening). I was ready. Unfortunately, Gemmy wasn’t.

I just turned Gemmy out to walk around and position the foal and get some air and sun. Poor girl–she trotted off into the paddock to eat some grass, looking wretched. Once Gemmy foals, I have two more mares left to foal, the evil Piroette and the darling old Barbie, who is already overdue and isn’t even bagging up with milk yet. My vet says the very hard winter, coupled with the drought of last year, has made a lot of mares late to foal, but this gives me no solace. I long to go to bed, but even more, I long to see that beautiful, new, healthy baby out of Gemmy. Then maybe I can get some sleep.

I just read an article online about a one year old cat who steals clothes–this cat specializes in underwear, hats, and gloves–27 pairs of gloves. Anything left out on a neighbor’s clothes line or patio or terrace is fair game to this cat thief, leaving the cat’s owner deeply embarrassed by her pet’s kleptomaniac tendencies.

Cats have no boundaries. The whole world belongs to them, and anything that amuses them belongs to them. Most cat owners know this to be true. Just last week, visiting relatives brought me a beautiful flowering plant, which I put in the middle of my dining room table–and my cats instantly started eating it. It is, at this moment, on its side on the table, its leaves shredded. A box of Cheerios put out on the same table for breakfast also belongs to the cats–they rub their faces on it, marking it with their scent.

I’ve lost many things to my cats. They’ve raided my sparsely inhabited jewel box, taking a string of pearls and turning it into a toy, which I found on my kitchen floor. They regularly take keys, glasses, syringes I use to medicate the horses, and the dogs’ bones, and turn them into hockey pucks. There is a small wooden piece which holds the legs of the dining table together, and somehow get it out of its hole and similarly turn it into a hockey puck.

Unfortunately, the dogs learn from the cats, and begin to believe that anything and everything is a toy. My big male Aussie watches the cats intently, and when they steal something from the kitchen counter or bedroom, he will co-opt it and play with it himself. When you have cats, nothing is sacred and nothing is safe.

And let’s not forget the kitchen cupboards–these are playgrounds for the cats. During the night, I frequently hear clattering in the cupboards, and the cupboard doors slam as if haunted by hungry ghosts. As I live in the country, the cats’ interest in the cupboards is mainly about mousing–mice invade the cupboards from the outside world, thinking this is safe entree into a universe of warmth and food, only to find a large feline waiting for them in the dark.

Living with cats is like living in the chimp cage at the zoo. Cats are all about the creation of chaos–if you can’t stand chaos, you shouldn’t own cats. I’m comfortable in chaos–after all, I take care of horses for a living, and with horses, anything can happen at any time. If you can find humor in chaos, there is nothing funnier than a cat making believe that your grocery list has suddenly come to life and must be killed. My cats make me laugh every day–and laughter is a much more valuable commodity than any grocery list or house plant.