An Affirmation of a Life Shared with Animals.

It’s springtime in the Rockies. The time change was last weekend, so I’m waking up at three am now, but there’s more light in the evening. I can see tiny bits of green if I bend over for a close look. Earlier this week we were out in shirtsleeves and now we’re halfway through a thirty-six-hour snowstorm. The horses are exhausted. It’s a dangerous time of year to be a horse, especially an older one.

On Tuesday, I had a carcinoma removed from my nose. It took a few injections into that fleshy part of the bridge of my nose. Bad joke, I’ve already had so many pre-cancerous growths burned off, that you can practically see bone. But this time, they carved a bit out and tested it to see if they got it all. They didn’t, so more shots and deeper this time. I peeked in a mirror and saw a pea-sized hole. Better to scare children, I think. The second dig got it all, so they pulled the skin tight and put eight stitches up the center of my nose. It’s sore, it feels broken.

My first broken nose was courtesy of a Suffolk ram when I was seven. What? Your dad didn’t make you show sheep at the county fair? You didn’t get dragged around the arena, people in the stands shrieking with laughter. Because the ram kicked out with each stride to free himself while you were too stubborn to let go? That was over sixty years ago, and it’s strange how little I’ve changed.

Of course, I wear hats and sunscreen now. They tell me the damage was done when we were kids. Boys wore caps, but no one worried about a little girl’s skin on a Midwest farm back then. It was a good day if I had a shirt on. Looking at the bruised and swollen mess in the mirror, it’s still a good trade for those summer days, hiding out with the barn cats, and running with the farm dogs. The unforgettable feel of the sun-warm flanks of a horse under my bare legs, the view from their backs, and inevitably, the view from the ground up at them. Let this fresh scar remind me of my wild luck. I knew the life I wanted, always powered by horses, always told I’d have to get serious one day. Now I’m a gray mare and I think I’ve been serious every day.

A swollen purple nose would be enough, but it seems the older we get, the more the universe likes to play games with the stouthearted. On my surgery day, I woke up with a start of a cold. By evening, just as the injections were wearing off, I started sneezing and sniveling. Is it a headache killing me or has my nose swollen shut? There were so many symptoms to choose from. I was congested but I couldn’t touch my nose, much less blow it, so it constantly dripped while I dabbed a tissue like a maiden aunt. And I was mouth-breathing and drooling a bit. There was a crusty white lace drooping down my chin. If I were the sort of woman who got by on good looks, I’d be in trouble. But back in the days before sunscreen, I traded society’s judgment for the good opinion of my horses and dogs. They tell me I’m a goddess. Even now.

Does this essay seem self-indulgent? It is, and I’m sentimental tonight; it’s the fourteenth anniversary of my first blog. This is what I’ve done every Thursday night since 2010, so I could publish every Friday morning, in sickness and in health. No matter how my nose felt. I’ve posted from dozens of different states and quite a few foreign countries. Wild luck, stubbornness, and horses. Still, an intoxicating combination.

I’ve been training horses for so long now that many of my clients no longer ride. Some are nursing their last horse, and some have retired from horses entirely. I thought we’d all still be here. Other new clients come, of course, and life goes on. I know it will end as it started—me and horses.

Horses aren’t a romantic job. Too much loss, too little rest. Some horses have been difficult beyond reason, some would never be okay. Some horses are hard to love, but to do the best work with horses, love is necessary to sustain the ridiculous amount of patience required. Nothing less would survive. Rescue rehabs, client horses, personal horses; each life a gamble of resilience and loss. Work never ends, money never stretches far enough, and some of my joints are downright noisy. Worst of all, every horse story ends the same way.

Horses are heartbreakers. That knowledge is as constant as bucking bales and mucking pens. Several times today, between Nyquil naps, I shuffled out to the barn, careful of icy spots. The chill felt good on my nose as I filled hay bags and raked wet manure into mushy piles. When my fingertips started to ache, I came in to warm up. The horses are subdued by the cold. I’ve thrown so much hay that no one wants to eat. I know it’ll be gone by morning.

The water tanks are full. I take a last look, gingerly wiping my nose on my glove. Is the goat too quiet? He has a peg leg from sleeping with horses when he was little. So I drag an extra bag of shavings and spread it out for him in his special corner. If you have ever opened a bag of shavings, you know it’s a graceless task. I finish his little nest and look at the goat, who ignores me, expecting no less.

There is something about howling storms, trudging in snow deeper than my boots out to a dark barn. The pull is even stronger. Horses are as they have always been, but I’ve changed. When I was little, they were my magical escape. This kind of selfishness doesn’t last long. Horses are fragile and soon their wellbeing takes more time than our daydreams. We pay in a hundred ways for each shared breath, each view of them grazing. I’m not saying that a life of service to a few horses, an elderly donkey, and a goat with a limp makes me special. It’s what we all do, give or take a few chickens. No one considers their animals a mere hobby.

Caring for animals in any weather is a sweet habit. Like yoga or meditation, horse care can be a spiritual practice. To take less and give more. The work that we do is our prayer. It’s a small toehold against the world’s problems. It isn’t all we can do, but it’s a start. We can tidy up a corner of life whether we made the mess or not. And nod to others doing the same. Let tired muscles be our amen.

This storm will pass, as they all do. My grateful nose will heal, and I’ll post my blog and go out to do chores. It’ll take extra time if I’m lucky. Later, tucked in bed with the dogs already asleep, I’ll hold a wish for my horses and for yours. For old dogs and one-eared cats. Good night to the world that needs our care more than ever.

Relaxed and Forward Training by Anna Blake is no longer on Facebook because of repeated hacking. If you appreciate my writing, please share, subscribe to this blog, or join us at The Barn School.

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Anna Blake

73 thoughts on “An Affirmation of a Life Shared with Animals.”

  1. This may not be the case In Colorado, but here in central Texas another routine is checking the weather report, and seeing it has changed, every five or ten minutes. For me, an important part of caring for animals is learning to pivot from one plan to another, one chore to another, one worry to another, with moments of deep joy sandwiched throughout. My eclipse plans are centered around staying near the horses to (perhaps) provide some familiarity during the five minutes when day turns to night and back again.❤️

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  2. I can sympathize with the nose surgery – I had one Mohs Surgery (removing a layer of skin at a time & looking under a microscope) it was the side of my nose – a little bump that really never bothered me – took 4 layers before they got “it” all. My daughter has had four Mohs surgeries. Yes we spent much time in the sun when younger! My stitches ran from the side of my nose down next to my mouth – the dr did a super job – I dont think its evident at all (to anyone else). So I sure have empathy for you.
    Being farther on the “downside” by almost 20 years – lots of my “horsey” friends are gone – all of the actual horses long gone.
    Anna, I think you are showing some Calming Signals indeed!!
    Be careful out there – doesnt take much hurt yourself when you are already hurting.
    I’d say thoughts and prayers – but I dont do prayers much & that little phrase has been over-used by some AWFUL humans.
    Just hang in there – better days are coming???

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    • Those sunny days were bliss, and we are lucky to have this technology to remove problems before we notice them. Thanks, Maggie. And I agree. Hard time of year for the mustangs, too.

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      • I go back every once in a while & read the comments I missed the first time around. Have to say for sure its a crappy time for the mustangs – roundups have been pretty lethal & no matter how many lawsuits the advocates put in motion – it appears this government agency is allowed to pay no attention & just continue on eradicating herds.
        Thanks for making a note of it, Anna

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  3. A good one, Anna-thnx for sharing. I know only too well about horses and consider it wonderful that I’m able to share my life with my 2. They’re both getting older as I am, but seeing them in their barn or pasture still gives me a feeling that all is good.

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  4. Ouch! Big ouch – but glad to hear they got it all ❤️ We had sun bonnets as infants but once we figured out how to yank them off …… you can name THAT tune in zero notes. I hope your nose heals up completely and quickly, Anna.

    Big news: After all the trials and tribulations with our sweet Raymond – and almost a year working with Buddy, he graciously said, “OK” and I had my very first ride on him. What a gentleman! It was like floating on air. And ME at age 70! It was well worth the wait. And if he never said OK I’d still be happy. He has a lovely, horsey personality. Lucky me!

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  5. Thanks a bunch Anna!
    I discovered you many years ago & I am not letting you go.
    You write like how I think.
    And your FUNNY, a most admirable quality that I hold in high esteem.
    I’m glad I found you & look forward your posts.
    Again, thanks so much.

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  6. Thank you Anna. This “life stuff” sure can be crappy at times and then the tiniest look from a horse or dog will melt it all away. I hope it is as comforting to you as it is for me to have you and “my horse people” at R & F to share this time of our lives. 🙏

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  7. I needed this one. Especially this morning. My Chihuahua is in pain, hubby is off the rails, and I’m feeling like I do not have a handle on life right now. I no longer ride. My beloved horse passed from an unknown neurological condition just over a year ago now. I haven’t yet processed his loss, and I miss our time together. Luckily, I still have my old one-eyed Mustang and a beloved pony that I can drive. My pony helps me, simply by his sweet cheerful nature. There really is a soothing feeling about caring for these animals, who are my family members. Chickens, too.

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  8. A lovely one, Anna – and you always had a nose for beauty, wisdom and common sense, so a little scar won’t change that a bit. Yes, all these years later, we’re still managing the messes of the world by keeping our barns somewhat orderly and always welcoming. Amen and amen.

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  9. Thank you for that Anna. I recognized so many pieces of myself in your beautiful reminder that the love, the work, and yes the heartbreak of belonging to horses over many decades is a gift.
    I’m new to this site, exploring all it has to offer, and started reading a few chapters of “Stable Relationships” aloud to my husband each evening in the hopes of expressing why I love this life to his non-horsey but very involved anyway self. Not sure he’s convinced but he chuckles at the anecdotes, nods along with the farm difficulties, and takes over the reading for a few minutes when I tear up…can’t ask for more than that.
    Thank you for being here and Happy 14th blog anniversary!

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    • Thank you, Lynda. It can feel hard to explain but we horse owners are a tribe of our own. It means so much to hear you share my book, thank you. Can’t ask for more than that.

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  10. There is so much in this that touches one’s heart. Thank you, Anna ! Aren’t we the lucky ones to share our lives with horses and other animals ?

    I’m sorry to hear about what sounds like a grueling procedure for your nose and the recovery equally rough. Dang.

    I agree the world and especially our country need our care more than ever.

    Oh, CONGRATULATIONS on your fourteenth year anniversary for your blog. Your persistence is amazing.

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  11. Sending you lots of healing love for that bruised nose! 14 years of blog! Thank you for being persistent and letting us know that we will be fed every Friday morning! xx

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  12. May your nose heal well. I’m glad they got it ‘all’. Thank you for your blog. There have been a lot of losses the past 6 months. Life goes on and I’m grateful to have Wynonna and your Friday blog. xoxo

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  13. Happy 14th anniversary & loads of healing energy for your poor nose (at least one part appreciating the snow storm 🙈)!
    Hope the weather and your nose get better soon and thanks for your weekly gift floating into my emailbox each Friday – no matter how busy I am this is the one I always take the time to read 💙💙💙

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  14. I am crying. It’s so true, a spiritual practice. Blessings on the healing of your nose. You are a funny one and you write so beautifully! Thank you!

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  15. “Let this fresh scar remind me of my wild luck.”

    As a reader – and a writer – I sometimes come across a line that opens doo I did not know were there. This is one of those. Thank you…

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  16. I just discovered you, so glad I did. The paragraph that starts with, Caring for animals in any weather is a sweet habit, made me tear up! All so true.

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  17. I’m not sure how many years I have read, enjoyed, and wept over your blogs, so thank you, lots. Your dogged persistence in championing affirmative training and the importance of calming signals fill me with hope. I will be 72 next month and every day I am grateful that I can look after my horses and other animals, with enjoyment rather than dread, I still ride but do a lot more walking with them than riding these days, we ramble along, no longer needing to accomplish anything except our mutual well being.

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  18. Love today’s blog! I can relate, having just emerged from a “mudageden”, (one of the worst mud seasons), and looking for signs of a dry spring. Lol. All the perils of equine ownership, along with other living creatures on my little place, (Just watched Coop Dreams “the Dark side of having chickens”), I find I still can’t live without them. Good thing there is always a bright side too! 🐴🐔🐓🐈🐕💕🍷

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  19. I love this…I got into horses a dozen years ago largely as a “spiritual practice”…it certainly has been that, though it turns out I had no idea what a spiritual practice was at the time. I naively thought I’d be riding off into the sunset in no time, up and down mountains, under rainbows, communing with birds and deer and bunnies, and of course that isn’t how it’s gone at all. Instead, it’s been so much more than that and I have an inkling what a true spiritual practice looks like. Thank you for consistently providing the text that has helped guide it.

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  20. Congratulations, my friend, on everything. I admire your grit and tenacity for life and your writings always allow me to feel stronger for the life I’ve chosen as an undomesticated woman. As a fellow MOHS nose surgery survivor, I’ll share with you that the healing itch was harder to bear for me than the initial pain or scar thereafter. Sending healing vibes to you!

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  21. Oh ouch, Anna! Sending you love and light and best wishes for swift healing. Thank you for your words of wisdom, humor, and grit all these past fourteen years. They are a gift to horse and horse lovers alike.

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  22. Once again I have to tell you how much I enjoy your writing. You are the highlight of my email week! Your life stories mirror my life, makes me feel like you are an old friend of mine. Not “old” as in elderly, but a life long friend. Please keep writing, this old grey mare needs you!

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  23. Goodness, has it been 14 years?! I’ve been thinking of you with news of this stormy weather over there. Don’t know if you remember me, we did a clinic in Cotati, CA a few years back. Started my life in Denver, now in Grand Junction en route to Santa Fe … last stop for me. Have loved every word I’ve read of your prolific writings, your courage and love for animals. Feel like I have a fellow traveller in life. Sending my gratitude, and best wishes for your face to heal, and the sun to return to your ranch!

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  24. Such a wonderful read. I’m grateful every day for the scars my many animals leave on my body, heart and mind. Wouldn’t trade it for the world. Living in Sydney with the threat of skin cancer from the Aussie sun every time I step outside you have my sympathy. Slip. Slop. Slap is the message here! I’ll leave it to you to work out what that means! Look after yourself x

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    • May I say, you Aussies are the best. I loved my time there. That advice sounds about right! Thanks, Rebecca. And thanks for reading along. Remembering how we got our scars is kind of sweet.

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