Shhh… We’re Being Watched.

The week started with a needle in my forehead. You just knew it was going to improve. Then each day had hours of that kind of coolish-warm spring air. At our altitude, there’s nearly no oxygen, so it’s easy to remember to breathe it in. I had no extra work-work, so I spent time working outside, where the work is never done. I mean that as a brag. There’s a fence post to replace, and the barn needed a good once-over. I made it take for-glorious-ever to muck. 

When I first moved to the farm, I named it the Howlin’ Cowgirl Rancho. It was what I did if there was any sign of a moon. It took years to give myself quiet. I had spent much of my twenties alternately ranting and crying . Therapy, where someone finally listened, saved me, and the practice of T’ai Chi Ch’uan got my body back inside itself. Dogs walked me to sleep every night.

When I could eventually afford a horse, things had to change. Dogs tolerated my emotional flop sweats, but horses didn’t. Oh, I know what you’ll say. Horses are therapists, and they commiserate with us when we’re sad. I might read that differently, but whatever.

My horses were young. I needed to mitigate my emotions while riding. The joyous ones and the darker ones. I’ve never let myself lose my temper with a horse, but I made up for that with impatience and frustration. There was simply no way I could ask for the ride I wanted if my jangling emotions were banging along like twenty tin cans tied to my saddle.

I hate change, but my riding ambition won. At first, I forced a pretend relaxation. Even at that, I was surprised how good it felt. As a fervent believer in free speech and micromanagement, I did not know the rewards of shutting up in the saddle. It isn’t just that the air was cleaner. It was easier to let my issues go, let the breeze smooth my brow. Having slack reins doesn’t mean I stopped having opinions. It was that I could state them more kindly when my thighs weren’t accidentally cracking ribs. I credit spirited young horses with getting my shoulders out of my ears so I could listen better.

By the time I moved to my farm, I’d settled on herding dogs. If you can’t stand the scrutiny, it’s a bad idea to get one. Cattle dogs will watch you through solid walls. Briards shadow every move. Jolene never takes her eyes off me. She’ll poke her nose through a fence and watch me around corners. She says it’s a full-time job. Jolene has quiet, penetrating eyes. Soft and trusting, but relentless in their intention. 

Mister says he’s seen it all before and is not about to lose sleep over it now. I’m not all that intriguing. He appreciates me best when I’m writing. And not disturbing his belly-up meditation. 

When I was traveling year-round for clinics, every barn I stopped at had an individual culture. Some noisy and some quiet. A few coldly distant. Our feelings are plainly visible in our bodies. We are the easiest animals to read. Details are murky and don’t matter. People throw emotions around like trash. Cry, shout, crack whips and jerk bits. Our emotions are loud enough to silence a herd.

I wondered what the payoff was at the chaotic stops? It really is a choice. The big separation between humans and animals is our prefrontal cortex. Our brain gives us options. Humans aren’t forced to act out. Horses don’t have that choice. Why do we think it’s our right to disturb the peace? 

In those times, animals might need us to speak up. We are their only advocates. But it’s also personal. Some animals like a low voice to remind them who they are, kind horses and good dogs. Voices for praise and voices for play. Jolene likes me to talk during scentwork, but only after I listen. Jolene follows scent like a murder mystery, but relies on me to tell the authorities. Say alert, Anna. And I do.

Animals have sounds, of course. But most of their language is calming signals. I have been a student of their communication for so long, English is now my second language. I can’t unsee what is being said. Looking away is a profound request that must be respected. Their most polite way of asking for a moment. A stretch or shake of the neck is eloquent in context. A yawn is likely to communicate more than we’d like to hear. 

It’s hard to listen because we are often the cause. Raised human voices create anxiety. How many of us control ourselves around children, but not around animals? Do we howl when we lose our keys? Or scream an unholy profanity when we whack a finger. How many of us still throw temper tantrums? At a certain age, shouldn’t we be able to regulate our emotions? That’s what we ask our animals to do.

Mister, who is more attuned to the finer points of Zen mastery than Jolene, suggests that humans would do well to develop an energetic quietness. Fully aware in that way that things seem to unfold in slow motion. A body that is alert yet relaxed. And finally, Peach speaks up. Like a cat, she purrs. 

Okay, I confess. Not that quiet outside. We have a bumper crop of robins this year. The barn tree is alive with nests. There is the meadowlark who has been here for a few months. No mate in sight, but he is belting out all the meadowlark spirituals at the top of his golden lungs. He follows me while I do chores. I have explained that I’m not looking for a serious relationship. But still he sings.

Later in the week, my trailer needed two new jacks and minor repairs. I coax her because physical force doesn’t work any better on inanimate objects. It’s easier to do it myself than let a man get at it, with all the skull-bumping and swearing. Then breaking something else that I’ll need to fix. Okay, it took me longer than it should have. I didn’t have the right tools. Like horses, trailer jacks take the time it takes. Who cares? It was a nice day, and I was listening to a good book. (Yesteryear.)

…

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Women Aging Cantankerously