Learning to Let Go: Pearl

She arrived at Infinity Farm unceremoniously. We moved a fence panel, backed the rig in close, and she pretty much fell out the back of the trailer. That was good news; they weren’t sure she’d survive the trip. It isn’t my intention to cue a circle of hand wringing, sympathy is not the goal. If … Read more

Photo & Poem: Let Down

  So convinced of her isolation, she had become its primary cause. So exhausted to chance, she had retreated to a fine-tuned invisibility. So work- hardened by test, she had proven she could carry the pain. Better to be alone than a fool. Held apart so cold lack seemed a choice instead of a failure. … Read more

There's No Romance in Rescue

It’s my bi-annual report on the animals fostered here at Infinity Farm. I try to¬†balance on a tightrope when I write about rescue. I want to encourage people to adopt and at the same time, not get too romantic about it. I know with bloody certainty than I can’t save them all. I just think … Read more

The Fine Art of Cantankery.

lillith I’ve had a hard time acting my age. That’s not it, exactly. It’s more like I’m straddling the Grand Canyon between my usual teen angst and dealing with the fact I’m supposed to be wearing support hose. It all started with my birthday. Two years ago.

Then recently a donkey came to the rescue that I work with. She was nothing special, really. Her “selling point” was her age, I guess. We joked about needing to carbon date her. We’re guessing upper thirties. At least.

Read moreThe Fine Art of Cantankery.

A Lesson about Squeamishness and a Donkey.

WM mucking attireLook, it’s a selfie of me mucking last week. I like to get an early start in the summer. Over six hundred blog posts about this horse/life, and no one ever asks me for fashion tips. I wonder why?

I wasn’t always this sophisticated. I remember when I was maybe fifteen; it was morning and I was standing out waiting for the school bus. I glanced to scrutinize my outfit. I didn’t dress a whole lot better back then, but I certainly worried about it a lot more. That was when I saw them–maybe ten or eleven dark brown hairs that I’d missed while shaving. They were on the inside of my ankle, like a furry cuff. Like a Friesian fetlock.

Read moreA Lesson about Squeamishness and a Donkey.