Totally Quanked and in Search of Our Own Personal Pickleball

Yes, it’s a proper word. I didn’t make it up, but I wish I had. Quanked is in the 1893 Glossary of Words Used in the County of Wiltshire. It means overpowered by fatigue. They didn’t say emotional exhaustion, but I’m not alone here. I needed a word that was as old as I feel.

It’s the Fourth of July weekend when all patriots with animals stay home and worry. This year is special. Colorado had the worst snowpack in years. Red flag warnings all winter long, after several years of extreme drought. It feels like half the state is on fire. High winds on hot, cloudless days. So much smoke in the air that there is a layer of ash everywhere, but we must stay vigilant, sniffing for local fires amid traveling smoke. I spent a small fortune on fire mitigation for my farm, as worried about the barn as those who live in it. There is a ban on fireworks, but I worry. Call me a cynic. Humans are reliably stupid.

If that isn’t enough, we have been heckled with minor health issues. Nothing serious, just low-level aggravation. Jolene was spayed this week. Her stitches are clean and no swelling, but her cone bangs into everything, and it’s too small to fit a toy inside. She has to stay in the house with no zooms at all, but she has been great. Call it a Cone of Fame. She would like you to know that her neck is itchy.

The stitches from my Mohs surgery were removed, and two days later a vast hole sprang open on my forehead, spewing a rainbow of disgusting liquid colors. The hole is big enough that I’m considering getting a third hearing aid for it. My doctor put me on antibiotics. But no worries. Jolene and I take our pills with treats.

Mister was feeling a bit left out, so his eye infection came back. He sits very still while I clean his eyes. He likes this part. The ointment goes in, and I gently massage his eyelids together. We gaze into each other’s eyes like the old lovers we are. I have done nothing wrong, but I apologize to him. Mister has all day to listen to sympathy. Jolene thinks sympathy is for sissies.

I am at the age that several of my friends have become pickleball freaks. I get it. Tennis was something I did when I didn’t have horses. I had a wicked backhand. Pickleball is good cardiovascular exercise, they say. A game of strategy and finesse, not to mention a whole new social circle, they say. Considering how I feel about my own species these days, probably not a good time to take up a racket sport.

The pickleball zealots got me thinking about my personal pickleball equivalent with the same benefits. I looked at my anti-aging tonic, who immediately barked back. Jolene doesn’t know about her surprise. At the last herding lesson, someone asked the instructor if she would start to work this year’s lambs soon. She said yes and added that she’d be letting some of the older ewes go. I sat up and started nodding yes before she finished her next sentence. Before I knew what I was doing. As if I don’t always know what I’m doing.

Dog-trained sheep are not so easy to find. Beginners like Jolene and me need someone who knows the ropes. We also know they might not be the easy ewes. Or the pretty ones. They will feel right at home with us. We are not dink bunnies here. (That’s pickleball slang)

Jolene and I definitely need more practice. But with no sheep, how does that happen? It’s a catch-22. I’m hoping the instructor will help us out here, too. It could work out because it will be a couple of months before the sheep come, which is good. Rule #1 in herding is to be a good steward of the stock. I know some about sheep and have had llamas and goats on the farm. I have fences to build and some rearranging to do.

For those of you who wish I was still writing about training horses like I did for 15 years (search topics here), and are hoping I’ll get over the dog thing soon, fair warning. It’s about to get even worse. Worse than sheep, you say?

I have a weird kind of patience. It only exists when I am working with an animal. The rest of the time, it’s hit or miss. So I was obsessing about the old ewes the day I ordered the ducks. Because they will take longer to be ready to herd, but we can start sooner. Flawless logic.

If herding sheep is an ancient folk dance, then herding ducks is like a romantic waltz. Subtle, calm, and so lovely. Sure, Jolene hyperventilates when she sees the ducklings, and I still trip over my stock stick. But girls like us need a goal.

We ordered six of the Indian Runner mixed-color assortment. I’ve ordered unsexed before and it was a bloodbath, so no drakes. The eggs are just as good. Folks say runners look like penguins, but Lara says they look like folded umbrellas. She is right, but they flock well and run rather than waddle.

The ducklings arrived by express mail the day after they were born. They looked terribly fragile. We want to think that we can easily win over orphans who never saw a hen, especially when they are this young. Their fear of me was so extreme it seemed violent. They would kill themselves to escape. It gave me pause. So I breathed and let them settle under the heat plate. Ducks respond to human voice, so I talked to them. Kept their box next to me during Zoom lessons. Mister smacks his lips when the ducklings chirp, a herding dog in name only.

The ducks will be dog-trained. That means a lot of handling and also a willingness to come to me and walk close. They’ll need a familiarity with dogs so that they can be moved by dogs, but not terrified of them. I’ve got inexhaustible patience for this. The next day, I chopped up some peas.

I trained my first ducks when I was a teen, but computers exist now. I checked Google for dog-trained ducks. All you get are Labradors with limp ducks in their mouths.

One week later: I check the ducks first thing in the morning and they are visibly larger, at least a half-inch overnight. As soon as they hear my voice, they scream. I peer over the edge, and they run over, tilting their heads and giving me a side-eye. They all shriek at once, DID YOU BRING THE PEAS!? Mister is hangry-quanked. He says, I too like peas.

If my mother were here, she would say what she always said, “Do you know what your problem is?” followed by the complaint du jour. I learned to smile because all my problems boiled down to one problem, and she was right. I just don’t know how to do things half-way. Jolene is happy-quanked. She says, my kinda human.

Presenting Eilene, Arlene, Irene, Earlene, Raylene, and Darlene. They are the Duck-lenes.

PS. A friend and I wanted to donate hay to the evacuated livestock from the fire. We found the right place. Right now, they have all the feed and volunteers they need. I love people. 

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Women Aging Cantankerously