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Night of the Wendigo Scrum

I blew out the door and across the yard, screaming and cussing the dogs, then swung my broom like a machete. They flattened themselves in the weeds and froze. It was 3 a.m., the stars just starting to fade, and the sun still a no-show, that last precious hour of sleep before the day creeps in. Yet here I was, busting up a brawl between my stupid, stupid dogs and the stupid, stupid horses.

My dun gelding, Scrub, lead instigator of all escapes, girdler of fruit trees, and dog antagonizer extraordinaire, pinned his ears, dropped his head, and ran the fence line. The dogs were back on their feet in a flash and went at him with a howl. Not a one listened to my indignant snarl. 140-pound Grendel clipped me on his way by, 5-pound Triscuit lept after him and squealed when her hind legs caught in the amaranth.

Even farty old Brockle and Paladin the Perfect were out there howling and snarling. POTUS, the GSD, jumped the fence like a deer and took off after the horses. Scrub slid deep, rocked over his heels, and came straight at him, slashing with his front feet. My shepherd jumped back to our side, and all six of them lost their ever-loving minds.

I hate admitting this, but so did I. I popped dog butts left and right. Poppit, the rat terrier, actually caught air, and as my broom made contact with each dog, they stopped and stared at me. No slinking or running off, no heads dropped in shame, just 12 whale eyes and six judgy glares. I got between them and the fence, brandished my broom, and stared back, until, one by one, they came back to themselves and threw down on the ground. They still glanced at each other and grinned. There wasn’t an ounce of remorse among them. I still succeeded in getting their individual attention, and the scrum vanished like a line from “The Myth of the Pack.”

My dogs cross the line between pets to a scrum of Wendigos with such ease that sometimes I don’t catch the formation. I’ve learned it’s easier to prevent the scrum from forming than to break it up.

My stock, my property, and I are safe and sound because my dogs are good at what they do as individuals. Each dog appears happy in its work and interacts with me one on one, but there are ancient forces behind them that challenge their desire to be my bestie. The instinctive need to form one cohesive and potentially dangerous unit takes them over when there are coyotes, strange humans, idling cars, or punk-ass horses with lightening fast front hooves screaming obscenities at them.

The scrum doesn’t form regularly. They follow me around, room to room, house to barn, and barn to field. I feel like the Queen of England being trailed by my dogs. They range in size from my 140 lb. puppy to the 5 lb. elder chihuahua. They roam 24/7 within the confines of our five-acre place, and I expect them to guard and protect, not chase, dismember, or snack on the resident farm animals. For the most part, it works, and our existence is peaceful – until it isn’t.

I caught my breath and put the broom in neutral. The dogs’ milled around, and Paladin retreated to her morning post on a dirt mound, I got side eye and a half smile as she passed. I decided to call it an apology. The ratter went to the barn to raid the grain room. Brockle and Triscuit head back to the house and their beds. That left me with the young males. They slunk and grinned and thought I wouldn’t notice them try to circle between me and the horses. It didn’t appear I made much of an impression on them with my broom. Paladin barked once from her hill. The boys dropped their act and trotted to her immediately. Grateful, I sent her a half wave and headed back to bed. Scrub followed along as far as the fence allowed.

The Life We Choose

On hot afternoons, my horses like to doze with their noses about two inches above the water in their trough. I don’t have my 700-gallon tank set up at our new place, the evaporation from that much water surface will take some thought, especially when I only have the three. Changing times and all.

They stand at the 350-gallon as before, and lip occasional ripples on the surface, their butts fanned just enough to swat each other’s flies. The water level will drop over the next few days and their noses will too until I can only see the tips of their ears. They play with the critter float. The first to flip it over the side gets to dump the last of the water, and then all three bang the bottom of the uprighted tank so I’ll hustle out to fill it.

I scootch in between them and they shift to give me room plus a half-inch of airspace. I scratch the closest shoulder, run my hand along a glossy back, squeeze myself along the ribcage, give a quick butt scratch, and move to the legs. If a hoof has a rock or bruise, they’ll hold it up and airstomp flies until I get to it. I’ll balance the offending foot on my thigh and dig around until we’re both happy. Then, I duck under the neck, and we reshuffle, so I can check the next. When I go back to work they spin away as one, and high trot to the pasture.

They glow in the afternoon light. Their coats are starting to change; dapples and a darkening brilliance tells me they’ll be blowing out their summer coat soon. I lean on my fork to watch when they break into a run. They buck and snort and fart, yet gallop in unison, if one changes leads, the others feel the shift and change too. Watching them, my beautiful horses, I’m young again, and remember seeing my first herd of running horses. I was so excited, I leaned into the barbwire fence between us and clenched my fists until blood burbled up between my knuckles. I make better choices with my fencing these days, but the gut wrench from horses running free is the same.

My daughter was up for a visit.

“Hazel and I just finished Black Beauty,” she said.

“That’s a rough one,” I said. “I remember reading that for the first time, it almost killed me.”

“We got to the end and I told Hazel, this is what Gaia is doing!”

I wasn’t sure where we were headed.

“You’ve created the last scene. You know, where Black Beauty dreams of her, Merry Legs, and Ginger under the tree.”

“Oh, when they’re old,” I said.

“It so clear,” she said, “You gave our horses Black Beauty’s dream. They’re living it.”

My daughter is such a putz.

“And don’t tell me Ginger wasn’t Sonita,” she said.

The kid is smarter than some think.

To: Laurie and Kate