When I first moved to Happy Acres in the early seventies, my lady friend and I were just renting the house on this former homesteaded dairy farm (with ducks, strangely). After the ducks and the dairy, came pigs; large hungry pigs. Old man Quadros by this time had garnered a reputation in the neighborhood of being a bit of a boogie man. Parents were known to take young miscreants in hand and threatened them with; "If you two don't behave, your father and I will take you up to old man Quadros' place and throw you to the pigs!"
By the early seventies, "Old Man Quadros" was in a retirement home; the pigs had gone to sausage heaven and the homestead was occupied by a bull, a cow and two well-trained quarter horses. The day the cow was found dead with the bull standing over her in a state of heightened consternation, a tallow truck was called to drag the poor cow's carcass away. As the tow line became taut and the body started to slide up the hill, the bull became quite agitated. I watched from the living-room window early one Spring morning as this drama unfolded before me. The bull, outraged at this incomprehensible development, let out with a mighty roar and ran around each side of the cow, hectoring and snorting, as if his antics could magically re-animate his mate.
This is just the sort of situation these horses were trained to deal and both quarter horses took to forcefully maneuvering the bull away from the cow. As one horse would head him off from one side the bull would let out with a mighty bellow and run around behind the old milking barn and come back to the cow on the other side. At this point, the other quarter horse would perform the same maneuver as his partner. Together those two horses kept the raging bull (with apologies to Jake Lamotta and Robert Deniro) at bay, allowing the tallow truck crew to do their duty.
That one incident, more than any other, decided my fate for the next forty years. Happy Acres, where cool and unexpected things happened, would be my home. I looked across the pasture, above the barn and took in the expansive view of Tamalpais and Tennessee Valley. The hillsides and valley ridges were rimmed with tall and stately trees. Up and to my right, the old Miwok trail serpentined along the side of Coyote ridge. Its side trails led down to Muir Beach, Tennessee Valley beach, Rodeo Lagoon, next to the Golden Gate Bridge and one side trail, which became precipitous at the end rewarded the determined hiker with a private beach called Pirate's Cove. This lovely little beach had a small seasonal brook running down into the water. My brother and I would often hike down to Pirate's Cove in the Summer, when the sand was in residence and frolic in the waves or toss the football around on the beach. There was rarely anyone else in attendance; I believe we may have been naked... The nearby Pacific ocean zephyrs keep Happy Acres cool in the Summer and somewhat warmer in the Winter. I realized then that this was the kind of homey place I had been longing for ever since my college days when I had silly dreams of tree houses and geodesic domes.
After the cows and quarter horses departed, the next door neighbor installed his daughter's two horses on the property. Compared to the spirit and pedigree of the former horse tenants these creatures were mere nags, slow of foot and woefully sway-backed from too many rides. I occasionally amused myself (I'm not proud of it, now that I look back) by descending into the pasture with carrot in hand to entice one of these old nags to move. I told myself that just standing around all day looking bored and forlorn was not good for their health.
I would stand in front of "Spunky", we'll call him, and put the carrot before his nose. His formerly listless eyes would spark up, just a little, and he would raise his head to bite the carrot. I would move the carrot to the side and his head would follow. I would move it further and his head would follow. I found that he would turn his head as far as he possibly could to follow the path of the carrot without moving his feet. No wonder the somewhat pampered daughter from next door no longer showed much interest in these poor beasts. Within a year or two they had been further retired to a corral in Squaw Valley where they would be slowly transporting young children up and down that beautiful valley with Squaw Creek running through it. "A fitting end to a long and servile life", I mused.
By 1980, I had the place to myself. All the bills were now in my name. I contracted with my landlord, Norm, the son of the original homesteader to take over the pasture. My two partners and I had already taken over the old garage and turned it into "Tres Virgos Studio" a humble but hardworking eight-track recording studio. My plan was to rent out a bedroom to one of my volleyball buddies and spend my free time (I was still toiling in the numbers mine of corporate finance and accounting at the time.) clearing away all the detritus that had accumulated over years of neglect.
Old man Quadros had, in his dotage, become something of a hoarder. He would take his old beater pick-up truck through the valley and offer, for a small sum, to relieve the homeowners of anything they wished to rid themselves of; concrete wash basins, old top loading clothes washing machines with a clothes ringer on top; ancient rusting freezers and ice boxes were also carelessly strewn across the homestead. In addition to piles of rotting wood with nails sticking up, there had grown up some pesky unwanted vegetation. In the horses' absence, a large stand of Scotchbroom and Queen Ann's Lace had taken up residence. However, the largest impediment to my dream of renovating the horse pasture was a huge conglomeration of blackberry bushes that had taken root over the old septic tank. The effluent from this sewage system, which was really nothing more than a rusted out fifty-gallon drum buried about two feet under ground, had been faithfully feeding this multi-headed blackberry beast for decades. While other vegetation wilted and died during the drought years of the mid-seventies, this blackberry behemoth had continued to grow and prosper.
I contracted with this sturdy war veteran to tackle the blackberry. He assured me that he and his trusty machete were up to the task and that he had seen much worse in the jungles of Vietnam. I bought a used industrial-strength five horse-power two-cycle weed-wacker from the local tool rental store. When I explained my situation, the proprietor assured me that the Echo 500 was up to the task. My brother was in residence at the time so I assigned him the herculean labor of collecting and moving the various piles of decaying lumber to a safe place out of harm's way.
After the weeds and the blackberry and the rotting lumber had been dispatched with, the next task to further my dream of being the proud provider of horse pasturage was to re-encircle the entire property with three strands of wire to keep the horses from straying off the property and wandering into the neighbor's yards or down Highway One. I purchased several large spools of double-stranded barbed wire for the job. Wearing sturdy leather gloves and my jean jacket, I slowly walked the spool around the outside perimeter of the property. Happy Acres is ringed by Eucalyptus trees at roughly fifteen foot intervals. The old wire had long since fallen into disrepair and as I removed the old wiring, I nailed up the barbed wire to the trees. I found out later that, in general, the gentry of the Marin County horsey set prefer something called pig wire which is barbed wire without the barbs. That way their mounts suffer no unsightly scratches or tears on their lovely hides. There was a lot I would be learning over the years about what services and amenities to provide to the discriminating horse owners of Marin County.
My first customer was an enterprising young fellow who owned a small corporation that provided materiel management expertise to the hospital industry. His offices were in the fisherman's wharf area of San Francisco and he and his wife lived in San Rafael. I had been hired by Marty to install a computer accounting system and provide financial counsel to his young but growing enterprise. Marty had two beautiful and spirited Arabians that he was boarding up north in the Petaluma area. His business kept him from making the trip north to ride his animals and he was looking for pasturage closer to home. "Marty, have I got a deal for you!", I exclaimed one day at work. "Every day, when you commute to work, you pass within a couple of miles of my shiny new horse pasture. You gotta come and see what I've done to the old homestead."
Martin came up and was quite enthused to have his beautiful Arabians closer at hand. "Mike, as you know, I have to travel a bunch for the company. I'd like you to take a personal interest in my little beauties. I'll show you the twisted snaffle bit that Fatima favors. You can ride her bareback if you want or put this saddle and blanket on her. You do ride, don't you?"
Now Martin was not only paying me a princely sum (very moderate by today's standards) to manage the finances of his company, but now he was also paying me to board his horses. "Why yes, Marty, I did some riding back in Hawaii. I'm sure I'll get on quite well with Fatima and Ahlam." With big smiles we shook on it. I had my first two horses!
When I came up with the idea of boarding horses I had notions of doing some riding myself. Our homestead is adjacent to a wonderful network of hundreds of miles of trails called The Golden Gate National Recreation Area. From the Golden Gate Bridge to the wine country in the North Bay, from the ocean to the San Francisco bay, there are some of the best riding, biking and walking trails in all of California. When out hiking the trails, I always enjoyed meeting other hikers many of whom had come for vacation. From all over the world people included our beautiful coastal and mountain trails as part of their itinerary. I could see myself astride one of my boarder's trusty steeds cantering, perhaps shirtless on a warm day, along past the hikers taking in the bracing ocean breezes. "Hello ladies! Welcome to our lovely coastal trails! Where do you lovelies hail from? Ireland? Splendid! I should have guessed from your fair complexions and comely pink cheeks. Enjoy your walk! Maybe I'll see you at the Pelican Inn."
This was how I saw myself as the handsome horseman of Happy Acres, sans the cigar...
I could take the Green Gulch trail down to Muir Beach, tie up my horse at the stables there and take a late lunch at the Pelican Inn, a lovely little British B&B that specialized in English ales and bangers and mash. "Hello! Are you here on holiday? Where do you hail from. Really? Me? No, I live just up over the hill there. I rode my horse down for a bit of sustenance. A beer? Why I'd love one!" That was the scenario in mind as I contemplated saddling up and taking Fatima or Ahlam for a ride.
One day I screwed up my courage, went down to the barn which now doubled as a tack room and took down Fatima's twisted snaffle bit. I gently eased it over her head and inserted it in her mouth. She seemed a little nervous about all this and it occurred to me that Marty probably hadn't ridden her in awhile. Oh well, I was young, strong and in good athletic shape--as you can see from the picture above... I'm sure we could make this work. My plan was to just ride her around the pasture bareback to let her get used to me before we saddled up for the big adventure. With a handful of oats rolled in molasses, horse candy, I gentled her over next to a fallen tree stump. I stepped up onto the stump and gently put my right leg over the horse. Arabians are small of stature as horses go and it wasn't hard for my lithe 6' 3" frame to get a leg up over her. She made some nervous grunting noises and shuttled forward a bit as if to disabuse me of the notion of mounting her.
But with bridle in hand I was able to slide up onto her back. There I was sitting on horseback. I felt like Clint Eastwood in "High Plains Drifter". I could tell that Fatima was not
completely comfortable with me up there, but I felt confident that as she sensed my mastery of the situation she would settle down. Gingerly I gave her a little kick and a "giddy-up!" I leaned down and whispered in her left ear. "Good girl! Everything's gonna be fine. Easy girl. Slow forward, now, in first gear."
There was a bit of head-tossing on her part, but, remembering my long ago riding lessons from the public stables in Kuhio Park behind Waikiki beach, I kept a firm hand on the reins and managed to turn her uphill. The barn is down on the lower part of the homestead and the plan was for me to gently guide her up the hill to the top of the property; turn her around and then trot gracefully back down the slope. With a few fitful starts and stops and shakings of the head we managed to make it to the top of the property to the horse gate next to our neighborhood road. As a car slowly drove by I gave a jaunty wave. "Hello, there neighbor. As you can see, I'm riding one of my lovely Arabian horses!"
As we turned around and headed back downhill to the barn, Fatima picked up speed. "Whoa, horsey. Easy now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Before I knew it we were cantering down the hill. Without a saddle horn to hang on to all I could do was squeeze my legs around her sides and hang on for dear life. I was quickly leaving my comfort zone. Right before the barn, Fatima turned to the right to avoid some rather large rocks that had not yet been cleared from the property. As the horse went right; I continued to go straight. For a brief moment I was airborne but having my wits about me, I knew what was coming next. With a mighty thump I hit the ground. Luckily I missed the rocks (did I say rocks? more like small boulders...) and my head bounced up off the ground. I lay there for a moment, moaning. If this scene had been animated, this is where the little birdies would have been spiraling over my head. I was dizzy and my head was ringing. Looking back, I probably sustained a mild concussion. I slowly got back to my feet like a boxer who'd been knocked to the canvas. Thus began and ended my riding career at Happy Acres.
I wasn't about to let my personal riding misfortune alter my plans for the pasture. Over the roughly twenty-five years of providing boarding space, I've entertained about thirty horses in all. I had determined that four at a time was about as much as my three acres could support. In 2006 or so my landlord informed me that our liability coverage had been dropped and he was seeking a new insurer to cover the homestead. An insurance appraiser came up to assay the property for liability risks. He determined that we had to make several improvements to the property to qualify for his company's coverage. Overhanging tree limbs were cut, the pile of decaying wood my brother had moved for me years ago had to be removed as it presented a fire hazard. The back wall of the house had to be reshingled and a spark arrester had to installed over the top of the chimney.
I love the way her sleek auburn coat shines in the late afternoon sun
I was much in favor of the last improvement as we had had a problem in the past with flaming bits of paper escaping the chimney. As the property is surrounded by eucalyptus trees and all the leaf-litter that they shed, I could see where this was an issue that needed to be addressed. Several years earlier, one night I took it into my slightly inebriated head to burn a bunch of cardboard boxes that had been accumulating. I used a box cutter to render the boxes into slats that I fed into the fire. I must admit we had quite a jolly conflagration going when suddenly there was a loud and insistent pounding on the front door. As it was after mid-night, I couldn't imagine who would be calling at such an ungodly hour. As I opened the door, several burley firemen decked out in their heavy canvas coats and their bright red fire hats with fire hoses in hand went barging past me without even a "by your leave". They jogged down the hallway, burst into the living room and opened up their nozzles. Two great sprays of water came shooting out of their hoses and blasted the fireplace. The next morning, when I came upstairs, I was greeted by a fine grey coating of ash over the entire living room. Then I remembered a stern rebuking that I received from Mill Valley's finest as they were leaving the night before. "Listen, pal, don't ever do that again. Your neighbor phoned up and said they thought the house was on fire. You need to get a spark arrester!"
You can see the feeding station where the "upper class" horses got to dine. This big guy looks like he's thinking to himself. "Screw the hay; I want at those beautiful fox-glove blossoms!"
The last item on the insurance appraiser's list had to do with the horses. "Do you own these horses?", he casually inquired. I replied, "Why no. I board and feed them for their owners." I replied. Well, that just wouldn't do as the policy my landlord was attempting to buy didn't include coverage for my sort of enterprise as it constituted a commercial venture in a residential neighborhood. The landlord sadly informed me that if we were to have any chance of replacing the lapsed liability coverage, the horses, alas, were going to have to go. It was with a very sad heart that I informed my horse owners of our situation. Happy Acres just wouldn't be the same without our lovable garden compost providers. As it was, we never got the coverage. It was probably just as well; within a month of me evicting the horses, two, one hundred foot long eucalyptus limbs fell across the horses' dining room. Most likely I and/or some contingent of the horses would have been mashed mercilessly into the ground.
The three pix below show two major limb falls that both fell across the main horse feeding and staging area. The limbs fell within a month of each other several weeks after I had evicted the horses. I'd call that a bit of a close call, eh? (top two pix scroll to the right) This is also why eucalyptus trees used to be called "widow makers"
I thought back to all the notable moments of our horse tenancies. There was the time we had just dug a four foot trench from the main house down across the pasture to the highway so we could get hook up with the county sewer and get off the broken septic system. A day or so after the plumbing was completed and the trench had been back-filled, one of our horse owners had a young relative visiting and he had promised him a "horsey" ride. The young fellow couldn't have been much more than ten or eleven and was not an experienced rider. He was helped up onto the saddle and his mount began walking across the pasture. When he came to the recently filled in trench his hooves sank into the soft ground which hadn't had a chance to settle yet and with a great whinnying cry he toppled over with his terrified young rider pinned beneath him. Luckily, since the ground was still soft he only suffered a well-bruised leg and the horse was no worse for the wear. It was just one incident of the liability hazards that were out there. I could see why the appraiser wanted the horses gone.
The horses were frequent garden intruders despite the signage.
Over the years, we discovered several other "horse traps" that were lurking on the property. In various places on the land there were strands of wire left over from this place's incarnation as a dairy farm. One morning when I went out to feed the horses, I noticed that one of them "Salamanca" (they all seemed to have exotic foreign-sounding names) was slow to come to the feeding station.
I had cleared out a level spot below the recording studio that was close to the hay barn where we put the feeding stations. Duffy and Ron owned a lovely pair of horses and they brought in a proper metal two sided unit with a trough on either side at horse height and a large barred feeding hopper above. The flakes of oat hay or alfalfa or whatever we were "serving" that day were tossed in the top of the hopper and the horses pulled bits of it out through the bars. There was less waste that way. The other horse owners didn't have such a nifty feeding machine and with them, we made do with large truck tires that the hay was deposited in.
When Holostra finally made it up to her place at the table I noticed she was limping. On closer inspection, I was horrified to see that the flesh on her right foreleg had been separated from the knee to the ankle and the skin was gather around the top of her hoof like a lazy sock. Her entire shin was exposed and you could see the bloody tendons all the way around. I was amazed how stoic Salamanca was. It was as if she thought, "Oh well; that's a bother; hurts a bit; now; where is my breakfast?"
I had the number for our horse vet, an older gent who was venerated by the Marin County horse community, Dr. Steer. Aptly named, don't you think? Doc Steer had been here before to administer heart worming medicine and perform the odd annual check-up. Over the phone, I told his assistant what had happened and could the doctor come over ASAP as it was a bit of an emergency. His office was a sod-roofed structure in a cow pasture at the northern-most end of Marin County and it would take him about forty-five minutes to get there. I was told to keep an eye on the animal and to try find what had caused the damage. After some sleuthing I found a bit of two-strand pig wire half buried down by the old dairy barn. I could see where it had snared her shank like a trap. In trying to extricate herself she had pulled a goodly share of the wire out of the ground and left behind blood and bits of flesh.
I called Jenny, her owner, and told her, if at all possible, to come over right away and explained what had happened. She let out an audible gasp and a muffled cry over the phone and said she'd get out of class as soon as she could. (Jenny was a PE instructor at one of our local high schools.) Jenny and Doc Steer arrived at about the same time. Poor Jenny took one look at her beloved horse's skinned shank and began to sob. Doc Steer had me bend down and support Holstra from her right front while he gently lifted up her leg. He proceeded to bathe her entire exposed shin with an anti-biotic. When she had been properly doused he took the collar of severed skin, pulled it back up into place. He had administered a local anesthetic at the knee joint so as to numb the pain. He then took out a rather substantial needle and suture and proceeded to stitch it back in place all the way around the lower knee joint. A sturdy and tight bandage was applied and the job was done. During this whole ordeal, good old Salamanca never let out as much as a peep. I was glad the doc was quick with his work as supporting the horse's front end with my bended back was beginning to get a bit tiresome. Within a few weeks she was good as new. With a bit of remonstrating by Jenny, I was "encouraged" to scour the pasture for any other possible horse traps that might be out there. I found several and dug up the old wire wherever I could find it.
Another time, one of the horse's, "Sly Fox", as I remember, got a rather large infected abscess on the knee of one of her forelimbs. Doc Steer came over and made an incision and, using a melon baller, scooped out the infected area. Once again, not a peep from the afflicted animal. I'd have been screaming to high heaven. I eventually replaced the barbed wire with the non-barbed pig wire and used a come-along to tighten the wire all along the perimeter.
I found that, despite the wire being galvanized and therefore supposedly rust proof, it wasn't immune to reacting to acid that was present in the tree bark. This caused the wire to break over time in various places and occasionally the horses were able to "egress". Fortunately, because the homestead is ringed on three sides by a steep berm that leads down to Highway One, wandering off wasn't that great an option. I did receive a call one Winter's morning informing me that one of my horses, "Djai", was outside the perimeter and standing on the edge of the berm. I hurried down below the barn to the southern end of the pasture and found him causally dining on the long grass that had grown up outside the pasture where craning necks couldn't reach. Now Djai was a very cool character who had survived Hurricane Iniki on Kauai. And I was confident that he wouldn't panic.
I had once left my truck in the pasture after off-loading several loads of horse manure from the Muir Beach Stables to make garden compost. The next morning I went down to retrieve my truck to find that Djai had vandalized it over night. He had broken the side view mirror; removed a chrome ring from around one of the headlights and managed to remove one of my rubber blades from the windshield wiper. When I told Rebecca his owner she said; "That's nothing. One time Jerry and I were picking magic mushrooms in a cow pasture on Kauai above a cliff overlooking the ocean. Djai got his head in the driver's side window and managed to release the emergency brake with his teeth. The truck rolled down the pasture, broke through the fence and crashed into the ocean." Very cool horse...
I found, after several horse break-ins to the garden, that the best way to get a horse to follow you somewhere was to offer him a tray of rolled oats covered in molasses, their favorite treat. With my Wellingtons on, I positioned myself in front of Djai at the edge of the lower driveway. Holding a tray of rolled oats in front of him I started to back up back into the pasture. Behind me there was a tangle of eucalyptus branches laying on the ground which I hadn't noticed. As Djai followed me forward he simultaneously stepped on my foot and jumped over the pile of branches. Since I was pinned in front of him he knocked me over like a bowling pin and I watched his huge white torso sail above me as he adroitly leaped over the branches and trotted back into the pasture proper. Luckily for me, it being Winter, the ground was soft from recent rains and I was no worse for the wear. I redoubled my efforts to patrol the fence looking for breaks.
One day when I was out in the pasture with my garden cart and my flat shovel collecting horse pucky, I noticed Duffy's horse, Pashmina (C'mon! I don't really remember all their names after all this time!...) acting strangely. Her gait was unsteady; she was slowly circling in a tight counter-clockwise circle and was drooling from the nose and mouth. I called Duffy and I called good old reliable Doc Steer. The doc diagnosed Pashmina with Equine Protozoal Encephalitis. This is a nasty little critter that horses can pick up if they drink water that has been contaminated by possum feces. There are several ponds between here and the coast that were used as cattle watering stations in the golden days of yore. Possums are also ubiquitous in this area so the disease vector was very likely to happen at some point.
Dr. Steer furrowed his oft-furrowed brow and announced to Duffy and I that EPE was very difficult to treat with complete success. "The only place around that's really had any success is the veterinary school up the road at UC Davis. Duffy was pretty well-fixed financially so finances weren't going to be a factor. Forthwith, Pashmina, stumbling and drooling, was carefully shepherded up into her horse trailer and transported to veterinary college. Duffy kept me informed how Pashmina was doing; that she had started improving and that she would eventually be coming home to Happy Acres in a couple of days. Two days later, as I recall, I got a call from a friend one morning. "Hey, Mikey. You better head down to your 7-11store and pick up today's copy of the Marin IJ. (Independent Journal). Our pal Duffy's horse is on the front page. I thought to myself, "Uh oh. What now?"
It turns out that while Pashmina was traveling back to us in her horse trailer, she slumped to one side of the trailer while Duffy's pick-up truck was barreling down Highway 101 at about fifty miles an hour. The motion caused the trailer to tip over resulting in the picture below. Our plucky gal escaped with only some scrapes and a bruised ego; same with the horse... They got the spelling wrong on Holastra's name (I think...or is it me?) and she was coming back from the vet which was why they were going south on 101 not to UC Davis which is north. Notice the traffic back-up in the background of the picture. Our poor horse was never the same after her twin traumas.
Poor baby. That's Doc Steer with lead rope in hand; Duffy in shades behind him. (picture scrolls to the right)
Once a young female, who had convinced her girlfriend, Sly Fox's owner, that she could saddle up and ride, came up to Happy Acres and informed me that she was taking the horse out for a ride. As I sized her up I immediately had my suspicions about her horse competency. Sure enough, when she had led her saddled mount up to the gate, in the process of opening the gate, she let go of the reins and Sly Fox bolted through the gate sans rider. I screamed at the girl for her gross negligence as Sly trotted down the short distance from the horse gate to Highway One. I assure you there's no lonelier or helpless feeling than hearing one of your boarded horses clip-clopping merrily down the road.
Fortunately, it was mid-morning, mid-week and there wasn't much traffic. I ran down across the pasture and pleaded loudly for Sly to reconsider his rash decision and to come home this instant. Amazingly, after looking around for a moment a bit bewilderingly, my good boy turned around and trotted back up the road and let himself back in the pasture. "YOU DA MAN, FOXY! YOU DA MAN! There's no place like home, huh, boy." With that I slammed the gate closed, secured the padlock and chain and summoning my greatest reservoir of controlled fury I informed our young trouble maker she was not welcome here in the future.
The most amazing escape and retrieval came a few years later. I was having breakfast one morning when there was a knock on the door. A lady informed me that she had just retrieved my four horses from Muir Beach and had herded them back into my pasture. When she saw my look of incredulity she explained. "I live in Muir Beach and as I was driving to work this morning, I saw four horses on the highway next to the Muir Beach Stables. They were apparently visiting with the horses stabled there. I suspected that they were yours. I have a horse stabled at Muir Beach and I know about your pasture over the hill (about seven miles up the road from the beach). I slowly drove behind them and they trotted back up the road. When they got to the West California Avenue turn off, they headed up the road and deposited themselves back in their home pasture. Somebody had left the gate open. I took the liberty of securing the padlocked chain. I hope you don't mind." I thanked her profusely and silently thanked God for my good fortune that my nags had the good sense to allow themselves to be herded the seven miles up the road and back to Happy Acres. "I keep telling you guys, why would you want to stray? There's no place like home!" With that, I fed them and gave them a generous ration of molasses and rolled oats.
The horses have been gone a good long time now and though I do not miss the occasional mischief they caused in the past, I do miss the smell of them; the year's of compost they provided for the garden; the extra income they provided; there general easy companionship and, perhaps most of all, the sound of them gently nickering in the soft afternoon breezes.
Happy trails, buckeroos. Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres
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