24hrs of strange world

A mate of mine was thrown out of a doctor’s office for saying ‘oh crap’ on the same day that I read about PETA being up in arms over the Super Mario games. PETA claims that these games condition us to be cruel to animals and the doctor’s office…well goodness knows what they claim.

Having been a wild child in my youth I have been thrown out of a great many places – serious places, like airports – but to be unceremoniously told to leave a health professional’s practice for saying ‘Oh crap’!? It makes little sense to me. They would do better with a swear jar or something.

In other news (all in the same 24 hours) an ex varsity professor of mine died – he died in April already but I only read about now. He was terrible to me, and was subsequently involved in a literary scandal that had the local academics in a frenzy of squinting-eyes carefully combing argument and counter-argument, picking out the bits that proved or disproved to write it all down again paraphrasing for their own benefit. This prof failed me for a subject I earned a first-class pass for later in my Honours year, and a subsequent bursary to Masters (the dreaded thesis I am now so deftly avoiding). I wrote him a very nasty bit of literature this year that I had every intention of not only sending it to him, but to everyone he had offended. Thank goodness I didn’t! People have short memories: they wouldn’t have remembered me as the wounded student who bravely leapt to the defence of the brilliant famous authoress – but instead the viper-tongued little witch who insulted an ill man (with all past indiscretions promptly forgotten). The main reason why I only read of his death recently is because I decided to look him up so that I could get his email address and send him my vitriolic input anyway. Thank+goodness I never save anyone’s details.

The headlines worried me: 'In Memoriam', 'Melancholy and light', 'Stephen Watson, guide, teacher, friend', or worse the Times blurb that one of 'South African's finest writers and poets has succumbed to cancer'.  Regardless of his treatment of me, and others of my gender who speak my language - we owe the man a bit of respect. The sort of respect that we illustrate with good grammar and no cliché's. As for the idiots at the Times: the greatest respect you can pay this man, the least you owe him, is to learn to English please.

Still in the same 24 hours I tracked down a friend who I had last seen six years ago, and had little hope of ever finding again. A maze of Womens’ Union members, small-town promotional websites, a complete stranger who hadn’t lived in the area for 40 years and finally a local pastor – paid off. Who would have thought?

The strangeness finally reached a culminating point when I picked up the rubbish bit of fiction I am currently reading in an effort to avoid my thesis and read the following line: ‘No makeshift weapon could hope to be as deadly as the well-flexed hands of an angry baker.’

It is 2hr17 in the afternoon – we have some ways to go yet.

Love+horses

I have attempted to start a small, private horse sanctuary. I take care of 28 horses all in all (all shapes, sizes, backgrounds). To help me do this I employ three full-time grooms. I have worked out the costs to roughly under a ton of horse feed monthly (minus grass and supplements), plus three salaries and constant vet bills/ farrier bills/dentist bills.

 

We belong here...

I sound like a complete nutcase, but it is worth it, I promise.

I have spent about 15 years of my life in the company of horses, and without them, nothing in my life seems properly defined. It is a strange sense of need that is also organic: I need to eat, I need to pee, I need horses. Luckily, for my troop of happy equines who reached me in various states of starvation and despair, they seem to need me too.

Win/Win.

To do all of this however, I have been relegated to the small-town nether regions, which is mostly just fine thankyouverymuch, but it does threaten to get incredibly lonely sometimes.

Social networking doesn’t help…

I am sick of horse people preaching: horse people, on a soap box, dictating to horse people. How many of you who make your money off of horses have rescued, donated, shared a part of your life to help horses in trouble? Not very many at all. Charity is not for profit… simple as that. How many of you who make a living from horses have a responsibility to contribute to their welfare? Every+single+one.

How many have ‘helped’ horses, but then sold them for profit? This is not charity. How many have taken-in old horses and then made them work hard for every inch of grain in the trough and hay in the manger? This too, is not charity. How many can account for every life you have bred? Not many, if any at all.

I have never, and will never breed horses. Of all those I have taken in, I still have every single one, and I still take care of every single one – and tell you what, it’s been a few years. One day perhaps that will change, some of our horses are very old, some have a score of health troubles. When their time comes we hope to have the presence of mind to make the right decision.

More than this, while unsolicited breeding is to blame for so many animal welfare issues, let’s not hear horse breeders condemn a litter of puppies or kittens – not that I am condoning this either, don’t be silly! Horses are, and will always be, more expensive, more resource-intensive animals to take care of. They will always cost more time, energy and money. They need big spaces and specialised care. They will always be bigger than a dog or a cat; this means that they will always require more space, more food and very careful handling.

Meet my gelding, my knackered TB, my unbelievably complex soul, my thinking horse, my heart:

 I am sentient

Love horses, you won’t regret it. But more than this, help horses – they really need it.

Love+beaching

We recently took a short trip to the beach and took my savages along. My two dogs are not ocean-going mammals, but they happily spend hours idling on the beach or running up and down along the shore. Seeing them speeding up and down the beach and then flop down exhausted after the required amount of fidgeting was excellent. Good dogs. 

 Happy hound

The holiday as a whole was one of those typical ones though: not as much as you had bargained for. This is one of the dangers of looking forward to something too much.

By the last day of holiday, I was startled by a troop of monkeys (I say startled, I was down-right afraid, ran into the house screaming and slapping shut windows and doors) and felt the overwhelming urge to google information on coelacanths on my smart phone all morning (safely tucked away from the monkey panic). I guess that is the point where you just know the holiday has lost its charm.

I did get some cooking done though. I made lasagne, which is something because I am over making lasagne, but it turned out great. Cooking for mates is utter bliss. I made brownies (served with an obligatory side of vanilla ice cream) and my luscious chicken and bacon penne in cream too - and if that sounds like something you would refer to as generous (in a derogatory sense), you are right. It is sheer gluttony.

 Yummy lasagne

So it wasn’t a total waste: lasagne, dogs, beaching, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and a near-drowning which I am on the cusp of finding hilarious... but we shall give that more time. I am fairly sure that pretty soon it will become one of those hilarious ‘I got thrown in jail for drinking in public’ anecdotes. Just like good steaks, we need to give these things time to marinade.

Live life, you won’t regret it.