My mornings blossom in pretty much the same way every day.
I suspect that is the case for most of us--that our mornings are structured according to family life or work demands. In my case horses, goats, chickens, dogs, and one annoying cat have, what feels like immediate needs, and my garden, another entity, is quieter about needs, but can be somewhat more dramatic, too. The internal pressure of knowing something may be going awry for the garden (or hoop house now in winter) is immense, because if something has really gone awry, it is very frightening to see frost-nipped, or thirsty plants limp and prostrate or ravished by hungry predators. Sometimes this internal pressure of 'plant worry' can drown out the physically louder demands of the animals. That includes the steely gaze of hungry horses and creaking of fences as they collect and push against gates, the bleating and bashing of empty feed buckets at the horns of hungry goats, or the desperate clucking of hens counting down the remaining hours of daylight while they are still COOPED. Oh, no one has heard despair until they have heard the wail of hens wanting to be released to free range for the day.
So, yes, my morning routine is well-established.
If I waver at all in my responsibilities, or change the order of things, the Dalmatians begin to worry. Fable begins pacing, running out the dog door, then back in again to see if I'm on my way and headed in the right direction. Walter looks distraught and begins quietly moaning. This is not a whine, it is a 'oh, dear' groan under his breath that sounds ghostly. If I stop to have a swallow of orange juice or a swig of tea, there are some serious looks exchanged between the two dogs. It is sobering to see such despair, so I do not linger. My breakfast can wait.
The order is always the same, although it varies by the season. But the cat is first.
Don't even ask. Actually, if you have ever lived with a cat, you won't need to ask. If Parry is not first, the yowls and see-sawing across my path are a foreshadowing of what might follow. Beware the pissed-off feline. Chickens are second, horses next, then goats, and finally dogs. Then me. My husband will dutifully wait breakfast for me, although he has hit the coffee or tea pot pretty hard in the meantime. And then, only then, comes the work of the day. But that is not what this post is about.
Aside from the normal morning chores: checking water, preparing feed, cleaning the barn, moving hay, I have the added responsibility of sitting beside Puck while he eats. Athletically slim, Puck is the tallest horse in our little herd, but he is a pacifist and a gentleman. The mares, chunky beauties, will move in minutes to clean his plate while he politely steps aside to accommodate them. Unless, of course, I sit beside Puck. So, I have pulled up a mounting block and perch on it during the horses' feeding times, morning and evening, just beside Puck's feeder.
Puck adores these moments of just him and me (and so do I).
Puck is a loiterer over food and will savor his meal in small bites, looking fondly at me, raining mash over my head and, every once in awhile, pausing to give me a gentle kiss. I always tell him the story I'm working on and he listens intently or looks politely bored. I value his opinion and, many times, have altered the course of a plotline, or reversed an ending, based on those eyes and ears.
We humans make a big deal about animal communication and the 'whoo-whoo' of so-called animal communicators. Yet, those of us who live close to animals know that they communicate continually to each other and to us. And, between the two of us, it is we who have a harder time keeping up with the conversation. I know that we humans are the ones who pay the feed and vet bills and think we call the shots, but I'm not so sure that it is a fair trade for what animals and birds bring to the Earth and what they have the potential to offer to us.
We don't really hear them. We rarely ask them. We really don't know what they truly want.
We assign them the role of servant, bodyguard, pseudo-child, or companion-with-specified-duties, such as therapy, guiding, hiking ... . And they turn themselves inside out to do their best for us. Then, we get upset if in their stress they run off with the toilet paper roll (Fable, you know you did it), or hang around the feedroom door instead of going to their stall when asked (Puck, it is not your job to supervise the mixing of mash, and, Arael, it is not your job to guard the feedroom door from the onslaught of Puck).
I'm trying to ask and listen more.
Keep talking, guys.
